#im so down bad for this man

[moonyflesh]

🐾 Cat Scratches - [James “Logan” Howlett x Reader]

WARNINGS: lots of fluff, brief mention of neck kisses, some suggestive comments but nothing past PG

CHARACTERS: James “Logan” Howlett (Wolverine, MARVEL/X-MEN)

🐾 .*.. 🕯️

Logan laid comfortably on your stomach, his arms wrapped around your lower back and hips as he buried his face into your abdomen, the bare skin of your tummy visible just slightly underneath your sweater.

Lazily scrolling through your phone, splayed out across his bed with him on top of you, your fingers trailed over his upper shoulders, scratching the fabric of his white compression shirt, rubbing his sore muscles from a long day of training and battle practice.

As your fingers trailed upwards mindlessly on his back, your manicured nails finally reached the nape of his neck, teasing the edge of his hairline.

Scrolling down further through your instagram, you let out a soft sigh of content as your fingers finally buried into the hair on the back of his head, eliciting a low rumble from the back of his throat.

You perked up at this, glancing past the dimmed screen of your device, an eyebrow quirked upwards at his reaction.

“You alright, Lo?”

You muttered out, a small, curious smile tugging at your glossy lips, damp from your teeth gently biting at them out of unconscious habit.

“Mmmh,”

He responded in a low hum, leaning into your fingers as you smiled, a small, amused chuckle leaving your lips at his fingers that slid lower on your back, cupping the backs of your thighs with a slightly possessive grip.

You felt a soft, warm press of his chapped lips against your stomach, just above your panty line, and a small laugh left your lips as he buried his nose further into you, inhaling without hesitation. In response, your legs opened slightly underneath him, wrapping them around his broad midsection with a light squeeze.

Preferring the man in front of you opposed to the celebrities on your phone, you dropped it at your side, letting it become lost in the fluffy, unkept sheets next to your form as both your hands wrapped around his head, burying your fingers into his scalp.

A low, animalistic-like growl left his lips as you scratched through his hair, meeting the place behind his ears, where you knew he was most sensitive.

Tracing over the area where his jaw connected to his ear and neck, you let out a low hum in response, tilting your head propped up on one of his pillows to the side, your eyebrows knitting together lightly in curiosity at his pleasant reactions.

“Feels good, bub. Right- mmh. There.”

Your eyes narrowed at his borderline inappropriate hum, and you nodded, wordlessly continuing to scrape through his fluffy, unkept hair.

“I didn’t take you for a cat, Logan,” You teased quietly, a small vibration leaving your own form, similar to that of the buzz of an old stereo.

“Don’t mock me, sweetheart. Can’t help it,”

He shot back, his furry eyebrows knitting together as he finally shifted, pulling himself up further, allowing his face to move from your stomach to your collarbone, trying desperately not to go full deadweight on you, knowing he’d crush your frail form.

“Plus, ever since you got yer nails done-”

He didn’t finish his sentence as you raked through his head of hair once more, pushing his face into the warm skin of your exposed neck, muffling any protest from him.

“Stop talking, James. Sleep.”

You effectively hushed him, a small smile pulling at your face as he grumbled out something along the lines of ‘mm. Whatever,’ and ‘fine.’

You felt him pepper a few hot, open-mouthed kisses along your neck, his teeth teasingly biting down on your exposed shoulder, before lapping at the new mark with his tongue, admiring his work with your taste.

“G’night, bub.”

You smiled at his subtle acceptance to your demand, your fingers frozen in his fluffy hair and partially in his long side shaves, nodding.

“Goodnight, kitty.”

[just-some-random-blogger]

Observant

Being the Hand's young, second wife came with a lot of responsibilities, one of which was mellowing the frustrations of your husband.

Otto Hightower x Reader | 1k+ | cw: fem!reader, wife!reader, age difference/age gap, smut (piv, slight dub con, degradation kink, breeding kink, overstimulation, anal fingering, dacryphilia, sadism, praise kink) fluff I guess, typos, etc.

A/N: so i made a poll on what to write and fluff won and this is literally pwp but it has a fluffy ending (???) so it counts HAHAHAH IDK OTTO BRAIN ROT. LOBOTOMY ME IDC I HAVE TO GO TO WORK NOW BYE. A great day to be an otto fucker amirite HAHAHAH cross posted on ao3

You take in a breath the moment you reach the Hand's office. A chill runs down your spine as the night air seeps through your robe and night dress.

In truth, you figured your husband would have appreciated not being interrupted by you, though his pointed instruction otherwise, but there was another truth you answered to: that is, the ache between your legs that your fingers could not quell.

Even now, there was a heat that spread, which only intensified at the thoughts you knew would come to life the moment you knocked on your husband's office door. So you do.

"Who is it?" the deep voice snapped with as much intensity as a rabid dog.

Your belly instantly rolls. You rub is as you tighten your robe with one hand. The other, which was holding your lamp, shivers under its weight. You weakly manage to muster, "tis I, my lord."

A beat of silence.

You stiffen at the sound of heavy footsteps marching your way. A soft gasp leaves your lips when the door swings open and the face of the Lord Hand was glares at you.

"What is it, girl?" Otto hisses, both his hands resting on the sides of the door opening. His frame overwhelms you. His eyes are tired and his jaw is tense. 

Yes, you did always feel like some petulant little girl under the scrutiny of your much older husband. You lick your lips and exhale deeply to calm yourself. Simply, you remind him of his own words from earlier today, "tis the hour of the owl."

Lord Hightower is unmoved.

"I've come to fetch you."

A vein at the side of his neck threatens to pop. He pulls away and heads to his desk, "I have much to do, thanks to the fucking king."

You purse your lips at his words, thinking about the said man. Aegon was around your age, if not a bit younger, and at some point you had been friends, until you were promised to his grandfather.

You walk up to Otto's side and he rather instantly makes a spectacle of his abundant papers. He rants heatedly about it for a good moment, before turning to you. His face is worn and his shoulders squared, "I will not waste my time further by explaining this to you. Leave."

Otto places a hand on your bum and pushes you off. You budge, for after all, he was a man much bigger than you, even if no longer in his prime. Your hand darts to his desk to keep yourself upright, and the hand holding your lamp grips it firmly so that it would not slip. You return to your previous position as the man continues with his work.

"L e a v e," he drags out with audible vexation, "now."

"No."

He freezes.

"You will leave," you correct "—this room. Tis the hour of the owl."

Otto turns to you, offended, "you command me?"

You clench you jaw, "you command yourself. I am simply your obedient servant, lord husband."

Your lord husband stands. He towers over you and presses close, so close that he takes your lamp and puts it out, leaving it ignored on his desk, "am I not commanding you now?"

Your heart races when he takes your neck, thumb pressing on your throat as he rubs it. He can feel your raging pulse and it excites him, but not as much as your next words do, "you are you unkind when you are exhausted."

"To whom?" 

"To everyone," you mutter, "you must retire."

Otto releases your neck and heads for the door, "I will not."

Your brows furrow as you watch him storm off.

You realize only what he meant after following him into your shared chambers.

He grabs you from behind and sinks his face into your neck. You feel his beard against your skin and his hands eagerly clawing down your body. He pushes you into bed and you manage to look over your shoulder for the few seconds as he undoes his breeches. Not a second later, he pushes you on the sheets and pulls your skirt up.

You whimper into the cushion, bringing your face to the side as he rests his weight between your shoulders. He clenches his jaw as he grabs your hip. You obediently shift on your knees and gasp when he rubs his groin into yours. He sighs out a string of profanities when he feels your wetness. He pulls back and looks at the softness of your thighs, inspecting the pooling lust on your cunt. He rubs your clit, "my cherubic wife, so ready to be taken by her aged husband."

Your belly trembles as he uses your warm slick to flick your sensitive nub, leaving you to do nothing but curl your toes and whine into the sheets.

"Body so eager to be molded by my cock," he mutters. He slowly sinks two fingers into your weeping folds. He stretches you with his fingers and sinks deep, relishing the warm stickiness coating his digits, "so pretty like this. More so with my seed mixed with your arousal, dripping down your puckered cunt."

He continues to serve you with his fingers until pressure builds in your stomach. Then, with no warning and little care, Otto replaces his fingers with his hardened cock and fucks you thoroughly from behind. The hand he hand by your shoulder blades tingle into your hair. His other hand tirelessly works on your clit, expertly rubbing them that your body writhes under his weight.

You are trapped beneath him, however. He need only push on your head and lock your legs with his; you can do nothing else to do but take his cock and his fingers.

The sound of wet slapping skin and your uncontrollable whimpers dampen out the creaking and thudding of your bed against the stone wall. Quickly, your breathing began to grow strained and Otto gave no indication of slowing, especially not when he merited a scream from your lips from the pleasure building hotly in your stomach.

"Otto, Otto-" you begin to whine, nails ripping into the sheets, "w-wait— I-"

He furrows his brows at your words, offended that you would instruct him grant your reprieve. Just as he felt your slick building against his clothes? Even if he wanted to stop to catch his breath, he would not.

Alas, mortal man still was he, and his plowing had to slow. Slow, not stop. Though his arm began to tire, his fingers did not relent their assault on your swollen clit. He made up for any delays with slower but harsh flicks of his hip.

Your peak caught both of you off guard, and you came around his cock with a ghastly noise that made him stab your womb roughly in surprise. He stops moving altogether soon after.

Upon realizing the absolute bliss that seized your form, he puts all of his focus on your clit, wanting nothing but to make you shake and tighten around his wet cock as much as he possibly can.

The wind is knocked out if your lungs and your eyes water at the intensity of it all. And soon, it was all too much for you. It was all far too much, and yet he did not stop.

"Otto," your voice is hoarse as you sob into the dampened sheets, dampened with your tears and saliva.

He does not acknowledge you at all. He continues rubbing your pulsing clit with his fingers no matter how much your belly shook or your thighs trembled. He adores your mousy noises. He pulls your head back by your hair bit and slowly begins to thrust into you until the bed begins to creak at the intensity again.

It's too much, and the noise that rips out of you is nothing but further indication of this.

Your body struggles beneath him, your parted thighs that turned to putty were now shifting frantically in the hope to be free of this overwhelming sensation. You clench and unclench around him, hips pushing forward and back in an attempt to break away, but it, in fact, only makes your heady husband double down on his efforts to keep you in place.

His fingers only then finally leave your abused clit, but any form of recuperation you could get is stolen by the way both his veiny hands grip your hips and his manhood invades your cunny, intent on staking its claim.

He grunts as he looks down at your helpless form. He does nothing but use you for his pleasure and he cares little of whether or not your pretty pussy will tighten and quiver around him again.

Otto rubs your bum then coats his thumb with your slick before pushing it into your vacant rear, enough to hook into you and to make you squeal.

Soon enough, he can feel his legs ache and his belly burn. He ignores the former and his energy is sustained by the promise of filling his shaking bride with his come and watching it drip out of her.

Otto is silent while you noisily protest beneath him. Just as he begins to feel his balls tighten, he feels your cunt squeeze him again. Your neck strains as he bends down to lean into you, "take it, come slut. You know want you want to."

"S't-too much," you whine, tears rolling down your face.

Otto could not care less and begins to rub your clit again. You scream out in response and it's enough to make him reach his peak.

He slams into you with no steady tempo. He cares only for the pleasure raging on his cock and wants only to empty his balls into his warm, raggedly bride. As he does just that, feeling come and sweat drip from your garment to the sheet, he takes a few more thrusts, shallow ones where he does not move out of you very much, to ensure he thoroughly stuff all his heated lust into you.

And ever the dutiful husband, he plays with your clit for as long as it takes to make you scream and spasm into another pretty peak

Your nose is running as you sob, but the twist of your expression tells him that you were enjoying every second of it. He laughs, deeply, contentedly, pinning you against him and the bed. He doesn't listen to you until he is more than assured every bit of pleasure is wrung out of your darling body.

You begin to whine again like the tearful babe you were. You whisper an exhausted plea, "please, no more, Otto. Please."

He shushes you and pinches your clit, just to see you flinch and hear you beg some more. And beg you do, "n-no more, please," through sniffles.

He grips your jaw and kisses your salty cheek. He pulls you both to your sides, unwilling to pull out just yet. He has to ascertain his seed catches in your snug womb. He massages your breasts, imagining them get bigger for the babe he fucked into you. He pinches your nipples, making you whine again.

"O-Otto-"

"All is well, wife," he mutters, releasing his hold, only because you pushed his hand away. You lean into him as he rubs your belly. He rubs your nape with his nose, "good girl."

[cheekylittlepupp]

[melikedraw]

Jim Hawkins headcanon:

His love language is words of affirmation

He cannot function w/o you telling him that you love him and he's very important to you. However if you forget to give him his daily affirmations, he's not gonna be mad, I think he'll be even more affectionate, and try to get it out of you. He'll probably be more clingy and not leave your side until you say something that reassures him that you still love him

He's a sad lil man with abandonment issues tell him you love him (this is a threat)

He's just scared that he's not good enough so please tell him that he is

I want to hold him so bad you have no idea

[annamatix]

i love nash hawthorne so much its so crazy.

" 'Course not, darlin', " FUCK. MEEEEEEEEEE

he's so so so hot the way he's so gentle and caring and so protective YOU JUST HAVE TO READ THE SERIES TO GET ME

his southern drawl is SO hot and his idgaf agenda but he cares so much actually AND HIS COWBOY HAT AND BOOTS OH MY GOD IM FAINTING and when he gets mad his southern drawl becomes sharper and and and and

"'Nash, I've taken the liberty of cueing up the Taylor Swift for you,' Xander says." JUST AS I THOUGHT THIS MAN COULD NOT GET HOTTER.......

"she gazed up at him like he had hung the moon" me too, mellie, me too

"Nash has a sort of savior complex" well he better use it to save me ASAP

team jameson this team grayson that GIVE ME NASH HAWTHORNE

[kokillchi]

head empty. no thoughts. only jamie bower

[lunatic-pudge]

Casually looking through the TF2 blog to see if I can find something interesting, and I did. And yes, it does involve dear Sniper cause he is my wife.

So we start off with some basic goofy stuff. But the caption for the warning headshot sign.

You mean to tell me that one random day, Sniper saw this sign, got SO offended that the city was basically calling his stank ass out, and decided that he was gonna spend WEEKS, probably even months, just calling City Hall to bitch about it.

I wanna see how that played out. I wanna see him fuming at the payphone while the workers at the City Hall are thinking, "This guy again?" Plz. It's so funny to me.

Oh, and here's the rest of the post and a Jarate poster as well cause why not.

Stinky piss man has me in an absolute chokehold

[urmelodysblog]

Sex with bf!Jay

I tried writing smth else for jay and I just couldn't stop thinking abt this☠️

✿Smut and fluff✿

🌷Contains swearing as well🌷

Plot: All the things jay loves about you during sex, and jay being down bad for reader ♥︎

Jay loved seeing your gorgeous little face scrunch up with pleasure as he fucked you, while you layed flat on your back. He loved giving his sweet baby little praises on how well she's taking his cock, "your taking my dick so well, angel". He loved how your boobs bounced when you'd ride him, he loved the way you'd whine about how you were tired and wanted him to fuck you , he loved your cute little gasp when he suddenly thrust up into you. He loved making sweet love to you while he mumbled "I love yous" in between kisses. You were so perfect. Everything about you was perfect, your body, your personality. Jay was so down bad for you and he knew it, but he didn't give a flying fuck, cuz why should he when he has someone as perfect as you in his life. 🥹

[zandiiangelspit]

Here I come~

I told myself... I was done with Overwatch.... but... they keep... tempting me back...

[xfancyuu]

~ cause i can feel a real connection, a supernatural attraction. [aemond targaryen]

PART I (my blood, sweat, tears, and my last dance, take it all away.)

after four months of misery i have returned! my job prevented me from writing but i can confirm this is a three part series, this fic contains a westerosi wedding, the next will contain a valyrian wedding and the third part, well that's a surprise. reader is afab with she/her pronouns if requested i will write non-binary characters. ! i'd also love some feedback for this! i'd love some pointers on what you liked/didn't like about it! i try to make reader an actual person and appealing to all but she may come off a certain way (though i think that's the stress of the situation rather than reader being an awful person bc she's a lot more mellow in part 2 — maybe bc it's actually smth she wants to be involved in rather than a massive wedding, she wanted a more intimate moment lol).

this fic contains: bolton!reader, wedding, afab reader, no appearance indicators (except height, aemond is taller than you), lord bolton (your dad) worries about you a lot and idk if that is in canon standing but you're also his only daughter. your mum may be cersei lannister coded??? she's kinda mean but she's giving the reader some truths in there even if they won't apply to reader. reader's lifespan is called short though her and aemond are both around eighteen-twenty-one (but this is some time before the war & that gossip girl thanksgiving worthy moment — the girls that get it, get it) [5,079 words]

You had hoped the waiting was worth it, your father's insistence that you would be respected and appreciated by your future husband hadn't calmed you one bit. You knew what was expected of you, what the night would entail, and it had put you on edge, Aemond Targaryen was a temperamental man in the almost two years you had known him, you simply did not know what to expect. The blood of the dragon ran deep within him, he was chaotic and could do as he pleased to you and those around you if you did not please him correctly.

The preparations had taken many moons themselves, your father's involvement with the whole ordeal was rather surprising to many, fathers didn't typically involve themselves in matters such as weddings except choosing the man. Yet your father was proactive — you were his only daughter, his sweetling, his pride and joy. You had surmised the man did not want to let you go, to send you into a life of baring children and labours which he himself could not look over and sooth your worries.

Yet that had not happened, and you couldn't understand his ceaseless worrying. When you had told him you had met the great Vhagar he had almost had a heart attack. You had such a joyful emotion, however, your father could only hope it continued to stay that way. That the Prince would not feed you to his dragon the moment he had you alone once more which you had to assure your father that you were certain Prince Aemond was as fond of you as you were him.

It had felt like a ridiculous farce at first, the looks towards you when it was announced you'd be marrying the second son of the King. The whispers behind your back which they had thought you hadn't heard, how such a beautiful girl was fated to marry a man who could not match such beauty. You had scoffed at the time, beauty had not mattered to you — moons later it still had not mattered. They had called Aegon beautiful, yet he was one of the most despicable men you'd had the displeasure of spending time with, constant comments that his brother should take you before the wedding and how he would have his way with you if he so wished. You'd take a man the court had deemed undeserving of your beauty over that.

"If you wish to flee I would not stop you." your father spoke as he had entered the room, your family must have been in the sept waiting for the spectacular show you would put on which would no doubt be the talk of Kings Landing for the many coming moons.

"Why would I flee?" you had asked, playing with the beads of your dress, the Northern tradition of wearing white was not lost on you. Your father spared no expense in creating the dress you had wanted. The dress was truly beautiful, aligned with jewels and beads, some of which sparkled as though they were stars with movement. "You do not truly believe the Prince would hurt me? Once we are married we shall be happy and not much shall change from how it now."

The look on your father's face was enigmatic, you could never decipher what the man was thinking. If your mother was here she would have told you. "Once you are married mother and I will go back to the Dreadfort, your brothers will be returning with me and you shall be alone." The unspoken threat of being alone with the Targaryen-Hightower family was evident. He hadn't trusted them from the moment you had stepped into the dreadful place.

"But I won't be alone — I shall have my husband and hopefully we shall bring children into the world not long after... There are ravens, Aemond has a dragon, I am not trapped here and I shall be able to visit you." The optimism that you possessed was something your father had never possessed himself. You were too much like your mother. He didn't want to tell you that obeying your husband would be customary, that you would be a member of the Royal family, that you would not be a regular person with your own opinions.

"I shall look forward to your future visits. You know what tonight will entail? Please do not fight back and do as he says." You had not known what your father had meant. Your mother had taught you the basics, taking a more hand on approach than many others you had met. "But for now you shall walk down the aisle, looking like the Northern beauty you are, you shall do our house — your mother and I" your father corrects himself, "proud."

Your father was not a sentimental man by design, this behaviour felt strange to you. Perhaps he knew something you did not. "I shall always do you proud, now cloak me before I weep." you had demanded of him.

The flayed man was not something you'd associate yourself with. It was barbaric, horrific and downright made you feel hostile. Yet your father wore his sigil with pride, the technique passed down from father to heir did not involve you, yet your own father had decided despite you being a female your house traditions were important. It was awful you'd to think of such things on your own wedding day. You'd be cloaked with a different shade of red — you'd be a Targaryen by the day's end.

You felt content knowing that your house banner — the sigil that made you a Bolton would be symbolically stripped away by the man you were sure you loved despite the lack of life experience required to make such a decision. The colour was in stark contrast to your dress. The blood-red and pink colours blended with each other compared to your white dress, it stood out, you stood out. Many of the ladies of the court had told you that white was not a colour a lady such as yourself should wear. You were not quite sure why, it matched the snow of your home, the bleak surroundings you found yourself longing for. Your hair styled in traditional Northern intricate braids which you had personally asked for. You would not change a habit of a lifetime for the pleasure of others, Aemond had never seemed to mind your abrasive disregard for the court's fashions and styling. You doubted he'd have a problem with it now.

"You look beautiful, my sweetling," your father had told you, taking in all the grace and beauty you possessed. His comment had made your cheeks heat up — you were familiar with tearing your appearance apart in mirrors at most given opportunities, compliments were not commonplace. Especially from your father.

"I am mother's child." you had joked, trying to relieve the tension you had felt in your body as you drew closer to the sept. The religious element hadn't appealed to you, the Gods you worshipped were not those of the Seven. "I do hope nobody makes a scene, I do not think I'd be able to control myself from attacking someone."

"And suddenly you show signs of being mine."

"Please make sure nobody makes a scene today, the Princess is here with her children, and it makes everybody on edge as it is." You had told him, sharing a look, a look which ensured your father would allow nobody to embarrass you or your husband.

"Today shall be the happiest day you have lived in such a short lifespan, and you shall have many more to come." Your father had ended that conversation short. It was only then you had noticed you were about to enter the sept. "Tell me one last time you should want to leave, and I will take you away this instant."

"I told you before, it should be my honour to marry — I love him father, as he does me." You had told him with such sincerity, your father simply kissed your forehead, accepting your current position on the matter, never wavering. Perhaps your father was more displeased in losing you than you had originally thought. But you'd always be his little girl, and marrying reminded him you were growing up and having your own life experiences.

The stares had almost made you bolt, but your father's grip prevented you from doing so or stopping in your tracks. You would not make a blunder of the entire event, you would walk to the altar with a smile planted on your lips and the grace and elegance your mother had instilled into you.

The trip to the altar was quite short and sweet, not a stumble, some had gasped, but you had thought it was simply because your dress was beautiful. You hadn't wanted to leave your father, not entirely, a part of you was still a child, wanting to go back home and frolic in the snow with your brothers for another winter. But you were no longer a child, you would no longer be a girl frightened of the responsibilities you had to partake in. Yet why were you feeling so incredibly warm and wanting to remove your own skin?

It hadn't stopped, the moment you were placed in front of Aemond, ready to be cloaked as your father removed your own cloak. Despite being so incredibly warm, the coldness had hit you like a wave. Or perhaps it was something else, anticipation for the entire event to be over. For you to finally have your own husband to yourself. To act as though you'd always been taught. To at least kiss him in public rather than the brief and few kisses you'd shared in dark hallways.

Your thoughts were moving at such fast speeds, you had almost flinched when you were cloaked with the three-headed dragon. A symbol so synonymous with the house you would be married into. Yet you kept your composure, still smiling and turning around so you could at least grab Aemond's hand. He had grounded you in the moment — a much needed clarity to the thoughts you were having.

His own hand had taken yours, how you wish you could at least speak to him. Yet you could not, the ceremony was under way and the best you could do was squeeze his hand as to tell him you were fine, that you were here and that this was happening.

Dissociation was a problem, you had always been called a daydreamer yet doing so at your wedding? You were truly a mess, an unadulterated, unfiltered mess. The way your hand kept on squeezing Aemond's, the way you didn't listen to a thing the septon had said. How your eyes had glazed over and how so badly you wished this would end, being the centre of attention was not something you enjoyed.

It was a blur. You had spoken the ceremonial vows as expected, yet you hadn't realised you were doing so. Instead, you had taken in your husband. How beautiful you considered him, his beautiful white hair had not been styled differently, his eyepatch was still there — your objective for tonight was to remove it without him refusing, he could not refuse you — his lady wife now. His clothes were significantly different, gone with the green colour you loved so much in favour for traditional Targaryen colours.

The kiss was just that. You would not make a scene despite the way he had held you do tenderly, you could not do that here and at this moment. You were in a sacred place — not that you believed this room was sacred, you had to behave. Alicent was a devout believer and you doubted Aemond had wanted to anger her or the septon. Brief kisses were what you were used to and you so badly had wanted more, ached for, desperately needed.

"You did so well" Aemond had whispered into your ear as your kiss had ended. The cheers of the newly-wed couple had surrounded you and you were not too sure what to think.

"You give me far too much credit."

Aemond hadn't given you enough credit. He was sure he would have had to have married for an alliance with a wife who would come to resent him yet he considered you special. Never once had you flinched away from his company, never once had you looked at him as though he was less of a man and never once had you made fun of him despite what your teasing of him may have suggested. You were fun, adventurous and above all you had agreed to his betrothal without a second thought. He truly did love you, he would love the life you two shared together, he would love the children you produced and most importantly he would never do anything to deliberately hurt you. The two years of courting had proved as much.

The evening was going quite well, though you had noticed Aemond's attention wandering elsewhere. "Does something displease you, husband?" you had asked, gaining his attention once again.

Though he hadn't given you a reply, simply hummed and continued staring at his nephew as though he had wronged him in some way. "You're looking at Luc? Is it Luc? I'm unsure on which one is which — as though he has stolen your food and goading you about it."

"Do not speak to me about Lucerys." Came Aemond's sharp reply, you couldn't understand the seeming hatred he had for his nephew. Your own nephew's had meant the world to you, often spending time with one another when their septa's were busy, influencing them with your own opinions and behaviours.

"So it does displease you?" The question wasn't aimed at Aemond rather an observation you had. "My apologies I did not wish to displease you on such a joyous day."

You hadn't got a response to that either, simply a kiss to your cheek, "My father promised me if I was upset he'd sort out the problem, if your family displeases you so, I could gather my father." That had earned a chuckle from Aemond.

"That won't be necessary my love, I have ensured nobody shall cause a scene, especially Aegon."

"And how did you get Aegon to behave?"

"With matters which needn't be known to you, my lady."

"My title is Princess —" your reply was instinctual, "And as a princess of this realm I demand to know how you ensured Aegon would not be a problem."

"I outrank you, my Princess," you do not know if Aemond is teasing you or mocking you, though the glint in his eye tells you all you need to know, "You would not wish to know such depravity Aegon seeks."

"You do not think I do not know about his depravity?" You had genuinely asked, your brothers may have sheltered you and been protective but men like Aegon forever slip through cracks. Ladies speak — they gossip a lot about Aegon and his antics.

"I do not think you know the extent, nor would I like you to, just be thankful his hands are on wine, he would not want to ruin such a joyous occasion."

"You are sure he won't be a depraved gremlin tonight? If he does something untoward against one of my ladies, I will not be responsible for my actions." Threatening a prince may not have been a good idea but you doubted Aemond would pay much mind to it, you're jesting, you always would be.

"The moment he does something to upset you I will personally escort him away."

"Thank you." You had spoke, deciding it would be best if you dropped the issue of the Targaryen-Hightower family as a whole, instead choosing to focus on your own. Your younger brother had sparked up a conversation with a girl from the Westerlands. "Do you think I should go and encourage my brother to ask the lady to dance?"

"Do not meddle in his affairs, princess, perhaps your father will be escorting you out while I escort Aegon." Aemond joked, while you tried to keep a straight face.

"I think the only person to escort me out of this ceremony will be you, my dear husband." The bedding ceremony was something you hadn't approached. Tradition was simply that but you did not want to face the humiliation it had brought with it.

"I cannot wait."

Your conversation had been cut short. The princess Rhaenyra engaging you in a conversation. You had felt terribly sorry for her with her first wedding — they had said if there was not one death at a wedding it would be an incredibly boring affair. You were happy with your wedding to be deemed boring and without complication. The conversation was polite, Rhaenyra introducing you to her children — Aemond had called them Strong bastards, not that you cared much, surely they were more Targaryen than Strong. Rhaenyra the true Targaryen heir had birthed them. But the politics in Westeros was not ready for educated women destroying their world view you supposed.

Princess Rhaenyra had you in a chokehold metaphorically, if you refused to dance with her eldest son, Jace as she called him you would be offending the heir to the throne which could have dire consequences. So you had relented, promising him a dance as the princess had insisted. Aemond didn't enjoy such nonsensical things, while you didn't mind it that much.

Your mother had always told you that it was important to know such things, dancing was one of them. Though you hadn't expected your first dance of the evening to be with the wrong prince. It was clumsy and awkward, the young prince had wanted to be there as much as you had, hyperaware of where his hands fell on you, of everybody's eyes on you and especially the eye of your husband who had seemed beyond tense. Jacaerys had been nothing but respectful, the music was upbeat and you had laughed multiple times in his presence. Rhaenyra had clearly wanted to fix broken bonds within the family which you were unaware of despite being within courtly life.

"Is it strange to be back in the capital, my prince?" you had asked the boy as the two of you had continued to dance, struggling to find conversation suited to the both of you.

"I am missing Dragonstone but it is lovely to be with family." There's an underlying issue there which you could not explore.

"Aemond and I must visit one day." The boy had become tense with the mention of his uncle, and while it had not subsided your suspicions you knew that the visit would not be happening from his response. "Aemond has been teaching me of Valyrian culture and it would be lovely to see where the queen Visenya had spent her time."

"Queen Visenya interests you?" Jace had seemed rather shocked to discover this, "My mother favours the tales of Princess Nymeria, her story is rather fascinating."

"I should like to befriend your mother, she is a woman of culture I see," your conversation had been cut short by your brother approaching you, "Please excuse me, my prince, it was lovely to meet you, but my brother requires my presence."

Once in your younger brother's arms the anxiety you could feel bubbling within you had dispersed, Jace hadn't scared you, it was Rhaenyra and the possibility of offending her. You may have been ranked Princess but that was purely through marriage, Aemond could get away with snubbing his sister's children but you could not. It could cost your head.

"Your husband looks like he could murder you." Your brother's intervention had made sense now and you were rather thankful for it.

"Murderous enough that I shouldn't approach him, or murderous in the sense I should?" You had asked him as you continued to dance, it had reminded you of your childhood. Forcing your brothers to engage with you in such ways, "Did father send you over?"

"No, it was mother, she fears for you tonight, I sense."

"And why should she be fearful?"

"You and I both know why, sister. Do not make me say it aloud."

"Should I go over and speak to her? Privately? To remind her that my husband is respectful and much more caring than many men could claim to be."

"Do as you wish but please do not anger him more than he is. We all fear for your safety, it is not everyday one married a Dragon Prince."

"There's an abundance of them, I'm sure if you asked nicely one of them would oblige you."

"Do not speak such things aloud, my head could be on a spike by the morn."

"It seems as though I cannot do anything right tonight." Your dance had once again been short-lived as you stormed off in the direction of your mother, looking for comfort, but you doubted she'd give you that.

"I cannot do a single thing right tonight." You complained to your mother once you had sat down next to her at the table so graciously provided by the royal family — away from you.

"I doubt you have the ability of foresight to change your actions. Why much you speak to me about such issues."

"It would be nice if you could comfort me for once." The wine you had consumed was slowly bubbling its way to the surface, never before had you dreamed of speaking to your mother in such ways.

"Why would I do that? You are a woman grown, you've made big girl choices, have you not? You chose to marry the prince, you chose to leave your family, you're choosing to create one of your own. Please do not mind if the one you are leaving behind are upset with your actions."

"I cannot do this tonight, I cannot fight with almost every person I have encountered." Your hand had gone for the glass of wine in front of you, but your mother had stopped you.

"The advice I am about to give you is invaluable and advice my own mother gave to me. Lie still and wait for him to climb off of you tonight, do not complain when it hurts and try not to make a sound."

You were utterly speechless, your mother had never been one to say an unneeded word, but this was just crass. "We're not talking about this right now."

"Fair enough, disregard the advice passed down from generation to generation."

"Tell me my dress or hair looks pretty, tell me I have nothing to worry about, just don't speak about such things in a room full of people."

"I just wish for you to be prepared." For disappointment was the undertone. "You're such a beautiful girl, you've done your house proud, but I do not wish to lose you in such ways, father doesn't speak much about your departure, but he shall miss you too."

"I shall miss you too, mother." You had reached for her hand, which she had gladly accepted. You feared it would be the last time you'd get a mother-daughter moment like this. It had felt bittersweet and you'd have your own children soon but she had caused the anxiety to crawl within you tenfold. "But the next time we shall see each other I would hope to have children."

"Just make sure you birth children with his hair colour and eyes." Your mother's words hadn't quite sunk in.

"Well, I can't help if they come out looking like me."

"There is a reason why they call them Strong, [Y/N]. Do not give them an opportunity to call your children Bolton's... Or any other last name than Targaryen."

"As I said, I cannot help if they look like me." You were exasperated by this point, just wanting the conversation to end.

"I would love them however they came out but please do not do anything which could risk your safety."

"Mother, you're speaking in riddles and happenstances. Please do not have another drink or father will be leaving here with you dragging out behind him."

"Heed my warning, my sweet child, but tonight you shall have fun and dance with whomever you deem fit. Leave me to enjoy my wine, even if your father has to unceremoniously drag me — or carry, we both know your father would never drag me — out of this room."

"I love you, mother." You stood from the chair, kissing her cheek on the way up, "Consider your warning well received."

"Such a good girl, what did I do to deserve such a child?"

"You only had one daughter." You joked, "Please excuse me, I have many things to think about."

"I love you too, please do not forget that."

Your conversation had left you feeling uneasy, your gaze trying to find Aemond's only to see he was busy speaking to his mother. Perhaps he wasn't as mad at you as you had originally thought. Though your mother's words of not baring children with the typical Targaryen features had almost dimmed your evening. What should happen if you bore the wrong sort of children. Would you be treated as though he treated Rhaenyra? Would you be so easily cast aside and insulted? You did not dare to let it leave your mind, the absolute terror could not show, but it was there, under the surface level smiles and pleasantries.

You had deemed your ladies the fittest to dance with, dance after dance you had spent with them, having fun, laughing while it seemed like they had almost inhaled wine.

Aemond's eye had followed you as you had enjoyed your time with the woman within your company. He supposed you had to get used to them, they would continue to be with you from this moment onwards. Or rather, until you gave them permission to marry whichever suitor they came to you with.

You were a fascinating woman, choosing not to stay in one space for too long, smiling pleasantly — there was a juxtaposition between you both, and Aemond couldn't be happier for it. You were like sunshine, always bright and bubbly, spending time with his dearest sister, ensuring she wasn't made fun of. He respected you, and he was going to show it tonight.

Your dancing had attracted attention from other nobles. It was not often that women had danced with one another for such a long period of time. Though your ladies were being picked off one by one, nobles wanting to gain their attention for marriage prospects. You were happy for them, truly, however much the loneliness spiked as your final girl stayed with you.

It had to be your brother — he was beyond bothersome, and you looked awkward and panicked on the ballroom floor. The gigantic dress taking up far too much space and without a partner. If at least one person had noticed your distress, they hadn't come to your aid. The jewellery on your being was fiddled with as you tried to make your exit look graceful, but you wanted to run far away from the humiliation of being partnerless.

You had been grabbed by the waist — you had almost fought back until Aemond had calmed you. "It seems as though you've danced with everybody in this room besides your husband."

You had laughed, though it had not been heard over the music, as you turned around to face your husband. "You did not ask me to dance... I didn't know you like to dance."

"I don't," He retorted, "But I'll make the exception for you."

"Oh, I must be so special."

"Whatever my wife wants, she will have."

"And if I want to leave with you, right now, would you save me from the festivities?" You inquired, the intimacy you had felt at the current moment had put you on edge, never being so close to a man before, much less a man you were expected to lay with. To produce heirs with. The expectation had piled up far too much.

"You want to leave? You looked as though you were having fun."

"Crowded places are not my preferred place to be, there is also too much attention placed on me, I don't know if I can cope for much longer." You were finally voicing what you had bottled within you all night, the shakiness within your voice to admitting such things had alarmed Aemond.

"We shall finish this dance?" He'd asked as the two of you continued, your steps were much clumsier than intended but you simply could not help it. "It shall be our last of the night."

"My blood, sweat, tears, and my last dance, take it all away." You had whispered into Aemond's ear as the two of you had danced together.

"Leave with me."

"To where? We cannot escape our own ceremony unnoticed."

"Do you trust me?" You had looked into his indigo eye, as though it was not a question you could contemplate — of course you had trusted Aemond, you had married him without hesitation when he had asked.

"Without hesitation." Came your response, your dress was bulking and heavy but you didn't doubt making a run for it would be hard but at least you had Aemond by your side.

"Then leave with me, most people are too drunk to notice us gone and I fear now will be the only time we can escape."

"You drive a hard bargain." The wine had made its way to your head, the giggles which had escaped your mouth were not sounds you'd typically make. "Save me life a prince in a fairytale, take the maiden and make off with her, is that it?" You'd always had a fascination with the fairytales from a young age. From maidens to knights to unexplainable beasts, from saving damsels to damsels saving themselves.

"You don't have to ask me twice." Aemond had left you no time to comprehend movement within your body, his hand still in your own as he dragged you off to wherever he intended the destination to be. However, as you left the room with as much subtly as a dragon screeching, your eyes connected with your mother's, showing everything she feared would happen tonight for you. Perhaps womanhood was more daunting, even with the liberation you so desperately sought from marriage.

thank u for reading this fic! again feedback would be appreciated but u don't need to give it, the next instalment will be posted in exactly a week (wed, 8th)! cross posted on ao3 under the name hedonism! reformatted on 7th april 2023.

[crispfried]

"Not every man-" You're right, Vash the Stampede would never do this.

[shoyoackerman]

No cause maybe im down bad for my own mc shes so prety and for what? Like damn I KNOW I MADE HER BUT STILL. I get why the boys be drooling over her bc same. But i really do love the customisation we can do for her! Genuinely best otome game out here right now. Especially with how generous they are with their gifts and rewards. Genshin could never

[just-some-random-blogger]

Make You Mine

You make a mess out of everything and your husband makes a mess out of you.

Otto Hightower x Reader | 1k+ | cw: fem!reader, wife!reader, menace to society!otto, smut (cunnilingus, overstimulation), fluff ig?, typos, etc.

A/N: madison beer ahh title. i just want this old man to fuck me so i dont think of anything else. IM SORRY I HAVE NOT PROOFREAD THIS FILTH I HAVE TO GO TO WORK ILL COME BACK TO IT edit: i was too hasty and it didnt post before i left anyway goodnight manila. This is part of my birthday haberdashery

"Lord Hand."

Otto, with his clenched jaw, looks up from his desk upon hearing the door open. Whatever anger he wished to spit out fades when he sees your face. He releases the papers in his hands, the line between his brows softens. He mutters, "Lady Hightower."

He leans back as you walk over. You link your fingers behind you. When you bite your lip, he knows exactly why your here. Still, he asks, "what can I do for you?"

"Do not be cross," you mutter.

He chuckles under his breath. He spreads his legs, eager to play your game, "do not delay then."

His smile slowly flattens when you rapidly ramble. The truth is, your voice is so high pitched and frantic he can hardly make out a word that you were saying. Then of course, you had to start getting teary and eyed.

"Enough," he mutters.

You do not hear him. You are far to upset by the errors you say you've done that you cannot think of anything else.

Otto speaks your name. And again. Finally, he shouts it.

You jolt, clutching your heart.

He sighs and leans into his hand when your lower lip begins to wobble. He places the same hand on his lap, "come."

You mumble, "you are cross."

"I am not cross."

"You shouted at me."

"You would not listen-"

"I did not mean to-"

Otto silences you by raising a finger.

You gulp and hold your breath. You begin to chew on your lip until it feels sore.

"Come," your husband repeats, "do not actually make me cross by repeating myself."

You release a breath and walk towards him. You sit on his lap, and he immediately wraps an arm around your belly, pulling your back flush against his chest. He brushes his nose against your neck. He inhales your scent and kisses your skin, "now, from the start. What unpardonable crime has my foolish wife committed again?"

You sigh when he kisses the tears off your cheeks. A line forms on forehead as you turn to him to whisper, "do not be cross."

He makes a sound akin to a purr or a growl, "I shall be what I ought to be upon hearing your confession."

You deflate, lowering your head in defeat, "I..." you sniffle, "I... was... embroidering a pattern on one of your worn shirts... I ended up making a new hole."

Otto hums, "mmm. Flogging might be sufficient punishment."

You groan and turn to him.

He raises a brow.

"I am serious, husband."

"As am I," he responds, brushing your hair back, "darling wife." He nods, "continue."

You look away and begin rubbing your hands, "I know you've told not to... but I fixed the papers you left in our chambers. I thought I did them to your taste, but then... I saw some correspondents were out of order and-"

"You stacked my papers out of order," Otto sighs, grabbing your hand, "meddlers lose their fingers, did you know? Your offence will cost you eleven, girl."

You turn back to him, the line between your brows deeper than before.

"Continue," he says, rubbing the back of your hand with his thumb.

You pull your hand away and clench your jaw, "Otto."

"Is that al-"

"I spilled wine on your papers!" you blurt, eyes immediately watering, "I spilled your wine as I fixed them, and I tried to get them dry, but then I burnt them, and I tried rewriting what I could remember but I could barely remember what I saw and-

"That's enough."

You clench your jaw at the stern sound of his voice. You muster weakly, "forgive me. I did not mean it-"

"If I left it at our chambers, it was nothing of note," Otto explains, hands resting on your hips.

"But-"

"Do think me so reckless?"

You look at him with your beady eyes before turning away.

"You insult me by believing me thoughtless of my work."

You sigh, turning to him again, "I did not say that."

"Still, here I'm sat, offended," he tilts his head.

You chew your lower lip. Your heart quickens when he squeezes you and he leans in.

"And as Lord Hand, I must exact justice and punish you for it," he mutters against your nape, "on the desk."

You wordlessly stand and lean your hands on his desk.

Otto takes a moment to examine your swift obedience but then he clicks his tongue, "face me, foolish girl."

And so you do. It's slightly challenging, considering Otto did not offer you any space to do so, but you manage. You lean back on your bum and your nails dig into the edge of his wooden desk.

Finally, Otto moves back, chair skidding along with him. He rises to his full height only to drop to his knees. Your stomach instantly rolls, knowing exactly what your punishment will be. You reach for his face, "Otto, ple-"

"Mmm, I do so love it when you beg," he bunches your skirts up, "but it will not save you from my mouth, darling."

You can do nothing but watch and shiver as he rids you of all the fabrics that would hinder his lips from meeting yours. You have to shove your finger against your teeth to stop yourself from making the noises that threatened to rip out of you.

Your body is rigid and unyielding as your husband slots himself between your legs. Your toes curl as you try to find your footing, but then his hand comes to your belly and he pushes you back, urging you to sit back. The desk skids slightly at the force.

Your mouth drops as you sit yourself on his desk. Your expression twists and an guttural sound rips from your throat when he lifts your legs and drapes it on his shoulders.

You scratch down his scalp and tangle your fingers into his hair. He moans when you begin tugging at his roots. His hot hands trail up to the most sensitive part of you. You nearly fall back when he squeezes your inner thighs before parting them.

His tongue for easier access this way. Soon, he could feel a mix slick and dribble streaming down his chin. The combined heat of his breath and brush of his nose against your clit made your skin feel like it was on fire. His nails bite in your flesh and his teeth give you the faintest of grazes. His cheeks brush against you and the feel of his fear against your sensitive skin only heighten your arousal.

With all the combined sensations, it's not long until you reach your peak. You cannot sustain any form of silence as searing pleasure seizes your body.

Otto wrings out every shiver and every moan. He drinks in every drop of nectar you offer him and hungers to take in more. He does not relent until your noises sound weary. Just as you feared, he pushes your thighs apart when you try closing them.

You whine and yank at his hair. Failed attempts of asking for respite leave your lips. You gulp and sigh, "Otto-" but you only end up squealing when he begins prodding you deeper with his tongue.

Peak after peak washes over you until you're breathless and delirious. You melt against the desk, no longer able to keep yourself upright. You are left spineless and dumb. You don't even know how many times he makes you come with his tongue, but you do know you cannot possibly come another time.

But he makes you, so you do, and you can do nothing but whine about it as tears fog your eyes.

You are so out of it that when a knock comes upon the door, only Otto hears it. He lifts his head from your thighs, face glistening with slick.

You gulp and breath in a sigh of relief, weakly lifting your head up at the sight of him. Your mind is hazy, and gods you were exhausted, but you could not deny the way your stomach rolled at sight of his face, beard all wet with you.

The knock comes again, and this time a voice follows, "Lord Hand?"

"What is it?" the Hand snaps, evidently irritated.

The man behind the front door hesitates, fidgeting with the letter in his hand, "I have a correspondence from-"

"Is it important?" Otto snaps once more.

"Quite."

"..."

"..."

"My lord. Shall I g-"

"Come in."

The door to the office of the Hand opens. The man holding the letter beholds the Hightowers— Otto's eyes are fixed on his wife who was stood before him. You are wiping his beard with a handkerchief. The Lord's hands are fixed on your waist as he mutters something.

Very quickly the man realizes he's interrupted something.

"Important?" Otto turns to him, softened features immediately hardening. He reaches a hand out.

You swipe off the remaining sheen on your husband's chin before pulling away.

The man hands Otto the letter, "from the Lannisters."

Otto rolls his eyes, taking the letter before turning back to you, "we will finish this later. I expect you to serve me my dessert at supper."

You clear your throat but it does not stop the way your face burns, so you turn to your feet.

Your husband grabs your hand when you try to walk off without a response. He raises his brows at you, "yes?"

You clench you jaw and nod slowly, "of course, my lord."

Otto kisses the back of your hand before releasing you.

[astraykiel]

—Cade

[melikedraw]

Holy crap guys he's coming out of the screen to get his wife (me) I need him to take me away I can't with real life anymore

He's so baby he's so loml real

Love him. Now. This is a threat.

[gumsnail682]

MY BABY GIRL NOOO DONT CRYYYYY

I LOVE YOU TO, SO MUCH LEVI. MY LOVEEEEEEE AHHHHH!!!!

I love him so much you don't understand-