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sinful-mind-joyful-thoughts · 8 months ago

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𝙵𝚘𝚛𝚐𝚎 𝙼𝚎 𝙰 𝙻𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛

⤷ Credits: Pinterest

Marcus Acacius x F!reader | WC : 2.1k | Proof read : NO

Summary : The night before a battle, General Acacius has something to tell the blacksmith's daughter.

Warnings: SMUT, LOSS OF VIRGINITY, unprotected pinv (wrap it before you tap it), masturbation F and M, implied age gap, scars, breeding kink

A/n : I wrote this in like an hour so...enjoy my horny Roman general smut with a touch of lovely dovey bc ovulation, Also I'm very dyslexic lol

The needs of any general are important, and yet your father handles the most critical element of all: crafting the armor and swords meant for battle. Among all your father's customers, General Acacius was your favorite. Alluring and tempting, he was a force of nature, and he knew it. He almost never lost a fight. If your father knew about your infatuation, he might just muster the strength to overpower the general himself.

But that didn't stop the glances. You dreamed and prayed to the goddess Venus that he would take you as his wife or even a whore.

You helped your father polish the swords and armor for the men. This week, another battle of the gladiators loomed on the horizon. It was late, the night sky high above as you rubbed polish along a chest plate. The sound of an approaching horse made you stand tall. It was a single horse, a white steed adorned with armor you knew all too well. It galloped up to where you were, at the part of the blacksmith's forge that was outside. The firelight illuminated his face as he spoke.

"Evening, fair one," General Acacius said, his voice as smooth and commanding as ever. He dismounted, his gaze never leaving you. "Is your father about?"

You shook your head, your heart pounding in your chest. "He has retired for the night, General."

Acacius stepped closer, the flickering flames casting shadows on his chiseled features. "Then it is fortunate that I find you here. I have something important to discuss."

You swallowed hard, the anticipation building within you. "What is it, General?"

He looked down, his expression softening. "Tomorrow, I march into battle. A battle that carries great risk. And I cannot go without first telling you what is in my heart."

Your breath caught in your throat. "General, I—"

He raised a hand, silencing you gently. "No titles now, please. Call me Marcus."

"Marcus," you whispered, the name feeling strange and intimate on your lips.

He stepped even closer, so close you could feel the warmth of his body, smell the faint scent of leather and steel. "For too long, I have admired you from afar. Your beauty, your spirit, your kindness. You have captured my heart, and I can no longer keep it hidden."

You felt your cheeks flush, a mixture of disbelief and overwhelming emotion flooding through you. "Marcus, I... I never thought..."

"I know," he interrupted softly. "And I do not ask for an answer now. I only ask that you know the truth. Should I fall in battle tomorrow, I want you to know that I love you. With all that I am, I love you."

Tears welled in your eyes as you reached out to touch his hand. "Marcus, please come back to me."

He brought your hand to his lips, kissing it tenderly. "I will fight with all my strength, for you give me reason to survive. But if fate decrees otherwise, remember my words and hold them close."

As he turned to leave, you called out to him, your voice trembling. "Marcus, I love you too."

He paused, looking back at you with a fierce determination in his eyes. "Then I shall return. For nothing, not even the gods themselves, can keep me from you."

Marcus closed the distance between you, his eyes darkening with an intensity that made your heart race. He reached out, his fingers brushing against your cheek before pulling you into a deep, passionate kiss. His lips were firm and demanding, yet tender as if savoring every moment. You melted into his embrace, the world around you fading into nothingness.

When he finally pulled away, his eyes were ablaze with desire. "Come with me," he whispered, his voice husky and commanding. "We do not have much time."

Without waiting for a response, he took your hand and led you away from the forge, his grip strong and unwavering. You followed him through the shadows, the moonlight casting an ethereal glow on the path ahead. The air was thick with anticipation and the promise of what was to come.

He guided you to the far side of the property, where the cattle were kept. The soft sounds of the animals settling for the night filled the air, creating a backdrop of calm amid the storm of your emotions. Marcus led you into a small, secluded barn, the scent of hay and earth surrounding you.

Inside, the dim light revealed a space both intimate and hidden from prying eyes. Marcus turned to you, his expression a mix of determination and vulnerability. "I have waited too long for this moment," he said, his voice low and fervent. "I need you, here and now."

You nodded, your own desire mirroring his. "Then take me, Marcus. I am yours."

He pulled you into a passionate kiss, his lips firm and demanding. His hands slipped under the shoulders of your gown, letting the fabric dip. You gasped, the cool night air grazing your exposed skin. He looked at you intently, his brow furrowed with concern.

"Have you been taken?" he asked, his voice low and husky.

"I'm no stranger to my own touch," you admitted, feeling small and vulnerable under his gaze, "but to a man?" You shook your head, your heart pounding.

A flicker of something dark and primal flashed in his eyes. He pulled your dress down the rest of the way, letting it fall into the hay scattered across the barn floor. You instinctively moved to cover yourself, but he was quicker. His hands were on your sides, warm and possessive. He kissed you once more, his hands moving upwards, palming your breasts as he began to kiss your neck. You gasped, planting your hands against his armor.

"Marcus," you breathed.

He stopped kissing you and gently patted your shoulder, a silent command to lie down in the hay. The loud clang of his armor hitting the ground sent a jolt of excitement through you. He stripped off his underclothes, revealing himself to you. Immediately, you jumped to your knees, meeting him on the ground. You looked at his body in shock and awe, the scars scattered across his muscular frame telling stories of battles fought and won.

Worry etched your brow as you reached out to trace the outline of his muscles and scars, getting lost in the feeling of his skin under your fingertips. He lifted your chin, forcing you to meet his gaze.

"They're healed," he murmured, his voice tender. "I feel no pain."

He caressed your cheek with his thumb before pulling you in for another kiss, cradling your head as he laid you back down. “Touch yourself,” he commanded softly, his eyes dark and hungry.

Your eyes widened at his request, but the slight smile on his lips and the warmth in his eyes gave you the courage to comply. You brought one hand to your clit, using slow circles to work yourself up, while the other hand roamed your body, seeking out the places that felt the best. You closed your eyes, small moans escaping your lips.

You frowned slightly, still concerned, but he caressed your cheek with his thumb before pulling you in for another kiss. He cradled your head as he laid you back down. "Touch yourself," he whispered, his voice a seductive command.

Your eyes widened at the suggestion. "Go on," he almost chuckled at the slight shyness you showed.

With trembling hands, you took one to your clit, using slow circles to work yourself up. Your other hand grasped your breast before roaming your body, seeking out whatever felt good in the moment. You closed your eyes, letting small moans escape your lips. You brought your hand that had been circling your clit to your mouth, opening your eyes to see what Marcus was doing.

He watched you with a hunger that made your pulse quicken. As you started sucking on two of your fingers, he stroked his length at the same speed, thick and overwhelming. Precum lined his cock, glistening in the dim light. You let your fingers out of your mouth with a pop, and he growled a low, primal sound. You spread your legs further, looking him dead in the eyes as you inserted two fingers into your wet cunt, thrusting them slowly while maintaining eye contact. Soft moans spilled from your lips, your back arching.

Marcus cracked, stopping your hand with a firm grip. You whined at the sudden stop of pleasure, but he pulled your hand from your cunt and sucked at the slick-covered fingers, savoring every bit. He released your hand with a pop, then spit into his own before rubbing it onto his cock. He leaned down, kissing your neck to distract you from any discomfort.

He rubbed his dick along your folds before pushing into you slowly. The action made you claw at his back and let out a yelp. You'd managed to put three fingers in your cunt at one point, but nothing compared to the size and mass of Marcus Acacius.

"Shh, shh, the pain will end soon," he whispered, kissing your forehead. He began to thrust into you slowly, being careful not to cause more pain. Eventually, the discomfort faded, replaced by a growing pleasure. You began to moan, and Marcus groaned, planting a hand on your hip while the other wandered up and down your body.

He bit his lip, a bead of sweat forming along his forehead, his curls sticking to his skin. His strokes became more forceful, and you started to moan louder, feeling yourself nearing the edge.

"M-more, General," you gasped for air before continuing, "more."

He growled in response, speeding up. His free hand moved to rub your clit, his thrusts harder and faster. The hay scratched at your skin, but you didn't care. Your hands gripped his forearms as you felt your pussy start to clench down on his cock. Your orgasm crashed over you with a loud moan, and Marcus continued thrusting, fucking you through your climax with sloppy, erratic movements.

With a deep moan, he spilled his hot seed inside you, filling you completely. He kissed you passionately before pulling out and collapsing beside you in the hay. You lay there together, bodies entwined, the afterglow of your shared pleasure enveloping you. The cool night air mixed with the warmth of your bodies, creating a cocoon of intimacy that made the world outside seem distant and unimportant.

Marcus turned to you, his breath still heavy, his eyes softening as they met yours. "I will return," he said, his voice a blend of steel and tenderness. "I will win this battle, and when I do, I will make you my bride."

You felt a surge of emotions, hope, and love intertwining with the remnants of your passion. "Marcus, you must be careful," you whispered, your fingers tracing the lines of his strong jaw. "I couldn't bear to lose you."

He took your hand, pressing a kiss to your palm, then your wrist, before bringing it to rest over his heart. "With you in my thoughts, I am invincible," he declared. "Every sword I raise, every enemy I face, it will be for you. The gods themselves could not keep me from your side."

You gazed into his eyes, feeling the weight of his promise settle deep within your soul. "And I will be here, waiting for you," you vowed, your voice trembling with emotion. "My heart, my body, they are yours."

He smiled a rare and beautiful thing that made your heart skip a beat. "Then it is settled," he said, his tone resolute. "I will fight with all my might, knowing that my bride awaits me."

He shifted, rising from the hay with the grace and power of the warrior he was. You watched as he dressed, every movement deliberate and filled with purpose. The sight of his scars, his muscles, the very essence of his strength, only made you more certain of the love you felt for him.

Once fully dressed, he turned back to you, offering a hand to help you rise. You took it, feeling the roughness of his skin, the strength of his grip. He pulled you close, his lips finding yours in a kiss that was both a promise and a farewell.

"I will return to you," he whispered against your lips, his breath warm and reassuring.

"And I will be waiting," you replied, your voice filled with a mixture of longing and certainty.

With one final, lingering kiss, he stepped away, mounting his white steed with the same grace and power that had always captivated you. As he rode off into the night, you watched him go, your heart swelling with pride and love.

The barn seemed empty without him, the silence heavy with the weight of his absence. But as you gathered your gown and dressed, you felt a new sense of purpose. You would prepare for his return, ready to welcome him back as your victor and your husband.

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darksturnioloqueen · 1 day ago

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Yall Im re reading this and IM SMILING SO HARD WTF

Even a queen surprises herself

—The Dark Queen

Sadistic!Matt x In Bed

**This Fic Series will NOT be for people with triggers. This Fic Series will have very descriptive moments of Sadism.**

Sadistic (Sadism - The Act Of Being Sadistic)

Deriving (getting) pleasure from inflicting (causing) pain, suffering, or humiliation on others.

Please Read At Your Own Risk.

⚠︎Trigger Warning: angsty thoughts, feeling played, Sadistic!Matt breaks in again, feelings talk, scared of rejection, Literally my favourite Sadistic!Matt ever!!!!!, filling you up. ⚠︎

You kept declining. He was relentless. After what he said to you, you panicked. Was it attractive? Yes, of course. Was it scary? Also, yes. You liked casual fear, and most of the time, his mysterious nature intrigued you, but you couldn't shake the way he looked at you while saying "too much." Terror, hot. Pain, hot. Blood, hot. Confusion, not hot. You honestly couldn't shake the feeling of being played. He knew he was a sadist this whole time, and you fell into his games and tricks. It got too real for you. The feelings, too real. The sex, too real. The fear, too real.

Ping.

"Ugh." You declined him once again. You needed some space to clear your head. You fell for him and now you couldn't be so sure he felt the same. Before, you might have been naive enough to say he felt the same. But now, not a chance. You always had to play smart given your sexual nature.

Ping.

"What the fuck?" You mumbled, actually looking at the message attached this time.

Talk? offered you 1,000.

He was really pushing to talk for $1,000. You thought about the way he felt inside you. The shivers in between your thighs felt tempting. His bulky erection you got to touch behind his jeans, even for just a short moment. His hair and how it always laid perfectly no matter what sexual adventure you went on. His pale blue eyes stared into yours as if he cared about your consent. You shook your head fast. You declined. He never cared about you. You had to remember that. You turned your phone on silent and decided it wouldn't be a bad idea to ignore it for a while. Once you felt like you had a clearer head, you would message him. We would not meet up, just a message. Just like he was vulnerable during sex, so were you. Your feelings for him got out of hand. The fact you had feelings for a sadist was out of hand.

You played light music and started picking up your room you had neglected. It wasn't always easy to keep up with basic tasks. You were a bank teller during the day and a moonlighting submissive at night. You only worked at the bank three days a week because the real money was made at night. You turned to put a small box in your closet and bumped into someone.

"What the fuck?" You screamed and immediately started walking backward until you hit your little desk.

"You think you can ignore me?" Matt stood there in all black, wearing a backward hat.

"I'm taking today off." You lied. You weren't ready to talk.

"Okay." He stood like stone, which unnerved you. He was unpredictable, and something you once loved now scared the hell out of you.

"I'm cleaning." You motioned around to show off the much cleaner room.

He looked around, then back at you. "Okay, keep cleaning." He said it like a demand, and that pissed you off. He didn't get to decide if you were going to clean your room.

"Leave," you said sternly. He didn't budge. "Matt," you said, not sure if your mind was playing tricks on you, but you could have sworn you saw his face soften a little when you said his name. "So much for being sorry about breaking in." He sat on the edge of the bed. "That's not leaving." You got sassy with him.

"I'm not." He smiled at his own joke.

"Why not?" You weren't even scared anymore, just annoyed.

"I want to talk to you." He held no readable emotion.

"That's a first." You rolled your eyes.

"Why did you decline me to clean?" Him asking you the questions this time was different.

"I needed to clean." You said it like it was an obvious answer.

"We both know that's not why." He called you out. You started to feel the nerves kicking in again. If he knew the real reason then why was he here? He probably just wanted to play with you.

"If that's not it what is it then?" You stopped cleaning and folded your arms in front of him.

"You are scared." This time, his face held a readable emotion: disappointment.

"I'm not scared." You lied. He just stared right at you. His gaze burned yours. "I'm confused." You were starting to let your wall down. He looked good, and the way he looked at you was starting to make you feel weak for him.

"About?" He sat completely still, like a psychopath. You were getting frustrated.

"What are we doing here? Like what is this?" You used your hands to motion between you and him.

"I like you." He said flat.

"You said that, but then you just fuck and leave me every time. I'm kind of used to that anyways but..." You took a breath and thought about your next words. "Do you just want to hurt me?" You changed your course of questions.

"No." There was a slight leap in his voice. You heard it even though he didn't mean for it to happen.

"Do you want to date me?" It was your turn to question everything.

"No." His tone turned harsh again.

"Then what do you want?" Your voice was starting to rise.

"I want to hurt you all the time." He was honest.

"So that's it you only want to hurt me? That's what this is?" You knew you were right. You felt your frustration build behind your eyes. Slowly, your eyes brimmed with water of anger and maybe just a hint of sadness. You were right, but that doesn't mean you wanted to be.

"I don't have to." He stood up and you felt yourself shrinking internally. He didn't stand tall but he stood strong and intimidating.

"But that's all you want. As a sadi -" He grabbed you and pulled you into his chest.

"I've never wanted anyone the way I want you." He looked down into your eyes, and again, his words left you confused.

"But you don't want to date me," you croaked. You wanted to push him a little, but you were scared of what he might do.

"I can't." He finally gave you something to work with.

"Why not?" You tilted your head slightly.

"I'm a sadist. No one stays with a sadist." He didn't seem bothered by his nature but more so the truth about no one staying.

"What if I did?" You pried for his thoughts.

"You declined me." He had a valid point. You shied away from him the minute you got wrapped up in your head. You weren't sure what to say since he was right. "You want to leave." He stated.

"No." You countered.

"You declined me." He was staying short again. You figured that out. It was his defense mechanism. The fewer words, the less truth he had to share.

"You want to hurt me." You fought back.

"I don't have to I just want to." It almost sounded like a plea.

"Prove it." You challenged. He tucked his pointer finger underneath your chin and lifted it more. He slowly pressed his lips to yours. He let his lips push and pull yours for a few seconds before pulling back.

"See, I don't have to bite." He chuckled. You wanted more, and you wanted it now. You pressed into him and reattached your lips. You melted. Matt wasn't sure what you were going for so he stood still and lightly kissed you back.

"I don't want to leave." You whispered on his lips. You kept your eyes closed because you were too afraid to see his facial expression.

"I'll try it." You opened your eyes.

"Try what?"

"The dating thing." He didn't seem all that interested, but you weren't really expecting much.

"Okay." You couldn't help but smile wide. You weren't scared of him hurting you—no, that was never it. You were scared of him rejecting or playing with you. That was the confirmation you needed that he truly liked you. That confirmation took away your fears.

"Are we going to fuck?" He smirked. You nodded, feeling excited. He turned you around and put you on your bed. He slipped off your top, then your shorts. You watched as he tugged his shirt off from the back. You wondered how he was going to hurt you this time. There wasn't anything in your bedroom he could really use to hurt you. He slipped his sweats down and crawled on top of you. He was already fully erect. You wondered to yourself how. There was no pain, no way to cause pain. He lined himself up in between your thighs, which were already shaking slightly from the soft touch. Your body ached for Matt in a way no one else could make it. He ducked his head down and kissed your neck. You anticipated the harsh biting he loved to do, but it never happened. Just his plush lips smashed to your skin with a little bit of tongue flicking over the skin, leaving wet spots.

"M-m-Matt." You shivered.

"Mhm." He hummed, moving his lips up your jawline.

"What are y-" He captured your words with his mouth. His fingertips trailed up your arm until he could interlock them with yours. He slowly pushed his hips forward, giving you the pressure your body was begging for. You were already wet but as soon as he pushed into you, you felt more lubrication. He pulled out slowly and took his lips off yours.

"I don't always have to hurt you." He whispered looking right into your eyes. He continued rocking his hips in a fluid motion. In and out. His hand never let go of yours.

"Fuck Matt." You moaned out. It was a simple pleasure. Just the thought of it being Matt inside of you, holding you, making love to you, was enough to cause you to orgasm. Matt kept going. He wasn't one for what he called light sex, but with you, he wanted to prove to you he could be someone you wanted. He wanted to prove he was worth loving, something he only cared about with you. He reattached his lips to your neck when you threw your head back from the gratification. He continued pushing deep into you. Every stroke inside of you was filled with more than just a need for physical pleasure. Matt cared. For the first time in a long time, Matt cared about someone. He cared about you. "Uh." You huffed out little moans of euphoria.

"Mhhm." He groaned, loving your noises. He liked pleasing you. He was fighting all the urges in his mind to hurt you and trying to focus on just you. When he wanted to bite you, he kissed you instead. When he wanted to punch you, he tightened his grip on your hands instead. When he wanted to hurt you, he made love to you instead. He picked up his pace slightly to get a little more pleasure moans from you. You panted more sounds, feeling him fill you up fully.

"I lov -" Matt stopped your words with his hand. He kept a hand covering your mouth for a minute as he kept thrusting. He stared directly into your eyes. You saw his eyes speaking for him. He was scared of love. You moaned on his hand strongly, and he removed it.

"I'm going to cum." He whispered in your ear. You felt shivers running through your body. You examined him on top of you. He moved back and forth propped up on his forearms. His eyes stared directly into yours. His face would wince slightly from pleasure when he'd push far inside of you. You didn't want to give up. You wanted him to know you weren't going to leave him. You weren't scared of him. You wanted him. You needed him. You loved him.

"I love you." You got it out before he could stop you. His eyes softened a little as he pushed inside you one last time, finishing. You closed your eyes and felt him release inside of you. "Fuck." You moaned out, loving the sensation of him claiming your body. He slipped out and rolled to lay next to you. After your breathing was back to normal you asked, "Are you going to stay?"

"Now, that's asking too much." He chuckled and got off the bed to slip back into his clothes. He walked toward the door and stopped himself. "But you can come over tonight if you want." He said before exiting. You felt your legs shaking violently. Did Matt, the sadist, just make love to you?

#the dark queen shadow ⚠︎#the dark queen royal decree⚠︎#sadistic!matt x masochistic!reader ⚠︎#sadistic!matt ⚠︎

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eratosmusings · 11 months ago

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Loyalty (I)

Daemon Targaryen x Hightower!reader

summary: the king decides it's time for his brother to produce more targaryen heirs. who better than another hightower daughter to carry them?

warnings: adults only, all characters over 18, dubcon smut in later chapters, arranged marriage, abortion allusion (moon tea), coercion, terrible parenting

word count: 2.3k

dividers

“I won’t allow it.”

“You won’t allow it?” Viserys asks with an air of frigid humor. “Who are you to deny your king what he has commanded?”

Otto seethes, decades of practiced court manners faltering under the demand. “Forgive me, Your Grace, but she is my daughter. I will not have her married off to a man whose love of violence and debauchery trails him like a shadow. She is a pious child. To marry her to Daemon is—“

“A blessing. She will marry a prince and a valiant knight.”

The other men at the table are silent. They'd expected talks of reinforcing the kingdom's claim on the Stepstones or of quelling rumors that had cropped up of Daemon corrupting his young niece in a brothel a year prior. The king commanding a marriage between Otto Hightower's youngest daughter—his only child from a tragically short second marriage—is an unpleasant surprise.

"He is already married."

Viserys gives a taut smile. "Daemon's marriage to Lady Royce has been annulled. By royal decree and with the blessing of the High Septon. It is in the best interest of Westeros that the Targaryen line remains vast and strong and it has been decided your daughter will do what Lady Royce did not."

Otto's face falls in disbelief. He's heard nothing of it. This had been set up to corner him. "She is a child."

"She is nearly four years older than Alicent was when we wed. The queen has proven your daughters are strong vessels for Targaryen children."

"It is different. She is different. She is not as strong as Alicent."

The king shakes his head. "I will hear no more discussion of this. She will wed Daemon and this feud between the two of you shall end once and for all.”

Alicent’s touch is feather-light as she takes hold of your hands. Her eyes wander across your form, taking in the exquisite ivory gown. Its crimson embroidered dragon along the skirt a special request from your soon-to-be husband. “You look beautiful, sister.”

You can say nothing to your half-sister, barely able to retain the tears brimming in silence. A fortnight was all you’d been given to prepare to wed the vilest creature in Westeros. Daemon Targaryen was all you could have ever hoped against in a husband.

Your father stands tall behind Alicent, head held high. "The image of the Maiden herself."

A choked sob escapes you at his words. This marriage was punishment by the Seven for every sin you'd ever committed. For the impure thoughts you'd had of knights. The white lies you'd spoken to save yourself the wrath of Septa Agerrea. The gambling you'd participated in when you’d bet your favorite embroidery needle in a game of cards with Lysa Tyrell. Had you only followed the Faith more faithfully, this torture would not be yours to endure.

“I believe it is time to take your place with the king, Your Grace,” your father says.

Alicent hesitates with glossy eyes. She draws you into a tight hug and whispers an apology and how much she loves you. You have the faintest memory of her wedding to the king a few years before. The happy sister who’d spent hours braiding your hair when the handmaidens failed to do it properly disappeared into a hardened queen round with child seemingly overnight. The smiles and giggles you’d shared daily turned to fond, distant memories. She withdraws a moment later, wiping at her face.

When the door shuts your father moves behind you. You watch in the ornate mirror as he drapes the green maidencloak of House Hightower across your shoulders. The new burden's weight feels uncomfortable.

He returns to stand before you, his expression sorrowful. "I am sorry, my sweet child, for this atrocity. You deserve far better.”

“I could have saved myself this fate had I been less worldly and become a Septa.” Your palm wipes at the tear that had fallen.

He cups your cheek. “Perhaps. But we cannot lament on what we could have done. Indeed we must focus instead on your duty to the realm.”

“To be a good wife,” you state. It was what he had raised you to be.

“No, sweet child,” he says softly, “I fear that I must ask something far more difficult of you. For your duty to the realm must supplant your duty in marriage.”

The wedding takes place in a haze. You tremble, stumble over words, and can not meet the eyes of your now husband nor the Septon. Soon you would betray them both.

For the good of the realm.

You do not eat or drink through the feast. You barely speak. You think you might have danced, though all you remember of it is a blurring background and an embroidered dragon that matches your own. It had stared at you accusingly.

“Shall I call for the bedding ceremony to begin, brother?” the king slurs loudly. If there had been anything in your stomach, it surely would have come out now. It was one vile thought to have him touch you. But to have other men undress you as well?

Your hand is pulled from your lap, enclosed in another twice its size, callous and rough against your skin. For the first time that day you look at your husband. You’d never seen him this close. The lavender gaze cannot have been of this world. It’s too vibrant, too knowing. “Too many of the men here have wandering hands. I’d hate to spill blood on such a blessed day.” His lips brush against your hand. “My sweet wife should not have to endure such tragedy.”

The king responds dismissively. Something of disappointing guests, but to do as he pleases. Daemon takes it as a dismissal and pulls you from your seat. The last thing you hear is the call from many about bloody sheets.

Perhaps the Mother has decided to take mercy on you. For you cannot breathe as the doors to the prince’s chambers close behind you. Death can take you before he can.

He stands in front of the fire, pouring some drink into a goblet. The flickering orange light suits him. Like he was born for flames. “You must relax. There is nothing for you to fear from me.” A lie. There was much to fear from him.

A booming knock echoes through the room.

“Enter.”

Two servants carrying trays of bread and fruit enter. Then they are gone just as swiftly. The door closes once more.

“You must eat,” he says, taking your hand once more and leading you to a small table. You sit and a piece of bread is offered. You take it and, after an expectant nod, take a bite. It’s still warm and soft. You take another bite. And another.

It’s gone quickly. Too quickly for a lady. A bowl of berries clatters softly in front of you. You pick at it slower, though not as slowly as you’d like. They are sweet. Perfectly ripe.

“Would you like some wine?”

Despite the juice of berries coating your tongue, your mouth is dry as you speak for the first time since you’d said your vows. “Yes, please.”

“So well mannered.” A smug smile spreads across his face as he raises his goblet and sips. He reaches over and sets it down beside the half-empty bowl. “I forgot to have them retrieve another cup.”

The crimson red liquid ripples. A challenge.

“You are very gracious, my Prince. Thank you.” You lift it by the stem and drink. It was stronger than you’ve ever had before. The taste takes you aback, coughing as it soaks your tongue. Hastily you set the cup back down.

"I take it you don't often indulge in Dornish Reds."

"No, never."

His head cocks to the side appraisingly. "I suppose such a thing has never been offered to you before. Not within the confines of your father's authority. He has given you a rather sheltered life."

A prickly heat seeps up your neck. "My father did not confine or shelter me. He has only ever guided me to live as virtuously as the Seven wished for all their children to live.”

“How very kind of him to not let you endure the same vices as himself.”

You blink, his words sinking in. The implication that your father is a drunkard stings. He isn't, but you don’t fight his accusation. Selfishly, you do not wish to defend your father. Instead, you pluck a berry from the bowl, hoping to end the conversation entirely.

"Are the berries quite good?"

You nod, not wanting to speak again.

"Might I have one?" When you go to pick up the bowl, he stops you. "Pick me out the best one."

The best one? The bowl is still half full. Which berry was the best? Would he be disappointed if you picked one he did not like? Or one that was not ripe enough? Not sweet enough? What would he do to you if he disliked the one you chose?

It was the largest blackberry that you finally settle on, prepared to hear how terrible the choice had been as you hold it out to him. He doesn't simply take it. He leans over the table, taking the berry and your fingers into his mouth.

The act is heinously intimate. It leaves you frozen and breathless as he pulls away, his eyes alight in devious amusement. "I'm not sure which taste I prefer. The berry's or your's."

Fire spreads across your cheeks. You flinch away, embarrassed. In the escape effort your arm knocks against the goblet. To your horror, it clatters against the table. The liquid sloshes across your front, staining the white gown.

The crimson seems to seep from your womb, condemning you for something you had yet to do. You paw at the stain as the chair clatters on the ground from the force with which you'd stood.

Tears brim in your eyes as it continues to spread.

“There's no need to fret. It is only wine.”

“I have desecrated it.” The tears have not stopped falling and your hands have not stopped scrubbing at it with your fingers. “The stain will never come out.”

“It is only a dress.” He cups your face, encouraging you to meet his gaze. It searches for some understanding.

He would never understand.

“I am so sorry, my Prince.”

He shushes you softly and places a kiss against your forehead. This was the monster? The vile, unholy beast whose every action was an affront to the Seven? This man who had shown you nothing but kindness?

You cry harder.

He is not the monster.

You are.

You aren’t sure how long you cry. But he holds you through it all. He speaks little more than a few consoling phrases, but it is more than you deserve. His presence, arms around you, kisses on your hair. All of it more than you deserve.

You’re finally calm, only left with sniffles, when he says, “We should get the dress to the washwomen before the stain sets.” What good would it do? The stain can never be removed from your soul. Still you agree and turn for him.

His fingers are swift as they loosen the strings of your bodice. Practiced. He is practiced. Behind closed doors you assume, but there were numerous tales of his public debauchery. It has been gossiped that he prefers the thrill of open affairs and touches of multiple women.

“Why did you refuse the bedding ceremony?”

He pauses. “Did you wish to have one?”

“No,” you say quickly. “But given your…tendencies I…I thought…” A quiet hum has your words trailing off.

His work continues, though slower. “You are not a whore in a brothel.”

“Neither is your niece and yet...”

Air blows across your neck as he chuckles. “Has my pious little wife been gossiping about the chastity of the Crowned Princess?”

Your lungs seize at the realization of what you’d just said. It’s treason. Questioning her virtue is treason.

“Relax, jaesa.” His hands slip between the shoulders of your shift and the loose gown, pushing the sleeves down your arms. “I took you under my protection today. You may speak freely to me.”

“I,” you hesitate, freeing your hands of the garment, “I had heard that a year ago you snuck the princess from the castle and—“

He bunches the fabric at your waist and tugs. “Had my way with her in some brothel?”

“Yes.”

The gown struggles for a moment, snagging on the curve of your behind. Another tug and it is a pile around your feet. “My niece wished to see King’s Landing. I showed her and returned her to the castle, still a fair maiden like yourself.”

“Of course.”

“You doubt me?”

“No, my Prince.”

"It would do a great disservice to our union to begin it with lies." He prompts you to turn and hesitantly you do. He is shorter than your father, yet his presence is as commanding. More so. It makes you aware of how thin the fabrics of your shifts were when his gaze drifts down. "My niece's heart belongs elsewhere. As do my desires."

His touch is gentle as he cups your cheek, but the feeling's it stirred are rough and uncertain. Bordering on traitorous.

“Shall I call a servant to fetch the dress?” The words waver. You wonder if they’re comprehensible at all.

They are, it seems as he rejects the offer and slips out the door himself with the dress. The reprieve from his watchful, astute eye is welcome. You fall to your knees at the edge of the bed and recite the prayer your father had taught you minutes before you’d been led down the aisle.

Warrior, give me strength for what I must do. It is for the good of the realm.

Mother, forgive me for what I must do. It is for the good of your faithful servants.

Stranger, lead my children to peace. It is for the good of their innocent souls.

a/n: all your thoughts and reblogs are appreciated 🌺

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plutoswritingplanet · 1 year ago

Text

It's A Special Death You Saved (Feyd Rautha Harkonnen x Female!Reader) pt.1

a/n: i had a "no bald men" rule before he licked a knife... so y'all know my priorities are in order. Cross-Posted on AO3

Warnings: Dub-Con (as per usual), Arranged Marriage, Reader is an Atreides (it's just such a good prompt i couldn't help myself),

Summary: A month-long engagement to the na-Baron Harkonnen makes you question, whether a marriage can bloom on the grounds of hate. Loosely based on "Special Death" by Mirah.

Pt.2, Pt.3 Pt.4 (finale)

The message comes from the Emperor himself. An indisputable order that renders your Father speechless. You've never seen him quite as distraught, as when he has visited you in your chambers to deliver the news. Hands fidgeting, eyes refusing to meet yours, heavy shadows falling across his face. He seems to expect your reaction, not giving you as much as a flinch, when you scream your protests at him. And he should've expected as much, you were always the more impulsive of Duke Leto's children.

- But the Harkonnens are beasts - you argue, voice breaking - You've said it yourself, many times.

- Actually, I think that was Gurney...

- You've never denied it!

And he doesn't deny it now, head hung low. Never, not once in your life, have you seen your Father give up. Until today.

Your Mother enters just a few seconds after him, her dress flowing around her ankles as if she had floated in on a cloud. She stands to the side of your bed, hands folded, and an impassive expression embedded onto her features. And the more she speaks of the centuries of breeding, the importance of an union and the powers beyond your understanding, the less you see of your mother. What stands before you, instead, is a Bene Gesserit sister, veiled in schemes and dark plans, which were in the making before you were even born. You curse yourself for not noticing this stranger sooner, and storm off, out of your room, your shawl blowing out behind you like bat wings.

Paul doesn't visit you, but you can hear him, even through the effort of swallowing down your tears. He fights for you against your Father. He would fight for you against the whole Empire if he had to, and your heart swells, as he throws a particularly nasty curse into the air of your Father's study. It doesn't change anything. According to the decree of the Emperror, the oldest daughter of the Duke Leto Atreides will marry Feyd Rautha, an heir to the Baron Harkonnen. A centuries long dispute is about to be put to an end, and all thanks to the small sacrifice, which is your life. All would be well in the galaxy. Really, you should be honored, to be tasked with such a monumental peace treaty.

Everyone in the court seems to know about your situation. Mournful looks follow you, as you walk into the training barracks, ridding yourself of layers upon layers of flowing fabrics, leaving you in a rather tight costume, light enough to beat your frustrations out on someone.

Duncan Idaho meets your searching eyes, and you know he is aware as well. All it takes is one inclination of your chin, and he's up on his feet, sword in hand. Loyal as ever, he stands in front of you, watches with mixed feelings as you enable your shield, no questions asked. None needed.

He barely has time to put his defenses up, when you charge at him, fury and despair pushing your movements into stances which are clumsy and ill though out. Still, there's power within your strikes, a strength of someone who needs to move, unless they break. So he lets you, for a couple of minutes. He dodges your attacks, pairing some of them, never moving quite into the offense.

The rest of the soldiers scurry off somewhere, for which you will be thankful in the future. They might hear your cries of anger, but they will not see you break. They will not see the way your blade smashes into Duncan's shield over and over again, with no regard for the slow attacks, which would penetrate it. Likewise, they don't see your sparring partner fall to his knees and swipe you off your feet in a split-second movement, making you hit the floor with a frustrated snarl. And they don't see you finally give up, and cry, hugging your blade to your chest, the severity of your circumstance falling onto you, crushing you down.

- Never fight in anger, Princess - Duncan reminds you, voice cautious, and you growl at him like a wild animal - It dulls your instincts, makes you distracted.

- Did you know? - you demand, your sharp voice cutting through his half-assed lecture.

For a moment he looks truly remorseful. His eyes float around the room, and your heart sinks when he sighs deeply.

- I found out not long ago - he confesses - Your Father told me.

Your blade slides against the floor as you throw it, a raw scream tearing through your throat. Duncan takes a step towards you, hand extended towards your shaking form. But, before he can attempt to touch you, you're up, rolling your shoulders forcefully. Tears stain your cheeks, and you wipe them roughly with the back of your hand, skin becoming irritated almost instantly. There are swords laid out on a small table, just beside you, your fingers grip the cold handle so hard, your knuckles seem to creak under the pressure. Duncan readies himself as well, dusting off his trousers.

He's not good at comforting, but he's the best at fighting, and if that's what you need in this cold morning, he'll oblige.

- You'll make it through, you know - he says, his voice genuine, and you laugh without any mirth.

Your blades clash, faces coming closer as you absentmindedly notice small scars adorning his cheeks.

- You can adapt to anything - you strike against his shoulder, the shield pushes your blade away - We could send you to Arrakis right now, and a week later you'd be riding a damned Sandworm into battle.

To that, you laugh, this time your smile reaching your eyes. The idea is preposterous, but it renders your footsteps lighter, and you twist to dodge a nasty blow to the right arm. Duncan huffs a laugh as well, as you slip through his fingers. He points his blade in your direction, a smirk playing across his lips, and you bare your teeth in a playful display of wildness.

- Careful, Princess, you might scare your betrothed away - Duncan teases, as you roll your dagger in your hand.

- Scare a damned Harkonnen? Do you find me that intimidating? - the idea thrills you just a little bit, you're woman enough to admit it.

- I think you're fucking terrifying.

- Duncan Idaho, you better not be swearing at my Daughter.

Your face falls immediately, as your Father approaches the two of you, shooting Duncan a stern gaze which holds no real threat. Still, your sparring partner raises his hands, his blade tucked away safely into his belt. There's sweat clinging to your skin from all the training, mingling with drying tears on your cheeks, and Duke Leto tries very hard not to comment on your choice of processing recent events. Still, he nods at you, and like a good daughter, you put your blade away, walking from the barracks after him.

***

The Emperor has called for a traditional, Atreides engagement. A mercy, which you're eternally grateful for. You're not too aware of Harkonnen customs regarding marriage, but given the House's reputation, it couldn't have been pleasant. House Atreides however, took to such matters much more ceremonially, old-fashioned to some.

Soon, a ship is arriving, with your betrothed onboard, and a month-long courting period willcommence. After that, official engagement and soon after, a wedding. Then, you will be transported back on Geidis Prime, where a life of misery awaits. That's all the time you have. A month.

The dress, which was picked out for you, is uncomfortable and shows both too much and too little skin at the same time. While your legs are bare and exposed to an almost scandalous degree, a high, stiff collar nearly chokes the life out of you. This whole getup was the idea of your mother, as an attempt to highlight your best features and hide all that might be considered less desirable.

You have no idea what's wrong with your neck. Perhaps, by cutting off your airflow, your mother aimed to keep you docile.

She frowns deeply as you tug on the fabric, nerves climbing up your spine, growing more desperate every second. She swats at your hand, and you throw her a look. Out of the corner of your eye Paul smiles at your antics, your only consolation in this hopeless place.

- Stop fidgeting, you'll tear the dress - Lady Jessica scolds you, and you can sense actual worry underlining her stern voice.

The Harkonnen ship slowly glides into the atmosphere of your home planet, a black, awful thing. Like all things on Geidis Prime, dark and miserable. Soon, you'll join them, adorned in equally black and lifeless clothing, never to see your family again. Never to see the Ocean. Your nails bite into the collar of the dress, you can hear a stitch tear.

- Stop that.

Your hands fall uselessly against your body, as your mother uses the Voice on you. Wouldn't be the first time, you were quite the unruly daughter and Lady Jessica was determined to make a Lady out of you no matter the means. Still, this time, the unnatural tone feels more like a panicked plea, than a light-hearted scolding.

- Relax Mother - your voice is sharp, despite the slight tremble - In a months time I'll be gone from here forever, stuck in some blackened cell, wistfully sighing "ooh" "aah".

You place your hand on your forehead in a dramatic display of doubtful acting abilities. When you were younger, your mother would laugh at you, as you enacted scenes from romance books. You would throw yourself at a nearby piece of furniture, pretending to be some wronged lover, or an unhappy bride waiting for someone to liberate her. And your mother would clap her hands, thoroughly entertained.

Today however, she doesn't even crack a smile.

- I don't expect you to be happy about all this - she whispers - But I do expect you to wear your grief with some grace.

A slap would've been kinder, you think, and stare ahead, as the Harkonnen ship opens, and a group of people dressed in black spill out of it like ants from a drowning anthill. Your heart is thrumming hard in your chest, and your hand reaches out, despite all your apprehension, towards your mother. A force of habit, to search consolation within her disregarding the fact, that it was her meddling that put you here.

Her fingers lace with yours, thumb stroking your palm in an attempt to soothe you.

Immediately, you know which one of the bald headed Harkonnen is your betrothed.

He's much taller than you, an imposing figure even despite his rather lean built. His skin is almost completely white, as expected, his teeth are blackened out, as expected as well, and his eyes are bearing into you with an intensity so oppressing, you almost look away. Almost.

- I present to you, Feyd Rautha, the na-Baron of House Harkonnen.

The pale man steps forward, releasing you from his gaze for only just a moment, to trade pleasantries with your Father, who looks beyond miserable as he fixes your soon-to-be husband with a tired look. Then, Feyd Rautha is brought before you.

There's grace to his movements you did not expect, as he pushes his black cloak aside, and kneels in front of you. Harkonnen were known for their bulky ruthlessness, but this one... This one reminded you of a panther, the way his eyes travelled the length of your body, full lips pulling upward into a barely noticable smirk.

Customs, you remind yourself, as your mother's hand squeezes your fingers. You don't want to let her go, but you do, slowly, with so many mixed thoughts rattling around your brain, it makes your head swim.

Feyd Rautha grabs your extended hand in such a gentle manner, you're almost convinced the Harkonnens have shaved some poor bastard and dropped him off instead of the real na-Baron. Then, he lifts your palm up, until his lips press against your fingertips, a gesture so tender, your heart does a flip in your chest. And then, it stops all together, when his grip on your palm tightens, and he pulls your hand closer, to kiss it properly. As if he can't help himself, he looks up at you, and you realize.

You almost got yourself caught, but reading people's intentions have been taught to you as fervently as reading texts, and you can see right through this facade of chivalry. There's darkness in this man, a swirling void, which brings a wave of cold fear upon you. This cunning, depraved creature will soon enough become your husband, and you'll be stuck with him forever. How long will he keep up this impeccable appearence? Was this performence for you, your Father, his own twisted fun, or all the things combined?

With a furrowed brow, you tear your hand out of his grasp, a full body shiver running up your spine at the sight of his self-satisfied smirk. He drinks up your reactions like a man parched, and you fight hard to put on a mask of indifference, as he rises from his knees to stand before you in all his imposing glory.

***

You can feel his eyes follow you, as the welcome committee retreats into the Palace. He doesn't let you out of his sight throughout the feast, which takes place immediately after his arrival, and even now, as he gets ready to "entertain" the court by indulging in some barbaric ceremony of his, his eyes are trained only on you.

It's uncomfortable, to say the least, having him stare at you, while you sit surrounded by your family, who, for the most part, say nothing. Except Paul. Your dear baby brother, your protector in all this madness. As Feyd Rautha throws his coat to the side, showing off his (admittedly impressive) muscles, Paul leans towards you.

- He looks like a hard boiled egg, don't you think sister? - he whispers and subsequently ends your vow of silence.

The giggle you let out is caught quickly by everyone around, your betrothed included, before you press an open palm against your lips.

- Behave - your mother warns, and you try, you really do.

But in the serene light of the fading sun, your soon-to-be husband's head does look frighteningly egg-ish. God, you'll get yourself killed, before the wedding ceremony is even resolved if you keep this up.

You're seated high in an outdoor theater. One of your grandfather's favorite places, where he used to dance with bulls for sport. Where he met his demise.

Feyd Rautha presents his knives to you and your family, their blades glint ominously in the setting sun. Again, you are struck with the sheer grace this man exudes. His movements, despite being forceful and wild, have a beauty to them, as if he was rehearsing ancient dance moves, rather than killing blows.

And, despite your brother's earlier comment, there is something enticing in the way his pale skin catches the rays of bleeding sunshine, slowly creeping towards the horizon. He's almost beautiful, almost handsome enough to consider.

The thought leaves your head almost immediately, as the Harkonnen servants bring in his apparent opponent. Your heart drops to your stomach at the sight of a beaten, dark skinned warrior. Immediately you recognize a Fremen, you've read so much about them in your free time. You know how they filter water, what they eat, how they move through the sands, and despite your knowledge you can't fathom, why this poor man has been brought here.

At your side, Paul shifts in his seat, all jokes leaving him in a hurry. The both of you watch, as the man you're promised to toys with a clearly drugged victim. Slashes bloom on the prisoners skin, blood sprays in the air. You refuse to look away, to show such weakness, even as Feyd Rautha grabs the poor man by his hair and with a forceful push impales his throat on the blade. Blood pours down onto the sand, paints the Harkonnen's face and chest a deep shade of red.

It's a brutal display of power, of cruelty and wildness the Harkonnens are known for. Suddenly, everything Gurney has warned you about, while training your fighting skills, rings like a thousand of bells in your ears. This is who you will marry, who you will spend your entire life with.

You swallow down an urge to throw up, and stand up from your seat.

The show must go on, you think, throwing your Mother one, venomous look, trying to force her to understand your pain. Then, you lock eyes with your betrothed, who watches you from below with a cruel smile, blackened teeth on full display. You meant to congratulate him, to play the part as instructed, but you can do nothing of the sort. Instead, you stare back at him, disgust flowing from your features like a broken faucet.

Lady Jessica opens her mouth, but before she can, without a doubt, scold you again, you're out of the seating area, your footsteps echoing in the halls.

Once you're sufficiently tucked away from prying eyes, your back hits the wall, and you allow yourself feel the luxury of unbridled panic. Your breathing comes out in fast, shallow pants, as cold sweat forms on your forehead. Thoughts racing, your fingers tangle into your hair, tugging at the roots. This is your future, the only future waiting for you, and it's filled wth pain and blood.

- Have you enjoyed the fight, my Lady? - you immediately know it's him, despite not hearing him speak before.

A gasp of surprise leaves you before you can catch it, and your back straightens almost painfully fast.

There he stands, tall and lean, and terrifying. Blood still decorates his torso creating a contrast that is both terrifying and hypnotizing. He watches you, curiosity and humor swirling behind his eyes. You can't decide whether they are completely blackened out, or if they hold a blue, almost serene hue.

- No - you answer, finding your voice entirely too shaky for your liking - I did not enjoy it.

He laughs, a guttural, low sound that makes the hair stand at the back of your neck. You know he wouldn't dare try anything here, right under your Father's nose while the engagement is still in the making. Yet, as you stand frozen, just you, him and the marble walls around you, dread finds home in the pit of your stomach.

- Was that man Fremen? - you ask, partially to fill the silence, partially because you're genuinely curious.

The man shrugs, you can see muscles moving under his white skin. He takes a step towards you and you will yourself not to run.

- Sometimes we bring a couple of captured desert rats home - he explains with a nonchalant tone - Mostly for entertainment.

The almost bored intonation he uses to describe this barbaric ritual makes something boil deep inside you.

- That's cruel - you counter, emotions flowing freely onto your face, much to the man's delight - To deny those men the honor of dying on their home planet. To drag them into a completely foreign place, just to kill them for sport, like some animals... It's...

- Some of them live - he cuts you off, taking another couple of steps towards you, but in your growing outrage, you barely notice - Our brothels are filled with Fremen whores.

Your face twist into an expression of utter repulsion, and Feyd Rautha raises his eyebrows in a pathetic mask of confusion, almost childlike giddiness lighting up his eyes as he looks down at you.

- Oh, don't give me that look, my Lady. - he cooes, and you've never felt a stronger urge to slap the daylights out of someone - I know for a fact there are brothels on your planet filled with hungry soldiers.

- Yes - you bark back at him - but the people there are working prostitutes, not slaves!

He shrugs, looking somewhere to the side of your face.

- A waste of money, if you'd ask me.

- Good thing no one has - there's venom in your voice, and your betrothed sucks a breath through his teeth.

You curse yourself for leaving your dagger, for not concealing it somewhere in this ridiculous dress, because the way the Harkonnen's expression shifts freezes blood right in your veins.

He looks at you, amusement tugging at the corners of his lips, while something much darker lurks in his eyes. His bloodied hand comes up, finger making contact with the exposed skin of your shoulder. You can feel the thick liquid stick to your flesh, as he drags his hand down, painting you, marking you.

- You're quite the little viper, my Lady.

Watching him silently, you don't respond. Don't know how to, when he closes the distance between your bodies enough to make you feel the heat radiating off of his chest, while the smell of blood and sweat completely assaults your senses. It's sickening, the way he looks at you, like you're a new toy, just waiting to be unpacked and destroyed by too eager hands.

- My Uncle, the Baron, has instructed me, to be the utmost gentleman to you. To woo you completely - his voice is low, barely above a whisper, as he grins down at you - But I just can't lie to my future wife like that, can I?

He leans closer and finally, you take a step back, sliding out of his space, assessing a cautious stance. His hand almost follows you, the skin of your shoulder feels conflictingly cold without him.

- Once we're wed, I will possess you completely - this time you stand your ground, as he approaches, circling you like a lion stalking it's prey - And then...

He leans down beside you, shoulder to your shoulder, close enough for you to feel his hot breath graze your ear.

- Like the bull that took your grandfather's life, I shall pierce you.

The violent innuendo doesn't slip past you, and with hatred brewing behind your eyes, you look straight at him, forcing your fear to lay dormant.

- You're disgusting.

- And you're blushing like a lovely, virgin bride should - he concludes, sending an awful wink your way, before withdrawing from you completely.

Your veins burn hot, as you watch him leave, a selfish confidence painting his steps, and you beg every God in existence to grant you a sword in your hand. Or a dagger. A kitchen knife would do as well. Anything, that would help you cut this unbeatable, patronizing, infuriatingly handsome smirk from Feyd Rauthas face.

Alas, you're left with nothing, only a small glimmer of hope dangling in front of you, after your damned betrothed's words fully register in your brain.

A bride you might be, but certainly not a virgin one. Duncan Idaho made sure of that many years ago. The thought makes you smile, despite nerves wreaking havoc in your body. At least that's the one thing Feyd Rautha won't be able to take from you.

#my writing #feyd rautha x reader #feyd rautha x you #feyd rautha harkonnen #dune 2024 #dune movie #dune part 2 #feyd rautha smut #dune smut #dune x reader #he looks insane what the hell am i writing

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syoddeye · 1 month ago

Note

Price as Davy Jones from POTC. Comes back every ten years to track down reader no matter where they are

the timing of this ask is bananas, because i was just discussing a similar premise with friends. (except davy jones!ghost, purely to describe him prying a barnacle off of his face and eating it in front of reader.) but this works so well with price, too.

prefacing this by admitting I haven't watched any potc movies since they came out. so this is based on what i remember, and we're going to be forgiving lol. this spun out into 1.9k.

cw: implied/referenced noncon/rape, body horror, stabbing/shooting/violence in general, implied/referenced breeding, largely unedited all vibes no brakes.

Clinging to a scrap of what was once a passenger ship, choking on smoke and seawater, you whimper as bits of wreckage and bodies bob around you, lifeless limbs brushing against your legs.

The wreckage still burns, providing just enough light to keep the nightmare well within sight. You see too much: the ship’s carcass, curious dark shadows, a woman in the distance gradually being sucked beneath the surface, her dress pulling taut like an anchor.

You barely register the ship until you hear the whipping of its sails.

Its silhouette is monstrous. A ghastly thing, every bit of it disfigured by time and violence. Its lights blur in your salt-stung eyes, and you blink hard, certain it isn't real. It's a hallucination, a cruel trick of exhaustion.

Yet, it is instinct to call out, to raise your voice. A very human thing, the desire to survive.

Minutes pass, and you're sure that your voice is lost among the waves, but the slap of a dinghy hitting water jars you. Voices call out, searching. Hope stirs in your chest, but as the small boat nears, its crew shoving wreckage and bodies aside, you see the figure at its bow.

A man. Not a man.

A lantern swings in a fist. Light and shadow spill across the figure. Wet skin like pale wax, cloudy eyes set beneath a furrowed brow—and that is where his humanity ends.

Protruding from his beard, claws arc from his face, ridged and brown like a crab's shell, melding seamlessly into the flesh of his jaw and temples. His lips, blackened and peeling, purse together in a line. A line that slowly tips upward in its corners as your eyes grow wider and wider.

A scream works its way up your throat, but it sticks. The last thing you see is his hand, reaching, before the world spins, and darkness swallows you.

You come to, tucked in a bed, with a callused and damp hand holding your own, like a nurse would. Humming a quiet song.

It's him.

When you scream, he waits. When you cry, he says nothing. He watches you recoil, your breath catching and shuddering on your panic, and he permits it all. But when exhaustion drags you back to the pillows, he moves. A canteen pressed to your lips. A piece of bread on your tongue.

"Consider this is a second chance," He rasps, voice like the ship he plucked you from, charred and waterlogged, bubbling and burnt. "A survivor, but only alive because I decreed it so."

He names himself Captain Price. Gestures around you: this is his ship, his crew. You'll find no disloyalty here, no soft hearts. Then, with a flex of his claws—gleaming, articulated things jutting grotesquely from his skin—he acknowledges what you've already guessed.

"You've heard the stories, I'd wager."

You have. Cursed ships. Drowned men who don't stay dead. When you booked your passage, the name was muttered like a bad omen, then dismissed with soothing reassurances: That ship's just a tale to scare the children and womenfolk.

But the proof sits in front of you, chest heaving in watery breaths, clouded eyes watching your every move.

"I've invoked my privileges as captain," He informs you as you stare, dumbstruck. "You'll be under my protection. Mine alone."

The implication is clear, as sharp as the claws on his face. Companion. The word sticks in your throat. The roof of your mouth.

When the fear overwhelms you again, your body shaking with what he means, he doesn't let you cry or scream. His grip tightens into a vise until you gasp, a warning. His spare hand, an even more disfigured mangle of fingers and claws, drum against the bed frame.

"If that doesn't suit, you can bunk with the crew tonight. And come morning, I'll see you back to the sea."

It isn't much of a choice. Not one at all, really. You let the silence speak for you, and he releases your wrist. Rising to his full height, he tells you to finish the bread, drink, and sleep.

"Unfortunate thing like you, you'll need it."

The next day, you're allowed more time to rest, though don't dare sleep. You're terrified of the Captain. Of him reconsidering his so-called mercy. Worse still, when you do think of the crew, you almost wish he'd let them have you. At least it would afford you an end to this torture. Peace at the bottom of the sea.

The cabin door is locked at all times, of course. Still, you're surprised to find yourself free to roam its cramped confines. You rifle through maps and logbooks, though the latter might as well be written in a foreign language. The room offers little else: no paintings, no books, nothing of sentiment. A space for planning and sleeping, nothing else.

You listen instead. The voices above deck, the crash of waves. Through the porthole, you see no land, discern no direction. The hours crawl by, and it's only when the sun disappears that he returns.

He brings food. Your dress, dried. You take the meal reluctantly, your appetite thin but you do not think he'll allow you to starve. You don't question the food's origin. From what little you've gathered, he doesn't need it.

When you're finished, the Captain takes the plate and utensils without a word. Alone again.

And so it continues. Breakfast. Dinner. Hours of silence in between. Days pass, melting into one another. You lose yourself in the monotony and isolation. You're certain this is hell: locked in a cabin surrounded by monsters, the devil himself tending to you.

Eventually, the thought comes, sprung from the desperate prayers you whisper every night. Clear and unshakable. Kill the devil. Free yourself.

When the moment arrives at dinner, you do not hesitate. The dinner knife fits perfectly in your hand as you swing it, the blade aimed at his chest. You expect resistance, struggle—but there's none. The steel sinks in easily, the sound wet and horribly soft, and the grin on his face only deepens.

He laughs. Your blood turns cold.

"Was waitin' for this," he chuckles, grabbing and pressing his pistol into your hand. He adjusts your grip, tilts the barrel toward the vulnerable stretch of his throat where carapace gives way to flesh. His claws click against the weapon as he steadies it.

"C'mon, darling. See what happens."

The shot rattles your teeth, and then it's everywhere. Blood, bits of tissue, saltwater spraying out in a burst. It coats his chest, slick and shining, and splatters up your hands, your arms.

For a heartbeat, you think it worked. His head rests against the back of his chair.

But his skin, ceral and dripping, slowly knits. Wet threads reach for one another and tie themselves together, leaving a shallow ridge. It's as if you did nothing at all. His head tips back up, gaze heavy-lidded and glinting. He spits the ball of lead out, a dark sludge dripping from the corner of his lips, and his good hand finds the back of your skull. He reels you in for a kiss. Defeat tastes like salt and iron.

The routine changes.

An unholy wedding occurs. You know God averts his eyes.

The man leading you down the aisle wears a skull as a mask, its hollow sockets fixed forward, fluttering gills at his neck. It is the first taste of fresh air you've had in weeks. Gruesome creatures crowd the deck, clawed hands and tendrils reaching to tug at your makeshift veil of netting and lace. Their jeers fill the air, delighted and mocking.

You are wed.

But Price admits to you on your wedding night, his deformed clawed hand cradling your head, buried within you, that he knows you can't stay. There are places he must travel, places you cannot go.

You do not believe him until he finds you an island, which, unbeknownst to you, lies on the path of a trade route. It hits you as he lifts you from the dinghy and sets you down in the shallows. This must be the end of it. This is the last you will see of him and his crew, his cursed ship. You will starve, die, and rot in freedom.

Before you take a single step toward the beach, he seizes you by your dress, turning you back to him. His eyes scour your face as if trying to memorize it. Every feature, every detail.

He leans in close, whispering in the salt-sweet air, "I'll find you again. I can promise you that."

Time blurs into a haze of hunger and thirst before you're found. It's hailed as a miracle: you survived. The sentiment haunting as you limp your way back to what remains of your life.

Years pass and wear the edges of memory down, turning them almost bearable. Captain Price's promise fades into the background, like the echo of a bad dream.

You take a husband. You find a new home. You vow to never touch the sea, again.

Until the storm.

It comes howling, ripping through the harbor, swallowing ships whole, and splintering docks. The air is charged, furious. You cannot put words to it, but in your bones, it feels personal. You watch from your window, mesmerized, until you see it—a figure in the rain.

The lantern's light swings with his steps up the hill to your cottage. The whistle from his blackened cuts through the roaring wind, and your stomach knots with the memory it drags from the depths of your mind.

Your husband goes to ask if the stranger requires shelter from the storm. Frozen in fear, you cannot stop him as he greets his death with open arms.

Through the window, you see it unfold. The moment of recognition, him stiffening as he takes in what he sees. Then he screams, the sound ripped straight from his chest, raw and panicked, the same way you screamed all those years ago.

You try to hide, of course. Try to bar the door, arm yourself with whatever you can find. But it doesn't matter. The door groans, then gives. It crashes open, shoving back the table, and in he steps. Captain Price. Rainwater and the blood of your poor husband dripping from his hands.

"Who was that, love?"

His grip is cold and iron-tight as he pulls you from your corner. "Not this again," He chuckles, plucking the kitchen knife from your hand.

The Captain drags you to bed, chest heaving, eyes moving over you like he's deciding where to start. How to make up for lost time. He speaks softly, almost tender. Husbandly.

"Ten years is long for you, I know," He peels your clothes off, marveling. He studies the changes in your body with reverence, dragging his fingertips along every line and wrinkle. "I do not fault you for your loneliness. But…a husband?" His tone hardens, eyes locking to yours. "Did you forget you were already a wife?"

Your mouth opens, then closes, nothing coming out but shallow, desperate breaths, like a fish gasping on the deck.

"This time," he murmurs as he shrugs free of his coat, then his shirt, "I'll give you something to remember our vows by."

The Captain leaves with the storm. The town counts its losses, buries its dead, and you stand by your own pile of dirt behind your cottage, a hand pressed over your belly.

Dread already quickening.

Ten years isn't that long at all.

#price x reader #dark fic

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novaursa · 6 months ago

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hello luv

what about aegon x twin sister

they were always very very closed, like you can always see them together, but she had a very strong character and she let no one decide for her.

And because of that Otto is afraid to married her to aegon so he choose Helena to married him. But Aegon still had an affair with her, he can stop thinking about her.

And when he became king he decided to take her as his second wife, they have a child together and he was with the twins during the night of the attack and aegon is really scared for him (he loved more their child coz he was made with love)

The Fires We Make

- Summary: When they decreed to marry Aegon to Helaena, he decided to do what his namesake had done. Aegon takes you as his second wife.

- Pairing: twin!reader/Aegon II Targaryen

- Note: For more of my works, visit my blog. The list is pinned to the top. Requests are now closed!

- Rating: Explicit 18+

- Word count: 3 400+

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff

- A/N: I had to bend your plot in the end a little, to make Aegon's reaction more believable.

You sit beside your brother Aegon, your twin, your other half. The bond you share is a rare and precious thing, a connection forged in the cradle, strengthened over the years by whispers in the dark, stolen moments, and a fierce loyalty that burns brighter than any dragon's flame. It’s a bond that only the two of you truly understand, one that could lead to either great strength or devastating ruin. You’ve always known that, and so has Aegon.

But now, that bond is threatened.

The candlelight flickers across the faces of your mother, Queen Alicent, and your grandsire, Otto Hightower, their expressions shadowed and grim. The air in the room is thick with dread, almost visible force that presses against your chest, making it difficult to breathe. You can feel Aegon’s anger radiating beside you, a barely contained storm.

“Aegon,” Otto begins, his voice calm and measured, the tone of a man who is used to being obeyed. “You must understand that our family’s future is at stake. The stability of the realm depends on it.”

Aegon’s jaw tightens, his hands clenching into fists on the arms of his chair. He doesn’t respond immediately, and when he does, his voice is low, dangerous. “What I understand, Grandsire, is that you think I should be controlled. You think we should be controlled.”

Otto’s gaze is steely, unyielding. “You are the future King, Aegon. Your duty is to the realm, not to your… whims.”

“Whims?” Aegon spits the word out like it’s poison. “Is that what you call it? Whims? You’re speaking about her, about my sister—your granddaughter.”

Alicent shifts in her seat, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. She looks at Aegon with a mixture of sorrow and concern, her voice soft but firm when she finally speaks. “Aegon, this is not just about what you want. It’s about what’s best for the realm. Your match with your sister—” she hesitates, glancing at Otto, then continues, “it could be… dangerous. You both have strong wills, too strong perhaps. It could lead to conflict, to instability.”

You feel a flare of anger at her words, but you remain silent, watching as Aegon struggles to keep his emotions in check. He’s always been quick to anger, but this is different. This is deeper, more personal. You can see it in his eyes, in the way his body tenses as if ready to spring into action, to defend you, to defend both of you against this assault on your bond.

“And what do you propose instead?” Aegon’s voice is cold now, icy. “That I marry Helaena? Is that it?”

Otto nods, as if this is the most reasonable suggestion in the world. “Helaena is gentle, pliable. She will be a good queen, one who will support you, not challenge you. The realm needs a steady hand, not… not the fire that the two of you could unleash.”

Aegon laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “Steady? You mean obedient, don’t you, Grandsire? You want someone who will nod and smile and do as they’re told. Someone who won’t question you.”

“Aegon—” Alicent starts, but Aegon cuts her off.

“No, Mother, don’t. You know as well as I do that this isn’t about what’s best for the realm. It’s about control. He’s afraid of us, of what we could be together.” He turns to Otto, his eyes blazing. “You’re afraid that we’ll be too strong, that we’ll burn too brightly for you to handle. But you should remember, Grandsire, that dragons are not meant to be tamed.”

Otto’s face hardens, his eyes narrowing. “This is not a matter of fear, Aegon. It’s a matter of duty. You have a responsibility to the realm, to the Targaryen line. Your sister—” his gaze flicks to you, and you feel the weight of it, the judgment, “—is too much like you. The two of you together could bring about more chaos than order. You must think beyond yourself, beyond your desires.”

Aegon stands abruptly, his chair scraping against the stone floor. His fists are trembling, his entire body vibrating with barely suppressed rage. “My desires? My desires have always been for the good of our House, of our family. And she—” he points to you, his voice shaking with emotion, “—she is my family. My twin. My other half. I will not abandon her for some twisted idea of duty.”

Alicent rises, reaching out to him, but he steps back, shaking his head. “Aegon, please, listen to reason.”

“Reason?” he scoffs. “Reason has nothing to do with this. This is about power. You want me to be a puppet, to marry Helaena and play the part of the obedient son. But I am not a puppet, and I will not be controlled.”

For a moment, the room is silent, the only sound the heavy breathing of your brother as he struggles to regain control of his emotions. You know him well enough to see the storm within him, the fierce protectiveness, the rage at being cornered.

Finally, Otto speaks, his voice cold and authoritative. “You are the heir to the Iron Throne, Aegon. You will do what is necessary for the good of the realm. You will marry Helaena.”

Aegon looks at him, and for a moment, you think he might lash out, might do something reckless. But instead, he turns to you, his eyes softening, filled with a deep, unspoken promise. “This isn’t over,” he says quietly, and you know he means it. Whatever comes next, he will not let you be cast aside so easily.

Without another word, Aegon strides out of the room, leaving you alone with the weight of what has just transpired. Otto and Alicent exchange a glance, and you can see the concern in your mother’s eyes, the worry for what this decision will mean for her son, for you, for the future of the realm.

But in your heart, you know that this is only the beginning. The bond you share with Aegon is not something that can be easily broken, not by Otto’s machinations or anyone else’s. It is a bond forged in fire, and if there’s one thing you’ve learned, it’s that fire cannot be so easily extinguished.

The heavy curtains are drawn tightly around the grand bed, casting the room in a shadowed twilight, the only light a flickering candle that dances with the whispers of a secret not meant for the world beyond these walls. The bedchamber is filled with the scent of smoldering incense and the unmistakable, intoxicating warmth of shared passion. Your breath comes in short, shallow gasps, mingling with the ragged exhalations of the man above you, his silver hair brushing against your face as he moves, each movement a promise, a vow sealed with a thousand unspoken words.

Aegon’s hands are on your hips, strong and possessive, as though he’s terrified you might slip away from him if he doesn’t hold on tightly enough. His touch burns with a desperate need, a fire that refuses to be extinguished, no matter how many years or how many vows have tried to snuff it out. His eyes, fierce and wild, bore into yours, and in them, you see the same desire, the same hunger that has haunted both of you since childhood.

“Aegon,” you whisper, your voice trembling with the weight of your shared history, with the love and pain and longing that have only grown stronger with time.

He leans down, his forehead resting against yours, his breath warm against your lips. “You are mine,” he murmurs, his voice rough with emotion. “You’ve always been mine. And I swear by the gods, by the dragons, by our blood, that I will make you my wife as is my right, as Aegon the Conqueror did before me.”

The intensity in his gaze leaves no room for doubt. He is not making an idle promise, nor is he indulging in a lover’s fantasy. This is Aegon’s truth, the truth of a man who has been denied the one thing he’s always desired above all else. His marriage to Helaena, while dutiful and necessary, has never filled the void that you alone could fill. You are his other half, his twin flame, the only one who truly understands the depths of his soul.

But the world outside this room is not so easily swayed by passion or promises made in the dark. You know this, and so does he. The weight of your shared secret presses down on you, even in this moment of intimacy, but you cannot deny the longing in your heart, the yearning for a life where you can stand by his side, not as a hidden lover, but as his equal, his queen.

“Aegon,” you say softly, your hand reaching up to caress his face, your fingers tracing the sharp lines of his jaw, the softness of his lips. “What you’re speaking of… it could bring the realm to its knees.”

He closes his eyes briefly, as if pained by your words, but when he opens them again, they are filled with a fierce determination. “The realm has always been at war with itself, with its rulers, with its desires. We were born to the blood of the dragon, to forge our own path, to take what is ours. You are mine, and I will not let anyone take you from me, not Grandsire, not Mother, not even the gods.”

His words, spoken with such conviction, send a shiver down your spine. Aegon has always been passionate, but there is something different in him now, something that has hardened over the years, a resolve that has been tempered by the constant battles he’s fought—not just against his enemies, but against his own heart.

“And what of Helaena?” you ask, your voice barely a whisper. It’s a question that has lingered between you for years, a question that neither of you has dared to voice until now.

Aegon’s expression softens, a brief flicker of guilt passing through his eyes. “Helaena is… kind, gentle. She does not deserve this. But she also knows, deep down, that my heart has never truly belonged to her. She knows that I am bound to you in a way that cannot be undone.”

There’s a sadness in his voice, a recognition of the pain that his actions have caused, but also an acceptance that this is the way things were always meant to be. The Targaryen blood runs strong in both of you, and with it comes a fierce, unyielding love that will not be denied, no matter the cost.

“And what will you do?” you ask, your voice steady, even as your heart pounds in your chest.

Aegon’s gaze locks onto yours, his hand sliding up your body to cradle your face. “I will take you as my second wife, as Aegon the Conqueror did with Rhaenys and Visenya. One wife for love another for duty. It is my right, our right. The realm will have to accept it, or they will face the wrath of the dragons.”

His words are a declaration, a promise forged in the heat of passion and the blood of the dragon. There is no turning back now, no more hiding in the shadows. The path before you is fraught with danger, but it is also the only path that feels true, that feels right.

“And you, my love?” he asks, his voice softening as he searches your eyes for the answer that only you can give. “Will you stand by my side, as my wife, my queen? Will you help me claim what is ours?”

For a moment, the world outside ceases to exist. There is only Aegon, the man you’ve loved your entire life, the man who would move heaven and earth to be with you. You see the same fierce love in his eyes that you feel in your own heart, and you know that there is only one answer you can give.

“Yes,” you breathe, your voice steady, filled with the same fire that burns in him. “Yes, Aegon. I will stand by your side. I will be your wife, your queen.”

Aegon’s lips crash down onto yours in a kiss filled with all the passion, all the longing, all the love that you’ve shared over the years. It is a kiss that seals your fate, that binds you to him in a way that no one can break.

The night had fallen thick and oppressive over King’s Landing, a dark shroud that seemed to suffocate the very air in the Red Keep. The corridors were eerily silent, save for the distant echoes of footsteps and the murmurs of a court forever on edge. You had been in your chambers, cradling little Maelor in your arms, his soft breaths a balm to your weary soul. It was a rare moment of peace, a fleeting respite from the storm that raged outside these walls and within your hearts.

But peace is always short-lived in the house of the dragon.

The sound of rushed footsteps reached your ears first, followed by the unmistakable clang of armor and the urgent whispers of the guards. Your heart skipped a beat, dread curling in your stomach as you clutched Maelor closer, his tiny body warm against you. Aegon burst into the room, his face pale and eyes wild with fear. He was breathing heavily, the effort of his desperate sprint evident, but it was the terror in his eyes that froze the blood in your veins.

"Aegon," you whispered, your voice trembling as you rose to meet him, Maelor still safely in your arms. "What has happened?"

Aegon barely seemed to hear you as he crossed the room in three long strides, his hands reaching out to cup your face, his touch frantic and trembling. "Are you hurt? Is he—?" His voice cracked, the fear so palpable it was like a living thing between you.

"We are safe," you assured him, though your own voice shook as you said it. "But, Aegon, what—?"

Before you could finish, the door to the nursery burst open, and Alicent’s voice cut through the air, a raw, broken sound that sent chills down your spine. “No… no… gods, no!”

Aegon’s head snapped towards the sound, his grip on you tightening as if he needed the contact to anchor himself, to remind himself that you and Maelor were still here, still alive. But you could see the fear, the terrible fear in his eyes as he pulled away from you and rushed towards the door that led to the twins' nursery.

You followed closely behind, Maelor held tightly against your chest as you entered the adjoining room, the sight that greeted you nearly making your legs give out beneath you.

The nursery was in chaos. The once serene room, filled with soft linens and gentle colors, was now a scene from a nightmare. Helaena was on the floor, her wails of grief piercing the air as she cradled the lifeless body of little Jaehaerys in her arms. Blood stained the floor, dark and stark against the pale stone, and beside her, Jaehaera was huddled, her small body shaking with silent sobs.

Aegon’s breath caught in his throat as he stumbled forward, falling to his knees beside Helaena. His hand trembled as he reached out to touch Jaehaerys, as if hoping—praying—that he would wake, that this was some horrid dream from which he could rouse.

But Jaehaerys was gone.

Your heart shattered as you watched Aegon, his face contorting in anguish, a guttural cry ripping from his chest as he gathered Jaehaerys’s small body into his arms. “No… no… my son…” His voice broke, the words choked and hoarse as he rocked back and forth, tears streaming down his face.

Helaena’s sobs only grew louder, more desperate, as she clung to Aegon, her grief a mirror of his. “They made me choose,” she gasped, her voice barely audible through her sobs. “They made me choose, Aegon… I couldn’t— I didn’t—”

Aegon’s head whipped up, his eyes wild as he looked at Helaena. “Who?” he demanded, though his voice was little more than a ragged whisper. “Who did this?”

“The butcher and the rat catcher,” she whispered, the names falling from her lips like a curse. “They came for us… they wanted revenge… they… they wanted a son for a son.”

The horror of her words washed over you like a wave, leaving you cold and numb. Revenge for Lucerys. The brutal cost of this war that now claimed the innocent, who had no part in the sins of their fathers.

Aegon’s gaze shifted from Helaena to you, and you could see the mixture of guilt and relief in his eyes as they landed on Maelor, safe and unharmed in your arms. He didn’t need to speak for you to understand the war raging within him. His son, his firstborn with Helaena, had been taken from him, and yet, Maelor, your son, was still here, untouched by the horror that had unfolded in the next room.

“Aegon,” you whispered, the weight of the moment pressing down on you as you moved closer, your free hand reaching out to him. “I’m so sorry… so, so sorry…”

But what comfort could you possibly offer? There were no words to mend a heart so shattered, no solace to ease the pain of a father mourning his child.

Aegon’s eyes met yours, and for a moment, you saw the broken man beneath the crown, the weight of his grief threatening to crush him. But there was also that flicker of relief, of guilt, that he could not shake—that while one son had been lost, another still lived.

He rose slowly, still cradling Jaehaerys’s body, his movements careful, reverent. He looked down at Helaena, who was still on the floor, her arms wrapped around herself as if to hold together the pieces of her shattered soul. “Helaena,” he said softly, his voice barely more than a whisper, “I swear to you, I will avenge him. I will find those responsible, and they will pay. This… this I swear on his memory.”

Helaena only nodded, her eyes distant, as if she were somewhere far away, a place where her pain couldn’t reach her.

Aegon turned to you, his gaze falling on Maelor. His eyes softened, though the sorrow did not leave them, and he reached out to touch his son’s cheek, his hand trembling as he did. “He is safe,” Aegon murmured, almost to himself, as if trying to convince himself that it was true. “He is safe because of you.”

You shook your head, tears slipping down your cheeks as you looked at the man you loved, the father of your child. “It should not have been this way,” you whispered. “None of this should have happened.”

“No,” Aegon agreed, his voice filled with a quiet, simmering rage. “It should not have. But it has, and now we will have to live with it.” He looked down at Jaehaerys once more, a fresh wave of grief washing over him. “But I will not let this go unanswered. They will pay for this, every single one of them.”

His words were filled with a dark promise, a vow that you knew he would keep. The realm would bleed for this, just as you had bled, just as he now bled, with his son’s blood on his hands.

Aegon turned back to you, his eyes hollow, his face etched with a pain so deep you could scarcely bear to look at it. “Keep him safe,” he said, his voice hoarse, as if the very act of speaking was too much to bear. “Keep Maelor safe, no matter what happens. I cannot lose him, too.”

“I will,” you promised, your voice firm, though your heart ached with the weight of it. “I will keep him safe, Aegon. No matter what.”

He nodded, though it was a hollow gesture, and then he turned back to Helaena, who was still on the floor, lost in her grief. He knelt beside her, his free hand reaching out to touch her arm, and you saw in his eyes the same determination that had driven him through every battle, every hardship.

But this battle was different. This was a war of the heart, and it was a war that had already claimed too much.

You stood there, holding Maelor close, as Aegon mourned his son, and in that moment, you knew that nothing would ever be the same. The dragons had awakened, and the fires of vengeance would burn until the realm was ash.

#house of the dragon #hotd #hotd x female reader #hotd x you #hotd x y/n #hotd x reader #aegon x reader #aegon ii x you #aegon targaryen x reader #aegon x you #aegon ii targaryen

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littlefireball · 8 months ago

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can you do a fic with Ateez Seonghwa x virgin reader? Where she never even touched herself, never orgasmed or squirted so Seognwha does all that and they go the full way but she bleeds when he goes in but mother seognwha knows what to say to push her through and get her to the pleasure. From their she squirts on him while he goes rough?

🐈‍⬛

I add some settings on it (⁠ʘ⁠ᴗ⁠ʘ⁠✿⁠) hope you like it

ꜱʜ|ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ, ꜱᴡᴇᴀᴛ ᴀɴᴅ ᴛᴇᴀʀꜱ (ᴀ/ᴍ)

ꜰᴀᴋᴇ ɢᴏᴅ ꜱᴇᴏɴɢʜᴡᴀ x ꜱᴀᴄʀɪꜰɪᴄɪᴀʟ ᴏꜰꜰᴇʀɪɴɢ ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: 3.2ᴋ

In a secluded and desolate village, an inexplicable prosperity has taken root, defying all logic and expectations. The villagers attribute this miraculous transformation to the blessing of a mysterious deity, whose influence has brought life back to the barren land.

However, this prosperity comes at a grim cost - the sacrifice of an 18-year-old virgin every hundred years. The purity and sincerity of the sacrifice are believed to prolong the village's prosperity, as decreed by the deity worshipped by the villagers.

For unmarried women like you, reaching the age of eighteen brings a looming nightmare rather than the promise of adulthood. From a young age, you've witnessed your younger brother bask in the favor and attention of your family, while you remained in the shadows, neglected and unappreciated.

To your parents, you are merely a pawn in their pursuit of wealth. If you marry into a prosperous family before turning eighteen, it's deemed a success; but if you remain unmarried, you are destined to be the sacrificial offering.

Growing up devoid of love, surrounded by loneliness and ignorance, you've struggled against the unfair expectations placed upon you. Despite your efforts to resist, you were met with scolding and mistreatment, leaving you isolated and unheard.

One day, as your entitled brother demanded your servitude, you felt a surge of resentment at his audacity. Reluctantly complying with his demands, you couldn't shake the bitterness that had taken root within you.

Confronting him about his reckless behavior with the family's money, you were met with denial and deflection. Your parents, quick to defend your brother, silenced your attempts to speak up, leaving you feeling betrayed and abandoned.

As you were confined to the cabin, awaiting the inevitable sacrifice on your eighteenth birthday, the weight of injustice and abandonment pressed heavily upon you. The darkness surrounding you mirrored the bitterness that had seeped into your soul, a stark contrast to the prosperity that had come at such a high price.

As the days turned into weeks, and weeks into months, laughter still echoed through the halls of your home. They looked forward to the moment you die as it meant they could live a new, prosperous life.

Their words only served to fuel the fire of resentment burning within you but you could do nothing.

You often wondered what your fate would be, knowing that the day of sacrifice loomed closer with each passing sunrise. The thought of being offered up to appease the deity, to maintain the facade of prosperity, filled you with a mix of fear and defiance.

—--

Night fell, casting a cloak of shadows over the altar as the ritual neared its zenith.

"Let us offer our gratitude to the Y/L/N family for their generous contribution!" The priest's voice boomed, the family members standing by, basking in the adulation of others, oblivious to their true nature.

Their affections lay with money and their son, not with you.

"Their daughter shall shape our destiny!" The air was heavy with incense and the eerie chants of the priests, their ominous words sending shivers down your spine.

You knelt at the heart of the altar, adorned in lavish garments but devoid of any semblance of joy. Seeing them pretending vaguely, a surge of resentment welled up in your heart. The unvented anger transformed into tears, cascading down your cheeks and saturating the eye mask, yet no one took notice. Memories of the past raced through your mind as the priest drew near; jealousy, anger, sadness, all negative emotions flooding your thoughts.

You felt yourself unraveling, the echoing laughter pushing you towards the brink of collapse. Desperate to block out the sound, you reached for your ears, only to find yourself restrained; yearning to break free, yet bound by invisible chains.

The priest's approach felt ominous, a foreboding presence signaling impending doom. You shook your head in denial, attempting to resist his advance, but the relentless footsteps shattered your resolve. You didn't want to die, there were still so many unfinished tasks; you didn't want them to prosper, to lead a life of luxury… What you craved was vengeance.

“Offer yourself to our God!”

“No! I refuse to meet my end like this!”

“There is no escape, child! Your destiny is to be a sacrifice! It is your duty!”

“NO! Even in death, I will not let you win! I will not make it easy for you!”

“What nonsense is this?!” “Just end her life!!”

With a swift motion, he thrust a sword towards your heart, invoking the deity's power.

But instead of searing pain and spilled blood, darkness enveloped you, wrapping you in an eerie silence.

Panting heavily, you realized you were not hurt. Unable to see anything as you were blindfolded, you could only follow the sound.

"Let me see this year's sacrifice," a voice echoed through the church, accompanied by the slow approach of footsteps, causing your heartbeat to speed up because of nervousness.

As the figure drew closer, Seonghwa knelt before you, lifting your chin to gaze upon your graceful form draped in black sheer fabric.

"It seems good, huh? But your resentment is the strongest among all the sacrifices I've seen," he murmured, his thumb tracing your lower lip and cheek, sending a shiver down your spine. Nervously, you swallowed saliva and made a barely audible sound.

“Don’t want to be mine? That’s nice, you know?” His gaze shifted from your trembling throat to your chest, where the metal bra accentuated your ample bosom. The sheer fabric did little to quell his burning desire. He leaned in and planted a kiss on your chest. This sudden act made you recoil slightly, unable to find a word.

“You hate me, huh?” Again, you swallowed nervously but did not dare to answer. Hate him? Maybe? Were it not for his presence, you would not have been chosen as a sacrifice. But, it was your so-called family members who did evil things. This was a simple question but you didn’t know how to answer it.

"Speak, girl. I hate it when others don’t answer my questions," he demanded in displeasure. Although you couldn’t see his face, you could still feel his anger.

"I… I apologize," you stuttered, fear gripping you and preventing you from relaxing. Seonghwa smirked, relishing in the feeling of others obeying his commands.

“So, what’s your answer?”

“I…hate…I hate them all.” He raised his eyebrows and said provocatively, “So, it's because of me that you hate them. Am I right, girl?”

“I…” You found yourself momentarily struck silent by fear. But upon reflection, you realized there was nothing left to fear - you were already deceased, after all.

“Yes.” After a deep breath, you found the courage to speak. “If it weren't for you, I wouldn't have been chosen as a sacrifice, and I wouldn't be… disliked.” Your unexpected response caught him off guard, as he had never encountered someone who didn't desire his attention.

Determined to sway your opinion, he sought to engage you further.

“What is your name, my dear?” His tone softened, coaxing you to reveal yourself. Surprisingly, he did not react with anger.

“Y…Y/N…”

"Y/N, a beautiful name," His voice, deep and alluring, stirred something within you.

"Relax, Y/N. Why the tension? Tonight, we shall indulge in my desires. But fret not, for it promises to be an enjoyable experience.”

His touch traced a path from your face, down your neck, shoulders, and arms. The cool sensation sent shivers down your spine, igniting a tingling warmth that spread through your body, eliciting a soft, hesitant sigh from you.

“And I’ll change your mind."

His gaze fell upon the handcuffs on your wrists, your delicate wrists trembling slightly, arousing his perverse desire for dominance. He whispered in your ear, his voice extremely seductive, licking and gently biting your earlobe, teasingly grazing your ear.

"Umm…" A shiver ran down your spine as an electric current coursed through your ear, and your body temperature raised, causing your cheeks to redden.

"You're really sensitive, aren't you?" He licked the back of your ear, the sound of his tongue against your skin stimulating your nerves, making you tremble; his lips gradually moved downwards, pecking at your collarbone, sucking on your fine skin, leaving faint red marks.

“Did you touch yourself before?”

“What is touch…?” Smiling, he held your hand while trailing down to your lower core, and slowly got closer to your clit.

“It feels good.” He guided your hand, his slender fingers stroking your clit with a gentle touch, slowly sunk down to your lower core. As both of your fingers entered your cunt, a tingling sensation spread through your body, eliciting soft moans of pleasure. Seonghwa's satisfied smile encouraged you to explore further.

"Come, fuck with me," he whispered. You felt a mix of excitement and curiosity as you pleasured yourself under his guidance. The sensation of his touch, combined with your own exploration, sent waves of pleasure through you.

His hands enveloped your back, the warmth of his touch seeping through the fabric, soothing your nerves. Your breath quickened, heart racing as he increased the intensity of his movements, his lips trailing kisses along your neck, drawing out soft whimpers of delight.

His velvety lips teased and tantalized your skin, his breath hot against your ear, igniting a fire within you. Your body instinctively responded, allowing him closer as his hands held you close, pulling you into his embrace.

A soft moan escaped your lips, spurring him on, his desire growing with each sound you made. Your body responded eagerly, the climax building within you, your walls tightening around your fingers, urging them deeper. It was so weird but exciting. You could tell there was something inside your body, as you touched it, a numb feeling surged throughout your body.

"You're doing so well, my dear," he praised, a blush rising to your cheeks at his words. “I’m gonna…oh gosh!” You shut your eyes tightly as the climax was about to take over you. “Cum, girl.”With a final, shy moan, you reached your peak, the pleasure overwhelming you.

"Such a good girl," he murmured, pressing a kiss to your cheek before withdrawing. A pang of emptiness lingered, but his question brought a spark of anticipation to your eyes.

"More?" he asked, lifting your chin and drawing you closer. With a nod and a shy smile, you whispered, "Yes, I want more."

"Good. All I can think about is how good you're going to taste." Before the words even finished, he pounced on you, the cold touch of the ground sending shivers down your spine. He reached for the buttons on the back of your neck, undressing you from the waist up, leaving your chest fully exposed.

He buried his head between your breasts, continuously sucking and licking. You keenly felt his tongue swirling around your nipple, causing a tingling sensation. The wet and warm feeling enveloped your left breast, while his hand gently squeezed and massaged your right breast, occasionally flicking the nipple with his thumb.

"Ah…" The stimulation on your body made you shyly moan, igniting his desire even more. He lifted his head and kissed your collarbone, sucking hard enough to leave marks on the skin that were no longer pale red but slightly darkened purple.

He admired his love bites while appreciating your beauty. "You're so fucking gorgeous." He growled like a wild animal against your chest, now it's time to unleash the beast inside him.

"Put your hands on your head. You can't put them down without my permission, understand?" You obeyed his command and raised your hands.

He removed all his clothing, kneeling completely naked in front of you, and pressed against your outer lips, occasionally grazing your hole. His erect member has been uncomfortably constrained by his tight pants for far too long.

“It may hurt a little bit. But it's gonna be fun, don’t worry.” He entered your cunt in one go, making you throw your head against the ground. His huge cock was much different from his fingers and tongue─that’s harder, longer, and thicker.

The intense pain was almost unbearable, as if your lower core was being torn apart. Blood flowed, wetting his thick cock and even dripping onto the floor. Your body burned like a flame, sweating all over your body.

"You're bleeding, babe. Does it hurt?" His voice was soft as silk, gently tugging at your heartstrings in a way no one ever had before.

"Yes… it hurts," you managed to reply through the discomfort. "Don't cry, just try to relax." He leaned in to place a tender kiss on your forehead, his simple gesture of concern bringing tears to your eyes. Despite the pain in your lower body, it felt like nothing compared to the past beatings you had endured.

He kissed you gently, offering comfort without any aggression. There were no bites, no invasion of tongues, just sweet and tender kisses. Your lips met softly, filled with warmth and affection. The pain slowly faded, replaced by a growing desire. You wanted him to move, to pleasure you with his gentleness.

"Please, my god," you whispered between kisses, causing him to pause. "I think I'm okay now."

"Tell me what you want, darling. Just say it," he encouraged.

"I want you to move, please," you requested, feeling a blush rise to your cheeks.

"Don't hate me now?" He chuckled at your reaction, finding you utterly adorable.

"Kidding," Before his lips met yours again and he began to thrust rhythmically. The pace was perfect, neither too rough nor too gentle.

"Ah, my god!" Every thrust hit the right spot inside you, eliciting a cascade of sensations. Your body responded by producing more moisture, adjusting to the feeling of his cock sliding in and out.

The warmth and wetness enveloped his cock, driving him to the edge of sanity. Combined with the sucking sensation, it was impossible for him to hold back.

"You're so tight, I can't handle fucking it." He wanted to fuck you as hard as possible, but not now. He needed you adjust first. He could see your past─what you have endured, how your so-called family treated you. Horrible memories invaded his mind, and although he wasn't frightened by them, he felt pity for you.

“oh my pretty.” He moved faster but not rough at all. His wet chest pressed against yours, letting you feel his strong muscles and physique. Oh shit, you loved this feeling so much, you felt so tiny under his frame. The pain you felt before has already disappeared far away and replaced by endless pleasure and lust.

Settling your legs around his waist, he entered deeper and you bent even more. He first pulled out a bit, and then pushed in fully, repeated over and over again. Every time he thrust deep, he couldn’t help but whimper as he saw how your chest shook from his movement.

“Moan for me, my doll.” You obeyed his words and moaned loudly, accompanied by the sound of skin slapping, forming a beautiful melody in Seonghwa 's ears. He pulled you up, making you sit on his thighs. Wrapping his arms around your waist, he thrust upward that made you throw your head.

Following his movement, you bounced in a slow pace. He trailed down to cup your ass cheeks to pull you closer. Your lips met again as he leaned down to kiss you. This kiss was like the breeze blowing through the petals, full of tenderness, giving you a numbness.

Seonghwa placed you back to the ground gently before turning you over. "Want me to be rough?" "Be rough with me, my god." In the momentary withdrawal, he turned you over directly, and once again entered from behind. His hands pressed against your waist, controlling the movement of your body back and forth, causing your breasts to violently shake.

“Ahh, please, keep going.” “Of course, my little whore.” He cupped your breast while squeezing your nipples and showered your nape with kisses. The scent of you fills his nostrils, very tempting.

He gradually lost control and snapped into your ass with only raw emotion. Sat up straight again to push himself even closer to your limit. He could feel his cock twitch every time he went deep and you moaned loudly. He was going to cum but he wanted you cum first. He needed it, needed to feel your warmth once again wrapped up his cock.

“Baby, I want you cum, cum for my cock. I need you.” His words and thrusting made you dizzy. Everything was overwhelming. You totally lost in the pleasure as he kept sinking down to hit your g spot.

“Hmmmm…Ahhh…please.” There was one more step to reach your climax. Seonghwa knew it as he slid down his hand to your clit. He continued to thrust while stroking, pushing you to climax.

The stimulation all over your body was like an electric current, which not only sent shivers down your spine, but also made the flame of desire in your body bursted out.

You found that the more you press down on your waist, the deeper his cock could go. Desire had already replaced your thinking. You lowered your body as much as possible and spread your legs so that you could reach climax as his arching member deep inside you.

“Your pussy feels amazing, you do that so well. Cum for me, babe.” ”Ah~my god~” You squirted with a high-pitched groan and Seonghwa came after a few thrusts. Your legs were shaking like a leaf and knees went weak. You fell to the ground, out of breath, your body having been drained of all your strength by lust.

“Are you okay, babe?” Seonghwa gently turned you over and took off your blindfold. The sudden light hitting your eyes made you very uncomfortable, but you quickly adapted. A handsome face came into view, and you could finally see Seonghwa 's appearance.

“I’m fine, my god.” He brushed your hair, gave you a loving smile and slowly picked you up before withdrawing from you. His hand trailed down to caress your lower core, full of his seeds. “Not hurt at all, hm?” You shook your head and replied to him with a smile. He chuckled at your smile, pulling you closer to rest on his shoulder.

“You’re mine now. No one will hurt you.” Seonghwa patted your head and pecked on it, making your tears welled up your eyes. Oh, maybe he was truly a god that loved his people…no, or I should say, his sacrifice. Who tells him love having sex so much?

But there was one thing he couldn't lie about. He was a little heartbroken when he found out about your past. At the very beginning, he thought that was only an illusion but his feelings toward you gradually changed. You seemed to be different from those girls he met.

-----

“Darling?" He called you darling every time because he found you liked this name.

“Yes, hwa?" You turned around to give him a peck.

“I killed all the people you hated. Did I do well?” He wrapped his arms around your waist while inhaling your scent. Your eyes widened a bit as you never expected that he would slaughter the whole village.

"You killed them...?"

"Yes, darling. I can do anything you want because I am your God."

#ateez #ateez fanfic #ateez fic #ateez smut #ateez x female reader #ateez x reader #ateez x y/n #ateez imagines #ateez oneshot #ateez seonghwa #seonghwa smut

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the-unidentified-author · 2 days ago

Text

Use Your Words | Cregan Stark | House of the Dragon

Cregan Stark x Female Wife Reader

Warnings/ Tags: SMUT[NSFW}, smut, minors DNI, established relationship, Cunnilingus, fingering, consensual!, hes a big man, one orgasm after another, Cregan on his knees, a little bit of roughness, mention of Alcohol, frustrated reader, Biting? ...

Summary: You're the wife of Cregan Stark and he helps ease a little frustration you're feeling.

A/N: Thank you to that RAT BASTARD (in a loving caring way) on here who wrote about Cregan tying up his hair before he eats out his wife, I have been able to think of literally nothing else. This Fic is entirely inspired by your lil post. Now I can’t remember your user name but I demand you reveal yourself (jk only if you want to girly pop)!

Word Count: 3,336

You let out a deep sigh and threw your quill down, sinking back into the worn leather of your chair, feeling every creak it made under your movements. Your eyes, tired and strained, you rubbed them gently, trying to massage away the pain caused by the long hours spent squinting at parchment. The candle next to you flickered with a final dance, its wax dribbling into a small puddle, threatening to extinguish itself as the shadows began to creep in. You were far from done with the daunting task of addressing invitations to the seemingly endless names on Cregan's list. The night had already drawn in, and you wanted nothing more than to sleep, but there was still so much to do.

The room was dim, the fire in the hearth now a mere glow, its embers laboriously clinging to life, whispered memories of flames, silently begging for another log to reignite their fervour. The faint, jubilant cheers of men resonated through the stone corridors from Cregan's bustling feast; it was a symphony of boisterous laughter and clinking tankards, hints of celebration murmured among the echoes. They had finally conquered the hunt, returning triumphantly with deer, the spoils of their tireless adventures in the wilderness.

Cregan, always the visionary, had decreed a grand feast to herald the upcoming weekend, with promises—rumbling like the laughter from below—that it would be the day he returned home with the great winter stag, that had eluded him on the last three hunts. The very thought made you clench your teeth, a mix of envy and longing to be part of such adventures, yet tethered to this desk with duties that seemed to multiply by the minute. Still, you leaned forward, picking up the quill once more, determined to drown out the sounds of the celebrations and finish your task before you retired to bed.

The sound of footsteps echoed up the corridor towards you, their pace loud and hurried, a sharp contrast to the slow crackle of the dying fire. Heavy boots against stone, each step seemed to vibrate through the walls, accompanying the ghostly flicker of firelight. You placed your hands flat on the desk, feeling the rough grain beneath your fingers, and stood up with a sense of anticipation. You steeled yourself, ready to unleash your pent-up frustrations on whatever unfortunate soul dared interrupt you.

With a loud crash, the door swung open in one swift motion, slamming against the stone wall with a resounding thud that echoed through the chamber. It threatened to rebound and strike the intruder, but a strong-arm shot out, stopping its swing by placing his hand flat against the ancient wood. A large hand, calloused from years of swinging weapons and weathering the elements, steadied the ancient wood against the wall.

The figure that filled the doorway was unmistakably your husband, Cregan Stark. His presence seemed to command the room, as if even the shadows bowed to his entrance. The dying light of the fire danced across his broad shoulders and rugged features, highlighting the strength and vigour that made him a leader among men—a hunter triumphant. His eyes, bright with the thrill of victory, found yours, sparking a familiar blend of emotions that simmered beneath your practiced composure.

"Wife!" he bellowed, a great smile spreading across his face as he laid eyes on you. "I have found you at last." He seemed a little drunk, something else that irritated you. Here you were slaving away, and he was doing nothing but partying and celebrating.

His presence was like a gust of wind forcing its way into your sanctuary, stirring the air with energy and purpose. Despite the warmth that spread through you at seeing him—a warmth that radiated from the heart, unwelcome at this time, yet familiar. You fought to keep a semblance of calm on your face, reminding yourself that he was the reason you had such a mountainous number of tasks to do.

"Cregan," you replied, rolling your eyes and slumping back down into the chair.

He strolled into the room with an effortless ease, a man at home in his surroundings, but noticeably absent from his usual assortment of garments. His cloak and sword, which typically adorned his broad back, were nowhere to be seen. Instead, he wore only his boots, trousers, and a casual shirt. The strings that normally fastened the top were loose, offering a tantalising glimpse of his strong chest beneath. His sleeves were rolled up, exposing muscular forearms crisscrossed with veins, you tried to stop yourself from staring.

In one hand, he carried a tankard of ale, droplets of condensation working their way down its sides. As he surveyed the room, his eyes landed on the dwindling fire. With natural grace, he stooped to pick up a piece of wood, and with a practiced flick of his wrist, he tossed the large log with ease onto the embers. The fire responded with a sizzle and a new burst of warmth, casting flickering shadows that played across his stupidly beautiful features. He turned to you, his face still twisted into a smile. Then he moved towards you, stepping around the desk and leaning backwards against it.

"How are you, wife?" He asked, taking a swig from his drink. "Why are you not enjoying the festivities below?"

You scowled at him, "Well, someone has to plan your feast." you argued, anger boiling up at of you. Not so much at him, but more so at the amount of work he seemingly didn’t realise he had given you.

"Ah that can wait, you should come with me." he reasoned, his hand moving to your shoulder and trailing, carefully down your arm until he held your hand in his.

"No it can’t, if you want the Lords to arrive on time, then I need to send the letters by tomorrow at the latest.” you snapped, pulling your hand from his.

His eyebrows creased into a frown as he looked down at you.

"Come on now, I will help you with them in the morning," he reasoned, placing his tankard on the desk next to him and standing.

You moved to resist his advances, turning your head as he leaned in to kiss you. You tried to create some distance between the two of you by standing and moving away from him, but a firm hand reached out, pulling you back towards him with an unyielding grip. Your back was pressed against his strong chest, the heat of his body permeating through the layers of fabric that separated your skin from his.

As Cregan's arms circled you, enveloping you in a warm embrace, you couldn't help but feel his strength and the weight of his muscular frame. He nuzzled his face into the crook of your neck, his stubble scratching softly against your sensitive skin. The sensation sent a shiver down your spine, and you tried to resist the way it made you feel, a mix of unwanted arousal and lingering resentment.

You wouldn't admit it, even to yourself, but feeling him against you did water down the rage you were feeling towards him. Yet, you were adamant that he wouldn't get off with stressing you out so completely so easily. Even as his arms tightened around you, his grip firm and unrelenting, you could feel the tension in his body, the subtle shifts in his stance that betrayed his need. He wanted you, there was no denying that, and you were adamant he would have to work for it.

"You're not going to get out of this, that easily," you spat out, the anger bubbling up within you, threatening to spill over like a pot boiling over on the fire. "You dumped this grand idea of a feast on me out of nowhere and then ran out the door on a hunt with your friends, leaving me to flesh out all the details and make this into something that people will actually enjoy."

The stress of the day and the long hours you had put into planning all rushed out, a torrent of words that were fuelled by frustration and resentment. You could feel the tension in your body, your hands clenched into fists at your sides.

The room seemed to grow smaller around you, the air thick with the weight of your unspoken grievances. Your eyes flashed with a mixture of hurt and defiance, challenging him to deny leaving you to do everything while he enjoyed himself.

Despite your anger, there was a part of you that couldn't help but feel a lingering sense of longing for him, for the closeness and intimacy that his presence always seemed to bring into your life. But at the same time, you were determined not to let him off the hook so easily.

"I'm sorry." he said, his big storm grey eyes seeming sincere with a hint of something else in them.

He stepped closer and this time you didn’t stop him, as he gently cupped your face in his hands. His lips met yours in a tender kiss, soft and reassuring, like a whisper of promises yet to be fulfilled. You let out a small sigh, the sound a mixture of surrender and relief, as if the weight of your burdens was momentarily lifted. He pulled away, and the moment seemed to linger, as he looked down at you.

"I accept your apology." you whispered, all the hostility you had been feeling moments ago ebbing away.

"Oh wife," he smiled, a devilish glint finding its way into his eyes. "I haven't finished apologising yet."

You frowned, a mixture of surprise and perhaps a hint of anticipation, as he stepped closer. His hands felt like warm, steadying anchors on your waist, grounding you.

And in one swift movement, he picked you up, effortlessly lifting you as if you weighed nothing whatsoever. Your heart skipped a beat as he settled you down onto the desk, the cool, smooth surface a stark contrast to the heat that was rapidly building between you.

He began to kiss at your jaw, his lips hungry and insistent as they moved down your neck. Each touch of his lips was like a bolt of lightning, sending jolts of electricity coursing through your veins.

His hands, too, were alive with a feverish intensity as they tugged at your clothing. But then, just as suddenly as it had begun, he stepped back, leaving you feeling slightly breathless and more than a little disoriented.

He smiled at you then pulled the leather tie from his wrists and brushed his hair back out of his face, pulling his shoulder-length hair back, tying it up out of his face. As he brushed his hair back out of his face, you couldn't help but marvel at the sight of him. His shoulder-length hair, now tied up and out of his face, emphasised the rugged, masculine beauty of his features. It was a stark contrast to the more polished, refined elegance of the world outside this intimate cocoon.

And yet, even as he stood there, his hair pulled back and away from his face, there was a sense of wildness that still seemed to cling to him. It was as if, even in this moment of tender intimacy, he refused to be tamed or domesticated, choosing instead to remain forever untamed and free. Cregan Stark, The Wolf of The North.

You looked at him, your eyes reflecting the confusion that you were feeling in that moment. It was a look that seemed to intrigue and amuse him, a spark of mischief shining in his eyes as he took in your expression.

His lips met yours once more, this time in a kiss that was slow and deliberate, the sensation one of pure, unadulterated pleasure. As he pulled away, you couldn't help but feel the intensity that was fast becoming unbearable between the two of you.

His hands, which had been momentarily still, now returned to your dress. With fast movements, he pulled it up over your knees, revealing the smooth, expanse of your thighs beneath. He then bundled the fabric up at your waist, and then kissed you again, one hand keeping your dress up and the other moving to your hair to guide your head as he kissed you.

But then, even as you revealed in the sensation, you felt his hand dip beneath your shirt, his fingers tracing along your inner thigh. The sensation was like a bolt of lightning, sending jolts of electricity coursing through your veins.

He was teasing you, you realised, playing a game of tantalising anticipation. Each touch of his fingers was like a promise, a hint of the pleasures that were yet to come. Then he pulled away from you, and his hand moved to your chest, to guide you back. You leant backwards, steadying yourself against the desk with your arms. Then slowly he dropped to his knees, pushing your skirts out of the way. You felt a soft kiss on the inside of your knee, and then another a little further along. Then his teeth nipped slightly at the supple skin of your inner thigh, and you moved your legs to press them together at the sensation, but his strong arms kept your legs firmly apart as he kissed closer and closer.

"Cregan, please, enough of this." you whispered, still trying to cling to the anger that had almost dissipated entirely.

"Please what?" he asked as the kisses moved closer to your pussy, his hot breath also seeming intent on teasing you.

"Stop." you whispered, still trying to argue with him. The word sounded pathetic and as if to emphasise just how pathetic your plea sounded, he licked your cunt. One sweeping movement from the entrance of your pussy right to the clit, drawing a moan from your lips.

Then he pulled away, you looked down at him, angry again, but this time that he had actually stopped.

"Cregan," you whined again, tilting your head back, not happy with how much teasing you seemed to please him. And irritated that he had actually stopped.

"Come on now wife, use your words." he whispered, placing a kiss on your inner knee but not moving to continue.

"Cregan just fucking eat me." you pleased, the words coming out quickly, tinged with anger.

He grinned, he seemed to take great pleasure in the knowledge that he had won you over, that despite your initial resistance, he had managed to break through your anger in the best way he knew how.

And then, as if to seal the deal, he delved back under your skirts.

One quick lick, and then he flattened his tongue as it started to move in a way that made it obvious he was apologetic. Each movement of his tongue seemed only to have one goal, and that was to bring you to release as fast as he could. Cregan was not the sort of man that lost. You clenched your teeth and tried to hold out, trying not to let him have this win so easily. But he was your husband, and he knew your body better than he knew his own. You balled your fists on the table trying to pull yourself back from the edge, but he sent you falling over it. You came hard, screaming his name as you tilted your head back.

He didn’t give you a moment to recollect yourself, instead he moved his tongue over your clip, as one of his fingers gently pressed inside you, curling up towards your bellybutton.

"Cregan" you gasped, rolling your hips to the motion of his finger, your hands returning to the desk the paper at your side bunching up into your fist as you tried to get purchase on something to ground you.

He didn’t respond, at least not with words. Instead, he removed his finger and replaced it with two that sent such a wave of pleasure coursing through you that for a moment, you could swear that you could see stars on the back of your eyelids. His fingers stroked up against something inside you made it feel as though every nerve ending in your body had been set on fire. Those two fingers in conjunction with his tongue fanning the flames, pushing you to the edge of another release again. You gripped the edge of the desk, your hips bucking involuntarily as you surrendered to the intense pleasure coursing through you. Even as your climax hit, the intensity of his mouth and fingers never wavered, continuing to guide you through this earth-shattering experience.

"Fuck," was the only word you could push through your lips as he still didn’t relent as he ate your pussy.

In fact, the word seemed to spur him on, as though hearing you spout profanities amused him. Perhaps it was the fact you were usually so reserved and well-spoken, that when he broke down those walls and exposed your inner animal, it turned him on more than anything else.

You were racing towards another peak again, and this time he seemed determined to push you there as fast as he could, as though he himself were becoming impatient. You knew that he got impossibly turned on when he went down on you, unable to go more than a few rounds before he had to feel himself inside you. This was the longest he had managed, and you wondered if he was torturing himself as much as he was attempting to torture you. You squeezed your eyes shut and screamed his name as he brought you to the edge for what felt like the hundredth time. You attempted to squeeze your shaking legs shut, Finally, he emerged from between your thighs, the scent of your arousal clinging to him like a trophy. He placed both his hands on the desk, leaning towards you. Immediately, you leaned forward, your hands moving instinctively to his broad, muscular chest. He kissed you deeply, his lips warm and inviting against yours. Then, he tucked his head into the crook of your neck, allowing you to hold him for a moment, your heart still racing from the intensity of your shared experience. As you both came down from your high, you took comfort in the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, the sound of your breathing slowly returning to normal.

Once your breathing steadied, and you felt ready to speak, you gently pulled away from him. It was then that the sharp scent of ale suddenly assaulted your nostrils, causing you to wrinkle your nose slightly in surprise.

"Gods, Cregan, I'm sorry I knocked over your drink." you said, righting the tankard, now empty.

He shrugged. "There are better things to drink back in our room," he whispered, his voice low and intimate, sending shivers down your spine.

He moved his hands to your waist, pulling you closer to him, his body a beacon of warmth and comfort. His scent, a mix of woodsmoke, leather, and the crisp scent of the outdoors, enveloped you, a familiar embrace that you couldn't resist.

"How about we return there and have a drink," he suggested with a smile, "before we continue our evening entertainment." His eyes twinkled with mischief, hinting at the pleasures that awaited you both. He leaned down, placing a tender kiss on your forehead.

"Continue?" you asked, looking up at him with a mixture of curiosity and anticipation. The firelight danced across his features, lending an almost ethereal glow to his already handsome face. "I think you have more than apologised Cregan," you responded, a hint of amusement in your voice.

"Yes, I have apologised," he murmured, his voice rich and deep, "but now I need to thank you for working so tirelessly." He pressed a soft kiss to your lips, a gesture that sent a new wave of desire coursing through your veins.

A Link to My Complete Inventory

#cregan fanfiction #cregan stark x you #cregan stark x reader #cregan stark #cregan smut #hotd cregan #cregan x reader #cregan x you #hotd #hotd fanfic

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madamabelladonna · 6 months ago

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𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐀𝐭 𝐅𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐒𝐭𝐚𝐫 - 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

𝐁𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐠𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝: House Dayne of Starfall, bearing the sigil of a white falling star and a sword on a field of lavender. Though sparse in men and coin, House Dayne is renowned as one of the oldest in Westeros. Sworn to House Martell, under the decree of their liege lord, Lord Julius Dayne dispatched the Sword of the Morning, his second son, Ser Merek Dayne, along with his only daughter, to King’s Landing as emissaries of Dorne. Little did they know, the twinkle of a star could ignite the passions of men, dragons, and wolves alike. 𝐓𝐚𝐠𝐬: Romance, Angst, Love Triangle, Fantasy, Historical Fiction, Drama, Coming-of-Age, Explicit Content, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT, Violence, Gore, War, Reader eating cheerios with Luke and Helaena while Jace, Cregan, and Aemond duke it out 𝐑𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐬: Jacaerys Velaryon x Reader, Aemond Targaryen x Reader, Cregan Stark x Reader

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐈: 𝐄𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐃𝐨𝐫𝐧𝐞 Young Lady Dayne never truly grasped what it meant to be a high-born lady; her mother and father had sheltered her from the vipers lurking in the shadows. Yet, as fate would have it, their protection could only shield her for so long before she was cast into a den brimming with treachery. Green or Black? The choice is hers, but she finds herself drawn to the hue of violet…

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐈𝐈: 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐒𝐲𝐥𝐥𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐞𝐬 Young Lady Dayne, finds herself adjusting to her new life at the capital. A gift from Starfall, a steed with a mane like freshly fallen snow. As she immerses herself in the pages of her books, a small figure unexpectedly scampers into her chamber—a boy lost in the game of hide and seek. She finds herself teaching the boy how to read. Only to be seated in the company of Princess Rhaenyra and her small family, sharing a quiet tea.

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐈𝐈𝐈: 𝐀𝐝𝐦𝐢𝐫𝐞𝐫 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐀𝐟𝐚𝐫 Young Lady Dayne, awaiting Jacaerys' lesson's end, enjoys tea with Princess Rhaenyra, who grants her access to the Royal Library due to her rare gifts. As she reads beneath the heart tree, a prince in green watches her, sparking jealousy within the eldest son of Rhaenyra. With Jacaerys' eighth name day nearing, their growing relationship seems to be all the court can talk about.

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐈𝐕: 𝐁𝐚𝐧𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐖𝐡𝐬𝐢𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐬 Young Lady Dayne captivated the feast held by King Viserys in honor of his grandson, her presence and dance stirring much interest among the court. The murmurs of a possible union between the Seven Kingdoms and The Principality of Dorne swirled in the air, though beneath the revelry, rumors threatened to unravel such hopes.

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐕: 𝐎𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐚𝐧 𝐈𝐬𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐀𝐰𝐚𝐲 Young Lady Dayne knew survival in the Red Keep required more than caution—it demanded influence. After keeping her distance from Jacaerys, she finally accepted his apology, truly forgiving him. But as he left, she realized it might be long before she saw him again. In his place, a prince in green awaited.

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐕𝐈: 𝐓𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐧𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐁𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐦 Young Lady Dayne watched the Red Keep, no longer as crimson as it once had been, now draped in the creeping embrace of ivy and moss. It looked more like an overgrown garden than a fortress of kings. Only Aemond, with his hard gaze and sharper tongue, stirred no sympathy. But Helaena—sweet Helaena—her heart ached for the gentle princess. Such a delicate flower, doomed to marry the vile Aegon. How cruel the gods could be.

[More in pending...]

This is my first post so I hope you like it, personally, House Dayne is my favorite and I hope it gets more recognition in the next book.

Taglist: (If you want to be added, please click here)

@yohanseyebrowmole @radiantdanvers @accidentpronedork @marvel-mistress-padawan @tabathastan @deltamoon666 @hotdhoe @cosmosnkaz @dragonamongwolves @r-3dlips @ghizlana @boiolay @gardenfaeries @ilymoonie @mellylla @omgsuperstarg @idohknow @beskardroids @buckystevelove @plainxlazy @gwaynehightower @beebeechaos @milksde @saintkittykat @cornbreadwithcheese @pinkb00bsocks @agoldenwoe @moonliightbabes @day2dream @geminizmoonz

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poisonioushearts · 2 years ago

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Self-aware Leon(being the players favorite)

Inspired by @dislifeismid self-aware tang yun

Gender neutral reader

Warnings: Might be a little ooc?, otherwise none

He blinked and suddenly he was fully leveled

Um...okay

He was a bit surprised, like, don't you have the shiny legendaries?

You don't care? Okay then

His old relics were stripped away and replaced by the highest level, all of them already leveled up

The others in the team are already weary of him and once they see him oneshot the enemy? Oh boy...

I feel like he wouldn't care very much for you, you're just basically telling him what to do without a choice

Leon thinks that maybe he can rid of Ollie with this newfound power-

Wait

Is that Ollie working beside him??

Touche

After some time he thinks that maybe you'd take away his relics or something to level that new legendary esper you got

Is surprised (part 2) when he sees that you don't even touch the other person

Now he has some respect for you

Tries not to show to the others that he is mildly excited that someone else cares for him and that you obviously show it

If you start to pay attention to other espers he's gone cold, the others don't know why-*cough* jealously *cough*

Freddy is sitting at level 20 kinda jealous watching his friend be sent out for constant missions lmao

In the AU where the player is a esper that has all the powers of the player(ie. giving them strength, powerful items, taking them out on missions,etc.)he won't say it but he's basically your bodyguard now

You helped him and he isn't the hugest fan of debt even though this situation wouldn't really be considered debt in your eyes

Congratulations, the possibility of death for you has greatly decreased

Thank you for reading, reblog/like if you enjoyed it!

#x reader #fanfic writers #dislyte #leon #dislyte leon #headcannon format?#bullet points #oneshot-ish not really though #gender neutral reader #esper reader for the last half #shadow decree #self aware au

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monster-disaster · 3 months ago

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[monsters] For your hand

monster!suitor x human!princess!Reader Good to know: no warning

Messengers race across the lands, spreading the news far and wide.

Your father, the king, sends out a word that shakes the kingdom to its core: only the bravest and most powerful may seek your hand in marriage. He announces a grand tournament, where kings, warriors, and champions can prove themselves worthy of you and the title you carry.

The lands are loud with anticipation. Knights shine their armor, kings dispatch their envoys, and lords ready their finest champions. Flags whip in the wind, trumpets echo through the hills, and every court is alive with excitement.

But your father, in his confidence, has forgotten one crucial detail: the world no longer belongs solely to humans. From the deep forests, towering mountains, and wild, untamed lands, the monsters have emerged. Creatures of legend and myth, once content to linger in the shadows, now step into the light, demanding their share of the world.

And they, too, have heard the king's decree. They, too, seek power, and more shockingly, they seek you.

Giants come out from their mountain homes, trolls leave their dark caves, and the nagas rise from distant swamps. Winged beasts glide over the castles of men, and hulking minotaurs stomp through the city gates. The warriors that arrive are not just men in gleaming armor but creatures of legend, each more fearsome than the last. The boundary between the familiar and the unknown begins to blur, and as the suitors gather, man and monster stand against each other. Knights in gleaming armor, chieftains draped in furs, and monstrous beings all come to stake their claim. The air is thick with dust, the ground marred by the struggle and fight.

One by one, the weak fall. The ground is stained with blood, and only the strongest remain, battered and breathless. The chaos of the early battles fades into a more intense struggle as the final competitors emerge. And as the week draws to a close, only four suitors remain: three fearsome monsters and a single human, your father's greatest warrior. But even he, the pride of your father's court, begins to falter. In the final moments of his battle, he is outmatched. Bruised and bloodied, he is forced to kneel before a monstrous opponent, his once-glorious armor cracked and dull.

A hush falls over the crowd as the kingdom's last human warrior falls.

Now, only the monsters remain.

And while your people are speechless with shock, you can't help but feel a thrill of excitement for what comes next.

On my Patreon: For your hand - [wolf-shifter] Buck + Illustration For your hand - [minotaur] Ares + Illustration For your hand - [rakshasa] Dorian + Illustration For your hand - [minotaur] Ares - The winner For your hand - [rakshasa] Dorian - Alternative Ending For your hand - [wolf-shifter] Buck - Happy End

#monster romance #monster x human #monster x reader #monster boyfriend #teratophillia #monster fucker #terat0philliac #monster thoughts #monsterfucker #monster kink #terato #exophelia

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romerona · 10 days ago

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The Swan Princess; Westeros Version.

The Targaryen Princess is the younger sister of Rhaenyra and the second daughter of King Viserys and the late Queen Aemma x Lord Cregan Stark in a dynamic inspired by The Swan Princess.

Viserys and Rickon Stark arrange for the princess and Cregan to be wed once she comes of age. To build familiarity, they reunite them every few years (a rare moment of decency among men in House of the Dragon, but let's roll with it). However, from a young age, they absolutely despise each other, a classic love-hate relationship.

Young fem Targ reader x young Cregan Stark.

Warnings: lost in woods, dragon fire. You are a bit bratty in this one.

The chill in the air was a far cry from the warmth of Kingslanding, but you hardly minded. The North had its own beauty—the towering pines, the crisp scent of the wind, the distant howl of wolves echoing across the hills. If only the company were as pleasant.

The festivities stretched before you in a blur of movement and laughter, the crackling of firewood and the clinking of tankards creating a raucous melody that grated upon your nerves. You sat at the farthest edge of the gathering, wrapped in a thick cloak lined with white fur, though no amount of warmth could temper the chill in your mood. Your hands remained tightly clasped in your lap, knuckles whitening as you scowled at the merriment before you. It had been your father’s insistence that forced you here—his decree that you must attend, that you must partake in the evening’s revelry.

Worse still, the most grave offence of all, he had instructed you to keep company with Cregan Stark.

Even now, years removed from the infamous cake incident at Aemond’s name day, your sentiments toward the northern boy had remained unchanged. He was still insufferable, still brooding, still insistent upon his wolfish ways as though they were some grand virtue to be admired. And yet, despite all of this, it was not his pride, nor his demeanor, nor even the air of quiet confidence he carried that vexed you most.

No, what was truly infuriating—what you found to be utterly offensive—was the fact that he had the audacity to ignore you.

You had been placed at his side, compelled to endure his presence, forced into this wretched arrangement for the sake of courtesy, and yet, rather than offer you the same indignity in return, he had simply dismissed you. The moment his friends arrived, he had risen without so much as a word, without even the pretence of obligation, and left you to fester in solitude.

He stood now near the firepit, surrounded by a group of northern boys, all older, taller—men who had long since begun their training. Their laughter came in low, rumbling tones, mingling with the scent of burning wood and roasted meat, and though you could not make out his words, Cregan spoke amongst them with ease, his presence welcomed.

You had not seen him in years, and yet you could not deny that he had grown, shoulders broader than before, height now eclipsing most boys of his age. Even his curls, dark and unruly as they had always been, seemed somehow thicker, falling slightly over his brow as he laughed—laughed, as though there was nothing amiss, as though your presence here was of no consequence to him.

Your jaw tightened as you tore your gaze away, huffing in frustration. You would not look at him any longer. You would not care. You were now ignoring him. And yet, your glare turns back at him each time you hear his laugh.

Aegon’s voice cut through your silent brooding, the young prince’s ever-curious eyes fixed upon you with unabashed intrigue. “Why do you glare so?”

You barely turned your head, already knowing who it was. Your younger brother was only a few years your junior, yet he clung to your side like a shadow, a lost pup who had long since decided you were the only one worthy of following.

“I do not glare,” you muttered, though the way your lips curled and your brows furrowed likely told a different story.

Aegon tilted his head, considering you with the sharp, unfiltered perception of youth. “You do. You look as though you wish to set Lord Stark aflame, dear sister.”

You huffed, arms crossing over your chest as you tore your gaze away from Cregan.

"He was commanded to keep me company," you grumbled, voice laced with frustration. "Yet he acts as though I am naught but air. A mere ghost to be disregarded at his leisure."

Aegon made a small sound of contemplation, his expression screwing up as he pondered your words. “Why would you wish for that brute’s company when you have mine?”

His words, meant in earnest, only deepened your scowl. You did not wish for Cregan’s company—not truly. You did not long for his attention, nor did you crave his words. And yet, it was the principle of the matter. You had been made to sit with him, and now he had left you, wholly unbothered, wholly unconcerned by your absence.

Aegon followed your gaze toward the firepit, where Cregan remained engrossed in his conversation, unaware—or perhaps entirely indifferent—to your displeasure. The young prince pursed his lips, curiosity dancing in his eyes as he surveyed the tall boy by the fire. Then, with a small shrug, he turned back to you, his expression equal parts mischievous and concerned. “Truly, sister, if it vexes you so, why pay him any heed at all?”

Your fingers curled into the plush fabric of your cloak, your jaw tightening. Because it was he who had been told to keep you company. Because it was he who should have felt the burden of obligation. And yet, here you sat, the only one who seemed to care at all.

If Cregan Stark would not give you his attention willingly, then you would seize it for yourself.

With a suddenness that startled even Aegon, you rose from your seat, gathering your cloak about you with deliberate precision. The prince started to trail after you both, but you shot him a glare.

“Stay.”

Your steps were swift and sure as you strode toward the firepit, your chin lifted in quiet defiance. The group of northern boys remained deep in conversation, their voices low and unhurried, wholly unaware of the storm descending upon them.

As you came to stand beside him, the lords and boys surrounding Cregan quickly straightened, some bowing their heads in deference to your presence. You, however, afforded them no such courtesy, your lilac eyes fixed solely on the one who had so rudely dismissed you.

Cregan barely spared you a glance. “Princess.”

The half-hearted greeting made your blood simmer. You bristled, tilting your chin higher. “Lord Stark.”

And then—nothing. No further acknowledgement. No shift in posture or interest. Cregan merely turned back to his friends, as if you were no more than a passing breeze.

Your fingers curled at your sides. How dare he?

You cleared your throat, tilting your head with measured patience. “You were tasked with keeping me company, were you not?”

Cregan exhaled through his nose, the sound heavy with exasperation, before finally turning his full attention to you. “Aye.”

“Yet here you are, neglecting your duty,” you remarked, eyes narrowing.

A sharp snicker rang out from one of the northern boys, earning him a withering look from Cregan before the lord’s gaze returned to you. “I did not think you cared for my company.”

“I do not,” you answered swiftly, folding your arms across your chest. “But if I must endure yours, then it is only fair you endure mine.”

Another laugh, low and knowing, rippled through the group. One of the taller boys clapped Cregan on the shoulder, amusement dancing in his eyes. “You’ve been summoned, Lord Stark.”

Cregan groaned, dragging a hand down his face as though praying for patience. Then, with great reluctance, he turned fully to you, his stance shifting from stubborn resistance to resigned duty. “And what is it you wish to do, Princess?”

You smirked, pleased to have drawn him from his indifference. “Something more interesting than standing around talking about whatever it is northerner boys talk about.”

Cregan studied you for a long, silent moment, as though weighing the depth of your mischief. Then, with a slow exhale, he gave a small shake of his head. “Fine.”

Turning to his friends, he gave a nod toward the woods. “I’ll be back.”

One of the older boys scoffed, his lips curling around the rim of his cup as he slurred, “Truly? You’d leave us for the spoilt princess?”

A silence fell over the group. A heavy, expectant silence.

The moment the words left his wine-soaked lips, the others stiffened, some even taking a wary step back. The drunken fool clearly did not yet realize his mistake, but they did.

You were no mere noblewoman to be dismissed with a careless insult.

The beloved pearl of the Seven Kingdoms, cherished not only by your father, the King but by all who saw you as the living embodiment of Targaryen's grace and beauty. A girl born of fire and blood, as regal as she was untouchable.

And yet, this boy—this fool—had dared speak of you so carelessly.

“A spoilt princess, am I?” you mused, your tone dangerously even.

Your lilac eyes narrowed, the firelight casting an eerie glow across your sharp features. Though you were years younger, though you stood two heads shorter, you advanced without hesitation, your steps measured, deliberate, until you were close enough to look up at the fool who had so carelessly spoken.

The silence was suffocating.

The boy, for all his bravado, swayed slightly, the haze of wine doing little to shield him from the weight of your gaze. The others watched, rigid as stone, none daring to intervene.

Then, after a long pause, you smiled. It was not kind.

It was the smile of a dragon before it struck. The smile of a queen before she passed judgment. The kind of smile that sent men to their knees in fear rather than admiration.

The boy swallowed thickly, his drunken haze evaporating beneath the weight of your presence.

“Well?” you asked, your voice quiet but carrying effortlessly over the crackling flames. “Do speak plainly, my lord. I would so love to hear what else you think of me.”

The drunken fool licked his lips, throat bobbing as he tried to summon some semblance of wit. “I meant no—”

“You meant,” you interrupted smoothly, taking another deliberate step forward, “to insult me.”

He flinched.

“Or was it my father you sought to offend?” Your voice remained sweet, but the question was anything but. “Perhaps my mother’s memory? My House?”

The boy visibly shrank beneath your gaze, as though the very air had grown heavier. He looked to Cregan, then to his companions, seeking an escape, but none would meet his eye. Smart of them.

He opened his mouth, no doubt to stammer some pathetic attempt at an apology, but before he could, Cregan finally moved.

A heavy hand clamped down on the fool’s shoulder, forcing him to bow slightly under its weight. The pressure was not enough to harm, but it was a warning—a silent command that made the onlookers still, their laughter long since faded into tense silence.

“I believe you’ve had too much wine, Beron,” Cregan said evenly, though there was no mistaking the quiet steel in his voice. “Best you retire before you make an even greater fool of yourself.”

Beron, now pale as freshly fallen snow, swallowed hard. His bravado, so apparent mere moments ago, had fled entirely. With a stiff nod, he stepped back, avoiding your gaze as though even looking at you would seal his doom.

You watched him go, the smirk that ghosted across your lips a silent testament to your satisfaction. Yet when you turned back to Cregan, whatever fleeting amusement you held vanished in an instant, replaced once more by the simmering irritation that had plagued you all evening.

Your lilac eyes narrowed, scrutinizing him as though his very presence was an affront, as though you were still deciding whether he was just as insufferable as the fool you had just put in his place. Then, with your chin lifted in a haughty display of royal indignation, you turned sharply on your heel, your cloak billowing behind you as you huffed and stalked away.

Cregan exhaled, long and weary, dragging a rough hand down his face before shaking his head.

“Seven hells,” he muttered under his breath, before striding after you. It seemed, despite his better judgment, that the wolf had no choice but to follow where the dragon led.

Cregan Stark prided himself on his patience.

It was expected of him as his father’s heir, a virtue drilled into him through endless lessons of duty and restraint. The North was not a place for rash tempers or childish squabbles. A Stark must be measured, composed, and above all, steady as the winter itself—the blood of the First Men ran through his veins, and wolves did not rise to petty bait.

And yet—yet—every time he was forced into your company, that patience unravelled thread by thread.

"Is that how you always spend your time?" you asked, voice laced with disdain as you pulled your cloak tighter around you. The cold bit at your skin, but your words were sharper still. "Standing about like a pack of hounds, waiting for scraps?"

Cregan inhaled sharply, his broad shoulders rising and falling in slow, measured restraint. Do not rise to it, he told himself. He had learned your ways over the years, how you delighted in needling him, in picking at his patience like a raven pecking at carrion.

He exhaled through his nose, his expression carefully schooled into neutrality. "We speak of things that matter, Princess. Not childish games."

You tilted your head, the firelight catching in the silver strands of your braided hair. A picture of innocence—if one ignored the glint in your lilac eyes, the one that spoke of mischief, of provocation.

"Oh, I see," you murmured, voice rich with mock understanding. "Of course. You and your very important northern discussions."

Your lips curled, and then you added, as light as silk, "Please, you are raised in ice, you drink only ale, and you spend your days rolling about in the mud like dogs. No wonder you all behave like them."

Cregan’s jaw tightened.

He had sworn to himself—no, he swore to his father—that he would not let you get a rise out of him tonight. That he would be the proper lord, ever respectful, ever unshaken. That he would not let himself be drawn into yet another one of your endless games.

Still, his jaw tensed as he shot you a look. “You claim we are dogs, Princess, yet you stand before our fire, eating from our table, taking from our land. Tell me, which of us is truly the hound?”

Your lilac eyes flashed—not anger, but amusement. And that infuriated him more than anything.

You stepped closer, your perfume—something warm and spiced—reaching his nose. “Clever, almost.”

Cregan hated the way his pulse quickened, just slightly. He hated the way you spoke to him, like he was still a child playing at being a man. He hated the way you always—always—knew exactly how to get under his skin.

He exhaled through his nose, forcing himself to remain composed. But that wasn’t enough. He needed to wipe that insufferable smirk from your face.

And then an idea struck him.

So, he did the only thing he could. He smirked. “Perhaps, Princess, you would rather see something truly northern? Something worthy of your oh-so-refined tastes?”

Your brow lifted, intrigue flashing across your face. “And what could a northern brute possibly have that would interest me?”

Cregan let his smirk widen, taking a step back. “Have you ever seen a direwolf?”

Your interest was immediate. “A direwolf?”

“Aye. There are dire wolves in these woods," he said smoothly, watching you carefully. "I know where a litter has been whelped, I can take you if you wish.”

Your posture stiffened, your lips parting slightly before pressing into a thin line. Then— “Truly?”

He shrugged, his voice even. “Do you doubt my word?”

You hesitated, shifting on your feet. "I have heard the North’s wolves are fearsome things, the size of horses.”

“They are,” he agreed smoothly, “but I thought a daughter of the dragon would not be afraid of such creatures.”

Your lilac eyes burned with indignation. “I am not afraid.”

Cregan tilted his head. “Then let us see, shall we?”

He should have felt guilty.

Should have.

But as he returned to his friends, leaving you in the depths of the woods, he found himself feeling nothing but satisfaction.

You had followed him eagerly, your irritation at the feast long forgotten in your excitement to see a direwolf. He had led you deep into the forest, far from the warmth of the fire, far enough that the trees blocked out most of the moonlight.

And then, at the perfect moment, he had stepped behind a tree—and vanished.

You had called his name at first, your voice carrying through the trees with only the rustling of the leaves to answer you. Then came the frustration.

“Cregan Stark, if this is some jape, I swear to all gods!”

There was a pause. Then the crunch of leaves as you turned in place, the sharp inhale of breath when you realized you were alone.

“Cregan, this is not amusing,” you called, irritation creeping into your voice.

Oh, but it was amusing.

Cregan remained just out of sight, arms crossed over his chest, watching. He would let you sit with your own pride for a little while. Let you feel what it was like to be dismissed, to be toyed with. It was not cruel, not truly—he knew exactly where you were. You would be fine. And if this humbled you even a little, then perhaps it would be worth the scolding he would inevitably receive.

So he left. He had walked back leisurely, even laughing under his breath as he rejoined the gathering, pleased with himself in a way he hadn’t been in years.

It would serve you right, little dragon.

You would stomp your feet and pout, calling him every manner of insult, but he would return before long, retrieve you from whatever spot you were sulking in, and that would be the end of it.

At least, that was what should have happened.

But when people began to ask where the lovely princess had gone—when Lord Rickon turned his sharp gaze on Cregan and asked if he had seen you last—something unpleasant curled in his stomach.

His smirk faded.

Cregan made his way back to where he had left you, his steps quickening when he realized the spot was empty. No footprints in the dirt. No sign of where you had gone.

Panic seized his chest as he turned in a slow circle. “Princess?”

Nothing. His heartbeat hammered in his ears as he called your name again.

This was not how this was meant to go. You were supposed to be sitting on a fallen log, arms crossed, scowling at him when he returned. Not gone.

Cregan Stark, heir to Winterfell, had lost a Targaryen princess in the woods. And if he did not find you soon, he was as good as dead.

He swallowed thickly, taking a deep breath. You couldn’t have gone far. You were here somewhere. And the thought that you weren’t—that something had happened to you—made his stomach twist in a way he did not care to name.

You were going to kill him.

Not in the quiet, polite way of the court, with veiled insults and sharp words—no, you were going to strangle Cregan Stark with your bare hands the moment you found him... If you found him.

The forest was darker now, the thick canopy overhead blotting out the last slivers of evening light. You had walked for what felt like hours, your frustration growing with each passing moment. At first, you had been determined—This is fine. I do not need him. I’ll find my way back.

That had been before your gown had snagged on every possible branch, before you had tripped over a root and scraped your palms raw against the cold earth, before your boots had sunk into thick patches of mud that tried to swallow your steps.

Now, your breaths came sharp and quick, little clouds of mist curling before you. You swallowed against the sting behind your eyes.

Cregan Stark, you absolute vile, unwashed, brute— Had he truly left you? Had he meant for you to never return?

The realization struck like a blow, knocking the breath from your lungs. For all your confidence, for all your stubbornness, you were alone in the middle of a vast northern forest, with no sense of direction and no one to call for help.

Your throat tightened.

No. You would not cry. You would not let the woods of the north to best you.

But as you took another step forward, your foot caught on a tangle of roots, and you pitched forward, crashing onto the damp earth. This time, you did not rise.

A choked sob escaped your lips, your fingers curling into the dirt. You would die here. Your body would be found frozen in the snow, your sister would weep, your father would curse the North, and Cregan Stark—Cregan Stark—would suffer the wrath of the crown.

And yet, none of that mattered if you died here tonight.

Tears burned hot as they slipped down your cheeks, your frustration giving way to something raw—fear. You had never been alone like this before. Never without guards, without your ladies and your maids, without your father or Rhaenyra, that nuisance of your younger brother. You had always been surrounded, shielded, protected but now? Only the cold and the distant rustling of unseen creatures.

You shuddered and forced yourself to sit up, hugging your arms to your chest. The cold was beginning to seep into your bones, its sharp bite burrowing beneath your skin, turning your fingers stiff and clumsy. You clenched them into fists, willing warmth back into them, but it was no use.

If the cold did not claim you, the wolves would.

The thought sent another shiver down your spine.

You turned your head sharply, scanning the darkness between the trees, expecting to see a pair of gleaming eyes watching, waiting for the perfect moment to pounce. The woods belonged to creatures far older than men—things that did not fear steel or fire.

A shiver ran down your spine, but you gritted your teeth against it, scanning the trees, your ears straining for the snap of a branch, the rustle of unseen movement.

Fear clawed its way up your throat. Was this how it ended? A Targaryen princess lost to the dark? Devoured in the woods like a nameless peasant?

Your fingers curled into fists in the tattered fabric of your dress. No.

A sudden anger filled you, pushing away the creeping terror. No. You would not sit here and weep like some helpless thing. You would not be claimed by the cold or torn apart by beasts.

You were a dragon and you refused to be brought low by wolves.

A sharp gust of wind howled through the trees, but you rose to your feet, unsteady but determined. You would find shelter. You would make it through the night, and you would see Cregan Stark’s face when you returned, standing tall, unbroken, and victorious.

With that thought burning in your chest, you pressed forward, forcing one foot in front of the other. Your body ached, exhaustion weighing on your limbs, but you did not stop. The forest stretched endlessly before you, the trees twisting and gnarled, their skeletal branches reaching toward the sky.

Then—movement. Your breath caught as you spun, your heart hammering against your ribs. Nothing, but something or someone is watching you. You could feel it.

A slow, uneasy dread settled over you, but you swallowed it down, gripping the tattered edges of your dress as you continued forward.

And then, in the distance, beneath the tangled roots, you saw it- a shadow. A large, gaping darkness ahead, half-hidden beneath the twisting roots of an ancient tree. A cave.

Relief surged through you as you stumbled toward it, slipping beneath the jagged opening. The air inside was cool but dry, the ground packed firm beneath your feet. You exhaled shakily, wrapping your arms around yourself.

The cave was deeper than you expected, the air damp, warmer than the biting cold outside, and heavy with something thick and unplaceable. Each breath you took felt weighted, as though the very air pressed against your ribs.

Something about the scent in the air struck you as familiar.

Sulfur. Ash.

It reminded you of the Dragonpit in King’s Landing, of the deep chambers where the great beasts slumbered, their breath thick with smoke and embers.

But that was absurd, there were no dragons this far to the north. You were exhausted, chilled to the bone, your mind playing tricks on you after hours spent stumbling through the wretched woods. That was all.

You took another cautious step forward, a sharp crunch echoed beneath your foot making you still.

The sound sent a shudder down your spine. It had not been the crisp snap of twigs, nor the shifting of loose stone. It had been brittle, fragile—something breaking.

Your pulse quickened, but you forced yourself to move, to push forward despite the growing weight in your chest. Then your foot struck against something hard. A rock? No...

You bent down slowly, your fingers trembling as you reached into the darkness. The surface beneath your hand was smooth, cold—curved in a way that made your breath hitch. You traced its edge, confusion swirling in your chest.

And then, as your eyes adjusted to the dim light, you saw it. Not a rock, surely not a branch, it was... a scale. A large, dark, scale gleaming faintly in the cave’s dimness.

A low rumble filled the space, vibrating through the very stone beneath you. Your blood turned cold. A slow, rolling shift of movement echoed through the cavern. Then—two massive, golden eyes blinked open.

Your breath caught in your throat as the darkness moved, no— it was not darkness.

It was something massive, curled within the cavern, its long, jagged horns scraping against the stone as it lifted its head. A deep, guttural growl reverberated through the air, rolling over you like thunder, the kind of sound that rattled deep in your bones.

Your body is locked in place.

It’s a dragon. A wild dragon.

You had never felt fear like this before.

It was not the simple fear of falling from a tree, nor the quick, fleeting terror of nearly slipping off a ledge as you climbed the castle walls. This was something deeper, something that wrapped around your chest and squeezed until your breath came in short, panicked gasps.

The dragon was massive.

Larger than any you had ever seen up close, which is a big feat since you have seen Vermithor, its coiled body filling the dark cavern like a living mountain of scale and muscle. Even in the dim light, you could see the dark ridges of its back, the curve of its wings pressed against the walls of the cave. Its tail twitched, stirring the dust at your feet, and then—

It growled.

A low, rumbling sound, deep as thunder rolling through the belly of the earth. The sound made your knees weak, made you feel small, insignificant beneath its burning golden gaze.

You stumbled back, your hands bracing against the cold stone behind you. Your breath came in ragged bursts, your mind screaming at you to run, run, run, but your legs would not move. You had nowhere to go.

The growling deepened, reverberating in your very bones. You had to do something, anything. And so, in the midst of your spiralling panic, you did the only thing you knew how to do.

You talked. In frantic, desperate, trembling High Valyrian, you talked to the beast. "Ñuhon, ñuhon, ñuhon..."

"Nyke Targārien iksan," you stammered, your voice shaking so badly that the words almost slurred together. "Aōha rūvēn iksan, līragon nyke, kostilus." I am a Targaryen. I am your friend, please, do not harm me.

The dragon’s growl did not cease, but something in the way it held itself shifted. Its great head tilted ever so slightly, those massive golden eyes fixed on you, unblinking. Its nostrils flared, taking in your scent, the thick breath of the beast sending a hot gust of air against your face.

"Nyke... nyke jorrāelagon sȳz rūvēn," you continued, your voice no less panicked, but steadier now, clinging to the one thing that had ever given you comfort—words. "Ñuha āeksia, ñuha lenton, ñuha ābrar issi... kostilus, do not hurt me."

The dragon let out a short, huffing sound—not quite a snarl, not quite a sigh. Its wings shifted slightly against the stone, and for one terrible, agonizing moment, you thought it might lunge, might strike.

You squeezed your eyes shut, your heart hammering against your ribs. But no attack came.

Instead, there was another sound—low, almost like a grumble, but different. Less threatening.

You opened your eyes slowly.

The dragon was still watching you, but the growl had lessened into something more like a deep, guttural rumble, a sound you could not quite name. It had listened.

You let out a shuddering breath, your hands still trembling.

"Issa sȳz," you whispered, barely audible.

The dragon huffed again, shifting slightly, its great claws scraping against the cavern floor. It did not bow, did not lower its head in submission—but it did not turn you to ash, either.

You had been heard.

You took a shuddering breath, pressing a hand to your chest in a futile attempt to calm your hammering heart.

"I—I should not be here, you see," you continued, voice wavering but relentless. "I was tricked, abandoned, left to die in this gods-forsaken forest by this imbecile, and I thought this cave would provide me shelter, but instead I find you. And I must say, I do not think this is fair. My father is the King. My sister is Rhaenyra Targaryen, heir to the Iron Throne, and I should not be grovelling before a dragon in the middle of a cursed forest, covered in dirt... fucking stark.

The dragon watched you, unblinking, unmoving, its massive body still half-coiled within the shadows. Its breaths came slow and steady, but the growl had lessened, replaced by something else.

Something like curiosity, so you kept talking.

You told the beast of the cold, how you dislike the chill of the North, how the winds bit at your skin and made your fingers numb. You spoke of your frustrations, of how your father had sent you here, how you had been made to suffer the company of Cregan Stark.

Your voice cracked as you spoke his name, and for some reason, that was when the first tear fell.

You wiped at it furiously, cursing yourself, cursing him, cursing this wretched night. You had been abandoned. Left like a fool to wander the forest, to freeze, to be forgotten. You let out a shaky breath, staring at the dragon before you.

“You would not have abandoned me,” you whispered, voice barely above a breath. “Would you?”

The dragon let out a low, rumbling sound—not quite a growl, but not quite a purr either. Its eyes gleamed like molten gold, sharp and knowing.

And then, to your shock, it moved again.

A slow, deliberate shift of its massive body. Clawed feet scraped against the cavern floor as it unfurled its wings slightly, shaking dust from its scales. Its long neck arched, its nostrils flaring once more.

Then, It lowered its head. Not by much, but enough.

You inhaled sharply, heart hammering, and slowly, hesitantly, you raised a trembling hand. The dragon did not move, it did not growl, did not flinch.

Your fingers brushed against its warm scales. Heat radiated beneath your palm, and for the first time since stepping foot in the woods, you felt safe. Your breath was shallow as you dared to lift your gaze.

Its golden eyes bore into yours, deep and endless, gleaming like molten metal in the dim light of the cavern. And though the beast said nothing—though it made no sound, no movement beyond its slow, steady breathing—you felt it.

Targaryens were of the blood of the dragon. But what was this? It was as though the dragon had recognized you. Not just as a Targaryen. Not just as some lost child who had wandered into its den.

But as its own.

Then, shattering the stillness of the cave, your name rang through the forest, sharp and desperate.

Your fingers curled against the dragon’s warm scales as the peacefulness—the strange, overwhelming sense of belonging—was yanked from you, ripped away by a voice you knew.

Him. Cregan fucking Stark.

You growled, the sound low and guttural in your throat, before turning away from the dragon. The air felt colder now, the cavern’s warmth a distant memory as you marched toward the entrance, your body rigid with fury.

How dare he?

How dare he call for you with such desperation, as though he had not been the one to leave you behind in the first place? As though he was not the reason your hands were scraped raw, your dress torn, your limbs frozen?

The moment you stepped out of the cave, the cold northern air bit at your skin, but you did not falter. Your anger burned hotter than any fire. Cregan’s voice came again, closer this time as he yet again called your name.

And then, you saw him.

A flickering torch in hand, his grey eyes scanning the dark, his normally composed features twisted with something that looked far too close to panic. His tunic was wrinkled, his hair tousled as though he had been running his hands through it and his chest was rising and falling heavily, his mouth slightly parted as though he had been running.

Good. Let him suffer.

His head snapped toward you the moment you stepped into the moonlight. The relief that crossed his face was instant, crashing over him like a wave.

“There you are,” he breathed, already moving toward you. “Gods, I—”

But before he could say anything else, before he could speak a single word of apology— You struck him. Not a slap, not a soft shove, but a full-force push against his chest, sending him stumbling back a step.

“You bastard,” you snarled, your voice shaking with unspent rage. “You left me.”

Cregan caught himself, blinking rapidly, as if stunned. “I—Seven Hells, I thought—”

“You thought what?” you bit out, stepping forward, your torn gown dragging over the forest floor. “That I would wait like a dog for you to come and fetch me?”

His jaw clenched, grey eyes dark with something unreadable as he took another step toward you. “I knew where you were. I never—”

“No, you didn’t,” you spat, the fury burning in your chest like Dragonfire. “Because when you finally came back, I was gone.”

Cregan ran a hand through his curls, exhaling sharply, his frustration plain. “You were supposed to stay there—why in the name of the Old Gods would you leave? In woods, you know nought of?”

“Why did I leave?” you echoed, your voice shaking with fury. “Because I was alone, Stark! Because I was freezing, because the wolves howled closer with every hour because I had no reason to believe you were ever coming back for me.”

Cregan’s expression flickered for a moment, something shifting behind his gaze—guilt. But you didn’t care for it.

His mouth opened as if he meant to speak as if there were words he could summon to undo what he had done. But no words came. Instead, from behind you, a deep, rumbling growl filled the air, low and unrelenting, the sound vibrating through your very bones and the ground shifting beneath you.

Your dragon.

A smirk curled at your lips as you turned your head slightly, just enough to glimpse the massive, hulking form that emerged from the cave’s mouth. The beast’s golden eyes were fixed on Cregan, unblinking, knowing. Steam curled from its nostrils as it stepped forward, claws sinking into the damp earth.

Cregan did not move, did not reach for the sword at his hip. He only watched, his grey eyes locked onto the creature behind you, his breath unsteady.

A slow smirk curled at your lips.

Cregan saw the shift in your face, and before he could react, you turned and took a few deliberate steps toward the beast, your gown dragging over the forest floor, torn and dusted with dirt.

"Wait, princess..." That was when Cregan moved. His hand shot out, gripping your arm, a firm pull—as if he had any right to stop you.

"Don't you dare--" You yanked yourself free, stepping back just in time.

And that was when your dragon struck, a sharp inhale, the air around you shifting—then flames. It wasn’t a full blast, just a warning—a thin stream of fire erupted from the beast’s maw, aimed straight for Cregan. You barely had time to gasp.

Cregan was fast. Faster than you had expected. He spun away just in time, throwing up his arms to shield himself as the flames roared past, illuminating the trees in a flickering orange glow.

Then, silence, making your smirk disappear.

“Cregan?” Your heart lurched as you watched the fire dissipate, smoke curling into the cold northern air.

For a terrifying second, he didn’t move. But then he straightened, breathing hard, his chest rising and falling sharply. He was alive. But when he turned back to you, you had to slap a hand over your mouth to smother the laugh that threatened to escape.

His normally dark curls were dusted in ash, the very tips of them still smouldering. His face was streaked with soot, and most hilariously of all— One of his eyebrows was completely gone.

You blinked. Then blinked again.

Your mouth fell open.

Cregan blinked, then let out a slow, rattled breath, his expression unreadable.

And then, you laughed.

You tried to hold it back, you really did, but it was impossible. The sight of him, wide-eyed, covered in soot with only one eyebrow left, his expression caught between horror and sheer disbelief—it was too much. A burst of laughter slipped through your lips, bubbling uncontrollably as you pressed a hand to your mouth.

Cregan just stared at you, completely dumbfounded.

Then he scowled. “You laugh? After your beast nearly burned my face off?”

You nod, laughing harder, hands clutching your sides, feeling your knees about to give. You wiped a tear from your eye, finally catching your breath. "That is what you get, for leaving me."

He exhaled sharply, still fuming. “You let your dragon burn me.”

“I did not!” you said defensively, though your voice still shook with laughter. “He did it on his own, and he merely singed you. It was a warning.”

You gestured at the dragon, whose golden eyes remained locked on Cregan as if daring him to try anything else. Cregan glared, but the effect was somewhat ruined by his missing eyebrow.

You tilted your head, examining him. “It is an… interesting look.”

He exhaled heavily, looking toward the sky like he was praying for patience. Then, after a beat, he muttered, “I should have left you in the woods.”

You grinned, stepping back toward your dragon, placing a firm hand against its scales. “And yet, here you stand. With only one eyebrow to show for it.”

Cregan shot you a heated glare, the muscles in his jaw tightening as if he were biting back a particularly colourful string of curses you were certain he was about to unleash—until the sound of approaching hooves shattered the moment.

The rhythmic thud of horses against the earth. The muffled crunch of boots stepping through fallen leaves. Then, the glow of torches flickered through the darkness, growing brighter, closer.

Your father had sent people to find you.

You should have felt relieved. Instead, all you could think about was what he would say—what he would do—when he realized what had happened. You were about to be scolded within an inch of your life.

Cregan must have had the same thought, because his shoulders squared, his expression hardening as he turned toward the oncoming riders.

Your dragon let out a low growl, its tail shifting against the forest floor, and you placed a calming hand on its scales.

You cast Cregan one last smirk. “Shall we tell them exactly what happened? Or shall we let them wonder why the heir to Winterfell is missing an eyebrow?”

His glare deepened, but before he could answer, the first of the riders broke through the trees, their torches illuminating the scene before them.

And just like that, the game was over... For now.

A/N

Hiii, I hope you all enjoyed this chapter. I wanted to stay true to the Y/N vibe and give her a wild dragon, tho, it's not Cannibal. Figure might as well give you something from the north other than Cregan lol. Tell me what you think was it too corny? Also, I don't know if you noticed but I made a jab to Bran, Three-Eyed Raven, just for funsies.

Thank you sooooo much for the support, the likes, comments and reblogs, you all really make me stay motivated.

<3 Thank you so muchhhh.

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sorceresssundries · 10 months ago

Text

Downpour

Pairing: Gale x Fem Reader

Summary: After so long trapped in the shadow-cursed lands, Tav basks in the delight of feeling the rain on her skin. One-shot.

Warnings: Oral Sex, Vaginal Sex, Vaginal Fingering, Smut.

Word Count: 3.2k

A/N: Ok, so I wanted to have a go a a romantic, Austen-esque, fluffy, soggy, sexy love-scene. I am a Pride and Prejudice girlie, and this was definitely inspired by the artwork i've seen floating around of Gale as Mr.Darcy. I STILL BLUSH WHEN I POST SMUT.

In the forest, away from camp, the rain fell heavy, warm, and welcome. After enduring the stagnant shadows of the curse for so long, Tav reveled in the sensation of the heavy droplets drenching her. She longed to feel the rain soak all the way to her bones, washing away the blood and shadow clinging to her skin. She craved cleanliness, yearning to return to the warm embrace of nature before being pulled back onto the road to Baldur’s Gate, where fresh burdens would undoubtedly litter the streets of her city.

Baldur’s Gate... The Upper City... Her home. Where her expectant fiancé no-doubt awaited her return, eager for her to forsake her studies of magic and join him as agreed in their betrothal. It was a future that demanded sacrifice—her independence, her magic, her heart—all in exchange for providing for her family. This was the destiny that loomed if they completed their quest, and time was slipping away like sand through an hourglass.

So, she lingered in the rain a while longer, relishing the freedom of being a fearless adventurer, a woman unbound, her soul still wild and untamed. She would postpone the inevitable, if only for a few rain-soaked hours.

Her thoughts drifted, as they often did, to Gale. His anger still lingered like a storm cloud after their battle against Ketheric. She had urged him to resist the call of his Goddess, to spare himself from becoming the sacrificial weapon to slay the absolute. In doing so, he had shed his mantle of martyrdom, stepping away from the edge of his perceived heroism. And in the aftermath, when the adrenaline faded and victory cries hushed, she sensed his resentment.

At the height of his struggle, she had hoped he wouldn't need convincing. She had hoped his own worth would shine brightly enough to dispel the dark intent of Mystra's decree, and that he would have enough faith in their companions, in her, to find another path. She had believed their bond ran deep enough for him to steadfastly choose to remain by her side, but she had been mistaken. He required persuasion, and it had nearly shattered her.

She understood he owed her nothing, that no formal declarations had been made. There were moments heavy with unspoken desire, where the air crackled with anticipation. She had savoured each lingering glance and flirtatious exchange. Yet now, she wondered if it had all been a fanciful illusion. How could he desire her when his heart yearned for a Goddess? When the sigil of his devotion was literally branded over his heart? She resigned herself to accepting that he would stay by her side a while longer, and would bask in his warmth for as long as she could.

“Tav!” A distant voice called through the trees, barely audible over the rain storm's fury.

She turned to see him striding purposefully towards her, embers of anger flickering in his deep eyes. Both of them were drenched, the rain pouring down so relentlessly that it only took moments to become completely soaked. His white camp shirt clung to his chest and abdomen, accentuating the contours of his muscles. The emblem of the orb was unmistakable through the fabric, as was the dark hair which spattered his chest, trailing down into the snug, rain-soaked leather trousers tucked into his boots. Heavy droplets cascaded down his nose and fell from his long lashes like tears, and he had pushed his hair back away from his face, so now only a couple of tendrils stuck to his forehead and his cheek. The shimmer of the water cast him in ethereal beauty, and his silver earring gleamed like a lone star in the night sky. He might as well have been naked, and Tav felt a rush of heat at the sight of him. He was divine, and he was furious.

“What are you doing?” His voice was coloured with fresh anger. “You will catch your death!”

“Death has tried to catch me once today, wizard,” she said in defiance, turning her face upwards to the burst sky and running her hands through her hair. “I would like to see him try again.”

“You are stubborn and infuriating to your core! You would not allow me to sacrifice myself, and yet here you stand in the middle of a storm, taunting death as though he is a pawn in your game of heroics.”

She had never seen him this inflamed; the cool bindings of his tightly-wrapped feelings had come loose to reveal a man smouldering with desperate intent. The fact he still saw himself as a sacrifice shot fury through Tav’s veins equal to that of the Wizard before her.

“Do not blame me for what happened today! Your derision is wasted on me. I regret nothing. You were not weak; you were courageous. Vilify me if you will; resent me and cast me aside. It is a price I will pay to know your light still shines in the world. But I take no credit for your act of bravery. That was all you.”

She felt tears spill their way out of her eyes, and she belligerently let them fall alongside the welcome rain, now angry that she was letting herself fall apart in front of him. She could see him subside; he had calmed from raging ocean to a still pond. He said nothing, just waited.

“Baldur’s Gate lies ahead, and so does the end of our journey. Soon I will be home. I will marry a man I do not love, to support a family who does not care for my happiness, and I will take my courage from you, from what you did today. Please grant me the blessing of knowing it was because you wanted to stay here, with me. Just let me have that, even for a moment, even if it isn't real.”

He stepped towards her, and she stepped back, as though it was the first move in a practiced dance. She knew he meant to comfort her; she was unsure how, but it did not matter. She could not bear it.

“No, please,” she pleaded, needing to be alone. Completely soaked by the rain, despite the warmth in the air, her skin was speckled with gooseflesh, her clothing clinging to her in soaked desperation. She felt ashamed and exposed in front of him. He was everything she wanted but could never have. Jealousy, anger, and longing burned within her. If he touched her, she feared she would flame to ash in his arms. “Please, leave.”

He gazed at her face, her damp skin flushed, her dark eyes deeper than he had ever seen them, the usual mischievous sparkle replaced with swirling fear and helplessness. He longed to comfort her, to hold her.

“You should not marry him,” he said, his voice nearly drowned out by the rain. The silence that followed was heavy with tension. She held his gaze, her tears halting along with her breath.

“I am acutely aware of the shackles that will bind you upon your return. The thought of it has seared my soul. I have seen people marry for all the wrong reasons—wealth, security, anything but love. Some found it suited them, others were torn apart. That fate is for the faint-hearted, and you are not one of them.”

This time when he stepped forward, she did not move.

“They are early spring, and you are blazing summer. They are dappled moonlight, and you are blinding sun. They are house cats and cart horses, and you are a wild thing. You should not marry him,” he continued, his sadness palpable in his eyes and voice. “You will wither.” The space between them felt heavy and charged, the air warm and heady in the humid rain shower. “You talked me down from my precipice; let me help you down from yours.”

She could bear it no longer. Meeting his eyes, she began to move with purpose. That was all he needed. Rushing forward, he pushed her back against the nearest tree. She mewled in surprise before his lips captured hers, soft yet determined.

“Gale..” His name fell like dropped silk from her parted lips. As soon as he heard it exhaled in breathlessness, all soft intent was washed away with the rain. His hands were everywhere, grasping at her soaked clothing, tangling themselves in her dripping hair, pulling her hips against him. The kiss was wet - rain heavy and so so desperate. His tongue danced with hers, in ways he had fantasised about alone in his tent. He had brought himself to ecstasy thinking about the touch of her tongue against his, about all the lust induced pleasure she could summon with it. He was desperately hard, unashamedly and wantonly pressed against her. He wanted her to feel the effect she had on him, how much he desired her in all her vexing, complicated, exquisite glory.

He had been angry, yes. He had been ashamed and guilt-ridden - but for reasons he did not expect. He did not feel as though he had let down Mystra, but that he had let down Tav. He had the opportunity to rid her of her burden, to strike down the threat which loomed over her head. She would be safe from the absolute, he could have given that to her, and she had talked him out of it. He felt like a coward, a meek ember undeserving of the vivid bonfire of a woman who had blazed her way into his heart.

He realised now, entangled with her in the wild rain, that he loved her. The simplicity of it was overwhelming. She was exceptional, and he loved her.

She had thought his feelings for her were wistful imaginings, but the truth was - he burned for her, he always had. Over the course of their journey, he had caught each glance with gentle hope and clutched them to him in times of darkness. He had saved every kind word and pressed them together into the pages of a book, to be taken out and skimmed through when he needed comfort. Her name was carved into his heart, and each beat belonged to her.

They broke apart, both panting and breathless from the force of their embrace and she laughed. The most beautiful, clear chime of a laugh which stirred his blood and flooded his veins with joy. He smiled at the sight of her, and with a wave of his hand created an invisible shelter above them to shield them from the rain.

“You couldn’t have done that before?” her pupils were so lust-blown the rich brown of her eyes were thin bands around black pools of desire, and her voice sparkled and danced through him.

He peppered light kisses along her jaw and down her neck, “And spoil your fun? I wouldn’t dare.” Her hands tangled in his hair in response, and she moaned as he licked away the rainwater which had gathered in the hollow of her throat.

“Lay down for me.” The grass beneath them was dry from his magic, and a soft purple blanket had been conjured out of nowhere.

She did as he was told, and the ease of her submission did something to him. She was wild, unpredictable and stubborn, and the way in which she melted and bowed at his touch, at his command, stirred him in a way he had not felt before. He was a man undone.

He spent time slowly undressing her, lifting the hem of her soaking wet shirt and kissing the plane of her stomach, working his mouth along the sensitive ridges of her ribcage, pushing her arms upwards so he could pull the sopping wet clothing over her head. As he lifted her arms he licked the curve of her breast, her collarbone, even her armpit. He wanted all of her, and she arched her back so beautifully under his touch that he could not bear to remove his mouth for even an instant.

“Gale, please.” He had never heard her voice so low before, so wanton and dripping with unfiltered lust.

“It is unlike you to be so well-mannered.” He teased between tonguing her damp skin “Where is the wild creature who has enraptured me so?”

Her response came in a moan so primal it could have been mistaken for a growl. She was an altar he couldn’t decide whether to worship at, or desecrate. He decided there would be time for both.

He peeled the rest of her clothes from her like the rind from a sweet fruit. Putting his mouth to every inch of flesh he uncovered. The rain mixed with the salt-sweet taste of her skin was fresh and heady, and he thought that no ambrosia could taste sweeter.

He proved himself wrong when he eventually pressed his tongue where she wanted it most, where her desire gathered like a fresh-filled rockpool. She was heavenly. Every moan he pulled from her was a claimed bounty, a treasure he would hoard till the end of his days. He dipped his tongue inside her, savouring her, coating his tongue with her and then swiping upwards to run over the small bundle of nerves which could undo her completely. Her hips bucked in response.

“Exquisite.” He said in between heated kisses.

“I want all of you inside me, please.” Her cry was more breath than words. Her fingers raked through his hair and the shocks of her touch ran all the way down his spine. “You shall have me, my love. Body and soul, heart and mind. All of me, eternally.”

“Enough poetry.” She whined “Gale..”

“I want you to come against my tongue first, sweet girl. I want to taste your undoing.” He re-focused his attention back between her legs, completely devoted in his worship, intent on receiving the holy blessing of her exalted cries as she lost herself beneath him. It did not take long. His tongue was firm, his dexterous fingers stroked into her and curled to find the hidden place of her rapture. His face was lust-soaked, head spun with desire, he was drunk on her pleasure and he ground himself into the earth beneath him as she unravelled with a reckless cry. He did not stop, he coaxed her through it, tongue softening and fingers slowing their pace as her wave broke and the relentless tide retreated. Even when she was spent, he continued to kiss her intimately, revelling in the soft pulse of her muscles.

She drew him close, kissing him slowly and wantonly, savouring the taste of her own salt on his tongue. Pulling back, she gazed into his eyes, tracing the rough shadow of his beard with the pads of her fingers, fulfilling every longing touch she had yearned for. Returning the favour, she undressed him, their laughter mingling as they wrestled with his soaked leather trousers, finally leaving him as bare as she. With him above her, their bodies pressed together, anticipation sweetening the air between them.

“You are a marvel.” She whispered, tracing the vein-like mark that swirled under his eye, “I will spend each second proving to you that you made the right choice today. That the world is a brighter place for having you in it.”

“I am completely in love with you.” was his simple response, and the smile it earned him rivalled the night sky with its radiance.

“The feeling is entirely mutual.” was her teasing reply. He offered her a single soft, chaste kiss, before running his hands once again up her arms. This time to pin her hands above her head. She gasped at the sudden change in pace, and his eyes gleamed wickedly. He kept her small hands grasped in one of his, and slowly stroked the other down her body. Tracing a path to where she was still wet from desire and the focus of his tongue. Her eyelashes fluttered beautifully as his finger lightly brushed over her, and her sharp intake of breath told him she was still desperately needy. “I’m going to need to hear you say it properly, Tav.” Briefly, his strokes became firmer, purposeful, stacking a pleasurable build back from the ruins of her last orgasm. And then, he withdrew his touch from her completely, leaving her bucking and helpless.

He kissed her throat and moaned against her skin, as he shifted his position to meet her heat. The tip of him pressed against her, and he had to dredge up every drop of restraint to stop himself pushing into her in one, hard stroke.

“Be a good girl, and say it.” Between the two of them, it was unclear who was more desperate, who was winning their little game. It didn’t matter in the end, the result was always going to be the same.

“I love you.” She met his eyes and poured every ounce of love-drenched sincerity she could into her words. She meant it. She would always mean it. And with her confession, Gale finally pushed himself into her, not breaking contact with the sparkle of her eyes as he moved himself inside her.

"Let me touch you, let me show you, please," she begged, her voice aching with desire. At her plea, he released her hands, and immediately her fingers roamed his body. Her pleasure soared as she finally explored him in ways she had only dreamed of, tracing faded scars and kissing each sun-browned freckle.

His pace remained deliberate, slow at first, savouring every moment as he pulled almost completely out of her before burying himself deep inside, revelling in her tight warmth. The pouring rain and distant rumble of thunder drowned out most of their passion's noise, but Tav seemed to take it as a challenge.

She matched his intensity, moving with abandon, grinding her hips against each dedicated thrust, enticing him to unravel, daring him to let go. And he did. His kisses turned into soft bites, caresses into bruising grips on her waist, her hips, the soft flesh of her backside.

Lovemaking turned to fucking, to pure desperation and relief. He rutted into her, primal and hot - the ability to speak a distant memory as all he could do was moan into her mouth as he approached his crescendo. He flipped her over, and placed one of his arms under her leg to move it upwards, and he fucked her into the ground. They were still soaked, and they didn’t know if it was from the rain, their sweat or their pleasure, neither of them cared.

He had angled her hips so he could move more deeply into her, and still wrap his arm around her to stroke her where she needed. It was exquisite. It did not last long. Tav threw her head back against his shoulder, and gasped out a choked cry as she clenched around him - wild and lost. The sensation of her was too perfect, and Gale followed her breathlessly and completely. All rhythm lost in the chaos of her unravelling orgasm.

As they descended from their high together, he gently turned her to face him, and kissed her cheeks, her eyelids, her nose, the pads of each fingertip.

“I love you” her voice was soft hope, he gaze a bright future. They would keep each other safe, and face each challenge with hearts and hands entwined.

“The feeling is entirely mutual.” He replied breathlessly, and her laugh mingled with the sound of rain and thunder to create the most beautiful music he had ever heard.

#baldur's gate 3 #bg3 #bg3 fanfiction #bg3 smut #gale x tav #gale of waterdeep #gale dekarios #gale smut

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silkenwinger · 1 month ago

Text

daimon

mdni. ancient greece AU. princess!reader x guard!ghost. heavily inspired by antigone (but it ends well :)). 7k. tw for suicide attempt, maybe slight dubcon (mention of wine drank before sex)

The room was cold as you finished fastening your black peplum. It had been a cold autumn, mountain winds bruising sore skin. It was the autumn your life ended.

Your brother. So brave. You remembered running with him among the olive trees and tripping on the roots as you trailed him. Your mother had yelled at you so much you remembered the sting of the tears on your cheek.

But you had grown. Your father, the king, dead by the plague by spring, followed by your frail mother. Your brother away east. When he’d returned along with his men, he found the city he was supposed to lead in the hands of the most powerful merchant, a man as crooked as rich. We thought he was dead, said the men of the city. Lost in the barren hell of the east, gone for too many years. And when he tried to enter the city, he was met with violence and bronze. As expected, your brother did not lie down, but fought to retake the throne. He now laid in the place he died still, eaten by vultures and dogs alike. His soul stuck between the living and the dead, forever restless.

Profane he was taking something that was not his, and profane he was not burying your brother.

“I’ve decided, then. Take care.”

Your dearest maid, her loyalty unmatched, did not comprehend.

“Princess, you must stop this talk at once!” She cried, clutching at your vest. “You know The Shepherd is a cruel man, but you will marry his son. Going against the decree…”

You scoffed. Being kin with that monster would be worse than being dead.

“I no longer care about marrying. Honoring my brother is more important,” you brushed your hand against her thin shoulder, and moved away, but with pain. No time for lost love.

“I have been wearing the black for half a year. Did you know? The moment I heard my brother was alive, I cried real tears of joy. I would no longer be alone in the world.” You sat down on your wooden couch, looking down. “And two nights later he is dead. I never even got to see his face again.” If you strained your memories, you could make out a ghost of a smile, of a laugh, but you couldn’t be certain they were his.

“The King is unfair, that much is true,” mumbled your maid, “but you go against certain death. The law says it, anyone who buries your brother is to be stoned in the square!”

“I know,” you looked up to see her shocked face, “so I heard.”

She cried then, howling. Her grief for you moved the strings of your heart, but did not dissuade you. You died the other day: your last act would be making sure you could see your brother in Hell, along with your parents. Hooding yourself, you left your room, the only place in the palace you could still call yours, by the lesser known way, one that passed through a less surveilled zone of the palace.

He looked old. No, not old: older, his skin worn by the sun. Tall, and strong, and dead. You remembered well– he smiled like that, a lightning bolt in the fair weather.

Hurried, you acted fast. You covered his body with a thin layer of dust. That is enough, for now, you thought, as you couldn’t bear to look at him any longer.

The path you took made sure you were hidden from the guards. You wondered how many of them saw your brother grow, train and live: and how could they bear to leave him there, alone and doomed.

The darkness of the road calmed you. The sting of the broken law was nothing compared to the peace you felt inside.

But the sting of the hand grabbing your arm was real. A tall shadow made it so you couldn't move.

“What are you doing here?” Asked the Ghost, one of the main palace guards. A real enigma, that one. He did not recognise you immediately, hidden as you were. But your voice would tell on you. Perhaps, at the start, you could have wanted to do what you did without being discovered, but you had changed your mind. You did not care for the Shepherd’s decision.

“I was just doing my daily offering at the temple,” you told him, and his eyes, the only visible part of his face, widened in recognition. He then started glaring at you, obvious suspicion brewing.

“At this time and alone? It is unsafe for you.”

“Should I have left the house in the daylight so close to my brother’s death?”

He remained silent at your response. The Ghost never saw or knew your brother– you wouldn’t blame him if he had only distaste for his attack on the city. He was probably only an enemy to him, and not the boy who giggled at the comedies and puppet shows.

The Ghost had arrived in the city around four years before. Immediately, he’d attracted the attention of everyone, men and women, for the mask he wore on his face and his mysterious attitude. No one knew where he came from, or how he really was called, and would answer only to Ghost. His accent had been weird, and his behavior even more so. Whispers said he was a barbarian driven away from his country for having killed too many. His ruthlessness was legendary: he’d torn apart limbs and eyes of the few criminals that dared venturing into your palace. They even called him a demon that fed on his victims' souls. You had never spoken, but you’d seen him around, mostly guarding your father’s rooms, now occupied by the Shepherd. What was he doing outside, too, for that matter.

“Will you kindly let me go, now?” You tugged your arm away, but he did not relent.

“I ought to bring you back.” You just looked up at him then, at his unreadable eyes, and nodded, resigned.

The walk was silent, but not unpleasant. You kept thinking about what you’d done and oscillating between being proud and feeling an overwhelming distress inside of you. The Ghost kept at your back, his steps more silent than yours despite the difference in sizes.

“Good night then. Do not leave the house unaccompanied,” he made sure to reprimand as he left you at your door. You shrugged: leaving it accompanied meant worse for you.

Four nights after his death, your brother still laid in the dust. You could not be placated along with the pain in your chest. The guards, noticing the thin layer of earth on the corpse, had reported to the Shepherd that someone had attempted to bury your brother, thus breaking the law.

It is clear, you thought. You will die either way, inside your room or stoned to death: you might as well bury your brother properly. That time, your maid didn’t even cry: she had resigned herself as well.

They grabbed you while your back was to them, crouching on the corpse. The Ghost stood tall behind the guards: you locked eyes with him and could not tell what he was thinking. Was he maybe regretting not arresting you the first time he found you outside?

Once you were brought to your feet, he made a soundless gesture, and the other guards offered you to him. He grabbed you then, alone, and started dragging you to the palace.

The Shepherd, your father’s successor, had no regard for you. Despite being betrothed to his son before your father even passed, he made no qualms about taking what was your brother’s by right, and would not hesitate sending you to your death.

“Come, girl. It was you, I imagined.” He spoke, up in the throne where your father once sat. The sight filled you with a bright anger, which then turned into muted despair, to end in cold apathy. It was not coming back. It would never come back.

You stood silent in front of a dozen men.

“You know what the price is, do you? I made sure the heralds read the decree many times, right outside here, as well.”

You nodded. The Shepherd tilted his bald head to you, regarding your figure more like an insect than a noble woman. The men of the council, shiveling, cowardly men, murmured at your admission of guilt.

“You broke the law. What made you think you could do that?”

You inhaled then, and made yourself taller.

“The laws of the gods came before yours. It is wicked not to bury the dead.” The murmuring ceased at your words, an oppressive miasm falling over the room.

“But he declared war on the city. I protected the inhabitants, and you as well.” The Shepherd replied, unbothered. He was well aware he was going against a non written law, but did not care.

“That does not matter to me. I would bury a murderer.”

“And murderer he was, bringing fire and weapons to this peaceful city.” He laughed at you. You felt ire overflowing your judgement.

“How dare you? My brother was the heir to the throne!” You yelled, and the Ghost shaked you hard. You glowered at him and all you got as a reply was a brown eyed glare.

“Your brother was a fool, who ignored your poor father’s requests to return several times! And this,” he clutched the scroll, “declares me as the heir to the King!”

You shook your head. Your father had been less lucid the last years of his life, and even cussed out your brother for not returning from his childish dreams of conquering. But he'd never make the Shepherd his heir: he even confessed to you he couldn't stand the man.

“I do not accept you as King of the city. That is the truth of it.” You tried to keep a steady voice, but you were trembling. The hold on your shoulders got tighter. Why was the Ghost clutching you so severely? He couldn’t possibly be afraid for you: maybe his loyalty to the Shepherd was such that he’d kill you yourself.

The men of the council, men who had seen you grow, looked pale in the dim light of the morning. How long had you been outside? You felt like you’d seen your brother for only a second.

“I see, then,” spoke the Shepherd, as he rose from the throne.

“You’ve decided to declare yourself an enemy of this state, as your brother before you. The sentence for going against the edict is stoning.” First rose muttering, and then louder voices, and then shouts. The vile men protested, outraged, but the Shepherd shot them down with a steady hand.

“As the past princess of this city, and betrothed to my son, I ought to not expose you with such an execution. See how they cry for you still? Would they hold the same respect for you had you been a thief, a conman? Yet you are guilty to the same degree.”

“That is not true!” Cried a voice, close or far. “She committed a sacred act!”

“Who dares go against me!” Shouted the Shepherd, but no one showed their face. He made an hissing noise then, red in the face.

“All that break the laws must be punished. How else are we supposed to live civilly?” He then moved his gaze back to you.

“I condemn you to be walled alive, and your brother will stay unburied until his bones turn to dust. His body will feed the soil of this splendid city.”

This is it, then. The rest of your days. The shame of disrobing did not fall on you, yet. This would be your salvation from starving. The damp cave amplified the sound of all of your actions. Biting the gentle cloth, you tore a strip of the fabric from your skirt, testing its resistance. As you calculated the distance between the ground and the wooden rod on the cave ceiling, you heard steps approaching. The door, that could only be opened from outside, revealed two tall figures, dressed in typical military garb. The Ghost, clad in his dark attire, got closer to you, sword in hand. Ah. That was it, then.

“Have you come to kill me yourself, then?” You told him. He said nothing, just got even closer, long strides and deadly silent. He grabbed you, again, and you let yourself be taken. The other guard, with piercing blue eyes, just looked at the Ghost with a doubting expression. The Ghost started dragging you out of the corridor, and that was when you pointed your feet down, tears filling your eyes.

“What is going on? I won’t be shamed now. I’ve already been condemned.” You cried, afraid. More afraid now than when you were going to hang yourself, for your hand would be merciful, but the Ghost’s wouldn’t. He stopped then, and looked in your eye. He seemed weirdly reluctant.

“Keep quiet, now. You won’t die today.” Unintelligently, you muttered your surprise. The Ghost started dragging you along again, the other guard becoming smaller and smaller in your view.

You walked, and walked, and walked through the night and the city and the fields. Exhausted, you had to stop often, even for just a moment. The Ghost looked at you with distaste then, like he regretted ever taking you away from your attempt at your life.

“You can’t even walk a mile without bending on yourself,” he spit out. For his indecency and rudeness, you struck him across the face, hand making contact with the black muslin of his mask. The slap barely moved him and he growled, and you expected him to finally retaliate and penetrate you with his sword. But he just turned on himself and started walking again.

“If you had told me where you’re taking me, I would not have struck you,” you tried to bargain. He sighed then, clearly thinking you insufferable.

“You have allies in the city. As the true King’s daughter,” you gasped at his words, tongue curling around the r’s in an odd, mesmerizing way.

“But they all voted in favor of the Shepherd taking power.”

“You know it’s because of the secrets and extortions he has on them. He’s no dearer to them than a tyrant.” You closed your mouth then, pondering. Could the city go back to having a proper king, one that respected the Gods’ laws?

“So you are my friend,” you said simply. He swallowed at that.

“I am… your protector. For the time being.”

You nodded. He, too, was now an enemy of the state, by association.

“I thank you then. Even though I would not have minded joining my family.”

He remained silent at that. A while after, he spoke again.

“We need to stop for a few hours at least. And you’ll need male clothing,” he simply said. You hid in a cave, wider and longer than the one that was supposed to hold you in your death. The Ghost lit up a small fire near the opening, and you watched him as he stroked it, pensive. Perhaps he, too, was thinking about what he left.

“Ghost,” you called, tone uncertain, “can I call you that?”

He nodded without taking his eyes off the fire.

“How… What is going on back home? Who hired you?”

“I can��t tell you that,” he replied to your second question. “As for back home, we placed a corpse in your place to give us a head start.”

“Someone else died for me,” you whispered, upset in your soul. You had been ready to kill yourself.

“He was already dead,” spoke the Ghost, weirdly demure. “One dead instead of two.”

“But…”

“Enough of that. You do not deserve to die for burying your brother. It is as simple as that.” You were stunned into silence by the determination of his words. So far, you’d thought he was only hired to do what his employer asked him. But now, you saw he agreed with your stance. For some reason, you felt pride in yourself bloom.

“Where are you taking me, then?”

“I know a place,” he said, “where you won’t be found.”

Something moved in your heart, again. He was being remarkably gentle for a butcher.

You fell asleep some time after, warmed by the fire.

When you woke up, Ghost was nowhere to be seen. You looked deeper in the cave, but made your way back when you couldn’t see the light anymore. When you reached the entrance again, you heard someone call your name.

“Come, then,” Ghost told you as you made your way down the cave’s entrance, back to more stable terrain and the spare tree. A small river ran to the side of the plain. Ghost was clutching a leather bag, ruffling around it crudely. His eyes could have almost betrayed embarrassment.

“I know nothing of princesses’ dresses. Will this suffice?” He held up a man’s tunic, to which you raised an eyebrow. The Ghost was an odd fellow, and you’d be indebted to him for the rest of your life. That didn’t mean you would understand all of his actions.

“You told me yourself I had to dress like a man.”

“True. I was rude about it.” Your eyebrow raised even higher. An apology… or a statement as close to it as possible. You didn’t think the city’s terror was even capable of that.

“No, you were right. I will change.” You grabbed his offering with shaking hands. Once you’d switched your black clothes for the off white tunic behind the tree, you tried to look at your figure in the stream’s reflection. There was little difference between men and women’s clothes, besides the face that your lower legs were now exposed. You’d wear your hood to conceal your female face, but also your upper body. You tugged at the Ghost’s wrist. He looked at you then, dragging his eyes from your face to your feet. You felt an odd sensation making its way up your back.

“Shall we go then?”

“Yes.”

You walked in the market, among the people and the animals. It was weird to not open a road every time you showed in a public place: and even weirder to walk side to side with a man. You looked up at Ghost, again, and you found him inspecting the surroundings with thin eyes.

“Are you hungry?” He asked you, like a wet nurse might ask her toddler. The image of the Ghost tending to a small child was so comical, a giggle left your mouth. You were quick to shut your mouth, but he caught you anyway. His expression was baffled.

“Yes, I am. Sorry,” you apologised. You had only eaten some bread all day, and maybe the hunger was making you silly. He accosted a stand and bought pears and bread from the farmer, who took a long look at you. Probably wondering why a man would bring his slave boy to the market, you realized with shame, and looked down.

You ate the sweet pears and the bread with the cheese under a tree’s shadow while Ghost kept watch.

“Would you like to sit?” You asked him politely.

“No.” He simply said, and kept watching the horizon. You sighed into your food. Still alone, but at least not famished. Your march began anew, the male tunic proving itself to be more comfortable. Still, you felt somewhat exposed, especially in Ghost's eyes. Every time you locked eyes, you found yourself looking away first. There was something about this man that left you exposed besides your legs. Like a plow moves the earth.

Did he even sleep? He was awake when you were, and he kept watch when you slept. Later, hidden in another, smaller cave, you voiced your concerns to him. He raised one eyebrow.

“Afraid, princess? That I will fall while I watch you? I’ve been a guard almost longer than you’ve been alive.” You rolled your eyes at his pride and the humorous tone of his voice. Many men’s fall was their excessive confidence.

“Should I not worry for my only companion in life?”

That shut him up quickly. He just regarded you then, shifting on his feet. Clearly uncomfortable with the truth. When he decided to speak again, what he said shocked you most.

“I saw your brother die.”

Hearing a strange noise, only after a second you realised you were the one making it.

“Did you kill him?” You asked, voice tight. Ghost shook his head.

“The Shepherd’s men shot arrows at his back while he was fighting. He was a great warrior.” You sniffed hearing his words. You knew, you knew your brother would fight to his death, you’d seen his ruined body bloated but dressed for war.

“It’s not honorable. Shooting a man in the back.” He said simply, holding your gaze. His body began to warp and look odd as water filled your eyes.

“Thank you for telling me this,” you whispered, and he nodded, finally sitting next to you. If you dried your tears on his wide shoulder, no one else saw you.

Your journey lasted more days than you imagined. Everytime you asked the question to Ghost, he would only answer soon. He saw you pray at the gods’ altars: Hermes, Artemis, Athena, Zeus. He never prayed himself, or placed offerings that you didn’t tell him to place, which at the start unnerved you and then made you curious.

“Where do you come from?” Your conversations usually started with a question from you and ended with a reply from him. But you didn’t think he was a too dire debate partner, anyway.

“From far away.”

“Stop treating me as if I’m stupid.” You did hate his dismissal ways, sometimes.

“I’m not lying,” he hissed from between his teeth, “I come from so far away, I wouldn’t even know how to go back home.” That intrigued you. The twists and turns of his journey would surely make for a great story. But you hoped you could arrive at your destination.

“Then we are the same,” you decided to reply, “both without a home.”

He sighed, oddly softly. You thought that was an interesting reaction, and nestled closer to him.

When you were too far away from a market, or from farmers who would sell their fares to Ghost, he would go hunting. You’d beg and beg to let him teach you how to shoot an arrow (you’d always dreamed to be a brilliant hero of the stories), and he always categorically refused to do it. But, extraordinarily, he did teach you something. He taught you briefly how to fish, so long as you had a needle; he taught you what weeds were good to eat. Dirtying your hands felt weird at first, but you were quickly motivated by the pings of hunger in your belly.

Finally, you reached another settlement. Your surprise was evident seeing so many people prepare for a feast. You asked a busy woman what was going on: she looked at you as if you had grown another head, and simply said “the Dionysia”. What joy, then. Drinking, dancing, singing. You hadn’t heard a joyful bard or a musician since before your parents died. Smiling, you turned to your brooding companion.

“Can we stop for the festival, Ghost?” You pled him.

He looked irritated at your request.

“What will happen if you get recognized, hmm?”

“I am a mere daughter. I’m no danger to whoever sits the city throne now.”

“You can’t rule, that much is true,” he took his big hand and grazed at your belly with the back of his fingers, making your skin goosebump, “but what of the sons of your womb? And what do you think happens in these festivals? You must have seen it too, the men with the courtesans.” You blushed at his implications.

“You… you heathen! Are you not here to protect me?” He scoffed at your protests and at the light punches you threw at his chest, but he paid the inn for the day and you beamed at him. He’d even called you his wife to the innkeeper– the action had made your blood surge, but then you pathetically remembered you could never marry anymore.

You both drank a little, but not too much, you to not get too drunk, him to both integrate and not lose his mind. It was exhilarating, taking part in a feast as a common person and not a noble. Nobody but Ghost was looking at you, and you were free to do as you pleased. Nobody in the village had cared that you were a woman, the people just happy to have two more that would pray for the wellness of the settlement.

“Should I go dancing?” You asked him, raising to your feet while he kept sitting down.

Incredibly, he laughed. Your mouth hung in awe. It was a husky sound, much like all of him. Immediately, you wanted to hear more.

“Silly girl, you’re dressed as a boy! You’ll look odd, moving to the girls’ dance.” Blushing, you sat back down again. There was so much you didn’t know or you had taken for granted due to your higher position, and Ghost never sweetened the hard truth with honey. As much as the noble girl had died with the rest of your family, this common one wasn’t quite born yet. A warm hand came to hold the back of your neck, gently petting it.

“You looked beautiful dancing at the palace,” you heard his voice low in your ear, his breath warm on your cheek. His mouth, red and soft, was exposed in order for him to drink and eat. “I remember your dress, that summer. Once we arrive, I’ll buy you a similar one.”

He must have been speaking about the day of your bethronal to the Shepherd’s son, the biggest event you had ever been the protagonist of. You danced for a whole day. What had happened to your betrothed, that older boy? You had no way of knowing, but he didn’t defend you from his father. You knew even back then that he did not like you much, and he was probably ecstatic that you died to the city.

“Are we close to arriving?” He started petting your cheek then, even brushing his thumb against your lips.

“Yes, very close, sweet thing.” He then blinked and drew away, as if he realised what he was doing. You wished he would keep touching you.

Oh Dionysus, you crazy god. You’ve freed the coldest of men at last, the one barbarian who couldn’t be dissuaded from his duty.

You saw many peculiar things at the feast. The dances were different from what you were used to, and the plays were even more debouched. The road from your home had been long, and wherever you were, there was no longer any overlap for the princess and the girl. Even Ghost, the one link to your previous life, was no longer a guard, an impersonal male figure that worked for your father: he was a man under your will.

When it was time to leave the party, you did so broken-hearted. The warmth of the people had been a balm to your still hurt heart. And this new side of an intoxicated Ghost intrigued you.

“Oh my,” you said, seeing the inn room had only one, big bed. The headboard was an intricate wickerwork, far more beautiful that a bed from a village inn could hope to be.

You’d never slept with a man in your bed.

You sent a nervous look to Ghost, who was busy rattling around in his bag. Always bustling, this man.

You could ask him to sleep on the ground, but as you’d been sleeping on grass and rocks for two weeks now, it would be a profoundly impolite gesture.

You quickly removed your outside layer of clothing, and remained in your small clothes. You approached the bed and slid on it, turning on your elbows. As you settled, you saw Ghost looking up and sending brief glances your way, like he was respectfully gauging the situation.

“Ghost, come sleep next to me.” You felt yourself say. It was very much an alien part of you saying it. Maybe the innermost one.

He swallowed as he stood in front of the bed. Now in the closed, and warm thanks to the fireplace, he removed his mask.

You found yourself looking at his full face for the first time. He did not look like most men did back home, but you perceived his appearance as pleasing nevertheless. His hair was light, spun of gold. What happened next shocked you more, as he began removing the pieces that composed his armor. Ironically, had he been wearing a more simple garb, you would not have had time to elaborate, and you would have panicked. But the necessary time for him to undress allowed to study the man that was about to sleep next to you.

His height often intimidated most: he did not even need to glower at them. Despite his size, you found out he could remove his armor quickly and efficiently, and he did not stumble about even after drinking wine. Of course, you had seen many men in different states of underdressing, as that was the condition in which sports and competitions were taken on. His body was different from the ones of most athletes, but you recognised the build of a hero in it either way. For one, he was covered in hair– fair hair, matching the ones on his head, but so different from the hairless bodies of the oiled runners.This was a body meant to fight and protect, and not to be shown at the circus. Only his jaw was shaved: in a way, he was the complete opposite of the rest of the men of your city.

You smiled at him as he remained in his loincloth, and he sat down at the very opposite edge of the bed.

You had slept by his side many times now. What embarrassed him?

“You can lay down more comfortably.”

“This is improper.”

“Does it matter?” You replied, a bit miffed. “This last month of my life has been improper. You might as well get a good night’s rest.” He turned to glare at you, and that was the first time you locked eyes with him when he was unmasked. Whatever he saw in your expression must have been convincing enough, because he laid down next to you.

“I so missed a real bed. Haven’t you?” You said to make conversation.

“I lied to you,” he replied. Anxiety rose in you.

“What?”

“There was no employer,” he said, almost hiccupping, hand on his face, “nobody told me to take you away.”

The revelation hit your heart strong, and you turned away from him.

“Why did you do it, then?” You hummed and he sat up on the bed.

“I couldn’t bear to see you die,” he whispered, now looking at you while you kept your gaze away. “I am no citizen. I live off employment from lords and merchants. I was hired by your father, and I was bound by contract to protect his family.”

“When he died and the Shepherd rose, I could and should have changed city. There was no reason for me to stay there when chaos would rule. But I wanted to keep an eye on you, because you are reckless and too determined.” You spluttered, offended. “Don’t lie, you know it to be true. And I did well, otherwise you would have killed yourself. And what a waste that would have been.” You turned to face him.

“Ghost…”

“There is no grand plan. I wanted to take you to a house I know to be empty, for I killed the owner in the past. And we would live there, and you would be safe.”

“Why “would”? I am coming with you,” you said, very simply. “What else am I supposed to do? Take back my place at the palace? There is nothing dear for me there, besides one or two maids, that I hope are well.” You tentatively got close and raised your arm to brush his cheek, this time. You felt his stubble sting at your fingers.

“Ghost, from when you took me away, you’ve become my whole family. You are my dead father and mother, my dear brother, and even my future husband. No one else will take me in, orphan and poor as I am. Would you leave me now?”

“No, never,” he hurried to say, and you smiled again. For whatever reason, your loyalty to your family had been rewarded with a loyal stranger.

“Then there is no problem. Would you… would you be my husband then?” He sighed then, long suffering, and he turned to hover over you as his hands came to hold your hips. You yelped, surprised by his speed.

“What are you even saying?”

“You… you said I was your wife to the innkeeper.”

“That was a lie,” he said, pressing an index to your nose, making you laugh, “so that we would be taken in. Should I have said “this is the runaway princess of an important town, and I’m escorting her away from her death”? Hmm? Should I have? You insufferable girl,” he held you close as you laughed and your legs squirmed under him.

“I told you I’m not a princess anymore!”

He scoffed then, but kept you close still even as you wiggled. “What else could you be? Delicate and opinionated as you are. Only a princess with her burly jailer,” he remarked.

“Jailer? I’ve been freer with you these days than the rest of my life.” You whispered in his ear as you embraced him in your arms. With less commodities, for certain, but free in nature, in the landscapes you observed, in the food you ate and in the company you kept. No man’s law that differed from the gods’ existed here. To think you would have never spoken to Ghost if those great tragedies hadn’t befallen on you.

Because Ghost would never make a move to really connect the two like you ought to be, you decided to take a stand, and brought your lips to his cheek, leaving a chaste kiss there. Spurred by his involuntary purr, you kept kissing him, making your way to his mouth. There, you left a longer kiss, one that confirmed that his lips were, indeed, soft. When you looked at his eyes, you found out they were glazed over, lands away. But you couldn’t be jealous of his memories, because he then started to kiss you in return. At first, with his mouth closed, much like yours: but then his lips started to part, and he began kissing you with his tongue. Taken by surprise, you timidly tried to mimic what he was doing, although this one act was lost in the records chambermaids giggled about. Before long, you kept feeling that weird sensation in your lower body, at the juncture of your legs, the one joked about in the comedies, and you held one shy hand against Ghost’s chest. He immediately withdrew from you, as if burned by your touch.

“What is it? Are you hurt?”

“No… No at all. I feel weird,” you said, and immediately regretted it. Could you be any more fumbling. Ghost breathed hard, his chest grazing yours, and then moved so he would not lay on you anymore.

“Do you want to stop?” He asked you, and you shook your head, your hair brushing against his face. He laughed, softly, and you again felt a sense of pride in making him do so. He began kissing you again, and what joy that was.

The sensation in the middle of your legs was answered when you felt Ghost’s hand slipping under your clothes. Even without seeing, he knew what to do to you: he began tracing your sex, concentrating on the upper side of it, which made you gasp in pleasure. His index then entered you, and you felt your mouth falling open as he muttered encouragement in your temple. Good girl, good girl, he just said, and then he picked up speed and the slick sound of his fingers entering and leaving you made you hide your face in your neck. He kept cooing at you, and everything felt so real, too real, as you felt a burst of energy released inside you, a sensation unlike any other. You panted into his shoulder, shocked. Was this what being married entailed? Suddenly, you were very glad to have asked Ghost to be your husband.

Speaking of which, he moved from your side, and you cried at the loss of warmth and him. He shifted to be on top of you again, and you looked him in the eye from under. He looked very vivid, like the most alive thing you had ever seen in your life. The shadows of the crackling fire played on his hair, and you made yourself even smaller.

“Was it true? What you said.” He asked you. You didn’t even know what he meant in particular, but you had never lied to him, past that one night he encountered you as you fled the scene. You said yes.

“There will be no walking back from this. We will be as good as a real husband and wife after this, do you understand? I won’t let you go–” he choked out the last part, reining in his desperation. You shook your head again.

“I’m not going anywhere. I’ll stay with you.” He made another frustrated sound then, and you saw, in the muted light of the room, his hand holding his cock, the sword man penetrates woman with. Now you know your duty begins: the pain and the blood accompanying. But weirdly, unexpectedly, as he entered you you felt only a slight burn, a stretching sensation, but not the horrible pain of hushed stories. And then he started moving, and it was a pleasant feeling, a rocking motion in the arms of the man that had saved you from death. He kept kissing you, and saying the sweetest things– who could have imagined such a brutal warrior, turned into the gentlest, Eros-touched lover?

His movements never rushed, or hurried to the point where it would hurt, but you could tell he was getting desperate. Just when you thought he would release in you, he moved away, leaving you gaping and cold. He took himself in hand then, and moaned softly as the white seed touched his hand.

“Why didn’t you…” You blushed again, not finishing your phrase. It felt wrong to you that he did not come inside you, but you didn’t quite have the courage to tell him so.

Ghost simply panted and looked at you, at you raising chest, and at your core. He then closed his eyes and released a decisive, deep breath. He fixed himself and held you again in his arms, moving you around as if you were a doll.

“I will do it when we get home.”

The remaining days on the road were a haze of happy memories. You remembered Ghost’s lingering touches, and the warmth of the sun in the middle of the day, happy villages and herds grazing the green grass. Ghost hissing at anyone who asked too many questions, Ghost hunting the hares, Ghost taking you on the woods’ ground, from behind and against the trees, free to mate as much as you wanted, always ready for you. And when you finally reached his home, that grey, desolate thing, the first thing he did was take you in the bed.

“This ought to be repaired,” you told him as you moved around the house and discovered yet another broken tool, or part, and he sighed, long suffering. But then the next day he would get to work, and fix the table, the window, and he bought you a dress that resembled the one you wore on the day of your betrothal, and it was even more special because it came from him.

“Listen here,” he told you one day as he returned from his work, and after you had hugged him to your heart’s content. His tone was guarded and serious as ever.

“I have news. From the city, I mean,” he said, and you nodded at his words. You felt a detachment towards what concerned your old life, besides the memories of your loved ones, but you were still curious.

“The Shepherd is dead.”

“Praise the gods!” You exclaimed. He nodded.

“The council killed him, they say. And the new king is a young hero who fought off invaders from the south. He is missing a wife. You see where I’m going with this?” He asks, tone even but tinged with that insecurity, that slightest fear... You did see it and hate it fiercely. You told him as much.

“I made a promise to you that night. Do you think me that fickle, that I would return to a city that wanted me dead so I could bear legitimate children to a new tyrant?”

He sighed again, lovesick, like he was the maiden taken away and not you. He kissed you and ran his hands into your hair, now long and free. You laid your head on his chest. How could he think you would leave him still? He was the only owner of your heart, your god-sent protector.

You didn’t know what your family would think about you running away with a man who, in the city, would never have had the chance to speak to you first, much less to marry you. But you knew that in your soul, you were living a life true to yourself and the gods. And that much would suffice for the rest of your days.

#cod #call of duty #cod x reader #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #yours truly #so... theres this i guess. halfway through i realize this is kinda sansan. although reader is way older than sansa #also please tell me if theres anything wildly anachronistic and ill fix it. theres one small detail that i know already it is not possible #this is ideally set in the 'golden age' a period that never really existed. but its the one immediately before the troy war #so i did not specify the city and i changed a bit from the original story because lifting it straight up would have been too much.#plus not everyone would enjoy being a canon oedipus baby. for the. implications #simon ghost riley

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