#timber wall lining

[francysbelle]

Melbourne Library

Example of a mid-sized trendy enclosed concrete floor and gray floor living room library design with white walls and a wall-mounted tv

[shellshocklove]

moanin' & groanin' | logan howlett

pairing/AU: lumberjack!logan howlett/wolverine x inexperienced!female!reader

summery: working for your father's timber business isn't what you saw yourself doing, but when the wolverine comes looking for work it's suddenly not so bad – especially when he can teach you a thing or two.

warnings: this is an 18+ fic so mdni! age gap (in the way that his mutant abilities prolongs his life), swearing, use of pet names, smut, car sex, praise, a little dacryphilia, logan's got a dirty mouth, soft dom!logan, a little size kink (basically logan has a big dick), handjob, fingering, a little manhandling, unprotected sex (don't do it!!), no use of y/n

a/n: um hi! this is my first ever logan fic. i really hope i got him right! not beta read, and barely edited so any mistakes are my own. happy reading! <3

main masterlist / ao3

The pages crinkled under your fingertips as you turned another page. Over the top of your book you could see your father's men milling about, getting the timber ready for another outgoing truck. Day in and day out they worked like flannel-covered ants. 

He wasn't here, your father, leaving you to hold down the fort, or office to be precise, as he  ran errands. "I'll be back before lunch," he'd told you, a hand passing through the sleeve of his tan Carhartt.

The office felt bigger when he wasn't here, like his neuroticism took up twice as much space as he did himself. You looked around the room. It was small, more like a hut than anything else, raised up on cinderblocks. A tiny kitchen lined the front wall, the refrigerator had given out once this month already and something smelled like it had died in there, the white florescent light under the wall cabinets gave you a headache, and the tap drip drip dripped. The table and the mismatched chairs, your father had found at a fleamarked years ago, before you were born most likely, and they wore the wear and tear of years of use. 

Every available surface was covered in papers, and the wooden shelves on the wall dipped in the middle from the weight of the binders. When you were little you'd been afraid the wood would break in two, but they were still standing (hanging?) – maybe they'd stay like that for the rest of eternity for all you knew. Your father's office had only one desk, which made your job as occasional office manager and full-time problem solver, problematic. 

Your father would sit in his chair on one side, while you'd steal one of the mismatched chairs and occupy the other end. If you'd had your way, you wouldn't be working here. The timber business interested you just as much as your father was interested in the disco they played on the radio. "If it ain't the king of rock I don't want to hear it," he usually said and switched the channel. 

But the town was small, and no one was hiring. The summer after you'd finished high school you'd dreamt of moving to the city, but the money had been tight and your father needed you. At least the work, if your father didn't meddle, was relatively easy: answer the phone, type out the invoices and salaries, keep an eye on logistics, and make sure whatever breaks gets fixed. 

The radio hummed at a low volume, one of the singles from Tapestry, as you turned another page of your book. Leaning back in your father's office chair, you glanced at the clock over the door. He should be back by now. Just as the thought crossed your mind, the door swung open.

"Did you need something?" you asked, your book dipping down in your lap. 

Logan raised an eyebrow at you as he walked into the office on heavy steps, that damn cigar hanging out the side of his mouth. "Nice to see you too, princess," he poked jokingly, tugging at his gloves, one finger at a time, and tucking them into his leather belt. 

He sported the same outfit he usually wore; bootcut jeans, a white t-shirt under his flannel and a thicker wool-lined jacket. He must've been sweating in here with that on.

Autumn had claimed the trees and ground months ago, but this morning the frost had covered the ground and bit at the apples of your cheeks. Your breath had come out in swirling plumes when you'd locked yourself in this morning; the first glints of the sun peeking through the windows as it rose over the mountains. The first thing you'd done was crank the heater, and now as you approached midday, you'd shed your sweater long ago while the windows had fogged with condensation. 

The smallest of frowns tugged at your brows, as a heat prickled up your neck to your cheeks. Logan made you a little nervous– not in a bad way, but in a way where your thoughts would wander in his presence, conjuring up scenarios of him and yourself in… comprising positions. Okay, maybe it was in a bad way. But who could blame you when he walked around like that?

He'd arrived only a few months ago, at the tail end of the summer, looking for work. He was strong, stronger than any of the other men working for your father, and although the work was hard, it seemed like he never tired. You didn't know much about him and he kept mostly to himself, hidden away in a cabin up in the mountain, but sometimes you'd see him down at the local bar, nursing a glass of whiskey in one hand and a lit cigar in the other. More than once you'd seen him chatting up Kayla Silverfox, and more than once you'd wished it was you in her place.

"Oof," Logan groaned as he opened the fridge, grabbing his packed lunch and closing it as fast as he could. You appreciated him for that; whatever had died in there should stay in there.

"Yeah," you said, "I'm not cleaning that again, not even for a million bucks."

"Can't blame ya." 

He looked to the table for a second where the guys usually ate their lunches, before he decided to take your usual chair at your father's desk. As he sat down, you pushed the ash tray to his side of the desk, earning you a short smile in thanks as he rested his cigar. It wasn't unusual for him to talk to you on his breaks. 

So, why did you heart beat so fast in your chest?

Because it was the first time you'd been alone.

"So, where's your old man?" he asked and bit into the sandwich he'd packed in an old newspaper.

"Running errands– he should be back soon…" you trailed off.

Logan hummed non-committedly. "So, you're in here sittin' pretty readin' your book while we're out in the cold slavin' away– maybe I should become the boss' daughter."

"Well, it's not easy," you sighed, feigning confidence, "and you gotta be pretty first of all," you front teeth dug into your bottom lip as you tried to hide your nervousness.

"That's true," he grinned, "I ain't got nothin' on you, princess."

Logan held your gaze with intent, and it was like something in the air shifted. It happened sometimes with Logan, like he had this power beaming from him that sucked you in. Erratic wings fluttered in your stomach, and you had to drop your gaze.

"So, how's the book?" he asked, taking another bite of his sandwich.

"Eh," you shrugged, dog-earing the page your were on, before throwing the beat-up paperback on the table. "Too many plot twists– first they're on earth, then there's this virus spreading– so they have to move all of humanity to the moon, but then there's this species that lives under the surface of the moon who they start a war with, but one of the main characters are in love with a moonie– that's what they call them– so, now they're in love and trying to stop the war and…" you shrugged again.

Logan chewed slowly as he nodded his head. "Sounds complicated," he decided, making you let out a small laugh.

"I guess so."

A grin washed over Logan's face at your small laugh, and you felt his gaze roll over you, over your exposed skin. When he looked at you like that, like a predator drooling for a meal, you felt a small damp spot stick to your panties. You watched as his nostrils widened, his jaw clenching shut as a pulsing vein protruded from his neck.

"So, science fiction," he started, clearing his throat, "Didn't know you liked that," he continued between the last bites of his sandwich

"Some kid at the library recommended it," you shrugged, "so I thought I'd try it out. And it's not like it's that far from the truth– we've got mutants."

Logan crumbled the newspaper hard and quick, the sharp sound making you jump. "Yeah," he said, and stood to his feet, "That's true."

He grabbed his burnt out cigar, and threw the ball of newspaper in the trash. You started to wonder if you'd said something wrong, but then he said, "Your father's back," and not even a second later you could see your dad's old truck pull up outside the window.

How did he even know that? 

"Logan– wait," the words just fell out of your mouth before you could even think them through. He hovered by the door, raising a questioning eyebrow at you. 

You could be brave– Just say it! 

"Come by later would you? Before you leave for the day– I have something for you."

A gush of cold air blew in with the arrival of your father. He almost crashed right into Logan on his way out, nearly knocking him down the wooden steps. You thought you could glimpse a small nod from Logan, but he was out the door so fast you couldn't be sure. 

The rest of the day went by slowly as a growing anxiety gnawed at your neck. With your dad back you slipped out to borrow the car, driving into town to pick up some lunch at the local diner. It was routine at this point, something you did without thinking, but today your thoughts couldn't stay still. You were pulling up outside the office when you realized you'd driven the whole way with the radio off.

What was even your plan? 

You wished you were better at this. You could pretend, sure, put on a brave face to hide the nerves from surfacing, but how do you get a man like that to go for a girl like you?

You felt non the wiser when the sun had dipped below the mountains and he finally knocked on the office door. Your dad had left thirty-minutes earlier, stranding you at work with no way to get home. 

If this didn't go well, you didn't look forward to walking home.

"What 's it you wanted, princess," Logan asked, leaning against the frame of the door with one knee popped. Your eyes couldn't help but run down the length of him – his broad shoulders, the bulge hidden below his big belt buckle, and the veins of his exposed arms as he slung his jacket over his shoulder.

"Oh, um," you tried to shake your thoughts, and you rummaged the desk for the envelope. "Here," you said as you found it, stretching your hand out for him to take it.

He pushed off the door frame with a raised eyebrow, the cold air from the open door taking with it the warmth of the office. "What's this?" he questioned, taking the envelope from your hand. 

"It's your check– for this month's work," you explained.

His raised eyebrow pulled into a frown, "This is a week early," he questioned, "and I usually get these sent in the mail."

"Oh, I-I just thought I'd give it to you personally this time," you lied, fitting a shrug at the end for good measure, trying to sell how completely normal and nonchalant you were.

Logan raised a skeptic eyebrow at you, and you suddenly felt really really stupid. In your chest your heart could compete with a hummingbird's.

"Really?" he said with a smile before he dropped his chin, "Can I appreciate a little extra something in here, or…?" he trailed off, waving the envelope.

Letting out a shaky inaudible breath, you tried in your flirtiest voice, "Maybe if you give me a ride home…"

...................

The lights from the town below looked like stars scattered over the night sky, the yellow light of the roads connected them like on a string. You knew that Logan knew where you lived; the town was small, and even with the short time he'd spent here, it wasn't hard to get familiar. He'd stopped at the lookout point, about half-way up the mountain road. It was nice in the daytime, with a nice view of the town, the mountain and rivers, but at night it attracted a different kind of crowd: lovers. It was cheesy, and cliché, but clichés were clichés for a reason. 

The Led Zeppelin tape whirled, and the music stopped. 

Suddenly you felt nervous, fingers picking at a loose tread on your sweater. Logan leaned forward to flip the cassette, and his truck filled with a sound of organ, like you were back in church. When he leaned back he slung his arm over your seat. You watched how he spread his legs, getting comfortable, as his eyes found your face.

Under the wool, your heart picked up its beat.

In a brave move you shifted closer, the leather seat moaning under you, as a pleased smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. His big palm snaked around your shoulder, curling you closer to him until his lips caught your own. You only hesitated for a second before your hand found his neck, where your fingers tugged lightly at the hair at the nape of his neck. 

A low growl huffed against your lips, and he deepened the kiss, pressing himself roughly against you as he licked into your mouth. You couldn't help the small whimper escaping you. His touch was rough, almost impatient, but tender all at the same time, and you felt yourself fall apart.

The air stuck to your skin, clammy and sticky with arousal and now you started to get impatient. With a loud smack you broke apart, your lips raw and spent from use as you caught your breath. A rough hand cupped your cheek, the pad of his thumb skated gently over your skin as he tilted your head towards him.

"Such a pretty little thing," he mused. His eyes had gone dark, pupils huge and filled with lust; yours must've looked about the same as they rolled down his body. He shifted closer to you, pushing you closer to the door, and you got a better view of the bulge hidden behind his jeans.

Your heartbeat pounded in your ears, clogging up the sounds around you like you were underwater, pushing at your thoughts at the back of your mind. Logan moved with such ease, each touch natural and easy, like he'd done them a thousand times. Not like you, with only your short-lived high school boyfriend under your belt. 

"Hey," he shook your head gently, "Where you goin', bub?"

"I'm sorry," you whispered, a heat coating the apples of your cheeks. 

He shook his head, his face surprisingly tender for someone so rough, "Tell me, baby."

"I'm just…" you trailed of, trying to find your words, "I'm a little nervous– I haven't done this much," you said, avoiding his gaze.

"That's sweet, bub." The pad of his thumb rubbed the pet name into your skin as he leaned forward to catch your lips in a soft kiss, "But I wouldn't worry that pretty little head of yours 'bout it."

His breath was hot against your own, and an ache started to spread between your legs. The hand on your cheek travelled downwards to tug at your jacket, and you parted only for a second to rid yourself of it, but before you could lock your lips with his again he grabbed at your hands.

"I'll teach ya," he told you and guided your hands to his broad form. 

He let you touch him as he shucked off his jacket, your fingers dancing over the soft flannel. He was solid beneath your fingers, hard muscles from hard work. A patch of dark hair curled at his chest, peeking out beneath his white shirt, and you found yourself wondering where it lead.

Curling his hand around your wrist, he guided your hand lower; down over his chest where you could feel the solid form of him. His bronze belt buckle burned you like ice, but the heat of him as he pressed your hand to the hard bulge beneath the buckle burned even brighter.

"You feel that?" He looked you straight in the eyes. He pressed your hand down harder and you could feel the shape of him against your hand, hard and thick, and big. You barely managed a nod through the wave of heat coating your cheeks. 

"That's because of you, princess." His voice was low, almost like a growl, as he started to guide your hand to rub over the thick length.

"Me?" you questioned, breathless. 

"Yes, you," he chuckled, a heavy hand petting at your head. "D'you want to take it out? Stroke it f'me?"

"Please," you begged, looking at him with moony eyes through your lashes.

"So polite f'me," he mused, his hands tugging at his belt before he popped the button on his jeans. Slipping off your shoes, you crawled up into the seat, sitting back on your knees as you watched him pull at his jeans. Peeking out from under the denim, you could see a dark patch of hair.

Logan was in no rush, revealing only an inch at a time of the base of his cock, making a show of it as the tension rose. A wave of tickling arousal washed over you, and it made you brave, reaching a trembling hand forward, you helped him tug at the fabric.

At last his cock sprung free.

You felt your eyes widen at the sight, as you involuntarily squeezed your thighs together. Even with your limited experience, you knew he was bigger than most. The thick length of his cock bobbed from the weight, hanging heavy between his legs. At the tip of his fat head, a drop of precum pearled, almost invisible in the dark truck. 

"Come here, bub." He widened his legs as he reached out a strong arm for you, curling you into his shoulder. 

"Put your hand on it," he ordered, "like this," he grabbed at your wrist and guided you hand towards his mouth. You let him move you around, eyes blown out and wide as you couldn't take your eyes off his impressive cock. 

A wet blob of spit pulled you from your thoughts, it drew the slightest frown over your face until he guided your palm, now coated in his spit, to his cock.

Under your palm his skin was silky soft, but hard and firm at the same time. You found yourself mesmerized at the sight of your hand around him as you familiarized yourself with the heaviness of him in your hand. 

"There ya go–" he cut himself off with a groan as you formed a fist around the head of him. Your fingers struggled to reach around him, but it didn't seem like Logan minded much when you moved downwards smearing his spit over his shaft in an experimental tug. 

"That's it, good girl, just like that."

A warmth bloomed in your chest at the praise, wrapping itself around your heart. You wanted him to say it again– to be good for him. So, you reached forward with your other hand, wrapping it around the base as the other formed a fist around the head. Another pearl of precum beaded at the tip, and you took the opportunity to skate your thumb over it, massaging it into his spit.

A growl seemed to get caught in Logan's throat, and still riding off your high that the praise had sown in you, you started to pump his cock in slow strokes. A slick sound escaped under your fists with each stroke, and you watched how his head fell back in pleasure.

"Am-am I doing it right?" you asked, voice barely above a whisper.

At the sound of your voice, Logan sat up straighter, a heavy hand falling over your back to pull you closer. "You're a natural, princess."  

You couldn't contain the smile from coating your lips as he brought you in for another searing kiss. It was hot, and suffocating, and all-consuming, all at the same time. It clouded your mind, and you forgot what your hands were supposed to be doing. 

Logan's hand travelled down your body, his big palm grabbing at your ass. "Take of your pants," he ordered against your lips, "Panties too," underlining his order with a couple of light slaps to the flesh.

Shuffling out of his hold, you fingered at the button of your pants, pulling at them and your panties as quickly as you could. Goosebumps prickled over your exposed skin, the air suddenly frosty without Logan's touch – but that didn't last long.

The calloused pads of his fingers trailed up your thighs, pressing down into the flesh as he pulled you closer to him. "Come sit in my lap, princess."

He didn't wait for you to move, instead he manhandled you how he wanted. Spreading his legs wide apart he fit you between his legs, your back pressed against his hot chest with his hard and leaking cock caged against your ass. 

"I'm gonna touch you now, baby, okay?" his deep voice whispered in your ear.

"Okay," you peeped, heart pounding in your ears at this new proximity. 

He spread your legs, putting your wet and neglected cunt on display, hooking them over his knees. When his palms danced over your inner thighs, you felt yourself sink deeper into his chest, deeper into the safe scent of pine and man. 

"Need to get you ready f'me, bub– stretch this tight cunt out for my big cock," he cooed.

You ached for him, a sticky wet feeling between your legs as you wished so badly for him to finally touch you. His touch was light, but teasing, drawing circles along the thin flesh, circling closer and closer to where you needed his touch the most, before he pulled away. 

"Please," you whined, grabbing at his arm.

His breath felt hot against your neck, and you could feel the grin he pressed against your skin. He let you guide him upwards to hover his large palm over your mound, but he wouldn't let you have it. Instead, he pushed at your sweater. His hand spread across the skin beneath your belly button as prickled goosebumps followed the rough pads as they ran across your skin.

"Y'gonna feel me right here, bub?" he teased, "So deep inside your tummy?"

A whine caught in your throat and you felt like an exposed nerve. Arousal pulsated throughout your body, threatening to pull you apart unless he did something soon. Your neglected cunt dripped with an ache only he could sooth. 

"Yes, please, Logan," you whined, tears threatening to spill.

His thick beard scraped against your cheek, and you almost trembled from anticipation as he slid his hands downwards. He raked his fingers through the curls of your mound, and a gasp fell from your lips when he finally pushed at your clit.

A wide smile reached across your face when he started to circle his fingers, tight with the perfect amount of pressure. Your hips bucked to meet his touch, your cunt eager and dripping for more of him. His other arm clasped around your middle, keeping your still and steady in his lap as he had his way with you.

A bold finger dipped lower, running through your folds and teasing at you entrance. A slick sound filled the car as he played with your cunt, circling his fingers around your hole, dipping a teasing finger inside you just to the first knuckle, before withdrawing it just as quickly. 

"Such a messy pussy," Logan murmured in your ear, the deep bass of his voice vibrating into your skin. "Listen."

The sound as he played with your pussy was obscene, lewd, and so dirty you felt a heat crawl up your chest. A breathy gasp escaped you when he finally split you on his finger, and a satisfied smile coated your lips as he started to move it inside in a steady rhythm, prodding every so often at that spongy spot inside, the spot your own finger couldn't reach.

"F-feels s-so good," you managed to stutter out. 

The heel of his palm pressed against your clit with every thrust, teasing at your insides and conjuring moan after breathy moan from your lips. He guided you closer and closer to the edge, and you wanted so badly to fall. When he pulled out to slide another finger inside you, you felt a tear roll down your cheek with satisfaction.

"I can feel that pussy clenching me– you close, bub?" he poked, never stopping his fingers.

Your head rolled back, resting heavy on his shoulder as you nodded franticly, mouth parted slightly, humming out small breathy whines. You were so close, the tension in your stomach twisting and aching for release.

But then he pulled his fingers, dragging them up over your mound leaving a wet trail in your curls. You couldn't help the disappointed sigh as more tears pressed their way down your cheeks.

"Shh," he hushed you, "you're okay, bub." 

Under you, you felt him move, his strong muscles flexing as he shifted you on his lap. When you felt the blunt head of his cock slide between your folds, an eagerness came upon you. You grinded against him, making a small chuckle rumble from his chest. Logan slapped his heavy cock against your folds, coating his big cock in your slick arousal. 

The first stretch of him knocked the breath right out of you, the fat tip of him splitting you in half as he helped you guide yourself down on him. You had to remember to breathe, your hand fumbling for something to hold on to. 

"Fuck," you whimpered, eyes wide, "I-it's so big– it's t-too big."

His hand wrapped around your middle held you in place, keeping you still on his cock as you adjusted to the first inches of him inside you. 

"It's not too big, princess, you're doing so well f'me," he praised, "just a little more, bub– you can do it."

With a wet whimper you lowered yourself, taking a couple more inches of him, as Logan pressed more fluttering praise into your skin. He let you take your time, easing yourself down on him at your own pace. When your thighs were finally flushed with his, he was so deep inside you, you jolted, trying to move back up, but Logan's hands held you down. You felt him in your tummy, like he'd said, his cock reaching so deep you were shaking.

"Sit still, get used to it," he told you, as you tried to catch your breath, "You're being so good f'me."

And somehow the burning stretch of him soothed away into a pleasurable pressure, one you couldn't help but chase. With an experimental rock of your hips, you felt the fat head of him prod at your spot, making you mewl. And when you started to swivel your hips, Logan groaned in satisfaction, meeting your movement with small thrusts.

Slowly, he picked up his rhythm, strong hands shifted to dig into your hips, holding you in place for him to move you as he wished. In your ear, you heard him growl, deep and animalistic as he fucked up into you.

It didn't take long until your breath came out fast between moans as the pressure built, and built, and built. 

"Logan," you moaned, tethering right on the edge.

Another growl escaped his chest, as his strong arms hooked under your legs. He pressed them tightly to your body as he picked up his pace, bucking wildly into your eager cunt. You could feel him throb inside of you, and you couldn't help but clench at the thought of feeling him spill inside you, claiming you.

"Don't stop, please, don't stop," you begged, tears streaming down your face like two winding rivers, "I-I'm gonna come."

A hand slid between your legs to rub at your puffy clit, coaxing you closer and closer with winding circles. 

"Come on my cock, baby, come all over that big cock."

It was hot, and blinding. Euphoric shocks pulsed through your body, as you fluttered and gushed around his cock. Logan's grip on your legs tightened as you shook violently with your orgasm – a million stars exploded behind your eyes.

"Oh, that's it, bub, such a good girl," he praised between heavy wet pants against your ear.    

Fucking you through your ecstasy, Logan chased his own high at a relentless pace, and all you could do was take it, reduced to a ragdoll in his hands. In your ear he muttered nonsense interlaced with praise, telling you how good you felt, and how perfect you were for him.

With a deep groan he pulled out quickly, tugging at himself until he spilled his thick spend on the truck floor. With bleary eyes you watched how it pumped in quick spurts, dripping down his hand and soiled the knuckles in his own sticky cum. 

Behind you, Logan breathed hard, nudging his nose against the column of your neck to press soft kisses to the hot skin. 

A pair of bright headlights beamed down the road, pulling you from the moment with its blinding light. Logan helped you shift off his lap, reaching to hand you your discarded clothes before he tucked himself back into his jeans. 

The cassette whirled in the car radio, and you couldn't remember when the music had stopped. Logan shifted back behind the wheel and an eerie silence grew in the distance between you.

"How 'bout I take you somewhere to eat?" he posed.

You smiled, "I could eat."

...................

hopefully this was okay? a comment telling me your favorite part is always welcome, and my ask box is always open to chat <3 and thank you for reading!!

© shellshocklove, 2024 i do not give any permission to repost, translate, feed to AI or redistribute any of my writing, with or without credit!

[odoraful]

𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐐𝐔𝐈𝐄𝐓

wriothesley has been hesitant to tell you about his past, afraid that it will tarnish your view of him. reconciling with this is no easy task, but he has you by his side to guide him

content: wriothesley x gn!reader; established relationship; 'baby' pet name; reader and wriothesley live together; nightmare sequence; mentions of blood; spoilers to wrio story quest!; reader doesn't know the full truth of wriothesley's past; wriothesley worried about how good of a partner he is :( ; hurt/comfort; reverse comfort; 4k words

a/n: i just wanna gently hold wriothesley and tell him that he's doing so well <3 also i give full credit to critical role and the wonderful talisen jaffe for the quote "pain doesn't make people, it's love that makes people"

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Before opening his eyes, Wriothesley smelled iron. Pungent and pervasive. It filled his nostrils and sunk unpleasantly in his churning stomach. He knew he was lying on his back on a cold, hard surface, but that was about as much information he was certain about. Where he was or how he ended up in this state escaped him.

He tested his other senses. Every swallow of saliva went down like sand in his throat. His fingers were limp as he tried squeezing them into fists, the strength siphoned out of him. Slowly regaining some sense of himself again, he could finally label what the scent was. Blood.

At that realisation, he peeled opened his eyes, dreading the scene he would find himself in. A scene he knew that would be painfully similar to memories he quashed a long time ago. He grimly thought whether the blood would be trailing from his hands, or already dried up beneath him, a red dye stained on the floorboards. The lights above accosted him, dazzling his vision. Fontainian households were always so bright, and it didn’t help that the walls of them were white too. But, even then, there were always nooks and crannies shrouded in darkness. Wriothesley found that the more glittering lights there were, the darker the shadows they casted.

He sat up with a groan, his body the weight of bricks. Looking around, there was no such scene he imagined before him. The room he was in was… ordinary. Pristine white walls lined with book shelves against spotless light timber flooring. A fireplace was tucked between two shelves, where the hearth held blackened remnants of burned wood. Wriothesley was situated on the floor between the fireplace and two brown cushioned sofas facing each other separated by a low table. He swore there were other furnishings in the room, but for some reason he couldn’t focus on them. The edges of his vision blurred and he couldn’t make out any other details besides what was most salient.

It wasn’t necessary though.

He knew where he was.

He was almost even in the exact spot they found him slumped in when he was a boy. Back rested against a bookshelf, hollow eyes gazing into the distance. The officers were unable to hide the pure shock on their faces at the grisly tableau in front of them.

Bile rose in Wriothesley’s throat. Despite there being no evidence of violence, the scent of blood lingered in the air, filling his lungs. He went to stand, the movement ungraceful and slow, as if he were swimming in the ocean with thick layers of clothing on. Lying on the floor wouldn’t do well for his nausea. He walked towards to sofa to sit and assess this situation. Sinking into the cushions, he rubbed his temples with his hands.

He thought this house had long since been torn down. How had he been taken back to his old home? His mind sharply retracted those words. No, he wouldn’t call it that. Home was a place of safety and love, but the place he grew up in was built on a foundation of lies and malice. The only small glimmer of home he could recall was his bonds with his siblings.

“█████.”

A voice whispered from just beside his ear, as if speaking a secret.

Wriothesley’s skin prickled. His head snapped around, but he was only met with empty space.

Impossible, he thought. No one who should know that name. He buried it a long time ago when he was handcuffed to the bed in that emergency ward. Perhaps his mind was playing tricks on him. Digging up memories of his past.

“█████, where did you go?”

This time, a different, more louder voice came from the opposite direction. Wriothesley could make out its qualities—young and wistful. It was that of a child.

Wriothesley was not often scared. When someone like him had seen both the worst and best of what life had to offer, he was seldom caught off guard. Even backed into a corner, there was always a way out for him. A few carefully chosen words was his preferred method, but now, his tongue felt heavy in his mouth. Hearing that name being said aloud chilled him to his bones. The colour drew from his face, skin turning ghast-like. He was terrified.

“You left without saying goodbye.”

A young girl sniffled, sounding on the verge of tears. Wriothesley scanned the room frantically, trying to find the source of the voices.

“Why did you leave us?”

A young boy this time. Familiarity clawed at the back of Wriothesley’s mind. His eyes bulged in horror.

“█████, we miss you.”

“You said we would play together.”

“They took some of us away.”

“█████, will you ever come back?”

Wriothesley covered his ears, but it did little to quiet the ceaseless voices. Multiple of them spoke at once, rising in urgency, surging around him. Overlapping and defeaning, burrowing into his skull no matter how hard he squeezed and squeezed his ears shut. He was backed into a corner with no way out. He screamed in his head, roaring in agony. He couldn’t stay here, he needed out.

Hearing the pleading of his own mind, Wriothesley jolted awake.

Like a conductor ending a symphony with the close of their hand, the cacophony of voices abruptly stopped.

Void-like silence met him in the waking world.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

He felt his heart lodged in his throat, as if he had been pushed off the tallest point of the Palais Mermonia. Steadying his shallow breathing, he pushed his back further into the bedsheets, trying to ground himself.

Just a dream, just a dream. He repeated, sighing loudly. His bedroom had never been a more welcome sight as he sat up, careful not to awake his resting partner. At least, that’s where you should have been. There was no weight of your body beside him. He swept a hand over the bed, and made contact only with the sheets and crumpled quilt blanket.

Still reeling from the terrors of his dream, Wriothesley’s mind drew the worse conclusions. Had you been taken? Had you left him? Panicked, he began to call out your name. His voice was hoarse, but he was glad he could speak after being robbed of it in his dream.

A triangle of yellow light cut into the darkness of the room as the door cracked opened. Relief flooded him seeing you standing there, wrapped in a fluffy robe, hair ruffled.

“Baby, is everything alright?” You asked softly, approaching the bed.

Wriothesley’s chest rose and fell in quick intervals. His body arched over like a crooked branch, shivering ever so slightly. Alarms blared inside you. You had never seen him in this state before.

“I- I thought you had gone somewhere,” he said, voice quavering.

The mattress dipped as you sat atop, kneeling beside him. “I didn’t leave.” You lay a hand on him, watching closely at his expression with a furrowed brow. “I’m here, I’m here,” you soothed gently, rubbing small circles into his shoulder.

He gave into your touch, his posture easing. Seeing him slowly relax, you raised your hands to cradle his face. Warmth radiated through him, expelling whatever anxieties had possessed him. His breath shuddered. Immediately, he nuzzled into your touch, burying his face in the faint scent of soap and lilies. He could stay here forever. It would be all he needed to revitalise his senses and keep him alive. He covered one of your hands with his own, encompassing it completely. His calloused fingers slid between yours—a sensation that contrasted against the softness of his lips as he kissed the inside of your palm. A feather-like touch that caused the butterflies in your stomach to flutter.

“I was just in the bathroom.” You reassured him. Wriothesley hummed in response. “Did something happen?”

He hesitated, wondering how much he should tell you.

“I just had a nightmare.” His voice was muffled, lips grazing your skin as he spoke. “It was nothing, really.”

You gently turned his head towards yours, prompting him to focus on you. “It doesn’t seem like nothing to me.”

His heart stung at the pure concern on your face. Different from the times when you tended to him when he injured himself whilst boxing, or when you saw him passed out at his desk from his persistent workload. There was desperation layered in your knitted brows and parted lips.

“Let me get you a glass of water.” You said, caressing his face. Hints of stubble brushed under the pads of your thumbs. “You’ll feel a little better after being hydrated.”

Coldness returned to his cheeks as you pulled away. You couldn’t even turn around before Wriothesley’s hands were on you once again. He snaked his arms around your waist, embracing you tightly.

“Don’t go.” He rasped. “Please, stay with me.”

His pleading tugged at your heartstrings. As much as you wanted to stay in his arms, you could tell from his voice just how dry his throat was. “I won’t be far from you. I’ll be gone only for a moment.” You kissed his forehead, sealing your promise.

You waited until he loosened his hold on you (albeit begrudgingly), and hurried out of the room to fetch some water. Wriothesley leaned against the bedhead. His head was clearer now, and he tuned his hearing to the far-away whir of machinery in the Fortress.

He was glad to have a shared room with you away from his working environment. This was an entirely new floor he had extended above his office. The design of which began after he had seen you curled up in sleep on one of his chairs, waiting for him to finish his duties for the day. Resting somewhere backgrounded by piles of administrative paperwork didn’t make for the most relaxing setting. And so, he swiftly drafted plans to create private quarters for the two of you.

After a long day, he would head straight upstairs to meet you. You’d be there snuggled on the lounge with a novel, and his footfalls would be enough for you to abandon your book on the table and rush over to the door. Now, while the sun could not be seen in the stronghold beneath the waves, it found its place with you. In the way your smile beamed and eyes twinkled as you greeted him. You were so, so bright, and yet he could never look away. At first, it almost startled him how easy you gave your love to him. There was no ulterior motive with you. You loved him wholly.

He sadly wondered how quickly your glimmer would fade if he revealed parts of him that had never seen the light.

The tapping of your slippers approached the door, and you entered with a glass and pitcher of water. Placing them both on the bedside table, you poured water into the glass and handed it to him. Wriothesley didn’t realise how parched he was until he took the first sip. Eagerly chugging the rest down, he you in the corner of his eye, chewing on your bottom lip. You were on the cusp of saying something.

“Do you want to talk about it?” You asked, taking the empty glass from his hands and putting it to the side.

“Your dream that is…” You faltered through your words. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to, but you seemed upset when you woke up.”

More than upset, you thought to yourself, afraid.

Wriothesley reached out for you wrist. You let him guide you into bed, slipping under the blankets. He pulled you in closer, arm draped around your waist, until your bodies were flush with each other. Your expectant gaze fell on him. He plastered on an assuring smile, but couldn’t quite draw the corners of his lips up to reach his eyes.

“I was only a bit shaken,” he replied, keeping his tone light. “It had things relating to my past. My subconscious must have it out for me for not letting me get a good night’s rest.” Hopefully that was enough to mollify the true contents of his dream.

You toyed with the edge of the blanket. Wriothesley’s past was something he didn’t divulge in too much detail. Even after being together for some time, all you knew was that his childhood was a difficult time, and he had to run away from his foster parents home. You had a good sense that he no longer wished to recall these events from the way he was quick to brush off the topic. It was hard for you to balance between wanting to know more, and also respecting his privacy.

“You know that you can tell me about anything that’s bothering you, right?”

Your eyes never left his, watching the way they brimmed with fondness as he answered.

“Of course I know that baby, it’s just that…” His eyes casted downwards.

In his line of work, keeping up a poker-face meant keeping things under control. However, with you, he never hid his true emotions, and you saw conflict dance across his features.

“I’m worried it might change how you see me,” he confessed, fidgeting with his fingers as if he were itching to move.

“Wriothesley,” you covered a hand over his, halting his movement, “nothing will make me change the way I see you now. You aren’t the same person as you were back when you were young.”

Those words settled in his mind, prodding at the uncertainties he had about opening up. You continued,

“You can share anything about your past with me. And, what is it they say…” You tried to recall a line you had read recently. “A burden shared is a burden halved?”

He couldn’t fight back a smile, teeth peeking out from beneath his lips. “Putting those philosophical books you’re reading to use?”

“Actually, it’s a collection of poetry from Mondstadt.” You corrected, pursing your lips smugly.

He breathed a laugh, spirits lightening at how endearing his partner was.

From the day he selected a new name for himself, he chose to begin anew. Although he knew that nothing in his past constituted any part of his life now, it still clung to him. A fog clouding his mind during moments of solitude, drawing out doubts that stumbled into the open. If he did tell you the full truth, would you see him as nothing more than someone raised in a loveless place? Who was pushed to do what many considered unthinkable? Running a hand through his hair, he exhaled slowly—ruminating.

You calmly awaited his next words, knowing that you would accept both if he chose to tell you or not.

Wriothesley spoke again,

“I mentioned to you before that I didn’t have the most… peaceful childhood.”

You nodded, grim at the thought of what those adults had done to those innocent children. “Mmm, you told me about your foster parents, and how you ran away from them.”

“Yes, but that’s not the whole truth.”

Pausing, he steeled himself. He caught on a thread that had long since been loose and began to unravel his past.

“After I escaped, I couldn’t shake off the guilt of abandoning my siblings, but there was also no way I could stay in that household after what I had learned.”

He recounted the story in the same way one would read aloud an article published by The Steambird. So separated from his past that he had little inflection in his tone. Even so, you saw a flare of emotion in Wriothesley’s eyes.

“So, I tried to keep myself alive and tried to get stronger, so that I could return and protect them.”

“Archons,” he bowed his head, dark hair falling over his brows, “I don’t even know how much time passed out there, everything seemed to blend together.”

You felt an ache in your chest, like someone had tightly gripped your heart. “I can’t imagine how tough it must have been.” Picturing a younger Wriothesley in your head, frightened and alone, made you shiver.

“Mmm,” he hummed. “It was.” He returned a sad smile to you, though regret laced his words. “I wouldn’t wish that life for anybody, but I did learn a lot.”

“I snuck back into the house after a while of being on the streets. I-“ He rubbed his temple with his free hand, unable to find the right words. “One of my siblings told me that while I was gone, a few of them had been… adopted into other families.”

Your skin turned cold, knowing exactly what that meant.

“I-I think I heard their voices in my dream.” His voice wavered, face scrunching up as he remembered those ghostly voices in that empty room. “They were asking why I left them there, wondering where I was.”

You squeezed his hand. “But you did return. You swore that you would come back for them and you did,” you asserted.

Shaking his head, he turned his hand over to interlock your fingers with his. “Perhaps I was too late.”

“I found my foster parents sitting happily in the drawing room, and suddenly, I felt so, so angry.” His expression turned sombre, staring down at the blanket covering you two. “At them, at myself, at the world, and something snapped in me and I did the only thing I felt I could do in that moment.”

A heaviness tugged down on his chest as if in protest at the continuation of his sentence. But, there would be no hiding it now. He swallowed thickly.

“I killed them.”

The words left his lips in a whisper, and hung in the space between you.

You stilled. The faint beating of your heart could be felt between your hand in his.

Sensing your stiffness, Wriothesley forced himself to look at you, searching your face in the hopes of finding any kind of reaction. He half expected you to pull away in terror. Disillusioned at the fact that your partner was a murderer. But, he found no such revulsion. Instead, your eyes glossy with tears captured a sadness so sincere and profound that his heart shattered into pieces, piercing him from the inside out.

“It was a long time ago.” With every word he spoke, the shards seemed to dig deeper. “And I definitely don’t associate myself with that person anymore.”

“But, I understand if this changes how you see me. If you need time away-”

“Don’t say that,” you interrupted, shaking your head fervently.

You blinked, tears lining your lower lashes. The sight of your partner blurred slightly in your vision, his face contorted in pain. You understood. The distance he wanted to put between you was merely a façade. Buried beneath it was a wordless plea for you to stay. He had bared everything to you, and you would not let him hurt by himself any longer.

“It doesn’t change how I feel towards you.” Determination rose in your cracked voice. “You were so young. No child should ever be placed in a position like that.”

Surely, there must be some part of him that agreed. Some part that would allow forgiveness. Wriothesley’s gaze flicked between your eyes, lost in your expression, as was you in his. A muscle in his jaw twitched.

“I-I can’t be the one to say whether it was the right thing to do,” you continued, “but what I do know is that you were just a child who needed to survive and wanted to protect those you cared about.”

How many people had treated him with kindness as a child? It upset you to think of all the adults that turned their backs on him. Reducing his character to only what they saw on a case report. Likely considering him to be nothing more than a psychopath. Your pulse thumped in your ears at the injustice of it.

“You are not who you were in the past.” You said slowly, enunciating every word. “Pain doesn’t make people, Wriothesley. It’s love that makes people.”

His expression melted softly. The creases between his brows smoothing.

“And I know that you love and care so strongly, you’ve shown me that every single day.”

Icy blue eyes held so much affection as he stared back at you—transfixed. Now more than ever did he believe you were the sun to him. Basking in your warmth, feeling the comfort of it tingle his skin. What you had said to him had begun to sink in. However, while he couldn’t refute your words, the mindset he had formed could not be altered in a single moment. Perhaps he would not completely believe your words now, but that was alright. You would be there by his side every day to remind him.

Clearing his throat, Wriothesley tested out if his voice was still fit to speak. Though this room was private to the two of you, he spoke quietly, as if he craved only your attention.

“When I was serving my sentence here, I always dreamed about what my new home would be."

He recalled the confinement of his cell, and how his mind would drift from counting the bolts in the metal wall to imagining a new life for himself. Wanting a place that was safe and people he felt at peace with felt like a mirage to him. However, if he could go back in time and speak to his younger self in that cell, he would tell him that things would turn out alright. The journey would not be without difficulties, but he would finally be in a place where he no longer had to look over his shoulder, fearing for his safety. And, he would be with someone who would be proud to call him their love.

“I think I found it here, with you.”

He took the chance to close the distance between you two. His forehead rested against yours. You closed your eyes.

“I love you, Wriothesley,” you whispered, instinctively.

His breath caught in his throat. How fortunate he was to have you in his life. Not only to receive your endless love, but to learn just how capable of loving he is.

He whispered back in reply, his breath gently fanning across your cheeks. “I love you too.”

Neither of you broke away, staying in this position for a moment. Everything had been untangled before you, and a odd mixture of both sorrow and solace stirred inside you. Sorrow at listening to what Wriothesley had gone through as a boy, and solace at how tender the man before you was, his hair tickling against your forehead.

You continued to speak softly to each other for a while longer. The conversation floated from his time at the Fortress to how he became its administrator. As he spoke, the accuracy of the quote you shared before was confirmed in the inexplicable lightness he felt in his chest. A burden shared is a burden halved, he recited to himself.

Time drew on, and you both sensed that if you didn’t sleep now, you’d be up until the Fortress’ inmates began their morning shifts. Curling up beside each other, you asked to play big spoon this time so he could fall asleep easier. Though he was taller in stature to you, you insisted on it. If it were a different day, he probably would have put up a greater fight, but there was little argument in him now at the chance of being wrapped up in your arms. He was lulled to rest by your rhythmic inhales and exhales. The night quietened, and no more voices followed him in slumber.

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post a/n: thank you for making it to the hidden easter egg author note haha, i appreciate you greatly, and i hope it was an enjoyable read!!! 🥺 i just wanted to yap about my thought process writing this piece. you definitely don't have to read all this, it's primarily for my own notetaking! <3

i felt like this was probably one of the hardest pieces i've written so far (?) i found it tough to build up that tension of reader not knowing wriothesley's full past and him still grappling with his actions as a young boy, and even what that dialogue would look like! i had to step away and come back a few times just so i could look at this with a fresh pair of eyes. it may not be perfect but i'm glad to have finished this! :')

[humanpurposes]

August

Part 1: Possibilities and Peace Offerings

Your family has been invited to spend August at Dragonstone, where things get a little tense after an unfortunate first encounter with Aemond Targaryen, one he's determined to put right.

Aemond Targaryen x Reader // Modern AU

Series Masterlist // Main Masterlist // Read on AO3

Warnings: 18+, nothing too bad here, eventual smut, slight enemies to lovers, mutual pining

Words: 7k

A/n: Summer romance is here!! hope you likeeee. This is going to be three parts in total.

The impending summer exists beyond time, beyond the rest of the world. Exams are over and you’ve already received a mark for your dissertation. The dorm room you called home for three years is packed up and returned to its prison-like appearance, just as it was when you were an eager and excitable fresher. Suddenly the world is an endless sea of possibilities and you’re standing on the water’s edge with nothing to lose.

You spend a few weeks with your friends, drinking in pub gardens and driving down to the rammed beaches along the coast near King’s Landing, but this summer of possibility takes an unexpected turn when your father receives an invitation to spend the month of August at Dragonstone, as a guest of Viserys Targaryen. Viserys and your father have been business partners for just under a decade, but to be welcomed into his inner circle, to the ancestral home of the Targaryen family, is another honour altogether. 

Your parents are beside themselves with excitement. You’re a little more sceptical but you won’t let them know it. So once your uni friends have gone back to their hometowns, you pack an array of swimsuits and summer dresses into a suitcase, and bundle into the backseat of your father’s car. 

The aircon is on full blast. You sip on the last of your water as an 80s playlist blares through your headphones to block out the conversation of investments, clients, lawsuits and legal fees from the front seats.

Dragonstone is three things; an island, a town, and a castle. You drive out of the city, red and grey buildings blurring into greenery and vast spaces of blue, the sky and the sea. A ferry takes you from the mainland to the island’s port. The song you were listening to fades away as you slip your headphones off your ears. The town is utterly charming, from the rows of fishing boats in the harbour to the cobbled streets and obscure little buildings, bookshops, bakeries and butchers. The sun shines brightly, heat pulses through the window even with the blast of cool air.

A few more miles and you reach a gatehouse, ancient stone walls smothered with ivy, guarded by two stone creatures with their jaws wide open— dragons with spikes and sharp teeth. The driveway is lined with thick trees and foliage. Suddenly you turn a corner and there it is, towers and turrets reaching up into the summer sky, hundreds of windows, more carvings of dragons looming proudly over where Blackwater Bay becomes the Narrow Sea. 

The man who greets you by the doors is not a Targaryen. He has dark hair, dark eyes, a crisp white shirt and a radio on his belt. Your father seems to know him already. He greets him as “Cole,” and introduces him to you and your mother.

Cole offers his hand to you. “Criston,” he insists, “I’m the head of Mr Targaryen’s security.”

Two identical butlers take your bags from the car while Criston shows you into the entrance hall. He comments on the antiques and the 14th century timbers, leading you through to the room he calls “the waiting chamber”. It has high ceilings, wood panelled walls, an enormous fireplace and aged but comfortable looking leather sofas at the edges of the room. You note the portraits on the walls, the more recent photographs on the mantle, but before you can get a proper look, someone announces their own arrival into the room.

Viserys Targaryen has his arms open, dressed far more casually than you’ve seen him at various galas and events, he even has a pair of aviators keeping his silver hair out of his face. He greets your father with a smile and a firm handshake, his eyes sharp but somewhat hollow. 

“Sorry for keeping you waiting,” he says, moving onto your mother and then to you. “We’re having drinks on the patio, enjoying the sun. Why don’t you join us?” He chuckles and you don’t really understand why. You’re not sure how any of this works.

Viserys leads you through the house, stopping by the great hall and the library, pointing out details like Criston did. His home is devoted to family and every furnishing carries some sentimental value. The curtains and the sofas in the library are Arryn blue for his first wife, the shelves are laden with books that belonged to his grandfather. There are items here which have belonged to the Targaryens for generations and their house’s sigil is carved into the walls and wooden beams. 

At last you come to a hall with tall windows, glass chandeliers and marble floors. Viserys calls this “the west gallery”, a more modern addition to the castle, built in the 17th century. He opens a double glass door and you can already see the sprawling green gardens, the unnatural blue of a swimming pool somewhere in the distance. Before all that is the raised patio, an array of chairs and the people sitting in them.

You step into the heat of the garden, into cigarette smoke and the sounds of laughter, loud and seemingly rehearsed. Your father knows most of these people, other associates of Targ Corp, Corlys Velaryon and his wife Rhaenys Tagraryen, Jason Lannister and his wife Joanna, Lyonel Strong and his son Larys. Even Otto Hightower is lounging back in his chair, sunglasses over his eyes, a pale pink cocktail in a crystal glass. 

Your parents smile graciously, your mother clutching her handbag over her shoulder, your father wiping the sweat from his brow, trying to air out the damp patches in his shirt. They’ll want to make a good impression. Each person staying at Dragonstone this summer is another opportunity for your father.

You glance down at your denim shorts and your sandals— an outfit for comfort, not for networking.

Viserys directs the three of you to a cushioned wooden bench and you squeeze in beside your mother. Another butler appears and offers you all a drink. Your parents both ask for a gin and tonic. You’re thinking that you’d like to dunk yourself in the pool, so you ask for a large glass of water. 

“With ice and lemon, miss?”

“Yeah, please, if you have it?”

Your mother nudges you with her elbow and whispers in your ear. “This is Dragonstone, if you want it they probably have it.”

“If I asked for the Prince of Pentos’ phone number, do you think they’d bring it out on a silver tray?” You return with a grin.

The minutes drag by. Lyonel Strong asks your father about his law practice. Corlys Velaryon and Jason Lannister enter a heated discussion about yachts. Otto Hightower mentions the name “Daemon” and the other voices go quiet. You take large gulps of your water, occasionally sharing silent looks with your mother.

The heat is sweltering. You feel your head pulsing, your skin becoming damp and you worry you may end up as a puddle on the patio if you don’t find a reason to escape soon.

The glass doors open and two women enter the garden, one with auburn hair, dressed in a floral dress and high heels. The other, younger, blonde hair cut into a fashionably short fringe, barefoot, dressed in denim shorts and baggy t-shirt, goes straight to Otto. She doesn’t look at anyone else. She stands behind Otto and leans down to wrap her arms around his neck. This must be Alicent Hightower and her daughter.

Alicent makes her rounds elegantly. She’s familiar with all the people present, except for the three of you, the outsiders, piled onto a single piece of garden furniture. Her eyes are wide and brown, her lips full and fallen slightly even when she smiles. She asks about the journey from King’s Landing, if you’ve had a chance to explore the town.

She asks you a lot of questions too, what you do, where you studied, what your plans are for the Autumn. And once she’s found out what she wants from you, she starts telling you everything about her children, unprompted.

“Helaena’s starting a PhD in a few weeks, staying in King’s Landing– King’s college, of course, not KLU, seven heavens. We didn’t want her to be too far away from home,” she says, looking back at her daughter and her father. “Etymology. Well, she’s always had a thing for insects, I could never understand it, but it’s easier to let her follow her interests, she’s that sort of girl.

“Now Aegon is like that too, he likes a lot of things, would be nice if he could be interested in something that makes him money. Oh well, he’s into the arts, fancies himself a photographer, directed a few plays at university– Oldtown. He wrote a screenplay, you must remind me to show you, it’s really quite clever. It’s about injustice or something like that.

“Daeron is at Oldtown too, at Citadel Boys. He’s the only child I sent to board, I just felt he might be happy with a bit of space from all of us. He wants to go to Oldtown like his brothers. His father wants him to do economics, but he’s very good at history.

“Aemond did history, but then he trained in accountancy. He’s worked all over, Oldtown, Storm’s End, Harrenhal, but he’s looking to stay in King’s Landing now–”

“Mum, you’ll bore her to tears,” Helaena says and it’s only now you notice that she’s moved to stand in front of you. 

Alicent frowns.

You stifle a smile and raise your brows hopefully.

“Do you know where you’re sleeping yet?” Helaena asks, looking at her mother.

“I’ve put her in the moat room,” Alicent says. She turns back to you, “I’m sorry, darling, you’re probably tired, aren’t you? Helaena can show you your room.”

You kiss your mother's cheek and agree to reconvene for dinner in the evening.

“Sorry about mum, she just jumps at the chance to talk about her kids,” Helaena says as you walk back through the west gallery.

“It’s sort of cute,” you say, staring up at the gold detailing on the ceiling. “Very informative.”

“Oh, you have no idea,” she says with a wicked smile.

When Helaena laughs she scrunches up her eyes and her nose. She sways her arms by her sides as she walks and trails her fingertips on the walls. Unlike Criston or Viserys, she doesn’t have little anecdotes about any of the vases or paintings on display. She’s a juxtaposition of her family’s ancestral home, airy and lighthearted, earthy and inexplicably real.

“Your parents are probably in the west wing,” she explains as you come to a winding stairwell. “That’s where everyone else will be too. The moat room is on the other side of the house.”

You nod along, stealing glances out the windows, at the gardens, and from higher up, you can see the sea.

“Don’t be too disheartened though,” Helaena says, “that means you’re with us.”

She shows you your room first. It sits at the very corner of the castle with windows to the north and the east. The moat in question isn’t a moat, it’s more of a well kept ditch. By the rest of the house you were half expecting the room to be medieval, but to your surprise it’s bright, carpeted, sans priceless antiques and heirlooms. A queen-sized bed waits for you piled with pillows. 

“I’m down the hall, and the boys are in the next corridor,” Helaena explains. “If you smell something suspicious, it’s Aegon.”

She helps you unpack your suitcase, admiring your swimsuits and looking through the small collection of books you’ve brought to pass the time.

She shows you her room which is further down the corridor. It’s much larger than yours, far more personal. She has worn patterned rugs over the wooden floors, dark blue wallpaper and accents of gold everywhere, the mirror over her vanity, the handles on the drawers and the wardrobe. You’re most intrigued by the framed taxidermies on the walls, butterflies with the most beautiful wings you’ve ever seen, moths, beetles, even a scorpion.

You’re a little relieved when you see a cat curled up on her bed, with a thick white coat, brown ears. 

“Dreamfyre,” Helaena says, scooping the cat up in her arms. “She’s named after the Valryian god of prophecy and wisdom.”

You hold your hand out for Dreamfyre to sniff. She considers you for a moment, and runs her head against your fingers. “So can she tell me my future?” you ask.

Helaena stares at you. “Don’t be ridiculous, she’s a cat. Why, hoping for something in particular?”

“I like to see where life takes me,” you say.

After exchanging phone numbers and scrolling through each other’s Spotify playlists, Helaena tells you that she thinks the two of you are going to be friends.

Dinner is surprisingly more pleasant, where you all eat around a table on the patio. Being outside is far more bearable once the sun starts to set and a breeze sweeps in from the sea. You’re served white fish, potato salad coated in herbs which Alicent says she grows herself, summer vegetables, grilled courgettes, red and yellow peppers, sweet and tangy tomatoes, washed down with white wine.

You sit beside Helaena, opposite two of her brothers, Aegon and Daeron. Daeron is far taller than his older brother but his face is clearly younger. His pale blond hair is slightly overgrown, his nose a little pink and his skin freckled from being in the sun. “Aemond managed to beat me at tennis today,” he says.

Aegon rolls his eyes, far more concerned with scratching the ears of a golden labrador perched on the floor beside him.

You look to Helaena for an explanation.

“Daeron’s looking to go pro. Aemond can’t stand that he’s not the best at something.”

There’s an empty space at the head of the table, between Aegon and Helaena. You’ve yet to see any other evidence that the elusive middle brother exists.

“There’s a tennis court here?” You ask.

“Towards the water garden, you should be able to see it from the moat room.” Helaena says. “You should have a look.”

Dessert is pistachio ice-cream, then everyone starts to disperse. Aegon grabs a bottle of wine and he and Daeron traipse over to a firepit at the edge of the patio, followed by the labrador. Your parents follow Viserys and the others into the house. Corlys and Rhaenys linger at the table, staring up at the sky and taking long drags from their cigarettes.

You trail Helaena to a neatly kept kitchen. Some of the staff pass through, into a far larger back room with metal surfaces, where the real cooking is done. Criston sits at the kitchen island on a stool, eating a pasta salad from a glass bowl. Helaena pats his head as she passes him. He doesn’t seem surprised by it, perhaps it’s a common occurrence.

“Feel free to grab anything you want, by the way. There’s all sorts of snacks and stuff, and if you want more of something give Criston a shout,” Helaena says, picking out bags of chocolate buttons and sour sweets from a cupboard.

“That’s kind,” you say, twisting your fingers over each other in front of you. “I’m quite tired, I think I might just have a shower and go to bed.”

“Darling, it’s summer, you can do whatever you want,” Helaena says. “See you at breakfast, yeah?” She pulls you into a quick hug and disappears out into the garden.

Not wanting to linger when Criston’s phone starts to ring, you decide to brave it and find your way back to your bedroom. Aegon and Daeron seem like fun, maybe too much fun for tonight, you just need to sleep off the fatigue from the sun.

This place is far too big for you to feel settled just yet. It amazes you how everyone can navigate the castle so easily, it’s like a maze. Eventually you find your way back to the entrance hall. You think you might know the way to the east wing from here, but when you see the sky beyond the windows, lilac and orange, dotted with grey clouds and the first few stars of the evening, you want to make the most of the dying light. Maybe you could head towards the water garden and find the tennis court.

Your sandals crunch against the gravel which stretches out into paths leading in three directions. The central one leads to the driveway and the gatehouse. To the left is the gardens past the edge of the moat, and to the right is an outlook and a downhill path which disappears from sight, which you assume leads down to the sea. You can hear the waves in the distance.

The sunlight is fading fast. You cross your arms over yourself, shivering and regretting the lack of a cardigan. You tell yourself you might warm up with a bit of a walk.

You take a few paces down the path towards the gardens– a dog’s bark has your heart leaping out of your chest. It’s deep and loud, coming from behind you. Your head darts around. An enormous dog has emerged from the downhill path and is bounding towards you, covering ground quickly.

You keep your feet planted on the ground, out of fear

The dog, a great dane, stops before you— it truly is huge, its head would come up to your torso if you were close enough, and you don’t really want to find out– barking viciously. Its teeth flash, flecks of saliva dripping from its mouth.

“Back off! Come, Vhagar!”

You look back along the path. A man in a black t-shirt and black shorts is walking quickly towards you and the dog. He grabs it by its collar and yanks it back, fastening it on a leash.

His eyes dart up— eye, you realise. The right side is a bright blue, the left is clouded, framed by a scar slicing down from his brow to his cheek.

“Who are you?” He asks like an accusation.

You hesitate, your heart still racing in panic.

You say your first name, then your family name, at that the man tuts and raises himself to full height, keeping the great dane on a short leash. “Right. What are you doing out here?”

“Just… looking around.”

“Just looking around someone else’s house?”

Gods now you’re really starting to panic. He’s glaring at you as if it’s your fault his dog just made a break for you.

He huffs irritably through his nose. “Look, Vhagar’s not always friendly and especially not around strangers. Be careful, yeah?” 

Vhagar now seems content enough sitting by her owner’s side, wagging her tail and panting with her tongue out. Her grey coat is covered in sand, especially her paws and her nose.

“If your dog’s not always friendly why wasn’t she on a leash?” 

His face hardens. Frowning suits his sharp features and the intensity of his eye. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but this is my fucking house.”

That explains the blond hair, and you suppose now he has the same lanky look as Daeron and the same gauntness in his face as Aegon.

“Right, your dog could have just mauled me but thanks for the friendly reminder.” You turn towards the house and mutter loud enough for him to overhear, “prick.”

You can’t shake the frustration. Nothing takes the edge off, not the hot stream of water from the shower, the routine of your skincare or the feeling of sinking into an impossibly soft mattress. Dragonstone is perfect… and all you want to do is scream, just a little.

Breakfast is served in the morning room, next to the kitchen, according to the text you got from Helaena. You put a swimsuit on, a patterned one piece and pull on some shorts. Before you head downstairs you grab a pair of sunglasses, a bottle of suncream and a book, determined that your morning will be peaceful and idyllic.

People flitter into the morning room as they please. Helaena is still in her pyjamas, tucking into a bowl of yoghurt and fruit. Daeron comes in and starts eating toast off Alicent’s plate, having already run a casual 5k about the grounds.

The man from last night is hovering by a side table, placing sausages and bacon onto a small plate. He glances sideways at you as you enter. 

You keep your teeth pressed together as you reach for a plate and go for the platter of pastries, reaching for an almond croissant.

His elbow must be a few inches from yours. “Morning,” he mutters.

You were half expecting him to act like you don’t exist. “Morning,” you mumble back.

“Have you two already met?” Helaena asks loudly from the table.

“Briefly,” he says.

“And you didn’t actually tell me your name,” you say, adding some strawberries to your plate for good measure.

“The boy has no manners,” Daeron says in a mocking voice, earning him an exasperated chide from his mother. Helaena giggles to herself.

He faces you fully. “Aemond,” he says.

“Good for you,” you say, and go to take a seat beside Helaena.

“Tea or coffee?” she asks you, reaching towards the two silver pots in the middle of the table.

“Coffee, please.”

Helaena makes a shocked expression. “Blasphemy. I’m a tea girl.” 

As Helaena pours some coffee into a china cup, Aemond takes the free seat opposite you. Your heart races a little, infuriated at the sight of him, somewhat guilty that your time at Dragonstone has already soured and his entire family is there to see it.

You add just a dash of milk to your coffee. In the corner of your eye you see him watching you, fork hovering in front of his face. You muster the confidence to look up and he averts his eye.

After you’ve finished your breakfast you head out to the patio, down the stone steps and to the pool, settling on one of the lounge chairs. Helaena has gone back up to her room to change and bring you both down a towel.

You lather suncream on your limbs, face and neck, and open your book. This is a nice kind of heat, one that you’re more prepared for. You can almost feel it permeating your skin, breathing new life into your blood. 

You get a few moments of bliss until a silhouette appears beside you.

You raise your eyes from the page, over the edges of your sunglasses, staring ahead at the surface of the pool. You can smell a man’s aftershave, and you can tell he’s too tall to be Aegon.

Ice clinks against glass. He leans down to place something on the small table beside you. “Look, I think we got off on the wrong foot.”

You don’t want to turn your head, that might be misinterpreted as you actually caring.

But then Aemond’s voice takes on a lighter tone and he says, “Are you reading Crime and Punishment?” 

You scrunch your brows in bewilderment as you look up at him.

His eye moves between your face and the book in your lap

“Yeah,” you say, shifting your legs and drawing your knees closer to your torso, “I’m finding it a bit boring to be honest.”

His lips are parted ever so slightly and you can see the tips of his teeth. “It’s one of my favourite books.”

“I think that might explain a lot,” you say.

The corner of his mouth flickers like he might smile. He holds it back. 

“What’s this?” You ask, looking down at the glass of iced coffee he’s placed on the table. 

“A peace offering,” Aemond says. “I really am sorry about yesterday evening. I just… panicked. Vhagar isn’t always good around people she doesn’t trust. She bit my nephew once actually.”

“Oh, not good.”

“It was years ago, and to be fair to her—” he doesn’t finish that sentence. He presses his lips together. “I just thought I should apologise to you.”

Even when apologising he sounds smug.

“Thanks, I appreciate it,” you say.

He hums, it’s cryptic and it throws you off a little. He looks at you like he has a secret, like he’s managed to spot something that you haven’t. 

You feel aware of yourself and now you can’t breathe without doing it consciously. You feel beads of sweat forming at the back of your neck, the warmth of your own skin with your thighs pressed together, the pulse in your chest, the restless feeling in your stomach. You’re worried you might do something stupid, but how could you? You’re only sitting in a swimsuit and sunglasses, while Aemond is doing nothing to hide the fact that he’s looking at you– studying you with a hint of excitement in his eye.

And after about a minute of this he says, “enjoy your morning,” turning and strolling towards the patio. 

You clench your jaw, determined that you won’t look back at him, but you listen to his footsteps as they move away. 

With each line you read, you can only think of Aemond pouring over every word and making this book his bible. You imagine his hands holding the cover, his fingertip dragging over the page, his lips parted in concentration. It feels intrusive, it feels too involved. You couldn’t possibly put this book down now.

Aemond is an understated presence amongst his own family. He often lurks in the library or in a corner of the sitting room with a book. He wanders the gardens with his headphones on. He takes Vhagar down to the beach every evening and some nights you steal glances of them from a window at the front of the house. He gets these headaches, something to do with the scar over his eye, and when he does he likes to retreat to his room. When he is around for dinner he sits at the head of the table, opposite his father but miles away from him. He’s not a big talker but when he does have something to add to the conversation he commandeers it. Everyone stops to listen when he speaks.

You like watching him, the way he fiddles with anything within his reach, how he strokes his fingertips over his hands, the edge of his jaw. You look for his microexpressions, the twitches of his brow and the quirk of his lips when he finds something amusing, and how at the mentions of sensitive subjects or certain names, his eye widens. 

He smirks when he sees you looking, you don’t mind that he knows that you are.

You don’t want to seek him out, but you don’t try to avoid him either. He’s always somewhere in your periphery, his hand brushing against yours at the dinner table, the smell of his Marlboros wafting from the patio when you’re sitting by the pool which makes you wonder if he’s watching you. In the evenings after dinner, you and the Targaryen siblings hang around the firepit late into the night. Helaena and Daeron talk about constellations and roast marshmallows, Aegon plucks on a guitar, and you and Aemond fall into a game of pretending like you’re not looking at each other. 

Some nights you sit across from him, your view distorted by the heat and the flames. Other nights he dares to sit beside you, close enough that his leg will rest against yours. He keeps his voice soft until you’re leaning in closer to catch every word he says, this insufferable man who bings you a coffee every morning and asks you about the books you read.

One night Aemond is sat beside you. Helaena sings along to Aegon’s guitar, Daeron drums his fingers against his legs, gazing in wonder at his siblings because moments like this are a rarity for him.

“Do you forgive me yet?” Aemond asks, his arm draped along the back of the bench you sit on. Maybe he can read your mind because you’ve been silently begging for him to come closer… closer…

Your senses are hazy, the smoke of the fire, the scent of cigarettes and aftershave lingering on Aemond’s shirt, the glasses of wine you had with dinner, the clear, cold night air piercing the backs of your arms. He notices you shivering and slips his arm around your shoulders, slowly, so you have a chance to tell him to stop. His heat is white hot. Your chest feels hollow and weightless.

Everything about him is hypnotising, the curve of his mouth, his self-assuredness, the look in his eye that’s gentle and intense all at once.

Your body feels heavy; you should probably go to bed soon. “Do you care if I forgive you?”

He frowns, less disappointed, more intrigued and lifts his hand to brush your hair from your neck, fingertips grazing over your skin. Your body stiffens in his wake, like electricity coursing through your shoulders, down your spine.

“I’d hate to have it hanging over my head,” he mutters.

You turn your head and now your faces are inches apart. His nose twitches as he breathes, you notice.

His palm comes to rest on your bare thigh, below the hem of your shorts. In the corner of your eye you see heads of silver hair glancing across the firepit. Aegon chuckles. You’re content to let the distractions fade away. “Keep bringing me coffees and I’ll consider it.”

The next day you’re laying on your bed, enjoying the cool of the early evening against your damp skin and hair after a shower. How you can be so exhausted after a day of reading by the pool makes you despair a little. It’s the heat, it messes with your brain.

The music through your headphones is interrupted by a notification.

Helaena Targaryen: Aemond said he’s off to walk the dogs if you want to join him.

You frown at the screen. Did he want Helaena to ask you? You specifically?

Surprisingly, you were getting on rather well with Aemond today, not enough for him to text you himself, or ask for your number for that matter. At the very least, things have been less hostile since your first encounter. You saw him at breakfast and he asked you how you were getting on with Crime and Punishment, if you had finally realised that it’s the best piece of literature put to the world (his words). You said you were not convinced, only because it was fun to argue about it with him. While you were sitting by the pool he came down in a pair of black trunks and no shirt, swam twenty laps in twenty minutes, then dried off in the lounge chair next to yours. Later, while Helaena was sitting with you, he appeared from the kitchen with two bowls of strawberries with the stems cut off. And then at lunch he sat between Aegon and Daeron, and hardly looked at you.

Your thumbs hover over the keyboard, painfully conscious that Helaena will be able to see that you’re typing.

Helaena Targaryen: I think it’s part of him ‘making amends’ with you.

Helaena Targaryen: He probably still feels bad about it.

Helaena Targaryen: Loser.

You smile to yourself and type out your reply: Yeah, why not. Where does he want me?

While Helaena starts to type you quickly pull on some shorts and a clean t-shirt. Your phone dings while you’re in front of the mirror, dabbing concealer under your eyes.

Helaena Targaryen: Front door. Five mins. Have fun :) 

It will probably take you five minutes to find your way down to the entrance hall anyway. You finish your face off with some blush on the apples of your cheeks and a thin amount of mascara on your lashes. There’s not much you can do about your wet hair, but other than that you’re mostly satisfied with yourself, so you pull on a pair of trainers, slip your phone into your back pocket and hurry through the corridors of Dragonstone.

He’s waiting for you in the entrance hall by the door, Vhagar, the great dane on one leash, Sunfyre, the golden labrador on another. He gives you a half smile as you approach them.

“Who am I walking?” you say.

“My girl stays with me,” he says, offering you Sunfyre’s leash, which you take, ruffling his ears.

“Vhagar is your girl then, is she?” you ask as Aemond leads you out the door and down the front steps, past the spot where she scared you half to death. The dogs are eager to storm ahead but Aemond keeps Vhagar on a tight lead, so you do the same.

“I suppose. We’ve had great danes forever, my father’s very fond of them. We got Vhagar when I was sixteen and well, we just like each other a lot I guess.” 

“What about Sunfyre?”

“He’s Aegon’s really, but mostly he stays at the Keep with mum and dad. Aegon doesn’t really stay in the same place long enough.”

“Sounds exciting.”

“Yeah well, he does what he wants. This way,” Aemond says, nodding towards the downhill path to the beach. You’ve been down here with Helaena already, a winding gravel path lined with bushes and brambles down the cliff face. Vhagar plods along leisurely, Sunfyre can’t get down fast enough. When you stumble, Aemond steadies you, a large hand wrapped around your forearm. “He can run off now anyway,” he mutters, undoing the leash, and Sunfyre darts along the path in a golden flash.

Low in the sky, you see the sun dancing along the surface of the sea, waves rolling orange and blue into white foam as they meet the shore.

“What about you?”

Aemond looks at you with a brief look of bewilderment.

“Are you not doing what you want?”

He tries to conceal a frown, pouting his lips slightly. “Maybe I did for a bit, wound up working for Targ Corp, so I don’t see what difference any of it made.”

Once you reach the sand and Sunfyre is sniffing at some rocks along the base of the cliff, Aemond looks at you. “Are you alright if I take her off the leash?”

Vhagar looks pleadingly up at her owner, her tail thrumming against the ground.

“Yeah, of course,” you say.

“I just didn't know if you’d be comfortable after…”

“Oh,” you say, “thanks for considering it, but yes, it’s more than fine.”

Aemond grins as he undoes the clasp connecting the lead to Vhagar’s collar.

“What?” you ask.

“Does that mean you forgive me now?”

You fold your arms, your cheeks straining as you try to withhold the extent of your smile. “You do make a good coffee, I’ll give you that.”

Sunfyre and Vhagar entertain themselves, chasing each other, running to the edge of the water where the waves rush over the sand and retreat again. You and Aemond walk along the shore where the sand is damp and stable. Aemond says the tide will be coming in within the hour.

“So why work for Targ Corp if you don’t want to?” you ask him. 

Aemond contemplates this for a moment, making a low humming noise in his throat. “If I really didn’t want to, I wouldn't.”

“But if Aegon gets to do what he wants, why don’t you?”

He looks down at his shoes, white sneakers, and digs his hands into the pocket of his joggers. “I remember thinking when I finished my bachelor’s, there were lots of things I was good at.”

You make a teasing face.

“No, I just mean there’s lots of things I could have done. I thought about being a curator, or something, you know? I did my dissertation on that actually, how museums and exhibitions can distort the past as well as preserve it–” he interrupts himself with a short tut. “Sorry, I don’t need to bore you.”

Your eyes trail along the curve of his jaw and his chin in the fading light. The wind is gentle, whispering over the bare skin of your cheeks, your arms, your legs. The smell of sea salt lingers in your nose and on your tongue. “I’m not bored,” you say.

With a shy sort of smile he tells you more, how he used to spend hours in the museums in Oldtown, looking at exhibits on Dorne, Essos and Valyria, the papers he read, the cultural memory and the dissonance. “History and heritage, when you think about them, are inherently vague concepts,” he says, “because they’re all based on claims and narratives that are difficult to determine and if they are clear cut, they’re biased. So how do we find the truth? How do we know that what we’re claiming is the right story is actually accurate?” You find yourself watching the parts of him you usually do. He speaks with his hands, indicating and gesturing and moving them randomly when he’s trying to think of a word or explain himself. Occasionally he runs his fingers through his hair or rubs his chin. And his single eye is wide, looking up as he pieces together a thought, looking back to you so he knows you’re still listening. 

“But after all that, you went and trained to be an accountant?” you ask.

“You should have seen the look on my father’s face when I told him I wanted to do a masters in museum studies. So yeah, accounting it was.”

It makes you sad, but you don’t want to tell him that. The entire time you’ve been here you’ve never seen Aemond so animated, talking about something he seems to love.

“What about you? What are your big life plans?” he says.

“Anything but accounting.”

He chuckles. “Yeah, I bet.”

“I’ll do a masters eventually, but I want to work for a little bit. I’ll start applying for jobs when I’m home.”

“In King’s Landing?”

“Yeah.” You look back up at the dark stone of the cliff, the layers and straight lines, the tops of the castle’s turrets just visible from the shore. “Yeah, yeah I think there’s so much pressure to find something to do. I mean, I was trying to focus on my dissertation and my exams, and I kept having these weird moments where I’d think, what’s the point? I don’t have a job ready to go. I don’t have a place on a masters course. I don’t have any plans to travel or volunteer at an orphanage in Meereen. It was like there was a timer going off in my brain and if I didn’t make something of my life before my exams were over, well it was all going to be a waste.” Now you’re the one moving your hands mindlessly, and you don’t know why but saying it all out loud makes you nervous. “Sometimes I feel like I’m running out of time.”

You look back at Aemond and realise you’ve stopped walking. Somewhere along the beach the dogs bark and splash in the shallowest part of the water. Aemond is watching you. He still has his hands in his pockets, his lips curled into a vague smile. “You have plenty of time, don’t worry,” he says. 

It suddenly strikes you what Alicent had mentioned, about him moving back to King’s Landing.

Without stepping away from him you take a mental note of him, your eyes glancing up and down. You want to remember his silhouette, his posture and how he stands, the way he angles his chin, the way he likes to hold his hands behind his back, the joggers and the shape of his torso though his t-shirt. You think you could recognise him at a brief glance, a single body in a crowded city. You think you’d find him.

Aemond meets your eye and raises his brow. 

You smile slightly to fein innocent interest. “We’ll be neighbours, we might see each other wandering around the city.”

But you realise you’ve made a mistake. His amusement starts to fade from his face, his shoulders stiffening. He turns and puts his middle finger and thumb in his mouth to whistle the dogs. They both freeze and bound back towards you. “Tide will be coming in soon,” he says to you.

He has Vhagar and Sunfyre on their leads again. By the time you come back to the path on the cliff the sky is a dull shade of dark blue. The castle looms in darkness and the light comes from within, golden through all of its windows.

“I’m sorry if I was a bit of a downer,” you say.

“You’re fine,” Aemond says. Your steps sound in perfect time along the gravel, up to the front steps. Vhagar and Sunfyre huff and pant, pulling on their leads and eager for a rest.

You reach the door and Aemond opens it. Down the hall one of the butlers is waiting to take the dogs.

“It’s just, I thought we were getting on.”

“We are,” Aemond mutters. “Do you think we are?”

It’s hard to tell with Aemond. He’s polite when he needs to be, easily irritated around his siblings. He’s so calm and composed, but you can see it in his eye when he’s thinking– you just don’t know what. But then there are moments like this, when you think you’ve scratched the surface, when his gaze lingers on you and his eye is soft but intent. When he brings you a coffee in the morning, when he tells you about his favourite book and the things he wishes he’d done with his life.

You’re standing in the entrance hall. Dragonstone is alive, filled with people and distant sounds. Beyond the ancient walls the wind picks up and the tide is coming in. If you took one step closer to Aemond, your navel would be pressed against his.

“I want us to get on,” you say.

“Me too.”

“And I thought we were getting somewhere.”

“Maybe we are,” he says. “I liked this, you’re a good listener.”

“I don’t get that a lot.”

“Do you not?”

“Well I suppose it helps if the person speaking has something interesting to say.”

“Oh,” he says with a little nod, “I thought you were going to say you just liked me that much.”

“That helps too.”

No taglist, follow @ficsbygee and turn on post notifs for updates <3

[ja3hwa]

♡ 𝐖𝐚𝐬𝐡 𝐈𝐭 𝐀𝐥𝐥 𝐀𝐰𝐚𝐲 | 𝐊.𝐘𝐒 ♡

【Synopsis】 : Anger surged through your lover, and you were the only one who could calm him.

『Word count』 : 1.61k

-> Genre: Smut. Fluff. Little bit of Angst.

Pairing: Sub!Yeosang x SoftDom!Reader

[Warnings] : Tiny bit of self hatred. Swearing. Anger issues. Pet name (Baby boy, Sangie. Baby). Making out. Hickeys. Male whimpering. Hand job. Bathtub sex. Unprotected sex. Multiple orgasms. Crying. Dirty talk.

Networks: @blossomnet @atzhouse

Note: Thank you, @yeosangiess, for this request, I haven't written subby men in a while, so this is refreshing to write, hehe ♡♡

Masterlist | Navigation | By Jae a Ko-Fi ♡

Some of Yeosang’s members swear they saw smoke fuming out of Yeosang’s ears as he left the studio. Even going as far as saying he was leaving footprints of chard wood on the timber floor as he stormed out. The guys had texted you, Hongjoong even went as far as calling you, warning that Yeosang had been pushing himself and that he was very agitated and blowing up at everyone.

You, of course, reassured that you had everything under control and that Yeosang would feel better after some relaxation as you put it. Hongjoong wished you luck saying there was nothing to change your lover's sour mood. But you knew him best. You knew what Sangie needed. So once you hung up, you got to work. Grabbing bath bombs scented in vanilla and berries. Oils and candles alike and some chocolates that you knew he liked. The bath was filled to the brim with bubbles when you were done with it, and you had an order prepared for Yeosang’s favourite fried chicken placed so he could eat something hot when he got out.

You were proud of what you had made. A little safe space for him. And as you lit the last candle, you heard the lock on the front door unlatch, making you aware your partner was home. “Honey! I’ll be out in a second.”

 Yeosang, on the other hand didn’t say anything to your call. Instead, he grumbled, still radiating anger towards himself and the world. Why couldn’t he just get the line right? Why did he have to miss his queue in the choreo every goddamn time? Why the fuck was the buckle on his shirt not opening like he wanted it to. Oh my god, where are the fucking scissors? He basically threw his phone, wallet and keys on the counter before slamming his hands down, giving up on the stupid piece of fabric that held his shirt onto his jacket. He was so tired. Every little thing that could go wrong went wrong. Everything he did was wrong. God why did he have to hate himself.

“Baby…” Your sweet, soft voice called him out of his mind, making him lazily tilt his head over to you. His heart stopped seeing you completely bare of clothing. Only being left in your cute little pink panties he bought you not long ago. He had to gulp, taking in your beautiful figure. Everything about you was perfect. “Come with me…”

He took your hand without hesitation, letting you lead him towards the bathroom without as much as a peep from him. He sighed immediately once the sweet smell of vanilla entered his nose. His eyes closed, taking in the aroma, and while he stood there silently. You slowly undid the belts and loops and zipped off his clothes, slowly stripping him from head to toe. And he let you do it. Taking a moment to give you control. He just wanted you to take it all away. “Join me…” He spoke finally for the first time since coming home.

You give me a small smile, knowing he was going to ask that already. So you give me a little nod, getting in the tub first before letting him take a seat in between your spread legs. You slowly began to wash him, bringing the water to his shoulders, working your thumbs into his tight skin. His groans bounced off the tiled wall of the bathroom, becoming music to your ears. He was finally relaxing, and you were the reason for it. “Tell me what happened.”

You knew talking about it would help him, and deep down, he knew it too. So he began to explain. Explain how he couldn’t seem to do anything right. Now, every little thing got in his way. Heck, even Wooyoung’s laughter itched his brain the wrong way that he ended up yelling at his friend… he felt terrible for that one. “I just feel like… I’m useless. Nothing is going right for me.”

“You’re not useless, Sangie.” Your voice tickled his neck as he snuggled more into your chest with his back flushed against yours.  “You are just having a bad day. Everyone has them.” Your hands glide over his biceps, playing with the bubbles stuck to his soft skin.

“I know...I just…” He didn’t know what he wanted anymore. Did he want to scream? Or was crying a better option? Did he want you to keep rubbing his arms with the gentlest touch, or did he need more… the way your fingers smoothed over skin. How you knew always the right places to touch him. His cock twitched in the water at his thoughts. Growing impatient, the annoyance from today brewing into pure sexual tension.

“What do you need, Sangie?” You asked innocently, having no clue what the bubbles were hiding beneath. Yeosang groaned, tilting his head so his face was now inches from yours. You could see the sparkle in his eyes. The anger that turned to desperation. You suddenly knew what he needed, and with a parted mouth and a whimper, Yeosang answered you.

“P-please…help me.” His soft whine caused a smile to form on your face, locking your lips gently on his. Your hand snaked from his arm to his cock, feeling he had grown harder in every moment. Your fingers wrapped around the shaft giving it a light squeeze, causing Yeosang to bite your lip in a whine. “P-please baby. I n-need it..arghnn.”

Your breath mixed with his as he kept repeating his sweet little ‘pleases’ against your tongue. You started to stroke him, feeling his cock twitch with a delicate touch. “That’s it, baby. Relax let go.” You murmured against his lips, slowly kissing down his cheek and jaw, suckling a big red mark on his collarbone. Yeosang gripped the sides of the tub, saliva painting his plump lips and hiccuped whimpers spilling from him. He felt pure bliss. Finally getting a taste of relaxation as he came all in the water.

“I...I need more… please.” he cried, tears trickling down his hot red cheeks. You shifted, feeling yourself become wet from your lover's little whimpers. You kiss his shoulder before squeezing him tightly, making him throw his head back in a silent scream.

“Do you want to be inside me, baby boy?” You suggested, making his eyes snap open to greet your dark ones.

“Yes, yes. Please, I need it. I want to feel you around me so badly.” You wiped a tear away from his cheek, wetting his cheek with some of the bubbles that clung to your fingertips. You let him go, giving him a moment to breathe, and with no grace, you shifted in the tub until you were sitting on his lap. Yeosang leaned back, his hands still holding the edge of the tub, making his knuckles turn white. “P-please baby. I need you.” He gulps feeling your cunt so close yet so far away from him. He was about to lose his mind if he didn’t feel you right this second.

“It's okay, pretty boy. I’ll give you whatever you need. You want my pussy. All you gotta do is ask.” You kiss his lips tenderly, holding his cheek in your palm. He melted, his hands reaching for your hips desperately. He tugged, needed to feel inside you. He needed to feel your soft velvet walls wrapped around him as if it were the only thing that would keep him alive.

“Please, please, baby. I need your pussy so badly. I think I might explode.” His whimpering words made you chuckle as you lined your aching cunt to his tip. His wide teary eyes stared hopelessly into yours, a twinkle shining in them from the moonlight creeping its way into the steamed room. He held his breath as he felt you take him inch by inch until you completely bottomed him out. “Fffucckkk huhngg.”

“That’s his baby, let go of all that tension.” You rubbed his shoulders as you kissed along his jaw. Yeosang was sobbing quietly at this point on the verge of already emptying his load when you had only just sunk onto him. He needed this. This was what he had been craving. His beautiful precious partner riding him like it was the only thing you both required in life.

“Fuck, I’m sorry. I’m c-coming.” Yeosang cried holding you desperately. His face disappeared into your shoulder as he felt his whole body shake from pleasure. His load quickly filled your insides, making you moan out. Your hips didn’t stop until you knew his high was gone, leaving just a peaceful lingering silence along with the soft heavy beats of two hearts.

“y-you didn’t come..” He hadn't left your shoulder, words mumbling against your skin. You just chuckled, saying it was okay and that he was the priority, but he didn’t take that answer lightly. Pulling you away from him, he held your face between his hands. You could clearly see his tear-stained red cheeks and puffy eyes from your view. Even when he cries, he still looked eternal. “But I wanna make you feel good too baby…”

You grabbed his wrist, kissing each of them softly before chuckling. “I’ll be fine. I feel good, making you feel good. And that’s all that matters right now.” You softly kissed his cheek. “Now relax, we have all night for you to make me cum. But for now, let me look after you, okay?”

Yeosang sighed, letting you carry on with kissing away his pain. And once all the bubbles had popped and the water ran cold, he would whisper, answering you softly…

“okay…”

—

𝐃𝐈𝐒𝐂𝐋𝐀𝐈𝐌𝐄𝐑 : 𝑇𝐻𝐼𝑆 𝐼𝑆 𝐼𝑁 𝑁𝑂 𝑊𝐴𝑌 𝐴 𝑇𝑅𝑈𝐸 𝐷𝐸𝑃𝐼𝐶𝑇𝐼𝑂𝑁 𝑂𝐹 𝑇𝐻𝐸 𝐴𝑇𝐸𝐸𝑍 𝑀𝐸𝑀𝐵𝐸𝑅𝑆. 𝑇𝐻𝐼𝑆 𝐼𝑆 𝑃𝑈𝑅𝐸 𝐹𝐼𝐶𝑇𝐼𝑂𝑁 𝐴𝑁𝐷 𝐼𝑆 𝑁𝑂𝑇 𝑇𝑂 𝐵𝐸 𝑇𝐴𝐾𝐸𝑁 𝑆𝐸𝑅𝐼𝑂𝑈𝑆𝐿𝑌

© 𝐉𝐚𝟑𝐡𝐰𝐚. Do not steal, plagiarise, translate, repost, or use my work in any way, shape, or form.

[lydiadeetzgf]

Invisible String

Oscar Tully x Blackwood!reader

summary: This is the story of Benjicot's younger sister and Oscar Tully. Some would say it was of coincidence, others would say it was fate.

word count: 1.4k

warning: fluff

Author’s note: please let me know what you think of this in the comments! I’m always open to feedback!

Green was the color of the grass Where I used to read at Centennial Park I used to think I would meet somebody there

Blackwood Vale consisted of Raventree Hall and the Godswoods, with a large green pasture in between. The lofty, old stone walls of Raventree are covered in moss. The gate is flanked by two enormous square towers, and there is a square tower at each corner of the wall. It is further protected by a stone-lined, deep moat. There is a large timber keep and a filthy outer ward inside the walls. The solar of Lord Blackwood in the keep is spacious and bright, with enormous dark oak beams. Its walls are covered in wool tapestries, and its latticework doors, which have yellow glass windows fashioned like diamonds, gaze out over Raventree Hall's godswood. It has a chair with a high back. There is a massive, ancient, dead weirwood within the godswood. Hundreds of ravens arrive every evening around sunset and spend the entire night roosting on the dead weirwood, just as they have done for countless years. There is a view of two of Raventree's gates from a height overlooking a stream close to the castle.

Her father had asked her that day to get her brother Benji from the grounds by the Godswoods as it was time for their supper. Just nine name days y/n walked down the green pasters with her black dress with ravens embraided on the bottom. As she walked closer, she saw her Benji, who was only two-name days older than her, training with his friends. The two boys were her brother’s age. One had curly hair, the other straight.

“Benji!” She shouted getting her brother and the boys’ attention, causing them to stop fighting.

“What?!” he shouted back rolling his eyes that his little sister was disturbing them.

“Father says it’s supper and that you need to come back.” y/n said coming closer to face him. 

“Fine.” Benji started to gather his things. Y/n could feel eyes watching her as she face her brother. Once Benji gathered his things he place his hand protectively on her back gently pushing her back to Raventree Hall.

“Are you going to introduce us to your sister Benji?” The boy with straight hair asked smirking, “It would be rude not to.”

Y/n glanced to see Benji rolled his eyes and slowly turned to face the boys. She too turned to see them. The boy with curly hair stared at the girl with admiration in his eyes causing her cheeks to turn red. 

“Y/n this is Kermit and Oscar Tully.” Benji gestured to both the Tullys, “Kermit and Oscar, this is Y/n my little sister.”

“Hello.” She shyly waved at the two.

Kermit bowed, “Pleasure to meet you.”

Oscar didn’t speak but softly waved hello back.

Time, curious time Gave me no compasses, gave me no signs Were there clues I didn't see?

By the age of ten and one y/n and Oscar had always seem to end up near each other. One time y/n was in the library reading a book on the Old Gods when she heard the doors smack open. To her surprise Oscar was standing there out of breath. He quickly shut the door and ran over to her. He grabbed her hand and dragged her under the table.

“What’s wrong?” She asked. “Why are we hiding?”

“Mine and your brothers are chase me. They wish to throw me in the river as a happy name day present.”

“It’s your name day?” She smiled at the boy as he nodded shyly, “Happy nameday.”

“Thank you.” The two spend the rest of the afternoon talking under that table.

At the age of ten and two y/n have perfected her embroidery skills, so much that she started to embroider on her dresses. Y/n had a plain dark blue dress in her wardrobe that she wish to dress up for fun. She spent a whole month embroidering the dress for a festival at Riverrun. When the festival came around her and her family arrived at Riverrun. Entering the great hall, y/n noticed Oscar coming over.

“You have fishes on your dress?” Oscar pointed out. Y/n’s plain dark blue dress had be transformed into a dress with fishes dancing with ravens on the bottom.

“Do you like it?” she asked smiling at the boy. “I did it myself. I thought it was fitting.”

“Yes, its very beautiful.” He smiled back blushing, “like you.” He held out his hand towards her, “would you like to dance?”

The girl smiled and took his hand.

Another time was when y/n was ten and three she was walking the riverbank. The Backwoods were in Riverrun as her father had business with Lord Grover. “Y/n!” She heard a voice shout out behind her. The girl turned to see Oscar stumbling along the riverbank behind her, causing her to smile.

“What are you doing here? I thought you would be with my brother and Kermit?” She asked the boy confusedly.

“But I would much rather be here with you.” He smiled brightly. The two continue walking the riverbank enjoying each other’s company.

And isn't it just so pretty to think All along there was some Invisible string Tying you to me?

It was a sunny day in Ravenvale. Y/n was in her chambers getting ready excitedly, as it was her ten and four name day. Her maids were putting on her favourite red empire silhouette dress with an ivy pattern on the long sleeves. As her maid, Anne did her hair there was a knock on her door.

“Come in.” She invited whoever was at the door. The door pushed open to reveal a muddy Oscar Tully. “Oscar!” Y/n smiled standing up and walking closer to him.

“Y/n.” The muddy boy said out of breath.

“Why are you covered in mud?” She looked at him confusedly tilting her head slightly.

“I was in the grounds getting you this…” He caught his breath and brought his arm from behind his back to reveal a bouquet of flowers, lavenders, sweet peas and hydrangeas. “Happy name day, y/n.”

The girl took the flowers gently from his hand and sniffed them, “thank you Os. I love them.” She smiled at the boy, who was grateful she like them. Y/n handed the flowers over to Anne and asked her to place them in a vase by her bed. Oscar then said goodbye and ran off to find his brother and Benji. Leaving y/n to her own thoughts.

She realised that she was nearing the age in which her father would marry her of to some lord in some old castle that did not care or love her and only would use her to produce heirs for himself. She wished to be loved and cared for by some who she would love and care for, she wished for someone to grow old with. The more she thought about it, the more she knew who she wished to marry. She wished for it to be Oscar Tully, the boy who had been by her side since she was nine and onwards. She wished for the boy with curly hair who gave her flowers.

One single thread of gold tied me to you

On a cold autumn afternoon y/n was summoned to the main hall by her father. As she walked the Hall’s corridors, she got more and more nervous. Had she done something bad? Had Benji blame her for something he did and now she had to cover for him again? Is she finally being married of to an old, dying lord? When she near the door to the main hall the guards opened the doors and announced her arrival.

There stood her father and brother along with Lord Grover and Oscar, smiling and laughing. She looked at the gathering in confusion, “you wanted to see me, father?” she asked.

Her father turned to see her standing there and smiled brightly at her, “y/n! come greet your betrothed and his grandsire!”

“Betrothed?” she looked at Oscar, who sheepishly smiled at her.

“Yes, Lord Oscar Tully is to be your husband.” Her father explained. “We just finalised the arrangement.”

“Really?” She smiled at him. Once her father nodded to confirm, y/n ran at Oscar and hugged him tightly almost knocking him to the ground. Oscar chuckled slightly and hugged back. “I’m glad it’s you.” She whispered.

Once y/n was ten and seven and Oscar was ten and nine they had their wedding. It was held at Riverrun and all the noble houses of the Riverlands attended. After the two had said their vows, Oscar passionately kiss her, and she kissed back. As everyone cheered, her brother and Kermit whooping at the two, the happy couple Oscar swept y/n off her feet and carried her down the aisle.

[the-fiction-witch]

Bracken Bunny P2

Media - House Of The Dragon Character - Davos Blackwood Couple - Davos X Reader Reader - (OC) Lady Y/n Bracken Rating - Smut (Non-Con) Word Count - 1900

Requested -

More please! Lowkey (highkey) into part 2! Would you consider it? I absolutely loved this Please part 2 Can we please get a part 2 of Bracken bunny?? I need to read what happens next 😫 MORE DAVOS PLEASE In desperate need of a part two for bracken bunny! So devious and wild

I contorted and writhed desperately trying to get myself out of his grasp. But Davos kept his hand locked around my upper arm leaving me with no choice but to walk with him. Often I tried to adjust myself slightly and to turn us around in circles but it never lasted long as he soon saw we were off-path and adjusted us back the way we needed to go. I screamed, swore and cursed his name a thousand times but it came out as nothing but muffled and mumbled grumbles from under the gag. If ever I tried to scream too loudly or draw attention to myself he would slap me hard on the ass to force my silence.

Finally, I saw it, Raventree Hall, The tall hall stood with ancient stone walls covered in climbing earthy moss, Large Square towers and a deep stone-lined moat.

I knew once I was inside it was too late, there would be little chance for my escape. And I hardly had hope of Davos letting me go, I used almost every last bit of my strength to try and get out of his grip but he forced me to the drawbridge, the only way across the deep moat.

“Who goes there?” A voice called out from the gate,

“It’s me you fuckwit!” Davos yelled,

“Ohh- Sorry- Who’s that with you?”

He chuckled, “Just a little bunny I found out hunting,” he purred, “Open the damn Gate!”

The thick wooden bridge slowly lowered revealing a well-kept courtyard, Davos dragged me inside with him walking me through the courtyard making sure no one saw my face.

The courtyard was busy with people. Many came and went from farming the various fertile lands House Blackwood owned, Blacksmiths working to make more and more weapons, and soldiers training and preparing. All ready for a battle at a moment’s notice, Likely a battle with my family.

He forced me inside the keep itself. The walls were tall and dark with a muddy smell to the air, and the timber rooms of the keep seemed cavernous and expansive with large dark oak beams high above it all. The walls were adorned with wollen tapestries, every piece of wood had intricate carvings, every door a detailed latticework, and each window had panes of diamond-shaped glass.

He forced me up through the Keep’s corridors until we reached a room, with stone walls lined with dark oak beams, a wooden floor, a stone fireplace in the corner, and a wooden bed lined with woven wool blankets with a window to the godswood above it.

I was thankful it wasn’t a prison cell, but fearful to be in his chambers.

He tossed my body onto the bed without care and locked the door behind him.

Davos came over to the bed leaving his weapons by the door, he pulled down the cloak and rested his finger in front of my nose. “You are not going to scream. You are not going to yell. I will remove the gag but you will not make a single sound. Do you understand me my little Bracken Bunny?”

I sighed knowing I didn’t have a choice, if I screamed the rest of his Blackwood family would come and I’d end up locked in a cell, or dead… or worse. So I nodded,

He smirked licking his bottom lip, “That’s a good girl,” He slowly untied the ribbon,

I quickly caught my breath staring into his dark brown eyes,

He grabbed my jaw hard, “I didn’t hear a thank you?”

“Thank you.” I spat,

“Humm that's a good little bracken bunny,” He smirked letting me go,

“What are you going to do with me?” I asked trying not to let my fear seep through,

He chuckled, “I am going to send a raven to your father, and we’re going to find out just how much Lord Bracken values his precious little daughter.” He growled, “You, my little bunny are going to stay here with me,” He crawled over me pinning my hips to his bed, “And we are going to have a lot of fun.” He stroked some hair from my face, “I am going to put a price on every little inch of you little bunny, your hair, your skin, your … maidenhead. All of it will have a price that your father is going to have to pay if he wants left intact.”

I tried to squirm out of his grip but he was far too strong, “My father would bring his army and burn Raventree Hall to the ground,”

“Oh, would he? Shall we find out how much he values you? Exactly how much he values? Down to the gold dragon?” he smirked forcing up my dress,

I squealed but he clamped a hand over my mouth,

“Quiet my little bracken bunny,” He growled licking my cheek,

“Don’t you dare,” I whispered,

“Don’t I?” He growled forcing me over onto my stomach pushing my head into the pillow and my feet on the floor so I’m bent over his bed. He forced my dress up to my waist exposing me completely to him,

I whined in humiliation at being so exposed, I kicked my feet trying to keep him away but he grabbed my ankles and forced my feet to the floor,

“Umm… such a cutie, “Humm… I best prep the raven now, I don’t know how long I can look at this cute little ass without ravishing it,” He growled his hands stroking my ass and digging his nails in as he forced my cheeks apart as far as they would go,

I squealed against the pillow in pain as he kept me like this for a solid minute making sure he got a good look at me, “If you do anything to me… It’ll start a war.”

“Will it?” he smirked, “Now that will be a war worthy of a song,” He growled slapping my ass hard,

“Ahh!” I complained,

“Ohh yeah do that again,” He growled slapping me again,

“Ahhh! Stop!” I pleaded,

He forced me up again by my hair and cut my hands loose with his knife,

I immediately went to hit him but he grabbed my hands and forced my wrists into chains that he attached to the bedpost of his bed, he chuckled slyly as he waved his knife around me and paced the half circle around me before he pressed the blade to my stomach,

“I think I have been very merciful, I could gut you, From cunt to cranium if I wanted to.” He growled, “But I have been very merciful, and I feel very reasonable. You are my prisoner, and you have my word that I will only harm what your family doesn’t pay to protect, So be a good little bunny and behave or your father gets a head arriving home to Stone Hedge,” He smirked cutting my dress and forcing it off me leaving me naked and utterly at his mercy, “Fuck… look at you,” He chuckled pacing around me once more, “I am gonna enjoy every last moment of this,” He growled in my ear, as his hands gripped me one on my hip and the other between my legs as he loomed behind me pressing his chest against my back,

“Ahh!” I squealed as he touched me so aggressively with no way of stopping him,

He chuckled lowly, “You are such a pretty little bunny,” he began to roughly hold my mound with his palm, his fingers slid over my lips,

“Let me go. Stop this! You gave me your word!”

“I gave you my word that I wouldn’t harm anything your family pays to protect. So… I won’t cut your hair if they pay for it, I won’t break your fingers if they pay for it, I won’t… deflower you if they pay for it.” He growled his finger circling my entrance, “But this,” He purred pushing two of his fingers inside me,

“Ahhhhh!” I screamed,

“This is fair game little bunny,” he purred,

“Stop! Please!” I begged,

“Ohh you sound so cute when you beg,” He chuckled moving his fingers fast and hard moving them in and out with no mercy for me at all, “Where’s that cute little thing threatening me in the field?”

“You gave me-”

“I said no harm, all I’m doing is having fun with you.” He smirked, “And we are going to have so very much fun the next few days… or weeks… or months. However long till your family pays up to get you back,” He smirked his hand moving off my hip and coming around to rub my clit mercilessly,

“Ahhhhhh Please stop!” I screamed my legs already shaking as he worked, standing behind me one hand thrusting his fingers at a merciless pace, the other hand rubbing my clit,

“I’m not stopping till you cum,” He growled nibbling my neck, “Ohh yeah I can feel you trembling, I can feel how wet you are, I know your gonna cum, and I’m gonna force it out of you whether you want to or not. So… Come on my little bracken bunny cum for me.”

I squealed and screamed trying not to hold back but he moved so fast and so hard I didn’t really have a choice, my body responding to the stimulation even if I didn’t want it to, I knew I was close and I tried everything to keep it back and stop it from happening not wanting to give him the satisfaction, of my satisfaction.

“You’re going to be good while you’re here, aren’t you? You’re going to behave, and be a good little bunny for me? Let me touch you and play with you?” He growled as he gave my neck a hickey,

“..Okay,” I whined, knowing I was close and there was nothing I could do to stop it,

“What was that?” he purred,

“Okay!” I yelped in frustration,

“Okay, what?”

“Okay, I’ll behave.”

“Say it,”

“What!”

“Say. It.”

“I will behave,” I said through gritted teeth my knees almost buckling as my hips and legs trembled,

“Properly bunny,”

“I promise I will behave,”

“Almost… little more,”

“Uhhhhh please stop!” I screamed clenching around his fingers trying not to drip down his hands even if it was already too late for that,

“Come on, you can do it,” He growled, “Say it. Properly.”

“I promise I will behave lord blackwood,” I screamed,

But before he could say anything I hit my orgasm, screaming out as my body was flooded with pleasure, my toes curling against the wooden floor.

He chuckled as he watched me, slowing his fingers and letting me ride it out until I was nothing but a gasping mess in his arms, “Good little Bracken Bunny,” He cooed kissing my cheek, “You did so good,” He purred his fingers slow but they hadn’t stopped,

“Please I-” I gasped as his nonstop rubbing and thrusting was sending my body into overstimulation,

“And as for war my little pet bunny,” He smirked thrusting his fingers hard and fast inside me faster than he ever had made me scream for mercy, “I would go to war for this cunt. A Thousand times over.” Before he pulled them out leaving me to gasp, “Get some rest, I’ll go send the raven.” He smirked licking his fingers clean,

“Yes my lord blackwood,” I gasped,

“Good girl,” He smiled giving my lips a kiss, “Such a good little bracken bunny,” He smirked before he left the room shutting and locking the door behind him. 

[missisjoker]

Into the Storm

Pairing • Cregan Stark x Wildling!Reader

Tags • mentions of violence, threats of violence, smut.

Rating: Explicit - 18+

The reader infiltrates the Night's Watch castle with a purpose, but it doesn't go according to plan.

Wind-swept mound of the Eastwatch-by-the-sea creeped up on the horizon, dwarfed by the solemn colossal of the Wall stretching as far as the eye could see as you steadied the swaying boat and stepped on the shore.  The grey and green waters of the Bay of Seals were snarling at your feet, treacherous whirlpools dancing and sea foam licking the salty rocks, and the horizon darkened in anticipation of a storm.

You dragged the dingy boat between the boulders ashore, fastened the knot to a nearby tree, and huddled your leather coat tighter around your chest. The soft sheepskin protected well from the summer chill, but the cold winter gusts bit right through it and gnawed at your bones. You downed a sip of water and started climbing up; there was no time to waste idly, unless you wanted to freeze to death and have your eyes picked by seagulls.

Track to the crows’ nest took less than half a day – the dirt road was still dry, pine needles making your walk springy and fast, and you met no stray fishermen or men of the Night’s Watch patrolling the coastline.

Your heart ached- the plan was borderline suicidal, to sneak into the Crows castle and steal the maps of the Wall – but you had no choice; the merciless King-beyond-the-wall deserved to die, and your resolve to see it through settled in your bones like cold settles in the dead of winter.

You waited until dusk, hidden away from the prying eyes and piercing winds behind rotten logs and piles of stone at the castle’s foothill, watching centuries on the walls change and working out the pattern.

When the moon came up, full and pale like goat’s milk, you climbed up the wooden walls past the sleepy guards and hid yourself in the overhead crawlspace above the pathways. The space was narrow, musty and muddy, but you were called the Wild Cat for a reason.

Stealing food from the kitchens was fun no matter how meager and disappointing the bread and stew was; but even more entertaining was taking a hot bath in the cellar while you could’ve been discovered at any minute- and then gleefully watching two young crows fight about the missing hot water.

The outlay of Eastwatch was simple to remember- four watch towers marking each side, training yard and stables in the middle, the great keep with an armory adjacent to the dining hall, a kitchen, a medicinal room, and sleeping quarters squared around them in the form of a horseshoe, all connected by the timber walkways. And, most importantly, the study. A vaulted room in the southern tower, full of dust, books, scrolls, and maps of all kinds.  

It took you three more days of lurking in the shadows like a ghost to learn the shifts and movements, the change of guards, and to single out the “Maester” – a fat, bald man with a flock of greasy white hairs sticking out of his double chin that spent most of his time looking through books and drawing maps in the study. He, too, was easy to learn- after days of work and bossing younger crows around, when the sun set beyond the sea, he’d take a cup of spiced summer wine and a bowl of stew and leave the study empty until the morrow, giving you enough time to roam through the piles of scrolls in search of your target.

You perched in your hiding space, tasted the salty air on your lips, and shivered; the unmoving stillness that stayed in the air for the past few days dissipated; the harbinger of the storm left, and in its place, the winds were picking up again, relentless. The thin, dark line on the horizon was rolling closer, growing and covering half of the sky; even the daylight seemed to dim a little as a winter storm slowly crawled in from the sea.  

A sound of horses neighing and men talking in the yard tickled your ear and your curiosity peaked, but you couldn’t see around the dark logs of your hiding space, and decided not to crawl closer to look – the walls of the castle were wet, century-old pine logs weeping under the prickly wind, and with each dewy tear the movements became more and more unforgiving. Likely, it was nothing to worry about- perhaps they all were feeling the approaching storm and, just like you, were uneased by it.

Finally, the twilight followed the grey, muted dusk, and when the first torches lit up the courtyard, you went in for your target.

The heavy wooden door of the study didn’t have a lock, just a hook from the inside- and the bald master brazenly kept a stick right below the step to pry it open. You creeped into the room and squinted, trying to see in the dark.  By this time, you already knew the room well enough to move around without a light, you could still make out silhouettes and shapes in the dark once your eyes adjusted; an extinguished fireplace at the furthest wall, a heavy table and chairs in the middle, shelves covering the perimeter, and a sleeping bench near the window. Something felt different though, wrong, and made the hair on your neck stand up. It wasn’t just the sweet and mushroomy smell of the old parchments, spiced berry whiff of master’s summer wine, and smoke from the dead fire; no - you felt a faint hint of fir, rosemary, cedar, leather and something unfamiliar that made your heart beat faster. You reached out for a flint when a pile of furs on the bench shifted slightly, and a voice rough from sleep grumbled,

“What are you doing here?”

You froze for a brief second, blood rushing to your face and throat, then took a deep breath and conjured the most soothing and lulling voice you could master, a sweet lullaby tone you heard from women putting their babies to sleep;

“I’m but a dream, my dear, a shadow in the moonlight. Pay me no mind, precious child, lay your weary head to rest and sleep.”

Your feet tip-toed backward toward the door, heart hammering at your ribs, and for a moment, you heard no movement; you breathed out, thinking that your little trick worked, until your back hit something solid and the same voice, clear and fully awake now, growled right above your ear, sending goosebumps across your skin,

“Do you think me a dimwit?”

You yelped and tried to bolt- but your arm was caught in a vicious grip.

You pulled and twisted, tried to wriggle yourself free, but it did nothing; the grip only hardened, surely to leave bruises by the morrow- if you were to live that long - and the man started to pull you closer. So, you twirled on your heels and swung your free arm to slap him - he caught it effortlessly, cuffing your wrist with his hand, but released your other arm in the process- and you gleefully clocked him with it. The impact him stagger backward a step.

All that rowing did make my arms stronger,

You chuckled to yourself, but the humor was short-lived, as the man launched forward and grabbed you again, harder this time;

“Do not hit me again, boy, or I will break your arm.”

You did what you were told and bit him instead.

He cursed and released you again, more out of surprise than pain- but that gave you the needed moment of freedom to dash for the door.

You almost made it when strong arms snatched you by the by the scruff of your neck and hauled you back as if you were a ragdoll; the bastard was too fast and too strong and seemed to see perfectly in the dark, like an animal.

 In desperation, you reached for a knife and put the blade to the man’s throat.

“Unhand me at once.”

“Nay,”

The man grabbed the blade and twisted the knife out of your hand with ease, as if he was prying a toy out of a babe’s grasp, kicked your feet from under you, and threw you on the floor.

Your back hit the hardwood; you winced at the impact and a cracking sound your head made, and then choked out a whine as you were pinned down, the heavy weight crushing your thighs while an iron grip forced both of your arms above your head.

One hand.

That heathen was holding you down with one hand.

You felt anger and fear swirl together into acid, setting fires to your veins.

“What is this, a toothpick?”

His voice was laced with irritation as he examined your knife and ran a thumb along its dull rigged edge,

“An arse scratcher, perhaps?”

Fury rushed through you like boiling oil, as you thrashed and tried biting him again,

“Release me, and you’ll find out.”

You heard him chuckle as he shifted his legs and pinned you down harder,

“Settle down, you little waif.”

You allowed contempt to seep into your voice,

“I’m do not fear you.”

You could hear a grin on the man’s face as he spoke in a low, husky, taunting whisper laced with a touch of amusement,

“Now that is foolish”.

The knife thudded on the floor as the man threw it away like a broken toy and put his free hand on your throat, not enough to strip you of air, but enough to keep you fully under control.

“How many of you are there?”

“Just me.”

The fingers on your throat squeezed harder, pushing you deeper into the floor,  

“How many more?”

“It’s just me! Why do you need more? You can’t even handle one.”

A thumb pressed into your jugular vein, blocking the flow of blood and sending the sound of your own heartbeat echoing in your ears,

“I’m handling you well enough”.

Your fingers twitched with want to free your hand and scratch that arrogance off his face.

“How did you get in here?”

“I walked…”

The man’s hand suddenly left your throat and started roaming your body. You let out a hiss through gritted teeth,

“That desperate, are you, for a free folk to warm your bed? Your crow brothers don’t pleasure you enough?”

The man tsked disapprovingly and continued patting you down.

“I’m looking for weapons.”

His hand was big and warm, and you hated how it burned a trail of heat through the thin leathery coat and pants, barely suppressing a shiver when it slid down your chest right across your tit.  

It suddenly stopped on your waist.

“A woman?”

Realization barely a whisper from him, but it made the blood in your veins run cold, and you coiled, bracing for an assault that never came.

The weight suddenly shifted off your legs, still restraining, but not enough to hurt, and the man flickered something in his pocket and threw it into the fireplace.

You turned your head on instinct at the crackling sound of emerging fire and watched as the first licks of flame ate away the darkness until a strong hand forced your face straight.

You stared at your captor and, oh, the bastard was handsome.  Strong, sharp features framed by a mop of silky brown hair tumbling down broad shoulders that looked like they could shrug off a mountain, corded muscles, soft lips, and piercing eyes that changed color from blue to the stormy grey.

In another life, you would’ve fought other spear wives for a piece of him.

He grabbed your chin and tilted your head to the side, then to the other, observing;  his eyes traced over your body, you felt a traitorous blush creep up your cheeks, as if you were laid out naked under him, at his mercy and under his touch, and you hated yourself for the reaction. Your body was a wild thing, just like you- and it wanted to live, even if your mind has made peace with soon being dead.

“By the sea, then.”

“What?”

“You have salt marks on your boots. Did they run out of the men to send up here, so they risk a woman?”

“Busy with important things,”

His brows furrowed,

“Like what? Getting piss-drunk and fucking wild goats?”

Your eyes narrowed in frustration as you stared into his steel blue ones,

“As if you’re any better, fraternizing with the enemy in the middle of the night.”

“Aren’t fraternizing yet, lass, just getting acquainted.”

Your stomach did a weird jump at the way words rolled off his tongue, and you noticed a faint blush dusting his cheeks.  

“How did you get across the wall?”

“By flapping my arms.”

He braced himself on the free arm and bent closer to you,

“Why are you here? And do not jest; you’re at the end of my patience, a woman that you might be.”

“I need weapons.”

“How much can you fit into your coat?”

“It’s more spacious than it looks.”

He considered you for a moment while you tried not to move, and definitely not to think how the heat of his body was warming you up from head to toe. You must’ve hit your head too hard, because all you could think of was how good he felt on top of your thighs, and how much better he would’ve felt between them.

“Why not trade with the townsfolk?”

 “They don’t have enough castle-forged steel. And yours are better, sharper. They sing when they hit other steel. They sing when they hit the ice. What’s the secret? What do you put in them, crow?”

“Virgin blood. And I’m not a crow.”

“Must be hard to come by.”

He nodded in agreement,

“Aye, very toilsome. And what do you want them for?”

 “Winters are unforgiving. Bet you know nothing of how hard the winters can get up north.”

His mouth tightened, voice sounded controlled, which made it frightening for the lack of emotion in it.

“I know enough, and your hardships are of your own making.”

The fury bubbled in your chest again as you hissed back at him, craning your neck so your noses were almost touching,

“Yes, we were banished beyond the Wall by the Starks simply because we didn’t want to live on our knees.”

He threw you a dirty look,

 “Instead, now you live on your back.”

Blood rushed to your cheeks, and in a newly found bout of strength, you bucked your hips violently enough to throw him off on the floor. 

He landed with a surprised thud as you scrambled to your feet and rushed to the door, but he was faster, again, and stronger - always has been. He grabbed you by the waist and pushed you into the wall, brought you face to face, his arms and his body caging you in. 

You felt goosebumps of fear crawl over your skin as he snarled at you,

“You think you can just prance in here, take what you desire and leave with impunity? Perhaps I should give you to the guards; they will whip the right answers out of you.”

You braced on the wall as your knees almost gave up under you;

“Please don’t” – barely a whisper.  

His sneer was taunting,

“Afraid of a little pain?”

You suppressed a shiver and looked him straight into those cold eyes, battling back treacherous tears,

“Half of your crows are rapists and murderers, whatever they do to me, it won’t be whipping.”

He froze for a second, then his features darkened as he straightened up, a full head taller than you, muscles rolling under the shirt, dwarfing you by his presence. His voice dropped lower,

“I would never allow that”, and for a brief second, you believed him.

Which gave you a crazy idea.

A violent roar of thunder rattled the glass window, and that was enough for you to slip from his hands and dash away, but not to the door.

You sprinted to the table in the center of the room, grabbed a piece of stale bread from the plate the maester left behind, and started vigorously munching.

The man stopped in his tracks and stared at you with undiluted confusion, 

“What are you doing?”

You chewed faster, and then grabbed a cup and gulped it down in one go.

 This is not summer wine.

Your throat burned, your voice coming out as a rough hiss,

“What’s in there?”

“That’s my chamber pot.”

You choked while the bastard had the audacity to laugh.

“I invoke the guest right.”

Now it was his turn to choke.

“You what?”

The incredulity looked funny on him, almost endearing, the crease between his brows smoothed, leaving behind a pleasant, handsome face of a young man as he tilted his head and looked at you like you’ve just grown a pair of horns.

“You’re uninvited.”

“I invited myself. “

“This is not my house.”

“And yet you move around like you own it. So, will you honor it or not?”

He mused on it for a moment,

“Alright. But it goes both ways. You will answer every question I ask of you truthfully, yes?”

“Agreed.”

“And, don’t try to run again,” – his voice dropped lower yet again, sending a shiver through your spine,

“Because I will catch you.”

There was a hint of a threat in the tone, but also something else – amusement, perhaps, or even enjoyment, as the corners of his mouth trended upwards in a barely concealed smile.

An unexpected knock on the door.

You jerked at the sound and looked back at the man, fear flooding your chest again, as he looked at you for what felt a very long second, then made a decision and motioned you to come forth;

“Here, now!”

You moved closer and allowed him to grab you by the shoulders and gracefully move you around the room as if in a dance,

“Not a word.”

He maneuvered you behind the doorframe while holding your wrist, shielded you out of sight with his body as he talked to the man on the other side.

“M’lord, the preparations are done. Stables locked; food lockers secured. Orders?”

“Double the centuries, wake up the captain, and send a patrol through the castle, we might have uninvited visitors.”

“Yes, m’lord”.

As the heavy door screeched shut, you stared at each other.

“M’lord? I’ve never been with a Southern Lord before.”

“Southern?”

“We are south of the Wall, yes.”

A lord, here, at the wall? The Eastwatch… Must be… Lord Umber? What a strike of luck.  

His hand was still on your wrist, thumb rubbing a careful circle on your pulse. You felt your cheeks color again under his gaze, and heard yourself speak before you could stop your own mouth, fighting to keep yourself from purring;

“I heard all southern lords are wanton, have some… strange pleasures, quirks even. Are you one of those? Or the opposite, boring and unbending?”

He leaned in, hot breath tickling your ear,

“I’ll gladly bend my knees for the right woman.”

You steadied yourself with a hand on his waist and gods be damned if that small contact didn’t make heat coil between your legs.

“What is your name?”

“Cregan.”

He didn’t resist when you pushed him into the wall… and thrust a dagger you kept well hidden from his curious hands into the wood right next to his neck.

“Impressive”, he gritted out a little less composed as he pretended to be.

“You should’ve checked better, my lord. “

 Steel bled into your voice as your knife traced a scar on his cheek, then went lower, blade scraping his jaw and following the line of the vein on his neck, pricking the skin just enough to make a dent but not enough to draw blood.

He watched you with an unreadable expression, eyes dark and gleaming. He could easily snap you like a twig, he’s fast and strong enough to do that with ease. Yet he stood there unmoving, like a living statue, steady deep breaths making his chest rise and fall, something akin to hunger burning deep inside the stormy eyes of his, following your every move like a wolf watching his prey.

Excitement thrummed through your veins as you saw his carefully crafted façade crack, little by little.

“You’re threatening me again, guest.”

You traced your fingers over his cheek and jaw and his lips parted in a quiet sigh.

“I have much more to offer.”

He caught your free hand and pulled you even closer,

“You’re going to play a wench now, while you hold a blade to my throat?”

“And what if I’m not playing? Why are men allowed to want and have but gods forbid a woman does the same?”

“Because men can fuck and forget about it the next morning while you might die on a birthing bed.”

There was pain and sorrow in his voice even though his stoic face betrayed almost no emotion, and you wanted to reach out and cup his cheek again to give him comfort.

“Fear of death shouldn’t stop you from living.”

You pulled the knife away from his neck,

“Now, please allow me to explain, I have a lot to tell you.  Think you can do that with a free folk, Lord Umber?”

You flipped the blade in your hand and offer him the hilt as he arched an eyebrow at you. It was a huge gamble, it could easily end up carved into your heart, but…

He took the hilt and nodded.

 “I can do that, yes. What is your name?”

“Y/N, but everyone calls me Cat.”

“A little feral Cat? How very fitting.”

“I’m not little.”

He tilted his head to the side and moved into your space, making you angle your head to look up into his eyes as he almost dwarfed you.

“But you are.”

You flinched, and he moved back, motioning you to move,

“Sit down, say your piece.”

You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding, and moved to take a chair at the heavy oak table at the center of the room. Your heart was racing, trying to hammer its way out of your chest, and you had to take a breath to steady your voice. This Lord was a blessing sent by the gods, a strike of luck you never dreamed of getting, and you had to make it work no matter the cost.                

 You told him about your people and the new King-beyond-the-Wall Merzymir, the reason of your visit, and the target of your plan.  Merzymir was unhinged and violent man, cruel beyond measure who took pleasure in unrestrained and public brutality. You told Cregan About his sacrifices “to the Others” - gruesome and unforgivable, little suckling babies left in the carved-up mouths of the weirwood trees in the night, with nothing left of them by the morrow but some bones and a red paste. Whole families fed to rabid bears or left outside to freeze to death, doused in water. Men tied up to trees and ripped limb from limb for speaking up against him. About your own family and what he did to them, and how he made you watch. About his plan to find a tunnel under the Wall and cross South, spreading chaos and death wherever he went.  

Cregan remained silent, face betraying little emotion but his fierce eyes were now soft, with a certain gentleness to them, with a trace of sorrow hidden in the deep of the blue and grey. He was hard to read, this lord, so you pressed on with another argument to get him on your side.

“The King-beyond-the-wall has a farther reach than you think. He’s been negotiating with your own kin, and while you sit idly in your pretty castle and think you are safe, the war is coming to you.”

His brows furrowed as he leaned closer,

“I need names.”

“I don’t know the names, but when they met with him, spoke about flaying the Starks and making new coats out of them.”

You watched his lips twitch into a barely concealed snarl and his hands curl into fists; his lithe body twitching with barely restrained fury. 

Suddenly, your heart filled with dread,

“You’re not one of them, are you?”

“No, I’m the one they want to flay”.

You blinked.

Then you blinked again, and twice more, while the cogs in your brain turned faster and then screeched to a halt.

A Stark.

He is a Stark.

A fucking Stark.

He noticed your stare and chuckled,

“I never said I was an Umber.”

You finally closed your mouth,

“Right.”

“What do you want of me?”

“I need a map”.

“Of what?”

“The wall. The tunnels beneath it.”  

“That doesn’t tell me much.”

“I want to get him into a tunnel and kill him there. I want to watch him choke on his own blood, I want to watch his life go out in his eyes, and then I want to piss on his grave. Does that tell you enough? You should want the same, Stark, for he will get across one day, and on that day, your people will be in for rape and slaughter.”

“And you want me to believe you didn’t know I was coming here? That it was all a coincidence and not some wretched plan of yours?”

You let out a tired sigh,

“Some would call it fate. And no, you were not in any plans of mine, but I’m glad you were here.”

He looked at you with those eyes that changed color in the dim light of the fireplace, his fingers tapping on the blackened wood of the table, and you felt like you haven’t convinced him.

“You’re safe now; why risk going back?”

“I made a promise.”

“You promised the dead, they will forgive you for staying alive.”

 “He has my little sister.”

The silence thickened and draped around you like cold summer fog. He looked away for a long moment as the room fell quiet, silence broken only by cracking of the fireplace and your own heartbeat.

Finally,

“So, you were going to steal the map, and get him to cross the Wall, and then what? How would you escape?”

“I didn’t plan that far.”

He stilled.

“Your plan is shite. You’ll get yourself killed before you even reach him, and your sister won’t be any better off for it.”

“I’m not you, m’lord, I can only risk my own life to do justice. Don’t have an army to do my bidding for me.”

“You do now.”

“What?”

“I won’t allow a savage to cross the Wall, nor would I fight on two fronts. You will have your map.”

He got up and dug a map from a pile of scrolls, rolling it out in front of you, and motioned you to come closer. 

“Here’s a tunnel we can lure Merzemir in. There is another tunnel ten miles to the west, but it is well-protected by the Umbers, stay away from there. I will not give you the others. But this one, this will be perfect. It is far enough from the manned castles to be watched properly, and it is not collapsed in, yet.” 

He guided your hand to a small dot on the parchment, and you burned under his touch. His hands were big, rough and calloused but warm and surprisingly gentle, and you wondered how they would feel like caressing your breasts, and thighs and what’s between them.

By the gods, I want to survive, I want to live.

You swallowed a lump in your throat and watched instead how his hair fell off his shoulders and blocked half of his handsome face. You barely restrained yourself from moving the hair out of the way,

 “You should braid that.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Pay attention.”

“So, this is where I kill him?”

“This is where you lead him.”

You threw him a confused glance as he started explaining.

 Cregan’s plan was so simple and yet so clever, and you didn’t know whether to laugh or cry- you shouldn’t have expected anything less; Starks didn’t hold the North for over 8 thousand years because it was given to them, but because they could keep it. You thought when you first saw his face that he was green as the summer grass and never seen the war- but now you knew there wasn’t a mere boy in front of you, but a ruthless and seasoned warrior, and it filled you with dangerous hope.

He sat beside you, the wooden bench creaking under his weight, explaining the plan further. You couldn’t help but steal glances, saving his face, his voice to your memory. The room was cold yet you feel burning, as if he were a furnace, enveloping the space around you into a warm embrace. It was almost suffocating, but you couldn’t get enough, you wanted to roll yourself in it, rub it into your skin until it seeped through your pores and became a part of you.

Was it because he was so easy on the eyes and his rough hands handled you with ease, making you feel alive? Or was it because he just threw you a lifeline and gave you hope that you could actually win?

Perhaps, both.

He broke you out of your daze by reaching behind him and putting a hunting knife next to your hand.

“What is this?”

“Your weapons are shite, but this is castle-forged steel. Take this with you to the Wall to protect yourself. Or, give it to your sister. You said she’s too soft for the wild space, too kind? Then send her to Winterfell with it so my men know who she is, and she will be safe there.”

The emotional turmoil in you picked up, promising to swallow you whole, and you barely bit back the tears.

“You would have her?”

“I would have both of you.”

He reached out and grabbed your chin between his thumb and index finger, and stared through your eyes down into your very soul.

“You’re a little feral Cat, are you not? Then use one of your nine lives and bring it back to me.”

The true meaning, the weight of it all, made you close your eyes to stop your head from spinning, and you can feel his thumb gently caress your jaw and trace along your lower lip.

You shifted back, and take a full breath of air, without looking at him,

“I will do my best, I promise.”

The moment was broken, Cregan lowered his hand and moved back, giving you space, as your body cried at the sudden lack of warmth. Hope was addicting. He was addicting, this Lord Stark.

“I will get going now,”

“The storm ‘s not over.”

A roll of thunder shuddered against the castle walls as if to give the truth to Cregan’s words, but you persisted;

“I’ve already overstayed my welcome,”

“Is everything going to be a battle with you, lass? You’d know by now I will not hurt you, so what are you afraid of?”

That if I stay much longer, I might not leave at all.

He considered you for a moment, then sighed in surrender,

 “Fine, here.”

A black wool coat wrapped around your shoulders as you threw Cregan a confused glance.

“It’s one of the watchmen’s, cover yourself and walk fast. I’ll lead you out.”

***

The mother of all bad ideas slammed into your face with the first gust of wind; the storm outside was raging, painting the whole world around you dark grey. The torches were all blown out and the rain slashed at the walls relentless. You hid behind Cregan’s back as he shielded you with his body, and followed him through the passage way.

You didn’t get far when the beams above you cracked and moaned and buckled under the weight of the storm, and crashed down onto you.

You threw yourself forward, pushing Cregan out of the way and down the stairs; you both tumbled and landed hard on the lower platform.

“Y/N!”

“I’m alright,”

And you were, except for your right foot that was now screaming in pain. You tried to move, but every time you put even a little of weight on it, a scorching bolt of pain shot through, making you hiss. Wind didn’t help either; you were swaying on your feet like a young silver birch, failing to find your balance.

“We’re going back.”

“I’m fine, just go, I’ll find my own…”

He hauled you up into his arms as if you weighted nothing, holding you so tight you couldn’t wiggle your way out of his grasp even if you wanted to,

“I wasn’t asking.”

His commanding tone left no room for arguing, so you kept silent and wrapped your arms around his neck instead.

He placed you carefully onto the bench and discarded both of your coats. You wheezed  in pain as he took off the boot and examined your ankle, kneeling in front of you and placing your bare foot on top of his thigh. You leaned backwards, allowing him to work his hands over the sensitive skin, kneading the muscles and soothing away the soreness.

“It’s just a strain, but you shouldn’t walk at least until tomorrow.”

Then he noticed a bruise from the rope sneaking and coiling around your calve, old and faded, already turning green and yellow, and traced it with his fingers up to your knee.

“He did this to you?”

“It’s almost healed.”

“He will pay for it.”

The silence thickened while his hands were firm on your thighs, your skin burning through the clothes under his touch. He hesitated,

“Do you…”

Your hand cupped his cheek and caressed his face, making him look up at you, and smiled,

“Do you want to take me up on my other offer?”

“And if I do?”

Your eyes flickered to his mouth and you felt like a desperate, starving woman, the need to touch and to taste crawling under your skin and curling in your chest; his hands rested on your waist now, caging you in, and you wanted to be caged, to be taken and devoured, you wanted him to place you underneath him and do whatever he desired, without mercy. And when your eyes met his, you saw your desperation mirrored in them; you were both starving animals that wanted to feast, so you finally snapped.

The first kiss was angry, but almost chaste; just pressing your lips into his, melting into the warmth. You let out a sigh and ran your fingers along the side of Cregan’s face.  That was enough to get him to move, to grab the side of you neck and maneuver you to deepen the kiss. His mouth ravaged yours, tasted your lips, your tongue, placed a careful nib on your lower lip, traced your jaw and the side of your neck. You felt ablaze, alive, by the gods, you were trying to survive so hard and so long you forgot how to live. You wrapped your arms around him, curling your fingers into his hair to keep you steady, and tilted your head, letting him kiss the other side of your neck down to your shoulder.

You gasped in protest when he suddenly pulled away and drew a steadying breath, avoiding your gaze.

His body vibrated with barely controlled restrain as he finally looked up at you,

“If you want me to stop, say it now.”

You grabbed a fistful of his shirt and leaned back onto the bench, wrapping your legs around his waist and tugging him on top of you, looking into his eyes with pupils blown with lust you were so eager to satiate,

“Don’t you dare.”

That’s all it took to break the last of his resolve. Cregan pressed his mouth into yours, much rougher than before, licking and biting moans out of you, your mouths molding into the shape of each other.  You sighed and arched into his touch, pride swelling in your chest for you just did the unthinkable- you set the stoic, composed Lord of Winterfell free from his lordly chains.

You didn’t have to be quiet, thank the Old gods, the storm outside drowning your moans from unwanted ears, so you let it pour out. Cregan’s hold on your waist tightened as he kissed you harder and nipped on your bottom lip, then pushed your legs open wider with his knee, rocking between your thigs with his arousal, creating perfect friction and stealing another moan out of you.

His nimble fingers made a quick work of your coat and shirt, and then your pants, and you were splayed bare, blushing as he ran his hands over your sides and looked over your body with something akin to reverence, taking it all in.

You grabbed onto his shirt and tugged,

“Take it off”.

He complied immediately, pulling the shirt off in one swoop and lowering himself back into another deep kiss, his chest rumbling with an approving groan as you whined into his mouth at the contact.

He’s burning hot, and your body curled into the heat and melted under it, nipples perking up at the friction of skin on skin as you ran your nails down his back.

He wrapped his hand around your throat and tilted your head, giving himself full access to your neck, kissing all of it, hot breath tickling your ear and lips sucking at your pulse. He pecked on the sensitive skin in the crook of your neck, making you whine and buck your hips, and went lower, cupping your breast as he slowly kissed his way down to the other one.

You wriggled underneath him, wetness pooling between your things and your cunt clenching at the emptiness so desperately it was borderline painful.

“Just fuck me already, what…”

Cregan ran his tongue over your nipple cut your protest short; sucked on the little bud, and wrapped his lips around it, making you whimper louder underneath him.

“Patience, my little cat, we have time.”

 His kissed a trail lower, to your belly, to the dips of your hips, to the sensitive skin of your inner thighs.  You shuddered as his fingers finally reached your folds, inquisitive, sliding through the damp heat as he cursed,

“Fuck, you’re dripping wet,”

“Damn, Stark, I’m not one of your blushing virgin maidens, I don’t need you to… “

His tongue lapped at your folds and you let out an obscene moan, hips involuntarily jerking up but he pushed them down and kept them in place as he licked and prodded and nibbled, circling your pearl in a teasing repetition, sending shock through your spine, making your back arch and hands desperately grab the furs.

You slapped your hand over your mouth to keep you from moaning louder as the pleasure crested and your body tingled in anticipation. Suddenly, he reared back, watching you whine and struggle at the loss of friction from between your thighs.

“Why’d you stop?”

You protested in an outraged whine, but he just smirked, lifted himself up and entered you in one move, the burn of the stretch and the sudden fullness making your mouth fall open and you letting out a string of curses. You buckled your hips against him like you couldn’t stop yourself, grinding and pushing yourself split open on his cock as he stilled your waist with a heavy hand and simply watched your desperate thrashes. The friction was enough to send you over the top, and you clenched violently around him, your thighs struggling to close around his waist while your heels kicked on the furs, riding your orgasm. As you came down, he rubbed your belly and kneaded your meaty thighs and buttocks.

’t was to your liking then?”

“you bastard!”

He was smiling, and it was the most beautiful thing you’ve seen in a long time.

He ran his hands over your body, thumbs playing with your nipples, caressing your waist, rubbing your thighs as you slowly adjusted to his girth inside you;  he was big, almost too big, but your cunt sang being filled up to the point of bursting.

He whispered, “spread ‘ll more for me, love” and you immediately spread your legs wider, allowing him to sink deeper in you. He moaned quietly, sheathing himself fully in your body, and it’s the sweetest sound you’ve ever heard.

His hands grabbed your waist and lift your butt up to rest your thighs on his. He picked up an achingly slow pace, savoring every moment, making you feel every inch of his cock sliding in and out of you, sweet torture with each claiming roll of his hips. You tried to mirror his movements, arching your back and pressing into him, as he let out a soft appreciative laugh,

 “Such an eager thing,”

 He picked up his speed, sinking himself into you with fast, powerful thrusts, reducing you to a moaning, whimpering, withering wench fully under his control.  You dragged your nails over his bare chest, his arms, his back, as the sound of wet skin slapping skin filled the room. The sensation was maddening, but you couldn’t get enough of it, of him, of being filled up and being alive.  

Cregan dipped his body onto yours and caged you between his arms, kissing your mouth, your jaw, your neck as he continued  to thrust inside of you, until the pleasure coiled and burst and your vision whited out. You felt his hips stutter, losing the rhythm, shortly after, as he chased his own pleasure, cursing and moaning your name into your ear.

He dragged his nose along the line of your neck, inhaling deeply, voice rough and raw,

“You’re here to steal my sanity, aren’t you?”

You ran your hand on the side of his face, looking into his eyes,

“Would it be such a bad thing?”

He looked at you almost in awe, the sheen of sweat glistening on his brow, and then pressed his forehead to yours,

“No, it would not.”

You curled closer to him, soaking his warmth and feeling his heartbeat echo under your skin, as he caressed your face and your jaw,

“You have to stay alive, y/n.”

The softness of his voice clawed at your heart and made it bleed,

“Cregan, I…”

Your eyes met his, full of understanding and resolve, as he whispered against your lips,

“I know.”

He said nothing else for a while, just tracing his fingers along the lines of your body, rubbing his thumb over a spot where he sucked on your skin just before.

“Admiring your work?”

Your tone was teasing, but he replied in absolute seriousness,

“And what if I am?”

That prickled you and your brow arched at his shamelessness, as you pushed him down and crawled on top of him,

“You know, two can play this game.”

His hands instinctively grabbed your waist while you wasted no time and started kissing his mouth, his jaw, down to his neck, and then sucked a hickey onto it.

A deep sigh he let out encouraged you to continue,

“You shouldn’t”.

“What? You don’t like it?”

You felt him writhe under you and knead your ass as you peppered his body with kisses and small nibbles in revenge,

”Kitten, stop.”

You persisted, kissing and sucking as his hands roamed your body, and then found the tender skin in the crook of his neck, and bit down, not enough to draw blood but hard enough to leave a mark by the morrow,

“Fuck!”

Cregan suddenly surged up, lifting your hips and lowering you on his hard cock, drawing a maddening moan from both of you,

“Oh, so you do like it”.

 “I do.”

His voice was rough as he started fucking you face-to-face, at a frantic pace, almost desperately, hands gripping your waist as he moved you back and forth on his cock.  You mirrored his movements, griding down on his hips, grabbing a fistful of his hair, cupping his face to kiss.  He fucked you like he owned you, or like you were out of time- and he was right at both.  You threw your hands around his neck and brought the two of you even closer, bracing on his arm and pulling his head down to your shoulder, letting his soft moans fill your ears as his hardness mercilessly filled your cunt.

“You are as feral as I am,” you whispered, realization hitting you hard and his hot breath tickled your ear,

“You’re right in that”.

The admission was open and vulnerable, and you forced yourself to look into Cregan’s eyes, at his face, beautiful and disheveled, and thought for a second that maybe he was as much gone for you as you were for him, even if only for just one night.

Cregan lifted you up once more and lowered you on your back, pushing your legs to your chest, allowing him deepest access. Your toes curled as he fucked you senseless, each stroke getting harder and faster, and you came with his name as a prayer on your lips.

When his movements became erratic once more, you wrapped your legs around his waist and pushed him deeper into you, grabbing him by his hair,

“Spill in me, Cregan, I want ALL of you. Make me yours.”

He groaned at the sound of it and closed his hand around your neck as he slowed down his hips and savored every thrust, filling you with his hot seed and sending you over the edge, again.  

You’ve never been on such a high before, body floating, mind whiting out in euphoria like an open field shining in the sun under the first cover of snow. Cregan draped over you, keeping you caged in and warm, and you curled into him, soaking it all in, taking his warmth, his smell, his voice to memory for future cold-biting nights, catching them in your mind like you’d catch fireflies to keep you company in the dark.

You knew by then, that whatever the future held for you, he ruined you for any other man. It would never be enough; nobody would ever be enough - and you made your peace with that.

As you both drifted to sleep in each other’s arms, your fingers found their way into his hair.

“’t are you doin’”

“Braiding your hair.”

“Hmm… I’ll allow that.”

You barely stopped a laugh as he nuzzled into your neck and let your fingers do their job.

***

You left at dawn, while he was still asleep, taking a moment to look over his peaceful sleeping frame and take his handsome face to your memory, placing a soft kiss on his brow.

The storm had lifted up, but the gusts of wind swept through the air, making you stumble.

You hid in the forest for a while, waiting for the last whirls of the storm to dissipate and yearning for… what?

Him.

You finally saw him ride out the castle with a small group of men, with your braid still in his hair. It made your throat itch and eyes sting, but then you took a deep breath and straightened up.

You were the Cat of the North. You were going to do what you planned, you would survive it, and then you would make your way to Winterfell.

[notjoelmiller]

don't mind me.. just thinking about vampire!ghost at 10am

1.8k words (beware... a little bit of blood, alcohol, vampirey stuff and la tension sexuelle)

...

Captain Price warned you. The day you transferred onto the team, he pulled you aside, and in an utterance quieter than anything you’ve heard from him since, he told you that the Lieutenant would take some getting used to. 

“He’s a good man,” Price said, “Just peculiar.”

Read between the lines, sergeant: he’s an asshole. It isn’t anything new, and it certainly won’t become an excuse. You worked hard to get on this team, and some weirdo won’t get in the way of that.

So you prepare for the worst, and… you end up with the best? Lieutenant Riley turns out to be the best superior you’ve had the honor of serving under. He’s not a friend, not by any means, but he’s efficient on the field and cordial off of it, a luxury you’ve rarely been afforded.

However, Price’s words ring true. The man is just as his call sign suggests– a ghost. He barely socializes with the team, always (politely) declining to eat meals with you all. He makes himself scarce during the day, only appearing for training and missions wearing a skull mask. Hell, you’ve never seen him without the damn mask.

Despite his peculiarities, you can see why he’s made the team. He’s built like nobody you’ve ever seen– nearly six and a half feet of pure muscle. And the man is efficient. He lurks in the shadows, waiting to strike, and when he does… The man has slaughtered his way out of one too many impossible odds. It’s a pleasure to fight by his side. You find yourself missing him whenever he’s disappeared. The longing is unusual, unfamiliar, especially considering the allusiveness of the lieutenant. Yet when he’s there, working with you on training or missions, things just go better. It’s as though he understands you on some incomprehensible level. He picks up on things nobody else ever has– when you’re fatigued, hurt, or just generally pissed.

Unfortunately, today was one of the many days where Ghost lived up to his namesake. And what a day it was for him to be missing. After a grueling training session, you were tasked with a mountain of paperwork. All was going well until you accidentally misplaced about half of your completed paperwork, leading to an overzealous recruit dumping them into the paper shredder during your lunch break. While you were happy to give the kid one hell of a talking to, the damage was done and you were practically back to square one.

You don’t finish up until almost midnight. The urge to sleep is strong, but your frayed nerves are stronger. If you want to get some shut-eye before the sun rises, you need a drink ASAP. So straight past your room you go into the common room kitchen. Except, you’re not alone. 

A man leans over the counter, setting down an empty glass. His blond hair is so light it nearly blends in with his translucent, pale skin. You’ve never seen him before, surely you would have noticed if you have. With skin that white, he must glow like a damn disco ball in the sun. The man wipes his lips with the back of his hand. It comes back smudged with red. So it seems like he had the same bright idea as you.

“Care to share?” You ask, startling him. He straightens to full height, and your heart skips a beat. He didn’t look all that large while hunched over the counter. Now? He’s built like a damn brick wall, tall and broad in a way that’s even rare among the men and women you work with.

The man gazes at you with wide brown eyes lined with purple bags. They dart behind you before he relaxes a bit, slumping back down.

“Share?” He whispers. His voice raises your hackles, something about the timber of the sound, even in a whisper, that awakens something in your mind.

You motion to his wine glass. He holds the stem tightly. You wouldn’t be surprised if it shattered. “The wine, pal.”

The man tenses. “Pal?”

“Pal,” you repeat.

“You’ve never called me that before,” says the man as he reaches in the cabinet for another glass.

You frown. “Have we met?”

The man’s face stretches into an unamused pout, “Really, Sergeant?” The word curls around his tongue in such a familiar way, yet it’s nearly impossible to place.

Just nearly.

You know that voice well. Typically it’s barking out orders in your earpiece and—

Shit, you just disrespected your Lieutenant.

“Christ—” Ghost flinches. You compartmentalize his dislike of blaspheme for when you’re not profusely apologizing to him. “Ghost, I didn’t recognize you without—“

“It’s alright,” Ghost looks through the cabinets until he finally finds the one with the 141’s not-so-secret alcohol supply. “Wine, you said? White or red?”

“Whatever you’re having.”

Ghost frowns at you until you motion for his emptied glass still filled with the crimson liquid. His lips part into an ‘o’. “‘F course."

Ghost pours a glass and slides it your way. “Can’t sleep?”

You nod. “You?”

“Something like that.”

You raise your glass. “Cheers?”

Ghost taps his glass against yours with a satisfying ding.

“You know,” you say after a sip, “We haven’t gotten the chance to talk since I joined— one-on-one, I mean.”

“That we have not,” Ghost muses. “I suppose you have questions.”

“That I do,” your eyes follow your finger, tracing the rim of the glass. “You know, Price gave me a warning when I joined.”

“He did?”

“Yeah, said you were a weirdo.”

“‘Weirdo’?” Ghost laughs. It’s surprisingly warm. You get a flash of his smile for the first time. His teeth are blindingly bright, but your attention is drawn to his canines. They’re unusually large— long —their points extending long and dangerous. “Is that what we’re calling it these days,” he muses.

“It’s not totally crazy to say, you know?” Ghost tilts his head, another sharp smile pulling at his lips, “I mean– this is the first time I’ve seen your face.”

“I’ve got a skin condition.” You raise a skeptical eyebrow. Ghost continues, “I get burnt easily.”

You frown, “Burnt?”

“Sunburn.”

“You’re joking.”

Ghost grimaces, and you realize that he is in fact not joking. You bark out a laugh, and before you consider the possibility that Ghost may actually have a medical condition, he starts laughing too.

You’re not looking, too busy laughing about your poor brick-shithouse of a lieutenant getting burnt to see that you’re about to slam your hand down on your wine glass. And you do, the glass knocking over and spilling wine all over the counter. And, as though the universe is reminding you that luck is not on your side today, the glass shatters, a shard managing to cut through one of your fingers.

A string of expletives escapes your lips as you instinctually avert your eyes. The feeling of the glass slicing through your skin echoes in your mind. Thinking about it causes you more distress than the actual pain.

“Let me look,” Ghost grumbles. He reaches for your hand, but you pull it back, examining it. A long but shallow cut mars your pointer finger. It oozes blood which drips down your knuckle and between your fingers. 

“It’s fine,” you gasp, “I’ll just grab a band-aid.”

“No,” Ghost wraps his hand around your wrist. It’s not particularly hard, but the shock of his cold touch has you gasping. He pulls your hand to his face– his lips –and before you know it, your bloodied finger is in his mouth.

“Ghost, what the hell are you–”

Your lieutenant honest-to-God moans around your finger. His tongue swirls languidly around the digit in his mouth, like he’s savoring something. You suppose he is– the taste of you. Ghosts’s eyes are pulled shut, brows furrowed as he completely ignores your protests. Though, your protests aren’t exactly passionate, rather halfhearted formalities in case any others decide to wander into the common room this late at night.

He draws your finger out slowly, his tongue keeping contact with it until it can’t any more. You don’t draw your hand away from his grasp, instead letting it stand between you two, Ghost’s grip still iron on your wrist.

The room spins around you. You blame it on blood loss, ignoring the fact that you’ve lost way more blood in way less time. A cut certainly couldn’t bring you down. Your lieutenant however–

“Better?” Ghost asks. He moves closer, nostrils flaring as he takes a deep inhale almost like he’s smelling you. The thought makes you dizzier, a recessed part of your brain running wild at the thought of such a primitive act.

“You… you just–” You cut yourself off, a cross between a sigh and a whimper bubbling from your throat. 

It sounds like a moan. 

Maybe it was a moan. 

It definitely was a moan.

Ghost’s free hand comes to cup your cheek, tilting your gaze back up to his. You hadn’t realized, but you were staring at his bloodstained lips. “Darling,” he coos, “Answer me.”

The words tumble from your mouth before you can even think about them: “Much better.” They ring true. Your finger doesn’t hurt a bit, even though it was very much just sliced open on a glass.

Ghost brings your hand to his lips again. You think he’s going to put your finger in his mouth again. Instead, he presses it against your lips, placing a kiss on the cut. He lets go of your wrist, but before your hand can fall to your side, his tongue darts out from between his lips, giving the cut one last kitten lick.

Ghost’s lips are moving. Between them, you catch glimpses of his canines. Why are they so long? They’re lined with red blood– your blood –filling the crevices between his teeth. His tongue runs over his teeth, wiping them clean of you. Your lips part, your own tongue running over your own teeth in mimicry.

“Darling?” His mouth is closed, lips pursed.

“Huh?”

He’s staring at you, the bags under his eyes seeming to have lessened. It’s just the lighting, that’s all.

“I said,” Ghost’s thumb traces your cheekbone. You feel like you might faint. “Go bandage that.”

You blink, mouth forming an 'o'. “Okay,” you barely get the word out as Ghost lets his hands fall from you. Your feet are carrying you backwards as you stutter, “B-bandage. Got it, Ghost.”

You’re falling over your feet as you stumble away, nodding profusely and uttering bandage, bandage, bandage under your breath.

“Simon,” he calls, and you stop, turning to him. “It’s Simon. I’m not just a ghost, you know.”

A ghost. No he certainly is not. Not anymore. Your finger is stinging, and when you look down, it’s bleeding again. You’re tempted to point it out to Ghost– to Simon –just to see what he’ll do.

“Good night,” your bloody finger twitches involuntarily, “Simon.”

[dvchvnde]

Carmacks, Yukon. 1995.

"You shouldn't have come here," he growls, hand tightening around your throat.

The force pushes you hard against the wall of the bar, and as you fall, he follows. Leveraging the thick spread of his body to smother your smaller frame. With him boxing you in, there's nowhere to go. No escape—

"You should have run—"

He shakes you when he finishes, knocking your head into the wall as he glares down at you, lip curled into a snarl beneath the beard. Anger is writ over ever dip, every line, every pore of his body. He seems to thrum with it. Muted trembles. Little quakes. Grinds his teeth together because he knows despite the carnage you inspired inside of him, you just don't get it.

The danger you're in.

All you can do is gasp at the blunt, tight spill of pain bubbling under the dig of his fingers into delicate flesh. Blink through the haze clotting around, black fingerprints smeared on the edges of your vision. Hypoxia, you think. And then: oh, old friend. We did it again.

But it offers no comfort, no succor. It just burns. Oh, god, it burns—

Your body aches down to your marrow. Fire in your veins, burning you up from the inside out. Agony like you've never felt before. Could have never imagined—

But through it all, the sutures hewn inside your soul thrum. The fire is liquid. Molten. It settles in the pit of your belly when he kicks his boot between your ankles, knee bending to rest on the faded oak wall behind you. Holding you down as you heave, and gasp, and whimper around the tight cinch of his hand swallowing your throat up in his palm—

His head turns sharply towards you. Fingers spasming once. Twice. It loosens. Grows lax. You gag on the air you gulp you gulp down too fast, watching him with watery, blurring eyes as every muscle in his body snaps.

His shoulder tense. Drawing into a tight line. Nostrils flaring. Fluttering. His broad chest expands, and—

A rumble. A low groan.

It doesn't make sense. You don't understand it. But his thigh slides up, denim clad leg pressing tight to your core—

It hits you when his lashes flutter. When his eyes roll as he breathes in deep again, and again.

He can smell it, you think. The stickiness between your thighs. Arousal dripping into the gusset of your panties as he heaves above you. So close. Too close. You can't think with him this near—can only feel. And feel you do—

"John—" it's desperate. Raw. He shudders. Blinks his eyes open, stained, wet lichen rimmed and lined red. Desire thickens in those cesium depths, frothing over until his iris is drenched black. "I don't know what's going on—"

"Don't you, sweetheart?"

You've never heard him sound like that before. So low, it dredged the bottom of his chest. Scraping charred sediment and gravel into a loose fist. Felled timber thrown over a fire. The snap, snap, crack of sap burning in the kindling. A hoarse roar.

The heat of it melts you. Liquified. He keeps you up with his hand around your neck. Sat on the thick of his thigh like a child. Wax in hands. You can't move. Can't think—

"I'll tell you," he rumbles, his hand slipping between your bodies to snatch your wrists up in his fist. He brings them up above your head, pushing them into the wall. The hand around your neck tightens again. "But only once. So pay attention, love."

Your head spins. Mind melts. It's a slurry—soporific, molasses-thick. You can't think around this ache inside of you. This tug. This thing that brought you here. To him. Thoughts scattered. Rusting by too quick.

But when he moves, every molecule in your body snaps to attention. Freezing in a tight, tense line.

You catch the quirk of his mouth when he closes in, reshaping around the ghost of his snarl. He likes your submission. You don't know why you know this. You just do.

(just like you know you'll roll on your belly if it pleases him—

no. no. you wouldn't. stop stop stop—)

The unnatural warmth of his nose bleeding into your skin before it even kisses the appled ridge of your cheek. He breathes in the sweat-slicked scent of your syrupy skin. Another groan. You feel this one deep in your bones.

He slides his nose down your cheek until his mouth is pressed against your jaw. The touch is brief, but all you feel is heat. Burning you up, burning you—

"m'gonna eat you alive, Bambi."

SYNOPSIS: fated mates. Yukon in the 90s. John Price may or may not be a man. you're an inexperienced wildlife biologist sent to the Yukon to explain a series of strange animal attacks that have plagued the small community. it all changes when you meet a local hunter named John Price. a man everyone seems to warn you away from, and one who seems to want nothing at all to do with you at all. you're keen to do just that, but something keeps pulling you closer.

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

In The Gloomy Depths [Chapter 4: Emerald]

Series summary: Five years ago, jewel mining tycoon Daemon Targaryen made a promise in order to win your hand in marriage. Now he has broken it and forced you into a voyage across the Atlantic, betraying you in increasingly horrifying ways and using your son as leverage to ensure your cooperation. You have no friends and no allies, except a destitute viola player you can’t seem to get away from…

Series warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), parenthood, dolphins, death and peril, violence (including domestic violence), drinking, smoking, freezing temperatures, murder, if you don’t like Titanic you won’t like this fic!!! 😉

Word count: 5.1k

💜 All my writing can be found HERE! 💜

Tagging: @arcielee @nightvyre @mrs-starkgaryen @gemini-mama @ecstaticactus, more in comments 🥰

💎 Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist 💎

Back into the sitting room, fleeing like a hare from hounds, but Rush is here trying to grab you. You careen to the door to the private promenade deck and dive out into the bitter starlit cold, your breath fog, your shoes slipping on the yellow pine planks that overlay the steel skeleton of the ship, weight that could drag you down to the ocean floor. Rush is in pursuit; he swipes at your arm and gets ahold of your coat sleeve, soft pink wool. You wrench yourself free, twisting out of the coat and dropping your handbag, colliding with the barrier, Tudor-style timber paneling beneath vast windows the frigid night air pours in through. Your hip bruises against the wood, you can hear black waves crashing below; then you collapse to the deck, your spine pressed to the wall, trying to back away when there’s nowhere left to run to. You realize you are still clutching Aegon’s small aluminum lighter and shove it beneath the skirt of your gown. Rush draws his pistol.

“No no no!” you plead, showing him your palms, cowering beneath one of the windows.

They could throw me out of it. They could say it was an accident or a suicide.

The deck is lined with potted plants and lightweight wicker furniture. Inside, you can hear Rhaenyra saying something, though her words are muffled; it’s a tone you wouldn’t have thought she was capable of. She sounds afraid. Draco and Dagmar must be asleep, Fern tucked away in the tiny maid’s room. There are no witnesses to what will happen next. Your heart thuds in your chest, swollen and sickly. Cold North Atlantic wind washes over your bare skin and leaves you freckled with goosebumps.

Like a lightning storm, like a hurricane, Daemon surges out onto the deck. He is still tying his robe shut. His hair hangs in dark, damp strands over his forehead. You picture it again, though you don’t want to: Daemon with Rhaenyra like he’s never been with you, the impulsive desire, the dire necessity.

Why not in Rhaenyra’s bed? Why would he bring her here?

Because he thought you wouldn’t be back until midnight…and to prove he can get away with it. To succeed where he failed with you this morning. To feel like a man again.

“I didn’t see anything,” you tell him, but you cannot keep the shock and disgust from your face, intractable like a wild animal.

Daemon kicks one of the wicker chairs at you. You bat it away with a scream and press yourself harder against the barrier, trying to disappear, trying to become somebody else, a girl who didn’t agree to marry a renegade of a man who showed up smirking and cavalier at her father’s Connemara marble quarry.

I want to go home, you think with helplessness like a child’s.

“I didn’t see anything,” you say again, sobbing now. With one hand, you claw at the windowsill above you so you have something to hold onto if he tries to drag you away. The wind, sweeping down from the Arctic, burns like blue fire in your lungs. “I don’t know anything.”

Daemon dives to the floor, hooks his fingers into your hair, yanks you closer as you cry out and flinch away from him. “One word, one fucking word, and you’re gone,” he is threatening, a blade-sharp hiss, and you can smell Rhaenyra’s perfume on him, marking his flushed skin like a bloodstain; but Daemon’s deep-set green eyes—emerald, malachite, jade, serpentine, Connemara marble—are fearful. This is strange; this is unlike him, this is a foreign language.

He loves her, you realize. He’s terrified to harm her, to lose her.

“I would never—”

“Over the railing,” Daemon snarls, jerking your head to the side as you whimper. “Your bones at the bottom of the ocean, your name forgotten.”

“I won’t tell, please, Daemon, please, don’t hurt me.” You look at Rush. He’s staring indifferently down at you, his pistol still in his hand. You turn back to Daemon. “I’ve never told anyone.” About the bruises, about the man you really are. “Not my parents, not a soul. I don’t want to tell. I just want to stay with you and Draco. I won’t jeopardize that. Please, Daemon, please—”

“No one would believe you,” he says; but if that was true, he wouldn’t be so frantic. “You’d be a madwoman. They’d lock you up in an asylum, put you in a straightjacket, cut the pieces off of you that made you so hysterical.”

“Yes,” you agree, yielding, toothless.

He rips at your hair again, pulling you away from the barrier and to the center of the floor. Rush steps out of the way to make room. You don’t fight Daemon. You have to convince him your fighting days are over.

Why doesn’t he kill me now? A dagger to the jugular, a body splashing into opaque waves?

Because he needs his perfect family in order to march triumphantly into the skyscrapers-and-streetlights labyrinth of Manhattan. Because he can’t eclipse Viserys if people are whispering that his wife is dead under peculiar circumstances, fallen overboard on Titanic’s famed maiden voyage, insane or drunk or maybe—just maybe—murdered by a man’s rough rageful hands.

“What did you see?” Daemon says, testing you.

“Nothing.”

His palm cracks across your face. You yelp, more startled than in pain. Your skin is going numb from the cold; he’s hit you harder before. Now he doesn’t want to bloody or bruise you, he doesn’t want to leave evidence others could notice. He wants his threats imprinted irrevocably into you like scars. He wants you to listen. “What did you see?!”

“Nothing,” you moan, and then the door to the sitting room opens. You, Daemon, and Rush all whirl towards the noise.

In the doorway stands Fern with a silver-plated tray of tea and biscuits. Her black dress and white apron appear hastily thrown on, rumpled fabric and some buttons left undone. She blinks a few times, but she seems more nervous than shocked. Her eyes flit to you and then settle benignly on a wicker table. She ignores the chair that Daemon kicked earlier, lying overturned at the edge of the deck.

She knew what was happening, you think, grateful, a little awed. She’s here to try to stop it.

“It’s so cold out tonight,” Fern says at last. “I thought I’d make tea.”

Daemon doesn’t know how to respond. He’s never cruel to the staff, that’s one of his charms. His miners worship him, his valets believe him to be their true friend, his housekeepers fret over him as if he’s their husband or their son. Daemon rarely acknowledges Fern directly, as if she doesn’t quite exist to him, a ghost whose silhouette appears on eerie nights, squeaks of door hinges and objects nudged a few mysterious centimeters. He chooses his enemies with great care, like a gardener pruning diseased leaves. Daemon understands that the ones who toil beneath his feet are in the best position to rise up and devour him.

Fern sets the tray down on the wicker table and waits, her hands clasped decorously in front of her. “Will you be requiring anything else, sir?”

There are several electrified seconds—waves thrashing against the ship, wind howling as it tears through your hair—and then Daemon laughs and releases you, as if this has all been a comical misunderstanding. He stands and goes to the tray, picks up a cup of tea, and slurps on it as steam billows up into his face. “How kind of you.”

Fern bows her head in a nod, not leaving. Rush glances between them, then slides his pistol back into its holster.

“Draco should have a mother,” Daemon tells you, looking down from a great height. It sounds like it is meant to be a compromise.

“He should,” you reply. Even if I cannot touch him, cannot be alone with him, cannot teach him to love me.

“It’s not good for boys. When their mothers up and die on them while they’re still so young.” Daemon is reflective for a moment—an unusual skin for him to wear—and then slinks towards the doorway. “Fern, darling, change the bedsheets, will you?”

“Yes, sir. Right away.” She follows him back inside, a brief glimpse at you over one shoulder. Rush glowers at you and disappears with them. You are left alone on the private promenade deck.

Your head spinning, your bones freezing, you struggle to your feet: palms flat on the pine planks, black opal ring glimmering in the moonlight, knees groaning as you lift them. Slowly—stunned, aching—you pull on your pink wool coat. You find Aegon’s lighter and hide it in your handbag, then stand there clutching it like you’re on your way to some glittering social engagement, a tea party, a dinner, a gala, a Christmas party. But what you’re on your way to is purgatory, like the one Dante wrote of, a prison where you will sweat out your sins over and over again.

Why did I believe him? Why did I marry him? Why can’t I find a way out?

You leave the deck like an autumn frosting into winter, bleak, hushed, listless. You do not return to your staterooms but pass through the doorway that leads to the B-Deck hallways. The corridors are quiet and still, occasional stewards running the last errands of the night, a few men in black suits puffing on pipes and cigars, swirling clinking glasses of brandy, ruing all the blights that have incumbered their earnings: foolish wives, Democratic politicians, dissolute immigrants.

You flee towards the stern of the ship, far from the first-class sections. Outside there is a greenish hue to the sky—dim echoes of northern lights—and stars that sparkle like jewels. There is no one lingering by the back railing of Titanic, and for good reason; the air is so cold it bites like fangs, and the roar of the propellers is terrible, so loud and so guttural, sea monsters like the ones early explorers drew into the margins of their maps clawing up from the depths. You fall to the deck and sit with your knees to your chest at the end of a pair of benches—hiding in the shadows where you will not be seen by wandering passengers or lookouts scanning for icebergs—and gaze into the east as Titanic chugs westward, away from Ireland, away from everything your life could have been.

Tears bleed down your cheeks and turn from magma to ice there. You wipe them off your face with the sleeve of your pink wool coat. You ignite a cigarette with Aegon’s aluminum lighter and smoke it all the way down. You light another, and another, poisoning your blood with each breath, polishing the barbs off reality. It’s not enough. You need a drink. How long until you’re just another languishing housewife addicted to laudanum or cocaine? How long until you’re a drunk like Aegon once was?

I want to go home. I want to go home.

There are footsteps, sluggish and clumsy. An intoxicated man. You are about to scramble to your feet and escape when you see who it is. Aegon flops down beside you in a stolen black coat, the pungent miasma of Guinness wafting off of him and his face splotchy and red, looking away from you, ashamed of himself.

You say: “I thought you didn’t drink anymore.”

“And obviously there’s a reason for that,” Aegon slurs. He rubs his eyes, watery and unfocused, bloodshot and despondent. “I’m having a bad night.”

Me too. “Did you know?” you ask, a hoarse voice, a cigarette smoldering between two fingers.

Aegon is confused. “Know what?”

“That Daemon can’t get hard for me because he’d rather be sleeping with his niece.”

“What?” Aegon gapes at you, incredulous, revolted. “Daemon is fucking Rhaenyra?”

You nod, taking a drag. There is a faint orange glow, a warm hit of nicotine to your blood.

“I can’t believe that.”

“I can. I saw it.”

“Jesus,” Aegon mutters, staring out into the endless ink spill of the Atlantic Ocean. Then, more sympathetically: “No, I didn’t know.”

“You never heard anything?”

��Not like that,” he says. “I mean, I remember when I was a kid and people were talking about Daemon being a bad influence on her. But they said he was teaching Rhaenyra to go to parties and stay out too late and swear and smoke, not…you know. Not that he was committing incest with her. That’s some Richard III mischief.”

“Now I understand why you know so much Shakespeare.”

“My parents couldn’t send me to boarding school fast enough. I was shipped off the same week I turned five. Cake and presents one day, shoved on a train the next.”

“I’m afraid Daemon will do that to Draco.” You can’t keep the quiver from your words. “I’m afraid he’ll kill me now that I know the worst of his secrets.”

Aegon turns to you, and through the haze of dark bitter Guinness that’s still sloshing from his stomach into his bloodstream you can see he fears the same thing.

“I want to go home,” you sob, breaking down. Ashes build on your cigarette until you toss it away. Tears spill from your eyes, the River Shannon, the River Clare. “Nobody here cares about me.”

“I do,” Aegon insists, touching your face, trying to make you listen. His sand-colored hair lashes in the wind. “I care about you.”

“You don’t know me.”

“I’m trying to.”

“Why do you care? Why can’t you leave me alone? Did you go to O’Connell’s Bar to spy on me, was all of this to spite Daemon and—?”

“No,” Aegon says, a truthful boyish confession. “No. I didn’t know you’d be there. I didn’t know anything about you except that Daemon had married some quarry heiress. I heard he’d be there for an interview, and I was curious, and I kind of thought it’d be fun to fuck with him if he ended up recognizing me, and so I got a job at O’Connell’s and made sure I’d be playing the night Daemon showed up. That’s all there was to it. And then I saw you in that bar in Galway and you were…” He shakes his head. His voice drops to a whisper, aching and reverent. “You were so sad, and so beautiful, and I…I’ve never done anything important in my entire life. I’ve never helped anyone. But I looked at you and I felt like…I thought…I could save her. And maybe that would make all the rest of my mistakes worth it, the wasted years of drinking myself to sleep every night, the aimlessness, the emptiness, the way I abandoned my mother and Helaena, Aemond, Daeron. I followed you onto Titanic because I had to try to help you. But by leading me home, by bringing me back to my family in New York…maybe you’re helping me too.”

I wish I was yours, you think, so vividly you almost tell him. I wish I was a stone in your mine to be found in the darkness, chiseled from the wall, studied and cut down and polished, set in gold or silver to be worn on your ring finger, your blood pulsing beneath my ageless gleam.

“Please stay away from me,” you beg him. “Please, Aegon. I don’t want you to die.”

He says as his thumbprints clean tears from your cheeks: “What if Daemon was gone?”

“You mean what if I pushed him over a railing and into the Atlantic Ocean?” you ask, sniffling. “Assuming I could get him alone, and he didn’t stab me first or drag me overboard with him, they would know it was me. Rush, Dagmar, Rhaenyra. And they would make me pay. If I lived, I’d spend the rest of my life in a prison or an asylum. I wouldn’t get to go home. I wouldn’t get to keep Draco.”

Aegon doesn’t know what to say, and this is because there are no answers. You aren’t overlooking anything. Sometimes reality is cold and unfeeling and lethal, primordial, reptilian, mindless black eyes like a shark’s.

You smile miserably at him. “I’m going to miss you when the ship docks in New York Harbor.”

“Daemon wanting to fuck Rhaenyra doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong with you.”

“Stop,” you say, wincing, standing to leave him. Aegon reaches for your hands, but you hide them in the pockets of your pink wool coat. He gazes up at you, drunk desperate heartbreak. You wonder how clearly he’ll remember this tomorrow.

“If you were my wife, I’d never look away.”

“You have no idea who I am. You’ve never really seen me.” Never held me, never uncovered me, never opened me and filled the void with your own rushing blood. Then you depart before someone can come searching for you and discover Aegon, rip away his disguise, toss him into the roiling frigid surf stirred up by the propellers.

In your staterooms, the lamplit air is silent and warmed by the ship’s furnaces, shoveled full of coal at all hours of the day and night. Fern is waiting on the sofa when you enter. She looks at you as if she is relieved, then vanishes into her tiny maid’s room without a word. Your bedroom has been tidied, the linens changed; but the mineral ether of sex still hangs in the space like tapestries from a wall. You try not to notice your reflection in the mirror.

Daemon never touched me like he touched Rhaenyra. He never wanted me, I never satisfied him.

Daemon doesn’t come back all night. You sleep on the floor.

~~~~~~~~~~

On the morning of Sunday April 14th, you dress in green, the color of the Emerald Isle, the color of deep poisonous envy. You affix small emeralds to your ears and one massive stone around your throat, found in Madagascar in one of Daemon’s Grandidierite mines, a lush verdant glint in a nest of cold blue like deep water, like ice.

Heavy enough to drown me, you think wryly, a swift glance at the mirror, turning away again almost immediately. I’d go straight to the bottom.

Before you leave the bedroom, you slide open the top drawer of Dameon’s writing desk, presently abandoned. His dagger is there, gold hilt and spherical gemstones like miniature planets, all fatefully aligned: amethyst, tiger’s eye, black opal, emerald, ruby, bloodstone, sapphire. You lift up the dagger and study it, circling the tiny emerald world with your index finger. You are jealous of Rhaenyra getting everything she’s ever wanted. You are jealous of any woman who’s ever touched Aegon, who knows what it feels like to lie beneath him, to be known by him.

You place the dagger back in the drawer and slam it shut; the whole desk rattles. Then you go out into the sitting room, where Fern is attempting to wrestle Draco into his black wool coat, a small version of Daemon’s.

“No!” Draco is bellowing. “I don’t want to wear it, I don’t want to, let me go!”

“You’ll freeze to death out there, lad,” Fern says, strands of her long copper-colored hair escaping from her bonnet and a sheen of perspiration on her forehead, looking like she’s been to war.

Draco is stomping on the toes of her shoes to little effect. “No I won’t!”

You peer around, searching for your geriatric nemesis, a banshee, a vampire. She is nowhere to be found. “Where’s Dagmar?”

“She’s feeling seasick,” Fern replies, still struggling with Draco. “So she’s lying down in Draco’s bedroom. I’m sure she’ll be up and around again before you know it. She’s a tough old Cailleach.” And there’s no danger in being overheard; Dagmar wouldn’t know what that means, just like you don’t understand her when she mutters her strange Scandinavian curses.

You immediately scoop up Draco and run with him out of the staterooms, Draco giggling shrilly, you beaming as you fly down the corridors and ascend the Grand Staircase two steps at a time, your green shoes slipping on the English oak wood as you zoom past the bronze cherub statue and the ticking clock. All around you are first-class passengers watching with startled looks, a little baffled, a little amused. High above is the dome of glass and wrought iron, brisk white-gold sunlight streaming through. You carry Draco out onto the Boat Deck, the highest level of the ship, and take him to an unoccupied portion of the railing beside one of the lifeboats. You hold him so he can see over the barrier and out into the calm murky blue of the North Atlantic Ocean, hundreds of miles southeast of Newfoundland. The breeze is icy, the sky infinite and cloudless.

You spot slate grey fins cutting up through the water in arches, a whole pod of them. “Look, look! Dolphins!”

“Dolphins?” Draco says doubtfully. “Dolphins are real? Not just in books?”

“Of course they’re real. And they’re friendly, too. Back in Galway, sometimes they swim right up to the pier hoping the fishermen will share the catch of the day.”

“Neat!” Draco shouts. “Can I throw things at them?”

You pause, unsure how to reply. You resist the urge to shake him and say: Do you crave violence like Daemon, are you burning up inside with his fire? Do you want to be a monster like your father? One day will you paint amethyst bruises on your wife? “Why would you want to do that?”

Draco shrugs. “I like throwing things.”

“Well, throwing things can be fun, but if you throw something at a dolphin you might hurt it. Do you want to hurt the dolphin? It’s a living creature just like you. They have friends and families, and blood in their veins. They can feel it if you cut them.”

“No,” Draco decides. “I don’t really want to hurt the dolphins.”

“You can throw things in other situations, like if you play cricket or hurling or Gaelic football. Or baseball, I guess. Now that we’ll be living in America.”

“Okay,” Draco says, gazing at the ocean. Fern trots over to you, breathing heavily from trying to keep up, but she’s grinning. She has brought the coat Draco refused to put on, and this is fortunate, because now as you hold him on your hip you can feel your son is shivering.

“Do you want to put on your coat now?” you ask him.

“Yeah,” Draco says reluctantly, and you lower him down to the deck and help him tug the sleeves over his tiny arms. You suddenly remember when he was born and being so fascinated by his hands—so small and wrinkled, so powerless, always grasping—and Dagmar forever clawing him out of your arms, bundling him up in blankets and whisking him away to other corners of the castle.

“Fern was trying to help you when she told you to wear your coat. She knew you would be cold, and now you are, aren’t you? When adults tell you to do things, it’s not for no reason. They just want what’s best for you.”

“But I don’t like to do what other people say. I like to do what I want.”

“And that’s totally understandable,” you say. “Sometimes you will get to make your own decisions, especially as you get older. But right now you’re very, very young, and there are just a lot of things you don’t know yet, so you need adults more. Please be kind when Fern is trying to help you with your coat or your shoes. She doesn’t mean to upset you. She wants you to be safe and healthy.”

Fern gives you a modest, thankful smile. Draco is mulling this over. “The older someone is, the more they know?”

“I suppose you could put it that way,” you say.

“So Dagmar knows a lot more than you.”

He’s not trying to be cruel; he’s trying to figure things out. The world is so new to him. You wish you could recall what that feels like, to see everything with vast light wonder. “Well…” you begin delicately. He loves her; you cannot win by bludgeoning her into a mess of bloodstains and bone shards. “Yes, she probably knows more about certain things.”

You pick Draco up again to distract him, and he is captivated by the seagulls swooping through the air, laughing and tracking them with his wide eyes, a sunlit green beneath pale blonde hair that is disheveled from the wind. There is a figure lurking on the periphery of your vision, a man in black, a coat and a hat, hands in his pockets. You turn to see it’s Aegon, perhaps ten feet away and pretending to survey the horizon. Your heartbeat quickens; you stomach drops.

What on earth is he doing here? Why can’t he leave me alone?

But of course, you don’t want him to. You stare at him and instinctively touch the emerald that hangs from your throat, Madagascar, Ireland, treasure, envy. You think of how your bedroom smelled when you returned to it late last night.

Fern seems oblivious to Aegon. “I feel so much better knowing there are lifeboats aboard,��� she says, looking at the vessel you are standing beside.

“There aren’t enough of them,” you tell her, a low murmur that Draco pays no attention to.

Fern is alarmed. “No?”

“They can fit about half the passengers, no more. So if anything happens, make sure you don’t waste any time finding yourself a seat.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, ma’am,” Fern says, troubled.

“Have you seen Lord Targaryen today?”

“No, ma’am,” Fern answers, trying to keep her tone neutral. She isn’t sure if it will be a relief to you or a knife to the heart. “He moved some of his things to Rhaenyra’s rooms before he departed last night. I suspect he will spend the rest of Titanic’s journey there.”

“He’s so fond of his niece,” you say flatly.

“Yes.”

“And she is in need of company, as her own husband is always fraternizing with the Parisians.”

Fern isn’t sure what she’s allowed to say. She smirks and bows her head to hide it. Now Aegon is strolling closer, ostensibly casual. “Good morning, ladies!”

Fern curtsies politely. “Good morning, sir.”

He casts Draco a glance—Aegon seems puzzled by him, maybe a little wary, certainly not accustomed to being around children—then extends an open hand to you. “What an engagement ring! Might I trouble you for a quick look?”

You set Draco down and he is promptly enamored by an orange-sized rubber ball someone has left here. “Of course.” You try to act indifferent, but when Aegon takes your left hand in his own you feel a jolt of warmth travel like a wave up the length of your arm.

Aegon turns your hand one way and then the other, inspecting it. Underneath, his fingertips stroke the lines of your palm. A tremor cascades down the rungs of your spine, helpless hypnotic longing. “What is that, onyx? Obsidian? Jet?”

“Black opal. From Australia.”

“A prison colony,” Aegon says, grinning at you from under the brim of his hat. “A place for villains and beasts.” Swiftly, he takes his right hand from his coat pocket and presses something into your palm: a folded piece of paper, a note, a message in a bottle from a castaway. Then he steps back from you as if it takes great effort.

“There you are!” a craggy voice cries out, and Dagmar is crossing the deck. She seems restored, if a bit wan. She swishes over in her charcoal-colored gown, her white hair twisted into a severe bun, and when Draco bolts to her she kneels down and catches him in a fierce, territorial embrace, her gnarled hands encircling his diminutive body. “Out and about without me? And I wager you haven’t even had breakfast yet, have you, my love?” She glares over his little shoulder at you. “You must be famished. How terribly irresponsible to let you suffer.”

“He ate some tea and biscuits when he woke up to tide him over,” Fern offers meekly.

“I was having fun with Mam,” Draco tells Dagmar, and you see the calculations on her cunning ancient face. She can’t scold him, she can’t correct him. She can’t defeat you with naked wrath any more than you can demand he stop loving Dagmar. You have sailed into new waters, a subtle silent war.

Aegon is receding, disappearing into the crowds of first-class passengers strolling the Boat Deck. Dagmar glances at him and then looks again, her jaw dropping open, her attention captured like a jewel in the pocket of a thief.

“What is it?” Fern asks, peeking bewilderedly at the stranger. Draco is chasing the rubber ball around again. Your pulse thuds hot and hectic in your ears.

Dagmar’s sharp blue eyes are uncharacteristically dazed; she shakes her head as if she’s just seen something impossible, an angel or a ghost. “He looks just like Viserys when he was young.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Dagmar spirits Draco off to breakfast, Fern returns to the staterooms to complete her chores for the day. You take the Grand Staircase down to A-Deck and slip into the Reading and Writing Room, mostly unoccupied this early in the day, to read Aegon’s note. Outside on the Promenade Deck, you can hear Daemon and Rhaenyra strolling by with a number of companions, chuckling and chatting away in a world where all their wishes are granted.

Daemon is saying: “There is an Armenian legend about a so-called Queen of the Serpents, who carries in her fanged mouth a stone made of light. Some nights she tosses it up into the air, where it becomes the moon, full and shining, until it inevitably drops back down to the earth. And as the proverb goes, happy is the man who shall catch the stone where it falls…”

You know that story. It was in one of the books you gifted Daemon for your first anniversary.

With trembling hands, you unfold Aegon’s note. He has written in black ink:

Petra,

One last painting?

Don’t go to dinner tonight. Meet me at the stern.

- Picasso

[ghostaholics]

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐔𝐁𝐋𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐅𝐎𝐋𝐋𝐎𝐖𝐒

➸ PAIRING: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x fem!reader (established relationship) ➸ WARNING(S): [ 18+ ] body shots; oral (receiving); ruined orgasm; basically PWP with slight BDSM (disciplinary action) ➸ SUMMARY: Simon teaches you a very important lesson about holding still – extended version of this. ➸ A/N: Thank you to @mvtthewmurdvck who lets me bitch about anything and everything including this and offered kind words when I certainly lost faith in the whole thing. ➸ WORD COUNT: 2.2k

𝐊𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐔𝐂𝐊𝐘 𝐁𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐁𝐎𝐍, 𝐒𝐈𝐌𝐎𝐍’𝐒 𝐋𝐈𝐐𝐔𝐎𝐑 𝐎𝐅 𝐂𝐇𝐎𝐈𝐂𝐄. Pilfered from his not-so-secret stash and running low with about a quarter left; the contents slosh around in their bottle-shaped confinement as he stalks into the room with a heavy hand swallowing around the widest circumference of the glass.

Good memories, usually. Like the first time he’d brandished his titanium pocket flask for you to take a sip. You’d scrunched your nose, feigning disapproval of the drink. And he'd said – cheeky as always – with a low-timbered response:

"Don't worry. The taste of your cunt's still my favourite."

But now, there’s no trace of that Simon anywhere to be seen. His face is entirely devoid of the amusement he already so rarely expressed. Stone-rigid. Unimpressed. Disappointed – seems like – and certainly not in the mood for any games.

❝ 𝐂𝐀𝐍'𝐓 𝐇𝐀𝐕𝐄 𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐒𝐄𝐋𝐕𝐄𝐒 𝐀 𝐑𝐄𝐏𝐄𝐀𝐓 𝐎𝐅 𝐋𝐀𝐒𝐓 𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓, 𝐘𝐄𝐀𝐇? ❞

It's a red-hot brand searing the edges of your memory (charred, ash-coated, lined by the cinders of a poor attempt on your part that had gone up into flickering embers).

See, the brain remembers it well.

Your cunt, too: the walls hugging his cock, full of his cum – excessively so, nearly bursting with it after he'd buried himself to the hilt and stayed inside just to plug your snug little hole, ensuring that none of it would dribble out after he’d fucked you senseless. He’d given you plenty, more than enough. And it’d been generous of Simon. A gift, really, considering the enormity of the initial request.

Make me yours?

He’d only had one thing to say, just a simple favour in return for doing this, for indulging you. His voice had been hoarse, sandpaper-rough from overuse – your fault entirely – eroded away after being subjected to a whole night's worth of groaning against the shell of your ear and telling you just how fucking good you felt before you'd milked him for everything he was worth with your greedy, pulsing self.

Keep it all in then.

You’d done your best not to clench, but stretched taut around the girth of his cock like that, you'd just wanted to readjust. Not a lot. But the position you'd been in wasn't the most conducive one for this. And you’d shifted – barely, practically inconsequential (or so you’d thought) – to where you wouldn’t have even thought it’d matter except—

It had.

Pushed some of it out, that is. A stream of cum trickling down onto an area of the duvet, staining it – the unfortunate aftermath of your decision to move.

Thas’ a shame. Thought you wanted it. Guess I was wrong.

Simon comes to a stop at the foot of the bed where you're sitting; he towers over you – an intimidating, subduing presence without even having to try. "Had to wash the sheets because you couldn't keep it all in.”

You blink in surprise as your mouth parts slightly in what you're sure must be a dumbfounded expression. Of course, this is nothing new. You were there. Responsible for the incident, apparently. And though it wasn't necessarily your fault, you still feel the need to explain that it was due to factors beyond your control. “There was so much—” (As if it'll help your case.)

But he's never cared much for excuses.

“How ‘m I supposed to finish inside you knowing that you’re just going to waste it?” he asks. It's a rhetorical question, not one that actually requires an answer.

Your chin tips down in a silent apology. There's something heavy sitting in your chest; remorse, you think.

He grips your jaw in his hand, forces you to look at him. “Yeah, love. We’ll fix that. Gonna teach you how to be grateful, how to understand the value in the things I give to you."

𝐈𝐓'𝐒 𝐀 𝐒𝐋𝐎𝐖 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐂𝐄𝐒𝐒.

He makes you tell him your colors.

You do.

He asks if you know what you’re supposed to get out of this.

You answer that he’s probably going to have to wash the sheets again before you can learn whatever lesson he’s trying to impose on you.

Yeah, that earns you a sharp pinch to the hip.

That massive body of his sinks to the floor, one leg bending down before the other joins it, rough carpet cutting into his knees, undoubtedly. Then, his fingers curl around your legs, blunt digits sinking in – ten identical divots pressed into the flesh. He leaves light indentations with his palms spanning along the sides of your thighs to spread you open while his elbows anchor into the mattress.

Heat blooms across your skin, every surface that he touches and even in the places that he doesn't – white-hot, intentional (and he never does anything without purpose); it sparks a fever that fans out, unfurls. There's no part of you left unaffected. You're growing warmer by a few degrees. Doesn't sound like much, but it's enough to make a noticeable difference if the beads of sweat gathering at the back of your neck are any indication.

And Simon lets out a soft scoff. Cocky. Like he knew what was waiting for him—

You're soaked, absolutely drenched. Cotton panties, sticky –saturated beyond belief. If you looked there yourself, you wouldn't be surprised to find a damp patch on the fabric steadily growing in size.

He's such a sight, too: the contour of his muscles shifting and rippling, all brawn and power – his presence speaking volumes about just who holds the cards right now, undeniably the one in control here; the visual of his stature and build emphasize that. And authority bleeding from the width of his shoulders if not spelled out by his words alone.

"Haven't even touched you, and you're already dripping," he murmurs. "Why?"

Your mouth trips and stutters over your own words the same way your heart trips and stutters over his. "Because you—y-you're..."

His thumbs hook into your panties, slowly peels them away – not an easy feat, damn things are clinging to your cunt – before dragging them down your legs. "Say it, sweetheart. What do you think I'm gonna do to you?"

And your mind is racing, jumping too many steps ahead. "You're going to eat me out?"

Simon stuffs his panties in his back pocket for safekeeping. A souvenir, since there won't be much use for them now. "I'm gonna eat you out," he affirms.

"Mhm, yeah. Want your mouth on me."

"Whether or not you come depends entirely on if I feel like letting you."

"Oh—"

"Spill a single drop, and you don't come tonight," he says, never one to draw out the details. His instructions are concise, uncomplicated. Then, further inquiry. "We clear?"

"Yeah..." you say with a shaky breath before trying to regain some semblance of composure. "Yes."

"Good girl," he purrs low, almost a growl – though you're not quite certain that you deserve the praise yet.

He’s answering to a shrine, beckoned forward by the invitation of a wet cunt and the promise of a taste of your slick. He pauses, takes a brief moment to admire it in his own way, almost reverent as he takes in how your arousal’s smeared everywhere from your folds to your inner thighs (all for him, because of him – isn’t that right?).

But make no mistake, there’s absolutely nothing respectful about the act that comes next. Simon leans, forces his shoulders to hold you open, before he bows his head and he licks; it’s a hungry tongue lapping at the slit, everything terribly hot and wet – the sensation makes you jolt upon first contact because it's too much. So, so much.

And at the same time, not enough.

The feeling spikes along the circuit running from your head to your toes – empty thoughts save for the white static that buzzes in the hollow of your skull, a tingling, prickling paresthesia-sort-of-thing that usually accompanies the high of an orgasm. Except, the irony’s not lost on you in this instance; he’s hardly even begun to wreak havoc on your cunt yet.

Currents zip down your spine, down, further down, everything else collateral damage. No part of you is spared by the overwhelming fervor responsible for it – the initial onslaught of his mouth laying waste at the spread of your entrance.

Every single nerve-ending is on-edge, trigger-sensitive as he sucks, and kisses, and fuck are his groans heavy, bone-deep, the rumble of a thunderstorm gathering in his chest. They radiate from the point of origin where your core’s suffering, reverberating tremors that diffuse out to the rest of you. It makes your skin thrum like a live wire. There’s no hope of staying in a fixed position if he keeps this up. How could you? The odds are zero to none. It isn’t feasible.

You forget your place, can't help but squirm within his iron grip.

Then, Simon; a severe reprimand— "Watch it," he rasps. It’s a lull amidst the incursion, an unplanned interlude. Temporary reprieve (barely) so he can scold you for your inability to follow his instructions.

A low whimper leaves your throat. That's completely out of the question, beyond what you're currently capable of. Easier said than done. "I'm trying—"

"Then try harder."

Despite how weighed down your eyelids feel, you manage to guide your laden gaze south, let it roam over your stomach. The dark, amber liquid in your navel sways; it rocks, sloshes with the tide, a consequence born from the pull and heave of your jarring movements. Exercise caution. This is delicate work – a balancing act. Those thoughts are cloudy.

Your mind is fuzzy, thick, a drunken haze. Buzzed, lightheaded. And everything's off-kilter. But you haven't had a single drop of alcohol. None at all. Couldn’t, because everything's still sitting in your navel right there like it’s supposed to.

Simon dips his head back between your legs, continues to seal his mouth over you, flattening his tongue to lick thick stripes from your entrance to your clit. He doesn't let up, only bringing his face closer, following that same path again and again and again – agonizing – until you're trembling. The noises he’s making, something debauched and bottomless – one wet groan after the other. This isn't for you. It's for him, that much is clear.

You plead anyways, hoping he'll grant you an amnesty that you haven't earned in the least bit, "Need you inside. Anything, just—"

"Sure you can handle it?"

Breathless when you say, "Ah, yeah..."

"We'll see about that," Simon murmurs.

He doesn't believe you.

To be fair, you’re not so sure you do either.

But he's courteous, slips one finger in and lets you clamp around him. And your cunt flutters, welcomes the feeling.

You release a soft moan. “Want more, Si. Feels good."

His face turns to the side, wet nose and chin grazing along your thigh to spread the slick in more places that haven't been drenched yet. Then he bites. Gentle. An admonishment. Nothing serious about it though: scraping, the light pressure of teeth sinking into the skin as he pulls with his mouth.

You jerk suddenly before catching yourself.

"Don't be fuckin' greedy. You'll take what I give you, and you'll thank me for it." He's curt, perfunctory. No delay as he offers up his two fingers to your mouth. The expectation is clear. “Suck.” And he's waiting.

You wrap your lips around them, swallowing him down, not one to squander an opportunity sitting in front of you, right? You understand that now.

“So tell me how good you taste.”

"I-um, taste good—"

"Yeah, you fuckin' do."

"Thank you."

“Mhm.”

You can't see it, but you can hear it: the low clinking of a belt being unbuckled, the sound of a zipper being undone. Clinking metal and rustling denim being tampered with somewhere below your line of sight as he reaches down, almost like he— is he… oh.

Most of his body's obscured by the edge of the bed, but everything from the chest up is still visible. Simon's shoulder is bobbing slightly, arm pumping back and forth in a rhythmic motion and fuck, he's getting himself off to this.

That sends another spark of arousal to your core, makes you gush. It adds to the mess coating his jaw, his chin, his lips. You whimper out something – broken syllables – his name, maybe. You’re not entirely sure.

God, you’re almost there. So close. Wound up tight, hips rolling against his mouth, chasing his tongue—

Until he stops entirely. No contact. Simon pulls away in such a rush that you gasp, startled.

"Look at that." Accusatory.

It's a trail of liquor dribbling over the curve of your stomach, down your side in small rivulets. There are streaks pooling onto the sheets underneath you. Tragic.

(Couldn't help yourself, huh?)

Guilty as charged.

Shit.

"What'd I say – told you to hold still, yeah?"

And even though you had a feeling it would happen, you still have the nerve to act surprised at the result. "Fuck," you whine pathetically. "Was so close—"

"We're starting over. Don't care if it takes us all night, we're gonna keep at this 'til you get it right or you use up the rest of the whiskey," he says, readying himself to deposit another pour of alcohol into your navel. Simon lifts his shoulder in a light shrug like he can't be bothered about the final outcome. "Better pray that it works out before the bottle’s empty. Won't let you finish otherwise, sweetheart. Understand?"

[bloodreinasbathwater]

Where Kings Land

Part 1

Jacaerys Velaryon x Stark! Reader

a.n: I finally get the hype about Jace. This right here is one fine man. the hair, the freckles, the big nose. ALL of it. this is part 1 of the miniseries for House of the Dragon, and it's my first time writing outside of the regular asoiaf series. Enjoy and please lmk what you think!!

Warnings: manipulation, not proofread, yelling, cursing? talk of beheading and treason.

Word Count: 4,900

masterlist link

summary: In the harsh lands of the North, where winter's bite is ever-present, a tale of duty, desire, and deception unfolds within the ancient walls of Winterfell. Y/N Stark, sister to the absent Lord Cregan, finds herself caught in a web of political intrigue as the realm teeters on the brink of civil war.

...

The heavy wooden door slammed behind her with a resounding thud, echoing through the granite corridors of Winterfell. Y/n Stark—sister to the Lord of Winterfell, Cregan Stark—strode purposefully down the hallway, her frustration evident in every step. The torches lining the walls cast flickering shadows across her face, highlighting the furrow of her brow. She yanked her fur cloak tighter around her shoulders, warding off the perpetual chill that seeped through the ancient stones. The servants scurried out of her path, lowering their eyes as she passed. Y/n barely noticed them, her mind occupied with the litany of tasks that lay before her. The castle, a sprawling behemoth of grey stone and timber, was a living, breathing entity, and Y/n felt the weight of its responsibilities press down on her.

Cregan, her brother, was a warrior, a leader born to the battlefield. He thrived on the thrill of the hunt, the clash of steel, the shouts of battle. The day-to-day running of Winterfell, the endless paperwork, the constant negotiations, the delicate dance of alliances and diplomacy… these fell upon his shoulders. He was a silent force, a steady hand guiding the ship through the turbulent seas of politics and power.

Reaching the grand hall, Y/n paused, her gaze sweeping over the gathered lords and ladies. Their conversations buzzed like a hive of bees, their laughter echoing off the vaulted ceiling. She longed to be amongst them, to share in the joy of a feast, to ease the burden of her thoughts, but the weight of the impending winter hung heavy on her heart.

The biting wind whipped around Y/n's face as she ascended the final steps to the maester's tower. The air was thick with the scent of parchment and old magic, a familiar and comforting aroma despite its inherent chill. Inside, the room was bathed in the soft glow of a single lantern, casting long shadows across the piles of scrolls and tomes that littered the floor. Y/n's boots clicked against the stone floor, a sharp counterpoint to the rustle of the raven that perched on the window sill, its beady eyes fixed on her with an unsettling intelligence. The bird was a harbinger of news, always, and today, its arrival had filled her with a sense of foreboding dread.

“You've got ravens in your hair,” the maester, Alyn, said with a dry chuckle, his voice raspy from years of whispering secrets into ancient texts. He was a frail figure, his fingers gnarled and stained with ink, his eyes filled with a wisdom that seemed to encompass the entirety of the world. She brushed at her hair, dislodging a stray feather that had become entangled in its braids. 'They know I'm coming for them,' she said, her voice tight. 'They always seem to.'

Alyn nodded, a knowing glint in his eyes. 'King's Landing sends more than its fair share of worries north,' he said, gesturing to the table in the centre of the room. It was an imposing piece, carved from ancient oak, the surface groaning under the weight of a mountain of sealed parchments. Y/n sighed, letting the weight of the responsibility settle upon her shoulders. Every one of those scrolls contained a new burden, a new demand, a new headache she would have to unravel. The North had always been harsh, a land of unforgiving winters and fiercer people.

'What's the news, maester?' she asked, her voice barely a whisper.

Alyn shuffled through the pile of scrolls, his gaze searching for a particular one. “They're now threatening us with dragon fire, my lady,” he stated solemnly, the chain around his neck clinking softly.

Y/n's eyes narrowed as she surveyed the pile of letters that lay on the table before her. Her jaw clenched, her anger rising like a tide. “Burn them,” she commanded, her voice sharp and decisive. “Burn all the letters. We will not answer, nor will we cower.”

Alyn's eyebrows rose in surprise, but Y/n's resolve only grew stronger. “Prince Jacaerys should be here any day. We will make good with the Blacks.”

Maester Alyn leaned back in his chair, studying her face. 'Are you certain, my lady? This is a dangerous game we play. The Green's dragons—"

“Are no more fearsome than the winter that forged us,” Y/n cut him off. She moved to the window, gazing out over the frost-covered courtyard. “My brother may be in the north of the Wall, but we will not be cowed by southern threats.”

Her words echoed through the frigid halls, carrying with them a resolute determination that belied her youth. “You are right, my lady,” he said at last.

Y/n turned to him, a flicker of gratitude in her eyes. “Thank you, Maester Alyn. Please, have the letters burned. We must prepare for the prince's arrival. We’ll show him true Northern hospitality. And maester," she added, a hint of a smile playing at her lips, "make sure we have plenty of that strong northern ale. We'll need it for the toast when we pledge our support to Queen Rhaenyra."

Maester Alyn nodded slowly, understanding dawning in his eyes. He reached for the candle on his desk, ready to carry out her orders. "As you wish, my lady. there's one more," he said softly, holding out a sealed parchment. "It arrived separately... and it's addressed to you personally."

Y/n hesitated, then took the letter. The seal bore the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen, but something about it seemed different. More... personal. With a swift motion, she broke the seal and unfolded the parchment. Her eyes scanned the contents, and her face hardened.

"It's from Aegon," she said, her voice tight. She began to read aloud:

"My dearest y/n,

The silence between us cuts like shards of Valyrian steel, slicing through my soul. Do you remember the stolen moments in the godswood, under the watchful eyes of the old gods? The promises we made beneath the heart tree?I await your reply to our ravens with bated breath, much as I once awaited your stolen glances across the great hall.

But make no mistake, my white wolf. Your beauty will not shield the North from my wrath should you choose wrongly. Aemond grows impatient and Vhagar hungers for blood. With one word, we could reduce Winterfell to nothing but ash and bone.

Remember this, my sweetling: fire destroys ice. And dragons do not forgive.

Choose wisely. Choose me.

Yours in fire and blood, Aegon Targaryen, Second of His Name, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm"

y/n’s hand shook as she finished reading, her knuckles white where she gripped the parchment. The maester watched her, concern etched on his weathered face.

"My lady," he began cautiously, "what—"

"Burn it," Y/n interrupted, her voice cold as the Wall itself. "Burn it with the rest." She tossed the letter onto the pile, her eyes blazing with a fury to match any dragon's flame.

…

Amidst the icy grip of the winter, the last traces of sunlight had long since disappeared beyond the horizon when a thunderous beating of dragon wings shattered the bleak silence. Y/n stood in Winterfell's snowy courtyard, her chilled breath leaving clouds in the frigid air as she looked up to witness the dark shape descending from the sky.

With ethereal grace surprising for its size, the dragon landed with a resounding thud and steam rising from its scales as they met the frosty ground. As its rider dismounted, y/n found herself frozen in place, her carefully prepared greeting dying on her lips.

Prince Jacaerys Velaryon strode towards her, his Valyrian features softened by Stark coloring. Dark curls framed his face, windswept from the flight. But it was his eyes that caught y/n off guard - soft and kind, yet holding a depth that spoke of burdens she had yet to find out.

For a moment, the world seemed to fall away. Y/n's heart raced as she stood before the prince, a stranger yet somehow familiar. She couldn't explain the sudden pull she felt towards him, as if they shared a connection beyond words. But at the same time, fear and doubt crept in, questioning if this was all just a dream or a cruel trick of fate.

Jacaerys approached, his movements as graceful as the dragon he rode. His brow furrowed slightly at her silence. He glanced around, perhaps wondering if he'd made some misstep. Finally, he bowed low, breaking the spell. "Lady Stark," he said, his voice a low, warm timbre that sent a shiver down her spine. " I am honored to meet you. And I thank you for your hospitality."

Y/n blinked, suddenly aware of the eyes of the entire courtyard upon them. She straightened, pulling her mask of cool composure back into place. "Prince Jacaerys," she replied, her voice steady despite the turmoil within. "Winterfell welcomes you. Please, come inside where it's warm. We have much to discuss."

As she turned to lead him into the castle, Y/n caught the prince studying her with curiosity. She lifted her chin, meeting his gaze with a challenging look of her own. Whatever this feeling was, she couldn't afford to let it distract her. The fate of the North hung in the balance.

Yet as they walked, she couldn't help but be acutely aware of his presence just behind her, like the warmth of a flame at her back in the cold northern night.

…

The Brown Room lived up to its name, with rich walnut paneling and fur-draped chairs that spoke of comfort in the face of long northern nights. Y/N led Jacaerys inside, the scent of beeswax candles and old parchment greeting them. The fire crackled in the hearth, casting dancing shadows across the cluttered table where ledgers and letters vied for space.

Y/N gestured to a high-backed chair. "Please, sit," she said, her voice steadier than she felt. She reached for a decanter, the crystal cool against her fingers. "Would you care for some wine, my Lord? It's a Dornish red – my favorite one."

Jacaerys settled into the chair, his eyes roaming the room before settling on Y/N. "Thank you, my lady. And please, call me Jace."

As she poured, a drop of wine escaped, staining the cuff of her sleeve crimson. Y/N barely noticed, too aware of Jace's proximity, the warmth radiating from him in the cool room.

"What did you wish to discuss, my lady?" Jace broached softly, accepting the goblet with a nod of thanks.

Suddenly, the room felt stifling. Y/N's heavy fur cloak, a necessity in Winterfell's drafty halls, now seemed unbearable. She shed it, draping it over the tall oak chair behind her. The firelight caught the silver direwolf clasp as it settled.

"Our support," Y/N replied, forcing herself to meet Jace's gaze. His eyes, she noticed, were flecked with gold in the candlelight. She swallowed hard and continued, "We have two thousand men. Strong northern fighters. We call them Winter Wolves."

Jace leaned forward, interest piqued. "Winter Wolves? An apt name, I'd wager."

Y/N allowed herself a small smile. "Indeed. They're as fierce as their namesake and twice as loyal." She moved to the table, rifling through the papers until she found a particular map. As she spread it out, the familiar scent of ink and parchment helped ground her.

"Here," she pointed, "is where we've gathered them. They await only my brother's word - or mine, in his absence."

Jace stood, moving to study the map. His arm brushed Y/N's as he leaned in, and she caught a whiff of leather and something else - perhaps the lingering scent of dragon scales. Jacaerys studied the map closely, tracing his fingers over the different markings and symbols. He was impressed by the precision and detail of the Winter Wolves' gathering points.

"Your brother must be a formidable leader to have gathered such a force in such a short time," Jace remarked, straightening up and turning to face Y/N.

"Yes, he is," Y/N said with pride.

"This is... more than we dared hope for," Jace admitted, his voice low and warm.

Outside, a wolf howled in the distance, a lonely sound that seemed to echo Y/N's inner turmoil. She squared her shoulders, pushing away the unwelcome feelings. Jace's brow furrowed as he studied Y/N's face. "My lady, are you well? You seem... flushed."

Y/N startled, realizing she'd been staring. She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, painfully aware of the dampness at her temples. "I'm fine, my- Jace," she corrected herself. "I was... under the weather a few days ago. Nothing serious."

Jace's eyes softened with concern. Jace's hand hovers near Y/N's elbow, his fingers poised as if ready to reach out and catch her. She can feel the warmth radiating off of his skin, and she can sense the electricity between them, even though he's not quite touching her. "Perhaps you should sit. We needn't discuss everything tonight."

The gentleness in his voice made Y/N's heart flutter. She sank into a nearby chair, Jace following suit. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, giving her his full attention. His eyes were pools of liquid silver, soft and caring as they searched Y/N's face.

"Tell me," he said softly, "how are you truly faring? It can't be easy, managing the North in your brother's absence."

Y/N's carefully constructed walls began to crumble under his earnest gaze. "It's... challenging," she admitted. "Especially with the constant stream of demands from King's Landing."

Jace's expression darkened. "Ah, yes. I've heard whispers of Aegon's... correspondence."

Y/N couldn't hide the flash of frustration that crossed her face. "Correspondence," she scoffed. "Threats, more like. Your cousin seems to think he can bully the North into submission."

"My cousin," Jace said, his voice low and intense, "forgets that winter roses have thorns." He reached out, this time taking Y/N's hand in his. The touch sent a jolt through her. He gave her hand a gentle squeeze before releasing it. "You needn't face this alone, my lady."

Y/N found herself lost in his eyes, warm and sincere. "I... thank you, Jace," she murmured.

A log shifted in the fireplace, sending up a shower of sparks. Jace glanced at the flames, then back to Y/N, a mischievous smile playing at his lips. "You know, where I come from, they say the dragonfires pale in comparison to the warmth of a northern welcome."

Despite herself, Y/N laughed. "Is that so? And how does our hospitality measure up?"

Jace's thumb traced circles on the back of her hand, his touch feather-light. "Oh, it exceeds all expectations, my lady. Though I must confess, I find myself most warmed by present company."

Y/N felt her cheeks burn, but for once, she didn't mind the heat. A small smile tugged at the corners of Y/N's lips as she gazed into his captivating eyes. "You're quite the charmer, Prince Jacaerys."

"Only when properly inspired," is all he replied.

…

The pale light of dawn crept over Winterfell's stone walls, casting long shadows across the frosted courtyard. Y/N stood in the stables, her breath visible in the crisp morning air.

Her fingers, slightly numb from the cold, worked methodically on the leather straps of her horse's saddle. The familiar motions were soothing - tighten, adjust, check, repeat. The rich scent of hay and horse sweat mingled with the earthy aroma of leather oil.

As she worked, Y/N caught herself glancing repeatedly towards the castle, anticipation building in her chest.

The sound of approaching footsteps made her heart quicken. Jace appeared in the stable doorway, silhouetted against the brightening sky. He stifled a yawn, rubbing sleep from his eyes. Y/N noticed the slight disarray of his dark curls and felt a sudden, inexplicable urge to smooth them.

"My lady," Jace greeted, his voice husky with sleep. He cleared his throat, offering a sheepish smile. "You're up early."

Y/N felt the corners of her mouth twitch upward. "The North waits for no one, Your Grace," she replied, handing him a set of reins. Their fingers brushed, and Y/N pretended not to notice the warmth that spread from the point of contact. "Are you ready for an adventure?"

As they set out, the rhythmic clop of hooves against cobblestone gave way to the muffled thud of earth. The misty woods enveloped them, tendrils of fog curling around the horses' legs. Droplets of dew clung to Y/N's eyelashes, refracting the weak sunlight into tiny prisms.

Y/N led the way, her posture relaxed and confident in the saddle. She navigated the invisible path with ease, ducking low-hanging branches and steering around hidden roots. Behind her, she could hear Jace's horse snorting softly, its rider muttering gentle reassurances.

"I can hardly see the path," Jace called out, a note of uncertainty in his voice.

Y/N twisted in her saddle, catching Jace's eye with a mischievous glint in her own. "That's because there isn't one," she replied, allowing a rare, playful smile to cross her features.

The forest was a symphony of morning sounds. Birds trilled their dawn chorus, their songs echoing through the mist-shrouded trees. Small creatures rustled in the underbrush, sending leaves skittering across the forest floor. The earthy scent of damp soil and pine needles filled the air, punctuated by the occasional whiff of wild mint when Y/N's horse trampled a hidden patch.

Hours seemed to pass as they wound their way through the increasingly dense forest. Y/N found herself hyper-aware of Jace's presence behind her. She could feel his eyes on her back, and fought the urge to glance over her shoulder more often than necessary.

Finally, they came upon a rocky outcropping. Y/N dismounted with practiced grace, her boots sinking slightly into the damp earth. She patted her horse's flank, murmuring soft words of thanks. From the corner of her eye, she watched Jace dismount, noting the slight stiffness in his movements after the long ride.

Jace stretched, rolling his shoulders to ease the tension. His brow furrowed as he surveyed their surroundings. "My lady," he began, a hint of amusement in his tone, "I hate to question your expertise, but this looks suspiciously like a dead end."

Y/N's laugh echoed off the rocks, startling a nearby bird into flight. "Patience, Your Grace," she said, her eyes twinkling with secret knowledge. "The best treasures are often hidden."

She reached out, taking Jace's hand in hers. His palm was warm against her cool fingers, and she felt a flutter in her stomach at the contact. Pushing the feeling aside, she led him towards what appeared to be a solid rock face.

As they drew closer, a narrow opening revealed itself, barely visible unless one knew exactly where to look. Y/N squeezed through first, tugging Jace along behind her. The passage was tight, the rough stone scraping against their shoulders. Cool, damp air enveloped them, carrying the faint mineral scent of underground water.

Jace's breath was warm on the back of Y/N's neck as they inched forward in the dim light. She was acutely aware of his presence, of the way his chest occasionally brushed against her back in the narrow confines.

Suddenly, the passage opened up. Y/N stepped aside, allowing Jace to fully enter the cavern. She watched his face intently, savoring the moment his eyes widened in awe.

Sunlight streamed through an opening high above, illuminating a spectacular waterfall. The water, tinted an ethereal light blue by minerals in the rock, cascaded down in a thunderous rush before crashing into a pool below. Mist rose from the impact, creating tiny rainbows where the light hit just right.

"By the gods," Jace breathed, his voice barely audible over the roar of the falls. He turned to Y/N, wonder written across his features. "It's incredible."

Y/N felt a warmth bloom in her chest at his reaction. "Welcome to my secret place," she said softly, suddenly feeling shy. "Not even Cregan knows about this."

Jace's gaze softened as he looked at her, something unspoken passing between them. "Thank you for sharing this with me," he said, his voice low and sincere.

They settled on a smooth rock near the pool's edge, close enough that their shoulders nearly touched. The mist from the falls cooled their skin, a welcome relief after the long ride. Y/N pulled out a small bundle from her saddlebag - bread, cheese, and a flask of sweet northern ale.

The conversation lulled, replaced by the constant rush of the waterfall. Y/N traced patterns in the damp sand with a stick, her eyes distant. Jace watched her, noting the slight furrow in her brow.

"A copper for your thoughts, my lady?" he asked softly.

Y/N looked up, a rueful smile tugging at her lips. "Just thinking about duties," she said. "They never seem to end, do they?"

Jace nodded, understanding in his eyes. "The burden of our birthrights," he agreed. "Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to be free of them."

"Free," Y/N echoed, the word hanging in the mist between them. She sighed, tossing the stick into the pool. "Cregan writes often of my duties. He's pressuring me more and more to find a husband."

Jace's expression shifted, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. "I... I apologize if I'm intruding, but may I ask why you haven't? Surely you've had no shortage of suitors."

Y/N met his gaze, finding unexpected comfort in the warmth she saw there. "Because I want love," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. "I want a simple life, filled with moments like this." She gestured to the cavern around them. "But how can I promise forever to someone when tomorrow is so uncertain? How can I build a life amidst a war?"

Jace was quiet for a moment, considering her words. "Love in wartime," he mused. "It's not an easy path, but perhaps... perhaps it's the very thing that makes the fight worthwhile."

Y/N felt her heart quicken at his words. "And what of you, Prince Jacaerys? What does your heart seek in these troubled times?"

Jace's gaze softened as he looked at her. "I seek a partner," he said quietly. "Someone to stand beside me, not behind me. Someone who understands duty but hasn't lost sight of dreams." He paused, a slow smile spreading across his face. "Someone who knows the value of secret waterfalls and stolen moments."

The air between them seemed to crackle with unspoken possibility. Y/N felt drawn to him, like a moth to flame, but held herself back. This was not the time, not with so much at stake.

"It seems we both seek something rare and precious," she said, her voice thick with emotion.

Jace nodded, his eyes never leaving hers. "Perhaps the gods will be kind," he murmured.

…

The iron-bound gates of Winterfell groaned open, admitting Y/N and Jace as the sun dipped below the horizon. The air was thick with the scent of pine and woodsmoke, punctuated by the sharp tang of approaching frost. Their horses' hooves clattered against the worn cobblestones, the sound echoing off the ancient stone walls.

As they dismounted, Y/N felt the day's exertion in her muscles, a pleasant ache that spoke of adventure and freedom. She caught Jace's eye, noticing how the fading light caught the silver threads in his jerkin, making them shimmer like starlight.

"Jace," she began, her voice low and tinged with an emotion she dared not name, "today was—"

"Lady Y/N! Lady Y/N!" The frantic shout shattered the moment like a stone through ice.

Y/N's transformation was instantaneous and mesmerizing. Her shoulders squared, chin lifting as if an invisible crown had settled upon her brow. The softness in her eyes hardened to flint, sharp enough to cut.

"What is it?" she demanded, her voice crisp as a midwinter morning.

The guard skidded to a halt before them, his breath coming in ragged gasps. "My lady, there's been... an incident. You're needed urgently."

Y/N nodded curtly. "Lead on," she commanded, then turned to Jace. "Your Grace, I must attend to this. Perhaps we could speak later..."

Jace stepped forward, close enough that Y/N could smell the leather of his riding gloves and a hint of something spicy—cloves, perhaps. "If you'll allow me, I'd like to accompany you.”

Y/N hesitated, then inclined her head in agreement. They followed the guard, their footsteps echoing through Winterfell's torch-lit corridors. The warmth of the castle was a stark contrast to the chill outside, yet Y/N felt a different kind of coldness settling in her bones.

They entered a small, dim room that reeked of fear and desperation. A man knelt on the floor, the rattle of his chains a counterpoint to his broken sobs. In the flickering torchlight, his tear-stained face looked ghastly, almost skull-like.

"What has he done?" Y/N's voice cut through the room like a blade.

The man looked up, his eyes wide and pleading. Y/N's voice sliced through the tense atmosphere like a blade, her words sharp and filled with accusation. The man shrunk back in his seat, his eyes wide and pleading as he desperately tried to defend himself.

"My lady," he stammered, "I beg you... I was only going to King's Landing, to pledge myself to King Aegon, my children. Is that such a crime?" His voice trembled with fear and uncertainty, his hands shaking as he awaited her judgement.

Y/N's gaze bore into him, seeking any sign of deceit or treachery. Observation seemed to be her weapon of choice, and she wielded it with expert precision. Y/N's lips thinned. "If you wished to leave, you could have done so freely. We do not hold men against their will in the North. Or have you forgotten our ways so quickly?"

The guard cleared his throat, the sound like gravel underfoot. "There's more, my lady. He attempted to steal half the winter rations and one of our best horses. Caught him in the act, we did."

The man's sobs crescendoed. "You can't behead an innocent man!" he wailed, his voice cracking. "You and Lord Cregan, you'll be the death of House Stark! The North will remember this betrayal!"

Y/N stood motionless, but Jace saw the almost imperceptible tightening of her jaw, the slight tremor in her clenched fists. The room fell silent save for the man's ragged breathing and the soft hiss of the torches.

Her grip tightened on the hilt of her sword, her knuckles turning white as she struggled to keep her composure. Jace watched as Y/N stood motionless, her face a mask of stoic determination, but he could see the anger burning in her gaze.

"Send him to the Wall," Jace suggested, his voice a low rumble that seemed to vibrate through Y/N's chest. "It's a harsh sentence, yes, but one that allows him to redeem himself in service to the realm."

Y/N turned to him, her eyes unreadable in the dim light. "Or I could let him go," she mused, her voice barely above a whisper. "But then, what message would that send? That theft and betrayal go unpunished in the North?"

"Take his fingers, my lady," the guard interjected. "It's an old punishment, aye, but effective. He'd bear the mark of his crime, but keep his life and limbs... most of them, at least."

Y/N closed her eyes briefly, and in that moment, Jace saw the weight of the North resting on her shoulders. When she opened them again, they gleamed with resolve.

"You've given me much to consider," she said, her voice steady as the foundations of Winterfell itself. "I'll not make this decision in haste. Guard, take him to the cells. See that he's fed and given water. I'll pass judgment when the sun rises."

As the guard led the prisoner away, his pleas fading down the corridor, Y/N turned to Jace. The torchlight cast dancing shadows across her face, highlighting the sharp planes of her cheekbones and the weariness in her eyes.

Jace moved towards Y/N, his tall frame casting a shadow over her. She could feel the heat emanating from his body, a welcome warmth against the coldness that had nestled in her chest. He spoke gently, never breaking eye contact with her. "You carry your burden with grace, my lady," he murmured, his voice deep and soothing.

Y/N held his gaze for a moment, allowing herself to bask in the comfort of his words. But as quickly as it had come, the moment passed. She took a step back, "Grace," she echoed, her voice barely above a whisper. "Grace is a luxury, Your Grace. In the North, we survive on harsher virtues."

Her eyes, once warm and inviting, now held a wintry gleam. The soft curves of her face seemed to harden, as if the very stone of Winterfell was seeping into her bones. With those words, Y/N turned away, her cloak swirling around her like a shroud. As she walked deeper into the shadows of Winterfell's halls, Jace was left with the unsettling feeling that he'd glimpsed not just the Lady of Winterfell, but a portent of the harsh days to come.

The torches guttered in a sudden draft, and for a moment, the corridor was plunged into darkness. When the light returned, Y/N was gone, leaving behind only the echo of her words and the lingering chill of premonition.

...

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[shiplessoceans]

Doing first ever rewatch of Hannibal and partway through season 1 I've noticed something I can't get out of my head.

I have a theory about Hannibal's office.

The design of it is so interesting??? The red and white curtains, the balcony, the strange design of the pillars and balustrade overhang...

And then it dawned on me. The overhanging timber from the balcony gently slopes up and down into points.

Like teeth.

The balcony splits the high ceilings into 2 rows. Like rows of teeth.

There are sections of red wall like the insides of someones cheeks.

The back wall is a fireplace, fire consumes.

The front wall has windows, the only view of the outside world and those curtains with parallel lines of red and white, like lips or teeth.

I think Hannibal's office is a mouth.

And everytime he has an appointment with someone, he's gnawing on them.

And the best part is, they walk in there willingly.

[literarydumpinggrounds]

Give this guy some loooove.. I feel like he’d be such a little stoner sweetie pie., but especially in a friends to lovers kinda situation-ship! 🫶🏻

Thinking about lowkey evenings in Sero’s room. The atmosphere effortless from the way you’d grown closer under everyone’s radar, the two of you in minimal loungewear, pretending to be mutually unaware of the fondness that had blossomed into something more between you. That palpable energy that made the air feel thicker. Pretending that you didn’t want to etch his profile into your memory as his dark eyes flitted about the game screen, blissfully unaware of his own denial as he pretended that he wasn’t affected by the peeking glimpses he’d catch of your underwear from under his hoodie.

Lights lowered to nothing but the luminescence of whatever game he’d chosen, and the colored led strips lining the walls. The speaker on his desk bumping his “mellow bars” playlist low in the background, the shuffle occasionally pulling his attention enough to hum, or rap along with the song.

He had a pretty decent voice, but he’d never admit it. Even if the timber of it made butterflies swarm in your gut.

Thinking about the both of you being exhausted from your patrols or training, sore bodies in need of respite before you could let sleep take you.. The sound of him lazily singing along to the music as he settles into the bed across from you.

Thinking about how his tongue would tenderly caress the seam of the wrapper as he rolled a blunt to share; slender, experienced fingers making no mistakes as he rolled the flower into a neat package.

Being so attracted to him that it hardly feels fair. Especially when he had that toned chest on display, baggy sweats hanging on narrow hips, and his hair pulled into a low bun..

And you know what?

Maybe you did stare a little too intently, admittedly a little jealous of the attention his lips gave the spliff rather than you.. but the way he beckoned you over with that come hither crook of his fingers made up for it. That easygoing grin stretched across his face, low lidded gaze fixing on your expression.

“You’re such a little creeper.. always watching me.”

He would murmur playfully, tilting your chin up with his finger as he blew the first drag through your parted lips, letting you take the cloud in slowly. Tracing his thumb along your jaw slightly, lips a mere breath away from brushing against yours.

“s’almost like you like me, or something..”

[zablife]

A Visit to the Peaky Blinders Set

Cillian Murphy x wife reader

A/N: More Cillian brain rot. This time you visit him in his trailer after a long day of work. 🔞

“Hi baby,” you cooed at your husband, watching him wash the makeup from his face.

He jumped slightly at your sudden intrusion, glancing up at you from where he stood. Your eyes locked in the mirror and a smile spread slowly across his face.

“Thought you’d gone home hours ago,” he said with a laugh. “Weren’t you bored?” he asked in an amused voice.

“Of watching you? Never!” you exclaimed, shutting the door of his trailer behind you.

Cillian turned to face you, his Tommy Shelby wardrobe still intact. “Did you come for what I think you have?” he asked with a smirk.

“You know me, I need a taste,” you purred, pressing into his open arms.

"Then who am I do to deny you," he murmured against the warmth of your skin, pressing open mouthed kisses to the tender flesh of your neck.

"You were incredible today," you praised, running your nails down his back. Cillian moaned at your touch, loving the attention you were lavishing on him. You squeezed him playfully as you asked, "Did everything go well?"

He grimaced slightly as he recalled the new actress on set who never knew her lines or bothered to rehearse. "It could have been better," he admitted, capturing your lower lip in a hungry kiss.

"I'm sorry, babe. Is there anything I can do?" you asked with an air of mock innocence.

"You can get down on your knees," he commanded in the Tommy Shelby voice. It took you by surprise to hear it and your heart thrilled at the low timber of his voice, directing you to pleasure him.

"Yes, sir," you complied, sinking to the floor and undoing his trousers. Stroking his hardening length under you palm, you glanced up at him to see his head tilted back in obvious pleasure. "Is this what what you need?" you asked, licking your lips suggestively.

Before you heard the grunt escape his throat, you felt his large hand at the back of your head, pushing you down onto his cock. Your husband was a passionate man, but always gentle with you. However, when you requested time with his alter ego, Tommy Shelby, everything was different. His hands gripped you more firmly and his words echoed forth with dominance.

"You're going to take it all, understood?" he asked, gathering your hair in a make shift ponytail so he could see your every movement. You tried to nod with his girth sliding past your plump lips, but could only moan in response to his request. You already felt the wetness pooling between your thighs and knew you both needed this.

Without wasting another second you went to work, bobbing against him until you gagged. Tears spilled onto your cheeks, but you didn't stop, the promise of his release so close as you noted the way his hand gripped the counter for support. Knuckles turning white, he hissed as he pushed you away suddenly and you knew exactly what he wanted.

"Not yet," he huffed, pulling you up to a standing position. Saliva and precum dribbling down your chin, you nodded obediently.

"Turn around," he demanded, throat full of gravel and eyes glazed with lust.

You complied instantly, gasping as his large hands jerked your dress over your ass and ripped your underwear away. You pushed back to show him your eagerness and he hummed in approval, sliding a finger between your glistening folds. No words were required, you'd done this often enough when he was stressed from a long day of shooting. You knew he needed to take you hard and fast.

His cock speared you with one deep push and your eyes rolled back in your head. There was nothing like the exquisite stretch of him when he was this engorged, ready to burst. For a few moments all that could be heard echoing through the walls of the trailer was Cillian's harsh grunts and your wanton moans, skin slapping against skin as he arrowed himself into you with utter abandon.

"I'm close," you told him breathlessly and he responded with a swift movement of his right hand, the rough pad of his thumb suddenly rubbing over your swollen bud. When he felt your velvet walls clamping around him, he leaned forward and commanded you, "Cum on my cock, sweetheart." With that utterance, you let go, chin dropping to your chest as the warmth in your abdomen grew, eventually shooting sparks down your spine. Your legs nearly gave way as he slammed into you, jutting your body into the dressing table with such force, the contents spilled to the floor with a crash.

The mirror shook as Cillian forced your head toward the table, hand hovering overing your back to keep you in place as he released rope after rope of hot cum into you. Head falling to the middle of your back with a contented sigh, his hips finally stilled as you heard his breathing slow.

You looked up to glance him in the mirror, eyes still shut in blissful enjoyment of your body. Stroking the globe of your ass appreciatively he said, "Fuck, that was exactly what I needed."

"Mmmm," you agreed, the power of speech beyond your ability at the moment.

With a small cry, he pulled out and you felt his spend dripping down your legs and onto the floor. You giggled as you turned to face your exhausted husband. "Thank you for letting Tommy come out to play," you giggled against his skin as the warmth of his embrace slowly brought you back to earth.

"Anything for my biggest fan," he remarked with a smirk. "You coming back next week?" he asked hopefully.

"If this is the treatment I get...absolutely!" you agreed, already eager for the next quickie.