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syluss-littlecrow · 8 months ago

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massagers and misunderstandings

Haphazardly leaving your little toy in Sylus's room after your playtime wasn't part of the plan.

The good news is that the vibrator was in Sylus’s room.

The bad news is that the vibrator is currently in Sylus’s hands.

genre/warnings: smut, pwp, vibrator play x mirror sex, overstimulation, unprotected sex, sylus teasing the everloving shit out of you, breeding kink, (light) choking, dacryphilia, shit load of orgasms

w/c: 2.1k

a/n: shout out to the loml @rafsfishstick for helping me out with this and also giving me this fuck ass idea. Now y'all gna suffer with ME. you're welcome 🩷

Shit, shit, shit. Where is it?!

You've been flipping your whole bedroom upside down over an important missing device. You swore you kept it in the drawers of your room, or at least, you thought you did.

Unfortunately, it went over your head that staying with Sylus for extended periods had you getting very comfortable with leaving your belongings around.

Including your vibrator.

Well, Sylus didn't need to know about it.

In your defense, it was lonely in the mansion without him. And when you did miss him while he was gone, you'd sneak into his room (not that he minded), lie on his bed and let his scent just engulf you completely.

Well, you had your needs too.

And usually you'd just keep your vibrator in your room within the mansion.

And unfortunately for you, this was not one of your usual times.

When the realisation hit you that you in fact did absentmindedly stash your toy hastily in one of his drawers during one of the nights when he told you he'd be away from town for a while, you bolted to his room, hoping, praying, that Sylus hadn't reached his chambers before you did.

The good news is that the vibrator was indeed in Sylus’s room.

The bad news is that the vibrator is currently in Sylus’s hands.

Fuck me, you think, a million useless excuses flooding in and out of your mind.

Maybe you could knock him out and snag the toy from his fingers.

Yeah, like that could ever fucking work with his level of reflexes.

“Aren't you coming in, kitten?”

His usual pet name sends goosebumps flooding your skin.

“Good evening, Sylus”, you force a smile, trying to ignore the way he’s fidgeting with your vibrator.

“This wouldn't happen to be yours, would it?” He asks, dangling the silicone vibrator before you. “I've never seen you use it before.”

You could smack the smug look off his face if you had the chance to, but for now, you force a smile, reaching out to take the device from him.

“It's just a massager”, you lie horribly.

Of course he fucking shifts it away from your grasp.

He narrows his eyes at you and decorates his expression with a sharper smirk.

“Right, because massaging devices look unassuming like this, and you happen to decide to have a little massage session in my room?”

Fuck.

There's no way out of this.

His smirk fades. He puts an arm out to beckon you closer.

His eyes reflect tints of something else, like a reminder that you're about to turn into his prey.

And you can't help but always fall into his trap.

“Now, won't you show me how you use your little massager, sweetie?”

You watch him twirl the vibrator between his slender fingers, touching and feeling the buttons on his fingertips. He has your legs spread apart in front of him at the edge of the bed. You’re carefully observing your partner as it takes him barely a few minutes to figure your toy out when it buzzes to life.

“Don't look so scared, kitten. I'm not about to eat you”, the gaze Sylus is giving you says otherwise. Unfortunately, there's a twisted stem of anticipation that's slowly flooding your veins. You wonder what he's about to do to you, and it's getting you excited.

He smirks when his gaze lands on the small damp patch of fabric on your pussy. He wants to make it bigger.

Sylus grazes his knuckles against your clothes pussy, and it draws a gasp from you.

“I have to say, sweetie, your little massager here has quite the strong vibrations”, Sylus teases. His arm curls around your legs, pulling you slightly closer to him, before he presses the buzzing toy on your clothed pussy. Despite the fact that you knew it was coming, you still jumped from the sensation instantly.

You crunch your abdomen when you feel Sylus rolling the vibrator up and down your pussy, watching with sheer satisfaction at the way the dark patch on your pussy continues to grow darker and bigger.

“How does it feel, kitten?” He asks with a smile, and you're not sure if you're getting soaked from the vibrator or from Sylus eye fucking you.

“Tickles…” you force yourself to answer. You hear him hum from below, before your mind shuts off when he shifts the vibrator right to your clit, and applies pressure right there.

But it's not enough.

You know he's fucking with you. He's teasing you–especially when he intentionally lowers the vibration to a dull buzz, taking away the build up, only leaving you whining for more.

But at the moment where you're able to catch your breath, the vibration climbs in levels again, leaving you fisting the sheets and his shirt. Sylus removes his arm around your thigh, and hooks a slender on the damp piece of fabric, tugging it outwards.

“Should we get this out of the way, sweetie? It's bothering you isn't it?”

You nod, still trying to regulate your breathing, your mind racing at the thought of Sylus being the one pressing your vibrator on your bare, wet, sticky pussy.

He lets you close your legs to roll the panties off your hips, only to disappear behind you for a split moment.

His husky voice rings in your ears.

“Open, sweetie.”

You feel his fingers brush on your chin, and he gestures to you to face the front.

You're facing the mirror.

The view of your legs spread open, the sight of your glistening pussy right before your reflection makes you swallow hard.

Sylus’s finger slither down to your sopping folds, spreading your pussy open.

“So fucking pretty for me, aren't you?”

Your fingers clutch tightly against his shirt, the desperation for him to do just anything coming out as a beg when you whisper to him, “please, Sylus.”

His other hand switches on the vibrator once more, and he aims it right on your fucking clit. It makes you jump, and before you realise it, your orgasm hits you–white engulfing your vision, the pleasure shooting through your veins at lightning speed and your pussy uselessly and desperately clenching the air. Sylus captures your lips with his, eating your fucked out moans while he drags your orgasm out, rolling the toy in circles around your clit, collecting the sheer wetness with his fingers and vibrator.

He pulls the vibrator off you, at least, momentarily, to let you descend from your high.

Sylus watches you through the mirror–you, in tears, a small puddle just under where you're sitting and just a creamy fucking mess your pussy is.

“So this was what you were doing when I was gone?”

He watches the way your ears turn red.

Sylus’s fingers keep you staring at him through the reflections.

“I got lonely when you weren't here…”

“Right. I'm sorry for that, sweetie. I should make it up to you, hm?”

You couldn't even proceed to ask him how before he lifts you onto his lap, and the view before you makes you swallow harder–his cock just resting against your bare pussy.

His lips are pressed against the shell of your ear.

“If I told you that I crave so fucking much to just see you the moment I leave, would that leave your mind at ease?”

“No”, you mutter, then gasp when he presses his dick along your folds, dragging his cock so painfully slowly against your pussy. “Nothing is enough if it's not you being here in the flesh.”

He chuckles–it feels warm and it spreads through all over your body.

“Greedy kitten”, is all he replies before he stretches you open, taking the gorgeous sight of you completely falling apart for him as he fits his cock in you.

“That’s a good girl for me. You're taking me so well. Fuck, look at you swallowing me up”, he groans, greedily wanting to just keep all the wet warmth for himself.

It has been a couple of long weeks since he was gone, and fuck was his cock quite a stretch. He fills you up so fucking good every single time.

He listens to you sigh shakily, trying to adjust. He feels the way you're squeezing his thighs with your hand.

You feel so good around him. You feel so good for him.

You hiccup when you feel Sylus thrusts his cock right into you again. You're so fucking overstimulated, your sensitivity climbing up in hundreds, but Sylus still trails the vibrator across your clit in pulses, making your head fall back against his shoulders, your moans bouncing off the walls of his room. It doesn't help that he's forcing you to soak in the sheer perversion of view that's presented before you.

“You're squeezing me so much, kitten”, he hisses into your ears when he feels your pussy clench around him once more. He's in fucking heaven.

But of course, he loves playing with his prey a little more.

The moment he feels you start flutter, he lifts the vibrator off your clit. It makes you gasp.

Then he thrusts his hips upwards, pressing against your sensitive spots. You watch the way his cock just disappears in you, all the way in, and it's starting to make you light-headed.

“Can your little vibrator make you make that face, kitten?”

You see the tear stains that streak down your face, your eyes still watery. Fuck, of course it doesn't.

“Maybe”, you answer shakily, and you watch his eyes fucking glow right before you in the mirror.

Sylus laughs.

“I guess I should change that, right?” He responds. His fingers are now on your throat, and his other hand lay flat on your thigh.

“Then I'd better make sure I make you see fucking stars. Fuck you hard and good, right?”

His fingers tighten around your throat.

Sylus is a fucking menace.

You don't even remember the existence of your vibrator. Not when Sylus is fucking the ever-loving shit out of you from below, and that you're watching it through the fucking mirror–every thrust detailed perfectly under the lights, his fingers cutting oxygen from you from time to time.

He's forcing you to cum with his dick.

And it's fucking working..

Much thanks to the horrible edging he's done to you, you're a fucking overstimulated mess–so sensitive and broken that when you're about to flood, you're begging him.

“Gonna cum, Sylus, please. I'm gonna cum so much. Fuckkkk-”

It fountains out of you and pushes him out, spraying all over the mirror and the sheets. You don't know what Sylus is muttering in your ears but you know he's fucking slapping your pussy, more fluids spraying out to his satisfaction.

After the clear fluids, only the thick cream comes after, and Sylus doesn't hesitate to slide his cock back in, filling you up once more, cream settling and slicking down his shaft with every thrust. Your thighs are still twitching from how fucking good it feels.

“Have I told you that I adore ruining you so much? Because I do adore ruining you so much, sweetie”, he groans. His face contorts in pleasure so fucking beautifully in the mirror while he bottoms out in you, his cock twitching and letting thick streams of warm cum filling you up. He lets himself stay in your pussy for a second or two, before he pulls out, only a thin string of cum linking his cock and your pussy.

Sylus forces you to watch his fingers once again pull open your pretty folds, and thick white seeps out of your hole in loads.

You see him plant a kiss on your temple before he effortlessly scoops you up to wash up with him.

You swear you didn’t leave it in his room this time round. You learned your lesson. When Sylus had his butler change out the soiled sheets, you had pocketed back your vibrator and kept it in a safe part of your room so Sylus wouldn’t get his hands on it again.

At least, that’s what you thought, because the vibrator seemed to have disappeared again.

Shit, did you have to intrude into Sylus’s room again? Well sure, he was gone for a couple of days, so you used his bed for a couple of days…but you were sure as hell that you brought the vibrator back with you when you on the day Sylus came back.

Unsuccessful with the search in Sylus’s room, you return back to yours, wondering if the mansion had just sucked up the vibrator into thin air.

That is, until you see Sylus on your bed.

With your vibrator in his hands.

#l&ds sylus #lads sylus #lnds sylus #l&ds smut #love and deep space smut #love and deep space sylus #love and deepspace #love and deepspace sylus #sylus #sylus x reader #sylus qin #qin che

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valyrianvibranium · 1 year ago

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SET ME ALIGHT AGAIN.

Cregan Stark x female!Targaryen!Reader (Part 2 here)

"It was on request of your younger brother's small council that Lord Cregan Stark agreed to take you to the North with him to prevent you from succumbing to grief like your aunt did. And now it's at his hands that the haze in your eyes is replaced by an emotion you haven't felt in so long, an emotion he’s giving back to you. And you let it flood you."

WARNINGS: SEXUAL CONTENT—MDNI; p in v, oral (fem receiving), angst (?), breeding kink, size kink, size difference, romantic fucking in front of the fireplace, afab reader, post dance of the dragons

WORDS: 4.8 K

NOTES: I dedicate this to @sylasthegrim. You're not only one of the few people I really grew fond of in the short time we truly got to know each other, but since both our minds basically came down to the same idea, this is for you! Thanks for beta reading this. 💕

❗️𝐚𝐝𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐲 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭!

You’ve been in Winterfell for a moon’s turn by now, and have quickly noticed that the ancestral castle possesses a beauty and calmness the Red Keep can be jealous of. But even that isn’t enough to make you feel at home – as if you could ever call a place your home again. Not after you’ve witnessed almost everyone in your family, no matter whether you liked them or not, perish at the hands of each other.

It was on request of your younger brother, now dubbed King Aegon the third, or rather of his small council that Lord Cregan Stark agreed to take you to the North with him to prevent you from succumbing to grief like your aunt did. And while you’re grateful for the chance to flee the one place that has caused you more hurt than good, riding in a carriage up to the far North like a commoner wasn’t exactly pleasant.

But how else should you have gotten there when your precious mount died along its kind as the common people stormed the Dragonpit?

For the past month, you’ve very rarely seen the sun – or anyone else than your maids.

Your days are spent in your chambers, not leaving the safety of the Guest House as you often try to find the sleep you can’t seem to get at night. And during the night, when the Hour of the Owl strikes and no light other than that of the moon reaches Winterfell, one often finds you wandering the quiet halls of the castle. Sometimes one even spots you outside in the Godswood, regardless of the low temperatures that make the three pools fed by an underground hot spring look even more inviting.

But warmth and comfort are never what you’re after.

You feel incredibly daring tonight, sitting beneath the ancient weirwood tree on one of its roots. Although there is a thick fur coat draped around your frame, the thin nightgown beneath does not allow you to be kept as warm as one usually desires, your bare feet hidden inside of the coat not a big help either.

Tiptoeing barefoot through the snow was the hardest part, but it was worth it as it gave you exactly what your body longs for.

You’re far too absorbed by the reflection of the moon dancing on the pool of black water beneath the tree, and the peaceful allure of the snow-covered night that you don’t notice you’re not alone anymore.

“Princess?” a husky voice rings out from the shadows, one you’d even recognize in a room full of loud and drunken men.

Almost as if he doesn’t want to startle you, the tall frame of the Lord of Winterfell approaches you without any sudden moves, becoming more visible with the moonlight shining down on him. “What are you doing out here this late?”

Only when he’s stopping not far away from you do you avert your eyes from him to the water again. “I could ask you the same, Lord Stark,” you reply softly.

A chuckle rumbles in his chest at your remark, and you can’t help the tint of heat hearing it brings to your cheeks. “Indeed you could,” he says. “I have not slept well, and the night has a peaceful allure. But you should not be out in the open without any guards, especially not this late at night.”

You drag your index finger through the snow at your side, drawing a mindless pattern in the dark as you do not pay any mind to his words. “And why is that, Lord Stark?” you ask, a certain snarkiness to your tone. “There is nothing worse that could happen to me than what I have already endured.”

Cregan sighs, and even in the dim light you can make out that he’s scratching his stubble covered chin. “And yet, should something else happen to you, I would not like myself for neglecting you and not protecting you just as I have sworn to the king,” he explains. “Besides, there is a cold chill in the air that I can not believe you are not feeling right now.”

“Perhaps that is the answer you’ve been looking for, my lord,” you mumble. “Perhaps I came here to feel something.”

The Wolf of the North doesn’t immediately answer you. Instead, there lingers a pause between you. But it’s not uncomfortable or feels as though it doesn't pass, no, you find yourself to actually enjoy his company.

His next words, however, even surprise you as you didn’t think he was capable of it. “Feeling the cold of the snow has its way to make one feel alive, that much is true,” he agrees, and then looks up to the dark sky. “You wish to feel something else than the pain of the absence of the people you’ve lost in this war, I understand… I think.”

His words make the feeling of emptiness, the hollowing ache of loss just worse, while at the same time, he seems to know the feeling of craving pain when you’re just so used to it.

“This cold bite, the chill that lingers on the skin — no one should want to feel it, Princess. It makes even my bones shake, do you know that? Surely you must be shivering, and we should be getting you inside. I should be getting you inside.”

You know he‘s right. While his words are blunt in nature, they are very much that of truth. You shouldn’t be out here, nor should you want to be out here. There‘s nothing to enjoy about this cold chill and the snow, not when you‘re as sparsely dressed as you are. You‘re not yet used to the chill of Winterfell, of the North.

Cregan offers you his hand, but you‘re still hesitant to take it. Albeit you reach out, your significantly smaller hand hovers over his, not yet grabbing it. “You‘re not exactly wearing proper attire to be out in this wretched cold for very long,“ he remarks. “Let me help you get up, your feet must be in agony by now.“

“And what if I don‘t want to?“

“Then I will still get you up.“ There is a tinge of amusement in his voice now, seeing this little bit of rebelliousness from you, your strength of mind. Even if he doesn’t exactly approve of it. “I shall simply pick you up myself, throw you over my shoulder, and carry you inside to your chambers, even though I‘d get you quite angry and don‘t imagine you want me to do just that.“

You don’t believe he actually has the gumption to do something like that at first, although you know he’s able to muster a decent amount of strength that would easily allow him to lift you up. But then, you wonder if he would truly do it if challenged. “Try that, if you dare, my lord.”

He lets out a snort of amusement, enjoying the teasing that slowly shapes between you two. It still is a challenge, and as a man of his station, he could never let words like this go unspoken. “Oh, I dare, Princess.”

Putting forth his arm, he wraps his fingers around your wrist and easily pulls you forwards onto your feet without applying too much pressure. You’re certainly caught off guard by his actual willingness to lift you up, and a squeal escapes your lips before you’re tossed on his strong shoulder as if you are some silly, helpless girl.

Cregan carries you through the Godswood and towards the Guest House, though you don’t resist too much as you’re hanging there over his shoulder – a part of you is grateful you don’t have to walk through the snow with your bare feet once more.

“Lord Stark, put me down at once!” you demand with a little twinge of laughter in your voice. You feel so light, much lighter than you imagine he’s used to lifting up, almost as if it’s taken all of the pressure off your shoulders.

But when there doesn’t come an answer from him, you grow slightly frustrated. “What if anyone sees, you madman!” you remark, embarrassment warming your cheeks.

“Madman? That’s rich coming from the woman who was willing to freeze to death in the snow,” he says jokingly, approaching the large doors. “Who do you think could see us at this hour, princess? The rats? And what if they do? What if someone sees me carrying the poor princess, who had the gall to get out of her bed after midnight and wander the Godswood while in her nightgown?” Although there is amusement in his voice, you also notice the faintest hint of flirtation laced within. “Will they judge me for carrying her, or would they judge her for her imprudent midnight excursion?”

You stay silent thrown over his shoulder, not sure how to reply. You thought you had a good comeback, but it seems Cregan is one step ahead of you. The flirtatious teasing you’ve heard catches you off guard, not expecting to hear it from him at all. It makes your cheeks flush with even more embarrassment when you notice that he’s actually right. But you don’t want to admit the truth in what he’s said.

“You mock me, but you shall see there would be much scandal if someone were to see this,” you retort, trying to keep calm as you’re now a little bit flustered by these sudden developments. “Besides,” you say, trying to remain unbothered and nonchalant, “who says I won’t tell a tale of you being the imprudent one?”

“Ah, you little rascal,” Cregan replies with a chuckle, giving your thigh a tight squeeze. “I see you’d find a way to turn the tides and have it end up with me being the bad guy, taking my chances on a vulnerable woman in the guise of protecting her.”

You’re clearly enjoying the teasing a tad too much, enjoying these quick and witty back-to-backs with him, taking your mind off of your grief. Drawing in a deep breath, you hold onto Cregan’s thick coat. “What would you have been protecting me from, Lord Stark?” you ask with feigned innocence. “Were the trees too menacing that you just had to sweep me off my feet to carry me away from their clutches?”

“No, I am afraid it was not the trees that had me worried, Princess,” Cregan replies as he brings you further into the Guest House, easily opening the door to the sleeping quarters with one hand. “The cold was the greater menace, and it had you in its grasp.”

Your words die in your throat when he puts you down on your bed, the soft furs very welcomed beneath your cold feet. You look up at him with wide eyes and a heaving chest as he towers over your significantly smaller frame, and you wait for him to make the next move.

There’s a moment of silence between you, obviously he’s considering his next words.

And boy do they disappoint you. “I shall make sure a fire is lit for you to warm yourself, princess,” he says, turning around to approach the hearth on the other side of the room.

Cregan crouches down to build and start a small fire in the hearth that should last the night, not wanting you to stay too cold. But you wouldn’t be a thoroughbred dragon if it didn’t mean for you to take any risks. And so you get onto your cold feet, the coat still draped around your shoulders sliding down to the ground.

Feeling a bit too exposed too quickly, you grab one of the thick fur blankets laying on your bed instead and wrap it around your frame, before you tiptoe towards the large wolf kneeling in front of the fireplace.

“I have something different in mind,” you speak softly. Cregan, startled by your words and your sudden approach, turns around and faces you as he rises to his feet. You reach and bury your hands in the collar of his coat, the blanket falling to the ground in the process, and when you use your grip to pull him close, you find that he does not shy away in the least – if anything, he follows the tug to connect your lips in a heated kiss.

He brings his large hands to your waist with ease, and presses his body against yours. The wolf feels like he’s drowning in you, in your lips, your warmth, your presence and scent. Wanting to lose himself in the moment, in you, his hands wander lower to your hips.

“I did not expect you to do this tonight,” he breathes against your lips, breaking the silence.

“And I did not expect some things from you tonight either,” you reply, breathlessly, voice breaking with every breath you take. “Is that a bad thing?”

His voice is low and smooth as he speaks, shaking his head. “Quite the contrary.” There is a flirtatious smile on his lips, and a playfulness you haven’t seen before in his gray eyes. It’s as if that small spark between you has quickly evolved into an inferno that now burns bright in the both of you.

It’s a fierce and burning kiss when your lips connect once more, fueled by the fires coursing through your veins. You release a soft whimper with his large paws trailing over your sides, feeling the fabric of your nightgown.

“If we continue this, I won’t be able to stop myself,” he rasps.

You tilt your head back to look at him, a cheeky grin on your lips. “Perhaps I do not want you to.”

Cregan’s eyebrows raise at your reply, and you feel his hands tighten around your waist once more. He can’t help but feel a jolt of arousal run down his back, which prompts him to release a low chuckle. “Well, if you wish for it that much…” he whispers in response, before pulling you back toward him, kissing you passionately.

A breathless chuckle slips past your lips as you pull back from him, licking your kiss swollen lips. “But there are a few things we need to get you out of first,” you tease, tugging at the thick, furry coat that’s draped over his broad shoulders.

“Are you this eager to have your hands over all of me?” he replies with a flirtatious smirk, but still unclips the coat and lets it fall to the ground. He doesn’t mind you seeming quite intent to get him out of his armor, allowing you to fumble with the clasps and buckles, and eventually helps you remove the heavy bits until he’s left wearing nothing but his breeches. But even those are quickly unlaced by you, left to be a puddle around his feet.

“My my, do you not feel a little too hot still, Lord Stark?” you tease, letting your fingers wander over his exposed stomach. You can’t help but feel warmth creeping onto your cheeks as you see him in such little clothing, so exposed. He’s a muscular man, tall and large, and the sight of his bare skin with the dark of hair on his chest and a trail of it running below his undergarments is a welcoming one.

Through the linen you see that he’s already hard and begging, waiting for you to take things further. Truly a shame you seem to relish in the teasing.

Goosebumps prickle on his skin in the wake of your finger, making you smile. You drag your finger along the waistband of his undergarments, hooking it beneath to tug on it. He knows what you desire, and he’s not ashamed to give you just that. “I do not see you so eager to remove your own clothes, Princess,” he teases, undoing the laces in the front for his undergarments to join his breeches. “It is hardly fair you want to see all of me, yet I am not allowed to do the same.”

You take in a sharp breath at the sight of his hard cock, standing to full attention. It has you licking your lips. Batting your eyelashes at him, you’re quick to pull your nightgown over your head, a smirk on your lips. A flimsy piece of linen conceals what lies between your legs, but it’s still enough for him to all but devour your almost bare frame.

“There,” you whisper, “now we are on equal grounds.”

Cregan takes a moment to look over you, licking his lips at the sight of your breasts fully exposed mto him. He knows you’re no maiden who’s completely untouched, you wouldn’t be as confident if you were, but it doesn’t stop him from appreciating the sight in front of him.

“Equal grounds, truly?” he asks you, taking a step toward you. One arm snakes around your waist, pulling you against him, as his other hand fists the linen of your smallclothes. “I think you still have an advantage over me, Princess. Because I have yet to see what lies beneath your undergarments.”

Your palms rest flatly against his chest, and you press a chaste kiss to his skin. “I will not stop you, Lord Stark,” you whisper, looking up at him with wide, innocent eyes.

“Then let’s make these ‘equal grounds’ a little bit more equal, hm?” Cregan whispers as well. He sinks to his knees with his mouth trailing a path down your body, licking and kissing over your skin until he reaches your navel. His large hands trail over your sides and thighs on his way down, the movement and sight making your breath hitch in your throat.

A shudder ripples through your body as he tugs your smallclothes down your legs, and while you watch him with your hands buried in his dark curls, his eyes are all but focused on what’s between your legs.

He drapes one of your legs over his broad shoulder, his dark blown eyes darting up to meet yours, and before you can make any teasing remark, his mouth is on you. A gasp catches in your throat. “Cregan, please,” you whimper, forgetting all courtesies the moment his tongue drags through your slit. There’s no softness, no gentleness in the way he all but devours your cunt, the previous teasing having made his patience run thin.

Your head tips back in pleasure as his tongue alternates between sliding into you and swirling around your pearl, noticing both options have you grind your hips against his face. The tip of his nose rubs so perfectly against your pearl when his mouth pays attention to your entrance, and Cregan’s fingers dig into your flesh with your body tensing up already, keeping you steady.

The Wolf of the North growls against your cunt as if he’s truly turned into one, devouring you with all he’s got, the sheer pleasure brought by his tongue and lips taking over you.

As you look down at him again, you find him already staring up at you, watching you carefully as you slowly but surely unravel on his tongue. It’s intense, but you’re captivated enough not to break eye contact.

“Gods, yes, I–” you whimper, and fall apart all over his tongue with a shudder. If it wasn’t for Cregan’s paws on your body, you would have lost balance by now, especially with the way he seemed to work his tongue in and out of you faster just in rhythm to his nose rubbing your pearl.

He pulls away from you slowly as your peak subsides, and with his beard and lips glistening with the remnants of your arousal, how could you not pounce on him right then and there?

He supports his body with one arm placed on the ground and stretches his legs as you push yourself against him, wrapping your arms around his strong neck. The taste of yourself on his tongue makes you moan against his lips before you deepen the kiss.

Cregan’s hard cock is nestled between your bodies, and you can’t resist wrapping your hand around it, stroking him once, twice, before you shift your hips and slowly sink down on him.

Muscular arms completely wrap around your waist, making you very well aware of the size difference between the two of you. You’re significantly smaller than him, and relish in the feeling of being safe and protected with him around. You two haven’t been too close upon your arrival in the North, but it seems that there has been a hidden attraction lingering for quite some time.

You know your hips would sooner or later become sore from pumping him with your core, hence you stick to rocking your hips back and forth with his cock stuffed deep inside you. It’s intimate and slow, but with the coarse hairs around the base of his cock dragging over your pearl with each swivel of your hips, you’re still racing for completion.

While he mouths along your jaw and the curve of your throat, one of his hands comes up to cup your breast. Rolling the perky bud between his index finger and thumb, the slight sting works wonders to amplify the pleasure coursing through your veins.

“By the Seven,” you whimper, grinding your hips against him with more determination.

There comes a sharp hiss in return from him, barely audible between the open mouthed kisses he presses to your collar bones. You’re clawing at his shoulders and neck by now, scratching it despite the sensuality of your movements, and it feels as though you’re even drawing blood. But he doesn’t care about that – he rather enjoys having a woman that doesn’t hold back.

Trailing his lips up to your throat, he nudges your chin with his nose, prompting you to tip your head back. “It’s not them you need to pray to right now, Princess,” Cregan rasps, a clear strain to his voice. “But perhaps I should take that as a compliment, hm?”

His words cause you to chuckle, and you’re grateful that he’s quickly distracted by kissing your throat again, because otherwise he might have noticed the heat his words bring to your cheeks. “If that is…” you trail off panting, burying your hand in his curls to tug his head back, forcing him to look up at you. The sight of his dark blown eyes hungrily gazing at you sends a shiver down your spine. You feel desired. “If that is a compliment, then I shall have to say it much more often.”

You’re not sure if it’s the fact you state wanting to compliment him more often, or if he’s just not used to having an appreciative lover in general, but your words seem to flip a switch inside of him. You quickly find yourself lowered on the fur blankets, warming your back while the flames heat up your skin and Cregan your blood.

Nestled between your legs, he’s growing more determined now, the sensual rocking of your hips clearly not enough for him, but you don’t mind it. As much as you enjoy being in control, setting the tone, you also revel in following the lead.

He’s propped up on one elbow, supporting himself as he thrusts into you, rolling his hips that make his cock drag so expertly against the sweet spot inside of you.

With one hand, you hold onto his broad shoulder, digging your nails into his skin, while the other gropes at his chest, teasing his bud just like he’s done with yours before. The feeling of his coarse hairs beneath your fingers feels somewhat strange at first, for Aemond hasn’t had as much chest hair as Cregan does, but it’s also comforting.

The familiar coil in the pit of your belly tightens slowly with his hips snapping into yours over and over again, split open by his hard cock.

“Will you fill me up, my lord?” you moan breathily, arching your back with your breasts pressing against his sturdy frame.

Cregan releases a choked groan at the question, and for a moment you can feel his hips stutter. You briefly wonder if you’ve pushed your luck too far, especially with him not replying immediately, until his raspy voice cuts through the heavy pants and moans.

“Only if you let me take you to wife, Princess.”

You inevitably clench down around him as a small, hiccuped gasp catches in your throat, resulting in Cregan drawing in a sharp breath. The haze in your eyes is replaced by an emotion you haven't felt in so long, an emotion he’s now giving back to you. And you let it flood you.

Your hand comes from his chest to his biceps, holding onto it as you gather your thoughts. His hips haven’t slowed down one bit, and he’s truly expecting you to answer as if he wasn’t repeatedly impaling you on his cock right now.

Staring up at him with wide eyes, your voice isn’t any louder than a whisper. “It would be foolish of me to turn this offer down,” you reply.

An impish smirk dances along Cregan’s features. “Is that meant to be a yes?”

“Y-Yes, it is, “ you whimper beneath him, arching your back once more.

The warmth of his body, his weight and scent cloud your every being, and his thrusts are determined and harsh enough to render you speechless, your mind and body completely claimed by him.

His hand snakes between your bodies, aiming for your sensitive pearl. Though the coarse hair around his cock has granted you at least a bit of friction, it’s not enough to bring you to your peak. His thumb circles over the little bud, fully coated with your arousal, and the thread in your belly is close to snapping.

“Then I just might,” he grunts in return.

Your body jerks at the sudden touch, but his muscular frame between your legs is enough to keep you pinned to the ground. “I need you… Cregan,” you whimper, bringing a hand behind his head to pull him down for a heated kiss. Your lips hardly part to release whimpers and moans, swallowing each other’s sounds of pleasure without any shame. “Let me give you a spare.”

It appears that your words give him a new-found vigor that leaves you gasping, the pace of his hips increasing. As you start to roll your hips against his thumb, you not only create some friction that feeds your pleasure but his as well. It’s not long after that your peak washes over you with a soft gasp, walls clenching around him like a vice.

With your small frame trembling between his strong arms, Cregan releases a strained grunt, his own peak being milked out of him by your cunt fluttering around his cock. He keeps on dragging his thumb over your sensitive pearl, prolonging your peak and the pleasure that comes with it.

You stare up at him with wide eyes as you’re milking him for every drop, because there’s something so vulnerable in this wolf of a man, towering over you with his skin glistening with sweat, so desperate to fill you with his seed and breed you.

The last jolts of his peak force him to languidly rut his hips into yours, desperately chasing the feeling of bliss that courses through your veins. His chest heaves with every heavy breath he takes, and the dark curls are damp and fall into his face.

Only as Cregan is certain there’s not one drop of his seed left inside of him does he slowly stop his ministrations, and the hand that has toyed with your bud seizes your hips, stilling them.

His erratic breaths fans over your sweaty skin with his lips pressing to your temple. The feeling of being whole with him doesn’t leave you, not when his weight pins you down and keeps you grounded, easing your tumbled mind.

“I shall welcome the arrival of any child you bear me,” Cregan says, inevitably breaking the silence.

A smile spreads across your lips as you wrap your legs around his hips, and your arms around his neck. “Be careful what you wish for. My children will certainly be just as stubborn as me.”

His heart is practically pounding against his ribs, and he can feel himself on the verge of being lost by your touch alone again. You make him go wild and feral, your bold and flirtatious nature bringing out another side to him that’s completely unexpected. And yet it feels so right.

The teasing banter brings a smile to his lips and a light to his gray eyes, your wit and humor shining through. “Let them be stubborn, then,” he chuckles, leaning in to press a kiss to your forehead. “They only need to be half as feisty as you, and I shall be the happiest man in Winterfell.”

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bortalis · 8 months ago

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My concepts for the development progress of an Iterators Puppet

-my ideas below

-Feasibility Study

[1]: First autonomous control module, any instruction to be given must be done manually through physical means (the keys), outputs were shown through the screen. A very primitive system, however, did its job proving the greater machine concept was achievable. While it does look like a lens above the monitor, this was a simple status gauge for benchmarking.

-Prototyping and Development

[2]: Now with the capability to wirelessly and audibly communicate to receive instructions and inputs. The system was no longer directly integrated into the facility, and resided on the first instance of an iterator's arm. This was considered a feat due to the complications with isolating the control module from the rest of the iterators components, while keeping processing power. A permanent connection/umbilical was needed to sustain life and function though.

To “talk” back, they were crafted with multidimensional projectors, the mobile arm allowing the angles and variance for this projection. Only later into development were advanced speakers installed for optimized understanding, however the extra computing power required to synthesize proper speech was found to strain the contained module, so this function had rare use in the end.

[3]: At this point there was a change in perspective in the project. What once were machines to simply compute and simulate, were now planned to be the home, caregiver, and providers. The further the project came to fruition the more religious importance was placed upon these “random gods”. From this stance not only did the puppets have to manage and control their facilities, they had to communicate with the people and priests. To represent benevolent beings who will bring their end and salvation. In this process iterators began to take a more humanoid shape, to better reflect their parents. Development was focused on compacting the puppet closer to the size of an ancient for this purpose. This stage was the first to incorporate a cloak/clothing into their design considerations, to further akin themselves in looks. The cloak would hide the iterators' engineered bodies and give a body to their silhouette.

[4]: As bioengineering and mechanics were rapidly progressing due to the void fluid revolution, this allowed plenty of margin for developing the outer design of the iterator puppets. This prototype was the first to incorporate limbs for the purpose of body language. This was another step in the drive to give a body to their random gods.

-Final Iterations

[5]: First generation iterators had the final redesign of puppet bodies. Far different from their first designs, they are fully humanoid. Their bodies are shaped to be organic and as full of life as they could at the time. Their center of sapience has fully settled within their body, as can be seen as their unconscious use of limbs without the direct intention for communication. This can also see how they manage their work, where many of the functions (which can be done with just an internal request) are operated through physical gestures of their limbs. Their puppet chambers also allow for full comprehensive projection, where many of their working monitors are displayed. It is seen how iterators prefer to utilize their traversal arm to transfer between the current working projection window.

These designs were hardy and nearly self-sufficient, only requiring minimal power from their umbilical to charge. (However was still limited in the terms of internal power production, for this first generation extensive batteries sufficed)

[6]: Later generation not only incorporated advanced bioengineering internally, but externally. While still a hardened shell, their body plates have been incorporated into the organics of the puppet, maintaining the protective requirements while barely leaving a trace of hinges or plates. This “soft” skin had drawbacks, such as reduced durability to the first generations, this was offset by the greatly enhanced repair speeds and capability this type of skin allowed.

Internal power generation was implemented into these late generation models. If the case arose, the Puppet could be disconnected from their umbilical and still be conscious from an undefined period of time. (However this would limit the operating capacity of the puppet when running self sufficiently) This greatly eased maintenance works, as the Puppet could still run the greater facility wirelessly while work was done on the chamber, arm or whatever as needed.

#rain world #rw iterator #looks to the moon #five pebbles #Bortiz art

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cryptotheism · 9 months ago

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Gordon Ramsay: now tell me about this

Rabbi Akiva: This reflecting pool leads to the throne room of the almighty.

Gordon: Right, right.

Rabbi Akiva: But well, without reciting the proper prayers, you go mad.

Gordon: Bloody hell. Probably trapped in the treasury of the divine forever then right?

Rabbi Akiva: that's right. But if we make it to the next chamber, we get to measure the body of the divine.

Gordon: Well fuck me. S'abit piss for all the work we done to get here innit. Fuck alright then.

Rabbi Akiva: I brought measuring tape.

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nightingale-prompts · 3 months ago

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Worship Me- DCxDP prompt

Yes, it's slightly horny. Sue me!

Was there anyone in this family that didn't attract crazy? Tim would like to say that it was some more than others but the track record is horrendous for each of them.

Don't ask him how he got here. It was a blur. Mission. Altar. Cursed Mirror.

But all that doesn't matter anymore because currently in what could only be described as an obsidian palace.

The palace floats in the void like a jagged crown. Its structure defies logic—spires twist and spiral in impossible geometries, as though grown rather than built. Every surface is carved from seamless black obsidian that drinks in the light of distant stars, causing the palace to shimmer with eerie inner reflections, like shadows trapped beneath glass.

The entrance is a colossal gate shaped like an open eye, rimmed with glowing runes that pulse with alien intent. Inside, the vast halls echo with silence too deep to be natural. The floors gleam with a mirror-sheen, reflecting not just one's image, but fragments of memories, glimpses of alternate selves, or ghostly figures passing just out of reach.

Chambers are suspended in open vacuum, tethered by bridges of crystalline light or magnetic arcs. Gravity bends strangely; a single step can carry you across entire rooms or into hidden dimensions nested within the architecture.

Tim had memorized every detail of this place in the days since he arrived. Most of the time he was allowed to go about his day staying and learning about this place. He wasn't imprisoned, he had to wait for the portal to open again in a few weeks. But Tim had caught the interest of the ruler of the palace.

Now Tim sat on the edge of the floating bed. It's heaped with a sea of plush pillows in shades of midnight blue, silver, and deep violet, each embroidered with celestial patterns.

How he got to this point—he may have...had a few conversations with who he assumed was the prince. The person who he thought was the king was actually his guardian. Tim just...flirted a little to get a bit of information on this place. Danny—the prince—had been more than receptive.

It might have gone too far but here we are.

Now he was in the bedroom of who he still assumed was the crown prince with said prince currently on his lap with his lips on Tim's neck. Tim is unable to move because he believes that if they get caught Tim might end up beheaded for putting his Richard where it does not belong. Hell, they probably already know with the all-seeing eyes everywhere and the fact that the beings in this dimension phase through walls so using the door was just a polite formality.

"Stop thinking. I can practically hear your thoughts." Danny growled nipping at Tim's neck between kisses.

"Then you can te—ll, haa. Fuck! Your hand. Too fast." Tim gasped.

Danny pulled away as he grabbed Tim by the chin and made him look into his eyes. Those hypnotizing green eyes.

"Do you want this?" Danny asked his eyes narrowed.

"...Yes," Tim couldn't lie.

"What do you want?" Danny smiled his sharp elongated incisors showing.

Tim remained silent his hand pressed against the small of the princes back.

"Good, you don't have to say a word. Focus on me. Think of me. Nothing else." His hand wrapped around Tim's throat. "Worship me as your new god."

Prince—king—these words where actually meaningless titles for Danny. He was not these petty and lowly things. He was a god and he craved worship. Even if it came in the form of a single human devoted to him. How incredibly lucky that a suitable human came here. Clockwork says it was best to let the human go back to his dimension and hopefully share his experience so that others will worship Danny. He had no interest in letting his new priest go so easily, not without a parting gift.

"I wonder how it must feel to bed your new master."

#lock me up #dc x dp #dpxdc #dc x dp prompt #danny fenton #dp x dc prompt #tim drake #deadtired #brain dead

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beloveds-embrace · 7 months ago

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Hello! Thank you for feeding us the angstier timeline of the dukedom au!! I live for angst

You don’t have to entertain this thought ofc, the angst and how good you write for my brain worms worming. I just can’t stop thinking about what would’ve happened if König wasn’t there and instead the duchess had to suffer all on her own

(Or better yet, if he was there but ended up also leaving the duchess for someone else or was killed protecting the duchess)

Reader having to endure everything on her own which eventually leads her to falling terribly ill and in the olden times we all know how a simple cold could turn into more and yield deadly results

The stress combined with the overall lack of appetite (and the food not cooked well at times to add to that… more angst (: ) as well as other factors rendered the reader terribly ill

Maybe she fell into a body of water and had to save herself, or maybe she was caught up in a rainy storm on a walk with no one offering her warm clothing or a cover up until she eventually managed to get back that leads to pneumonia

Maybe she gets injured but hides it until the blood loss gets to her and infection sets in

Just so many options and flavours of angst

Anyway, thank you for sharing your writing with us! Agin, you don’t have to engage with this, so please don’t feel pressured!! I’m just having many thoughts and am currently going feral /pos

WAITTT WAIT I LOVE THIS

Because imagine clinging to König, to your one singular source of comfort in a manor that has no room for you, and in the end, he leaves as well.

You had been telling yourself that you had been simply more imaginative lately; König was simply busy, he wasn’t growing more and more distant! The way he looks at you now compard to before hasn’t changed. At all. His responses were in hums and nods, noncommittal but that’s okay, sometimes you did not feel like speaking- like existing- either.

Until he stands in your office, the light from the windows reflecting off his armour. You had been happy to see him, a smile on your lips to be in the company of the only one who didn’t seem to despise you.

When he tells you that he will not be doing this anymore, it feels, for a very split second, like your heart shatters into a thousand tiny pieces. You can feel the shattering of each, single piece.

Better place. He says, pity in his eyes but no regret. He pauses for a second. I wish… the best for you.

König leaves you like that; staring after his back in abject horror. Every step he takes echoes in your ears, until you are left alone in your office, hands trembling, and your ears ringing.

After that day, everything practically crumbled. You crumbled.

Without him, the weight of your isolation became unbearable. The disdain of the household grew sharper once it became known your only solace was no longer there, the whispers more cutting. Meals came cold, uneaten. Sleep eluded you, and the constant stress gnawed away at your strength.

One fateful day, you went outside in a desperate bid to escape the suffocation. The air was crisp, the sky gray with the promise of rain, and yet you still did not turn back. You wandered farther than you intended, your steps aimless even as the first drops began to fall.

The storm came quickly afterwards, drenching you to the bone. Your thin cloak offered little protection, and the chill seeped deep into your skin. By the time you returned, trembling and soaked, no one was waiting to help you. No fire had been lit in your chambers; no warm blanket was offered, and no company was given.

The fever began that very night, burning through you with a strength that left you bedridden. Days passed in a haze of pain and delirium. The wound you had hidden- an injury from your fall in the storm- festered, the infection spreading rapidly through your weakened body. You hadn’t the strength to call for help, nor the faith that anyone would come even if you did hoarse out your voice in your attempts.

Only when your condition worsened and you really, truly disappeared out of view, the household finally took notice. Whispers swirled, faint echoes beyond the fog of your fading consciousness, and everyone became alert of your absence, meals returned untouched and maids reporting it’s weeks since they’d helped you with anything.

John sat in his study, nursing a glass of whiskey as the fire crackled in the hearth. He told himself your absence didn’t matter- that you were retreating because you’d finally realized the truth. But when he closed his eyes, he saw your face as it had been on your wedding day- hopeful, trusting, and unaware of the coldness that would greet you.

Simon found himself pacing the halls around your room more often than usual. He would glance toward your chambers but never step inside, convincing himself it wasn’t his concern. And yet, something about the silence unsettled him.

Johnny had begun to notice the meals sent to your chambers were left untouched, the plates returned barely touched or sometimes not taken at all. He hadn’t cared at first, dismissing it as you sulking because no one was giving you attention. But now the thought lingered- had you even been eating at all?

Even Kyle, with his sharp tongue and sharper gaze, felt the unease creeping in. He found himself hesitating when passing your door, his usual indifference cracking as guilt gnawed at him.

In the end, it’s Kyle who couldn’t stand the silence anymore. He stepped into your room, telling himself it was simply to prove to himself that you were fine and just- sulking.

The sight stopped him cold.

The room was dim, the curtains drawn, and the air heavy with the faint, sour scent of illness. You lay motionless on the bed, your body shockingly frail, your skin damp with fever. Your hair clung to your forehead, and your breathing was shallow, each breath rattling in your chest.

You didn’t even notice him. Not even when he turned around and barked sharply for John, for a doctor now. You didn’t notice him at all. Not him, not John or Simon or Johnny when they appear while the maids run to get the doctor.

(Kyle will never tell anyone how utterly sick he felt upon seeing the dried tear-tracks on your face. The unfinished, rotten meals near the bed. The tear spots on your pillows. He will never, ever forget today. He doubts any of the others will be able to do so, either.)

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decagondice · 4 months ago

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༓ Too Busy Being Yours ༓

༓ Pairing. Soft!Sylus x f!Reader

༓ Synopsis. In the stillness of a world built on shadow and steel, Sylus stands alone, the weight of her absence pressing against his chest. She lingers in every corner, in every detail — the gleam of his eyes, the quiet hum of the city, the cold touch of his sidearm.

༓ Content. Soft!Sylus, sfw, F!Reader, Established Relationship (?) comfort, Loneliness (?), Sylus misses you whilst you're away, fluff, Yearning, Domestic (?), Not proofread.

༓ Word Count. 1.3k

༓ A.N. This was super rushed but its almost 5am and I have been stuck with thoughts of Soft!Sylus whilst having Hozier's cover of 'Do I wanna know?' on constant loop. (I would recommend listening to that while reading this piece)

[Artwork by Petrus Van Schendel - 'Dutch Market by Moonlight', 1853]

The window was a fractured sheet of black glass, and beyond it, the vast sprawl of Onychinus bloomed in shades of dull copper and cold mercury. The city never slept — it simply lulled into a different kind of wakefulness, one that hummed with the murmur of distant engines and the low, syrup-thick din of voices lost between floors, beneath flickering neon eaves. Sylus stood before it, shirt unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled up over the worn sinew of his forearms, a coin flipping between his fingers. The metal gleamed faintly in the dim light, its rhythm steady and almost meditative, like thoughts drifting into the quiet of the room, rising and fading into nothing.

He was waiting, though he would never call it that.

The apartment was too still without her, the silence swallowing the edges of the hours until they blurred together into one endless dusk. She’d been gone for days — maybe weeks — and though they had lived apart before, this time the absence ached differently. This time, she left her fingerprints on every surface she’d touched, and even in her absence, he felt her. In the hollow press of his pillow, in the half-drunk cup left on the counter, in the way her voice seemed to echo up from the floors themselves.

He wasn’t the kind of man who fumbled for words, but she had built herself a shrine in his mind without even trying. And it would be his curse — perhaps his only one worth bearing — to kneel before it willingly.

The phone buzzed on the glass table beside him, the screen illuminating briefly before dimming into a soft reflection of the room. Her name. A tether to the living world.

He let it ring once — twice — before answering, his voice low and indifferent, a thin veil over the frayed edges of his waiting.

"How are you?" Her voice was a warmth too tender for a world like his, too light to belong in the grip of a man like him.

Sylus laughed, a breathy, unguarded thing that slipped out before he could smother it. The kind of laugh that belonged in dark hallways or against the curve of her neck, close enough that no one else could steal it.

The phone rested lightly against his ear, but his gaze was fixed somewhere far beyond the windowpane, to where the sky peeled itself apart over the distant harbour, light bleeding into water like ink into silk.

He didn’t answer right away.

Because how could he tell her —

That every day without her was a hollow stretch, a penance paid in silence. That no matter how he occupied his hands — in deals, in schemes, in fights where blood became the only language spoken — she followed him.

She was in the weight of the guns he cleaned with meticulous fingers, in the cold press of steel that always reminded him of how her hands felt against his jaw — not soft, not fragile, but deliberate, certain, like she knew exactly what kind of man she was holding and didn’t flinch. She lingered in the polished chambers, in the oil-slick sheen of metal under dim light, each piece of his arsenal now a reliquary touched by her presence. Even the treasures he hoarded — the rings, the loose chains, the antique blades and strange glimmering artefacts collected in careless greed — all of it, touched now by her absence.

She was in the rain-slick streets beneath his shoes, the reflections of passing headlights gliding like ghosts beside him, the pulse of the city now syncopated to the memory of her heartbeat against his. A curse, perhaps. But if this was damnation, he’d bear it with the grace of a condemned man walking willingly into the mouth of hell.

Because Sylus — sharp-edged, gloved in the faint trace of dark woods and leather, the cool weight of steel a constant companion, with hands that had taken lives and seized fortunes — had known love first as a weakness. A blade turned against its wielder. A story with a ruinous end. But then there was her. Love, in the shape of her name. Love, not a thing that devoured, but something that held. Not a soft surrender, but a reckoning — two hands reaching into the dark and pulling him out without flinching at what they found.

He had told himself once that love was a thing best kept at a distance, lest it burn the house down around him. But now, even knowing the smoke would always follow, he could no longer resist standing in the heart of it.

She was there in the smallest details — the gleam of his carmine eyes when the light caught them just right, the weight of his jacket settling over his shoulders, the angle of his chair at the table where they sat together, knees brushing beneath wood. She was in the stories the city whispered, in the scars on his knuckles and the lingering taste of her on his tongue.

Her dragon, she had called him once — smoke and fire and ruin. And yet, it was she who wandered into his den, fearless and bright, leaving the scent of flowers in her wake. Perhaps he was the storm she wandered into — all steel winds and unyielding sky — and perhaps she was the quiet omen he had ignored until it was far too late to turn back. Or perhaps they were simply two souls damned to meet again and again, drawn together not by fate but by the quiet hunger of the earth itself.

It would not matter. If every lifetime led him back to this — the shape of her back beneath his hand, the sound of her voice softened by sleep, the way she pulled apart the silence between them with nothing but a glance — then Sylus would walk every damned path willingly. Sin, virtue, heaven, hell — none of it mattered if it meant keeping her. Not locked away, but free — because she chose to stay.

And what a thing that was. To be chosen by her.

"Did you miss me?" she asked, her voice a gentle needle, sliding between his ribs.

The window, cold against his fingertips. The city breathing outside. The distant gleam of headlights trailing like unspoken words between them.

"Haven’t had time to think about it," he said, his voice low, teasing, smooth as a blade sharpened on stone.

But they both knew.

And so the conversation slipped into silence — not uncomfortable, not empty — but the kind of silence built by people who knew every corner of each other. Her breath through the speaker, soft and even, and then — a quiet laugh, low and effortless, like a hand brushing through water. It was the kind of sound that lingered, curling around him even after it was gone. His fingers traced idle circles against the glass. They did not need to speak of longing. It was already there, woven into the space between every word, every inhale.

They existed in that place — a liminal space where shadow and steel met sunlight and skin, where dragon and archnemesis tangled together not in ruin, but in something softer. Something whole. And as the call ended, as the city stretched before him and the cold air pressed against the glass, Sylus stood alone — but not empty. Never empty.

Because even when she was gone, she was still there, as sure as the weight of his weapon resting within reach, as sure as the steady beat of his pulse in the quiet of the room.

Everywhere he went, she was already there.

And in every lifetime to come, in every heaven or hell, he would walk willingly beside her again.

Just to see her.

To have her, as she is — treasured and whole, free to be herself.

And for Sylus, that was enough.

A.N. I have been putting off reading Sylus' dragon myth for the longest time, so my details here might be a bit off, so please excuse me there! Hopefully my brain can generate more Sylus stuff :D Thank you for reading!!!!

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riddlesrizzler · 1 month ago

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𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙋𝙧𝙤𝙥𝙝𝙚𝙘𝙮

summary: please, i've been on my knees. change the prophecy. characters: mattheo riddle, reader warnings: none word count: 1.1k a/n- week three of festival of aus!!!

The silence in the bridal chamber was suffocating.

Thick velvet curtains blocked out the morning sun, drowning the room in muted blue light. An enchanted fire crackled in the hearth, more for appearance than warmth. You stood before the gilded mirror, motionless, watching the rise and fall of your chest as though your reflection belonged to someone else.

The gown was beautiful-ivory silk stitched with ancient runes, delicate lace climbing up your collarbones like frost. It fit like it had been made for you, because it had been. You were dressed like a queen, but you felt like a lamb draped in finery, led toward a fate carved out centuries before you were born.

The stylists had left hours ago, but their perfume still lingered in the air. Lilac, rosewater, smoke. You hated it. You hated the stillness, the silence, the spellwork sealed into every fold of fabric.

You hadn’t cried. Not yet.

Because crying would mean accepting it.

You heard the door open behind you-a soft creak, followed by the measured sound of his boots against the polished stone floor. You didn’t turn. You didn’t need to. His presence filled the room like shadow curling at the edges of candlelight.

Mattheo.

He moved slowly, as if unsure of his place in this room, in this moment. In your life.

He didn’t speak right away. You could see him in the mirror’s reflection-dark hair tousled, black robes sharp against his pale skin. His tie hung untied around his neck like a noose that hadn’t been pulled tight yet.

“You look…” he began, his voice low, rough, and a little hoarse. “Like you’ve made peace with dying.”

You held his gaze in the mirror, face unreadable. “Funny,” you murmured. “I was going to say the same about you.”

His lips twitched, not quite a smile, not quite a sneer. He looked tired-too tired for someone about to be wed. His hands stayed in his pockets as he leaned against the wall, watching you like he was trying to figure out if this version of you was real, or just another illusion.

“They’re waiting,” he said after a long pause. “Best not to keep the gods bored.”

You turned away from the mirror, your fingers brushing the embroidery at your waist. Tiny runes hummed beneath your touch-protection, union, permanence.

No escape.

You walked past him without a word. The smell of clove smoke and something darker-ancient magic, maybe-clung to him like a second skin. You didn’t look back.

The ceremony was held at dusk, beneath the carved stone archways of the Riddle ancestral estate. The air tasted like old magic and colder promises.

They’d draped the space in deep greens and silvers, woven with floating candles that hovered like stars caught mid-fall. Guests watched with wide eyes and polite smiles, draped in their own silk chains of duty and legacy.

You stood across from Mattheo, your hand in his, your pulse thudding behind your ribs like a caged bird.

A priestess recited the binding spell in a language older than death. Your names echoed through the hall like thunder on glass. You repeated the vows like you’d practiced-each word a stitch in a seam you could no longer rip.

Mattheo said his lines without flinching, but there was a tightness in his jaw. His fingers were warm but unmoving in yours.

Then came the kiss.

Brief. Pressed lips, nothing more. No spark, no fire, no tenderness.

A formality.

They applauded. You smiled.

You drowned.

That night, the manor was too quiet. Too clean. You padded through its endless halls like a child in a stranger’s home, every candle flickering with spells you didn’t know.

You found him in the drawing room, sitting in the high-backed leather chair by the fire, a crystal tumbler of firewhisky in his hand. He didn’t look up when you entered, but he gestured silently to the bottle on the table.

You poured yourself a glass and sat across from him. The chair was too big, the fire too hot. The glass too full.

You stared into the flames for a while, the silence stretching between you like a spell with no end.

Then, barely above a whisper, the words escaped your lips like a prayer:

“Please. I’ve been on my knees. Change the prophecy.”

His head turned slightly. You felt his gaze even before you saw it.

“You think I wanted this?” he said, voice soft, but sharp enough to cut.

You didn’t look at him. “Does it matter?”

A long pause. Then he drained his glass and set it down with a gentle thud.

“No,” he said quietly. “I suppose it doesn’t.”

Sleep didn’t come easily after that.

You roamed the manor like a ghost in a cursed painting-bare feet against stone, fingers tracing the cracks in ancient wallpaper. You found the west wing at dawn, the ceiling a dome of enchanted glass showing the sky above, clouds drifting slow like forgotten dreams.

You tilted your face upward, eyes stinging.

“Just someone who wants my company,” you whispered to the stars. “Let it once be me.”

Days passed like pages being turned too quickly.

You and Mattheo shared meals in silence. Attended functions together. Stood close in public, careful to smile, to brush hands as though it meant something.

But at night, your hands remained still.

He was never cruel. Never touched you without consent. He didn’t mock, or threaten, or lash out. He simply existed near you-close, but impossibly distant. Like a moon circling a planet it could never touch.

You caught him once in the study, sitting by the window, a letter clutched in one hand. His other rested on the arm of the chair, fingers twitching like he’d been gripping a wand or a knife or maybe just an old memory.

He looked up when he noticed you.

For a moment, the mask slipped. You saw something raw flicker in his eyes-pain, maybe. Or guilt.

You said nothing.

You simply left.

You dreamed of him sometimes.

Not the man with the cold hands and sharp eyes, but someone softer. Someone who might have read poetry in secret, or loved the wind on his face, or kissed someone because he wanted to.

In those dreams, he reached for you.

And in the morning, your pillow was damp with tears you never let fall while awake.

They said soulmates were real.

But no one told you they could be arranged.

You laid awake that night beside him, both of you staring up at the canopy ceiling like it held the answers.

No words.

No touch.

No warmth.

Only silence, and the sound of fate laughing in the dark.

And as your eyes drifted closed, you realized the truth of it, carved into your ribcage like a spell you never asked for:

We were strangers in matching rings.

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kissesz · 5 months ago

Text

𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐨𝐟 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐝

ambessa medarda x f!reader

warnings: see above. mdni. f!sub!reader. dom!ambessa. mirror sex. vaginal fingering. older woman/younger woman, age gap. praise. begging. dirty talk. power imbalance. orgasm denial (1x). power dynamics. guided masturbation—as in: her hand over yours. allusions to aftercare. established relationship. (but it's messy). ambassador!reader.

summary: some handle domestic affairs. some handle foreign affairs. you handle being the affair pressed up against expensive furniture by noxus’ decorated general.

notes: the "explicit" in my last fic was tragically lacking—so much so that it kept me up at night. therefore, i skipped two of my french classes to remedy that. bon appétit or whatever.

You stood before the silver-lined mirror in your private quarters, removing the pins from today’s elaborate updo—a necessity for the diplomatic summit you'd just concluded. Each clink against your vanity echoed like falling shards of glass, the slow dismantling of the persona you wore in the council chambers. Your reflection stared back, composed even in solitude, jaw still set with the tension of twelve hours of negotiations.

The door opened without warning—only one person would dare enter your space so careless.

"Piltovians, is it?" Ambessa's voice carried from the entrance, sultry and smooth like aged merlot. "You had them all wrapped around your finger." Her reflection appeared behind yours in the mirror, still in her military regalia, though she'd removed her formal coat. The sleeves rolled to expose strong forearms marred with scars—each one a story you'd traced with reverent fingers on languid nights.

You maintained eye contact through the mirror, refusing to turn, to give her the satisfaction of seeing how her mere presence affected you. "That's my job."

"Mm." She stepped closer, her boots silent on the plush carpet. "You're remarkably good at it. The way you led that delegate in circles until he agreed to your terms..." Her hands came to rest on your shoulders, heavy and feverish, the warmth of her seeping through the silk of your blouse. "Very impressive."

"High praise from the great General Medarda," your voice wavered as her thumbs pressed into the knots at the base of your neck, skilled fingers finding tension you didn't even know you carried until it began to unspool under her hands. Your eyes fluttered shut despite your best efforts, a small sound escaping your throat unbidden.

"Look at yourself," she commanded softly, her breath ghosting your ear, too close for comfort. Your eyes snapped open—years of martial training compelling you to respond to her tone. "Look how exquisite you are when you start to let go."

Heat crawled up your neck, staining your cheeks a telling rose. "Ambessa..."

"No." Her fingers threaded through your hair, now loose around your shoulders. "Watch." She gathered the strands, exposing the graceful line of your neck, and pressed her lips to the sensitive spot below your jaw—that place she'd discovered could make you come undone with the barest touch. Your breath hitched audibly, heartbeat thrumming hummingbird-quick against her mouth. "See how your body responds to me? How it knows what you need even when your mind fights it?"

You tried to look away but her other hand caught you, grip bordering on bruising, keeping you captive to your own reflection. "I don't–" you started, but she nipped at your pulse and the protest died right on the tip of your tongue, lost to the wave of desire that crashed through you, as if dissolving your very bones.

"You do," she corrected, her voice honeyed gravel—that maddening mix of velour and steel that never failed to ignite a fire in your blood. "You spend all day being in control. Making decisions that shape nations." Her free hand slid down your arm, calluses from years of wielding a blade drifting against your skin, raising goosebumps in their wake, leaving touches that settled into an ache between your thighs. "But here, with me..." She pressed closer, her front flush against your back, the hard planes of her body a delicious contrast to your softer curves. "You don't have to be anything but mine."

The word sent liquid heat pooling low in your abdomen, and you couldn't hide it—not from her, and not from yourself. Not with the mirror forcing you to witness every micro-expression that crossed your face—the way your lips parted on a shaky exhale, kiss-deficient and wanting; the flush spreading across your face, down your neck, disappearing beneath the collar of your blouse; the naked hunger in your eyes, pupils wide.

"Look at you," Ambessa murmured, her breath searing against your skin, branding you with invisible marks more permanent than any ink. "How you tremble for me." Her hand splayed across your stomach, pressing you back against her, securing you to the solid strength of her. "How you're aching to surrender."

"Please," you choked out, the word torn from your throat, raw and desperate as you tilted your head back against her shoulder, baring the column of your throat in silent offering. "Ambessa, I need-"

"What do you need, little dove?" She caught your earlobe between sharp teeth, biting just this side of too hard, soothing the sting with her tongue. "Tell me. Watch yourself say it."

The pet name broke you, shattered the last of your resolve. A sound escaped you—half whine, half fractured gasp—and you no longer cared how wanton you looked, how far you'd fallen. "You," you breathed, barely recognizing the lust-drunk rasp of your own voice. "I need you. Need you to make me let go."

Ambessa's smile was a curl of unfiltered satisfaction, feline and dangerous. "Clever girl," she purred, and you shuddered at the praise, feeling it slide down your spine like springwater. "Now, keep those lovely eyes open. I want you to watch as I take you apart." Her hands moved to the fastenings of your blouse, deft fingers making quick work of the delicate buttons.

You couldn't look away if the world was ending, captivated by the sight of her divesting you of your clothes—the silk and lace that you donned every morning like it could protect you. The contrast of her battle-roughened hands against your smooth skin, the way the candlelight danced across her face, softening the sharp contours, the wildfire of desire blazing in her dark eyes—you committed it all to memory, carved it into your very marrow.

"The way you test my control," she rasped, pressing open-mouthed kisses along your shoulder as she bared it to the cool evening air. "Do you know what it took not to bend you over the council table today, in front of all those simpering delegates?" Her teeth scraped against your collarbone, dull nips that had you arching into her touch with a needy whimper. "Knowing that I'm the only one who gets to see you like this?”

Your hands clenched helplessly at your sides, itching to reach back, to anchor yourself to the flex of her hips, the coiled strength of her thighs, but you didn't dare—not without her permission. She noticed your white-knuckled restraint, a slow smirk etching its way onto her lips. "So well-behaved for me," she praised, one broad palm sliding up your torso to cup your breast, thumb scraping over the sensitive peak. "Keeping those greedy hands still, even though you're dying to touch. Aren't you, hm?"

"Yes," you gasped, voice breaking on the single vowel as she rolled your nipple between deft fingers, sparking pleasure that bordered on torturous. "Please, Ambessa, I can't– I need–"

"Shh, I know." Her other hand slid down your stomach, fingertips teasing along the waistband of your trousers, dipping just beneath the fabric to trace maddening patterns on your overheated skin. "You're being so good, letting me take my time with you. Letting me savor you."

A broken moan slipped past your swollen lips, and your hips canted forward, seeking friction, seeking relief, but she held you fast, kept you still. "Ah-ah, none of that," she chided, but there was a roughness to her voice now, a hunger that echoed your own. "You'll take what I give you, isn’t that right, sweet girl?”

"Yes," you breathed, surrendering to her completely, utterly—a diplomat used to finding authority in words, now reduced to a single need, an urge. "Yes, Ambessa, anything, just please–"

"I have you," she murmured, and it was sacred breathed against your skin, a permanent whispered in the scant space between your bodies. "I'll give you what you need, little one. I'll shatter you so beautifully, then put you back together, piece by piece. You can let go."

With a final tug, your trousers fell to the floor, leaving you in nothing but your underwear—drenched and trembling. Ambessa’s thighs brushed against the back of yours, her warmth wrapping around you like a second skin. Her hand slid down your abdomen, over your navel, to cup the heat between your legs, and you jolted at the contact—so sudden, so possessive.

"Easy," she murmured, her thumb stroking circles over the damp fabric, sending shudders through your body. "Calm yourself."

You watched in the mirror as she hooked her fingers under the elastic of your panties and pulled, the fabric sliding away to reveal the slickness that glistened, filthily so. The sight of your own arousal had you biting your lower lip, a wordless plea for more. And she knew—of course she knew—just how to read the language of your body, the dialect of your cravings. Her hand slid into your wetness, and you keeled over forward with a gasp, the heel of your palm smacking against the vanity as you tried to keep your legs from giving out.

That earned you a huff of pity—or amusement, it was hard to tell.

Her eyes never left yours in the reflection as she stroked you, her thumb circling your swollen clit, her fingers slipping deeper, higher, coaxing and caressing until your hips moved of their own accord—until you were rocking against her hand. Mewls spilled and tumbled from your lips, honey-drenched sounds of submission tainted with primal lust; Ambessa’s veins threatened to clog with the aphrodisiac your undoing was dripping into them.

Much to her delight, or perhaps your dismay, you could feel yourself beginning to teeter on the very edge of something vast, something overwhelming—your skin hypersensitive, lungs burning as if you'd been underwater for hours, drowning in sensation. And just as you thought you couldn't possibly take anymore, when something inside you threatened to snap like an overwound string, she slid her fingers out.

That fucking tease of a—

Quickly as it disappeared, her hand moved to grasp yours, guiding it back to where she'd just been.

"Show me," she quieted the protests that threatened to form on your tongue, her own voice strained with need. "Show me how much you want it."

You obeyed without an ounce of hesitation, your arm shaking as it replaced hers, your fingers slipping into your own heat. The sight of your hand, entwined with hers, working in tandem to give you pleasure was almost too much to bear. But you didn't look away. You watched every twitch of your eyelids, every exhale that stole your breath, every quiver of your lip as you brought yourself closer to the precipice.

This was loss of control, stripped from you in its purest, most delicious form. A dizzying realization that you'd spend forever chasing this high—the unashamed longing pulsing through you as you fought the urge to beg for more. You'd never wished to yield to someone else like this before, never thirsted for surrender with such feral vocarity that it made your bones rattle with hollow want, yet here you were; fracturing in Ambessa’s grasp like it was written in the stars themselves, an inevitability as ancient as violence and twice as devastating.

And then, with a cry that echoed off the cold walls of your room, raw and unrestrained, you came undone—shuddering, writhing; it was as if months of strain had crystallized beneath your skin, every careful word and measured breath condensing into this singular moment of release. You arched up into her, against her, seemingly never-ending tension bleeding from your muscles, leaving you boneless and at mercy of her hold.

The room spun around you as your body fought to remember how to breathe, and, though you’d never admit it, you were deeply gracious for her efforts to hold you upright—hands firm on your hips, keeping you grounded. You leaned back, feeling the solidity of her chest, the thunder of her heart behind you. It was blissful, if only fleeting—the courage to bare your throat to the one person who could tear it out, trusting that she would press kind lips and quiet praises to its column instead.

How curious, that the wolf of Noxus knew not just how to devour, but how to savor, fangs carefully sheathed. That being spared could feel so devastatingly like being consumed.

©️kissesz

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mysticalcrowntyrant · 2 months ago

Text

Yandere Jester x Reader

The bells are the first thing you hear every morning—soft, chiming, almost birdlike in their laughter. They come before the footsteps of your advisors, before the clanking of platters and wine goblets, even before the rooster crows.

They are his bells.

He arrives with dawn, skipping into the hall like a child and bowing so low his nose brushes the cold stone floor. “Good morrow, Your Majesty,” he says, voice bright and breathless, eyes hidden behind a fan of red and gold silk. “The sun rises late, it seems. I’ve missed your light.”

You allow yourself a small smile, if only because your court expects it. He is your jester—your fool, your clown, your painted shadow—and he is beloved by all, even those who should know better.

Especially you.

He calls himself Jovian, though you suspect that is not his real name. No one knows where he came from. He appeared one storm-soaked night three winters ago. No one summoned him, no scroll bore his seal, and yet he walked through the palace gates as though he'd lived there all his life, trailing puddles and laughter in his wake. The guards said they let him in because of the way he smiled. As though he knew them. As though he owned them.

You’d been colder back then. Harsher. Too young for your crown, yet already dulled by the weight of it. You didn’t laugh easily. You barely smiled. Your court feared you and rightly so. But he laughed. He made you laugh. His first performance was impromptu. A whirling dance of mimicry and mockery, calling out your advisors by name and miming their worst faults with such ruthless precision that you remember the sound of goblets dropping to the floor.

You’d clapped. Once. Slowly.

And that was enough.

From then on, he never left.

He’s always there now. In the corners of your vision. In every reflection. Behind every column. Sometimes it seems even the shadows bend around him, accommodating his whims.

He wears bells on his wrists and ankles, dozens of them, and yet you never hear him when he shouldn’t be there. When he shouldn’t be anywhere near you. When you’re in the bath. Or asleep. Or alone with someone else.

You’ve stopped being alone with anyone else.

And still, your court adores him. They call him harmless. They say his painted smile is just that—paint. His laughter, an illusion. But they don’t see the things you see. They don’t feel his eyes.

You do. You feel them when you dress. When you undress. When you touch the ring he slipped onto your finger “as a joke” during a performance and which now cannot be removed.

This morning, as always, he somersaults to your throne and throws himself at your feet, dramatic and boneless, like a puppet without strings. His laughter echoes off the marble pillars.

“Another day, another chance to make you smile,” he purrs. His voice is sugar and venom, always. “Shall I juggle your secrets, sire? Dance with your demons? Or would you prefer I remove them entirely?”

You glance down. His painted face grins up at you, the red of his mouth smeared just slightly too wide. There’s something red beneath his fingernails.

“Jovian,” you say, your voice carefully neutral. “Did you sleep at all?”

He tilts his head. “Sleep?” he echoes. “Why would I sleep when you might dream of someone else?”

The court titters. They think it’s another of his jokes. You know better.

You haven’t had a restful night in weeks. Not since you complemented the captain of your guard. She vanished the next morning. Her armor was found folded on her cot. Her sword was never recovered.

Your steward once suggested restricting Jovian’s access to your chambers. The steward now speaks in a strange whisper and doesn’t meet your eyes. He says it was an illness.

You know better.

“Tell me a story,” you say. It’s safer, usually. He loves to perform. It distracts him.

He rises with a flourish, sweeping his arm in a theatrical arc. The bells sing.

“A story,” he says, eyes glinting like cut glass. “A tale of love and laughter? Or one of bones and betrayal?” He leans close. Too close.

You do not flinch. Flinching would only amuse him.

“Whichever you prefer,” you say, and your voice, to your credit, remains steady. “But keep it short.”

Jovian’s smile grows until it threatens to tear the painted mask of his face in two. He twirls away from the dais in a single, liquid motion, his bells trilling like birds startled from a tree. His arms rise, fingers splayed, as if he’s about to cast a spell. And in some ways, you think he is.

“Once,” he begins, “in a kingdom not unlike this one, there lived a ruler whose heart beat only for order. They surrounded themself with straight lines and silent halls, with iron laws and colder dreams. Their people whispered that they had ice in their veins, frost in their marrow. They were not cruel, no—they were clean.”

The courtiers laugh again, the low, uncertain ripple of those who know they are part of a performance but aren’t sure whether the joke is at their expense. You watch him move, pirouetting between pillars, his shadow elongating oddly behind him despite the hour.

“One day,” Jovian continues, “a man came to the palace. A stranger with bells on his wrists and madness in his smile. He danced into the throne room and bowed so low that even the spiders looked down on him. And the ruler, who had not laughed in many long years, tilted their head. And then...smiled.”

He stops dancing. Stops everything. The silence that follows is unnatural. The kind that weighs on your ears. It stretches too long.

Jovian stands now in the center of the chamber. He faces you. The fan is gone. His face is fully visible.

No one laughs.

“But the smile,” he says softly, “was not theirs.”

Something shifts in the air. You feel it like a sudden pressure drop before a storm. Your fingers tighten around the armrest of your throne.

Jovian’s eyes—not the bright, painted mockeries from moments ago but something deeper, older, more aware—lock onto yours. The courtiers around you begin to shift uneasily, the illusion fraying at the edges. Perhaps they, too, feel the change, though they’d never admit it.

“They say,” he goes on, his voice honeyed and low, “that when a fool dances too close to the fire, he risks getting burned. But what if the fire... finds him cold? What if it feeds him? What if it makes him real?”

He turns his head slowly, unnaturally, like a marionette guided by invisible strings. “Would you like that, my liege? To be real?”

Your mouth is dry. Your ring—the one he “joked” into placing upon your finger—burns against your skin. You press your palm into your thigh to stop yourself from reaching for it.

“What are you?” you whisper.

He hears. Of course he hears.

He laughs again, but this time there’s no joy in it. It’s empty. Hollow. The sound of dry leaves spinning down a long corridor.

“I am yours,” he says, all false brightness restored in an instant. “Your reflection, your shadow, your secret kept too long. I am the whisper in the mirror when you do not recognize yourself. I am what your court would be if it were honest. I am... love.”

He’s at your feet again. You didn’t see him move.

“I am love,” he repeats, and his voice cracks on the last word like porcelain under pressure.

Then he reaches into his coat and pulls out a feather—white, long, unmistakably from a dove—and places it on your knee.

You stare at it.

You think of your high priest, who hasn’t been seen since last week’s festival. You remember the dove he always kept with him, a symbol of peace, of renewal. You remember how it used to coo from his shoulder even during sermons.

You haven’t heard that cooing since.

“Your story,” Jovian says, rising again, brushing off his sleeves like dusting away ash, “is unfinished. But it’s getting better. Don’t you think?”

You don’t answer.

He leans close, until his lips nearly brush your ear. “I’ve been writing it in your dreams,” he whispers. “Do you like what I’ve done with the ending?”

Your heart thunders in your chest, but you force yourself to remain still, regal. You are a monarch. You are not afraid.

You are terrified.

The bells sound again as he twirls away, laughing once more, but it is an echo of an echo now, like wind whistling through an old crypt.

He performs the rest of the day for your court, delighting them with riddles and songs, with lewd jokes and elaborate impersonations. He flirts with the ladies, mocks the lords, kisses the hem of your robe as though nothing has changed.

But everything has.

That night, as you lie in your bed, the ring still burning on your hand and the feather tucked in a locked drawer, you dream.

And in the dream, Jovian stands at the foot of your bed, his smile stretched wide, his bells silent.

“You found the ending,” he says.

And the room fills with laughter that isn’t yours.

Masterlist

If you are confused

#yandere oc #oc x reader #x reader #male yandere #yandere x reader #yandere #yandere x you #male yandere x reader #yandere fanfiction #yandere imagines #yandere male #yandere jester #gn reader #yandere x gender neutral reader #yandere x gn reader

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ekkkkey · 3 months ago

Text

vestal (chapter II)

…in which Geta acts like an utter buffoon, and the ginger cat—well, acts like a ginger cat.

summary: Livia, a young Vestal Virgin, is bound to Vesta's eternal flame and the vow of sacred duty. In Rome, it's common knowledge; touch a Vestal, and the wrath of the gods will descend upon you. But what if someone dares to defy that rule?

chapter I

warnings: 18+ minors dni, dubcon

tags: caracalla is a freak, darkfic, no softboys here

word count: ~3k

ৡ ৡ ৡ

On one of those warm, cozy days, Livia sat in her chamber in the House of the Vestals, just a short walk from the temple. Caesonia lay at her feet, reading aloud from Hesiod, while Livia slowly braided her hair, slipping into a light trance. The steady rhythm of her sworn sister’s voice lulled her, and every so often, she startled, lifting her head to keep from drifting off.

"You’re falling asleep!" Caesonia exclaimed, breaking off mid-sentence. "Is this how you study?" Her tone was scolding, but not entirely serious. They had been sitting there since dawn, and for most of that time, Livia had listened diligently.

"Sorry, I’m listening," she mumbled, trying to gather her thoughts as she straightened up, letting go of her sister’s hair.

"No, this won’t do. Let’s go get some fresh air."

The garden surrounding the Vestals’ house was vast yet felt intimate, a peaceful refuge tucked away behind the temple walls. A narrow, shaded path lined with cypress trees wound through it, like a quiet green corridor. On either side, the garden cascaded down in terraces, filling the air with the sweet fragrance of roses, wisteria, lilies, and narcissus. White marble benches and small, graceful gazebos rested beneath the shade of almond trees, magnolias, and acacias, their branches heavy with delicate blossoms, offering quiet spots for reflection and rest.

They settled on a bench, letting the soft sunlight warm their pale skin, savoring the sweet scent of the flowers. Livia’s hair was loose, and she wore a simple white tunic and sandals. At home, she rarely wore jewelry or styled her hair, unless they had guests.

"The High Priestess is in a foul mood today," Caesonia said lazily, squinting and basking in the sun.

"She’s always in a foul mood," Livia replied, catching a faint smile from the Vestal out of the corner of her eye.

"Careful! One day I’ll tell her all this, and she’ll have you whipped," Caesonia teased, playfully grabbing Livia’s side and tickling her ribs, making her laugh.

"Stop!" Livia caught her hands. "Then you’ll be the next one whipped!"

It was indeed a fine, warm day, despite the onset of autumn. The priestesses stopped laughing and gazed thoughtfully at the clear sky, enjoying the peace and quiet.

Then, from somewhere in the treetops, came a sudden rustling—leaves stirring, birds startled into flight. Livia flinched, her eyes darting toward the tangled branches of an acacia. The dark green canopy shifted restlessly in the breeze. And then, from deep within the foliage, a flash of red shot downward, streaking straight toward the Vestals’ feet.

Caesonia yelped and pulled her legs up, clutching Livia’s shoulder.

"That bandit again!"

The ginger cat, entirely unbothered by her fright, wove around Livia’s legs, rubbing against them insistently. She gave a faint smile, bent down, and scooped the animal onto her lap, stroking it between the ears. It purred deeply, kneading her with its claws, scratching even through the fabric of her tunic.

"Oh, sister, at least one man is touching you," Caesonia chuckled, finally relaxing. "Only tomcats are ginger—and this one has no shame at all."

The cat stretched luxuriously on Livia’s lap, rolling onto its back with a pleased rumble. She ran a hand over its warm belly, and in an instant, it seized her wrist with all four paws, biting and kicking. Livia bore it without protest, unwilling to push it away, while the cat stared up at her with wide yellow eyes. A strange shiver ran through her—then came a particularly sharp bite. She finally brushed the cat off.

It flicked its tail, let out an indignant meow, and vanished into the garden.

Livia’s tender skin stung where its claws had dug in. She glanced at her hand without much interest—one scratch was especially deep, a long, bloody line running from her index finger to her wrist.

"You should take better care of yourself! We should have the slaves keep him out," Caesonia gently blew on the wound as she stroked Livia’s hand.

"It’s nothing," Livia replied lightly, wiping away the blood to reveal a faint pink line. "See? It’s already fine."

They sat quietly in the sun, but the stillness didn’t last long. Near the villa, slaves had begun moving about under the gatekeeper’s direction, their voices breaking the afternoon hush.

"Are we expecting someone?" Livia asked, watching the commotion.

"No, the High Priestess didn’t mention anything," Caesonia said, squinting as she tried to make out what was happening.

Life in the House of the Vestals was one of routine and devotion—days spent in study, interrupted only by prayer before lessons resumed. Moments of peace like this were rare, especially for Livia, who hadn’t even served a full decade yet.

The gatekeeper was already making her way toward them. Their solitude was over. With a sigh, Livia rose to her feet, brushing ginger cat hairs from the folds of her tunic. As she tucked her hair behind her ears, she silently cursed herself for not covering it with a veil. If they had guests, appearing like this—bareheaded, in a plain white tunic, with her hair simply loose—was hardly appropriate.

Suddenly, she recalled how the citizens of Rome had stared at her in the Colosseum, their mouths agape in awe… A pleasant shiver ran through her. She was still a priestess of Vesta, and in any guise, she inspired reverence.

The High Priestess had once said that Christians considered pride a sin. If so, Livia was the greatest sinner, for more than anything, the young priestess took pride in her position. Though her family had once been respected, they were far from wealthy, meaning her fate might have been that of an unloved wife to some old man, like Cassandra. Had that brought her much happiness? Claudia, though married to a man she loved, hardly looked happy—more sickly and pale. While other priestesses sometimes found themselves intrigued by gossip and the mysteries of love and passion, Livia lived only for the love of Vesta. Caesonia said that this was for the best. Livia herself agreed.

Her gaze drifted to Caesonia’s white garments, and she noted to herself that the tunic was less than perfect—its whiteness tinged with gray, the fabric wrinkled. Livia primly smoothed the folds of her own impeccably white tunic. Even now, at home, bareheaded and unadorned, she never forgot who she was.

At the house, on the open marble terrace, guests were indeed waiting. The slaves serving the Vestals were easily recognizable by their white attire, but the young men and women dressed in red and gold were unfamiliar to Livia.

Her lips tightened, her brows furrowed. Who had disturbed their peace?

A chill ran down her spine when she finally saw the cause of the commotion.

"Emperor Geta, what an honor," - she bestowed him with a light nod, then immediately lifted her chin, straightened her shoulders. Here, on her own ground and surrounded by her people, Livia felt confident.

The young emperor stood in the shade under the terrace roof, as if reluctant to step into the light. Why was he alone, she wondered?

"Lucilla is at the temple with your High Priestess," - he explained. His voice was hoarse, sounding strangely unsure, as if the presence of the Vestals made him uncomfortable.

"And you are curious about how the Vestals live? We are flattered, it’s been quite a while since emperors have graced us with their presence," Livia quipped, and Caesonia pinched her hand—subtly, but firmly enough to make her hold her tongue.

"Perhaps His Imperial Majesty would like to see our garden? Livia would be honored to show you the most beautiful flowers while you await your mother," Caesonia slyly set her up, but there was no way out. At the word mother Geta grimaced, but still nodded eagerly and stepped into the sunlight.

Livia immediately noticed that the Emperor rarely spent time in the sun. Dressed in a white tunic and a gilded toga with a purple border, he looked out of place among the pristine white garments of the priestesses and slaves. His ginger hair was neatly curled and styled, a small golden laurel gleaming in the sun. Yet, to her surprise, there was a restraint in his dress today, a simplicity that stood in stark contrast to their first meeting.

He orders the servants not to follow them, though Livia can tell he’s overheated—powder has smeared on his neck, and the skin where it wasn’t applied has immediately turned pink.

"We can stay on the terrace if you’d prefer," she offered, more out of courtesy than true concern as they made their way down the cypress-lined path into the garden.

"And you’re not feeling the heat?" His question, though a bit silly, makes Livia feel a wave of discomfort. She doesn’t like being flustered. Still, she nervously tucks her hair behind her ear, wishing once more that she’d covered it with a veil. She feels his dark eyes on her, studying her with interest, and again she’s certain there’s no respect in that gaze.

For a young, unmarried woman, being alone with a man like this was hardly proper. But she was not just any woman, and he was not just any man.

She comforted herself with that thought as they walked beneath the cypress shadows.

"You don’t visit the city often, do you?" He was making an effort to be polite, and it amused her. Why was he trying so hard? Their order was loyal to Rome, and the emperors were Rome. Even if they were the worst people on earth, the Vestals would stand by them.

"Nor do you and your brother, do you?" They stopped at the same bench where she and Caesonia had sat earlier. "I find the world’s bustle repulsive, Caesar. How people live, what they think, what they talk about… it’s all empty, fleeting. Entertainment, finery, words—just tinsel they drape over their aimless existence. Do you understand me?"

He likely didn’t. He enjoyed entertainment, finery, and idle talk himself, but he listened so superficially that he didn’t even realize she was speaking about him. Instead of offense or anger, his dark eyes held only curiosity, even delight.

Emperor Geta sat a short distance away, careful not to touch her, but she caught the sharp, pine-like scent emanating from him. While he studied her shamelessly, like a child, she only watched from the corner of her eye, unwilling to show interest.

Of course, it flattered her to be speaking, for the second time, with a Father of Rome—one who smiled foolishly and nodded at her every word. Where was his brother? Livia thought of Caracalla—not out of genuine curiosity, but simply because the emperor had dared to touch her, pretending as though nothing had happened! Insolent, pompous…

"I’d like us to meet more often," Geta interrupted her thoughts. "Our father wasn’t particularly devout, so the Vestals didn’t receive the attention they deserved." His gaze swept over her, far too openly, as if she were some common street girl rather than a priestess.

Livia pressed her lips together and looked away, conceding defeat in their silent staring contest with the emperor.

"Yes, your father was rather occupied with persecuting Christians and crucifying them across the streets of Rome," she said. Even with all the authority and privileges her position granted, she was still beneath the Emperor. Provoking him wasn’t wise, but she despised his tone—the way he looked at her. Let him complain to the High Priestess if he wished.

Geta froze as if she had struck him. Her words about his father unsettled him in a way she hadn’t expected. His powdered face tightened, lips pressing into a thin line, jaw clenching.

"Do you speak this way to everyone, or have I earned special treatment? Because it seems to me you’re taking too many liberties," his voice turning cold, laced with quiet menace.

She flushed with shame, stung by his words. It was true—she had thought him less educated, less clever, treating him more like a boy than the man who had caused Rome to burn for months. He was dangerous, and angering him was foolish.

"Who am I, Livia?" His next question followed her silence.

Forcing herself, she turned to face him. He sat rigid, his pale fingers gripping the edge of the marble bench so tightly they seemed to blend into it.

"The Emperor," she answered, avoiding his probing dark eyes, regretting her earlier sharpness. "Father of Rome and Pontifex Maximus. Forgive me, Caesar, I got carried away. Vestals don’t often speak with men," she added, hoping this conversation would end soon.

He squinted slightly, his taut lips easing into something resembling satisfaction.

"Messengers of the gods," he lifted a finger adorned with a heavy ring, first pointing at her, then at himself, "must have a strong bond to ensure Rome’s strength. After all, the sacred fire of your temple is the fire of the emperors, isn’t it?" He tilted his head slightly, his eyes locked on hers, waiting for her answer. Geta was pressing on their divine connection, and it was clear he knew more about the temple and its priestesses than she’d assumed.

"Yes, Caesar," she replied, her voice steady but with a hint of resignation.

The sun climbed high into the sky, relentlessly baking her dark hair. Livia fidgeted, the heat growing unbearable. She felt a bead of sweat trickle down her neck, and she noticed that Geta’s dark eyes followed it, tracking the drop with an unsettling focus. He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing beneath his pale skin.

"I’d like you and the other priestesses to attend the games again in two weeks," he said, sensing her discomfort, his tone confident as though he knew she wouldn’t dare refuse. "The plebeians were thrilled by the last games, and seeing you…" His eyes swept over her from head to toe. "The white robes, the veils—it drives the common folk wild," a strange smirk tugged at his lips, "and not just them."

The silence hung awkwardly between them, the conversation taking an uncomfortable turn. Were all men like this?

"You should discuss that with the High Priestess, Emperor," she replied, her voice steady despite the tension. He simply nodded and rose from the bench, stepping in front of her and blocking the sun. His towering form loomed over her, and the boyish air that had accompanied him earlier was gone, replaced by an aura of overwhelming authority.

Livia glanced up at him, and Geta smirked, a self-satisfied grin curling on his lips as he extended his hand, fully aware she wouldn’t take it, nor would she ever touch his pale palm. Did he think she’d break her vows just to lay her fingers on the divine emperor? In her mind, the priestess wondered what his skin would feel like and, oddly enough, she imagined it would be as cold as marble.

They returned to the terrace in silence. The High Priestess and Lucilla, back from the Temple of Vesta, were already waiting. Livia, lost in her thoughts, almost misses the sympathetic glance from the emperor’s mother. The daughter of Marcus Aurelius was a striking woman, though no longer young. She seemed as if she wanted to speak to Livia, to approach her—but Geta got to her first, leaning in close and whispering something in her ear. His grip on her forearm was anything but gentle.

Livia caught only fragments of his words:

"…where is he?"

The senior priestess noticed her lingering and, displeased, sent her off to the temple. Under Geta’s mocking gaze, Livia once again felt the sting of shame and frustration. Still, she lifted her head high and, escorted by her assigned guards, left the Vestals’ house.

ৡ ৡ ৡ

The sunlit marble walls of the Temple of Vesta gleamed, a dazzling white against the deep green of the laurels and cypresses. Livia stood before the grand temple once again, mesmerized. She saw it every day, yet each time, a wave of awe and reverence washed over her anew. As she approached the entrance, the dark thoughts that had been clouding her mind dissipated, replaced by a profound stillness.

The men who had accompanied her remained below, at the foot of the steps leading to the sacred house of Vesta. Men were strictly forbidden from entering, and any who dared defy the law faced a dreadful fate.

Inside, the temple was cool and serene, untouched by the outside world. Livia made her way toward the sacred fire, her steps measured and slow. She paused, allowing herself a moment to stare into the flames. For a long while, an unbroken peace lingered in the air, the flickering light of the altar dancing across her face, its glow reflected in her eyes.

In this place, Livia always felt a profound sense of calm and protection, as if the very walls of the temple held her in an embrace. Here, she was the vessel of the goddess—pure, untouched, like the sacred flame itself.

That’s why the voice—a man’s voice—that suddenly echoed behind her was such a shock.

"So, this is the legendary eternal sacred fire?" the intruder drawled, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

Her heart jolted, the blood rushing to her ears. An intruder! A man! In the temple of the Great Goddess! Her hands flew to her chest, and she spun around instinctively, positioning herself between the flame and the interloper. No man could enter the Temple of Vesta. Everyone knew the consequences would be terrifying. If someone was brazen and fearless enough to break this rule, that person was undoubtedly dangerous.

"You have no place here!" Livia’s voice rang out, sharp and steel-like, before she even cast a glance at the uninvited guest. Her words echoed loudly beneath the temple’s vaulted ceiling.

Only then did she see the one who had disturbed the temple’s serene silence. The faint, melodic chime of his golden bracelets echoed softly, and Livia’s fingers tightened around the folds of her tunic.

"And why is that?" the emperor replied tauntingly, taking a few slow, deliberate steps forward, his blue eyes glinting in the light of the sacred fire, never leaving her.

If his brother, Emperor Geta, had dressed modestly today, Caracalla was once again flamboyantly adorned and painted in striking colors. The first thing she noticed was a small golden earring with a white pearl that shimmered red and yellow in the firelight. She should have called the guards, shouted for help, driven him out—but he… he was an emperor. If they had let him in, would anyone help her expel him?

He took a step forward; she stepped back. A quiet, satisfied laugh echoed in the temple, rising to the high ceiling. The heavy burgundy fabric, embroidered with gold, rustled as Caracalla stopped in the center of the sanctuary, clearly pleased by her frightened expression.

"Are junior Vestals even allowed near the fire?" The earring clinked softly as he tilted his head, studying her. The pearl rested against his pale skin, nearly blending with it.

His lips seemed even redder than she remembered—bright, vivid, and strangely cruel. He smiled, but she felt no warmth or mirth, only a stifling irritation and an unsettling fear.

"You’re breaking laws established long before either of us was born, Emperor," she tried to steady herself, though it was no easy feat. "Twice now."

"Enlighten me, priestess," Caracalla replied, his smirk widening as he clasped his hands together. Her gaze lingered on the endless array of massive rings adorning his delicate fingers, but she quickly forced herself to meet his eyes, determined not to reveal how terrified she was. She knew the fate that awaited any Roman citizen who dared break the laws—but what punishment awaited an emperor?

"You touched me when we first met, though you knew it was forbidden," her frown deepened. "And now you’ve entered the temple, fully aware that’s prohibited too."

Caracalla moved his lips from side to side, as if truly reflecting on his past actions, then flashed a wide grin, a gold tooth catching the light. He took a few unhurried steps, narrowing the distance between them until he was just a breath away.

"Yes, I did." A sweet scent wafted from him, reminiscent of the temple during festivals—the fragrance of incense burned to honor the gods. He wasn’t a god, so why did she feel such trembling unease? "Should I be punished, Amata?" The mockery in his voice was so blatant that she nearly choked with rage. How dare he!

Livia faltered, lowering her gaze to collect her thoughts, but the soft rustle of his heavy garments made her tense again and look up.

A faint breath of air skimmed her cheek, though there was no breeze in the temple… only him. His hand, pale and delicate, almost feminine, nearly brushed her face—but no, it lingered in midair, achingly near, cloaked in that faint sweet scent.

With his fingertips, he followed the shape of her face without touching her, tracing the curve of her cheek, the angle of her jaw, the trembling line of her mouth. A ghost of a touch. And yet, she felt it—the phantom heat of his fingers crawling over her skin.

The emperor didn’t touch her—so why did it feel like sacrilege?

As a priestess, she should have cast him out, gotten rid of him as quickly as possible. Instead, she found herself holding her breath, terrified he might lean in closer and press her right up against the altar.

"Please, leave," she rasped, all her bravado gone. Rules and laws didn’t frighten him—so how could she make him go? And more importantly, why was he here? "What do you want?"

"I wanted to see the one who caught my brother’s eye," he lowered his hand slowly but didn’t step back. His presence filled the space, and she found herself looking down to avoid his gaze. "Li-vi-a," he dragged her name out, savoring each syllable.

"Emperor Geta, like you, I assume, came here because of your mother, Lady Lucilla." The priestess chose her words carefully, steering the conversation away from the disturbing direction it was heading.

"You really think he cares about Lucilla’s wishes?" He ignored the word mother entirely. "Geta wants you, but he’s too cowardly to take you. So he just stares and then has the others—dark-haired, pale-skinned slaves. Only they can’t give him what my brother so desperately craves…"

His hand hovered near her cheek again, then slid lower, as if the emperor was about to grab her by the throat, but then, still, he changed his mind, curling his fingers into a fist and pulling away.

"They’re all whores, not Vestal virgins, Livia. That’s why he keeps seeking you out," he leaned in, pushing into her space closer than any man ever dared, his hot breath brushing her ear as he whispered, "to keep your image sharp in his mind while…"

What he said next made her flush a deep red. Not here, not in the Temple of Vesta, pure and sacred like its priestesses, should such blasphemy be spoken! His very presence was a desecration, a strike against everything they stood for. How dared he speak to her like this?! How dare he whisper such filth in this holy place!

"Get out!" Her voice rang with fury, her anger rising like a storm, giving her strength she never knew she had.

She had already realized that Caracalla was dangerous—much more so than Geta, even if what he said about Geta was true. If her defiance had angered Geta earlier today, what would Caracalla do? Would he order her to be flogged?

No, the young emperor doesn’t get angry. On the contrary, he laughs loudly, visibly pleased with her reaction, and Livia, mesmerized, watches as the white pearl sways, lost in his red hair.

"So alike in appearance, yet so different at the same time, little bird!" He cut himself off, his smile fading, and his gold-lined eyes narrowed.

"My brother told you about the games, didn’t he? Of course, he did. Well, see you later, priestess, though…"

Without finishing, Caracalla strode out of the temple, and Livia followed to ensure he was truly gone. At the exit, he turned, flashing a crooked smile over his shoulder, showing his profile.

Livia squints, blinded by the sun behind the emperor, by the glare of his golden laurel and the shimmering brilliance of his ornaments and robes.

"Not Jupiter, fierce and stern, but Sol—the god of the sun and light," she thought with a strange thrill. Radiant, luminous, fair-skinned, youthful, with a wild mane of unruly red curls—he struck her as beautiful for the first time. And that thought horrified her.

"…Perhaps we’ll meet much sooner," he winked at her boyishly, as if they shared some delicious secret.

Livia stepped back into the shadows, her sweat-dampened hands hidden behind her back, watching him until he left the temple grounds.

Only then did she lean against the wall, exhaling shakily. Her perfect composure had cracked. The sun beat mercilessly on her head, but she couldn’t move—just as she couldn’t under Caracalla’s piercing blue gaze.

"If Emperor Geta is the moon—cold, silent, enigmatic—then he, Caracalla, is surely the sun: bright, scorching everything in its path, neither gentle nor warming," she thought, wringing her hands nervously.

At the foot of the stairs, a slave boy in white robes appeared, gesturing for her to come. She hurried down, noticing the small bundle in his hands.

The message was indeed for her, from Claudia. The news was far from joyful. When Cassandra, before… before her death, had sent a plea for help, Livia hadn’t responded. It had been spring, the festival of Vesta in full swing, and there’d been no time… and then her sister was gone.

Claudia begged her to visit, pleaded desperately, for Livia was her last remaining kin.

This time, Livia wouldn’t abandon her sister. She’d fulfill her request after speaking with the High Priestess, but… as fate would have it, Claudia and her husband were now residing in the emperors’ palace. Nausea gripped her.

As if mocking her, that same ginger cat appeared at her feet, purring deeply and rubbing against her.

Truly alike, indeed.

ৡ ৡ ৡ

note: this story is directly connected to there will be games! Livia is the sister of Cassandra, the protagonist of that story. It’s been about two months since the events of the finale and what Geta did.

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creganslover · 11 months ago

Note

I think it would be cool if you did a cregan x reader but reader has a dragon and her dragon is called the beast of winterfell or something like that and for the longest time even the people of winterfell have no idea what it means (they assume because of her family they are just referring to her) but while she’s giving birth or something the dragon hears and feels her pain and come out of hiding freaking out and finds her and like puts his snout up to the window to make sure she’s okay and it’s kinda like a crazy moment for the people of winterfell lol just a random idea I had hope you like it feel free to change any details about it

ofc! thank you for requesting, anon! i really hope you'll like it! i apologize if its not that great T^T

─── ⋆⋅ ❤︎ ⋅⋆ ───

beast of winterfell, cregan stark x targ! fem! reader

wc: 1.4k

warning/s: mentions of blood, childbirth, lmk if i missed anything!

─── ⋆⋅ ❤︎ ⋅⋆ ───

Ever since you had been arranged to Cregan Stark, the Lord of Winterfell and the Warden of the North, you knew you were about to live a completely different life as you were expected to live with him in Winterfell for the rest of your days.

It had taken a while for you to get used to being so far from the West and your family, yet Cregan’s presence was like a breath of fresh air, albeit cold, really cold.

The lighter clothes you used to wear back in Dragonstone now replaced with heavy furs, you could have sworn if you had listened closely you would hear your back crying in protest.

Alas you carried yourself with grace, it helped that Cregan had understood where you had come from and he always made sure the fireplace in your shared chambers had been extra warm, even if he had to get the firewood by himself.

One thing you had also missed in the West was being able to go on dragonback without feeling that you were about to freeze at any given moment.

Your dragon, Rhaegos or commonly known as the Red Beast, could not stand to be far from you either, even willing to visit from time to time due to his own stubbornness that reflected your own. Making himself a home far enough from Winterfell within a clearing in a forest, you think, he had been able to live and feed himself, keeping warm with his flames.

The folks of Winterfell had not even seen a dragon before, you’d wager, and you intend to keep it that way as they would not need to worry of such a magnificent beast nestled near their home, if they had only known.

Cregan had also known of Rhaegos, he very well knew the creature as the first ever day Cregan had seen you was you landing on your dragon onto the sands of Dragonstone, he was about to depart then, yet you made him stop in his tracks as the Red Beast had made its appearance.

And you noticed him upon your landing, the ship in the distance carrying the banner of House Stark, which you have soon learned who was going to be your betrothed.

Rhaegos did not take kindly to strangers nearing you but you just had to see who the ship carried, if it included your soon to be husband.

And when you hopped off your dragon and had reached him, Rhaegos was watching carefully, even crawling himself a yard behind you, though Cregan did not seem to waver, or was trying his best to keep his composure as a dragon was barely in the North and the way its eyes gleamed at him, had him gripping a little tighter on his gloves.

To your surprise, Rhaegos had nudged its snout against your back, almost shoving you to Cregan that had sent both your cheeks running hot as he caught you in his arms.

It seemed Rhaegos wanted to play cupid at that moment as you profusely apologized to the Lord of Winterfell.

The marriage came and went, devotion had come easy with you and Cregan, no sooner than a moon after your bedding that you had noticed the changes in your body.

It only took a look for the maester to confirm it. You were with child.

Cregan was absolutely delighted, he could not stop showering you with affection within the confines of your chambers, his big rough hands gently upon your stomach.

There were barely any signs of growth yet making you laugh. It was your first time pregnant, and of course you’ve seen and heard your mother Rhaenyra teach you a thing or two about it, yet it had always worried you as you saw how it could take a toll upon a woman’s body, like with your mother.

Cregan swore no harm will come upon you and your child as you carry it through the moons, always placing his most skilled men out your chambers if he ever was required someplace else than at Winterfell.

And when he would return, he would not even mind the cheers of his folk, going directly straight to you, enveloping you in a careful embrace, before he would kneel to press his forehead against your swollen middle, the baby within you kicking in response.

The days had inched closer to your due, and you had felt it with the way your body had increasingly been feeling heavy, the way you waddled while you walked.

Your scream had broken out the great keep of Winterfell as the moment had finally come when their lady was about to give birth. Your handmaidens paced around you in worry, the maester advising you on what you should do- yet it all seemed to drown out by the time it reached your ears.

Blood began to trickle down your legs as your handmaidens rush you to lay upon the bed, you were restless as your body had been covered in sweat, platinum hair matting to your face as you cried out for Cregan, the maester informing you he was well on his way.

Your breathing came in rushed, panting as your eyes blinked back tears as you were positioned necessarily for birth. Your muscles had contracted painfully, sending you with another wail.

Though on this day, not only your childbirth would be borne by Winterfell.

After your long cry, an unfamiliar loud screeching could be heard in the distance, making every folk in Winterfell pause in their actions. Could it be…?

“Dragon!” A knight exclaimed as people began to panic and rush around.

Cregan was on his way back to Winterfell speeding on his mount after having visited the Hornswood, but he was not alone. To the West of him was undoubtedly a creature he had not seen a long time, your dragon, Rhaegos.

His screeching may as well echo throughout the North as the dragon flew itself close to Winterfell. Its intimidating and thunderous roars caused worry for Cregan’s folk as he finally managed to rush inside, dismounting off his horse and quickly telling his people to calm- that the dragon would not dare harm them, that it was yours.

Cregan then rushed towards the great keep, where your screams and wails grew louder, tearing his own heart as he finally shoves himself in the birthing chambers.

“Cregan!” You cried as he came into view, rushing beside you as the maester had told you to push for the nth time. You wasted no time bearing a deathly grasp upon his hand, knuckles turning white.

The gap on the windows was then darkened by a shadow followed by a low rumble, the maidens in the room, even the maester was disturbed at the sight of a dragon’s nout, moving outside as its eyes tried to spot you.

“Calm down, it means you no harm.” Cregan said firmly. “My wife is the priority.” He commanded, glaring daggers at those within the room.

Your chest heaved up and down as you could feel Rhaegos’ bond clearly with you as your eyes found his slit ones through the window. “Rāpirī (Be calm) Rhaegos!” You managed to say out loud, the dragon grumbling weakly in turn as it hissed at the maester, who quickly got back to his occupation.

With one last push, you had felt it– the pain had numbed most half of your body, making you try and chase your breath, Cregan’s gaze flickering to you and the maester, with Rhaegos present out the window, his low grumbling ever a presence to your strength.

All your body seemed to be in a haze, unable to move your legs- or the whole of your body for that fact.

Until a cry of the babe was heard, Cregan’s heart thumping in his chest as he looked at you and the babe being wrapped in the towel.

“You did it, oh thank the Old Gods.” Cregan murmured, pressing his lips to your forehead before his pressed against yours. “It is a girl, my lord, my lady.” The maester announced as the bundle of joy was placed into your arms.

“Our- our own little girl…” You croaked out, a grin breaking through your face as tears of joy pricked your eyes, Cregan looking at the babe wriggling and making his heart near to bursting. “She’s a beauty like you.” He murmured.

Rhaegos outside began whirring as he seemed to be feeling your joy coursing through your bond, taking himself to the skies screeching happily, making you laugh weakly.

Cregan then nuzzled both you and the babe, with Rhaegos’ sounds echoing above.

Your children would need not worry for a protector, when they’ve got the beast and the wolf of Winterfell by their side.

─── ⋆⋅ ❤︎ ⋅⋆ ───

cregan tag-list: @misswynters @i-padfootblack-things

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winterarmyy · 11 months ago

Text

Against All Odds | Part I

An arranged marriage with the duke's illegitimate son!bucky.

Summary: In a medieval kingdom where magic and political intrigue are woven into the fabric of society, Y/N, the youngest daughter of a noble Earl family, finds herself in an arranged marriage to James Buchanan Barnes, the illegitimate son of the Duke. Known as the Winter Soldier, Bucky's reputation as a monster in war had instilled anxiety into Y/N's heart. But that fear quickly begins to crumble when she discovers that her husband is not the brutal figure society depicts him to be.

Navigation: Part I | Part II | Part III (end)

Words: 8.1k++

Pairing: duke's illegitimate son!bucky x noble!female!reader

Warnings: fantasy/medieval au, i did not write this with much knowledge of fantasy nor medieval lore. I write it solely for plot and the couple dynamic lmao. if you're expecting full blown fantasy novel; this ain't it, man. anyways, 18+ contents, no minors allowed, nsfw, cunnilingus, p in v, unprotected sex, creampie, loss of virginity, praise kink, breeding kink (if you squint), marking kink (i think), soft fluffy smut, a wee bit of dirty talk. soft!reader and even softer!bucky. (idk what else, so tell me if there's something i miss.)

P/S: This is the fic for an idea I had earlier this year. The first chapter will only cover the original post but what happens next is something you will need to look forward on the upcoming chapters. Enjoy your read!

Read my other works here: Masterlist

Y/N stood in front of the grand mirror in her chamber, her reflection staring back at her with wide, fearful eyes. The delicate lace of her wedding dress was the opposite of the twisting anxiety in her stomach. Today, she was to marry James Buchanan Barnes, the illegitimate son of the Duke of the kingdom, a man labelled to be more beast than human.

He was known as the Winter Soldier, a title whispered with both fear and awe. Tales of his gruesome feats in battle, his merciless brutality, and his cold, metal arm was deemed as a horror story for the children in the kingdom. People spoke of him as a monstrous weapon, a beast moulded by the Emperor to do his bidding without question or hesitation.

Y/N had heard the stories many times before; and it has always been a hushed conversation that floats around whether a ballroom of a gala, or at the tables of the garden parties, sometimes even in between the racks of books in the library.

They always painted a picture of a man who lived only for war, devoid of humanity.

She couldn't help but let these tales feed her imagination. What kind of man was he truly? Did he revel in the violence, or was he a prisoner to his fate? Y/N shuddered at the thought, her heart heavy with fear and uncertainty.

Her father, the Earl, had made it clear why she needed to marry him. It was a political manoeuvre, a strategic alliance to strengthen their family's position. The duke, Bucky's father, wielded considerable power, and their union would bring the Earl closer to the heart of the kingdom's influence.

And when he heard that the duke was looking for a wife for his bastard son, he knew that she would be perfect. That was when Y/N, the youngest daughter, became the pawn in this game. Her father's ambitions certainly outweighed any consideration for her feelings or desires.

Y/N had always longed for a marriage of love, a dream she clung to despite her circumstances. She was a hopeless romantic through and through; much like her late mother. She remembered the nights when her mother would read to her and her siblings, spinning tales of prince charming and valiant heroes.

The fire crackled warmly in the hearth as her mother’s soothing voice filled the room. Y/N and her siblings, her older brother Eric and sister Clara, lay tucked under blankets, their eyes wide with wonder.

"And then the prince, with a heart full of love, swept the princess into his arms, vowing to protect her forever," her mother read, her voice a melodic whisper.

Y/N, her eyes sparkling with innocence, declared, "When I grow up, I want to marry a prince charming too!"

Clara, ever the practical one, nodded in agreement. "Me too! He has to be brave and kind."

Eric, being a little boy, scrunched his nose in distaste. "I don’t want to get married. I want to be a knight!"

Their mother chuckled softly, brushing a strand of hair from Y/N’s forehead. "It does not matter if he is a prince charming or a humble knight. As long as you marry the one you love, that is what truly matters."

Y/N's heart ached at the memory. How she wished her mother were still here to guide her through this terrifying day. The gentle knock on the door brought her back to the present.

"Lady Y/N, it’s time," one of the maids said softly.

Y/N took a long and deep breath, smoothing down the fabric of her dress. She followed the maid down the corridor, her mind a swirl of emotions. Reaching the grand doors of the church, her father waited for her.

"Remember, Y/N," he said, his voice stern. "Do not mess this up. Just endure it. And you'll be fine. This is the most useful you can be to our family."

Her heart sank further; yet she nodded obediently.

Compared to Y/N, her elder brother, a celebrated swordsman, and her sister, a master in the art of business, had always outshone her in their father's eyes. Y/N's talent with languages; ancient and modern – was seen as a useless skill, something that brought no tangible benefit to the family.

Her father had never been cruel when she was younger but everything changed when her mother died. In fact, everyone in the family had lost a piece of their soul when she left. Now, his lack of affection only increases the number of scars on her heart.

The doors opened, revealing the crowds of high-ranking nobles; who were mostly strangers – staring at her. Some were judging her; some pitied her. She reminded herself that she was doing this for her family, for the greater good. But the little girl inside her who dreamed of prince charming certainly felt a pang of sorrow.

As she walked down the aisle, her legs trembled, and her hands shook so violently that she had to clasp them together to steady herself. From afar, she saw the silhouette of the man she was destined to marry. His tall and huge figure stood out compared to anyone in the hall. As she got closer, she kept her gaze fixed on the floor, too afraid to look up at her husband-to-be.

When she finally reached the altar, the priest began the ceremony. His speech was long and dragging, giving Y/N too much time to entertain her growing curiosity that she dared to glance up at the man next to her. Even from behind the veil, she could see his towering and broad-shouldered build, his presence commanding the room. His long hair was slightly untamed, and a scruffy beard framed his face. His metal hand, glinting in the sun that leaked through the church’s windows, was a jarring reminder of the rumors that surrounded him.

There were no heartfelt vows to recite to each other; only their promise of "I do" was exchanged. And that was the first time Y/N heard his voice. It was deep and resonant, sending a shiver down her spine; but there was a certain warmth in it that contrasted sharply with his fearsome reputation.

When the priest announced their union and Bucky lifted her veil, Y/N was struck by the unexpected gentleness in his eyes. They were a brilliant, mesmerizing blue, and for a moment, she forgot to breathe. Bucky's eyes softened as he looked at her, his gaze tender and almost reverent. Slowly, he placed one hand gently around her waist, pulling her slightly closer. His other hand came up to cup her cheek, his touch surprisingly gentle against her skin.

Y/N's heart pounded in her chest as he leaned in, her breath catching in her throat. When his lips met hers, they were soft, warm, and so unexpected. She could smell his cologne; an earthy, woodsy scent mixed with a hint of something fruity; like peaches or tangerines. It made her head spin and her heart jumped all at the same time.

The kiss was gentle and unhurried, very much differs to the forceful gesture she had feared. As he pulled away, Y/N found herself blinking slowly, her cheeks flushed and her fear momentarily replaced by confusion and a surprising awe. She was caught off guard by the tenderness of his touch, the way his lips had brushed against hers so gently.

Could the rumors about him be wrong?

"I’m sorry if I startled you," he said, his voice low and gentle. "I hope I didn’t scare you, my dear."

Y/N blinked slowly, trying to process the sudden shift in her emotions. The fear that had gripped her so tightly seemed to dissipate, replaced by a confusing mix of relief and intrigue. Her hands, which had been trembling, now rested at her sides, feeling strangely steady. Her eyes met his, and she could see softness in his gaze that contradicted the harsh rumors she had heard.

“I—no, you didn’t scare me,” she managed to say; her voice barely more than a whisper. She took a deep breath, her cheeks getting warmer as she processed the endearment he just called her. On the other hand, her mind was racing as she tried to reconcile the man in front of her with the fearsome figure of the Winter Soldier.

Bucky’s eyes mellowed even further, his gaze glazed with a tenderness that seemed to pierce through the weight of the room. A warm smile spread across his face, and he held her gaze with a comforting assurance.

“Good,” he said, his voice carrying a gentle affection. “I’m glad to hear that.”

The reception that followed was a blur of faces and polite conversation. Y/N moved through the crowd, accepting congratulations and well-wishes, but her mind was elsewhere. She couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to Bucky than the rumors suggested. Every time she caught his eye, he gave her a small, reassuring smile that made the butterflies inside of her go wild.

As the evening drew to a close, they were escorted to one of the Emperor’s palaces, a grand and opulent residence that was to serve as their temporary home before they traveled north to Bucky’s territory. The palace, with its lavish furnishings and golden accents, seemed to mock the uncertainty Y/N felt. She had been assigned a chamber to prepare for the night, and the palace maids were bustling around her, helping her into a set of elaborate, far-from-modest lingerie.

The palace’s maids’ whispers and side glances did nothing to ease her growing anxiety. Their condescending tones and occasional snickers were laced with cruel speculation about how roughly Bucky would treat her. The more Y/N overheard, the more her apprehension grew. Despite the gentleness Bucky had shown her earlier, she found herself doubting its sincerity.

Could he really be the caring husband he appeared to be, or was it all just an elaborate show?

The maids finally left, their laughter fading down the hallway, leaving Y/N alone in the grand chamber. Her heart raced, and cold sweat formed at her brow as she sat quietly on the edge of the ornate bed. She kept her gaze firmly on the floor, her hands fidgeting in her lap. The room felt enormous, its sheer size heightening her sense of isolation and dread.

The door creaked open, and Bucky entered the room. Y/N’s heart nearly stopped as she heard the heavy, measured footsteps approaching. She couldn’t bring herself to look up, her body tense and her mind a swirl of panic and unease. She almost held her breath entire when she felt the slight indentation of the mattress beside her.

“Y/N,” Bucky’s voice was soft and coaxing, a distinct difference to the coldness she was expecting. “Look at me.” He continued. She hesitated momentarily; torn between obeying and disobeying but ultimately decided to raise her eyes to meet his.

The sight of him; his upper body bare, revealing a tapestry of scars and the stark metal of his prosthetic arm; made her breath hitch. Her eyes traced the lines of his faded wound, particularly the jagged marks where his shoulder met his metal arm. She couldn’t help but feel a pang of sorrow and concern. Her fingers, almost of their own accord, reached out to trace the contours of his chest and shoulder.

Bucky let the innocence of her touch to trace the most tainted parts of him; however noting her trembling eyes, he misunderstood her apprehension. “I want you to know, Y/N,” he said, his voice firm yet gentle, “that I will never hurt you. You are safe with me.”

Y/N shook her head, her heart aching. She felt an unexplainable pain growing in her chest as she gazed at him. Her fingers still lightly touching his scars; her eyes, full of unshed tears, silently asked a question she was too afraid to voice. “Does it still hurt?” she wanted to ask, her expression betraying her concern.

Bucky’s eyes sparkled with affection, and he took her hand in his, holding it tenderly against his chest. “Don't worry. It does not hurt anymore,” he said with a reassuring smile.

The connection between them was electric, charged with a deep, unspoken understanding. Bucky’s gaze was steady and filled with a depth of unspoken emotion that took Y/N’s breath away. “I know this is difficult for you, Y/N,” he said, his voice laden with sincerity. “But I promise, I will do everything in my power to make you happy.”

His words and the way he looked at her left Y/N feeling both comforted and overwhelmed. For the first time since their wedding, she felt a genuine, flickering hope that maybe, just maybe, their marriage could become something more than a mere political arrangement. Bucky’s assurances, his gentleness, and the tenderness in his eyes began to dissolve the fears she had harboured since the beginning of their union.

As they sat there, the weight of the night’s expectations seemed to lift, replaced by a fragile but growing trust. Y/N had entered this marriage with a sense of duty, convinced that she would have to endure the consummation of their union as a matter of obligation. But Bucky’s tenderness, his understanding, and the sincere reassurance he had given her began to change her perspective.

The idea of fulfilling her marital duty had initially felt like a burden she had to bear. She had steeled herself to face it with resignation, convinced that it was merely another part of her role in this arranged marriage. But now, she found herself reconsidering. The idea of being with him no longer felt like an obligation but a possibility of something more profound and intimate.

Y/N hands softly toyed with the delicate strings of her sheer lingerie, pulling it softly as her doe eyes signalled her husband of her intention. Bucky, sensing the shift in her demeanor, looked into her eyes with a mixture of concern and affection. “Are you sure, my dear?” he asked softly. “I want you to feel safe with me and not afraid of me.”

Y/N’s heart fluttered as she met his gaze, her own eyes reflecting the depth of her emotions. “I am,” she said with quiet conviction. “I feel safe with you, James”

Bucky's hand naturally went to brush her hair behind her ear, “It’s Bucky, my dear,” he corrected softly.

“Hmm?” she asked, slightly puzzled.

He chuckled warmly. “You can call me Bucky from now on. It’s a nickname only a selected few who I trust and love knows.” Her eyes sparkled at his choice words; trust and love.

“Bucky…” she tested the name on her tongue, the syllables feeling strangely intimate. Upon hearing his name from her lips, Bucky’s heart swelled, almost bursting from his ribcage. He hummed in approval, “That's right, my dear. I’m your Bucky.”

His reassuring smile grew wider, his calloused thumb gently stroke her cheek causing a shiver to strum all over her nerves; sending an emerging desire. One she had not fully acknowledged until now. The way he looked at her, the pure and raw endearment in his eyes, and the softness of his touch stirred something deep within her.

As the moments passed, Y/N realised she wanted this. She wanted to feel his lips on hers, to explore the warmth of his hands, to connect with him on a level she had longed for. The yearning for his touch, which had been dormant under layers of fear and uncertainty, now surged forward with undeniable intensity.

Without fully understanding why, Y/N found herself leaning closer to him, her breath coming in soft, eager gasps. She whispered, her voice barely audible but full of longing, “Bucky, please.”

Bucky’s expression softened, and a tender light filled his blue eyes, “May I?” he asked, his voice low and gentle as he held out his hand. There a shy hesitation before she finally placed her hand in his.

With a gentle but firm pull, Bucky lifted her onto his lap, his careful hands beginning the process of undressing her. Each movement was full of care, yet almost deliberate, as he slowly removed her dress, leaving her in nothing but the flimsy lace piece covering the sacred area between her thighs.

Bucky's eyes roamed over her bare skin, admiration clear in his gaze. Y/N could feel the heat of his gaze, the way his eyes traced every curve and contour of her body. The intensity of it made her feel both vulnerable and cherished, a potent combination that sent pleasurable shivers all over her body.

Seeing the hunger in his blue eyes, she felt the warmth of his body and caught the scent of him; the same once she noticed at the church; warm and comforting. Her breath quickened, and she found herself unsure of what to do or where to place her hands, feeling like a deer caught in headlights.

Noticing the subtle panic, Bucky reached for her hands and guided them through the thick strands of his long hair. “You can touch me as you please, my dear,” he whispered, his voice soothing as he reassured her. He leaned in to kiss her bare shoulder, then moved up to her neck, along her jaw, leaving a trail of warmth on her skin.

Y/N’s fingers tangled in his hair, the softness surprising her. The intimacy of the moment, combined with his gentle kisses, began to dissolve the last remnants of her anxiety. The feel of his lips on her skin was electrifying, each kiss sending waves of sensation she never felt before.

Bucky’s hands, still careful and tender, caressed her back, drawing her closer to him. Her breath hitched as he kissed the valley of her breasts; soft gasps escaping her lips as Bucky begins to lick and sucked on her delicate skin; likely trying to mark his claim on her.

Every touch and little kisses he left sent shivers straight to her already dripping core. And by the time his lips grazed her nipple, her body jerked forward; in response, unintentionally dragging her aching pussy against his thick thigh.

His lips latched around her right nipples as he licks and sucks the hardening skin; lapping at it as if he was feeding from her. The sensation was overwhelming, yet she found herself leaning into his touch, her body responding to his gentle ministrations. The grip on his hair grew tighter as the strings of moans poured out her lips.

Bucky’s large hands find their place on her hips, guiding her to gently rut on his thigh. Trusting him, she followed his lead as he continue to grind her clit through the thin fabric she was wearing; introducing the sweet friction in on her core. Bucky pulled back slightly to look into her eyes, his expression filled with a mixture of subtle affection and desire. “You’re doing wonderfully, my dear. Can feel your pussy leaking on me. Do you feel good?” he murmured as he dipped back to kiss her neck.

Oh, he was filthy with his choice of words but surprisingly she was not mad about it. In fact she didn’t even notice the whimpers purring in her throat upon hearing those sinful words.

It was as if Bucky recognized that needy sound she made; it caused a smile to spread on his lips. She can feel it grow against the skin in between her breasts, “My my, is my sweet wife feeling needy right now?” he teased playfully as he effortlessly lifted her up and laid her down on their bed.

Placing himself in between her soft thighs, his lustful gaze trained on her naked body; he admired the marks he has left on her breasts, the wet patch on the flimsy fabric covering her cunt, and the way her breath shuddered when he teasingly grind his harden cock against her.

Y/N can feel the contrast of his hands on her thigh, one warm, one cold. Her eyes drew her attention from his hands to his gorgeous face. Oh, the pure unfiltered lust in his eyes was pulling her in so effortlessly; seducing her to submit her body and soul to him completely. Shying away from his stare, she dragged her view down to his chiselled jaw, his broad chest then slowly to his beautiful abs.

She admired his body as much as he did of hers.

But what was more prominent out of all, was the way she could feel his erection throbbing against her heat. Blood went rushing towards her face when Bucky guided her hips against the confinement of his cock, which in response; causing her hands naturally found their way to cover her face in embarrassment.

A deep chuckle bubbled from Bucky’s throat; he found her reaction to be absolutely endearing. He leaned down towards her, one hand holding himself up and another tenderly pulling her hands away, then drawing it close to his chest, right against his beating heart.

Having nowhere to run, Y/N’s teary eyes drowned in his ocean blues, “Don’t hide from me, dearest.” He peppered a delicate kiss on her forehead, then on her nose, then on her cheek. She could feel the prickly sensation of his beard grazing on her skin. It was ticklish and a little bit painful and yet weirdly enough, it felt good that it naturally made her want to nuzzle it more.

But before she could, Bucky’s lips were already making their way down to her stomach. Her body responds to how soft his lips trailing down; and further down until she could feel them on her clothed core. A surprised yelp fell from her lips as he tore the last piece of clothing from her.

“Now, hands away from your face, my dear. I want to see that beautiful eyes of yours when I eat your sweet pussy.” his voice was honeyed when he made himself comfortable in between her thighs. His hands reached upwards to intertwine both of her hands with his own; acting as a restraint to restrict her from covering her face.

Y/N almost sat up upon hearing his words, “Eat what now?”, the question she had in mind was unable to be vocalised; due to her confusion. Prior to marriage, she had learned about sex and its purpose in her marital studies. Unbeknownst to her, the knowledge she had was few and limited for academic purposes only. Which means there were only the few illustrations of penetration depicted in books and the process of how children are bred as a result of it.

So what does he mean when he said those words? While she was still lost and confused, Bucky on the other hand was in his own world; completely and utterly transfixed on the glistening need of her cunt. She was dripping wet; the juices covering her slits perfectly; her scent was intoxicating and if it weren’t for the fact that this is her first time, Bucky would’ve ate her like a man starved of touch. But, he can’t do that. Not tonight. He wanted to be gentle; to cherish her, to love on her.

Seeing the darkened clouds in his eyes as he stared at her private, Y/N braved herself to ask, “What are you– ohh hmmm” her sentence ended up transforming into a toe curling moan as she felt Bucky’s wet tongue flattened across her weeping core. Her eyes rolled to the back of her head as he dragged her clit into his mouth and sucked. He strummed her clit with his tongue, causing her to arch her back and he took the opportunity to push his face further into her cunt; licking and sucking quite the literal soul out her.

It felt amazing but her self-consciousness won the battle in her head, she let out a whimpering plea, “Buc--bucky st-stop. That’s dirty.” as she gripped on his hands, trying to escape from his grip. Bucky growled against her in response to her futile protest. The sweet vibration only caused her pleasure all over her fluttering core.

When Bucky pulled away for a moment; it caused her to feel a sense of loss. “It’s not dirty, my dear. In fact, it’s so sweet.” His lips moved to kiss on her inner thigh, murmuring against her skin as he left yet more of his marks on her, “So fucking sweet.” He releases his right hand from hers, just to rub his thumb on her clit, slowly dragging it in between her slit; smearing her wetness all around her throbbing bundle of nerves. Her thighs trembled to the sensation of his rough movement of his thumb and a string of shaky mewls fell out of her.

“But..” she tried to protest but immediately stopped when Bucky brought his soaked thumb to her mouth. Her lips were wet from how he gently smeared the juices on her, “Taste yourself.” He lured her softly. Hesitation glints in her eyes as her cheeks redden. Bucky’s eyes grew tender at her watery ones, he whispered lowly, “Sweetheart, do you trust me?”

She does; but she does not trust her own voice to not come out sounding like a needy moan, so she simply nodded. Bucky’s pink lips spread into a smile, “Good girl. Now, open up.” he coaxed lovingly.

Y/N opened her mouth as she was told and let Bucky slip his thumb inside; he was not shy to smother her juices across her tongue, coaxing her to suck on it. To get a taste of what he was having. “It’s sweet”, she thought to herself. A muffled moan purred in her throat at the thought of her husband enjoying the taste of her.

Bucky smirk grew at her reaction, “Tastes good huh, sweetheart?” he pulled his thumb away, leaving her nodding to his question. “Now are you going to let me enjoy your pussy?” his brow quirked when he tilted his head to the side. How can she deny him now? Her eyes glazed with need as she replied, “Yes, please”.

Her mouth falls open in anticipation as a low moan creeps up her throat. Bucky’s tongue slips past her folds, she watched him between her legs, savouring her pussy with his unfiltered groans vibrating against her sensitive spot. Breathless moans and incoherent pleads fall from her mouth as the soft and firm tip of his tongue circled her swollen pearl and flicked it. Bucky’s hands went to her hips, guiding it in time with her own movements, giving her partial control to set the pace.

“Buckyyyy.” She gasped as she alternated between wanting to push his head away or keep him in place. Meanwhile, the man in between her thighs had lost himself; consumed by pure desire the more he drank from her cunt. His tongue moved faster against her clit when he noticed the beat of her throbbing cunt increased. She was going to come. He was sure of it.

The way that she was practically creaming on his tongue drove him near feral. He kept lapping at her juices as if it was the sweetest honey he ever tasted; fuck he even sucked her clit in hopes to force out more of her nectar to leak; then he’d lap on it again.

The sweet cycle had pushed Y/N over the edge, her eyes rolling back as pleasure and her hips slightly lifted as pleasure surges through her veins.“Oh oh Bucky please please.” She didn’t what she was begging for as she chanted his name. “I’m gonna, ‘m gonna–“ her words died as she squealed; her body trembling in pleasure.

His tongue moved faster against her clit; her cum was dripping out of her; coating his beard but his frantic licks didn’t stop even when she continue to gush on his tongue.

“Bucky please, sensitive..” It was too much; her orgasm, her swollen clit, his tongue. Everything.

Unfortunately for her, Bucky was far gone to stop now. He had the taste of her cum, now he wants nothing more than to have it again. Despite her protest, Bucky held her hip down, interlocking his hands across her stomach to keep her in place and continue to lick and suck on her overstimulated cunt.

Her whiny pleas didn’t come across as a sign for him to stop; instead it kept him going causing him to bury his face further in between her legs. His cock continued to throb in his pants, probably leaking with so much pre-cum and in need of some sort of relief but he ignored it. He wants nothing more than for Y/N to cum on his tongue again.

And that is exactly what happened next.

The moment she fell over the edge, Bucky pushed her even harder against him as her whole body spasmed. He maintained his pace on lapping up at her all throughout her high as her hands went from his hair to the headboard, trying to hold her limp body upright. Y/N took a moment to gather herself together, panting heavily as she regained their senses; while Bucky was swift to pull his pants off and throw it to the side.

He grabbed on her hips, holding her firmly in place as his heavy leaking cock nestled between her aching pussy. “Are you sure about this, my dear?” his hot breath fanning against her neck as he gently ruts into her heat. Even though Bucky can see the darken lust in her eyes, he still wanted to make sure that she was sure of her decision.

Y/N’s heart swelled at his concern, and she found herself smiling, a genuine smile that reflected the warmth she felt inside. She pulled him closer and kissed him, pouring all her newfound trust and affection into the kiss. “Yes, Bucky. I am very sure. ”

Bucky quickly responded with equal passion, his tongue slipped in between her lips; exploring the warmness of her mouth, the softness of her tongue. Their muffled moans filled the silenced room, his hands moved to caress her sides, drawing her even closer before breaking away from the heated kiss.

Resting his forehead on hers, his eyes trained on her beautiful face; not wanting to miss his chance to witness the pleasure contorting on her expression. He nudges her clit first, rubbing it slow and sensual before trailing down to her entrance. Gradually, he inches closer, he pushes in and through the tightness of her sacred channel.

Delving impossibly deep, her tightness wrapped around his thick cock until the tip of him reached the deepest parts of her. The sudden feeling of fullness on her untainted pussy caused her to experience both pain and the delightful sensation inside her. The ecstasy of being so knitly connected to each other caused both of them to simultaneously let out moans and groans of raw pleasure.

Bucky waited for her to adjust to his size; leaning down to pamper her with the softest kisses and praises that tears started to swell in her eyes. It was as if Bucky knew exactly what she wanted to hear, how she wanted to be treated and what makes her feel good.

“You’re doing so good, my dear.”

“Look at how perfect your pussy’s taking my cock. So perfect.”

“Made for me aren’t you, sweetheart?. Made to be loved by me, made to be stuffed full of my cock.”

“I promise you’ll be safe with me, Y/N. Always.”

When Y/N finally gave him the permission to move, Bucky kissed her pouty lips and murmured sweetly, “Thank you, my dear.” His hands travelled to find her ankle; which he then gently prop her calf over his broad shoulder. He started pumping in and out slowly, letting her get used to the friction.

Bucky couldn’t help but to groan out to the feeling of her wet hole gripping his cock ever-so-tightly. It was slippery and dripping, that he almost completely slid out of her. Gripping her closer he continue ramming himself back in, deeper, harder; sliding in and out of her at an even pace. Each force of his cock causing her body to jerk in ecstasy; hitting that good spot in her so perfectly.

“S-shit, sweetheart,” he moans deep and heavy as he felt her pussy tightening around him. His metal hand slid in between them and his thumb hones in on her clit. The coldness of his finger made her jolt at first but when he proceeded to rub and pinch on it, everything suddenly started to feel too intense; so incredibly good.

With his fingers assaulting her clit, each thrust of his cock and every deep guttural moan and groan coming from Bucky, she felt her release was growing closer. Bucky also started thrusting faster and harder; he knew he was about to come. Especially when he can feel how much pre-cum has been leaking inside her.

He leaned and rested his forehead on hers, his needy ruts became more and more irregular when her pretty doe eyes looked up at him, “Cum for me, my dear.” his lips brushed against Y/N’s as he coaxed her to her sweet release. His thrusts got harsher and deeper and the friction of his metal finger working on her clit got her cunt to frantically tremble around him, “I wanna feel you milk my cock, sweetheart. Then, I’m gonna my pump cum inside you until you’re leaking.”

Although his words were debauched to no end, however Y/N could sense his genuine affection for her. She felt his sincerity in the way he looked at her, in the way he held her, in the silenced gaze they shared. Overwhelmed with pleasure, her nails dragged across Bucky’s back as she moaned and screamed out his name; letting the high took over her body.

“Fuck,, sweetheart. I’m gonna cum!” groaned as he took in the sound of her pleasured mewls. He ruthlessly grinds into her, savouring the feeling of her cunt tightened around him. With one last rut, he thrust his cock, balls deep inside and let his warm white strings filling her up to the brim. His cock twitches in her fluttering cunt, his legs tensing with every small grind he makes, groaning lowly at her as he bites down on her shoulder, almost drooling on her as he emptied himself completely into her.

Y/N continued to let out strings of soft moans as he pulled out from her leaking cunt; all swollen and sensitive. While she thought she could finally catch some breaths, she didn’t notice the way Bucky was biting on his lip at the sight of his cum dripping out of her, or how his hands lazily tugging on his now hardened cock.

“Dearest?” Bucky hovered above her as he cradled her by her flushed cheeks. She smiled sweetly as she leaned to his touch, “Yes, Bucky?”, she was anticipating him to utter more of those soft words and praises to her; but instead his lips curled into a devilish grin when he slid his cock back into her, immediately pulling a long sinful mewl of his name from her. Bucky hummed approvingly in response; he gently brushed his lips against hers, “May I fill you up again?”

As the morning sun streamed through the windows, Y/N slowly stirred awake. She reached out, instinctively searching for the warmth of her husband beside her, but found the space empty. A pang of loneliness touched her heart, but it was quickly replaced by curiosity when she saw a bouquet of bluebells, her favourite flower, placed delicately on the bedside table.

Next to the bouquet was a note. With a small smile, she picked it up and began to read.

"My Dearest Y/N,

I hate to leave you alone this morning, but I must ensure our journey home is smooth and safe. I trust you slept well, and I promise to return to your side as soon as I can.

Yours always,

Bucky"

The words written on the note were filled with sincerity and reassurance that made her heart flutter. She smiled, a blush creeping across her cheeks as she wondered how he knew bluebells were her favourite.

Just as she was lost in thought, the door opened, and the palace’s maids entered the room. Their faces were a mixture of curiosity and impatience, clearly expecting to see a frightened and bruised young bride.

However, when they saw Y/N's skin, they temporarily froze in their spots. Her skin was indeed bruised, but each one of them recognized the marks for what they were: love marks, not signs of harsh abuse that they were expecting. The traces of Bucky's possessive love were prominent all over her neck, chest, and inner thighs, leaving Y/N blushing as the maids, too, found themselves flushed with embarrassment.

“Well, isn’t this a surprise,” one of the older maids muttered under her breath, her tone laced with irritation. Another maid, with a more condescending sneer, huffed. “Looks like we lost the bet, ladies. Who would have thought the beast could be so... tender?”

Y/N’s cheeks burned with a mix of embarrassment and pride. She could feel their resentful glances and knew they were not pleased with the outcome. The marks on her body were a testament to the affection and desire Bucky had shown her, and despite the initial fear, she now wore them as symbols of the unexpected bond they had begun to forge.

The head maid, who had been the most vocal the night before, now seemed to handle her with an edge of bitterness. The other maids, who had been so quick to judge, were now silent, their eyes wide with resentment.One of the younger maids, braver than the rest, couldn’t hide her frustration. “Well, my lady, I suppose you’re alright, then?” she asked, her voice barely masking her disappointment.

Y/N looked at her, considering the appropriate response. If it was up to her, she ought to punish every single one of them for not knowing their place. Unfortunately, they were not her maids to begin with, but the palace's staff. Otherwise, she would likely fire each one of them.

The memory of Bucky’s affection and care filled her heart, leaving no room for anger or resentment. The warmth of his embrace and the gentle way he had treated her made the maids' behaviour seem petty and insignificant.

She could still feel the lingering touch of his lips on her skin, the way his hands had caressed her so delicately, and the sound of his reassuring voice. Her body was still tingling with the remnants of the previous night's intimacy. Her skin bore the marks of his love, not of brutality, and each bruise was a testament to the passion they had shared. It was completely different to the vile expectations of the maids.

A small smile playing on her lips despite the blush that still coloured her cheeks. "Yes," she said softly, "I am quite alright."

The maids exchanged annoyed glances, their expressions a mix of frustration and disbelief. Their muttered disappointments were tuned out as Y/N focused on the lingering warmth from the night before.

She couldn't hear a single thing except her heart beating to the thought of her husband. She missed him already. Who would’ve thought she’d be swooning for him so soon?

She found herself yearning for his presence, the comfort of his touch, and the sound of his reassuring voice. The memory of his gentle kiss and tender words lingered in her mind yet again, making her heart flutter.

As the maids continued their work, Y/N hoped they would at least perform their duties well enough to cover up for their childish behaviour. She wanted to be ready to see Bucky, to greet him with the same warmth and affection he had shown her. Despite their rudeness, she resolved to focus on the positive, cherishing the newfound bond with her husband.

Bucky stood at the head of the table, his stern expression and commanding presence filling the room. He was reviewing the logistics of their journey home, his voice cold and decisive as he issued instructions to his knights. His trusted knight, Sam, was detailing the possible hotspots for bandits they might encounter along the way.

"We'll likely face trouble here," Sam said, pointing to a spot on the map. "We should send some of our best men ahead to clear the path."

"Agreed," Bucky responded, his tone unyielding. "Deploy the knights in advance. Ensure the path is secure before we proceed."

Sam nodded and continued outlining the plan. He paused, expecting Bucky to reconfirm, but noticed a change in his leader's face. The harsh lines softened, his eyes filled with a tender warmth, as he stared intently at something across the room. Before Sam could look or utter a word, Bucky turned and walked away with determination.

Sam followed Bucky's gaze and understood immediately. "Ah, that's why," he muttered to himself as he watched Bucky approach Y/N. The change in Bucky’s demeanour was striking. He moved with a grace and warmth that was at odds with his usual stern and imposing presence.

Bucky’s eyes softened as he took in the sight of Y/N. He admired her beauty with a gaze filled with awe and adoration. The way he looked at her was as if he was seeing a vision he had longed for, a rare and precious gem that had finally come into his life.

As he extended his hand toward her, a gesture usually seen as etiquette but now entirely with different meaning, especially with the hearts bursting our of his blue eyes. Y/N’s face lighting up with a shy smile, took his hand; almost too eagerly. Bucky's fingers closed gently around hers, his touch tender and reassuring. The contrast between his usual, fearsome reputation and the gentle way he interacted with her was profound, making it clear that his feelings for Y/N were deeply genuine.

Bucky kissed the back of her hand, his lips softly caressing her knuckles. "My dear," he greeted her, using the endearment he had chosen when they first met at the altar.

The scene seemed like it was pulled raw from a romance novel that the surrounding staff and knights simply watched in shock and awe. "Did he just..." one knight whispered, eyes wide. "Called her 'my dear'?" another finished, equally stunned.

Sam, who had witnessed firsthand the monstrous side of Bucky in war, found himself in a state of utter disbelief, jaw dropped loose. He had seen Bucky’s sword painted blood-red, his face splattered with the gore of countless enemies. The Winter Soldier was a force of nature on the battlefield, his brutal efficiency leaving a trail of carnage in his wake. Sam recalled the sight of Bucky’s cold, unyielding eyes as he cut through foes without hesitation, his armor and weaponry gleaming with the blood of those who dared oppose him.

And yet, here he was, the same man who had struck terror into the hearts of many, now standing before Y/N with a tenderness that seemed unimaginable. Sam could hardly believe his eyes. The disparity was pronounced and bewildering. Bucky’s expression was soft, his movements gentle as he held Y/N’s hand in his.

“I’ve missed you,” Y/N said softly, her eyes shining with affection. She truly did, it would be a lie that she didn’t felt the ache in her heart when she woke up alone that morning. The emptiness beside her had felt profound. The bed still carried his scent, a lingering warmth that whispered of his recent presence. Even though the separation had been brief, as evidenced by the thoughtful note and the bouquet of her favourite flowers he had left behind, the loneliness she felt was palpable. His absence, however fleeting, had created a void that left her feeling incomplete.

Bucky’s heart seemed to burst with emotion. He couldn't care less about the gawking staff surrounding them as he pulled her close and kissed her deeply. She initially froze, caught off guard and embarrassed, but soon melted into his kiss with a blossoming confidence.

As their lips met, memories of their tender and passionate night together surged through Bucky's mind. The way she moan his name, the taste of her cum, the tightness of her pussy gripping on his cock, the way his cum leaked out of her, every single sinful scene replayed in head; infinitely. The intensity of the moment was overwhelming, and he found himself nearly losing control. Reluctantly, he pulled back from the kiss, his breath uneven and his gaze filled with an unspoken hunger.

"God, what should I do with you, hmm, sweetheart?" Bucky whispered, his voice laced with seduction as he continued to place gentle kisses along her cheeks and jaw. His lips brushed softly against her skin, whispering how much he had missed her and expressing a wistful desire to stay wrapped in the warmth of their shared bed just a little longer.

Y/N’s soft giggle rang out as she felt the roughness of his stubble against her delicate skin. The sound was like music to Bucky's ears, brightening his mood and filling him with a profound sense of joy. Despite the joyful exchange, he reluctantly ended the sweet torment, his kisses lingering just a moment longer before he pulled away.

“We should be ready to begin our journey shortly,” Bucky said, his tone shifting to a more practical note when e turned to Sam, who had approached during their moment of intimacy.

“Y/N, this is Sam Wilson, he is one of my trusted knights.” Bucky introduced, his gaze shifting to his wife. Sam gave a respectful nod to Y/N, a hint of surprise still evident in his expression from witnessing Bucky's affectionate display. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lady Y/N.”

Y/N smiled warmly at Sam, appreciating the introduction. “The pleasure is mine, Sir Wilson.”

Sam, sensing that the formality was unnecessary given their imminent interactions, decided to ease the situation. “Just Sam, my lady,” he said with a friendly tone. Y/N repeated his name with a touch of amusement. “Well, it’s nice to meet you, Sam.”

Bucky, observing the growing camaraderie between his wife and his trusted knight, couldn’t help but feel a twinge of protectiveness. The easy familiarity between them seemed a bit too casual for his liking. His eyes narrowed slightly as he gave Sam a warning look. “Watch it, Wilson.”

Sam, not missing a beat, chuckled at Bucky’s protective demeanour. “What’s the matter, my lord? Can’t handle a bit of friendly conversation?”

Y/N, noticing the playful tension and Bucky’s slight irritation, couldn’t help but laugh. The contrast between Bucky’s usually soft demeanour that Y/N had witnessed and his current protective stance were both endearing and amusing. Her laughter lightened the mood, making Sam’s teasing even more enjoyable.

Bucky's stern gaze softened as he watched Y/N’s laughter, though his protective instinct remained palpable. Steering the conversion back to the preparations, he allowed a faint smile to tug at the corners of his mouth despite his earlier warning.

“I trust you can escort my wife to the carriage,” Bucky said, his voice serious but tinged with a hint of a smile. “However, I expect you to maintain proper distance and adhere to these additional guidelines.” He paused, ensuring his words were clear. “No unnecessary physical contact or overly familiar behaviour. And if you could, avoid any casual conversations that might be misinterpreted.”

Sam looked at Bucky in disbelief, shaking his head with a bemused expression. “Seriously, Barnes? You’re laying down rules for me to keep my distance from your wife now?”

Bucky’s eyes narrowed playfully. “Consider it a precaution. I’d rather not have any misunderstandings.” Sam chuckled, rolling his eyes as he complied. “Understood. I’ll make sure to follow your... guidelines.”

Y/N watched the exchange with amusement, her earlier shyness melting away into a warm appreciation for Bucky’s protectiveness. The scene, tinged with a touch of comedy, only deepened the connection between them.

Bucky, intent on making a point to Sam while expressing his affection, pulled Y/N close and pressed a tender kiss to her forehead. The gesture was both intimate and deliberate, a subtle yet clear indication to Sam that she belongs to Bucky. “I’ll join you shortly, my dear,” Bucky said softly, his voice filled with warmth as he gazed into her eyes.

Sam, unimpressed by Bucky’s display, rolled his eyes at the seemingly childish antics. “This way, my lady,” he said with a hint of impatience. Y/N nodded in agreement but paused before turning her back on Bucky. With a loving smile, she whispered, “I’ll see you later,” before following Sam.

Bucky watched as Sam guided Y/N away, his gaze lingered with a mix of affection and something much deeper; an unspoken sadness. As their silhouettes walked further and further away from his sight, a sombre glaze settled over his eyes.

Beneath the surface of his composed exterior, his heart ached; the was a silent reflection of a pain he had hidden deep within his heart. It was a lingering sorrow that had shadowed him ever since he stood at the altar, the weight of unvoiced grief clinging to him as he gazed at his future bride.

Part II >>

Read my other works here: Masterlist

A/N: Wondering why he was in the feels at the end? We’ll know it soon enough. I’ll see you in the next parts! Thank you for reading!

#bucky barnes au #bucky x reader #bucky x you #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky fluff #bucky smut #bucky angst #bucky barnes fluff #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes angst #winter soldier!bucky #medieval!bucky #duke!bucky #grumpy!bucky #soft!bucky

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ewanmitchellcrumbs · 1 year ago

Text

I Can Tell You About Pain

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x niece!reader Warnings: Canon typical incest, dubious consent with allusions to no consent, smut. Word count: ~4.6k

Summary: When Rhaenyra returns to King's Landing to petition Lucerys's claim to Driftmark, Aemond is eager for revenge for the loss of his eye. However, what he does not anticipate is the object of his ire becoming his niece instead of his nephew.

Author's note: No tag list. Follow @fics-by-ewanmitchellcrumbs and turn on post notifications.

Aemond sits in his chambers, beside the fireplace, one leg crossed over the other. His eyepatch is discarded on the table in front of him, his index finger absentmindedly running the length of the scar that ravages the left side of his face.

It had itched incessantly since he had learned the news that his half sister, Rhaenyra, and her family would be arriving in King’s Landing to defend Lucerys’s claim to Driftmark. His scar always grew irritated at the mention of Luke, a reminder of the boy who had permanently disfigured him and left him without an eye. It was a crime for which Luke had never been reprimanded, and so Aemond had spent almost a decade allowing his anger and resentment to fester, thinking of all of the ways he would seek revenge should he ever see him again.

He knows exactly when they have arrived the next day as he spars in the training yard with Cole; he spots the two dark haired boys circling, and takes a moment to lean against the table of weapons before him, steeling himself. He imagines grabbing a blade and carving out one of his nephew’s eyes in exchange for his. Luke had taken his left, perhaps he’d take his right, a fair exchange.

Snapped out of his reverie by Cole beckoning him forward, he picks up his blade and advances towards him. He knows that Jace and Luke will be watching, and so he works hard to put on a display that will show he’s no longer the sullen, little boy they used to torment. He is a man grown, a warrior that they should respect and fear. He ducks and weaves against Cole’s morningstar, throwing away his shield as it splinters under impact, until finally he seizes the advantage, the point of his blade directed towards his opponent’s neck.

“Well met, my prince,” Ser Criston tells him, “you will be winning tourneys in no time.”

“I do not give a shit about tourneys,” he utters, turning to face the two dark haired boys who stare up at him in shock. “Nephews, have you come to train?”

He is unable to stop the malevolent smirk that tugs at his lips, seeing fear in their eyes as they gaze at him. There is revenge enough in knowing that while he has advanced in training with the sword, transformed himself into a foe which any man would find themselves unlucky to cross blades with upon a battlefield, they have remained frightened, sniveling little boys that still cling to their mother’s skirts for protection. It is not enough to satisfy him though. Not yet.

Having bathed and changed, he joins his family in the throne room, as the court gathers to hear the petitions for the succession of Driftmark. He stands tall and proud beside his brother, sister and mother, as his grandsire sits the throne in his father’s stead.

His eye sweeps the hall, seeing Vaemond Velaryon, Rhaenys Targaryen and her granddaughter, Baela, standing to one side. On the other is Rhaenyra, Luke, Jace, Joffrey, his uncle, Daemon, and his daughter, Rhaena. And then he spots her.

Aemond had utterly forgotten of her existence; born a year after Jace, and a year before Luke, his niece. She is as tall as her mother now, and has her father’s hair - her real father’s hair - long, dark curls that, despite being half pinned up, fall almost to her waist. She is soft featured, with Rhaenyra’s striking blue eyes. It baffles him that a Strong bastard could be so pleasing to look upon, and he purses his lips in disgust, forcing himself to look away as he reflects back upon what she had been like as a child.

She never joined in with the relentless teasing that Aegon, Jacaerys and Lucerys had subjected him to. She had spent all of her time with Helaena, from what he can remember, the two of them sat side by side, Helaena holding up insects and describing them to her, as she flicked through the pages of books trying to see if records of them already existed, so that they could learn more about them.

The night that he had lost his eye, she had remained next to his sister, looking on with concern as he had his wound stitched closed. He remembered thinking it odd at the time that she was not with Luke and Jace, but his mind was so addled from the effects of milk of the poppy that nothing is clear, beyond the image of her mother bursting into the hall of Driftmark and tugging her away, back to her own family.

As the petitions are heard, even when his own father arrives unexpectedly, announcing he will sit the throne today, he finds his attention drawn to her, unable to focus on anything else. She appears to be a meek little thing, keeping her eyes downcast, seeming ashamed of her own presence in the room. A trait that all Strong bastards ought to possess, in his opinion. Yet as the moments pass by and she does not look up, he finds himself growing increasingly irritated that she won’t look at him, despite how desperately he wills her to.

“Her children are bastards!” Shouts Vaemond, before turning to Rhaenyra, his voice lowering, “and she is a whore.”

Elation spreads like a warm glow through Aemond’s body, his attention finally pulled away from his niece to look upon the horrified expressions of his nephews and half sister. Serves them right. Finally someone is saying it out loud.

When he casts his gaze back upon his niece, her eyes are still fixed upon the floor. However, he sees the subtlety with which her bottom lip trembles, the light flush of her cheeks. She is about to cry.

Look at me.

The room falls silent as Daemon’s sword slices through Vaemond’s head, and it is only then that her head snaps up, her eyes tear filled and wide with shock, meeting Aemond’s. He finds himself smirking again, a quiet victory. Not only had the legitimacy of Rhaenyra’s children been brought loudly into question once more, but now he had the attention of his niece. He had forgotten her in the passing of so many years, but now she is within reach again, he will ensure she certainly never forgets him. The next time tears fill her pretty eyes he wants to be the cause of them.

Aemond groans when his mother informs him that the following evening they are to dine as a family, a request from his father to unite them all, having reestablished Luke’s inheritance. He resents the idea of breaking bread with people he does not like, that do not like him, to have to sit at the same table and make pleasantries with the boy who half blinded him.

But she would be there. He wonders where she is now. Her mother had been swift to hurry her from the throne room after the decapitation of Vaemond Velaryon, and he is unsure of which apartments within the Keep she now occupies.

He finds himself stalking the corridors of the usually unoccupied quarters of Maegor’s Holdfast, his eye scanning every closed door, wondering which is the room that she occupies. He pulls to a stop at the top of a staircase as he sees familiar long, dark curls flowing down slender shoulders, disappearing into a doorway before it closes behind her.

Her chambers are unguarded, and before he has a chance to stop himself, his feet carry him down the steps towards them, his knuckles rapping at the wooden door. It’s only when he hears the rustle of movement from the other side that his mind begins to race.

What if she is not alone?

What did he even intend to do if she was unattended?

He briefly considers turning on his heel and leaving, however, no sooner has the thought occurred to him than his niece is opening the door, startling at the sight of him, lips parting in shock. She is even prettier up close, despite her reddened eyes and tear stained cheeks.

“Aemond?”

Despite the confusion that laces her voice, it is soft and dulcet toned. He wants to hear her say his name a hundred times over, for it has never sounded sweeter than coming from her lips.

He inhales deeply through his nose, preparing himself to speak. “You are understandably upset by that business with our uncle and Vaemond. I have come to check on you, to make sure you are alright.”

Her eyebrows raise for a moment, blinking a few times as she regards him carefully. “Oh…that is…kind of you. My mother has said I ought to rest.”

“Perhaps you might welcome some company?” He offers. “It would be unwise for you to be alone after witnessing something so bloody.”

She draws back a little at the suggestion, her mouth opening to speak before closing again, her brow furrowing.

Aemond fights the urge to smile at her hesitation. Reaching forward, he crooks a finger beneath her chin. “Do I frighten you so much you cannot bear to be in the same room as me?”

Gasping, she shakes her head fervently as his hand drops away. “N–no! It is just…it has been such a long time, and the last time I saw you, you…my brother…your eye…”

He cocks his head, pushing down the resentment that bubbles to the surface at the mention of what had happened to him. “But have you not heard? My father is hosting a dinner for us all tomorrow, to unite our families once more. There is no need for you to be so cautious, allow yourself to be reacquainted with your uncle.”

Her gaze lowers for a moment, as she appears to consider his offer. “Yes, I suppose that would be nice,” she finally says, looking back up at him.

She steps to the side, allowing him to enter.

Too easy, he thinks to himself as he steps inside. There would be almost no sport in this if the fight she means to put up is so feeble.

He strides into the room, hands clasped behind his back, noting the lack of personal effects within the space, a reminder that she is a visitor. This is his home, not hers. He has the upper hand.

“Apologies, Uncle,” she utters nervously, shifting from foot to foot as she fidgets restlessly with her fingers. “I had not anticipated your visit, this room is ill equipped for guests. I have no chair to offer you.”

“That is quite alright,” he tells her amicably, forcing a soft smile before sitting upon the edge of the bed. “We are family, are we not? Such formalities are not necessary.”

He pats the space beside him. “Come, join me, we have much to catch up on.”

She hesitates a moment, before sitting next to him. There is something about the feeling of the dip in the mattress beside him, combined with the floral scent of her filling his nostrils that sends the thrill of a shiver through his body, and he turns to look at her, eyeing her much like a cat would a mouse.

Such a pretty little thing.

“I am truly sorry, for what Luke did to you,” she begins, “I—”

He waves a hand dismissively, forcing down the anger that threatens to burst forth. “Let us speak no more of it. It is in the past. Tell me, how is life upon Dragonstone treating you?”

She chews her lip, hesitating a moment before she speaks. “Truthfully, it is lonely. I miss King’s Landing. Jace and Luke have one another, and mother is preoccupied with her pregnancy and Joffrey and the babes. Daemon pays me no mind, and while I am grateful for Rhaena’s company, I can tell she misses her sister. I am a poor substitute for Baela.”

He hums with faux concern, allowing a moment of silence to present his next words as thoughtful. “You could never be a poor substitute for anything. And I expect you will soon be away from there anyway. I can imagine you have no end of suitors all vying for your hand.”

The hint of a blush turns her cheeks pink as she casts her gaze downward. “No, not yet. I have overheard Rhaenys talking with my mother. They wish to betroth Baela and Rhaena to Jace and Luke. There are no such plans for me. What about you? Are you to be married?”

“Not yet,” he says softly, meeting her eye as she looks up at him. “I have been waiting for the right woman to capture my interest. Perhaps it is fortuitous that we both find ourselves unattached?”

“What do you mean, uncle?” She asks, her brow furrowing slightly.

“Baela and Jace, Rhaena and Luke,” he shifts his hand across the bed, entwining his fingers with hers. “You and I.”

She gasps softly, though she does not wrench her hand away as he had anticipated. “Is this some sort of trick, Aemond?”

“Not at all,” he reassures her, moving closer. “What better way to unite our family once more?”

“We hardly know each other,” she utters softly.

“And yet you have scarce left my thoughts all these years,” he lies. “Let me kiss you.”

Before she has a chance to respond, he is pressing his lips to hers. She stiffens at first, taken aback by his forwardness, but soon responds, her supple mouth moving against his. He brings his hand up to her cheek, cupping it softly, the skin soft as peach fuzz beneath his calloused fingertips.

She sighs softly as he deepens the gesture, her inexperience showing as her tongue retreats from his as it slips into her mouth. It serves only to stoke the fire that rages within, tightening his breeches as the sensation of her saliva causes his cock to swell.

Pulling away from her mouth, he moves his hand from her cheek, sinking it into her silky curls, anchoring her in place as he places hot, open mouthed kisses to her jaw and neck, making his way down towards her clavicle, relishing the way her head tips back slightly and her eyes flutter closed.

Tugging down the neckline of her bodice, he fights to suppress a groan of desire at the sight of her bared breasts, the hardened peaks ruddy and inviting. She is putting up so little resistance that it emboldens him to press forward, capturing a rosy bud between his lips and suckling as his tongue flicks against it, causing her to arch and mewl.

A whore, just like her mother, he thinks, shifting his attention to the other and repeating the same motion. His blood feels like liquid fire in his veins as her breaths turn to soft pants. One hand massages the breast that he is currently not latched upon, while the other creeps beneath her skirts.

It is only when his fingertips ghost upon the top of her stocking that she suddenly pulls free of him, eyes wide and breaths ragged as she hurriedly readjusts her dress.

“We should not have…forgive me, I…” she stumbles over her words, flustered and looking on the verge of tears again, before hurrying from the room, leaving Aemond alone on the bed.

He growls in frustration, smacking his hand down upon the edge of the mattress. “Ilibītsos,” he mutters angrily. Little slut.

When he returns to his own chambers, he comes harder than he ever has before, such is the force with which he fists his cock, imagining the entire time that his niece is splayed beneath him, sighing softly with pleasure as she had for him earlier that day.

As his pleasure induced haze wears off, a feeling of shame settles over him. He does not quite understand how his infatuation with her has taken hold so quickly, but now that it is, he is unable to shake it. Worse still, when she ran from her bedchamber, what if she had gone straight to her mother and told her of what he had done to her? It would be a disgrace from which he would never recover if his own mother were to be privy to such information.

He hides himself away the next day, embarrassed to face any of his family for fear they will know of his transgressions, until finally he is summoned to the feast that he has been dreading.

Much to his surprise, the entire day has passed without angry confrontation or a tongue lashing from his mother, and as he enters the dining hall there are no looks of shock or disgust to be met with, simply the shy smile of his niece as she looks up at him from her seat between her two brothers.

She has not told anyone, and she does not appear to regret what had transpired between them.

Aemond settles into his seat at the head of the table with a smug sense of pride. The dinner is a tawdry affair, musicians playing tunes he does not care for are stationed in the corner, while endless trays and bowls of food are brought out to them all.

He listens to his family toast to each other with a sneer, watching with barely concealed anger as Jace invites Helaena to dance. His only reprieve are the shy glances and smiles that his niece directs his way across the table. Perhaps all is not lost.

It is not until a suckling pig is brought out and settled before him that he is no longer able to contain his temper. Seeing Luke smirk at him, a reminder of the pig he had been taunted with in place of a dragon as a child, is too much. Is it not enough that his nephew has taken his eye, but now he continues to mock him too? He will not stand for such an insult.

Abruptly, he slams his first upon the table, halting the music and chatter within the room, as he rises from his chair, raising his wine cup.

“Final tribute,” he announces, eye scanning the room, careful not to include his niece in his speech, lest he foils the plans he has especially for her. “To the health of my nephews; Jace, Luke, Joffrey. Each of them handsome, wise…strong. Let us drain our cups to these three strong boys.”

The ensuing scuffle passes by in a blur for Aemond, resulting in him pushing Jace to the floor before they are all dismissed to their quarters. He hangs back, out of sight, waiting for Jace and Luke to disappear from sight, before striding after his niece.

She whips around, looking angrily up at him, eyes blazing with fury. “Why would you do that? You’ve ruined everything!”

“Forgive me,” he utters gently, taking her hands in his, “I lost my temper, but you have to know that my anger was never directed at you.”

She sighs, her shoulders sagging. “Jace and Luke’s betrothals were announced tonight. I was hoping we could announce ours too. Now my mother will never agree to it.”

Pride and satisfaction swell within his chest as he gazes down at her. He raises an eyebrow. “You wish to marry me? I had thought you were refusing my proposal, considering how quick you were to flee from me yesterday.”

“It all happened so fast. I have never been touched in that way before, and I allowed it to frighten me, I am sorry for it. But having had time to think on it, I do want to be your wife.”

He smiles down at her, seeing eye shining malevolently. “Then let the news of our betrothal be the balm that soothes all hurts upon the morrow.”

She smiles happily at him. “Then I shall bid you goodnight, Uncle.”

“So soon? I thought perhaps we might pick up where we left off yesterday.”

She flushes a delicate red. “Would it not be better to wait until we are wed?”

“I will not push you further than you wish to go,” he whispers, before kissing her deeply, walking her backwards into her bedchamber.

He is quick to cover her body with his own as she topples back against the softness of the mattress, kissing her fiercely as his hands push her skirts roughly up and over her hips.

“I thought you did not wish to push me?” She whispers breathlessly, pulling back from his lips.

“I shall not, talus,” he reassures her, his fingers absentmindedly stroking her the bare skin of her thighs, “but that does not mean I will not make you beg for it.” Niece.

Kissing her deeply once more, he shifts down her body, dragging her small clothes down and off of her leg in one fluid movement, before spreading the plushness of her thighs, his single eye drinking in the glistening sight of her cunt spread out before him.

He smiles to himself as he drags the tip of his tongue through her folds, hearing the way her breath hitches, his hands forcefully holding her down, keeping her still, as she attempts to buck her hips. He almost groans at the tart taste of her, his mouth quick to envelope her, alternating between sucking messily at her pearl and laving the flat of his tongue against her.

She writhes, pinned to the bed by her pelvis by his forceful grip, wanton sounds of pleasure escaping her as she clutches the bed sheets so tightly her knuckles turn white.

Lapping greedily at her as she falls apart against his tongue, he almost spends in his breeches taking in the sight of her arched back, tousled hair, ruddy cheeks and trembling thighs. But he is not finished yet.

The moment she settles back against the bed, her body spent and pliant, he begins his assault anew, this time crooking two fingers inside of her, rubbing urgently against the rough patch inside of her as his tongue focuses purposefully on her sensitive nub. The desperate sounds she makes are music to his ears. She is impossibly tight, he wonders how he will ever fit inside, but is all the more determined to find out as he sends her hurtling and crying out once more into the throes of another torturous release.

“Stop, stop!” She whines, attempting to back up the bed away from him, as he attempts to settle his face between her thighs a third time. “I cannot take it anymore.”

“If I am inside of you, it will not feel quite so intense,” he whispers, not moving an inch from where he lays between her legs, his chin shiny and sticky with her arousal.

“We are not yet married, Uncle, we should not,” she protests feebly.

“But we will be,” he insists, “so what does it matter? And I am afraid I have not had my fill of you, talus, so we shall have to continue as we are if you do not wish for me to be inside of you.”

“Gods…please…no…anything, just no more of that, it is too much.”

He smirks at her ruined state, bringing himself up towards her face, his voice dark. “Beg me for it.”

“Please, Aemond, please,” she cries, “put it inside, I cannot stand anymore.”

He grins wolfishly, as his fingers move to the lacings of his trousers, untying them and shucking the material past his hips.

Sucking in a steadying breath, he places the swollen head of his cock against the wetness of her opening, his eye flickering to her face for any signs of hesitation. She still looks utterly wrecked, her expression one of hazy bliss, her eyes glassy. Taking this as silent permission, he presses forward, hissing through his teeth at the resistance he is met with.

She whimpers softly, in clear discomfort, as he continues to push inward slowly, looking between her face, her brow furrowed and lips parted, and where their bodies are joining together.

He feels something give way, before he is fully rooted within her.

Her maidenhead.

Aemond fights the prideful grin that wants to spread itself across his face. His nephew had taken his eye, now in turn he had taken his niece’s virtue.

He stills, waiting for her to adjust, before moving slowly, dragging his hips back before pushing softly forward, repeating the motion. He desperately wants to snap his hips against hers, to make her cry out in pain, to disregard her comfort, but he is not a monster, he reasons. Her innocence soaking his length is payment enough.

Remembering how her body had responded so positively to his affections the previous day, he tugs down her plunging neckline with two fingers, freeing the softness of her breasts, leaning down to press gentle kisses against them, before suckling a nipple into his mouth.

She moans quietly, her body loosening up, becoming less tense beneath his, making it feel more pleasurable for him in turn. He means to be gentle with her, he really does, but feeling her grow wetter around him makes it impossible for him not to speed up his thrusts, driving into her faster, harder, causing her to whine and whimper as he trails his mouth across her chest. So lost in the sensation of her, he barely registers her delicate fingers clutching desperately at his hair and shoulders.

He knows he is done for when she squeezes around him, he knows he ought to pull out, to spill himself across the creamy white skin of her lower belly and thighs, but she is so warm, so wet, so tight around him that he cannot bring himself to leave her. He finds himself chasing his own end inside of her, his hips moving of their own accord, until finally, with a blinding white heat that tingles at the very base of his spine, he groans loudly, pulsating and spending inside of her in hot, powerful spurts.

Allowing himself a moment to settle against her, he basks in the warm afterglow of his peak, before pulling slowly out, disentangling his limbs from hers as his breath comes in shallow pants. He kneels up on the bed, pulling his trousers back over himself and fastening them. He allows himself to drink in the sight of her, her dress and hair in utter disarray, the sticky mess between her legs, her kiss swollen lips and faraway stare. Utter perfection.

It is not until he stands from the bed, smoothing over his clothing and hair with his hands that she finally comes back to reality and pulls herself up to rest upon her elbows. “Where are you going?”

“Back to my chambers,” he says coolly, “I have gotten what I wanted.”

“What do you mean?” She asks, worry lacing her tone, her eyebrows knitting together.

“Your bastard brother took my eye. Now I’ve taken the only thing that makes you worth a damn.”

Her voice wobbles, tears rimming her eyes as they widen in realisation, pulling at her dress to cover herself. “You said you would marry me…”

“I lied.”

“Why?! Why me?!”

He shrugs. “You made it easy. You might want to have the maester brew you a tea though, unless the bastard also wants a bastard.”

“I will tell my mother,” she whispers tearfully.

“Go ahead. I will deny it. Who will believe you? If you birth a silver haired babe, there is nothing to suggest that it is not a result of my brother forcing himself upon you, or perhaps our uncle. Your mother was younger than you, I believe, when he first started to show an interest in her. So if I were you, I would have the tea brewed and keep quiet, unless you wish to be branded a whore as well as a bastard.”

“You are a monster!” She spits, shoulders shaking as she sobs.

“Drīves, talus,” he utters, turning to leave her bedchamber. “Ñuha drīva issa.” Justice, niece. I have justice.

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