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me: feeling like I'm using the words your and you too much, but I'm fucking writing in the second person.

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Legilimency, and Other Secrets (Teen!Snape x Reader)

Request: Severus snape x reader. Severus use a legilimency on reader. She finds out by Severus answering something she hasn't said yet. She is little bit in shock but in good way.

Requested by anon

A/N: I've always wondered, how did Severus begin learning Legilimency? Was it always a skill he had? Was it something he did for fun in his spare time, or was it more for survival?

This lil fic goes into the lighter side of it -- what if it really did just start out as a fun lil hobby for him? hehe enjoy :)

Severus was acting strange lately.

You couldn't put your finger on it, not exactly, but there was something different about him. He seemed quieter than normal. More solemn. You saw it in the way he'd complete his assignments in the library, he'd be halfway through a sentence and then he'd abruptly stop writing. His jaw would clench ever-so-slightly, and then he'd start glaring at his parchment as if he were trying to burn a hole right through it.

"You're staring again." Severus's low voice snapped you back into reality. You blinked, folding your arms across your chest as you leaned back in your chair.

"You're doing that thing again." You retorted.

"What thing?"

"I don't know, you're staring at your assignment as if it might snap up and bite your face off any second."

"I'm concentrating." He replied slowly, picking up his quill and going back to writing. You sighed, not fully satisfied with Severus's answer, and went back to reading.

Almost like clockwork, it happened again. Mid-sentence, Severus stopped writing and stared at his assignment. You glanced up with a frown, observing the distant look that filled his eyes.

"You're doing it again, Y/N."

"So are you!" You exclaimed, only to wince a moment later as a few aggressive shushes filled the library. You leaned forward, lowering your voice to a whisper. "Severus, I swear on Merlin's beard, if Sirius is coming after you again-"

Severus rolled his eyes. "This has nothing to do with him. Or Potter, or anyone else."

"Then why are you acting so weird?"

As Severus opened his mouth to protest, you rolled your eyes.

"I've known you for seven years. You're my best friend, I can describe your routine in my sleep. Someone could break that window right over there and it still wouldn't interrupt you from writing. Don't even bother trying to tell me nothing's wrong."

You can be so stubborn sometimes.

Severus frowned, his gaze suddenly snapping up to you.

"Look who's talking." He retorted. "I'm stubborn? You're the one who won't ever let me help you with Potions, and you nearly failed the class last year because of it!"

You gaped at him as you slowly closed your book and pushed it out of the way.

Did you just...?

Severus swore under his breath and threw his quill down onto the table in resignation. He shook his head in defeat.

"Well, secret's out I guess." He shrugged, running a hand through his hair.

"What the bloody hell was that!?" You hissed. Your mind was reeling as you tried to find a logical explanation for what just happened. Severus responded with the tiniest smile.

"My latest project." He answered simply. "I was going to tell you eventually, but I wanted it to be perfect."

"Your latest project..." You shook your head in disbelief. "You mean to tell me that you've just been casually practicing Legilimency this entire time?"

Severus met your gaze, answering your question with nothing but a sheepish grin. You laughed in awe.

"Do it again." You nodded in encouragement. Severus rolled his eyes after a moment's pause.

"You have to think of something other than Legilimency first. At least make it somewhat of a challenge."

"Oh. Right." You looked down for a moment, concentrating on the first thought that popped into your mind. Something that would be hard for Severus to pick up on.

Your mind went to the Amortentia potion you had to make in class last month. One of the few things you had brewed properly. No one was obligated to share what theirs smelled like, and you decided to keep yours secret even though Severus had pestered you relentlessly about it. You never forgot its scent, though: amber and spices, something similar to cloves, and just a hint of something clean and soapy. Almost floral, now that you thought about it-

"Y/N..."

Your eyes met Severus's. His cheeks were tinged pink as he gaped at you without a word. You felt your own cheeks heat up as you looked away.

"I guess you saw that, huh?" You asked softly. Severus leaned forward, and you felt his gaze burning into you. His dark eyes seemed to glow with emotion intense enough to intimidate you. You had to look away. You were glad to be sitting down, the way he was gazing at you made your knees weak.

"It's bergamot." He whispered. You blinked, your eyes finally meeting his in confusion.

"Huh?"

"That floral scent you were wondering about," Severus laughed nervously, running a hand through his hair. "It's bergamot. I found the soap in Hogsmeade during our last outing there. I had no idea you noticed it."

You pressed your lips together, looking away. You had thought it would be funny, almost ironic, to reveal what your Amortentia smelled like. Now that it was actually happening, you weren't expecting things to get this real or intense.

Severus frowned in thought for a moment, before turning his gaze back to you.

"Um, could you look at me?" He asked softly. "I want to try something. And try not to blink."

Your heart raced, but you managed to maintain eye contact with him. Your chest tightened as you felt a nudge somewhere in the back of your mind. There was a pause that followed where everything inside you felt empty, and then suddenly you smelled it. Your soap, the scent of your laundry, and the lotion you'd sometimes use. All wrapped up in one.

Severus smiled, though there was still nervousness in his eyes, as you realized what was happening. He was in your mind, sharing his own memory with you. You were experiencing everything he did that day.

"Since you shared your Amortentia with me..." He said softly as the last few scents faded from your mind. There was a gentle pressure, almost like a little bubble being popped, as Severus left your mind. "I figured I might as well do the same."

"You just went into my mind." You gasped in awe. He nodded.

"I've never done that before. I needed your permission, through eye contact, I think. I have to admit, I didn't think it would work as well as it did. But... I guess my secret's out now."

"More than one secret, I would say." You laughed to try and shake off the shock and excitement that filled your heart. It did little to make any of your feelings dissipate.

"I'll be honest," Severus spoke softly, a touch of an anxious quiver perceptible in his voice. "I'm not too sure where to go from here."

"Me neither." You admitted honestly. "We're still friends, right? Like... knowing all this, does it change anything between us?"

Severus shook his head vehemently. "I don't want anything to change. At least, not for the worse. We're still friends. Definitely still friends."

You nodded, and a thought popped into your mind.

...Maybe more?

Severus glanced up at you, inhaling sharply. He blushed almost as soon as the thought crossed your mind, and you knew that he had heard you.

"Yeah." He breathed. "I'd like that."

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ok i have a request 🙊🙊with either rhys or az where after they have sex - reader is a little shy/embarrassed and is avoiding eye contact and stuff and rhys/az is confused and teases her 🧍‍♀️🧍‍♀️

Fancy, Messy Sheets

Pairing: Rhysand x f!reader

Word count: 787

Warnings: talk of sex and squirting

Main Masterlist | Rhysand Masterlist | AO3

Spent and panting, Rhys kissed you one last time before collapsing onto the bed next to you.

He immediately felt your absence—your warmth enveloping him, your bodies joined as if you were one, your breaths mingling.

His arms slid around your trembling form, pulling you close as he kissed your forehead and buried his face in your hair. Your perfume filled his nose, mixing with the sweet fragrance of your shampoo and the lingering scent of sweat and sex.

He could get drunk on it. On you.

“I love you,” he murmured.

“Love you too,” you replied.

But even as you curled up against him, your voice was small, too quiet. He thought you might just be sleepy and tired, but when he tried to look down at you, you buried your face in his chest.

Rhys frowned. You'd never hidden from him before.

“Are you okay, darling?”

You mumbled a yes.

His eyes dimmed with concern. “Did I hurt you?”

You glanced up at him, shook your head, then quickly hid your face again.

“No,” you murmured. Your breath was warm against his flushed skin. “You didn't hurt me. I'm fine.”

“Then why are you hiding?”

When you didn't answer, he let his power uncoil. He reached out with a mental hand, gently caressing your shields in a silent request. But the gates of your mind remained closed.

Concern quickly turned to worry.

“Darling,” he called softly, fingertips trailing up and down your spine. You shivered slightly. “Can you tell me what's wrong?”

After a too-long silence, you pulled back. But your eyes still didn't meet his, and you stared at his nose instead.

“It's just…” you began, cheeks flushed. “It's embarrassing…”

Rhys searched his mind, going through everything he'd said and done, trying to understand what had made you feel uncomfortable.

“I don't think I've ever… come like that before.”

The last few words were a barely audible whisper.

For a moment, he was too stunned to speak.

And then he laughed.

Your gaze snapped to him.

“It's not funny,” you complained.

“It is,” he countered. “It's funny that you think it's embarrassing.”

“But it is! I made a mess…”

Your eyes flicked to the wet spot on the white sheets, the fabric nearly transparent now.

Rhys was still smirking as he looked too.

“That you did,” he agreed. “You came so hard for me.” He moved closer to whisper in your ear. “Good girl.”

“Rhys!”

You smacked him on the shoulder, but his smile only widened.

“I'm being serious.”

Oh, your pout was adorable.

“I know you are,” he teased. “You did make a mess. On the bed, on me… but that's a good thing.”

The feeling of you coming undone lingered—the way you'd clenched around him, the way you'd squirmed and moaned as he thrust into you again and again, your release gushing out and dripping onto the bed and down his thighs.

He could still feel it. Slick and warm, it coated his skin like a declaration that he belonged to you.

His hands cupped your cheeks, framing that beautiful scrunched-up face and gently forcing you to look at him.

Yet you still averted your gaze.

“Sweetheart, look at me. Please.”

Sighing, you finally met his violet eyes.

“It's a good thing,” he repeated, his voice softer now, void of the teasing note from a moment ago. “I mean it. Your pleasure is a good thing.”

You looked uncertain, a small crease forming on your brow. “But what about the sheets?”

Rhys chuckled low. “Since that seems your main concern…”

He waved a hand, and the wet spot disappeared. The fabric still wasn't clean, but at least it was dry now.

“There,” he said. “We can change them tomorrow. Is this better?”

Hesitantly, you reached out to touch the sheets. Seemingly satisfied with their apparent cleanness, you looked at Rhys with a sheepish smile.

“Did I overreact?”

“A little,” he quipped. His hands caressed down your body, settling on your waist as he drew you closer again. “But I understand. They're very nice sheets, after all.”

You snorted, hitting him again, this time on the arm. “Stop making fun of me.”

“Alright, alright. I promise.”

Settling in his embrace, you rested your head on his chest and draped an arm over him. Rhys kissed your forehead, gentle fingers resuming their lazy pattern along your back.

A comfortable silence settled over you while you basked in the afterglow. But just as you began to drift off, Rhys spoke again.

“You know I'll try to make you come again like that again next time, right?”

You sighed, but he could hear the smile in your voice as you answered.

“Yeah, I know.”

Taglist: @navyblue-eternity @paintedbyshadows @highladyandromeda @starswholistenanddreamsanswered @azrielsmate3 @mollygetssherlockcoffee @mirandasidefics @tinystarfishgalaxy @anarchiii @readinggeeklmao @anneas11 @lilah-asteria @lorosette @azrielsrealmate @pey2618 @k8r123-blog @daughterofthemoons-stuff @minnieoo @saltedcoffeescotch @georgiadixon @quiet-because-it-is-a-secret @ivy-34 @yesiamthatwierd @lreadsstuff @littlest-w01f

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Can we get jon and ghost as personal heaters now?

Absolutely!! 🤭🤭

❥ Jon, whilst he doesn't run as hot as Robb, especially after his death, still runs pretty hot. It's a comforting warmth, a warmth that easily melts away the cold of the North that tries to bite at you.

❥ Whilst he's not big on PDA, he will pull you into his side or take your hand in his own if he notices your so much as shiver. Would also probably put his own gloves onto your hands (thinks it's cute how big they are on you)

❥ Like Robb, I think Jon would definitely let you sit on his lap whilst he works. He'll keep a hand on your waist or hip whilst he writes letters with his other. Also occasionally pressed a kiss to the crown of your head or your temple

❥ Jon would 100% let you warm your freezing feet under his thighs. Wouldn't even flinch as you do it either

❥ when he's not there to keep you warm? Ghost is. That direwolf has warm skin and soft fur for days. It's like having a heated blanket or pillow. Jon often comes back to find you already snuggled up with Ghost by the hearth or on the bed.

❥ Ghost also follows you whenever you go on little walks by yourself incase you sit down somewhere like by the Westwood tree in the Godswood. He just wants to keep you warm 🥹

❥ Jon wraps himself around you at night. Though, you'll both fall asleep with him on his back with you tucked into his side, your head resting on his chest. And then during some point in the night, Jon will have wrapped himself around you

❥ Lwk hates getting up in the mornings because he knows you'll be cold. Makes Ghost stay with you in the mornings to keep you warm

Gods, I love him 😩

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𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐏𝐀𝐋𝐌 𝐎𝐅 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐅𝐑𝐄𝐄𝐙𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐃.

KINKTOBER WEEK ONE — RISK OF GETTING CAUGHT.

⤿ pairings: (S1) jon snow x fem!reader

⤿ word count: 3.4K.

⤿ warnings: smut (mdni), public sex, risk of getting caught, experienced reader, sub!jon, reader is definitely more dominant, heavy kissing, teasing, mild praise kink, cunnilingus, oral sex (fem!rec), p in v sex, unprotected sex, riding, descriptions of cum, soft ending

⤿ note: lowkey I churned this out pretty quick, this was so so fun to write! honestly this is also dedicated to @dipperscavern , a lot of their jon snow content fuels my inspo for him, so thank you!

“You’ve got to be mad.”

Jon Snow’s bewildered, sour Northern timbre rattled throughout the stables, twisted with palpable uncertainty as you led him back toward bales of hay. His stomach was coiled into knots — knots of excitement, but nerves seemed to prevail.

Ever the honorable one, he often cautioned you against these hasty, secret meetings you orchestrated. A sliver of him thoroughly enjoyed the exhilaration of it all, the thrill of being with you between corridors and in darkness.

Trysts like these were exceedingly dangerous — if any question came into being regarding your virtue or his honor, Eddard would have his head for it, and you would be scorned.

“Yet you willingly partake,” A quip as sharp as a longsword dug into his side, prompting him to huff in response. “If this is madness to you, Jon, you have not yet lived a life.”

“Here, of all places?” Jon countered, tone bordering along exasperation and subtle excitement. The stables weren’t exactly the most conventional place to couple, but your options were thin. He feared someone stumbling upon the both of you.

Glancing over your shoulder, you peered at your brooding paramour through a half-lidded gaze, head canting to one side. “Here, of all places.” You parroted, tone dripping with amusement.

Gods, you were such a temptress.

It was difficult to resist you, the prettiest girl he’d ever seen, the hem of your dress shamelessly steeped in several inches of mud. Even the Northern chill could not ice his bones in your presence, as warm as the sands of Dorne.

The both of you were caught within the throes of youthful affection and what he called it, love. It pained him all the more to consider the Night’s Watch when he had you at his side.

“You do not have to follow me, Jon,” You countered, one hand twined with his, steering the doe-eyed boy back into the stables, enough for partial concealment. This was as reckless as it seemed — but you cared little for it. “You can always turn around.”

A pleading groan rippled from his throat, yet Jon relented, chasing after you like a wolf nipping at your heels. “What happens if we’re discovered? Your brother would take my head for this.” He murmured.

The thought of Jory Cassel dismantling his head from his shoulders was a gruesome thought — but not before Eddard Stark got to him first. Jon shuddered, dark brows creased with permanent frustration.

“Gods, you worry like an old crone,” Your bubbling laughter made his chest stir with warmth, the sensation spreading toward his stomach. “Why, you don’t trust me?” You suggested.

With furrowed brows, Jon’s countenance told a different story, one of incessant fear and boyish nerves, ones that only flourished in your presence. He seemed to accept defeat. “I do trust you.” He insisted.

Inching closer, you pressed a palm against his chest, nail picking at the finely-crafted leather. “We don’t have long,” You murmured, tone betraying your playful facade. “I wish it weren’t always like this.”

Jon exhaled, a somewhat trembling noise that finally evened out as moments ticked by. He reached to cup your jaw, calloused thumb soothingly stroking at your cheek. “Someday, it won’t be. I promise.”

The constant sneaking around had become exhausting — Jon was shocked that no one had discovered you yet. Even then, as much as he fought against brash decisions like these, it was all you had, and he would seize the moment.

With a cheshire smile, you rocked up upon your toes to kiss Jon, reveling in the sensation of his weeks-old stubble scratching your skin. You enjoyed his rugged appearance more than that of a freshly-shaved boy.

Sometimes you forgot that he was nine-and-ten, more a man now than boy — but that was who you’d fallen in-love with, the boy. Jon Snow, the bastard of Winterfell.

He could’ve been anything and nothing, and your feelings wouldn’t have changed. A bastard or not, Jon meant more to you than most. He was kinder, not spoiled or surly, yet still protective when it mattered most.

Jon very nearly buckled beneath the saccharine warmth of your mouth, absorbing every scrap of heat from you. Gods, you were the first woman he’d ever touched, ever laid with — he hoped that you would be the very last.

Your experience before he truly became your lover never soured him to you — in fact, it made him jealous. If Jon had it his way, he would’ve been your first for everything, but there was no use in dwelling in the past.

Fortune favored him, knowing that he had you now. His hands, initially hesitant, finally made their perch against the swell of your hips. The lovely outline of your body molded itself to his palms as you kissed him, digits toying with his dark curls.

“You could change your mind,” Your softened voice drifted between the both of you. “About me.” It was a gentle sigh in between kisses, your countenance becoming a touch melancholy.

A look of complete and utter shock made residence upon Jon’s features, lips agape at such a statement. “I wouldn’t,” He insisted, hooking an arm around your hips. “You know that I wouldn’t.”

Jon knew your being like the scrawlings of a map — every fine line, every landscape, the valleys and dips of your heart. You knew him just as much, and you knew that he was certain about you. It gave you comfort, placating reassurance in the face of insecurities.

It brought you solace to know that Jon intended on being with you, even if your union was somewhat unconventional. It was a love whispered between corridors — stolen glances, a yearning that transcended duty, touching behind hay bales.

“Good,” Your assertion made his belly erupt with fire, stoked by your constant teasing and prodding. Jon savored it nonetheless, even if it did make his features burn with scarlet. “Are you blushing?”

Seven Hells — Jon nearly tossed you into the hay for your inquiry. He huffed, playfully pinching the pliant part of your haunch. “No,” He grumbled, silently commiserating over your observant nature. “But you don’t make it any better.”

With a laugh as bright as the first inkling of springtime, it prompted Jon to smile too, even if it was threadbare. A comfortable silence drifted between you both, simmering with a thinly-veiled tension, wreathed in desire.

Desire was a perilous thing, especially for Jon.

He was still somewhat clumsy during your lovemaking, inexperience glimmering through, but he was an adept learner. Jon thoroughly enjoyed learning your body as one would learn to wield a broadsword.

The ardor that glistened within your hues made his heart pound like a hammer against an anvil, steel to be molded by your capable hands. He was often the more subservient one in your union, not that he minded it.

Jon seemed content to become lost within your gaze, reduced to a mere pup. Swallowing the growing lump within his throat, he bent to kiss you, disarmingly gentle as he squeezed at your hips.

A beat fluttered between the both of you; love blossomed, yet lust flourished like a swiftly-spreading fire. Soft fingers found their purchase against the nape of his neck, preening through his dark curls.

Beams of a dying sun pooled in from the gaps in the wood, painting your features with burnished gold. It was nearly dusk, and the castle would be settling — Jon’s incessant worrying began to diminish altogether.

Lips tangled together, a sweet dance that stole every wisp of air from his lungs. Jon felt your palms glide downward, planting themselves against his chest as you wordlessly directed him to the firm bales of straw.

“Wait,” Jon rasped, voice hoarse with desperation. Before you could slip into his lap, you ceased, head cocking to one side. “I want to taste you first.” He wanted it more than anything else.

A coy smile caused your lips to quirk, and you sauntered backwards a step or two, back hitting the wall of the stables. Brazenly, you gathered the material of your dress in one hand, slipping it up along your legs.

Jon did not waste a second, moving off of the straw and onto his knees, crawling to you like a starving animal; a wolf on all fours. Those dark hues of his sparkled with affection, even as he parted your legs with his shoulders.

His tongue raked hot embers across your cunt, greedy laps causing you to shiver in delight. Nimble digits found their way to his crown of curls, coaxing him closer. “Jon.” You sighed his name as if it were a prayer.

It was ambrosial, your taste; a finest stout, the sweetest of nectars that stained his lips with your perfection. Jon sloppily lapped at your cunt, dutiful and attentive, ensuring to find every spot that made you gasp for air.

Nimble digits fisted into your tattered skirts, mouth agape as a myriad of throaty moans escaped you. Your hand roamed through his tresses, tugging and pulling whenever his tongue graced the pearl of your cunt.

Jon wasn’t tactful nor graceful, but passion and enthusiasm was all he really needed to please you. Each kiss he placed against your cunt drove you to madness, arching into the eager ministrations of his mouth.

If he were to perish, let it be between your thighs, exactly like this. An aching sensation throbbed along his length, straining against his leather trousers. He gripped your thigh, letting you rest one leg atop his shoulder.

The scratch of his stubble caused friction between his cheek and your thighs, yet it was a pleasant sting. You sang Jon’s praises, a myriad of hushed whines and wanton moans between the distant whistling of the Northern gales.

Warmth blossomed throughout your body, a familiar coil of heat unfurling within the pit of your stomach. A stab of pleasure struck at your nethers when Jon’s tongue briefly rolled over your clit, prompting you to tug on his curls.

A low groan rippled through his throat, reverberating as a grunt throughout his chest. He savored your taste, each twitch of your thigh, brusque tug of his tresses from your greedy hand.

Jon cared little for the mess, content to drink you in, rougher palm caressing against your thigh before trailing down to your calf. He squeezed again, to ensure that you were real and not some lascivious fantasy he’d dreamt of.

You were everything — flesh and blood, the lament that echoed his name, a lover so beautiful that he dared not look away. Jon did not consider himself a romantic, but he found himself putting in the effort with you.

He devoured you like a man starved, a hungry wolf, seeking its final meal. Jon continued to trace your cunt with his tongue, kissing you wherever he could. Your little tugs of his tresses often coaxed him further into your heat.

As his lips rolled over the pearl of your cunt again, your knees buckled, ecstasy mounting, electrifying your very veins. He did not cease, tongue stoking the fire, delighted to lap at your core until you forced him to stop.

Tugging at his tousled curls, you pried Jon away from you, flushed with a delicious shade of scarlet. Warmth permeated your skin, a heat that sank into your bones, kept you oblivious to the growing cold that came with dusk.

His chin glistened with your slick, pliant lips seeking your mouth. “You are so handsome.” You purred, watching Jon preen beneath the softness of your compliment. You thought him to be perfect in every way imaginable.

Rising to his feet, Jon did not resist when you began to push him back toward the bale of straw, palm planted against his chest as he sat. He was more than willing, peering up at you through thick lashes.

“You’re beautiful,” Jon reciprocated your kindly words, timbre steeped in an awestruck appreciation for you. His breath hitched within his throat when you slid into his lap, hitching your skirts up towards your hips. “Seven Hells.” He groaned.

Excitable hands grasped your hips once more, brazenly sinking towards your derrière as you kissed him. Jon’s sigh was audible as he returned such a heated kiss, brows creased in concentration.

There was a lack of uncertainty in his actions, and in the beginning, he was often unsteady and hesitant. Now, Jon touched you greedily, wanting more of you, savoring the sensation of your body pressed so closely to his.

Able to taste your own nectar upon his tongue, you allowed one hand to clasp at the nape of his neck, the other slyly working to slip beneath his tunic. Jon was growing in muscle, flesh as pale as a moonlit snowfall, broad-shouldered and comely.

Your dress would be riddled with pieces of hay in the aftermath, but it was all worth it. Your kisses were rather domineering, but disarmingly gentle. Perhaps your desire to take initiative always lingered in your entanglements, but your love for him never faded.

Jon let his kiss linger, lips pressing to your jaw, and then to your throat. A shiver iced your spine with anticipation, hand traveling from beneath his tunic toward the laces of his trousers.

It was then that you scanned his features for any hints of hesitation or uncertainty. “Do you want this, even still?” You uttered, lips tugging into a reassuring smile. He did not seem as nervous as before.

With a nod, he reached to cup your jaw, pressing a chaste kiss to your brow. “More than anything.” The rasp within his tender tone filled your stomach with an eruption of butterflies, gooseflesh tingling along your skin.

There was certainly no rush, but with daylight burning and Jon expected to be in his quarters soon, you began to act with haste.

Eager fingers unraveled the coase ties of his breeches, with Jon attempting to aid you wherever he could. With bated breath, you looked to him, brimming with a thinly-veiled adoration.

His hands held your hips, allowing you to maneuver yourself as you saw fit, freeing his cock from its confines. You hovered, soft palm guiding his length to your slick cunt. Jon inhaled — a sharp, poignant noise that signaled relief.

“Jon,” You moaned, grasping for his broad shoulders, still shrouded in leather. Gods, you wished you could see him bare, unobstructed — he was surely a ravishing sight. “Gods, I missed you.”

Jon groaned at the sweetness of your words, spoken through a wanton moan. He held you close, hands tracing the outline of your curvaceous physique through your gowns.

Twilight painted the skies above Winterfell, bringing with it the bitter bite of nightly chill and a canvas of stars above. Darkness settled in throughout the stables, save for the burning of dying braziers within the stables.

Even through such slim illumination, Jon could make out your countenance, a picture of beauty, contorted into a look of bliss. He was at your mercy, slumped back against some of the bales, letting you ride him as you would a broken gelding.

Intermingled noises of breathy moans and strenuous pants reverberated in the space around you, heat prevailing where the cold could not.

Jon shuddered at the feeling of your cunt, tight and warm around him, clenching around his cock with each roll of your hips. You took him perfectly, as if you were made for him, molded together.

It was a sluggish start, agonizingly so, bodies finding moments to adjust to one another, grow accustomed. You drew yourself up, his cock filling you in such a pleasant way, nothing discomforting about it.

The way in which you milked him, moved agonizingly slow, allowing him to feel your cunt tighten around him — it was nearly overwhelming.

The very image of grace, tarnished with lust; a maiden worth worshiping. Jon huffed, chest erupting with a string of pants and soft groans, lips agape as you adopted a steady rhythm.

His hands caressed circles into your hips, dark hues wide and mesmerized, doelike in their silent appraisal of you. Through the moonlit dusk of the stables, you met his gaze, blushing beneath the intensity of it.

A whimper of bliss bubbled from your lips as you became invigorated in your pace, rocking yourself up and down along his cock, aided by his grasp upon your hips.

The lewd, crass union of flesh against flesh joined the ambiance, yet all he could focus on was you, the lovestruck look within your eyes, exuberance glittering beneath. He kneaded along your thighs, squeezing when the pleasure mounted.

“Perfect,” A soft sputtering between exhilarated breaths, enough to ensnare Jon’s attention. “Gods, Jon, you’re perfect.” Such wanton praise nearly made him spill his seed into you then and there.

His hips stuttered, bucking off of the bale and right into you, cock reaching new depths. It made you moan, significantly noisier this time, enough for Jon to become mildly concerned about someone investigating.

A familiar coil of heat began to unfurl within the pit of your stomach, just as it did his own. Jon sat up enough to seize your lips in a kiss, one that blossomed with passion, letting his affections bleed through.

Your pace was tantalizing, nothing too swift to let it feel sloppy and rushed, yet fervent enough to make his head swim with the haze of desire. Jon’s mouth did not part from yours until you drew away, only to release another moan.

Jon fought against his release, not wanting it to end so quickly, stomach tight as could be. He let out a string of sighs, vocalizing your comeliness, digits squeezing into your hip once more.

“Don’t stop.” He huffed, and if he could plead with you, he would’ve. Your current rhythm was perfect, made to torment him as you sank yourself down upon his cock again.

Your cunt clenched pathetically, snug around his length as you continued to ride him, his cock bottoming out within you. It was a perfect storm of sensations, ones that made you delirious with desire, crying out to the heavens.

It was your release that came first, and it was swift — the intensity of it nearly blinded you, white-hot and sticky as you began to still. The tightness of your cunt sent Jon cascading over the edge.

Jon’s swift thinking caused you to move off of him, with seconds to spare as he spilled himself across your thighs, ropes of seed painting your flesh. Embarrassment rippled through him, but you understood why he didn’t come undone inside of you.

Chests rose and fell with labored sighs, basking in the aftermath of your tryst. Pieces of straw had stuck themselves to your dress, to his clothing, to his dusky curls.

It was difficult not to let your seriousness diminish in the wake of your orgasm, body tingling with such bliss. You couldn’t help but giggle at the ridiculousness of this — the stables, the disheveled hay, your recklessness.

He found himself smiling with you, dutifully assisting in cleaning his seed off of your thighs with the handkerchief tucked away within his tunic. Your shared joy brought him comfort.

“What will Lord Stark think of your unkempt state?” You teased, plucking golden twigs of hay from his hair, nose wrinkled with mild amusement. “Romping around in the hay?”

Jon huffed, eyes crinkling with mirth as he pulled you in for a kiss, allowing it to linger, knowing that he would be parted from you soon enough. “If I’m lucky, Lord Stark won’t see me.” He mused.

You would pray to the Old Gods that Jon was not accosted by his stern-faced father. “If you’re unlucky?” It was not something that Jon wanted to consider, but he did for the sake of your playful inquiry.

“We’ll have to find a different location.”

[eyepatch69]

𝐒𝐇𝐀𝐊𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐅𝐑𝐎𝐒𝐓 𝐎𝐅𝐅 𝐎𝐅 𝐌𝐘 𝐁𝐎𝐍𝐄𝐒.

⠀ཾ༵ 𑁍┆ jon snow x female northern reader.

SYNOPSIS: you reunite with your beloved childhood friend, jon snow, at the edge of the world. the both of you have changed, but your feelings certainly haven’t.

note: season six jon, follows s6 ep4.

format: one-shot — not requested.

word count: 10.5K (not sorry).

warnings: SMUT (mdni), ramsay bolton warning, friends to lovers, confession of feelings, reunion sex, description of scars, jon is definitely more of a switch, horny reader (valid), lots of groping, making out, oral sex (fem!rec), cunnilingus, jon loves to munch, body worship, hair-pulling kink, unprotected sex, p in v sex, lotus position & missionary position, reader is on top and on bottom, light biting & tit sucking, soft ending + aftercare

author’s note: I don’t know where this came from, but I’m glad because I had so much fun with his one! I’m a Jon girlie until the very end <3 I would honestly love to write more of him if you guys enjoy this! thank you so much for the love and support!

𝐀𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐡𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐢𝐥𝐲.

Direwolf sigils were replaced with that of flayed men, befitting for the screams that often emerged from the bowels of the Keep or the kennels, where enemies were fed to Ramsay Bolton’s pack of slavering hounds. Old faces that you had grown up with as a girl were gone — removed or slaughtered.

Your father, once loyal to House Stark and to Eddard himself, was strung-up and butchered for all to see, flayed alive by the Bolton men who now controlled Winterfell. You grew numb to the pain, numb to the shifting environment around you. It wasn’t the home that you had grown up in.

When you had caught sight of Sansa Stark in the courtyard, auburn tresses like searing embers against the backdrop of endless gray and snow, tears on her face, you knew that you needed to act.

You hadn’t known Sansa very well, but you did know her brother, Jon Snow. A beloved friend in your youth and teenage years, you had watched him go to the Night’s Watch. Any letters you’d written were likely thrown to the wayside, given the oaths that Men of the Watch swore, but you had longed to see him again.

Sansa recognized your face, no longer that of a young maiden with her head in the clouds. The both of you were women grown, trapped within Winterfell, and you wholly intended on escaping.

Fleeing Winterfell was perilous — dangerous, especially with the winter so biting and icy that it threatened to freeze away your extremities. Aided by Theon Greyjoy, once a captive of Ramsay, the three of you escaped into the harshness of the Northern woodlands.

Much of your time spent was in constant peril, with the looming threat of Bolton hounds nipping at your heels, search parties sent sprawling across the Wolfswood and beyond. Every rustle in the trees, every snap of a twig, distant scream of the wind made your steps quicken.

It was only when your lives were spared by Brienne of Tarth and her squire that you knew you were truly safe.

Castle Black had stood the testament of time, the last line of defense against whatever monsters lurked outside of The Wall. When its massive gates had opened, making way for your caravan, you felt shrewd in the presence of strangers. You hadn’t left Winterfell for much of your life, and only now, the world seemed so much larger.

When you saw Jon Snow again, more a man now than a boy you’d left behind in Winterfell, your heart nearly shriveled up within your chest. Youthfulness had left him, replaced with a permanent twinge of melancholy. A scar circled around his right eye, seemingly newer, and his mound of curled tresses remained tugged into a half-bun.

You stood in Brienne’s shadow, shuddering from the gnawing bite of the cold, feeling it slowly eat away at your bones. Sansa sobbed into her brother’s shoulder — and you couldn’t fault her for it. The viciousness she suffered at the hands of the Boltons was some of the worst cruelties one could imagine.

It was only when you caught Jon’s eye that he felt his breath hitch within his throat, and he felt like a young man again — freshly eight-and-ten, watching as he introduced you to Ghost for the first time. The sound of your curious laughter had filled the courtyard of Winterfell, and he remembered it as if it were yesterday.

You were from a distant dream, somewhere close yet far away, slipping in and out of his thoughts.

The last thing that you wanted was to detract from Sansa’s reunion with her brother, and so you kept quiet, bringing yourself into the shoddy shelter of your cloak. Your visage was icy, stung by the bitter wind of the far North, and your hands ached.

“You are safe here,” Jon murmured, brown hues glistening with appreciation as he looked upon Brienne of Tarth. “I owe you my gratitude for saving my sister. Whatever you need from Castle Black, you’ll have it.” He nodded, finding his gaze drifting towards you, begging for you to look his way.

Perhaps you didn’t recognize him, but that seemed far-fetched. Edd beckoned for Sansa to follow him at Jon’s command, hoping to find warmth in the guest chambers in the Lord Commander’s suite. The burden and duty no longer belonged to him.

Brienne bowed, hand atop the pommel of Oathkeeper, the Valyrian steel sheathed within its scabbard. “I swore an oath to Catelyn Stark that I would keep her daughters safe — and I shall keep it.” She replied, cerulean hues flickering towards you. “Lady Sansa’s escape wouldn’t have been possible without her.”

Jon gazed at you as if you had brought down the sun and stars themselves, moved mountains with will alone. Gods, he missed you terribly. His departure for the Night’s Watch had left a gaping hole in your heart, never to be filled, but seeing him again only seemed to make it ache with something painful.

Wordlessly, your feet carried you before logic could stop you in your tracks, and you flung yourself into Jon’s embrace, feeling his arms wrap around you. Brienne’s countenance glistened with the realization that you knew Jon, and she seemed to steer Podrick away, allowing the both of you some privacy.

“You’re alive,” You whispered into his shoulder, feeling hot tears trickle down your cheeks. Part of you worried that he might’ve perished, but here he stood, Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, a man. “It has been so long, Jon Snow.”

He hadn’t been alive days ago — death had claimed him once before.

The scars that littered his body seemed to ache and throb with the mere thought of his own demise, and the anguish of betrayal that came with it. His dark brows furrowed together, visage one of gentle joy as he released you from his grasp. “You look older.” Older in the eyes — not in the face.

You were still just as beautiful, the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen — your appearance hadn’t changed, and he hoped that your heart hadn’t, either. Your friendship kept him afloat for many years during his time in Winterfell, living as a Stark. You never cast your judgment upon him for being a bastard — and you never would.

“So do you,” Concern crept into your voice as you looked over his rugged beard and the scar upon his brow. “What happened to you, Jon?” There was so much he wished to tell you — from the Wildlings to the White Walkers, and his death. You could see it in his face — the maturity, the weight of duty, an abundance of stoicism.

“It’s a long story.” Jon huffed, Northern timbre crackled with a bout of faint amusement, lips twitching into the ghost of a smile. He gestured for you to follow him, striding across the courtyard of Castle Black in-search of his own quarters. He no longer held the Lord Commander’s chambers, and for good reason.

The men of Castle Black weren’t accustomed to seeing a woman — it evoked his streak of protectiveness when it came to you. He ensured that he kept close to your side during the lengthy trek to his chambers. Brienne was sworn to Sansa, and Jon knew that she would be well looked-after in the Lady’s stead.

Ascending a flight of rickety wooden steps, Jon led you to his quarters. Smaller, but he preferred his solitude. His brothers had stabbed him, tore away his mantle of Lord-Commander, killed him — as soon as he could, he intended on leaving.

Pushing the door open, you were met with the gust of a raging hearth, warming your brittle bones as you rubbed your hands together, “Gods,” You whispered, immediately moving toward the crackling fire, extending your hands to the flames, eyes closing in satisfaction. “I nearly thought we wouldn’t make it.”

Jon’s brows furrowed together, and he pulled up a wooden stool for you to sit, and so did he, firmly planted at your side like a dutiful guardian. “You’re safe here. I’ll have a bath drawn for you.” Dirt stained your visage, clothes tattered and worn from travel, hem shredded and covered in snow and mud.

Something forlorn reached his eyes, a distant glimmer of melancholy that you immediately recognized. He was still Jon, but something else seemed amiss. You lowered your hands into your lap, basking in the lick of the firelight. “All my life, I longed to see beyond Winterfell. Here I am — and here you are.” Your smile was threadbare.

The both of you had endured unimaginable hardships during your time apart, yet the warmth and fondness of your friendship remained, strong as ever. If Jon told you what all had happened, what he saw, what he went through — he wondered how much of it you would believe.

“Do you remember the night of the feast, when King Robert came to Winterfell?” Jon remembered — he remembered you, most of all. Gods, you looked so beautiful that night, bringing him a heaping plate of foodstuffs from the banquet, keeping him company throughout the night’s festivities.

“Of course,” It was one of the last days you had spent with Jon before he departed for the Night’s Watch. You had a plethora of regrets, and not kissing him that evening was one of them. The opportunity had dangled itself before you, and you never acted on it. “They sheared your face clean. A disservice to you, truly.”

A brief huff of laughter escaped him, lips twitching into a faint smile. “That’s what you chose to remember?” He remarked, planting his forearms against his knees. Admittedly, he chose to remember you — the way your dress clung to you, the vibrancy of your smile, tenderness in your eyes.

Your nose wrinkled in amusement before you waved him aside, a smile stretched across your features — happier this time, full of warmth. “I remember more than just that, but yes. You weren’t so dour, then.”

Jon chuckled, effectively shattering his stoic mask as he looked at you, head canting to one side. “I still was, always sulking about in some corner,” He mused, peering toward the hearth. “The things I’ve seen — the things I’ve been through …” His jaw tightened, and the wound to his heart seemed to ache.

Empathy tugged at your countenance, one that dissipated from something lighthearted to seriousness. You reached out, resting a palm against his bicep. “What happened to you, Jon? You don’t seem the same.” You asked, glancing toward the scar on his face.

He didn’t have the heart to tell you about his death and resurrection — not yet, anyway. It was still too fresh a wound to speak of, left gaping and open, one that would take time to fully heal. “I went beyond The Wall.” Jon stated, as if that would answer all of your questions.

Silence drifted between you both, and you exhaled, brows creasing in contemplation as you looked toward the fire. You let your hands drift closer again, hoping to absorb any lick of heat that you could find. Jon stared at you, unbeknownst to you, studying the intricacies of your visage, the way your tresses framed your face.

Abandoning the rank of Lord-Commander had been a liberating thing. He was done fighting for men who had countered him at every turn, men who slaughtered him. He was unsure of his next course of action, but he wanted you there with him, regardless.

Hunger and famine gnawed at your stomach, chewing you up and spitting you out. Even Jon could hear the violent lurch of your stomach, see the exhaustion etched into your features. He didn’t want to keep you, but he didn’t want to leave you, either.

“You should clean up, join us for supper,” Jon prompted, melting away the tenuous silence. “I’ll see about finding you something proper to wear.” He wanted to continue to reminisce with you, but you deserved a moment of solace, a chance to bathe and warm yourself without his intrusion.

You nodded, offering Jon an amiable smile. “I want us to continue our conversation,” You insisted, your voice soft and tender, a silky resonance. Instead, you reached for his hand, finding the calloused, roughened plane of his palm. “I’ve missed you, Jon.” If he hadn’t realized it by now, then he might’ve been blind.

Jon’s breath hitched within his throat, reduced to a mere boy in your presence. Whatever he thought of at that moment, it was inappropriate — it transcended all bonds of propriety and proper friendship, yet he couldn’t help it. How long had he thought of you? Yearned for you, dreamed of you whenever he was laying on the cold earth somewhere beyond the Wall?

If it weren’t for his uncertainty, he would’ve kissed you then and there.

He never stopped to consider what your life was like now — perhaps you had a husband and a family, a life that had moved on from him, no longer frozen in the time of your youth. Jon always feared that being a bastard would’ve stopped you from courtship, but he knew now that you didn’t care. You never did.

Years of letting yourself toil over Jon Snow had amounted to this — to this unspoken affection that permeated the fringes of your friendship. In his absence, you hadn’t taken a husband, you hadn’t wed. Part of you thought you would become a spinster and live out your days caring for your ailing father.

Tension simmered, sparking to life in the wake of your intertwined hands. “I missed you, too.” His accent seemed deliciously thick, noticeably huskier with the rougher pitch of his tone. Those earthly-brown hues of his bored right into you.

Your stare became doe-like, able to feel his calloused digits, how strong his hands had become, careworn from holding a sword. Swallowing the growing lump within your throat, you let your hand recoil, placing it back into your lap. Your fingers curled tightly into your dress.

With a brief clearing of his throat, Jon decided to give you privacy. “I must speak with Sansa,” He murmured, standing up from his stool with an abruptness. His heart thumped madly within his chest, throat becoming thick as he gathered his bearings. “Come to supper when you’re finished.”

“Of course. Thank you, Jon.” You smiled, and he stepped out to give you your solace. His quarters were noticeably smaller yet homely, and you immediately decided to go to the washroom to clean yourself. Endless dirt and grime stained your flesh, making you feel worse than you already did.

As soon as you disrobed, sinking into the steaming-hot waters of the metal tub, you submerged your head beneath, coming up for a gasp of air. You glanced toward the hearth, scrubbing yourself down with a bristle brush and sponge, using the scarce amount of herbs and soap given to you.

You thought of Jon — thought of his hand, the firmness of it, the rough-hewn texture of his skin, the hardened muscle of his bicep beneath your grasp. You thought of the dismal, tempestuous storm of emotions raging war within his gaze when he spoke of being beyond The Wall.

It gave you much to dwell on as you scrubbed away the dirt from your skin, smoothing handfuls of hot water across your face. A simple Northerner’s dress and a furred cloak lay on the chair beside you, something suitable to wear that weren’t your tattered rags.

Sloshing around within the steaming water for a moment longer, you finished cleaning up, feeling the continuous gnaw of hunger strike at your stomach. The air was brusque and still bitter with a noticeable chill, the hearth continuing to roar in spite of being left with little attendance.

Tugging on the coarse, linen dress, you retrieved your boots, having thoroughly cleaned them off of hardened dirt. You let your hair dry by the fireside, swaddled in the cloak given to you by Jon. It swallowed you whole, yet it smelled like him — woodlands and scented smoke, the musk of a battle-hardened man.

By the time you joined the others for dinner, you felt cleaner than you had in some time, liberated from the weight of grime and hard travel. Exhaustion still clung to you like a shroud, but you assumed that a proper meal would make it easier to deal with.

Sansa greeted you with a thin smile, moving aside for you to sit next to her. There was never a fondness you shared between one another in your youth — you were always Jon’s friend, a girl who preferred mucking about in the outdoors and watching him fight with steel instead of any ladylike endeavors.

You had become quite proficient with an embroidery needle, and a dagger. They were one and the same for you at-times.

Jon’s silent admiration of you continued, hues fluttering over your form, now rid of soot and dirt. A warm plate of heaping food sat before you, helpings of potatoes, stewed vegetables, and roasted venison. You ate as if you hadn’t consumed a bite in years, the richness of it filling your belly.

“We are to take Winterfell back from the Boltons,” Sansa stated, her tone resolute and assured. “Do you think that there are still allies in Winterfell who might help our cause?” She inquired, her question directed towards you. You knew Winterfell — you’d been there this whole time.

“If Ramsay hasn’t flayed them all alive, then yes,” You murmured, thinking of your father’s corpse, strung-up on some wooden cross, muscle and flesh peeled away to reveal his bones. You shivered, masking your discomfort through a bite of vegetables. “There are still denizens inside who remember the Starks.”

Tormund Giantsbane, Jon’s ally and the leader of the Wildling forces, noisily bit into a haunch of meat, juices spraying across his ginger beard. Brienne’s discomfort and bewilderment was palpable as she turned away, blonde brows furrowing together.

“Could you find your way back in?” Tormund grunted, and you understood the insinuation of his proposal. If you were to rally those who still supported House Stark to Jon’s cause, staging a coup from the inside, it might assist his chances of taking the Keep.

“I suppose I could, but the Boltons rarely let anyone in or out, save for those bearing the Flayed Man sigil,” Jon seemed visibly apprehensive at Tormund’s suggestion, jaw tightening as he stuck his fork into a piece of meat. “It is dangerous now — one wrong move, and they string you up on the banisters, flay you for all to see.”

Tears glistened within your eyes at the harrowing memory of your father — you watched him be pinned to that post, screaming for mercy, men with knives cutting him apart as if he were a pig for slaughter. You hastily wiped them aside, chewing at the inside of your cheek.

Jon’s gaze never wavered from you whenever you spoke — Sansa could see it, Edd could see it.

“That is the fate that befell my father.” With a sharp exhale, you continued to eat, momentarily meeting Jon’s sullen-eyed stare, full of sympathy for your loss. His condolences were unspoken, but he didn’t have to say the words to convey meaning.

“We will find another way,” Jon murmured, brows knitting together. “You’ve risked enough to save Sansa’s life. I won’t let you risk it again. Out of the question.” There was a finality to his words, wrought with a glaring overprotective nature.

Sansa remembered the day they left your father out to bleed in the courtyard — Ramsay’s sickening smile remained emblazoned in the back of her mind. She reached to squeeze your hand, and you nodded, the both of you returning to the food.

She plucked at hers, turning a piece of meat over along her fork. Edd stifled a brief chuckle through a mouthful of hard rations. “Sorry about the food, m’ladies. It’s not what we’re known for.” He stated.

“That’s alright. There are more important things.” Sansa smiled, but you were in the throes of consuming everything that you could. Foodstuffs had become scarce in Winterfell, especially to those who weren’t Boltons — just residents. You had to scrounge and work for every scrap — this meal was the best you had in ages.

A brother of the Watch entered the Great Hall, carrying a scroll of parchment for Jon, one that was marked by the wax seal of Ramsay Bolton. “For you, Lord Commander.”

“I’m not the Lord Commander anymore.” Jon uttered, yet he took the scroll, anger seething within his eyes when he realized whose sigil held the parchment together. He unraveled it, jaw tightening as he began to read it aloud.

“To the traitorous bastard, Jon Snow, you allowed thousands of Wildlings past the Wall. You have betrayed your own kind and you have betrayed the North. Winterfell is mine, bastard — come and see. Your brother Rickon is in my dungeon …” Jon trailed off, breath quickening as he looked at Sansa.

Her countenance was one of shock and horror, tears welling within her eyes as she nodded for him to continue reading. The Hall was eerily silent, and you listened, brows furrowing together.

“His direwolf’s skin is on my floor — come and see. I want my bride back. Send her to me bastard, and I will not trouble you and your Wildling lovers. Keep her from me and I will ride North and slaughter every Wildling man, woman, and babe living under your protection. You will watch as I skin them living, you will …” He stopped.

“Go on.” Sansa murmured, but Jon refused, rolling up the parchment with a despondent, rageful expression. He felt it blossom throughout his chest, the very same anger that consumed him when he sentenced his brothers to die.

“It’s just more of the same.” Jon quipped, preparing to tear it asunder, but Sansa reached over to take it from his hands, unraveling the parchment.

“You will watch as my soldiers take turns raping your sister and your Northern bitch. You will watch as my dogs devour your wild little brother — then I will spoon your eyes from your sockets and let my dogs do the rest. Come and see. Ramsay Bolton, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North.” She read, a shudder within her voice.

You shivered, feeling a pang of disgust and fear rattle through you, goosebumps cascading along your spine. Ramsay knew of you — knew that you helped Sansa to escape, and knew of your affiliation with Jon Snow.

“Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North.” Jon grit out through clenched teeth, fists tightening around Ramsay’s missive. He would kill him for what he did — to Sansa, to you, to his brother. He swore it by whatever Gods were willing to listen.

“Roose Bolton is dead — Ramsay killed him. Now, he has our brother — he has Rickon.” Sansa’s voice trembled, but she remained stalwart, even if she knew what a monster Ramsay was. She used to think that Joffrey was the root of all evil — she was wrong.

“We don’t know that.” Jon protested, but Sansa stopped him.

“We do. He has five-thousand men, at least — I overheard him talking about it when he prepared for Stannis’s attack.” She replied, folding her arms together. You felt nothing but admiration for her — sorrow, perhaps, but you admired her strength in the midst of this.

“How many men do we have?” Jon looked to Tormund, desperate for answers, for a shred of something positive. They were lesser in numbers than the Boltons — they would need allies, and they would need them swiftly.

“Ones that can march and fight? Two-thousand.” Tormund replied. They had a Giant — that had to count for at least fifty men, if they were lucky.

“Jon,” You spoke up at long last, finding your voice as you sat soundly at Sansa’s side. “You are the last true son of the Warden of the North. Northern families are loyal, and they will fight for you if you ask it of them.” The gentle encouragement you offered gave him much to think about.

Sansa reached across the table, seizing Jon’s arm. “A monster has taken our home and our brother. We have to go back to Winterfell, to save them both.” She pleaded, auburn brows furrowing together. It was the right course of action — it had been years since a Stark had truly sat in Winterfell.

Jon nodded, determination tempering his anger, and the desire for justice. He remembered wanting to ride North to help Robb’s cause, and he didn’t. Sometimes he wondered what would’ve happened if he did — if his brother might’ve survived. There was no time for inaction, not anymore.

“We will reconvene at first light, to discuss our next move.” He briefly squeezed Sansa’s hand before glancing at you. “You need to rest — both of you.” It wasn’t a request — more of a command, really. You and Sansa had been running from Winterfell for days before Brienne happened across you.

You took your leave, hoping to pray about your father alone before dusk settled in.

𝐀𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐰 𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐞, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐬𝐢𝐟𝐢𝐞𝐝, 𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐢𝐭 𝐚 𝐛𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐬𝐡 𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬.

Brienne had taken Sansa back to her chambers for the evening, and you had gone to the ramparts after finishing your supper.

The death of your father was still an unsightly wound, something that had cut you right to the bone. He was your only family left — the last tether that you had, the last one to truly care for you. It left you with a gaping void of loneliness, one that had only felt healed in Jon’s presence.

Flickering torchlight danced along the wooden bridge that connected two sides of Castle Black, and despite the chill of the air, you remained outside. Rest eluded you, and you knew that you would be up all evening, tarrying around to try and occupy your mind.

Darkening skies twinkled with stars, partially obscured by large wisps of gray clouds, and with it, a light snowfall. The fur-lined cloak you wore kept you warm, shrouded from the gnawing chill as you listened to footsteps resonate from your left side.

The pale shadow of Ghost trotted alongside him, those crimson eyes glowering through the encroaching dusk. The last time you had seen Jon’s direwolf, he was the size of a small dog — now, he was massive, nearly coming up to your shoulder with the tips of his ears.

“What did you feed him?” You mused, kneeling down to greet Ghost as if he were an old friend. You recalled the day that Jon had brought the albino pup home, nothing more than a scraggly runt hidden in his cloak. Ghost nudged your hand, silently asking for a scratch along his ears.

Jon smiled, coming to stand near your side as he peered down into the silent courtyard of Castle Black. It was quiet, save for the occasional soldier scurrying across the dirt or the distant howl of the wind. “He’s much larger than I expected him to be,” He confessed. “Seems he remembers you.”

Ghost whined, ruby eyes studying you intensely, as if he recalled your last meeting. The pale direwolf allowed you to dote on him for a moment longer, padding off to lay outside of Jon’s chambers. You watched him go, a smile spreading across your face.

Your countenance softened at the sight of Jon, tousled curls still tugged into a loose half-bun, a smile toying at either corner of his mouth. “Aren’t you cold?” He questioned, noticing the way your form quivered beneath the cloak he’d given you.

“Quite,” A brief chuckle left you as you wring your hands together, letting them sink into the thick fur that you tugged tighter around you. “I don’t believe that I will be able to sleep tonight, given the circumstances.” You confessed, and he seemed empathetic.

“I don’t sleep much — not anymore.” The night that he had found himself resurrected from the black shroud of death, he did not sleep. Instead, he lay waiting for his brothers to burst through the door, knives drawn, waiting to send him to the cold, hard earth.

Jon slept with Longclaw at his side — he imagined that he’d never feel safe again without it by his hip.

A comfortable silence of understanding drifted between the both of you, and you felt him lean closer, brows furrowing together. “I am sorry about your father,” Jon murmured, knowing what it was like to lose his own. “I am sorry for what they did to him.”

Tears pricked your eyes again, yet you refused to let them fall, jaw tensing before you shook your head. “He is with the Gods now,” You whispered, mustering a threadbare smile despite the melancholy of your talks. “I hope that Ramsay Bolton is not shown any mercy.”

Jon hadn’t heard you speak like that before — so full of pain, an agony in your soft tone that he wished he could rip away from you, place the burden on his shoulders. “We will take back Winterfell — for my family, for yours, for the North. I promise.”

“You’re a good man, Jon.” The two of you remained huddled close together, and you very nearly reached for his hands again, but decided against it. “You always have been, despite what insults you’ve been hurled. They are half the man that you are.”

He was a good man, despite what he thought of himself — an honorable man, the very best of them. His shining qualities were often diminished in the face of being a bastard, and you wished it weren’t so. Jon had long been ostracized for it, even if it was no fault of his own.

Jon hadn’t believed it, that he was truly good. He had done plenty of wrong — broke his vows to the Night’s Watch, killed many men, killed a boy, and for what? What good had come out of it all, other than being sent to an early grave for his actions?

You had always believed in him steadfastly, and he often felt undeserving of your praise. Nonetheless, Jon offered you a forlorn look, smile not reaching his eyes as he bowed his head. “I wish I could believe you.” Through a softly-spoken confession, he turned to face the cutting bite of the Northern winds.

As darkness hovered, the cold beginning to bite at his flesh, Jon gestured toward the doors to his chambers. “It’s getting cold,” Even he had his limits, hardiness tested by the harshness of winter. “Come on.” His hand hovered near the small of your back, sending a shiver down your spine.

The warm sanctuary of his chambers offered you a much-needed relief, hearth roaring beside his bed, lined in countless furs. The furnishings were scarce, and he placed Longclaw at his bedside, never very far from his grasp. An orange glow permeated all it touched, encompassing you in its gentle heat.

Ghost stayed outside, furs able to outlast the encroaching winter. He was the watcher tonight, ensuring that no strangers or brothers disturbed his friend.

You moved to sit against the large, rustic footlocker that sat at the end of his bed, closest to the hearth. The cloak you wore swallowed you whole, allowing you to descend right into the pile of furs, warming your icy flesh. Jon sat beside you, keeping a comfortable distance, one that many might’ve labeled as prudish.

Jon’s lack of subtlety became brazenly clear, dark hues shamelessly fluttering across your face, absorbing the finer details of your form. You had grown into your beauty, and even then, he was at your mercy — you were incomparable in his eyes.

The sting of embarrassment rippled through him, his behavior akin to a young man with an unrequited affection. His one experience with a Wildling woman had been in an effort to feel something, anything — a retaliation against the Night’s Watch.

You were different — you were his friend, a girl he’d known since childhood, now grown into the prettiest woman he’d ever seen. It was as if you reduced him to a mere pup without even trying, unbeknownst to you.

Jon carried a flagon of honeyed mead, the warm liquid churning about within its leather confines. It tasted stale, but it was better than he expected it to be, taking a brief swig. He hoped that it would quell his nerves, but perhaps it was wishful thinking.

“I’ve never been so far away from home before,” You sighed, breaking the comfortable silence with an amiable smile. “I used to always dream of going elsewhere, an adventure away from Winterfell. Now that I’ve gone, I want nothing more than to go back.”

“Has it changed much?” Jon inquired, voice dropping into a husky lull that made you shiver. His tone had become rugged, gruff — that familiar Northern timbre always filled you with a sense of comfort and ease. He hadn’t been to Winterfell in years.

“No,” Your visage grew forlorn, tinged with a peculiar sadness as your lips wavered into a half-frown. “Just those who command it.” The homely stone and Stark banners were all you knew for the longest time — and you hoped that it would be so again.

You wanted to cease dwelling on all things bleak and dreary, and instead, you smiled at Jon, countenance melding into one of genuineness. He caught your eye, features growing unbearably hot beneath the ardor of your gaze. Something passed between the both of you, something that caused you to look away; smitten.

Jon exhaled, taking a swig of the mead before offering it up to you. Liquor wasn’t something he necessarily enjoyed, but it did take some little edge off — for now, anyway. He watched with a faint smile as you took it, giving the cork a brief sniff, nose wrinkling.

Nevertheless, you took a drink, stinging liquid burning your throat on the way down. You sputtered, your expression one of clear distaste as you handed it back to him. “Gods, what is that supposed to be? The Night’s Watch isn’t known for their ale, either.” You huffed.

A huff of laughter tore past his lips, and at last, you could see the glint of his pearlescent teeth, a smile that could melt The Wall itself. “Still can’t handle your drink after all this time?” Jon remarked, corking the flagon of mead as he placed it aside. He didn’t want to drink himself into a stupor with you present.

“There were never any occasions that called for it,” You retorted, a warm playfulness permeating your tone. You leaned forward atop the footlocker, gazing into the flickering flames, its heat basking your visage. “Winterfell wasn’t the same after your family left. Everything seemed so dour, so hopeless.”

Jon hung his head, hands folded together as he contemplated your statement. “Sometimes, I wish I’d never left.” He confessed, tone slipping into something silent, as if he were sharing his greatest sin with the septa. There were times where he missed home — missed what might’ve been.

Chewing at the inside of your cheek, you didn’t hesitate to look at him, hues swimming with a wet sheen. Reminiscing often brought about plenty of sentiments for you, sentiments that you thought you’d buried. “Sometimes I wish that you hadn’t left, either.” You whispered.

None of this felt real.

There was a noticeable shift in the atmosphere, a tension that had risen from the lingering flames of a longstanding friendship. Jon felt an unusual swell within his stomach, the onslaught of boyish nerves, yet he pushed them aside for the sake of the moment. It all seemed to feel so right, as if this had been long in the making.

Jon stared at you, absentmindedly tilting closer, enough to where you could feel the heat of his honey-tinged breath fan across your face. “What would’ve happened if I hadn’t?” He murmured, hoping that you would confirm whatever it was that he felt, too.

“I am not sure,” Butterflies erupted within the pit of your stomach, hands beginning to reach for one another, even if you hadn’t fully realized it yourself. “I would like to think that I would’ve gained the courage to tell you how I truly felt about you.” There wasn’t an ounce of subtlety present — you knew what you meant, he knew what you meant.

I love you — it was on the tip of his tongue, begging to be released, to let his confession take wing into the open air. He should’ve told you that night of the feast, when you took his hand and told him that you would always defend his honor and his name.

“Jon.” Your voice was nothing more than a saccharine whisper, eyes wide and doe-like, a wordless plea to act on whatever it was he felt. Before you could say another word, Jon’s mouth was on yours, hot and rugged, everything that you imagined it would be.

His calloused hand rose to cup your face, rough pads of his digits tracing across your cheek, your jaw — you felt like velvet, an unblemished plane that had eagerly awaited his touch. Jon had always fantasized about kissing you, and the reality of it far exceeded any expectations he might’ve had.

The sudden intensity of the kiss had grown, as if throwing kindling onto an open flame. You weren’t prepared for it, but you needed more. A moan stirred within your throat as you pressed forward, hands reaching for the front of his leather-studded tunic.

Jon kissed you as if you were the air itself, every breath he drew consuming you, dragging you in until you were intertwined. He seized your waist, rough palm sinking into the coarse material of your dress, nearly shuddering at the feeling of your body beneath his palm.

“I love you,” He uttered against your mouth, forehead briefly bumping into yours as he held you close, the weight of his confession beginning to sink in. “I never wish to be parted from you — from this day, until my last day.” Jon promised, voice rumbling and solemn, knowing that he would keep his vow.

Incredulously, you gazed at him with wide eyes, unable to escape the feeling of complete and utter joy you experienced at his confession. Breathless, you took a moment to compose yourself, gather your bearings before you smiled. “Don’t leave me again, Jon Snow.”

“I wouldn’t dare.” Jon murmured, eagerly seeking your mouth again, tugging you in for a heated kiss. Gods, your mouth was so disarmingly soft, pliant and plush against his lips, giving him everything that he ever imagined and so much more.

A gentle, uttered string of breathy ‘I love you’s’ left you over and over again, each kiss ripping the air from your lungs, leaving your heart hammering beneath your breast. You shrugged the cloak aside, letting it pool around you, partially strewn across the footlocker.

Desperation laced your kisses, as if something might threaten to rip you away from the excitement of the moment, or that you might wake up from a distant dream. Jon was lost in your mouth, a grunt blossoming from his chest when he hauled you closer, until no sliver of space remained.

He stood up, bringing you with him, standing atop the sprawling furs of slain stags, closer to the lick of the hearth. It allowed him to better hold you, hands respectfully roaming your body, never allowing himself to slip below your hips. “Wait.” He rasped, removing his mouth from yours.

“What’s wrong?” You whispered, fearing that you had vastly overstepped. This was all somewhat unfamiliar, the territory new and unexpected. You had been with a man before, but it never crossed a certain threshold — you wouldn’t allow it.

“Is this what you want?” Jon questioned, dark brows knitting together as he regarded you with caution, a devotion reserved only for you. He couldn’t continue without hearing the certainty escape your mouth — he hadn’t done this in some time, himself.

Gods, you loved him. There was a lack of hesitation in his movements, but instead, a desire for clarity. He didn’t want you to feel obligated or trapped in some corner — he wanted you to want him. A twinkle of ardor glistened within your warm gaze as you brought your hands together at the nape of his neck.

It’s what you’ve wanted for such a long time — a terribly long time, at that. Everything felt as if you were wading through a dream, one that would shatter at any moment. “Yes,” You whispered, longing to unfasten the leather buckles and straps that held his tunic together. “More than anything.”

Jon’s breath hitched, a subtle noise, desire beginning to blossom throughout his chest. His grasp on you became innately protective and needy, hands gingerly kneading into your curves. He bent down for another kiss, arms caging themselves around you, bringing you into the warm expanse of his chest.

Soft fingertips raked through his dark curls, bringing him to heel as he kissed you, unashamed of his clear desperation. It no longer felt like the ghost of a distant thought — this was a blissful reality. He helped you to remove the bulky leather of his jerkin, but part of him feared fully removing his clothes.

His scars would reveal the abhorrent truth — that he died, brought back to life from the twisted magic of a Fire Priestess. Jon’s hesitation was palpable, especially when your digits sank into the coarse material of his tunic. The leather fell to the wayside, and you were closer to seeing him disrobed.

Jon sluggishly reached for the linen ties that held your dress together, and you gave him a nod, subtly encouraging him to unravel you. As he gently tugged upon the tie, the fabric sagged upon your shoulders, allowing you to push it aside, stepping out of it altogether.

A strangled gasp caught within the depths of his throat, manifesting as a sharp exhale that consumed his ribcage. You were every bit as wonderful as he’d imagined you to be — such fantasies had clung to the fringes of his mind out in the frozen wastelands beyond The Wall.

The plane of your flesh was velvetlike, bathed in the flickering firelight of the hearth, dancing across your body with its incandescent glow. Jon’s jaw visibly tightened, restraining himself from touching you as he pleased. The longer he stood, gawking at your body like some clueless boy, the more emboldened you became.

Careworn digits gingerly wrapped around his vambrace, unfastening the buckles there before you guided his hand to your chest. “There isn’t a need to be bashful,” You whispered, noticing the way his pupils dilated when his calloused palm embraced your pliant breast. “I want you to touch me.” You gently encouraged him.

Jon appeared a touch forlorn, attempting to mask his gnawing fear at the idea of you seeing him. “It’s not you,” His smile was humorless — pensive, even. “Gods, you’re beautiful.” He huffed, hand drifting toward your hip, shuddering at the satiny texture of your skin.

Warmth crept across your spine in the wake of his breathless compliment, prompting you to unfasten his other vambrace. He aimed to distract you, mouth moving toward the spot where your jaw met your neck, beard scratching ragged against your flesh.

He palmed your breast, reveling in the softness of you beneath his rough-hewn hand, tracing along your hip until he squeezed your derrière. Everything about you was plush and inviting, as if you were a goddess incarnate.

Jon’s kiss became hungry, wanton and passionate as his mouth peppered itself along your throat, from your jaw to jugular. He treated you kindly; gracious hands that melded themselves to your form, like a sculptor to his masterpiece.

Saccharine soaps and hints of underlying flora clung to your flesh like a springtime haze, powerful enough to melt this ice he felt. You brought with you such warmth that it threatened to swallow him whole; he delighted in it, letting you shake the frost from his bones.

Lips danced together with a long-repressed passion, now exploding like crackles of fire within a hearth, spontaneous yet heated. You kissed Jon as if he might slip away from you, turning into dust between your fingertips.

A low moan stirred within the depths of your throat when his fingers toyed with your pebbling nipple, prompting you to grip his tresses with an unexpected harshness. You mumbled a sheepish apology, yet he paid little mind to it, dusky hues swirling with an ardent adoration that made your stomach churn.

As your hand drifted to the hem of his worn, linen tunic, he very nearly stopped you — yet, part of him wished for you to see him without a spoken word. Jon’s chest tightened with quickened breaths as you kindly maneuvered the clothing away, and he watched, hues fixated upon your bewildered countenance.

A battlefield — innumerable scars, so fresh that you nearly held your hand over them to stop the bleeding, gouged across his pallid flesh. One that seemed to sting the most rest over his heart, curved and garish, the stroke of a vengeful knife that ended his life.

Wordlessly, you lifted your hand, fingertips tracing across his chest, feather-light and disarmingly gentle; the opposite of the knives that had left their mark. Your brows furrowed together, and you wondered how he could’ve survived something like this — if he survived something like this.

Jon shivered at your embrace, as sweet as the maiden’s grace, caressing him with your resplendent touch. He held you close, arm caging you in, his other hand stroking beneath your breast, above your ribcage. “I didn’t make it,” He rasped, noticing the glimmer of understanding in your eyes. “I’d like to think that the Gods wanted me to see you again.”

His smile warmed you, more than any blazing hearth could, more than that of summertime. A fluttering sensation spread throughout your chest, followed by a hitch in your throat that you stumbled over. “Jon,” You whispered, stroking across his chest with a peculiar tenderness. “I am so sorry.”

It wasn’t the time for condolences — such sentiments could wait. Jon didn’t want your coupling to be soured by what had happened, and instead, he shook his head. His yearning for you trumped that of any sorrow and mulling over death, prompting him to press his mouth against yours once more.

The kiss seemed to convey the unspoken message, his desire to tend to you before discussing the intricacies of his scars. Jon dutifully dipped down to kiss your throat again, and then your collarbone, guiding you towards the fur-laden expanse of his bed.

As you lowered yourself onto your back, Jon kicked his boots aside, crawling across the thick mound of pelts to cover your body with his. You sluggishly spread your legs, allowing him to reside in the space between, palms planted on either side of your head.

Each heated kiss blossomed across your flesh, as he peppered his lips along your shoulder and collarbone, descending toward the valley between your breasts. It was flesh he’d longed to grace, savoring every second spent; his mouth smoothed across the silken flesh beneath your breast.

“Jon,” A sigh of passion tore past your lips, gooseflesh coalescing along your spine as he continued his descent, knowing exactly what he sought. The heat between your thighs sang to him like a siren’s song, and you weren’t about to intercede. “Please, please.”

Who was he to deny you?

The ragged scruff of his beard scratched pleasantly against your skin, the sort of burn that left you aching for more. He kissed across your stomach, inch by agonizing inch, hand reaching back to caress along your calf. It was slow, exploratory — he wanted to learn every curve, every dip and expanse of flesh.

A hazy heat gripped your surroundings, as if everything had become feverish, touched by a fog of warmth that permeated you, sank into him. Doe-eyed hues flickered toward the taut muscle of his back, the blackness of his curly tresses, the scar around his eye.

Planting a kiss against your hip bone, Jon sighed into your thigh, hot breath fanning over your sensitive flesh. His belly churned with an excitable heat, having waited for such a terribly long time to finally have you. He smoothed his calloused palm along your leg, ascending until he held your haunch.

Gods, you were in ruins — Jon hadn’t even placed his mouth upon you, and you writhed in anticipation. No man had been courageous enough to treat you this way, yet Jon lacked hesitation, settling onto his stomach as he bullied his way between your thighs.

Raking hot embers across your cunt, Jon lapped along your slit, eyelashes fluttering at the sound of your euphoric whimpering. He hadn’t heard a sound quite like that before, and from your lips, it was abhorrently sinful.

He sighed your name; reverent, a prayer only spoken between Gods and men — and you are no man. It made you shiver, belly filling with a fire that demanded to be extinguished, soothed only by the sweet laps of your lover’s tongue.

Jon’s mind reeled with the sight of you — flushed with pleasure, visage contorted into a look of complete and utter bliss. He continued without pause, nose brushing across your mound as he buried his tongue into you, greedily lapping at your cunt as if he were a man starved.

Your heart hammered beneath your breast, that of sheer excitement, consuming you like a tidal wave as you brazenly reached for his tresses. Sinking your digits into the crown of his tousled curls, you tugged, showing your appreciation in an unorthodox manner.

“J—Jon!” A strangled moan tore past your mouth, wisps of air being ripped from your lungs. Jon was inherently greedy, consuming you in the way that you deserved, finding his solace between your thighs. His dutiful lapping continued, from the pearl of your cunt to your aching entrance.

Akin to ice against your skin, Jon’s palms glided along your thighs, moving to trace your hips. His mouth was like a wave of fire, beard searing the silky flesh of your legs as you involuntarily squeezed his head. You hadn’t intended to suffocate him, but it was a worthwhile demise, in his perspective.

One hand fisted the furs, digging in until you threatened to rip it apart, hips occasionally jerking and jolting forward into his mouth. He hadn’t tasted something as sweet as you, like a fine stout coating his tongue, leaving him intoxicating; craving more.

His eyes had nearly fluttered shut, half-lidded slits that occasionally flickered to catch a glimpse of your blissful countenance. Your back arched from the furs, seeking his mouth with reckless abandon as he lapped along your cunt, tongue briefly flicking over your clit.

It was as if you’d been struck by lightning, body bristling with a long-repressed pleasure, something that only he could cure. The sensation of his calloused skin against your plane of silk was a satisfying juxtaposition — he never wanted another’s touch again.

Jon burned for you in every way imaginable, a sonorous groan ripping through the depths of his throat as he moved to lap at your cunt again. His ministrations were slow, made to explore and to savor you instead of letting it all become rushed.

Your fingertips brushed across his scalp, untangling his curls from the half-bun he’d placed them into. They fell across his head, dark and somewhat cropped. He groaned at the sensation, feeling you pull and grip his tresses, guiding your hips closer.

Rough-hewn hands gingerly kneaded into the pliant flesh of your thighs, caressing their way up and down in a soothing manner. Jon savored your taste, letting your nectar find its purchase against his chin, glistening along his lips. He kissed your clit, evoking a breathy sigh from you.

It had been such a long time for the both of you, intensified by feelings of a long-seated desire and carnality, friendship transcending all bonds of propriety. Jon felt his cock twitch within his trousers, incessantly throbbing and straining against the thicker material, longing to be inside of you.

A cry of delight tore past your mouth as you involuntarily jolted forward, grinding yourself into his mouth. Jon treated you to a barrage of eager laps of his tongue, from your entrance to the sensitive pearl of your cunt.

Dragging his tongue in languid circles around your clit, he watched as you quivered and moaned, mouth agape, back arched off of the furs. Knowing what path to follow, he showed attention to your neglected pearl, nose buried into the softness of your mound.

“Jon,” You sputtered, thighs molding themselves to either side of his face, feeling the scratch of his beard rake itself against your silky skin. He listened, dutiful and with a burning desire to please you, continuing to lap at your clit. “Gods, don’t stop.” A trembling exhale left you.

It was then that he melded his lips around the aching bud, beginning to suck on your pearl with a pang of vigor. You shuddered, rattling like a leaf as you haplessly tugged on his mane of curls, hips tilting upwards into his mouth. You whined, fisting the furs at your side.

Jon did not relent, feeling the ironclad grip you assumed, knowing that he was bringing you close to your release. White-hot sparks fluttered across your vision, body singing his praises, collarbone glittering with the first inklings of perspiration.

A strangled gasp tore through your throat, followed by a myriad of moans and pleading whimpers, seeking friction against his mouth. Your release was fast approaching, like a tidal wave of heat, flooding across your body with its intensity. Jon’s name emerged from your lips as if it were the only word you knew.

The pinnacle of your release made you feel as if you were floating, legs shaking in the blissful aftermath, feeling Jon lap at your core a few times over. You exhaled, chest heaving from exertion as you loosened your hold upon his tresses.

“You’ll have to let me do that again.” Jon murmured, and that seemed to ensnare your attention. Seven Hells — you would let him do that for as long as he pleased, whenever he liked. He pressed a few soft kisses against the inside of your thigh, crawling up to be near you.

“Whenever you would like, I will never protest.” You mused, gaze sparkling with mirth and adoration, inviting him back to being on top of you. Though, your impulses had other plans, as your palm pressed against his shoulder. “There is something I wanted to try.”

The softness of your suggestion seemed to placate Jon, who felt you push his shoulder until you guided him onto his back, hooking a leg over his lap. Gods, he would’ve stayed like that for an eternity if you asked it of him. As you situated yourself on top of him, Jon sat up enough to reach you, kiss you if he wanted to.

He felt your fingers move towards the laces of his breeches, and he didn’t stop you, observing you in rapturous hunger instead. His breath hitched, mouth moving inward to press a string of hot kisses against the column of your throat.

“Do you know how long I’ve dreamed about this?” Jon’s confession emerged as a husky sigh, murmured against your neck, sending shivers down your spine. It came as a surprise, a wonderful one, and it only made your hands move in a borderline frenzy.

Freeing his cock from its confines, you moved yourself up upon your knees, aided by his strong, firm hands, coming to rest just below your derrière. The flushed tip of his length nudged against your cunt, prompting you to sigh with passion.

“Jon,” A pleading moan tore past your mouth, mind becoming fuzzy as you attempted to absorb the genuineness of his words. The Northern timbre of his hoarse baritone made you tremble, hands steadying themselves upon his shoulders. “Please.”

In a sluggish descent, he gently lowered you onto his cock, the both of you shivering in-tandem. The low, throaty groan that escaped him made your stomach churn with molten heat, letting you find your own pace. He was bigger than you imagined, filling you perfectly.

Mouths danced together and then clashed again, kiss after kiss of pure ardor, tongues becoming exploratory as you brazenly lapped at his lower lip. It was messy and hot, feverishly so, bringing the both of you to heel as you happily drowned within desire.

Your cunt was tight around him, slick with arousal as you continued to lower yourself, inch by blissful inch until he was fully sheathed inside of you. Jon’s heavy pants fluttered across your throat, mouth pressing near the curve of your jaw.

Jon was captivated by you, inhaling a gust of your soap-laden scent, beard ragged against your soft skin as he continued to kiss along your neck. His hands were resolute in guiding you, rocking you up and down along his cock, chest to chest with you.

Tangled sighs and low, heavy breaths wove together, forming a heated cacophony that filled his chambers with your lewd activities. The feeling of his calloused hands sinking into your plush flesh was mesmerizing, leaving behind a wave of goosebumps that crawled across your skin.

The sensation of his cock filling you completely, nearly kissing your womb, almost made you sob from delight. The friction of your bodies was a delicious thing, with your chest brushing against his, knees squeezing near his waist, hands gripping his shoulders.

A burning sting began to dance along your thighs, the exertion of muscle as you rode him, moving up and down in somewhat rhythmic motions. His cock speared you over and over again, filling you completely before you nearly drew yourself out, and back down again.

“Gods,” You sighed, nails sinking into the muscle of his shoulders, your countenance one of complete and utter pleasure. Leaving behind angry-red crescents against his pale skin, you didn’t want the feeling to end. “Jon, please — don’t stop!” With a simpering moan, your head began to roll back slightly.

Spurred by your softly-spoken praise and breathy sighs, Jon did not relent, hands sinking into your thighs as he guided you against his cock. The angle allowed for friction to blossom, chests bumping together, bodies tangled up within one another.

He kissed his way along your collarbone, bringing you up enough to trap one of your nipples within his mouth. The head of his cock remained pleasantly buried within your cunt, the warming of it making you writhe. He held you steady, greedily kissing at your pert breasts.

One of your hands fisted into his dark curls, tugging on them as if you were attempting to wrangle him into submission. His mouth peppered warm, needy kisses around the valley between your breasts before he let you sink yourself back down, cunt clenching around his cock.

Shameless strings of sinful noises left you in droves, eyes closed in a state of ecstasy. Jon groaned with you, vocalizing his own pleasure as he coaxed you down towards the furs, not wanting to place you there unless you consented.

With a brief bob of your head, you found yourself beneath Jon, his musculature covering you, content between your legs as he hitched one around his hips. The calloused plane of his palm wrapped around your calf, causing you to shiver at the foreign contact.

He could look upon your face, see the way your visage contorted into pure pleasure when he rocked forward, cock burying itself deep into your cunt. His skin was flushed, expression somewhat doe-eyed and awestruck, even if you were too lost to notice.

Your hands moved, one finding its purchase against his bicep, the other on his shoulder as his pace began to intensify. It was a chase, galloping after his release as he bent to kiss you, releasing a grunt into your mouth when you rolled your hips forward.

The wooden frame of his bed began to creak, groaning in protest from the vigor of his ministrations. You didn’t care if he was a touch rougher with you — Gods, you needed him. Heat swirled within your stomach, gnawing at your bones, making your toes curl in delight.

“Jon!” You cried, and that nearly sent him soaring over the edge, cock throbbing inside of you. The friction of your pelvis grinding against him almost made his resolve shatter into two. He lost count of how many times his cock sank into you — it was all blurring together.

The inevitable rush of euphoria reached him when his release came, hot and blistering, making him see stars as he groaned your name. Your nails were digging into his bicep, a gasp emerging from your throat when he thrust into you again.

Ropes of warm spend painted your insides, and he very nearly collapsed on top of you. He had the decency to hold himself afloat, hand tracing along your calf and to the crook of your knee, letting you unhook your leg.

Jon removed himself from you, attempting to gather his breath as he laid at your side, gazing at the dark ceiling above. Your breathing was just as unsteady and erratic as you drifted down from your buzzing high, wiping beads of perspiration from your brow.

Once he recuperated, Jon looked at you, noticing the smile on your face, the unrestrained delight you were experiencing as you rolled over. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?” He murmured, watching as you began to shamelessly crawl into his arms.

“Quite the opposite,” You hummed, feeling him adjust the furs, drawing them both around you. Despite the feverish pitch of the room, the frost would settle in again soon, especially at the hour of the bat. “Were you jesting when you said you dreamed about this?”

Bewildered, Jon cast his eyes toward you, canting his head to one side. “Of course I was serious,” He huffed, surprised that you would think otherwise. “You were all I could think about, north of The Wall.” His confession was genuine, sweetly-spoken.

“You don’t have to dream about it anymore,” Your voice soothed him, a sound that he had yearned for with a blistering ache. He felt as if you would slip away from him if he let you go. “I won’t leave you.” Your smile was warm enough to melt even the hardiest of frost.

Jon’s lips tugged into a smile, one that you rarely saw beneath the brooding curtain of his visage. He pressed a kiss against your forehead, allowing you to get comfortable against him. The silence that followed allowed for some contemplation, absorbing all of what had transpired.

His scars seemed so fresh when they caught your eye. With a forlornly look, you dragged your fingers over the scar above his heart, feeling him shiver beneath your touch. Your body still felt as if it were caught in some haze, coming down from the blissful aftermath of your coupling.

“If you hadn’t come back …” You trailed off, attempting to refuse to think of some painful reality where Jon perished, but the thought briefly crossed your mind. If he had, none of this would be happening — he wouldn’t be holding you in his arms.

“But I am here,” Jon’s husky timbre shook you to your core as he planted his palm against your cheek, guiding you to look at him. “I’m not going anywhere, and I’m not leaving you.” It was a promise — insistent, spoken from a man who now fully understood the weight of love, the weight of sacrifice.

You nodded, wordlessly reaching to hold his hand, feeling the arm he had caged around you plant itself against the small of your back. He drew circles there, brows knitting together as he leaned in to kiss you. It was hard and warm, so real — he made sure that you understood exactly what he meant.

Within the warm embrace of his arms, you let your head recline against his chest, feeling him draw you closer, until there was no space left between the both of you. He listened to the steady, shallow sound of your breathing afterwards.

At the edge of the world, he had you — and that was all he would ever need.

[eyepatch69]

✩ WASTELAND, BABY!

HAPPENS GREAT, HAPPENS SWEET / / HAPPILY, I’M UNFAZED HERE, TOO

jon snow x gn!reader

jon snow kisses like it’s oxygen and he’s a man suffocated. it’s not sloppy or rushed, it’s calculated, careful, laced with intention. it’s like he lives to serve you and you him. every so often, he’ll bite and his teeth will turn the flesh on the inside of your lip a deeper pink, almost blossoming red. all the while, he’s huffing between each kiss, pulling you impossibly closer, moulding you like clay. jon snow would never ask for it, but he’d revel in the way you’d scratch his scalp. biting down a little harder when you’d pull the black strands before jumping back into his attack on your mouth, swallowing every sound that escapes it. jon snow was a man of few words, but each kiss never failed to tell you more than his voice ever would. his hands would be on their own journey, mapping your body and committing it to memory. every dip and curve of your spine- he wanted every inch of you to know his touch. some parts, the parts of you the bastard favoured, would be held tighter, almost bruising. he wanted you to look at them and remember him, he wanted to always be in your mind, as you were in his.

[eyepatch69]

Something Precious

Azriel x Reader

word count: 2.1k content: [ nun crazy just reader having mega insecure thoughts lol ] summary: Azriel has always been steady, unwavering—but the way you look at him makes something shift. Small moments, fleeting words, a tension neither of you acknowledge… until it’s impossible for him to ignore. author's note: IM BACK BABEYY!!!!! this ones a bit short but i thought it'd be a good one to help get myself writing again. i really like how it turned out, just a nice, sweet lil fic nothin crazy :) also not beta'd bc i just needed to get something out NEOW. hope this is to your liking anon thank u for the req!! <3 ✦ . Masterlist . ✦

The fire crackled softly in the hearth, its golden glow casting shifting patterns across the walls of the House of Wind. The night outside was crisp and quiet, Velaris resting under a blanket of stars, but here, in this small cocoon of warmth and firelight, everything felt still. 

Azriel lay stretched out on the couch, wings spilling over the cushions in an easy sprawl. His shadows had retreated for the night, content to flicker lazily at the edges of the room, leaving nothing between you but firelight and the slow, steady rhythm of his breath. 

You lay draped across his chest, your weight a comfortable, grounding thing. His heartbeat thudded beneath your cheek, slow and sure, and the warmth of his skin seeped through the thin fabric of his shirt. One of his hands rested at the small of your back, tracing lazy circles under your sweater, while the other curled lightly around the nape of your neck, fingertips brushing idly over your skin. 

You sighed, nuzzling deeper against him, letting the scent of cedar and night-chilled wind wrap around you like a second blanket. Your fingers trailed absentmindedly over his ribs, feeling the rise and fall of his breathing, and when you finally lifted your gaze to meet his, your heart did that ridiculous little stutter it always did. 

Because Azriel was looking at you like that again—like you were something precious. Something worth holding onto. 

The firelight flickered in his hazel eyes, turning them molten, but there was something softer underneath. Something quiet and steady, tucked between the affection in his gaze and the slight curve of his mouth. You weren’t sure you’d ever get used to it. 

You exhaled, barely above a whisper, as if afraid you might shatter the fragile silence. “I can’t believe you’re here with me.”

It wasn’t meant to be a confession. Just a passing thought, one that had been lingering in the back of your mind since the moment you started whatever this was—since the moment you realized someone like him could want someone like you. 

But Azriel stilled beneath you. It was subtle, just a flicker of tension in his fingertips, a pause in the slow drag of his hand against your back. Gone in an instant. 

You wouldn’t have noticed if you hadn’t been laying on his chest, if you hadn’t felt the way his heartbeat faltered for just a second before steadying again. You didn’t call attention to it, just as Az hadn’t. Hadn’t asked what you meant. 

Instead, he shifted slightly, adjusting his wings so they wrapped around you both, pulling you deeper into the warmth of his body. His fingers resumed their slow, absentminded tracing, his thumb sweeping over the back of your neck in a way that made you shiver. 

“Where else would I be?” he murmured. 

You huffed a soft laugh, tucking your face into the crook of his neck. Anywhere. Everywhere. Someone like you doesn’t end up with someone like me.

But you didn’t say that. Just let yourself sink into his warmth, let yourself savor the way his arms tightened around you, as if holding you closer would make you understand. 

Because Azriel didn’t know—not yet. But he was starting to notice. 

And he didn’t like it. 

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Dinner at the River House was always an event. Not a formal one by any means—the kind where the table was too small for all the elbows knocking together where laughter wove itself between the clinking of glasses and the scrape of silverware. Where the air smelled of roasted lamb and rosemary, of spiced wine and honeyed bread, warmth curling through the candlelit room like an embrace.

Nesta and Cassian had somehow gotten into a debate over who was worse at flirting—Rhysand or Azriel—which had quickly turned into a full-blown conversation about all their past entanglements. 

“You’re all fools,” Amren said simply, swirling the deep red in her glass. “None of you were half as charming as you thought you were.”

Cassian scoffed. “I was charming.”

Nesta didn’t even look up as she speared a piece of meat. “Debatable.”

Across the table, Mor snickered. “He was charming, in the way a golden retriever puppy is charming.”

Azriel smirked into his wine glass. Cassian pointed at him accusingly. “You don’t get to laugh. You spent centuries avoiding love like the Mother herself would smite you for it.”

“That’s because he’s got high standards,” Mor shot back. “Honestly, I’m just surprised Az’s even dating.”

Feyre hummed, shifting Nyx higher against her shoulder as he dozed, his tiny fingers curled into the fabric of her sweater. “Dating? I’m surprised he’s managed to keep someone around long enough to–”

“Feyre.” His voice was soft, but the weight behind it was enough to cut her off. His expression was still easy, his lips curling at the edges, but there was something there—something firm, something protective. 

Your stomach twisted. 

The words weren’t meant to hurt. You knew that. They were lighthearted, Feyre smiling at her brother-in-law, the way siblings poked fun without malice. And Azriel had cut her off before she could finish—before she could say something that might have struck deeper.

But it was already unraveling in your head.

High standards. 

Avoiding love.

Managed to keep someone around long enough.

Because is that all this is? A fling? Something temporary? Another short-lived thing in a string of them? 

Your grip tightened subtly around your glass, the air suddenly too warm, your pulse thrumming a little too fast. And before you could stop yourself, before you could sit with the spiraling thoughts for even a second longer, you laughed. Too loud. Too sharp. A sound that cut through the warmth of the room rather than settling into it. 

“Yeah, just wait until he realizes how much of a pain I am.”

Silence, just for a beat. 

Azriel’s head snapped toward you, sharp enough that you felt it before you saw it—the weight of his gaze landing on you, the furrow in his brows, the shift in the air between you. But you didn’t look. Couldn’t. 

Rhysand chuckled, breaking the brief pause, shaking his head. “Yeah, right. You’re practically a saint for dealing with him.”

Cassian smirked, lifting his glass. “Agreed.”

Laughter rippled through the table again, and just like that, the moment passed—folded itself into the fabric of the conversation, buried beneath the easy back and forth, the scraping of plates, the pouring of wine. 

Azriel let it go. Again. 

But it lingered.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Azriel eventually pushed past that uneasy feeling. It wasn’t a big deal—not really. He figured you probably hadn’t even meant anything by it. But something about it rubbed him the wrong way, settled uneasily in his chest, and he couldn’t explain why. 

But then it happened again. 

And again. 

Little things, small enough that they would have slipped through the cracks if he hadn’t been paying attention. The way you waved off his compliments, dodging them with a laugh like they were jokes rather than truths. The way your smile sometimes faltered, like you’d caught yourself enjoying the moment a little too much. The way your fingers curled into the fabric of your sleeve when he touched you, like you were steadying yourself. 

And then there was the way you looked at him—that was what unsettled him the most. 

Because he was used to being looked at in a thousand different ways—calculating, cautious, reverent, fearful. People looked at him and saw a legend, a warning, a weapon. He’d spent a lifetime standing on the outskirts of things, watching them unfold from the shadows, knowing that no matter how close he got, he would always be separate.

But you looked at him like he was something untouchable. 

Like you didn’t quite believe he was real. 

Like you were waiting for the moment he’d come to his senses and walk away. 

And Azriel—who had spent years mastering the art of patience, of knowing when to hold back—found himself growing more and more frustrated. 

Not at you, gods, never at you. 

But at the way you’d convinced yourself that you were less. 

That he was something more. 

It all came to a head one evening in the training ring. 

You weren’t training, just sitting on one of the benches, legs tucked beneath you, book resting open in your lap. You liked being here with him, and he liked having you here, even if neither of you’d ever said it out loud. He could feel your eyes on him as he moved through his drills, the steady weight of your attention like a tether pulling him back to earth. 

When he finally finished, muscles burning, wings flexing as he rolled his shoulders, he walked over to you. You grinned up at him, eyes warm despite the sharp winter air, and handed him a cup of water without a word.

Az took a long drink before murmuring, “You staring at me again?”

You scoffed, though the way your mouth twitched told him you were fighting a smile. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

He smirked, resting a hand on the bench’s backrest beside you, bracing himself as he leaned down. “Too late.”

You made a face, but the slight pink creeping up your neck gave you away. He kissed you softly, just a brush of lips, tasting warmth and wind and something undeniably you.

And then you said it.

“I still don’t know what you see in me.”

You said it casually. Offhanded. Like it wasn’t a confession. Like it wasn’t the worst thing you could’ve said.

Azriel  went still.

The words settled like a stone in his chest, heavy and suffocating. And suddenly, every little moment from the past few weeks clicked into place—the deflected compliments, the hesitations, the way you looked at him like you were waiting for him to wake up and realize you weren't enough.

The frustration that had been simmering in the back of his mind finally snapped.

His voice was quiet, but firm. “Don’t do that.”

You blinked, tilting your head slightly. “Do what?”

“That.” He straightened, looking down at you, jaw tight. “Talk about yourself like that.”

You shifted, clearly thrown off by the sudden change in his tone. “Az, I was just—”

“I mean it.” His wings flared slightly, a flicker of restrained emotion. “You say things like that all the time. Like you don’t think you belong here. Like I’m some…” He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “Some gift the Mother decided to bestow on you.”

You opened your mouth, but he wasn’t finished.

“You don’t think I notice, but I do,” he said, voice softer now, rough around the edges. “I can see it in the way you dodge compliments, the way you downplay yourself like you’re the lucky one—as if I’m not the one who should be grateful every damn day that you want to be with me.”

You swallowed hard, looking away. “That’s not—”

“Look at me.”

You did.

And when your eyes met, something inside Az ached.

Because you really didn’t see it.

Didn’t see what he saw every time he looked at you—the quiet strength, the unwavering kindness, the way you fit so effortlessly into the parts of him that had always felt empty.

Didn’t see how, before you, he had spent centuries standing on the outside looking in, wondering if he would ever have anything or anyone just for himself.

Didn’t see how you were already everything.

Azriel exhaled, slow and steady, forcing himself to find the words. “You are not some… temporary thing I decided to entertain myself with.” He took your hand, curling your fingers between his own. “You’re not lucky to have me.” He squeezed, firm but gentle. “I’m lucky to have you.”

Your lips parted slightly, but no words came out. You looked like you wanted to argue, to tell him he had it backwards, but there was something raw in his expression—something that made you hesitate.

Az lifted your joined hands and pressed a slow, lingering kiss to the back of yours, his lips brushing your skin as he whispered, “Stop acting like you’re less than.”

Silence stretched between you, heavy with everything unsaid.

Finally, you exhaled shakily and leaned forward, pressing your forehead against his. “I don’t know how to stop feeling like I am.”

Az closed his eyes, letting himself breathe you in. And then he whispered, “Then let me remind you.”

And he would.

As many times as it took.

[eyepatch69]

┊ ┊ ┊ ┊ ┊

┊ ┊ ┊ ┊ ♡ .

┊ ┊ ┊ . ♡ ˚

┊ ♡ ┊ *

♡ ₊ ♡ +

. ˚

🎨 : PauAart

[eyepatch69]

One | The Calm Before the Storm | Little Star

Pairing - Azriel x reader

Word count - 2.9k

Warnings - None

|| series masterlist || next ->

The Night Court's favourite star. The one they all forgot could fall.

The last-born daughter of the late High Lord and his Illyrian wife. Half-Fae, half-winged. Pure chaos and twilight wrapped in violet silk.

They liked to call me the Night Court's coveted jewel, a title heavy with worship, draped over my shoulders like a crown spun from stars.

Whispers echoed through the streets of Velaris, the dark halls of the Court of Nightmares and all the way to the frozen edges of the continent. They spoke of the beauty that outshone starlight, of the smile that could tempt saints and the gaze that could ensnare sinners.

Rhysand might have been the most beautiful male in Prythian—darkness personified, with eyes that held galaxies, but beside him, I was something else entirely.

Not merely beautiful. Mythic. Dangerous. A living echo of the Court itself. Dreams and nightmares all at once.

The kind of beauty you bled for. The kind of beauty that haunted you.

A living contradiction, soft but sharp, beloved but untouchable. The brightness in the dark.

I wasn't a warrior like Cassian, forged in flame and fury. I wasn't a spymaster like Azriel, silent and deadly as the dark. I wasn't a ruler like Rhys, with the weight of a kingdom carved into his spine.

I was something else.

The princess of the Night Court, cloaked in starlight and a dozen kinds of devotion I never asked for. The female they praised, the female they protected, the female they thought would never shatter.

And yet—even stars fall.

Tonight, the townhouse swelled with warmth and life. Laughter spilt out of the kitchen like sunlight through broken, gold-stained glass.

The scent of wine, spiced meat, sweet fruit and freshly baked bread curled through the air, clinging to the velvet drapes and polished wood with familiar affection.

It was the kind of night that felt like home.

I sat curled into the corner of the couch, the plush cushions swallowing me whole.

One hand cradled a half-full glass of wine, the other was buried in the folds of my gown, fingers idly twisting silk. My bare feet were tucked beneath me, warmed by the firelight that flickered soft and amber across the room.

Cassian and Rhys were in the center of the room, lost in what had begun as a disagreement about battle formations until Cassian, with that infuriating smile on his face, had made a snide comment about Rhys's "groomed-to-death" hair.

Now the conversation had devolved into a dramatic, absolutely senseless argument over whose hair possessed more sheen, complete with overly serious tone and infuriatingly mocking gestures.

Typical.

I smiled behind the rim of my glass, letting the noise of them wash over me, a chorus of ridiculousness I'd grown to love over the years.

A familiar weight dipped the cushions beside me, unhurried and sure.

I didn't need to look to know who it was. I knew. I always knew. His presence sang along my skin before he ever spoke, before I could even breathe him in.

Shadows brushed against my arm, soft as a sigh, cold as the space between stars. The same shadows that clung to him like second skin, like sorrow.

A crown of darkness that only a handful saw.

The scent of him wrapped around me, grounding and ghostly all at once. Crisp mountain air, steel, worn leather, and something older, something aching. Something like night.

"Azriel," I murmured, turning just enough to lift my glass toward him. Our eyes met briefly, and the clink of crystal between us felt almost sacred. "Looking well."

He didn't smile, not quite, but something in his expression softened, the way the snow does when kissed by the first light of spring.

His voice was low when he spoke, barely a breath meant for me. "You burn so bright, little star."

His scarred fingers found the edge of my gown, smoothing the silk with reverence, with memory. Violet silk. The colour of twilight. The mirror of my eyes.

His touch was not possessive—it was almost...mournful.

"Careful, Shadowsinger," I replied without looking at him. "You'll go blind."

Dismissal, subtle and practised but not unnoticed. Not by him. Never by him.

His shadows shifted, restless, curling around my forearms like smoke, like secrets, like longing held too long inside a war-forged heart. They tightened then loosened, as if arguing about whether to cling or to let go.

A dance, initiated but incomplete. A tale, told but unfinished.

Azriel wanted me. That truth lived in every glance that lingered too long, in every word he didn't say. In the aching silence between us.

He wanted me with the quiet desperation of a man who believed the things he longed for were meant only for others. A hunger contained behind a wall built of guilt and time.

And I... I loved him in another life.

One where I wasn't the court's darling or its symbol. One where I wasn't stitched into so many roles, caught between myth and reality.

But this wasn't that life.

There was a beauty in what we shared now, this unspoken understanding between us.

It was raw, real, and filled with the quiet intimacy of a thousand unspoken words.

I didn't want to spoil it by crossing that line. I didn't want to turn it into something messy, something that might break.

If we reached for more, we might lose everything we have, and the thought of that makes me hesitate.

Maybe we were better as we were. Unfinished, untamed, but still whole.

"Little star!" Cassian's voice sliced clean through the delicate tension between me and Azriel.

It rang out across the room, loud and unapologetic, crashing through the quiet like a war cry softened by affection.

He stood near the fireplace, grinning like the chaos incarnate he was, that same wicked grin that had once gotten us both thrown out of a palace in Adriata—twice.

He beckoned me over with a cocked brow and a flash of teeth, mischief dancing in his hazel eyes.

I rose without hesitation, slipping from Azriel's orbit. His shadows lingered on my skin like fingerprints, invisible but undeniable.

I didn't need to look back to know he was watching me go. He always did.

I crossed the room, each step echoing with the clink of glass and the low hum of firelight and fondness.

I perched myself on the armrest of Amren's chair, deliberately casual. The ancient, irritable being narrowed her silver eyes at me, then, shockingly, didn't shove me off. A small victory.

I gave her a wink like I'd just stolen a secret, and for a breath, I thought she might smile. She didn't, of course but it was worth a try.

"You agree with me, don't you?" Cassian asked, dramatically gesturing toward Rhys, who looked thoroughly exasperated.

I took a slow sip of my wine, letting them stew. "I think," I said at last, tilting my head with studied elegance, "neither of you has the best hair in this court."

Two simultaneous, theatrical gasps filled the room. You'd think I'd slapped them both.

"It's clearly Mor," I added with a wicked smile, swirling the wine in my glass as Rhys recoiled like I'd stabbed him through the heart. "She doesn't even try. It just is."

"My hair shimmers," Rhys argued, scandalised before running a hand through his onyx waves.

Cassian snorted. "You glamor it, you narcissist."

"Jealousy isn't a good look on you, Cass," Rhys replied smoothly.

Their banter spiralled, insults laced with affection and long-forged trust, the kind of exchange only born of decades spent bleeding and laughing together.

I leaned into the rhythm of it easily, letting the warmth of the room, the wine and their voices settle into my bones.

I hid my grin at their ridiculousness behind the rim of my glass, the crystal cool against my lips.

Rhys saw it anyway, of course he did. His violet eyes met mine, glittering with humour, and he winked. That knowing, over-the-top wink he always used when he was being absurd. When he wanted to draw a laugh out of me.

Rhysand. High Lord of the Night Court. The most powerful male in Prythian. A tactician, a warrior, a manipulator with a silver tongue and a heart full of stars.

To everyone else, he was legend.

To me, he was something far more sacred.

My brother. My anchor. The one who held me when the sky cracked and the world tilted sideways. My protector, my partner-in-crime, my first home.

"Both of you should shut up," Amren muttered, not bothering to look up. Her voice, dry as bone dust, cut through the bickering like a blade honed on centuries of disdain.

She swirled the contents of her cup with precision, as if the drink itself had insulted her.

I grinned and blew her a kiss. She didn't flinch. Didn't hiss. Didn't even glare. Which, for Amren, was practically a declaration of undying affection. A non-response was her version of a hug.

She'd told me once, over a glass of something blood-red, that I was "less annoying than the rest." Which, in her ancient, mildly terrifying dialect, translated roughly to "I'd kill for you, but don't make me say it out loud."

"I agree," came Mor's voice, smooth and bright as sunlight slipping through stained glass.

She strode into the room like she owned it. Confidence radiated off her in golden waves, her honey-blonde hair tousled from wind, cheeks flushed, smile loose and easy.

Mor and I had a special bond.

We spoke the same unspoken language, the one of hidden battles beneath painted smiles. Of quiet strength disguised as flirtation. Of wearing beauty like armour and never apologising for it.

In her hands, she carried a plate still steaming with warmth. Brownies. Dense and gooey in the middle, their scent curling through the room like a spell.

She waved them like a blessing, like an invitation to sin.

Cassian, predictably, lunged like a beast unleashed. He tackled her with all the grace of a war general who had absolutely no chill, snatching three brownies before she could elbow him hard enough to make him grunt.

"These are amazing," he declared through a mouthful, already crumbs on his chest.

Rhys, ever elegant, took one with a flourish, raising it in salute. "This is why I keep you around."

I rolled my eyes as I stole the plate from his hands, swirling my wine with mock offence.

With the brownies secured, I turned on my heel and made my way back to the shadows—back to him.

Azriel didn't move, but I felt the shift in the air before I even reached him. His shadows stirred, rippling like smoke disturbed by a breath. Coiled tension then slow release.

Like they recognised me as something safe.

"I baked your favourite, Az," I said softly, offering the plate like a peace treaty. I added a wink, light as moonlight, as if it meant nothing at all.

A faint blush crept up his neck as he accepted them, his mouth parting like he might say something soft or something dangerous.

Before he could speak Mor hooked an arm around my waist and yanked me down into her lap with a grin.

"We keep her around because she's the better-looking sibling," she said, popping a brownie into her mouth.

I sighed dramatically, resting my head against her shoulder as I balanced the plate between us. "Here I thought it was because you all liked me."

Laughter echoed around the room as conversations sparked back up.

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught Azriel watching me, just a flicker, a glance quickly masked by the shadows curling at his shoulders.

But it was enough. Enough to stir memories best left undisturbed.

The fire crackled, but my mind had drifted back to a different night—a night long ago, in the days when we were all children, before shadows had claimed so much of Azriel.

I could still picture it clearly, Cassian and Rhys, so much younger, rushing through the front door, their footsteps loud against the polished floors.

"What is it?" My mother's voice had been full of that special kind of warmth she reserved for her children, her tone soft yet firm.

I had, of course, been sitting on the stairs, pretending not to listen, but eager to know who they'd brought home.

It was Azriel.

I'd never seen anyone like him before, his figure, tall for his age, standing awkwardly in the doorway, a stranger in a world that didn't quite feel like it belonged to him.

His face was barely visible beneath the dark cloak that swallowed him whole, but I remember the flicker of shadows that clung to him.

I could sense it even then. His isolation. His silence.

Rhys had been the first to speak, always the one to smooth over awkwardness. "This is Azriel," he said, an easy grin on his face. "We found him."

Cassian had clapped him on the back, laughing, "Don't mind him, he's a bit shy."

Azriel hadn't said anything at first, just staring at us with those eyes that held so much unsaid.

And then I noticed them—his hands. Bandaged. Thick layers of cloth wrapped tightly around his fingers, hiding whatever scars lay beneath.

I hadn't been able to help myself. I had asked, a child's curiosity mixed with concern.

"Why are your hands wrapped?"

Azriel had hesitated. His voice had been low and careful, like he was testing how much to trust us, how much to give away.

"I got hurt," he had murmured, his eyes flickering to the floor, avoiding my gaze.

In that moment, a strange urge had filled me. I don't know why. Maybe it was the way the shadows seemed to coil around him, or maybe it was the vulnerability in his words, in his attempt to mask the pain.

But I had stood, gone to him, and cupped his hands gently in mine, the coolness of the bandages contrasting sharply against my skin.

And I kissed them. His hands.

It wasn't a grand gesture, nor was it filled with any deeper meaning, but in that simple moment, a thread had tied us together—one that neither of us had fully understood at the time.

It had been a fleeting touch, my lips brushing against the cloth, soft as a whisper.

But Azriel had looked at me then, really looked at me and something in his eyes shifted.

Something deeper, something older than the boy he had been. He hadn't pulled away. Instead, he had let me hold his hands for a long moment, and I had felt his quiet decision, even then.

He had silently made a promise to himself that he would always protect me, would always be there, even if he couldn't voice it.

From that moment on, something had always been different between us. He'd become a part of our family in a way that words couldn't explain.

The shadows never left him, and neither did the weight of that silent vow.

I shook the memory from my mind.

I glanced at him briefly, catching his gaze again for the briefest second before he turned away, as though nothing had ever passed between us. But I knew. I always knew.

I wonder if he remembered it too—the day his heart had made its silent, reluctant choice.

Mor, with a mischievous glint in her eyes, leaned over toward me, her voice a soft hum in my ear, pulling me from my thoughts.

"Rita's?" she asked, as if the very mention of the place was a secret invitation only I could understand.

I raised an eyebrow, a small smile tugging at my lips. "Really? After all this?"

Her grin widened, her eyes flicking over to the others.

Cassian slapped a hand over his heart in mock offence, his voice a bit too dramatic to be taken seriously. "I'm offended that you would even ask. Of course, we're going. Right, Rhys?"

Rhys, who had been watching the exchange with that calculating glimmer in his violet eyes, nodded in agreement. "Sounds good to me."

Amren, who had been quietly watching the banter unfold with the patience of someone who'd seen it all before, shot them both a sharp glance.

Her silver eyes narrowed, her lips curling into the faintest of sneers.

"I'll pass," she said, the cold finality in her voice making it clear that there would be no further discussion on the matter.

The room fell into a brief, almost reverent silence. No one argued with Amren. Not now, not ever.

Mor didn't miss a beat. She shot a wink at the others and then turned her eyes to me. "Well, little star?" she said, leaning in, a playful dare in her tone. "Are you coming, or are you going to stay here, all wrapped up in your little corner?"

I glanced at Azriel, he was now leaning against the wall, his gaze distant but somehow still fixed on me. The faintest trace of tension hung between us, a silent conversation in the way his shadows curled around his body, as if waiting for my response.

I didn't hesitate. My voice was steady, unwavering when I spoke. "Yes, I'll go."

Azriel's head lifted further at the sound of my voice, and there was a flash of something in his eyes—almost relief, though it was gone too quickly for me to read.

Then, as if he were still battling with something unspoken, he took a slow step forward, his shadows drifting like smoke around his feet.

"I'll go too," he said softly, his voice a quiet thread of acceptance.

There was no more resistance. No more hesitation.

Rhys clapped his hands together in glee. "Well, that settles it."

Mor whooped and sprang to her feet, tugging me up with her. Cassian threw an arm around both our shoulders as he steered us toward the door, already launching into some ridiculous plan that involved absolutely no supervision.

Laughter bubbled up again, easy, warm and filling every corner of the room until it felt like the house itself was breathing with it.

Behind us, the door swung shut with a soft click, sealing away the last echoes of that golden evening, like a memory we were already beginning to lose.

A/n - Okay, first chapter is finally here! I wanted to start with a little intro to everyone's dynamics, and then a memory of the first time Azriel and reader met, just to give a bit of an explanation to their relationship.

Next chapter is where the real story starts, and it gets good, trust me (lots of angst), and I love angst x

If you’ve made it this far, I hope you enjoyed it! If you did, please let me know. I’m a little nervous since this is my first time writing for ACOTAR (please don’t be shy to like, comment, or reblog!) <3

Little Star tag list - @jaybbygrl @writtenbypavani @fall-winter-heart97 @coeurdeveea

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save a horse, ride a cowboy

Outlaw Midas x female reader

Type: One shot, slightly proof read, not beta read Wordcount: 1.9K Content: MDNI, p in v sex, creampie, hair pulling, biting, porn without plot, slightly clothed sex, cowgirl position, aftercare, no use of yn or physical description, midas is strong and can lift you no matter your size <3

Summery: You ride Midas after his teasing all day.

read on Ao3 | img source

You had enough of his teasing all day, and you couldn't help at the arousal that pooled at your slit at his devilish acts. You needed him, and couldn't wait any longer. His stolen glances today while observing a new building to rob, with hunger in his eyes, the way he looked at you. The lingering touches.

You followed after him down the hall to your bedroom at the hideout, only finishing dinner moments before. He said nothing as he entered the bedroom, you followed closely behind and shut the door behind you. You sighed at the door, watching him sit down on the bed and began taking his shoes off. You don't know why he didn't bother to get comfortable earlier. As soon as you arrived back this afternoon you removed your boots and uncomfortable bra.

The room was almost dimly lit, with no windows. The walls were a dark grey with beautiful golden swirls and patterns. The four poster bed in the centre of the room against the side wall complimented the rooms interior. Silky dark grey sheets and fluffy gold and black blankets, not to mention the softest pillows you had ever rested upon. Your attention landed back on Midas as he finished removing his boots and tossed them aside. He smiled at you when he caught your gaze, earning him your frown as you strode toward him.

He wore a shit eating grin on that stupid handsome face with his stupid hat and simply acted confused. “What?” He titled his head to the side and you scoffed.

“What was that about today,” you glared at him, “hmm?”

“What was what about today?” He retorted, in which you immediately smacked his chest and pushed him back on the linen, wiping that grin off his face. “Whoa!” He laughed.

You crawled atop him, planting knees on either side of his hips and capturing his lips on your own. You buried your tongue into his mouth, more arousal building into your core. He grunted lightly, pulling away as he shifted you both, repositioning backwards on the bed so he was sitting up, back pressed against the headboard. He captured your mouth in his own greedily, one hand bracing on your hip and the other trailing up your front to cup your breast.

You whimpered in his mouth at his touch. You pulled back, both of you panting slightly as he smirked. You playfully smacked his chest, causing him to pull his hands away and lift them up defensively on either side of him with a playful grin.

You eyed his hat, stupid but adding to his handsome features. You snatched it off, placing it on your own head. He gasped dramatically making to grab it back but you leaned back and he gave up, huffing. You playfully glared at him when he returned the smirk.

On second thought, he certainly didn't seem to mind after properly drinking in the sight. You, seated upon him, never failing to be sexy, and with his hat on. It prided him, like his hat branded you as his. Your face turned crimson at his staring, and he made to say something but you silenced him with your lips. He didn't press to argue, grasping your hips and bringing you closer. You hummed at the sudden feeling of his bulge now pressed against your core.

You hated that he made you feel this way so easily, with so much arousal pooled at your core, from his teasing and hungry glances all day. You don't remember the last time a man made you feel like this, until you met him. You deepened the kiss further at that thought, savouring his warm tongue battling with your own. You lifted yourself just enough, trailing your hands down his torso, along the soft fabric of his shirt, finding the belt at his jeans, unclasping them without removing your place at his mouth. You unzipped the denim, causing him to break the kiss. You panted softly as he chuckled at your movements.

‘Impatient, are we?” He grinned, instantly breaking into a groan as you cupped his bulge through his boxers, “shut up.” You grinned after wiping that shit eating grin off his face. You braced a hand on his chest as you held him below, feeling him firmly. He was warm and of generous thickness and length, the thought about being filled in the next coming moments almost made you drool.

You couldn't wait much longer and removed yourself from him, awkwardly but eagerly sliding your panties, pants and socks off, tossing both to the floor without a care. He dared to laugh again at your struggles, but stopped as he drank in the sight of you bare before him. You merely smiled at his drunken gaze, and made your way back to him.

You straddled him, lips embracing him once more, once again capturing his clothed cock in your hand. He smiled in the light pleasure he was receiving, rocking himself into your hand at each of your strokes. Suddenly breaking the kiss and pulling your hand away, he groaned at the loss of your touches.

Why should he get to have all this fun with the way he treated you today. He knew what he was doing to you, knew you were aroused all day. You grinned at him, for teasing him like that. The urges to tease him all night were high, but your patience was thin, and your cunt ached for him and his cock alone.

You motioned for him to move up slightly so you could free him. You tugged his jeans and boxers down to his ankles, moving back over him but stopped, drinking in the sight of his cock. He was perfect, plenty thick and long just enough to fill your entire cunt. You met his gaze, heat welcoming your face as he caught you staring. He opened his mouth to speak but you put a pointer finger to his lips, “don’t,” you mumbled. He flashed a toothy grin, in which you rolled your eyes.

Replacing your finger with your lips, you sat on his thighs and took him in your hand again, stroking his hard cock, slowly, drawing heavier breaths from his cocky mouth. The way he reacted in your hands only brought you more arousal, and you didn't have to feel yourself to know you were soaked.

You broke apart to watch him, your eyes drifting between the expression on his face and his generous length. You came to a stop near his tip, thumb running over it, its soft and aroused surface, earning a light groan from him.

You played yourself over his cock, guiding him with your hand slowly between your dripping slit. He kissed you then, humming at the pleasure at his tip. You sighed into his mouth, now only guiding his cock gently but firmly over your clit, earning you sparks of pleasure. You continued this movement, and he plunged his tongue into your mouth, breaking apart only to bite your bottom lip.

You gasped at the jolt of light pain it brought you. Guiding him once again down your slit, you stopped at your entrance sinking just enough to almost invade. Bracing both hands on his chest, you sunk yourself at once over his entire length, wincing at your own greedy movements. There was slight stinging from having him so suddenly at once. You braced a hand on his shoulder and looked into his one golden eye. Slight concern but arousal shown in his gaze, he braced both hands on your hips, thumbing soothing circles.

You kissed him again, softer this time, he returned the kiss with a hum and you began rocking your hips. You moaned when the pain was replaced with pleasure from his divine cock. Every few moments the kiss was broken at your soft whimpers and pants. His hands trailed up your stomach, bringing your shirt with him, exposing your breasts. His hands were immediately upon them, kneading them softly with each bounce of your hips. Breaking the kiss, he attached his mouth to your nipple, biting and sucking softly. Bringing his now free hand back on your hip, the other still kneading your other breast.

You stuttered a broken moan at his sudden attention to your breasts. You soon found your own free hand tangled in his hair, closing your hand tight, earning a pained but pleasured grunt from the man below you.

Lewd sounds drifted throughout the room. Midas suckling at your breast, your melodic moans and dirty dirty sound of your slick with each bounce of your hips. It hadn't been even a few minutes and you were close, bands forming together in your lower abdomen, ready to snap.

Your moans became lewder with each thrust of your hips. You whimpered when he guided his hand from your hip to your ass, cupping firmly. Your head tipped down onto his soft hair as he moved his mouth to your other nipple, trailing his other hand to the other half of your ass. You whimpered at how close you were, and knew he was close too at his sudden grunts and grasping on your ass.

You suddenly yanked his head back, fistfulls of his soft hair in your palm as the band snapped, tilting your own head back at your orgasm. Midas only attached himself to your neck, biting and grinning at how good his cock always made you feel. He bucked his hips into yours, riding out your orgasm. You gasped out at the pounding of his hips crashing into your own, which caused the hat on your head to tilt down, almost covering your eyes.

The increase of your lewd wetness and whines brought his own orgasm, spilling his seed deep into your sensitive cunt. You let out a pleasurable groan at his spilled warmth and loosed the painful grip from his hair, slowing your hips down, drinking in his seed.

He finished his spill, pressing his forehead gently at your collarbone as you rested your chin on him, both panting. Midas cock still buried in your tight cunt. After a few minutes of calming down, he looked at you, smiling at the position of his hat. He laughed lightly as he removed it, placing it on the mattress beside you both.

“I should tease you more often.” He smirked, your expression shifting at his remark.

He removed that expression instantly by kissing you gently, bringing back the eased state of your activities minutes before. You broke the kiss to remove yourself slowly with a whimper, Midas himself sighing. Completely removed with a slick sound, his seed made to dribble down your inner thighs. Your legs ached from riding him as you removed yourself.

He got off the bed, fully removing his pants and unexpectedly, he scooped you into his arms and headed for the bathroom, earning a giggle from you. He cleaned you up with gentle and loving care with a warm cloth, cleaning himself after. You both curled up fully naked softly into the bed that night, cuddling under the warm covers and falling into a much needed sleep.

Getting out of bed in the dead of night to use the bathroom, you paused on your way out dead in your tracks at a glance in the mirror. Golden handprints and marks imprinted upon your body. Golden handprints painted your ass and hips, and smudge marks of gold were painted up your body and breasts. You didn't pay the hickeys at your neck any mind as you admired his imprinting. You felt a fool for not noticing hours before. You scoffed in slight disbelief and crawled back into bed, once again embracing his warmth.

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PATTERN BANNERS | tufted 02.

ahhhhhh, the colours on my first set of galaxy dividers is one of my faves. thought it’d look great with this pattern as well. lemme know what you think ! 🤍

colours : 001 / 002 / 003 / 004

please like, reblog, and credit if you use :)

support me through ko-fi | more dividers →

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origami flowers

sebastian x reader —ᡣ𐭩 blurb

you hear a familiar voice call your name as you trudge down the hallway of weston college, your shoes clicking against the concrete floor. you're not sure where you're going; being the faux nurse of the school while ciel and sebastian figure out why children are going missing gives you more free time than you're used to. but with no need to go to the infirmary, you've been exploring the campus.

pausing mid-step and spinning, your eyes widen when you see ciel running towards you.

"young master?" your voice goes up an octave in surprise. "what happened?" you ask, your voice sharp with concern.

the younger boy pants with his hands on his knees as he catches his breath. "we have an... issue..."

you glance behind you to check nobody is coming and lean down—it's a good thing everybody is in class. "where's sebastian?"

ciel gives you a worried look and stands straight, his hand wiping the perspiration from his forehead. "that's precisely the problem... i don't know."

furrowing your brows, you sigh and stride past your master. ciel's calls of your name fall on deaf ears as you make a beeline for your infirmary. "i apologise, young master. follow me."

ciel shakes his head in disbelief at the random demand but follows you nonetheless, his steps quickening to catch up to you.

"shouldn't you be in class?" you tease, turning the corner.

ciel rolls his eyes and huffs in annoyance. "i was, but i broke the quill i was using, and i was sent to my dorm to retrieve another."

"i see," you smirk, trying to hold back your giggle. "and did this broken quill have anything to do with the fact that you haven't seen sebastian since last night?"

"perhaps..." he eyes you suspiciously. and then his face slackens and he glares at you. "you know where he is."

you wave your hand flippantly. "i have an idea."

fishing the key to your temporary office out of your blazer pocket, you slide it into the keyhole and twist.

and low and behold, ciel's butler sits hunched over your desk.

ciel lets out a strangled sound and steps into the clinic. "what the devil are you doing in here?"

"my lord," sebastian raises his head in surprise, something foreign to both you and your young master.

sighing, you approach him, watching his hands fold paper delicately.

ciel just shakes his head at the pile of origami flowers overflowing onto the floor next to sebastian. "playing with paper, are we?"

you notice what ciel does a moment later, your cheeks warming at the sheer amount of work he had done. "seb..."

sebastian stands, paper flowers falling from his lap onto the floor as his hand comes to rest on his chest. "i apologise, my lord, i did not realise the time."

he doesn't meet your gaze as you pick up a pink flower and twirl it between your fingers.

ciel narrows his eyes but says nothing at the sight.

"i was unaware i was occupied for this long, my lord. i will get to making the pastries for afternoon tea shortly."

ciel shakes his head, turning toward the door. "no need. they are no longer required. i will handle the situation myself."

sebastian nods despite knowing ciel cannot see. "indeed."

"just be in your office tonight so we can prepare for soma's arrival."

lowering his head, sebastian bows. "yes, my lord."

and when the door to your clinic closes, sebastian's hand returns to his side. "i saw one of the students making them," he gestures to the flowers. "do you like them?"

you smile and nod. "they're incredible, sebastian."

leaning over your desk, he gathers his creations, and before your eyes, they transform into a bouquet. your eyes widen at the sight, and you look up at him. sebastian's cheeks are dusted pink, though you deduce it to the lighting because he doesn't show such emotion.

"these are for you," sebastian mutters, handing you the bunch.

your breath gets caught in your throat before you whisper, "thank you."

a smirk pulls at the corner of sebastian's lips, and he nods once. "you're welcome, dearest."

you turn away from his piercing gaze, grasping the flowers in your arms. "next time you stay in my bed, don't become so distracted from your duties that ciel has to come to me to find you."

this time, sebastian's lips morph into a smug smile. "of course. it won't happen again."

and when you put the origami flowers into an empty vase, you know he's running through all the scenarios where he could do exactly that once more.

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"Aye, Smyth. It's worse than we thought."

(Check out this INCREDIBLE artist! @drpumpkinsart who was kind enough to draw a scene from my fanfic All That Glitters)

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Kink List With Jaime Lannister

A = Aftercare (What they’re like after sex)

Jaime is generally an affectionate and tender partner after sex. He likes to take care of his lover, gently caressing and holding them close to his chest. He enjoys conversation and pillow talk, as well as small displays of affection such as soft kisses and reassuring touches.

B = Body part (Their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

For himself, Jaime is quite proud of his physique, particularly his toned arms and broad shoulders. He also takes pride in his handsome face, often giving himself a nod when he glances into a mirror.

When it comes to his partner, Jaime finds great pleasure in your soft, supple curves. He especially enjoys running his hands over your hips and thighs, feeling the smoothness of your skin.

C = Cum (Anything to do with cum basically… I’m a disgusting person)

Jamie likes to take things slow. And build up the tension until you are practically begging for it. And when he finally lets go, oh boy. He's not shy about painting his lover's face and tits with his hot, thick load. He especially loves watching it drip off your lips as they try to catch every last drop. There's nothing like seeing someone covered in his essence, marked as his. Of course, sometimes he gets a bit more creative. Might slide a finger through the mess and feed it back to you.

D = Dirty Secret (Pretty self-explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

Jaime's dirty secret is his hidden collection of erotic literature, tucked away discreetly in his private chamber. Behind the closed doors, he indulges in titillating tales that arouse his imagination and provide him with secret pleasure when no one is watching.

E = Experience (How experienced are they? Do they know what they’re doing?)

Jaime, being the renowned knightly figure he is, has a wealth of experience in the art of lovemaking. He is well versed in the ways of pleasing a partner, knowing just the right touches and motions to ignite desire and passion. His years of practice have perfected his technique, making him a skilled and capable lover.

F = Favorite Position (This goes without saying. Will probably include a visual)

Jaime's favorite position is the classic missionary. He enjoys being able to look into his partner's eyes and see the pleasure he is bringing you. He also takes great pleasure in the intimacy and closeness this position provides, relishing in the sensation of your bodies fitting together like two puzzles pieces.

G = Goofy (Are they more serious in the moment, or are they humorous, etc)

Jaime tends to be quite serious and intense in the heat of the moment, fully focused on pleasing his partner and losing himself in the ecstasy of lovemaking. He does, however, have a playful and cheeky side that comes out at times, often making small jokes or witty remarks that bring a smile to your face.

H = Hair (How well groomed are they, does the carpet match the drapes, etc.)

Jaime keeps himself well-groomed, with his golden locks neatly styled and his facial hair trimmed. He is also a man of many layers, as his natural body hair does indeed match his head in color.

I = Intimacy (How are they during the moment, romantic aspect…)

During intimate moments with a partner, Jaime is fiercely passionate and romantic. He enjoys the softer aspects of lovemaking, as well as the physical act itself. His touches and caresses are gentle and affectionate, and he often whispers sweet nothings into your ear, expressing his love for you in sweet nothings and tender gazes.

J = Jack Off (Masturbation headcanon)

Jaime is generally a private person, so he typically reserves masturbation for times when he is alone and has some free time to himself. When he does indulge, he takes his time, relishing in the sensations and using it as an opportunity to explore his own desires and fantasies. He does not indulge frequently, but he also does not deny himself the occasional pleasure when the mood strikes him.

K = Kink (One or more of their kinks)

One of Jaime's kinks is a desire for control in the bedroom. He enjoys taking the lead, and your submission and surrender to him is a source of intense arousal. He also has a slight sadistic streak, taking pleasure in doling out pain and punishment in small, controlled amounts. He finds a certain thrill in being in control and having you completely at his mercy.

L = Location (Favorite places to do the do)

Jaime's preferred locations for romantic encounters are usually private and comfortable, such as his own room or a secluded, quiet spot in the castle. He enjoys making love in soft, comfortable surroundings where he feels relaxed and at ease. Additionally, he has a penchant for finding secret, secluded spots, such as hidden alcoves or darkened corners, for quick and passionate trysts.

M = Motivation (What turns them on, gets them going)

Jaime is easily aroused by the sight and touch of his partner's body. The mere mention or suggestion of intimacy can often leave him aching with desire, and the feeling of skin on skin is enough to send his senses reeling. He also gets turned on when you take the lead and shows confidence and assertiveness, as this unexpected switch in roles is a thrilling and arousing experience for him.

N = NO (Something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

Jaime is a confident and experienced lover, but there are a few boundaries he would never cross. He is firmly against any form of forced or non-consensual intimacy, and he is also opposed to anything that would cause his partner emotional or physical harm. Additionally, he has no interest in humiliating or degrading you in any way, instead preferring to focus on pleasure and praise toward you.

O = Oral (Preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc)

Jaime highly enjoys both giving and receiving oral, and he is skilled in both. He takes pride in his technique, focusing on the pleasure and satisfaction of his partner. With his strong, calloused hands, he provides a firm and steady touch, and his mouth is skilled and talented, knowing just how to bring you to the edge and back again.

P = Pace (Are they fast and rough? Slow and sensual? etc.)

When it comes to the pace of lovemaking, Jaime tends to switch it up depending on his mood and your preferences. He can be quick and ravenous when the moment calls for it, but he also enjoys taking things slow and sensual, prolonging the pleasure and savoring the moments. He likes to keep you on your toes, varying the speed and intensity to keep them in a state of anticipation and arousal.

Q = Quickie (Their opinions on quickies rather than proper sex, how often, etc.)

Jaime is not against the idea of quickies. In fact, he finds them thrilling and exciting as a way to satisfy a sudden, intense urge. He believes that quick, passionate encounters have their place in a relationship as a way to keep the flame burning and maintain a sense of excitement. However, he also values the experience of longer, more passionate encounters, so he prefers a balance of both in his intimate relationships.

R = Risk (Are they game to experiment, do they take risks, etc.)

Jaime is generally open-minded and willing to experiment when it comes to intimacy, as long as it doesn't cross the boundaries he has set. He is not afraid to take small risks and try new things, believing that it can bring a thrill and excitement to his intimate encounters. However, he is also wary of any serious risks, as his position as a knight means that he must be cautious about any actions that could reflect poorly on his reputation.

S = Stamina (How many rounds can they go for, how long do they last…)

Jaime is a man in prime physical condition, and his stamina reflects this. He possesses remarkable endurance and can go for multiple rounds in a single night, with each round lasting a respectable amount of time. He may tire eventually, but he is always willing to go the distance to ensure his and your satisfaction.

T = Toy (Do they own toys? Do they use them? On a partner or themselves?)

Jaime does not own any personal toys, but he is open to the idea of using them in the bedroom. He believes that they can add an extra layer of pleasure and excitement to intimate encounters, and he is not opposed to using them on you or even having them used on himself.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

Jaime loves to tease you in the bedroom. He enjoys stirring up desire and anticipation, using his words and touch to bring you to the brink and then pulling back just when you think you're about to reach climax. He takes delight in seeing your expressions of pleasure and frustration, knowing that he is the cause of your heightened sensations. He tends to prolong the teasing, enjoying the power he has over your body and the sweet torture he inflicts.

V = Volume (How loud they are, what sounds they make)

Jaime is not particularly loud during intimate encounters, but he does make his pleasure known with soft grunts and moans. His sounds tend to be low, deep, and guttural, a reflection of his intense need and desire. He may occasionally breathe out a few sweet nothings, whispering words of praise and encouragement to you, but his sounds are generally more subtle and restrained.

W = Wild Card (Get a random headcanon for the character of your choice)

Jaime has a secret fetish for biting. He finds the idea of leaving small, tender marks on your skin, both arousing and possessive, and he loves the feeling of sinking his teeth into your flesh. He is always careful not to bite too hard or cause any permanent damage, but the sensation of his sharp, white teeth against your soft skin drives him wild.

X = X-Ray (Let’s see what’s going on in those pants, picture or words)

His cock is 8 inches long, uncut, thick, and veiny. It has a large head with a hint of pink to it. When he cums, his load is always thick and heavy, covering anyone who is lucky enough to be underneath him in a warm blanket of pleasure.

Y = Yearning (How high is their sex drive?)

Jaime has a high sex drive, fueled by his intense desires and passionate nature. He thinks about intimacy frequently, often finding himself consumed by thoughts of you and the intense connection you share. He finds it difficult to resist the pull of his desires, and even when distracted by other tasks, he can only focus so long before his thoughts drift back to the idea of being alone with you and losing himself in the heat of passion.

Z = ZZZ (… how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

Jaime tends to fall asleep rather quickly after an intimate encounter. The physical exhaustion coupled with the intense release of pleasure leaves him feeling content and relaxed, and he often finds himself drifting into a peaceful slumber within a few minutes. He is not one to linger in the afterglow, but rather one to curl up with you and embrace the comfort of a deep, restful sleep.

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ෆ 𝐦𝐨𝐨𝐧 & 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐬 𝐝𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐬

reblogs, likes, & credit appreciated! do not recolor / repost & claim as your own. larger version here!

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◦˚~ ANIMATED MOON & STARS DIVIDERS ~˚◦

Requested by: @inkyprince Info: these were all drawn/made & animated by me. please reblog/like if use!