nerivlyrn

[nerivlyrn]

One shot fic idea about one of the characters pulling a CatVi Kinktober fiasco where they go online and announce a kinkless kinktober event and get clowned

I do not know what a CatVi is! This also sounds funny and I don’t think I write comedy very well so I do not think I will be doing this lol

(This is like… kind of Theon coded to me though?? Bro thinks he’s slick having that three way with Patrek Mallister until he meets real kink fan Ramsay Bolton)

[nerivlyrn]

King - Cersei x Theon arranged marriage au

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Archive of Our Own - King

Masterlist

My third Cersei goonslop one shot there is a theme I’m afraid

3k words, smut, arranged marriage au, Cersei is very mean to Theon and he loves it, I wrote this and immediately seethed with jealousy towards Theon

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Cersei hated her father for this.

She had schemed for Robert’s death, savoured the thought of it like the ripest of wines, and when at last he was gone she had believed herself free, untethered, unshackled, delivered from the stinking weight of that drunken brute who crushed her beneath him night after night. She had endured him with her body stiff and her mind elsewhere, clinging to thoughts of Jaime’s hands, Jaime’s mouth, Jaime’s voice murmuring her name as only a twin could. She had told herself that once Robert was rotting in the ground, she would belong to no man but Jaime. No more duty, no more humiliation, no more dutiful lies.

But she had been a fool. Robert’s body was scarcely cold, the stench of the hunt still clinging to him, when the council began whispering of her future. Her future, as if she were a trinket to be polished and displayed where her father chose. And once Lord Tywin swept back into King’s Landing, all fire and iron, her illusions withered. Her freedom had never been hers to claim. It had always belonged to him.

The suitors were paraded before her in name if not in flesh, each suggestion an insult in its own way. Oberyn Martell: a swaggering libertine with more lovers than she could count, men and women both, proud of it, flaunting his filth without shame. He would spread her legs with laughter, she thought, and then move on to her cupbearer. She had sneered and refused him outright.

Willas Tyrell: crippled, scholarly, fond of hounds and hawks and horses. Worse still, brother to that doe-eyed girl Margaery, with her soft voice and calculating smiles. Cersei saw in her a mirror of her youth and hated her for it. No, she would not bind herself to the Reach, not to the Tyrells with their perfumed plots and hungry ambition.

And Theon Greyjoy. A Stark’s pet, an Ironborn mongrel who reeked of salt and smoke. The very notion was laughable. She had not bothered to grace her father with words, only a curl of her lip, a sharp laugh, the contemptuous flick of her eyes.

Other names followed, some laughable, some merely distasteful. Each she swatted aside like gnats. She told herself she was still the queen, still the lioness, still mistress of her fate.

But Tywin Lannister was not a man to be denied.

Within months the matter was settled, not by her hand but by his. A pact struck in fire and blood: Balon Greyjoy bent the knee, the Iron Fleet bent their sails to the Lannisters’ cause, and Theon Greyjoy was carried into her bed as her lord and husband.

Every morning she woke beside him, and every morning her hatred for Tywin Lannister grew sharper, hotter, until it was a living thing inside her, more consuming even than her loathing for Robert.

However, the longer she spent with her new, young husband, the more she uncovered the cracks beneath his swagger. For all his salt-born bravado, Theon Greyjoy was dreadfully insecure, hungry for approval, eager to please, and far too easy to read. His arrogance was nothing more than a shell, a flimsy mask she could tear apart with a glance, a word, a touch. And Cersei discovered, to her dark delight, that it thrilled her. With Robert, she had felt trapped, chained. With Theon, she felt powerful.

Robert had been cruel in his indifference. His hands were heavy, his lust clumsy, and when he struck her or cursed her, he would wave it away with wine-soaked excuses. He belittled her before servants, mocked her in the throne room, reduced her to a broodmare and a trophy in equal measure. She had despised him for it, hated every night she lay beneath him, biting her tongue.

Theon was different, though no less boastful. Before lords and knights, he strutted and preened, calling her his prize, his conquest, a jewel plucked from the crown itself. A reward, he claimed, though what he had ever done to earn her Cersei could not fathom. He had won no battles, commanded no men, and yet he paraded her name on his lips like a victory chant. But the moment the doors closed and the eyes of the court were shut out, the bluster dissolved. His bravado fell away like mist beneath the morning sun, leaving only a boy, an uncertain, yearning boy, who bent too easily beneath her will.

It was in those moments, away from prying eyes, that she claimed her dominion. She shouted at him, struck him, hurled goblets and candlesticks when her fury demanded it, and poured all the venom and frustration Robert had planted in her veins upon his head. His handsome, foolish face became the canvas for her rage, and each time she lashed out, she expected him to snap, to strike back, to remind her that he was still Ironborn.

But he never did.

The first time she slapped him, sharp across the cheek, the sound echoing in their chamber, he had moaned. Not in pain, but in something deeper, more shameful. Then he had seized her wrist, and kissed her with a desperation that startled her, and begged. Begged her to take him, begged her not to stop.

The begging always amused her. He whined like a maiden too long untouched, trembling and breathless, nothing like the rake whose name was whispered in the halls of Winterfell for leaving broken maidens and bitter husbands behind. But when he pleaded with her, eyes wide, voice raw, she found she could never quite deny him.

There was a certain intoxication in it, that power, that reversal. For once, she was not the conquered, but the conqueror.

Cersei had recently discovered a new delight in making him earn what he wanted. Power was sweetest when savoured slowly, and Theon was quick to learn that she relished withholding as much as giving. So much of the evening had already been spent with him on his knees, bent to her service.

It had been a long and tiresome day, petitions, quarrels, her father’s sharp commands still echoing in her skull. The weight of it all had left her simmering, restless, aching for release. So when they at last retired to her chambers, she did not undress, did not even glance at the bed. Instead, she seated herself at her writing desk, the lioness enthroned, and with a languid flick of her fingers beckoned him to her.

Theon obeyed at once, kneeling between her legs, pushing back her skirts, tugging down her silken smallclothes with trembling eagerness. Then his mouth was upon her cunt, warm and insistent, and Cersei let her quill glide across parchment as his tongue traced her, again and again. Minutes blurred into more minutes, and still he stayed there, drinking her in, slurping hungrily, greedy as though she were the only sustenance in the world.

Cersei lifted her goblet of wine and sipped, her eyes never leaving the lines she wrote. She didn’t speak to him, not a word of encouragement, not a single gasp of praise. The most she gave were sharp tugs to his dark hair when he pleased her especially well, pulling his face more firmly against her, letting that hooked nose of his catch her just right. She preferred to keep him wordless, nameless, more a tool than a man. And yet she could feel in every groan, every desperate shift of his tongue, how much he adored it. The less she gave, the more he craved.

Below her, Theon groaned into her flesh, rutting helplessly against the cold stone floor as he devoured her. His need rolled off him in waves, he wanted her to break, to cry out, to tumble over that edge he worked so hard to bring her to. And Cersei knew she could, easily, if she allowed it. But there was far more pleasure in denying him. Each time her body began to tighten, to throb with release, she caught him by the hair and pulled him away. His lips came free with a wet sound, his breath ragged, his eyes glazed and pleading. And then, with a cruel little smile, she would push his face down again, command without words, make him start over.

She kept him always hungry, always desperate, never sated, just as she preferred.

Cersei tightened her grip in his hair until his scalp must have burned, and dragged his face hard against her cunt, giving him no choice but to drown in her. At last, she allowed herself the indulgence she had been holding back from, let him carry her over the brink. The rush came in waves, hot and unyielding, her body seizing and shuddering as pleasure tore through her. She gasped, sharp and breathless, her thighs trembling against his cheeks as her release spilt across his lips and chin.

Theon did not falter. He only pressed closer, mouth greedy, tongue insistent, lapping up every shiver, every gasp, every drop of her. He groaned against her, the sound vibrating through her flesh, as if her pleasure were his sustenance, his reward. Even as she writhed and arched, he kept on licking, sucking, drinking her down until she could scarcely bear the heat of it any longer.

When at last her fist slackened in his hair, he pulled back, breathless and glowing with triumph. His lips were glistening, his chin wet, his eyes heavy-lidded and hazy, yet fixed on her with naked devotion. He looked a man undone, but exultant. A grin spread across his face, boyish, unguarded, utterly adoring.

Cersei leaned back in her chair, the tension bleeding from her body, languid now in her victory. She drank in the sight of him kneeling there between her thighs: dishevelled, marked by her, radiant with the pleasure of pleasing her.

“My Queen,” he murmured, nuzzling at the soft flesh of her thigh, his voice hoarse and low, almost reverent. “Tell me I did well.” It was not demand but entreaty, a plea wrapped in worship.

Cersei laughed a sharp, mocking sound that cut through the haze of tenderness before it could settle. Yet even as she laughed, her hand slid down to stroke his hair in a softer gesture, indulgent, almost fond. She allowed herself the smallest nod, her mouth curling with satisfaction.

“You did well, husband,” she said, each word deliberate, reminding him that he belonged to her, yet granting the praise he craved.

Theon’s grin widened against her leg. He kissed her skin just above her knee, gentle, almost chaste, as though that single word from her lips had been reward enough. He asked for nothing more, and she knew he would not. It was not his place to demand. His place was here, on his knees, eager, obedient, always hungry for the next chance to please her.

Cersei rose from her desk with unhurried grace, the green silks of her gown whispering across the floor as she moved. She crossed to the window, the moonlight catching on her hair and gilding her skin in silver. There she paused, framed by night, and began to unlace her gown with deliberate, practised motions.

Theon’s eyes followed every movement as though spellbound, his breath caught, his mouth parting with hunger. When the gown slipped from her shoulders and pooled at her feet, leaving her in her shift and small clothes, he shifted instinctively to the floor, crawling toward her like a man drawn by some unseen tether. His desire was obvious, almost boyish in its urgency, and it made her chuckle low in her throat. She rolled her eyes at his impatience, but did nothing to halt his approach.

He reached her as more of her garments fell away, his hands reverent on her calves, his mouth trailing slow, burning kisses along the inside of her thighs. She lifted the shift over her head, unveiling herself piece by piece, while he clung to her legs as though he could not wait another breath to taste her again.

“You’re needy tonight,” she murmured, her tone chiding, though there was no steel in it, only amusement.

Theon nodded against her skin, nipping lightly at the curve of her thigh, every movement soaked in longing. His response was wordless, but fervent.

“And you’ve been very attentive,” she allowed, her hand drifting to his dark hair. She scratched lightly at his scalp, the same absent fondness she might give to a favoured hound or sleek cat. Theon shuddered at the touch, a sigh spilling from his lips as his eyes fluttered shut in bliss, undone by so small a reward.

“Come to bed,” she commanded at last, her voice firm, the queen beneath the lover. “You’ve been good.”

She left him kneeling by the window as she moved to the great bed, climbing atop it with the languor of a woman certain she would be worshipped. Stretching out on her side, wholly bare, she lounged like a lioness at ease, golden and radiant in the wash of candlelight. Her gaze never left him, cool and appraising, drinking in the sight of his wanting.

Theon groaned low in his throat at the vision of her sprawled and waiting, his restraint snapping. He clambered to his feet at once, tugging away his clothes with frantic haste, eager to strip himself bare and claim the place beside her that she permitted him.

Cersei had softened and rounded since Robert’s death. Freedom, brief, fragile, but hers all the same, had given her a taste for indulgence. She savoured roasted boar, rich and dripping with fat, and drank more wine than she ever had while shackled to her late husband. Her figure had changed; her belly no longer taut, but softened with ease and pleasure, her breasts fuller, heavier, ripe as if swelling with the excess of her new life. At first, she had eyed her reflection with a flicker of doubt, wondering if age and indulgence had dulled her allure. But it had taken only Theon’s hungry gaze and eager hands to banish such insecurity. To him she was more than beautiful, she was abundance itself, a feast laid out before him.

He pounced upon her like a starving man, covering her in a rain of kisses, dragging lips and tongue across every curve and hollow of her body. No part of her went ignored, her shoulders, her stomach, the swell of her thighs, all worshipped with the same fervent heat. His hands roamed with equal greed, kneading, stroking, holding her as though he might fall into pieces if he did not cling tightly enough.

Cersei reclined among the silks and pillows of her great bed, golden hair fanned across them like a halo, and held him with a grip that betrayed no softness at all. When he began to fuck her, she pulled him close with a force that spoke of possession, not of tenderness. Her nails raked down his back with punishing sharpness, and she tugged at his ear with her teeth until he whimpered against her neck.

But he never faltered. Even as her hands marked him, even as her voice broke into sharp groans of command, Theon thrusted within her with relentless eagerness, desperate to give her everything she demanded.

“Yes… yes…” Cersei sighed, her voice thick and breathless, her words breaking into gasps. “Just like that… oh—” Her pleasure sharpened, and she twisted a fistful of his hair, yanking so hard that he cried out. The sound only fueled her further.

He kissed her in the next breath, mouth desperate, lips swollen. She devoured him in turn, biting down until she tasted the salt of his tears falling against her cheek and trailing to her lips. That pleased her, it thrilled her to know he gave himself over so wholly. Her nails carved fiery lines down his back, and when he tore his lips from hers to draw breath, she struck him with an open hand, sharp and commanding.

He cried out again, but there was no retreat in him. Instead, he pressed back into her mouth, kissing her through the sting, mumbling broken apologies between breaths, each word tinged with reverence.

And Cersei held him tighter, savouring not only his body but the worship in his surrender.

Cersei reached another orgasm, her body shuddering around him, and only then did Theon’s release break loose, crashing after hers in a frantic, helpless rush. His cry was muffled against her shoulder, his body convulsing with the force of it, and when at last he could bear no more, he slipped free and rolled onto his back beside her.

He lay there undone, chest heaving, sweat shining on his skin, tears still clinging to the corners of his eyes. His breath came in sharp, broken gasps, each one catching as though he were overwhelmed not only by pleasure but by the weight of being emptied, remade in her hands. The small, unguarded sobs that escaped him were music to her ears.

Cersei stretched languidly among the silks, her body loose, satisfied, regal. A low, contented sigh slipped from her lips as she turned her head to look at him: Theon Greyjoy, so thoroughly ruined, trembling and raw, his devotion written across every line of his face. The sight of him like that, spent and weeping, yet still hers, warmed her more than the heat of the act itself.

She reached for her goblet, lifted it with a steady hand, and drank deep, savouring the rich, heady taste of the wine. Power was sweetest when it lingered, when she could drink it down at leisure.

“You hurt me,” Theon murmured at last, his voice hoarse, fragile. He rubbed at his damp face with the heel of his palm.

“No,” Cersei cut back sharply, her tone snapping like a whip. “I didn’t.” She let the words hang there before softening them, just slightly, her mouth curling into a smile that was not unkind. “It was the wine, sweetness.”

She reclined further into the pillows, tilting her goblet idly as though she sat not in a bedchamber but upon a throne. In that moment, watching him lie low beside her, the taste of his surrender still thick on her tongue, she felt it, absolute, unshaken.

She felt like a king.

[nerivlyrn]

October soon… my fav month…

I am torn between doing a kinktober series of much much much shorter fics like <2k words for each one

OR a handful of more horror inspired one shots like au type (monsters aus, werewolves, ghosts etc)

OR like half the amount of each and kind of do both

Either way these will be shorter than the usual 4/5k one shots I usually do

Also for both of these if you wanna make a suggestion pls do I don’t know if I have it in me to think up 31 whole kink scenarios without any input

[nerivlyrn]

Mouthfeel Chapter Sixteen: Greed

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Archive of Our Own - Mouthfeel

꧁ Previous Chapter ꧂

CW: Binge eating, torture, gore

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Sara lay twisting beneath her furs, her body weary but her mind mercilessly awake. The bed felt too large, too cold without anyone’s warmth to fill it. The fortress itself seemed determined to deny her sleep, Moat Cailin groaned and shuddered with every sigh of wind, its sodden foundations shifting like the bones of some ancient, drowned beast. The walls whispered like dying men, timbers creaked like ropes stretched too taut, and every sound scraped across her nerves until she thought she might scream. Rest would not come for her here. Not in this swamp of ghosts.

Then, salvation arrived, not in the shape of peace, but in the form of a knock upon her door.

Ser Brynden Tully, ever the pragmatist, had seen fit to let Theon Greyjoy prove himself useful, assigning him to the patrols circling Robb’s encampment. A dull duty, meant to flush out Lannister spies skulking in the marsh, though thus far the shadows had yielded little more than biting insects and suspicious ripples in the bog water. It was a harmless task, or so they said, and Sara had schooled herself not to worry over Theon while he was gone. But not worrying did nothing to stop the ache, the gnawing impatience, the strange flutter of dread that always swelled until he returned.

So when her door opened and he stepped inside, she flew to him without thought, colliding into his chest with all the desperation of a woman drowning. She clung to him as though he were driftwood on a black and endless sea, her breath unsteady against his collar. She did not question the swell of affection, the sudden need that made her hold him tighter still, she only surrendered to it.

Theon laughed softly, surprised but pleased, and closed his arms around her. One hand buried itself in her hair, the other moved in lazy circles across her back, coaxing calm into her frantic grasp. “Someone missed me,” he murmured into her hairline, his voice half-amusement, half something warmer.

“Don’t be stupid,” she whispered fiercely, though her words betrayed her as her grip only tightened. He smelled of leather and sweat, and beneath that, the damp boggy tang of petrichor clinging to his skin. She pressed her face into the crook of his neck, inhaling him like he was something sacred, grounding herself in the proof that he was here, hers for the moment.

Theon leaned back just enough to study her, a crooked grin pulling at his lips. He clicked his tongue, eyes flicking over her with shameless ease. “Gods, my lady, this is the least flattering nightgown I’ve ever seen. And still, you’ve managed to floor me.” He smirked, then brushed a kiss across her cheek, bold and unrepentant.

Sara smiled despite herself and caught his mouth with her own, granting him the briefest of kisses before she pulled back, her lips brushing against his as she mumbled, “I like my nightgown.” She smoothed down the plain white skirts of it, stubborn even now.

“I like it too,” he admitted, softer this time, before kissing her again. His smirk returned a heartbeat later. “I know you were worried sick,” he said, sarcasm dripping like honey, “but all’s well. Nothing to report except gnats the size of crows.”

“Good.” Her voice came out as little more than a murmur. She slid her hands to his chest, deft fingers loosening the fastenings of his cloak before pushing it from his shoulders. “Come lie with me a while.”

Theon’s eyes softened, his grin slanting into something almost tender. “Gladly, sweet girl.” He pressed a kiss against her temple, lingering for a moment before releasing her. Stripping down with careless ease until only his breeches and thin undershirt remained, he moved with the quiet confidence of a man certain of his welcome.

Sara took his hand without hesitation, her fingers weaving through his as if they belonged there, and drew him toward the bed. She guided him down into the nest of furs and coverlets, pulling the heavy pelts around them until they were swallowed in warmth and shadow. Within that cocoon, it was as though the damp groans of Moat Cailin, the stink of the bog, and the endless weight of war all ceased to matter. There was only Theon, pressed solid and warm against her, and the rise and fall of his chest beneath her cheek.

She nestled into him, curling herself into the hollow of his body, her hands wandering slowly over the hard lines of his back. Her touch was meant to soothe, though she felt it calm her as much as him. His warmth seeped into her bones until she could almost forget the cold stones around them.

Theon seemed equally content, though he had a restlessness about him even in stillness. He kissed her absently, brushing his lips against her temple, her hair, the curve of her cheek, little, wordless touches, like he was reassuring himself she was real.

It was in that soft quiet that the question slipped out of her, unbidden and too bold: “Why do you fight for Robb? Well… for any of the Starks?” The words were hardly more than a whisper, but the change was immediate, his shoulders stiffened beneath her hands, and she cursed herself for the thoughtless cruelty of it.

“Theon, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“Shh.” His voice was low, rough, and he hushed her before she could say more. “It’s fine. You’ve done nothing wrong.” Yet even as he said it, he sighed heavily, and his arms tightened around her, almost bruising in their grip. His hand stroked through her hair, slower now, more deliberate, as though he could anchor himself there. “I’ve been at Winterfell a decade, Sara. Almost half my life.”

“I know that,” she murmured, tracing idle circles against his chest with her fingertip. “But… time doesn’t make loyalty. My half-brother has been at the Dreadfort for a single year, and already he bends himself to my House. He spent most of his life not even knowing he was part of us, and still, he is loyal.”

Theon gave a humourless laugh that had no mirth in it. “Your half-brother is free to come and go as he pleases.”

Sara tilted her head, frowning against him. “And you’re not?”

“I’m not.” His answer came quick, sharp, like a blade drawn too fast from its sheath.

Her brows knit together, and she lifted her gaze to him. “You’re nearly twenty, Theon. And Lord Eddard isn’t here. You aren’t a ward anymore, not really.”

For a long moment, he didn’t answer. Then he buried his face in her hair, his breath hot against her scalp, and his arms came around her again, holding her so tightly it almost hurt. But Sara did not flinch, did not push him away. She only let herself be held, let him clutch at her as though she were his last tether to something steady. And though it should have frightened her, the sharpness of his need, the desperation wound into every touch, it didn’t. It felt good. Gods help her, it felt so good to be needed.

He sighed again, long and heavy, and when he spoke, he chose his words as if they were stones he dared not misplace. “I was never truly a ward. Eddard Stark had my brothers executed, one after the other, and before the pyres had even burned low he put me on a boat. So quickly I didn’t know I was leaving forever. They dress it up now—say I was taken in to be raised among honourable men, to be taught the ways of the North, to grow into something better than the blood that made me. A lie. A comfort for Robb and the rest of them. Aye, Robb believes it, but he was only four when I first stood in Winterfell’s yard, torn from everything I knew. He only saw another boy to chase through the godswood, another brother to spar against. He didn’t see the truth of it. None of them did.”

Sara felt the weight of the truth settle like lead between them. “Oh. I… I knew of your father’s uprising, but—”

“Don’t.” His voice was sharp, then softened to a weary murmur. “You would’ve been a child, far too young to remember the sea turning red and the krakens burning. I don’t expect you to carry that memory.”

“My father fought,” she said quietly, almost defensively, though the words rang hollow.

“I know.” Theon’s mouth twitched bitterly. “I remember watching the banners gather from my mother’s window. The direwolf, the merman, the she-bear… but none twisted the gut like the flayed man.” His voice dropped low, a rasp that seemed to scrape at her ribs. “That one could silence a child’s cry.”

Sara’s heart ached. They had been near the same age, yet where her memory only offered the faintest echo of her father’s absence, Theon carried the whole weight of it, banners and blood and loss pressed into him like scars. She shifted slightly in his embrace, her cheek brushing his temple, and asked softly, “So… you believe you’re a hostage, then?”

“Aye.” His breath shuddered against her collarbone. “That’s the truth of it. If Balon Greyjoy raised his sails again, if he tried once more for the crown of salt and rock, Lord Stark—or Robb now, I suppose—would have to kill me. They would have no choice.” His voice was muffled as his face was buried against her shoulder.

Her throat tightened. “You fight out of fear, then? For Robb, I mean.”

“I fight because I must.” The words were quiet, but there was no mistaking the steel of resentment beneath them. “I’ve stayed loyal to the Starks because the choice was never mine to make. My loyalty was carved out of me the day they took my brothers’ heads. But Robb…” His voice cracked faintly, and he exhaled like a man breaking. “Robb is more than duty. He is my friend. My only true friend.”

Sara’s hand slipped up, stroking slowly through his black curls, still cool and damp from the night air. She said nothing, there was nothing she could say that wouldn’t bruise further. Instead, she offered him her silence, her touch, her warmth, and let him pour his weakness into her. It unsettled her, to see Theon Greyjoy so unguarded, so stripped of the swagger and smirks he wielded like armour. But stranger still was the truth that unfurled inside her as she held him: she liked it. She liked him this way, raw, vulnerable, needing her. It made her feel stronger, steadier, more certain than she had in years.

“I imagine you understand.” Theon’s voice was low, almost lost against her hair, and for a heartbeat she thought she might have misheard him.

That surprised her. “What makes you say that?” Sara asked, her tone soft but wary, as though afraid of where the words might lead.

“Your father,” Theon murmured after a long pause. “He’s… feared. I see it in the men who serve him, even the boldest of them. And I see it in you, though you try to hide it. I think you’re frightened of him—of what he’ll do if you displease him. The way he looks at you sometimes…” His hand drifted up and down her back in a slow, steady rhythm. “Seven hells, the way he scowls at you when I’m near—it unsettles me. Like he’s already plotting the punishment you’ll earn just for standing too close to me.”

Sara went still. The words struck her like cold water, sharper because they were true. She thought of her father’s gaze, the pale, cutting eyes that could strip her down to nothing with a glance. Roose Bolton was a terrifying man. He was not kind, not truly, not in any way that wasn’t laced with poison. Even in moments that passed for tenderness, there was something warped, something possessive in it, the same twisted kind of love Ramsay pressed upon her, only more insidious, more deliberate.

“My father loves me,” she said too quickly, too sharply. The words scraped out of her throat, hoarse and unconvincing, the defence of a child desperate to believe it true.

Theon pressed a kiss to the crown of her head, so gentle it made her chest ache. “Yes,” he whispered, “but… when you anger him, when you disappoint him—does he… does he strike you?” The hesitation in his voice was almost worse than the question itself, as though he feared shattering her with it. “Forgive me,” he added in a rush, “I shouldn’t ask, but it’s been gnawing at me, all the long road here.”

Sara’s mouth went dry. She forced her voice into a soft, steady cadence. “Lord Roose doesn’t hit me.” The words trembled but she pushed them out. “And I never displease him. Not… not beyond a warning, anyway.”

Theon’s arms tightened around her then, protective, almost fierce, and for one fleeting moment she felt something she scarcely remembered feeling: safe. Gods help her, she wanted to break apart in his hold, wanted to sob until she was emptied of every secret she’d buried. She wanted to tell him everything—to tell him that no, Roose did not raise his hand against her, but he let Ramsay do it, and he let Ramsay do worse. She wanted to beg Theon to take her away, to promise that his kisses and his laughter and his arms could keep her from the horrors that awaited her in the Dreadfort’s shadows.

But the words curdled on her tongue, dying in the silence between heartbeats. She could not speak them. She could not risk them.

“You promise?” Theon whispered, his lips brushing the line of her temple.

The taste of iron rose at the back of her throat, but she swallowed it down with all the others. “I promise,” she said softly, steady now, steady enough to sound true.

“I don’t want to feel like this,” Theon murmured, his breath warm against her temple, his words weighted like stones sinking in still water. “I don’t want to be sad. Don’t make me sad, Sara.” His voice cracked on her name, as though even speaking it might tether him to something brighter, something safer.

She closed her eyes and pulled him closer, so close she could almost pretend they were one body, one soul, clinging against the dark. “I don’t want to be sad either,” she whispered, her voice fragile as glass. “You’re usually so good at chasing away the shadows.”

A low chuckle slipped from his throat, wry and sharp, but it softened when his fingers found her chin, tilting her face toward his. “Then let me,” he said, his tone hushed, almost pleading. His eyes searched hers with an intensity that made her ache. “Let me get lost in you, and I’ll drive away every storm, every shadow that clings to you. I’ll tear them from your skin and bury them in me.”

And then his mouth was on hers, urgent, unsteady, desperate for absolution he could never claim. Gods, if that wasn’t a tempting offer, if that wasn’t a cruel mercy. Sara let herself be swept into it, kissed him back with all the hunger she had buried in her bones, with all the need she would never dare name aloud.

The storm within her stilled, if only for the space of a kiss.

The kisses between them deepened until they felt like a fever, hungry, lingering things that pulled the breath from her lungs and left her trembling. The chamber filled with the sounds of them: ragged breaths torn from parted lips, half-formed praise uttered between gasps, sighs that blurred into low moans, the rustling and shifting of pelts that cocooned them against the cold. Theon moved with a restless urgency, but never carelessly; he rolled her back into the furs as though he’d done it a hundred times in his mind before, settling himself between her thighs as if he belonged there. His hand gripped her leg, firm but coaxing, guiding it to curl around his hip. Sara yielded without thought, her body bending to his will as though it had been waiting for the command.

She pulled away to draw breath, lips swollen, and he used the moment to descend upon her neck. His mouth was hot against her skin, each kiss lingering longer than the last until they melted into nips and then into suckling pulls. When his lips trailed to where her gown’s neckline would usually guard her, he pressed harder, leaving behind dark, blooming bruises that marked her collarbone and the curve of her chest, his marks, his claim. Her fingers tangled in his hair, tugging gently, urging him on, and the sound that escaped her was a broken sigh, half-shocked by its own need.

“Sara,” he breathed between his kisses, voice hoarse and reverent. “My Sara.” The words weren’t a boast, but a vow, murmured into her flesh as though he feared the silence might steal her away.

She drifted then, drifted somewhere above herself. Her body lay pliant beneath him, warm and wanted, while her spirit floated just beyond, watching. It was as if she had stepped outside herself, looking down on the girl in the furs with Theon Greyjoy pressing love and hunger into her skin. She could see how fiercely he wanted her, how desperately he held her, and she wondered if that was what desire was supposed to feel like. Her body remembered how to respond, remembered how to arch, how to sigh, how to clutch at him as if her hands had been trained for it. But her heart… her heart felt as though it was on the verge of shattering, overwhelmed by the strange sweetness of being needed, of being claimed.

And yet, for all the dissonance that thrummed in her blood, she did not stop him. She would not. Instead, she clung to him tighter, kissed him back when her lips remembered how, and let the rest of her sink into the warmth of his touch. In the quiet corners of her mind, Sara knew she would let him do whatever he pleased. To be wanted—truly, hungrily wanted—was the greatest mercy the gods had yet granted her.

The girl beneath Theon Greyjoy moaned out his name, soft and trembling, as if the sound had been pulled from her by instinct alone. Sara felt it escape her lips but in the same moment, she was elsewhere, hovering above, watching in that strange, detached haze as the girl with her face and her voice writhed in the furs. She saw her body arch, her own thighs part in wordless invitation, begging without speech for him not to stop. Theon’s rough hands, calloused from sword and bow, slid higher, pushing her nightgown up in a slow ascent until pale skin shone in the candlelight. He touched her as if she were precious, fragile even, his palm skimming the curve of her thigh, his fingertips teasing closer, until they brushed the heated centre of her.

She should have felt only want. She should have stayed in that dreamlike floating. But something dark slithered through the edges of her mind, memory, echo, ghost. A sound, sharp and violent, cracked against the silence of her thoughts. The heavy thwack of Ramsay’s meaty hand colliding with her cheek. The sting, the helplessness, the laughter that followed, it all came rushing back, drowning her in it. In an instant, she crashed back into her body, no longer hovering, no longer detached. Her chest seized, breath caught tight. Her eyes flew wide, glassy with terror, and though Theon’s weight above her was warm, gentle, all she could feel was Ramsay’s shadow pressing in on her.

Theon noticed. He froze at once, his hand still hovering where she had let him touch her a heartbeat before. He pulled back, confusion flashing across his face, quickly chased by concern. “Sara—” he began, voice low, uncertain, but the question never fully left his lips. She broke first. The tears came sudden and unrelenting, pouring from her wide eyes before she could stop them, silent at first, then trembling sobs that wracked her frame.

Theon didn’t hesitate again. He drew his hand back as though burned and gathered her up instead, hauling her into his chest with a protective urgency she hadn’t expected. He sat upright, cradling her like she was something breakable, precious, something no man should ever bruise. His arms were tight but not crushing, firm but not possessive, and he murmured nothing, no questions, no demands, only the steady hush of his breathing against her hair.

Sara buried her face in his shoulder, unable to tell him what ghosts had clawed their way into her bed. But for the first time in what felt like years, when the tears came, there was someone there to catch them.

Theon rocked her back and forth for what felt like hours, though time had no shape in the haze of her grief. His arms were strong but gentle, one hand curled protectively around the back of her head while the other rubbed soothing circles along her spine. He pressed feather-light kisses into her hairline, onto her temple, onto the crown of her head, as though trying to kiss away the sobs themselves. Slowly, painfully, her cries softened to shaky breaths, and her trembling began to quiet beneath his steady touch. Still, he did not release her. His gaze lingered on her tear-streaked face, patient and unyielding, waiting for her to gather herself, waiting for her to find the strength to speak.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered at last, the words cracked and hoarse, but steady enough that she dared let them out.

Theon shook his head almost instantly, the denial rushing from him. “Don’t. No, sweetheart, don’t apologise.” His voice was raw, strained, but he tried to soften it with a crooked smile. “I guess… not tonight, huh?” He forced a note of levity, as though pretending he wasn’t rattled to his core by the sight of her breaking in his arms.

Sara gave a small laugh, weak, fleeting, but real enough to ease the tightness in his chest. She humoured his attempt at lightness, even as her eyes still glistened. “Not tonight,” she agreed softly.

Theon exhaled, relief flickering across his face before his tone turned quiet again, cautious. “Can I stay anyway?”

She blinked, surprised. “Stay?”

“Aye. Stay.” His voice dropped almost to a murmur, threaded with something vulnerable. “I’d like to stay. Even if it’s just to hold you.”

For the first time since the tears had started, Sara looked up at him properly, studying the boy who held her as though she might break. The boy who smelled of sweat and steel and damp earth, but whose eyes now carried nothing of cruelty, only pleading. “You want to sleep here?” she asked.

He nodded once, firmly, but his hand trembled against her side.

Sara searched him for a moment longer before she, too, nodded. “Alright. We’ll sleep.” A faint smile tugged at her lips, fragile, weary, but true.

Theon let out a long, unsteady sigh, as though her consent had lifted something crushing from his chest. He shifted, carefully easing them both down into the tangle of furs and pelts, wrapping her once more against his chest. No kisses this time, no heated touches. Only closeness. Only the reassurance of arms that tightened when she stirred and breaths that deepened when hers began to falter.

She pressed her ear to his chest, listening, and slowly set her breathing to match the rhythm of his. For the first time in longer than she could remember, the world did not feel entirely sharp-edged. Within minutes, their bodies stilled, their breaths twined together, and sleep claimed them, two fractured souls holding fast to each other against the darkness.

In her dreams, Sara was bound to the flaying cross.

The ropes cut cruelly into her wrists and ankles, each knot biting deep into raw flesh until her hands throbbed and her feet went numb. Her body ached as though stretched on a rack, every muscle pulled taut, every joint threatening to tear. The air was damp, heavy with the stench of rot and iron. It pressed against her lungs until every breath rasped shallow, until she could taste blood and rust on her tongue. The dungeon beneath the Dreadfort whispered with echoes of past screams, faint, lingering wails that curled around the stone like smoke.

Before her lay a pile of gore. For a moment her mind refused to shape it into sense, but as her eyes adjusted to the dream’s dim, sickly glow, the truth revealed itself in monstrous detail. Domeric’s body was there first, her brother’s form splayed open like a butcher’s carcass, his gut split wide, his insides glistening on cold rock. Next came Robb, or what remained of him, his head alone, rolling from the shadows with a swift kick, bloodied hair dragging against the stone as it tumbled to rest at her feet. And Theon—gods, Theon—was scattered in pieces: fingers severed and thrown aside like scraps, one ear ripped away, his face frozen in pain.

Sara tried to scream. Her throat convulsed, her mouth opened wide, but no sound emerged. Her silence was a prison all its own. Yet somehow, impossibly, they heard her—her father, her brother. Shapes stirred in the dark.

Roose emerged first, stepping from the shadows with the stillness of a phantom. But his face was wrong, his lips had been torn away, leaving ragged flesh stretched back to reveal not teeth but fangs, long and gleaming, a dog’s jaws where a man’s mouth should be. His pale eyes fixed upon her, and though he opened his ruined maw, no words passed his throat. Only the low growl of a starving hound.

Then Ramsay came. Whole. Untouched. Smiling. His face was pristine, his eyes alight with that hateful gleam she knew too well. He crossed the floor with the easy stride of a man unburdened by guilt, and when he reached her, he cupped her face with mock tenderness.

“Hush, little sister,” Ramsay crooned, his voice soft, honeyed, and vile. “You’ll wear yourself out. Keep your strength… or this won’t be worth it.”

His hand slid down the length of her body, slow and deliberate, until it rested on her belly. She looked down, her stomach was grotesquely swollen, distended as though she carried something unnatural within. Yet it felt hollow, painfully, utterly empty. Panic roared inside her, but still her throat betrayed her, yielding nothing. No scream, no cry, only the ragged sound of breath that did not seem her own.

The gleam of silver caught her eye. Ramsay’s knife flashed, merciless and quick. A burst of pain erupted across her abdomen, searing, splitting her in two. Her vision fractured, light, shadow, blood, and then—

Sara awoke with a strangled gasp, choking on air. Her skin was slick with sweat, her nightgown plastered to her body as though she had been dragged from a river. Her heart thundered so loudly she thought it might burst from her chest. And she was not alone, Theon’s arms were wrapped tight around her, his body warm, steady, alive.

Her hands trembled as they clutched at him, needing the reassurance of his heartbeat beneath her palms. But though her eyes opened to the safety of her chamber, the darkness of her dream still clung to her skin.

She caught her breath in shallow, ragged gasps, clinging to Theon as if the warmth of his arms could banish the nightmare that still bled into her waking thoughts. For a time, she remained there, pressed close, waiting for her heart to still, waiting for the trembling in her limbs to fade. Only when his breathing steadied back into the deep, untroubled rhythm of sleep did she dare to move. Carefully, painfully carefully, she slipped free from his embrace. He stirred once, but did not wake, and she lingered a moment longer to watch the gentle rise and fall of his chest. Then, with a shiver that no coverlet could chase away, Sara pulled on her slippers, wrapped herself in her robe, and slipped from the chamber like a shadow fleeing the dawn.

The halls of Moat Cailin were alive with their peculiar hauntings. Every gust of wind whistled through the ruined stone like a dying man’s sigh. The timbers groaned, old and rotted, creaking as though beneath invisible weight. The floor was cold beneath her feet, and the air clung damp and clammy to her skin. She moved through it all like a phantom, her robe trailing softly behind her, pale as shroud cloth. The torch sconces sputtered weakly, their flames guttering as if reluctant to lend light to the desolation.

At last, she reached her destination: the kitchens. They were quiet and deserted, yet heavy with the lingering scents of smoke, flour, and salted meat. The shelves sagged with provisions hastily gathered for the march to Riverrun, dried meats, hard bread, casks of ale, wheels of pale cheese, baskets of roots and apples. The sight of such abundance struck her like a blow. Her stomach twisted sharply, but not from hunger alone.

Sara sank to her knees upon the flagstones as though in prayer, the cold seeping up into her bones. She clasped her hands together, pressing them briefly to her lips as though seeking some absolution from gods who had long ago turned their faces from her. Then she broke, and her body moved without thought.

She ate.

First, a crust of bread, dry and brittle, that she tore apart with frantic fingers. Then a hunk of cheese, thick and cloying on her tongue. An apple followed, its sweetness almost choking her as she chewed too quickly, too desperately. Then more, salt pork ripped from its string, roots still dirt-streaked, anything her hands could grasp. She devoured mouthful after mouthful, heedless of taste, heedless of how her stomach lurched and cramped against the onslaught. She ate as though something hollow and ravenous within her demanded to be filled, as though she might quiet the echo of Ramsay’s knife in her dreams if only she crammed enough food into the void it had left behind.

And still she ate.

And ate. And ate. And ate. And ate.

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Mouthfeel Masterlist

[nerivlyrn]

Sent a paragraph of the chapter that’s coming out tonight/tomorrow to a friend and…

[nerivlyrn]

Coming out of the woodworks to expose myself as that Sandor x tyrion anon just for this pic lmao

If it wasn’t clear I am Zephyr

You’re a mess, I adore you, and this is well and truly correct, gods bless

[nerivlyrn]

Heyo I’m the anon who mentioned Sandor x tyrion and you are so right Tyrion would climb that man like a motherfucking tree to make a point. The real question is would Sandor stop him?

Babe if Tyrion pisses him off enough… rip

I’m envisioning constant taunting, does Sandor get hard from being called a dog by him?

I’m barking personally

[nerivlyrn]

recently I’ve become wholly obsessed with Sandor x tyrion and it’s like. idk why I think it’s purely for the absurdity of the size diff bc Sandor’s actor is 6’6 iirc while Tyrion is 4’5. If they were to fuck he’d rupture Tyrion’s guts so they’re kinda forced to suffer eternal sexual tension with little to no relief

Personally I think Tyrion is braver than that

[nerivlyrn]

on the note of crack ships and rare pairs... how about tyrion x oberyn? LOL. that scene in got where he lifts tyrion's chin up has been ingrained into my mind. i like to imagine them trying to out-do each other in the charisma department.

🫡🫡

I can bring these numbers up

Yeah no it’s kind of a crack ship but I see the vision and I’m gonna ruminate over this and think of something, will probably show up in a one shot poll soon

AU where Oberyn doesn’t die and they run off to Dorne together and no one has to think about Tywin ever again

[nerivlyrn]

Not sure if you guys can tell from like everything about Mouthfeel but the Ethel Cain Lana Del Rey conflict is the worst thing to ever happen to me, this is like when my parents got divorced but 100 times worse

[nerivlyrn]

I looooove niche ships is asoiaf i loooooove crack ships i loooove stupid pairings omggg I need to write some more bullshit idiot one shots I find a ship that has less than 10 works on ao3 you best believe I’m considering concocting something diabolical so uh yeh I’m happy to hear suggestions for rare pairs and stuff like that

[nerivlyrn]

Nightfires

JonMel post-resurrection AU One Shot

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4.1k words, SMUT, s/d, mommy issues, mommy kink, sub jon snow, darker jon au, king in the north jon, resurrected jon, JonMel

Archive of Our Own - Nightfires

Masterlist

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The warmth of life had abandoned Jon Snow, and he no longer mourned its passing. Once, the wolf’s blood had raced through his veins with the restless heat of a storm on the tundra, but that fire had guttered and died. What remained was a stillness sharp enough to cut, ice in place of marrow, shadow in place of breath. He flexed his fingers slowly, as though rediscovering the shape of them, watching how the pallid skin drew taut over knuckles like bleached stone. The nails were longer now, darker, edged like obsidian, and caught the dim light in a way that spoke of something not wholly human. Since the night she had hauled him screaming from the abyss, every movement felt at once alien and inevitable.

The North was his now, though it bent the knee not out of love. The banners of the direwolf still cracked in the wind, but the men beneath them spoke his name as if testing the chill of a blade against their tongue. They had seen him claw his way from his own grave, the breath of frost coiling from his lips like a winter curse. They had seen the traitors kneel before him, only to falter, clutching at their throats as the air itself seemed to turn against them. What loyalty remained was forged in awe, tempered in dread.

And always, at his side, there was Melisandre, the Red Woman, her silks whispering like embers in the dark. She had abandoned Stannis in the moment of his ruin, claiming her god had shown her a different fire: a shadow-crowned king with the heart of winter. She had come to Jon with prophecy on her tongue, with heat in her touch, and with counsel that bled into his bed. Her presence was both anchor and temptation, the flame forever circling the ice, daring it to thaw.

The door eased open on a whisper of hinges, and he did not need to raise his eyes to know it was she who crossed the threshold. Her presence arrived before her shadow touched the floor, an undercurrent of heat that licked through the air like a serpent tasting the scent of prey. That pulse of dark fire slid toward him in slow, sinuous coils, winding itself around his limbs, pressing into his skin until it seemed to seep inward, threading along his bones. He could feel her in the hollows of himself, in the spaces death had left empty.

She had called him back from the silent dark, shaped the man he was now with her own hands—hands that had once felt like salvation and now felt like possession. Her voice had been in his ear when he woke, whispering truths he had tried for years to banish: that death was not the end, only a door; that ice and flame were not foes, but twin edges of the same wicked coin; that the thing he called “fate” had been patient, waiting for him to stop resisting. She had told him these things while the blood was still sluggish in his veins, and though he had wanted to deny her then, he no longer could.

Her gaze found him now, studying the storm that had gathered in his silence. A single brow arched, not with reproach, but with a kind of amused challenge. “Do you regret my bringing you back, Jon?” she asked, her voice softer than he deserved, softer than the truth between them.

“Regret?” The word scraped from his throat like stone on stone, deeper, rougher than it had ever been in his first life. He tasted the cold in it. “No. I regret nothing.”

Melisandre’s lips curved, slow as a candle’s lean toward a draft. It was a smile shaped for secrets, never quite touching her eyes. His answer pleased her; he could see it in the way she stilled, as if savouring the moment. She had known this change would come from the instant his fingers clawed through the frozen earth above his grave. She had wanted it, worked for it, and now it stood before her, a man neither wholly living nor wholly dead, and hers in a way he would not name aloud.

Once, the man he had been might have flinched from her, might have recoiled from the heat and the shadow she wove around him. But he was not that man. He had been drowned in darkness, forged again in her fire, tempered until the edge of him could cut. And she, standing so near the frost of his breath, was the only soul who did not look away.

Melisandre reached for him without hesitation, as if she had every right to claim him. Her hands were fever-warm, almost searing against the frost that had claimed his skin, the contrast sharp enough to draw a low groan from his lips. She slid her palms beneath him with unhurried precision, tracing the line of his spine until they came to rest at the small of his back, a touch that was both possessive and coaxing.

“Good,” she murmured, though her voice was laced with something sharper. “You’re turning from me, though.” The words were a challenge, not an accusation. “Rising earlier. Coming to bed later.”

He huffed a sound somewhere between amusement and annoyance. “Maddening witch,” he muttered, pulling her closer until the folds of her scarlet robes were caught between them. His fingers tangled in her hair, thick and silken, the scent of smoke and spice rising from it. “You raised me to the throne of the North,” he said, voice dropping low, “and now you scold me for tending to the crown you placed on my head?” He leaned in until his lips grazed the curve of her ear, cold as the night air beyond the walls, and brushed the barest kiss against its edge.

Her chuckle was a slow spill of sound, low and velvety, winding down his spine with a heat that belied its softness. She shifted her hands, sliding them along the lines of his ribs until her thumbs pressed lightly against his sides. Her eyes, bright as banked embers, met his with a smile that was part invitation, part provocation. “No, my King,” she purred. “Never that. But…” her nails grazed him lightly beneath his shirt, “…I would have you in my arms more often.”

Jon grumbled, though his grip on her betrayed no intent to let go. He dragged his hands down her back to her waist, pulling her so tightly against him she could feel the slow, deep rhythm of his breath. “Greedy,” he said, though the word held more admiration than rebuke.

“Mm. Greedy,” she breathed, the faint curl of her lips making the word a confession rather than an apology. Her fingertips, feather-light at first, wandered across the plane of his chest with deliberate slowness, tracing old strength, new tension, until they found the marks of his death. Blackened wounds, deep and jagged, still marred him where knives had once pierced flesh and bone. Melisandre’s magic had not erased them; shadow had only sealed the rents, leaving behind scars like frostbitten ice, dark and unyielding.

Jon’s breath caught sharp and involuntary. “You’re testing me, little witch,” he said, his voice low, edged with warning. “Seeing how much of your teasing I’ll take before I snap.” His hand came up in a swift, rough movement to curl around the back of her neck. It was meant to intimidate, to remind her that he was no docile thing to be toyed with. But she only arched one brow, eyes glinting with that infuriating calm, and rolled them as if his attempt were nothing more than a boy’s bluff.

He grumbled under his breath, the corner of his mouth twitching despite himself, and bent to press his lips where her pulse fluttered hot and quick beneath the gleam of the red gem at her collarbone. His mouth trailed lower, tasting salt and skin, the heat of her body seeping into him despite the cold that clung to his bones.

She sighed, a sound that wound itself around his ribs, and tilted her chin to grant him better access. Her hands, meanwhile, wandered with their own agenda. One fingertip drifted back to his chest, circling the frozen scars with a languid patience, before pressing firmly into the deepest of them.

The reaction was immediate. Jon recoiled as though her touch had reached inside and closed around his heart. He pushed her away with more force than intended, jaw clenched, teeth grinding against the sound that threatened to escape him.

“You’re not to touch the scarring there,” he growled, the words rough, almost guttural, more plea than command. The space between them crackled, not just with defiance, but with the dangerous knowledge that she would, inevitably, ignore his warning.

“Fine. Fine. I won’t,” she murmured, rolling her eyes with theatrical patience before tugging him back into her embrace. Her lips brushed over his cheeks in a trail of soft, pacifying kisses, each one lingering just long enough to melt the tension at the corners of his mouth. His resistance crumbled as quickly as frost under a rising sun, and he bowed his head, burying his face in the warm curve of her neck.

Jon did not miss the living heat of his old body, the rush of blood beneath his skin, the steam of his breath in winter air, those were relics of another life, lost to the grave. But if he claimed he felt nothing now, he would be a liar. Melisandre’s warmth was not that of mortal flesh, it was older, deeper, almost unnatural. She burned like embers smouldering in ash, like forest fires that devoured without mercy. He pressed himself against her, into that heat, letting it chase the cold from the hollow places within him, and for once, he surrendered to her flames willingly.

Her hands stroked through his hair with a deliberate tenderness, each pass of her fingers slow and measured, as though she were handling something both fragile and dangerous. Once, that hair had been the deep brown of ravens’ wings, falling in unruly waves to his shoulders, Stannis had told her it was his father’s hair. But since the night she had breathed her god’s fire into his soul, it had grown bone-white, strands pale as snow under moonlight. The change made him look less like the man who had once walked Winterfell’s halls and more like something that belonged to the snowdrifts themselves, cold, silent, watchful. It suited the shadowed corners where he so often took her, away from prying eyes.

She tilted his chin and pressed her lips to his brow, a kiss that felt almost like a seal. “The Flint boys who refused to bend the knee,” she said, her voice as soft as the fur lining her sleeves. “Shall I have them burned tonight? The faithful among your men could use the morale.”

Jon’s spine stiffened at the question. His head lifted, and the pale light in his eyes sharpened. He gave a short nod. “You’ll do it when you lead your nightfire?”

“As you command,” she whispered, and though her tone was obedient, the glimmer in her eyes told him she had been waiting for this answer all along.

Command. The word almost made him laugh. The crown might rest upon his brow, the men might bow and call him King, but here—in the quiet between them—he knew better than to pretend. Whatever throne he sat, whatever power he wielded, it was only ever on loan from her. She held the reins. Always. She had bound them around his soul the night she pulled him from the abyss, and she had never loosened her grip.

“Do you need to go soon?” he murmured, the question low, almost grudging, as his hands closed around her with a possessiveness he barely tried to hide.

Melisandre’s lips curved faintly, her eyes glimmering with that unfathomable, ember-lit knowing. She shook her head. “You have me until the sun begins to set.”

A soft sound escaped him, something between relief and dissatisfaction. He grumbled under his breath, then caught her waist and began to guide her backwards with unspoken intent, step by slow step toward the shadowed expanse of his bed. The cold in him felt momentarily sharpened, focused, by the thought of her heat beneath him. “Do I have time?” he asked, though his voice was less a question and more a claim.

Her chuckle was low and warm, a silken ripple that curled through the space between them. She lifted one hand to smooth his hair, her fingers combing gently through the pale strands as though taming something wild. “You have time,” she said, her voice dipping into a purr as her thumb grazed the curve of his ear. “All the time you need, sweet boy.”

Jon gave a low, impatient sound, half growl, half plea, and urged her toward the bed until the backs of her knees met the carved edge of the frame. “Get on the bed. On your back,” he murmured between scattered kisses pressed along the curve of her throat, his breath cool against her heated skin.

Melisandre, ever in control even when yielding, slipped from his grasp with deliberate grace and settled onto the mattress as though taking a throne. Her movements were unhurried, meant to be watched. The folds of her red silk and satin slid from her shoulders, spilling over her arms like liquid flame. She was never heavily clothed, but when she wished to torment him, she made each inch of revealed skin a ritual, each loosened tie and fallen layer an offering and a challenge.

Beneath the robes, her body seemed to hold its own light, a warmth that reached him even from a distance. Pale skin glowed in the dimness, each line and shadow shaped to draw the eye. She had rosy nipples that perked and made him salivate, nearly as much as the dampened red curls between her thighs. She met his gaze without flinching, inviting him closer with the subtle tilt of her chin, the slow curl of her lips.

Jon fumbled with his clothing, his urgency at odds with the patience of her display. The tunic tangled at his shoulders, the ties of his breeches caught on his fingers, but he stripped them away with a single-minded need. When the last barrier fell, he moved to her in a rush, the cold of his body seeking the heat of hers. He caught her mouth briefly, then her jaw, then traced the line of her neck with quick, possessive kisses. One hand slid down to lift her leg, guiding her thigh around his hip, drawing her flush against him.

Jon’s lips traced a slow, wandering path across her chest, lingering where her warmth drew him most insistently, latching his lips around one of her nipples. His mouth met her with a softness that belied the urgency coiled in his body, and he murmured against her skin. “Mama…”

“Shh… sweet boy, just like that,” Melisandre murmured, her voice low and coaxing, a thread of heat that wound around him. Her fingers threaded through his hair, tugging lightly, grounding him, as he nuzzled closer with an almost desperate need. Her eyes fluttered closed, and she leaned back into the pillows, letting herself be held, letting him bury himself against her with abandon.

The press of his hard cock against her body was insistent, subtle yet undeniable. He shifted closer, rocking lightly, while he lavished affections over her breasts, cupping and squeezing, licking and suckling. Small, pleased sounds slipped from her lips, low and indulgent, and a surge of pride flared inside him, urging him to continue with more care, more intent.

“Mm… making you feel good, Mama?” he murmured, his voice softer, higher than he usually allowed, betraying a rawness that came with surrender.

“So good, sweet boy, so very good,” she praised, her fingers scratching lightly at his scalp in a mix of admonishment and reward. Her words and touch pressed into him with a heat that lingered long after the sound of her voice, filling him with a sense of purpose and belonging he hadn’t known he craved. “You’re so good for me.”

Jon groaned, a low, ragged sound, and nipped lightly at her breast with the sort of desperation that made his entire body tense and ache. “Mama. Please,” he muttered, voice rough and husky.

Melisandre hushed him softly, her hands firm yet warm as she shifted her weight, guiding him beneath her so that she straddled his lap. The press of her against him was deliberate, slow, each movement a teasing rhythm that drew a shiver from him. She rolled her hips languidly, savouring the subtle control of the moment, leaning down to capture his mouth in a deep, demanding kiss.

Her kiss was more than touch—it was life itself. Since his return from the dead, the world had often seemed shrouded in fog, a half-light where he lost himself and felt little. But her presence cut through it like a flame. Her hands, her lips, the heat of her body pressed to his, it all grounded him in a way nothing else could. She was dangerous, he knew, and yet she was warmth incarnate, a constant in a world that had left him empty.

Jon growled into the kiss, his arms locking around her, pulling her closer with a force that mirrored his need. She tasted of fire and spice, of things he could not claim in himself, and it drove him wild. He gripped her hips, desperate to draw her nearer, to feel her every motion against him, every subtle shift of her weight that made the world disappear entirely. He tried desperately to push her down onto him, to have her ride him into oblivion.

“Such an eager boy,” Melisandre murmured, her words brushing against his lips like the stroke of a matchhead, warm and knowing. Her hips kept their languid, sinuous rhythm, each slow movement deliberate, designed to draw out his impatience. Jon’s breath caught—half splutter, half growl—and he bucked beneath her without meaning to, the reaction enough to draw a sly, satisfied smile from her.

At last, she yielded, just enough to grant him what he craved. Her hand moved with practised ease, stroking his hard cock briefly, and then guiding him into the heat and tightness of her cunt, enveloping him in a warmth so consuming he nearly lost his breath.

A quiet, unsteady sound escaped him, part whimper and part relief, as his hands slid lower to cup her arse, fingers curling with a possessive urgency. He fought to keep his composure, to move with care, but the thundering pulse in his chest urged him toward something far rougher, far less restrained. He wanted to hold her down. To ravage and claim.

She began to ride him in a slow, steady rise and fall, and the world outside their shared breath vanished. Jon’s grip tightened, pulling her down against him with every motion, his lips brushing against her breasts as a deep groan rumbled in his throat. The cold in him warred with the heat of her, every movement a clash of winter and fire that left him clinging to her all the more.

“My King… so sweet beneath me,” Melisandre purred, her voice curling around him like smoke. “You’re so good for me. Obedient, too. You’ve laid the North at the feet of our Lord of Light, and he rewards you for it every day.” Her breath hitched on a low sound that sent a shiver down his spine.

“Mmph… you’re my reward,” Jon growled against her skin, his voice raw, roughened with need. His body moved with sharper intent now, hips thrusting to meet hers in deep, urgent rhythm, burying deep in the clutching heat of her cunt. The tension inside him coiled tighter and tighter, a tide that threatened to pull him under. “Mama…” he breathed, the word breaking into a whine. “Please.”

“You’re close, aren’t you?” she murmured, her tone as knowing as it was indulgent.

Jon nodded against her shoulder, the motion small, desperate, a sound escaping him that was half whimper.

“You want to come for Mama?” she asked, her fingers threading into his hair and holding him there, her gaze fixed on his.

Another nod, this one more frantic, his voice catching. “Please… please, I’ll be good. Please let me.” His words dissolved into a groan against the warm hollow of her collar, as if the plea were drawn from his very bones.

“Go on then,” she whispered, almost reverent. “Give it to me, sweetheart.”

Her movements grew just enough to push him past that final edge, and he clung to her, arms banded tight around her waist as the world narrowed to heat, pressure, and release, he filled her with his seed, emptying himself in her. He gasped and moaned against her chest, clinging tightly to her. She stayed with him through the shuddering crest, holding him steady, as though anchoring him in her warmth while the cold inside him broke apart and scattered.

“Sleep, my King. Sleep, darling,” she murmured, her voice low and smooth as velvet, curling around him like the edge of a lullaby. Her fingertips wandered to his chest, finding the frozen, blackened scars that marked the place of his death. She traced them slowly, deliberately, as if committing them to memory.

Jon gave a soft, unsteady whine at the contact, his body tensing under her touch. He shifted, rolling onto his back amid the pillows, pale against the dark furs. “My lady… no… not there…” His voice was quiet, strained, almost pleading.

Melisandre’s chuckle was warm but edged with something knowing. She pressed her fingertips a little more firmly to the marred skin, watching the way his breath hitched and his eyes squeezed shut. His discomfort seemed to interest her as much as it pained him.

“Sleep, Jon. Rest,” she commanded again, her tone soft but brooking no refusal.

“Mama…” he murmured, barely audible.

“Shhh…” She bent to kiss his brow, her lips warm against his cold skin, and gathered him into her arms. Her hold was secure, almost possessive, the way one might cradle something both precious and dangerous. When her hands finally left the scars, the tension in his body eased. The cold that was always in him remained, but her warmth, brief, borrowed, was enough to let him drift into another dreamless slumber, wrapped in her heat like a flame sheltering frost.

Jon Snow, King in the North, woke to the sound of screams. Not the chaos of battle, but long, drawn-out cries of agony that seemed to coil through the stone halls and seep into his bones.

The bed beside him was empty. The warmth that had been there with her was gone. Shadows clung to the corners of the room, the last traces of daylight extinguished. Night had settled in.

He rose, slowly, the cold in his limbs heavier than the furs he cast aside. Each step toward the courtyard rafters felt deliberate, his bare feet soundless on the ancient wood. From above, he saw her. Melisandre, robed in red that seemed to drink the light from the flames before her, moved with the grace of a priestess and the authority of a queen.

Below, the Flint boys—those she had named before—were bound to tall stakes. The fire around them roared and cracked, throwing long shadows against the courtyard walls. Their voices lifted in desperate calls to the Old Gods, prayers that broke apart into raw screams as the flames took them. There would be no mercy here.

He noticed then that his banners had changed. The grey direwolf of his father’s house was painted in crimson, wreathed in flame. The sight twisted something in his chest, a pang sharp enough to steal his breath.

Her gaze found him. Even through the heat and smoke, he felt it, a direct, unblinking connection. She smiled up at him, the firelight flickering across her lips. In that moment, the truth struck him with the weight of ice: he wore the crown, but the reins were in her hands. He ruled in name; she ruled in truth.

Melisandre’s voice rose above the fire’s roar and the dying cries, clear and commanding. “Lead us from the darkness, O my Lord. Fill our hearts with fire, so we may walk your shining path. R’hllor, you are the light in our eyes, the fire in our hearts, the heat in our loins. Yours is the sun that warms our days; yours the stars that guard us in the dark of night.”

The men gathered before her answered in unison, their voices thick with fervour. “Lord of Light, defend us. The night is dark and full of terrors. Lord of Light, protect us.”

[nerivlyrn]

I KEEP ASKING THESE KIDS TO POKÉMON GO TO THE POLLS AND VOTE FOR CATELYN YURI

Tya is probably the closest oc to a self insert for me (hates her dad, blonde derogatory, mommy issues, lezzes out) so it is extremely telling I think that her love interest is Catelyn Tully Stark my goat

Yeah go and vote Catelyn!!!

[nerivlyrn]

Mouthfeel Chapter Fifteen: Speak Boldly

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Archive of Our Own - Mouthfeel

꧁ Previous Chapter ꧂

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When the knock came at Sara’s door that night, it was light, almost hesitant, a poor imitation of Theon’s usual, impatient pounding. Still, her heart leapt. She imagined his wolfish grin, the way he’d swagger in uninvited and fill her small chamber with mischief and heat. The thought was enough to have her spring from her bed, bare feet padding quickly over cold stone, fingers curling eagerly around the latch. She pulled the door wide with a smile already shaping her lips, an unguarded, genuine smile that surprised even herself.

It withered in an instant.

Not Theon.

Robb Stark stood in the doorway, framed by the dim torchlight in the hall. His shoulders carried the fatigue of a day spent at war without swords, brow furrowed with thoughts too heavy for a boy his age. The solemnity in his blue eyes was as far from Theon’s irreverence as snow was from flame.

“Lady Bolton—” he began, his voice polite but touched with an edge of formality that made the space between them colder.

“Sara,” she cut in softly, unwilling to stand on ceremony in her own room.

He drew a slow, measured breath and inclined his head in acknowledgement. “Sara. My apologies for the late hour. I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

She shook her head, stepping back and pulling the door open wider in silent invitation. “Of course not, Robb. You needn’t apologise—I wasn’t asleep.” She offered him a small smile meant to warm the moment, though her eyes betrayed a quiet concern. Something had brought him here, and she doubted it was anything light.

“You’re as charitable as you are wise,” Robb said with a fleeting smile that didn’t quite touch his eyes.

“And you flatter me,” she returned, gesturing toward the plain wooden chair by her desk. But instead of crossing to it, he moved toward her bed and lowered himself onto the edge, the boards creaking softly under his weight. His hands sought out the fur throw folded there, fingers absently threading through it as if anchoring himself in its coarse warmth. In that quiet moment, she realised he hadn’t come for courtesy, he’d come because something in him needed the dark safety of her room, away from the eyes and ears of the council.

“That was not my intention,” Robb said at last, the words slow and low, as though pulled from him against his will. “Nor the cause for my late visit.” His voice carried the exhaustion of too many burdens and too little rest. “Sara… am I right to trust you?” He lifted his gaze to her, the question heavy, his eyes shadowed with the kind of doubt that wasn’t born in the council chamber but in the marrow.

Sara’s brow creased. Without a word, she reached behind her and closed the door until it clicked softly shut, shutting out the draft and whatever ears might linger in the hall. She crossed the narrow space to him with measured steps, the dim candlelight catching in her hair, and gave a slow, deliberate nod. “Aye. You are.”

Robb’s throat worked, his jaw shifting like he had more words than he knew how to shape. Finally, they came, halting, stripped of the armour he wore before others. “Just… Sara, I’m sorry. I cannot help it—being frightened…”

Her lips parted faintly, an uneasy flicker in her eyes. “Of me?”

“In a way,” he admitted, gaze darting briefly to the floor before returning to her. “Of your father, certainly. And… the tales. Stories I grew up with. Winter Kings defeated and flayed by Boltons… Red Kings stealing Stark women and cutting their throats…” His voice trailed for a moment, the shadows seeming to deepen around them. Then he drew a harsh breath, raking his fingers through his hair before bowing his head into his hands.

“Sometimes,” he murmured, voice muffled but still sharp with the truth of it, “when Lord Roose looks at me… it is as though he doesn’t see me at all, but sees a flayed cloak already stripped from my back—something to hang in his hall as a trophy.”

The image hung in the air between them, raw and vivid, as if the damp stones of the room themselves remembered old blood.

Sara sank to her knees before him, the cold stone seeping into her bones, and reached for his hands. She held them carefully, not as one might grip a weapon or claim a prize, but with the quiet reverence of a supplicant at some grim altar. “They’re just stories, Robb,” she murmured, her voice steady but low. “Boltons are fearsome—aye, I know that. I know it every time a man shifts in his seat simply because I’ve looked his way. I know it when I see my sigil stitched on a banner, when someone’s eye lingers too long on the blood-red silks, or the bone-hilt knives. We have a dark history, one we’ll never wash clean.”

She paused, her fingers curling faintly around his. The truth was heavier than her words, and it sat behind her teeth like a bitter seed. Flaying had been a relic, an old cruelty whispered about but left to rot in the vaults of memory—until Ramsay had slithered into her life and dragged it back into the Dreadfort, reeking of his rot and filth. Flayed men were rare now, unpopular, an echo from a time even the North had chosen to forget. But a flayed woman, a girl who denied him, a girl he’d sought to break, that was another matter. She could see their faces sometimes in dreams, the empty eyes and stretched skin hung like a warning meant for her alone.

Her jaw tightened, but she kept her tone smooth. “There is no flaying in the North. Not anymore. By all means, Robb, if you were to ask me to flay a Lannister, I would… but it is not something I—or my father—have much practice in.” The corner of her mouth lifted in a small, measured smile as she gave his hands a gentle, deliberate squeeze.

He exhaled then, the sound soft but deep, as if some tightly coiled wire inside him had loosened. His fingers closed over hers in return, his grip warm against her cold hands.

“No flaying,” he said at last. “That’s good. And… please don’t. I don’t want to be remembered for cruelty. I want to be good. Honourable. Just.” The words came in a voice caught between worlds, too quiet for a lord, but too unyielding for a boy.

“Of course, Robb.” Sara’s voice softened, low and certain, as she brushed her thumb over the back of his hand in a slow, deliberate motion. “You’ll lead truly—and I’ll be here with you. I swear it.” It was not a promise made lightly; her words felt like they might bind themselves to her bones, heavy as iron.

“I know,” he murmured, a faint flicker of humour breaking through the weariness in his face. “I think Lord Roose would be very angry if I dismissed you now.” There was the barest hint of a smirk there, as if he half-expected her to bite.

“Oh, very,” she replied, her lips curling with a touch of dry amusement. “You’ve already refused his spinster daughter’s hand—you mustn’t refuse her counsel too.” The words came with a short laugh, but there was steel in the jest. She rose from her place before him and settled onto the bed beside him, the furs dipping under her weight.

“You aren’t a spinster, Sara,” Robb said, almost earnest, almost boyish. “You’re not that old.”

She let out a sharp laugh, turning to face him. “Gods, you’ll never find a bride with talk like that. ‘Not that old’? That’s practically an insult.”

“It wasn’t meant to be rude!” he protested quickly, colour touching his cheeks. “You’re younger than Theon, aren’t you?”

The name dropped between them like a stone into still water, breaking the easy rhythm of their exchange. Sara arched one brow, the faintest glint of suspicion lighting her eyes. “Mm. I am. By a year or so.” Her voice was even, but a flicker of guardedness tightened her jaw, as though she were suddenly aware of the ground they stood on—and how easily it might shift beneath them.

“He likes you,” Robb said with a shrug, though his tone carried the weight of mild surprise, as if the admission itself was worth remarking on. “Talks about you a lot, anyway. And not in the… gross ways he talks about most girls. No mentions of squealing like a weasel or anything.” His mouth twitched. “He says nice things. Usually.”

Sara’s brow furrowed. “He does?” She tilted her head, a shard of curiosity slipping through her guard despite herself. She made a deliberate choice to ignore the remark about weasels—whatever absurdity that was meant to conjure.

“He said you make him laugh,” Robb continued, his voice lowering slightly, “and that’s important because women usually have terrible humours.” His expression softened almost apologetically. “His words, not mine—I think women can be funny.” He looked down, picking absently at a loose thread along his sleeve, as though it might unravel the awkwardness in the air. “He also said you have soft lips and that you… fit in his hands nicely now that you eat real meals. I told him he shouldn’t say things like that because it’s embarrassing.”

Heat prickled under Sara’s skin, pooling in her cheeks at the image his words painted. She could almost hear Theon’s voice in that sly, irreverent drawl of his. “You’re going to keep whatever he says to yourself, aren’t you?” she asked, her tone dipping somewhere between a command and a plea.

Robb’s face grew solemn as he met her gaze. “I know. I will. But, Sara… Theon would be bad for your reputation. He ruins girls for fun, usually. And… he likes you, but…” A small sigh. “He’s still him.”

A faint smile curved her lips. “Aye. He’s him.”

“You like him too,” Robb said, not accusing, merely stating, like the observation of a huntsman who has spotted movement in the brush.

Her mouth quirked, an admission sitting on her tongue. “Perceptive. Yes. I like him too. At risk of everything—my reputation, my brother’s and father’s wraths… I like him.”

Robb studied her for a moment, then asked with the cautious curiosity of one testing uncertain waters, “Are you going to get married? He’s one of my closest friends. Maybe Lord Roose wouldn’t mind if you wed him instead of me.”

The laugh that escaped her was quiet and edged with something wistful. She shook her head. “I’m not going to marry Theon. He wouldn’t like my home, and I wouldn’t like his. We’re not meant to outlast the war, I think.” She tried to strip the sadness from her voice, but it clung stubbornly to the words.

“That’s a shame,” Robb said softly. “Theon could do with love. I don’t think he ever had much of it.”

Sara’s eyes widened, startled at the word. “Love? Theon and I don’t love each other.”

Robb’s frown was small, almost boyish in its disappointment. “Oh. I wish you did.”

Sara let out a slow sigh and gave his hand a reassuring squeeze, the gesture meant to anchor him as much as it was to keep herself steady.

“Well… if you won’t take my counsel, perhaps I might borrow some of yours?” Robb’s voice shifted quickly, almost hastily, as if dragging them both away from the mire of the last topic.

“Of course, Robb. What is it you need?” Sara welcomed the change, her lips curving in a faint smile. Anything to stop circling the dangerous subject of Theon Greyjoy.

“About splitting my men in half.” Robb’s sigh was heavier, the kind that seemed to settle in his chest before spilling out. “Half to ride with me to Riverrun, the other to engage Tywin on the Fork.”

“Ah,” she murmured, tilting her head. “So you’ve come to a decision on who will lead the other half?”

Robb shook his head, and his grip on her hand tightened almost imperceptibly. He began to lean toward her, seeking something in her nearness that made Sara’s heart twist. It should have been Domeric turning to her, looking for comfort in an older sister—and no boy of fourteen should have carried a war’s weight on his shoulders, let alone reached for comfort in the shadow of it.

“My mother thinks granting command to Umber is a mistake,” he said quietly. “He was my first choice.”

Sara studied him for a beat before replying, her tone as soft as the candlelight between them. “I’m inclined to agree, Robb. He’s a formidable fighter—strong, fearless, even—but skill with a sword does not make a man fit to lead an army. Did Lady Catelyn say much the same?”

Robb’s nod was slow. “Almost exactly.”

“I thought so. As respected and strong as he is, he was quick to lose his temper when you challenged him at Winterfell. Even if I were as big and as brash as he, I wouldn’t have swung a greatsword at a boy standing beside a direwolf.” Sara allowed herself a faint smirk at the memory.

Robb gave a short, warm laugh in response, the sound fleeting but genuine, before letting his head rest against her shoulder. She shifted, her arm coming around him, her palm drawing slow, steady circles across the centre of his back, an unspoken promise that she was here, for now at least.

“Alright,” Robb murmured at last, his voice heavy with reluctant acceptance. “The Greatjon Umber is perhaps too unpredictable to lead half my army. My mother is right.”

“So… are you asking my opinion on who to choose instead?” Sara’s voice was quiet, but there was a glint of calculation beneath her tone.

“I think so,” Robb admitted. “My mother didn’t suggest anyone. Her uncle, Ser Brynden, is set on riding with us to Riverrun, so he isn’t an option.”

“I see…” Sara drew the word out, her gaze sharpening. “You know… my father is eager for the position, Robb.” She spoke it slowly, as if testing the weight of the thought before letting it fall between them.

Robb huffed, not without suspicion. “Your overly ambitious father.”

“You’re wise not to trust him blindly,” she conceded with a faint curve of her lips. “But if I may be so bold…”

“Be bold,” he said, his tone firm despite the weariness in his eyes. “I prefer when my advisors are.”

“You do trust me,” Sara murmured. Her hand drifted upward, brushing against his hair, fingers combing through the thick curls. He exhaled at once, a low, unguarded sound, and let himself lean further into her touch. “You trust me to counsel you towards victory. My father is proven—he fought beside yours in Robert’s Rebellion, and the Greyjoy Uprising, and won victories alongside your grandfather before that. He is thoughtful, pragmatic, and precise. Yes, these are traits that make him dangerous to underestimate… and difficult to trust. But they are also the makings of a commander who wastes nothing—not a soldier, not a sword, not a single drop of blood.”

Her voice softened, sweetened, though there was an edge of steel in it. “If there is anyone in your army who can stand against Tywin Lannister and not falter, it is my father. House Bolton can and will be your greatest strength, if you let us. Me, here at your side… and my father, away to win the battles you cannot fight in person.”

Robb’s sigh was long, weary, and far too close to the sound of surrender. He stayed in her arms the way Domeric once had on dark nights, seeking comfort, sharing a burden heavier than any boy should have carried. A faint hum escaped him as he turned the thought over and over, then at last, he gave a single, decisive nod.

“I’ll grant Lord Roose command.” He pressed closer still, the fur throw shifting beneath them. “Thank you, Sara.”

Sara tightened her hold on him, her fingers pressing firmly into the warmth of his shoulders as if anchoring him against the weight of the world he carried. Yet her mind was elsewhere, drifting away from the fragile comfort she offered Robb to darker, sharper thoughts. She pictured her father, the cold glint in Lord Roose’s eyes when Robb had finally named him commander. That fleeting spark of pride, like ice catching light in the gloom. Sara hoped Robb would tell her father it was she who had swayed him, that she was the unseen hand guiding the course of their fates. Perhaps then Roose would grant her a rare smile, even something softer, a kiss pressed to her brow or hand, a quiet acknowledgement of her usefulness.

You chose right, Father, Sara told herself, the thought both a promise and a command. Through Robb, I become your voice, your power made flesh. I am your instrument, your conduit, everything you need me to be. But in that same breath, the bitter truth settled like ash in her throat: I can be everything—everything but the Lady of Winterfell.

Robb grew heavier in her arms, the burden of command and fear dragging him down until at last he wrenched himself upright, breaking the intimate hold with a sheepish glance.

“I’m sorry, Sara. I should go.” His voice was low, edged with reluctant gratitude. “Thank you again for your counsel. I will alert Lord Bolton of my decision in the morning.” He moved toward the door with careful steps. “You’re a terribly valuable ally. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Robb. Sleep well, now.” Sara’s voice was soft, a fragile smile curving her lips as she watched him nod once and slip quietly from her chamber, leaving the door to close with a gentle click behind him.

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꧁ Next Chapter ꧂

Mouthfeel Masterlist

[nerivlyrn]

best believe that last poll was the hardest i’ve ever done💀

The last one was admittedly the three best possible ideas so…

[nerivlyrn]

New Poll!

Okay time to run another poll, you were all deeply unhelpful last time and I had no choice but to write it as a threeway so can we do better please?

Sara and Ramsay would be set during the year between Domeric’s death and the war, just a stand alone exploration into their relationship before Mouthfeel starts

I’m thinking using your lover as a distraction from grief type of thing? This is not well thought out sorry

Tya imprisoned and Catelyn real angry at her but then… lezzing out? I don’t know, tbh after Mouthfeel is done it’ll be either Tya or Lulfe who get a full fic written about them

ALSO please send in suggestions for these polls? Not requests, I’m not opening requests, but if you feel my polls are lacking yaoi (they are) suggest some yaoi!

[nerivlyrn]

Unruly Ward - Cersei x Theon x Catelyn FFM One Shot

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Archive Of Our Own: Unruly Ward

4k words, 18+, smut, threesome, Theon in a Catsei sandwich, goon slop, I’m sorry, I have not proof read this it tumbled from my loins

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Cersei had not wanted to accompany Robert to Winterfell, not to dine at the same table as the Starks, not to play at warmth with that frigid brood. The thought of it had curdled in her long before their wheels turned north. The journey had been a slow, grinding torment, each mile thick with the knowledge of what awaited her: the smug perfection of Lord Stark’s wife, the glowing brood of children who laughed too easily, whose very closeness seemed an affront. Their brand of happiness, honest and unguarded, had always sat wrong in her stomach, like too-sweet wine. She had known she would be expected to pass hours in Lady Catelyn’s presence, to make the polite talk of women. Having only just escaped the cloying company of Catelyn’s sister, Lysa Arryn, the thought felt like stepping from one stale room into another, the air no less suffocating.

Even in summer, Winterfell lay beneath a breath of cold. The air bit, slow and persistent, like a disapproving hand at her cheek. The snow here did not fall in flurries but seemed to seep from the very stone. She found the place as bleak as its lord. Jaime’s presence had been her one consolation, bright, golden, her mirror in a land of iron and fur. But soon enough, even he had left her to her own sour company, more intent on flashing his easy charm and swordsmanship at Stark’s boys than on warming her moods. Myrcella and Tommen, too, had wandered off, swept up in childish games and the novelty of wolves.

And then there was the Greyjoy ward. Insolent, half-feral, he prowled the courtyard with the swagger of someone who thought himself irresistible. His gaze was shameless, hungry in a way that might have amused her once, years ago, when she was still entertained by such boldness. Now it was nothing but a dull irritant, a fly hovering too near. She wondered if the boy’s insolence was learned from this place, or if it was simply bred into him, like the salt in the blood of his kin. Whatever the case, it made her long for the south, for the sun, the sea, and the knowledge that she would never again be obliged to sit beneath the Starks’ cold roof.

The feast dragged on, thick with noise and heat. Robert’s voice boomed over the hall, slurred and merry, his cup sloshing with every careless gesture. Beside him, Ned Stark laughed a deep, unhurried sound, the laughter of a man perfectly at ease in his skin. Children darted between the trestle tables, hers and Lady Catelyn’s alike, weaving through the crowd with shrieks and giggles, wholly oblivious to their mothers’ presence.

Cersei sat beside Catelyn, the enforced proximity pricking at her patience. Their glances met and skittered away like wary birds. She studied the lady of Winterfell despite herself. For a woman bound to such a bleak and distant place, Catelyn Stark was undeniably beautiful, she was full-figured, with a brightness about her that the North’s long winters had not dimmed. There was warmth in her eyes when she looked upon her children, a warmth Cersei could neither feign nor truly comprehend. Contentment. It clung to her like a soft perfume, unassuming yet impossible to ignore.

Cersei resisted the urge to measure herself against that quiet glow. She had long known she was the most beautiful woman in Westeros, her father had said it often enough for it to become truth, but beauty, she knew, was a crown of glass. It caught the light brilliantly, but it cut if you held it too tightly. Her beauty shone like gold in the torchlight, sharp-edged and deliberate. Catelyn’s, by contrast, seemed to radiate from some unguarded place within, untouched by calculation. That difference made something stir uneasily in Cersei’s chest.

A sigh escaped her, slow and unmeasured, and she was startled by the faint ache threaded through it. Longing, but for what, she could not say. Her eyes lingered on Lady Catelyn’s profile, on the poised curve of her neck, the way her hand rested lightly against the rim of her cup.

Catelyn turned, catching the sound. “My Queen? Is something the matter?”

Cersei’s back went rigid. She smoothed her expression, the mask sliding neatly into place. “No. Forgive me. I was lost in thought.”

“Of course,” Catelyn replied, her tone courteous yet faintly probing. Her gaze drifted out over the crowded hall, shrewd and measuring. It paused on Sansa and Joffrey, who stood together near the dais, their youth draped in the stiff trappings of betrothal.

Cersei followed that look, and in the faint, almost imperceptible tightening of Catelyn’s mouth, she recognised a mirror of her own misgivings. Whatever else separated them, on this at least they stood in silent accord: neither woman truly wished to see that match made.

Cersei’s thoughts were interrupted by the sudden intrusion of Theon Greyjoy. He approached the table with that insufferable swagger, the kind that pretended at ease but reeked of performance. His smile was too wide, too certain, the sort of expression that invited a slap or something more dangerous. There was a sharpness in him, from the slight crook of his nose to the lean curve of his grin, and it made him look like trouble carved into human shape. Handsome, yes, unfortunately so, but in the way of a dagger’s glint: beautiful until it cuts you. She resisted the urge to roll her eyes.

“Your Grace,” he greeted her, voice smooth as oil, ignoring the pointed click of Catelyn’s tongue beside her. That small breach of courtesy amused Cersei more than she expected—more, certainly, than anything else the boy had ever done. “I was hoping you’d indulge a poor Ironborn lad in a dance or two.” Bold, impossibly so, and laced with the kind of inappropriateness he had to know she would never forgive.

“Theon,” Catelyn snapped, her tone the taut crack of a whip.

“If not the Queen,” he pressed, pivoting without missing a beat, “then perhaps you, my lady.” The smirk he gave her was insolent enough to scorch.

Cersei had not yet shaped her refusal when Catelyn rose not to take his hand, but to take control. She slipped from the table, her hand light on Theon’s arm as she steered him toward the dim edges of the hall, away from the press of bodies and the warm spill of torchlight. Cersei’s eyes followed, as they always did when curiosity pricked at her.

In the shadowed recess, Catelyn’s voice was low but edged with steel. “You will control yourself—not merely around me, your lord’s lady, but around the Queen as well. You will not speak to her as you would to some common strumpet. She deserves your respect.” The words were quiet, but they landed with a weight that made Cersei’s pulse slow.

Theon’s posture collapsed inward. His gaze dropped to the flagstones, his voice a mumble. “My lady—”

“Look at me when I speak to you, boy.”

When he didn’t, the sound of her palm meeting his cheek cut through the low roar of the feast. It was not a brutal blow, but it was enough to leave a flush on his skin. He lifted his head then, eyes burning faintly, murmuring his apology once more.

Something in the sight struck Cersei, not merely the act, but the way Catelyn seemed so entirely in command, rooted and unyielding. It lodged under her skin, unfamiliar and unwelcome, and yet heat pooled low in her belly, treacherous in its warmth.

She let her gaze sweep the hall, measuring the angles of sight, the turn of heads, the reach of candlelight. When she was certain no curious eyes lingered on her, Cersei rose and drifted toward the shadowed alcove where Catelyn stood with her wayward ward. The din of the feast dulled behind her, replaced by the closer hum of breath and the faint scent of spiced wine.

She paused within arm’s reach, the brush of her skirts announcing her presence before her voice did. A soft clearing of her throat drew their attention, and she levelled them both with a look that was cool in shape but warmer at its edges.

“Your ward is unruly, Lady Stark,” she murmured, her words pitched low, her tone wrapped in velvet to conceal the faint, treacherous arousal curling through it. Her eyes slid to Catelyn, lingering there a heartbeat too long.

Catelyn met her gaze with one of her own, steady, darkened, carrying an answering spark. “He is. My husband, I fear, is far too indulgent with him.”

At that, Theon gave a small groan of protest, his weight shifting in the close air between them. The sound was almost laughably boyish, but there was nothing funny about the way both women turned their glares upon him in perfect, silent accord. Theon faltered, caught between them, and Cersei could feel the tension spool tighter, an invisible thread linking all three.

Then Catelyn’s attention returned to her, and for a long moment they simply looked, trading a kind of recognition that bypassed words entirely. It was a conversation Cersei had had before, though always with men, most often with Jaime: a silent exchange of territory, of want, of the terms on which power and pleasure might intertwine.

“I should scold him more thoroughly,” Catelyn said, her voice deceptively soft, like a hand that might stroke or strike.

“I could help you,” Cersei replied before she could temper the eagerness in her tone. The words left her warmer than she cared to admit, and she felt the faintest flush touch her cheeks.

Theon swallowed hard, glancing between them with the uneasy air of a man aware he had stumbled into something far larger than himself.

Catelyn’s mouth curved, the barest hint of a smile, gone almost before Cersei could decide whether she’d truly seen it. She slid her arm through Cersei’s with an ease that felt practised, deliberate. “Come,” she said, her voice low enough to belong to no one else’s ears. “We’ll deal with him.” Her hand urged Theon forward, her touch steering him as firmly as a bridle, out into the dim corridor beyond the hall.

The walk was not long, but the air between them seemed to stretch it. Cersei could feel the brush of Catelyn’s sleeve against hers, the shared heat of their steps in rhythm. Excitement, sharp and liquid, ran up her spine in quick, invisible flickers. They came at last to what could only be Theon’s chambers; the scent of leather and unwashed linen mingled in the air, and the chaos of strewn clothing spoke of a boy’s careless hand.

Cersei stepped inside, her gaze lingering on Catelyn for the briefest beat before she turned to draw the bolt across the door. The sound was a soft, final click that seemed to seal the world away. When she faced the room again, Catelyn was already closing the distance.

There was no prelude. Catelyn’s lips found hers with a surety that stole Cersei’s breath, soft, yes, but insistent, tasting faintly of the wine they had shared and carrying a warmth that bloomed with each passing heartbeat. Cersei’s arms wound around her without thought, drawing her closer, returning the kiss with a hunger she did not bother to mask. A sigh slipped from her, unbidden, melting into the press of Catelyn’s mouth.

On the periphery, Theon sat stiffly on the bed, his posture caught between defiance and uncertainty. His gaze was wide, almost boyish in its surprise, though his stillness didn’t last. Cersei’s eyes caught the shift of his hands, the restless movement as he palmed his half-hard cock, and something in the sight stoked the fire already crackling low in her belly. The room seemed to tighten around them, the air thickening until every breath felt drawn from the same shared heat.

They moved against each other with a kind of urgent grace, fingers finding the ties and laces of gowns with impatient precision. Fabric slipped and loosened under their hands, each tug drawing them closer to the heat of skin. Between each kiss, they breathed each other’s names like secrets, Catelyn’s mouth brushing over Cersei’s throat even as Cersei’s fingers threaded through the other woman’s rich auburn hair, holding her there.

It felt almost like desperation, yet not the kind born of fear, but of something deeper, unspoken. A release neither had sought, yet neither seemed willing to resist now that it had found them.

Catelyn broke away only far enough to glance over her shoulder at the boy who still lingered in the periphery. “Strip, Theon. Quickly.” Her voice was sharp enough to cut through the haze, a command spoken without hesitation. The sound of it sent a ripple through Cersei, and a thought, unbidden, slid into her mind: perhaps the dutiful Lady of Winterfell was far less innocent with her husband’s ward than she pretended. She wondered how many times Lady Stark had used him.

“Cat,” Cersei murmured, the single syllable soft but needy. It was enough to pull Catelyn’s attention back; she claimed Cersei’s mouth again in a kiss that deepened until the rest of the world might as well have vanished. The loosened fabric of Cersei’s gown slid down her arms under Catelyn’s deft hands, baring her to the warm press of lips that traced reverent, lingering paths along her throat, then lower still, lavishing her full breasts in attention.

Behind them, Theon obeyed in silence, though his fingers fumbled with each fastening. The scrape of cloth over skin sounded loud in the close room, and when he finally stood bared, it was without the usual swagger he carried like armour. In the absence of that cocky grin, Cersei found something unexpectedly appealing in the rawness of him.

She crooked a finger, summoning him near, and when he leaned close, she brushed a slow, teasing kiss just beneath his ear. His answering groan was quiet but rough-edged, his body fitting against the curve of her back. She felt his lips graze her shoulder as his hands found her hips, his grip both hesitant and hungry, as though unsure what liberties he was allowed but desperate to take them nonetheless. He was hard and rocked his hips against her still clothed arse.

Cersei’s hands found the fastenings of Catelyn’s gown at the same moment Theon’s did, their fingers brushing briefly over the smooth fabric. Between them, the layers fell away, and when the last barrier slid from her shoulders, Theon let out a low, involuntary sound, half wonder, half hunger.

What followed was a tangle of mouths and hands, no rhythm, no restraint. Kisses overlapped and blurred—soft, searching, then greedy—three mouths finding one another in quick, disordered turns. The air seemed thick with shared breath and the faint rustle of linen pooling on the floor. Cersei’s gown joined Catelyn’s in a silken heap beside the boy’s discarded clothes, until nothing remained between them but bare skin and heat.

They moved together toward the bed, stumbling in the closeness, still clinging, still seeking. Theon sank to his knees upon the mattress, and Catelyn swung herself astride one of his thighs. Her kiss to him was deep, knowing, almost possessive—far too practised for this to be any first encounter.

Cersei settled behind Theon, close enough for her breath to stir the hair at his nape. Her lips trailed along the line of his neck, pressing sharp nips between softer kisses, her hand wandering with deliberate slowness to where it drew from him a groan that spilt directly into Catelyn’s mouth.

But Catelyn’s reach was not so easily denied. One hand left Theon to find Cersei, seeking beneath the thin shift that still clung to her form. The fabric rose under Catelyn’s fingers, baring more to the air, to her touch. In the next heartbeat, she drew her own shift up as well, until there was little left for modesty to shield.

Theon’s breath came quick now, his hands restless, unable to choose where to linger as both women’s attention folded in on him. His touch roamed over silk-smooth skin, over the curve of a hip, the line of a spine, over every inch within reach claimed in turn, as though to mark himself in the shared heat of the moment.

“On your back,” Catelyn murmured—no louder than before, yet her voice carried that same undeniable weight, the kind that made Cersei’s pulse thrum in her ears. The boy obeyed at once, stretching out along the tangled bedclothes, cock rigid and standing to attention, his eyes fixed upward with a mixture of hunger and devotion that was almost worship. Lady Stark remained astride his thigh, poised like a queen over a supplicant.

“Do you want your Queen to ride your face, Theon?” she asked, the words smooth but edged, a deliberate provocation.

Heat flared sharp and sudden in Cersei’s cheeks at the shamelessness of it, her breath catching as though she’d been struck. Theon’s answer was a needy sound, raw in its pitch, his head nodding as though the question had been a prayer he’d longed to hear. For all his usual bravado, he’d kept himself restrained until now, content to watch and to yield, his restraint almost as intoxicating as his eagerness.

Catelyn’s gaze slid to Cersei then, steady and knowing. She gave a single nod, the barest flicker of command in her eyes. “Sit,” she said softly, though the word landed with the weight of iron.

Cersei’s legs felt unsteady as she moved, every step a slow surrender. She came to rest above him, her knees bracketing his head, though she lingered just above, savouring the taut anticipation.

Theon’s patience broke first. His hands, firm, almost desperate, seized her hips and drew her down without ceremony, pressing her cunt full against his lips. The shock of it tore a sound from her, half gasp, half moan, the sudden rush of sensation unravelling her composure. His mouth worked with fervour, as if he meant to consume her entirely, and each insistent movement sent another pulse of molten pleasure through her, leaving her clinging to the moment as though it might never come again.

Catelyn eased herself down over Theon’s hips with the calm assurance of a woman who knew precisely what she wanted. The moment she found her seat, his body reacted instinctively, hips surging upward in a wordless plea, the urgency in him almost boyish against her composure. Still, he did not falter in his worship of Cersei, his mouth working with a fervour that sent shivers spiralling through her.

A smirk touched Catelyn’s lips at his lack of restraint, and she rolled her hips in slow, deliberate arcs, testing him, making him chase her. Her free hand reached for Cersei, drawing her close until the space between them was nothing, their breath mingling. When their mouths met, the kiss was deep, tasting of wine and heat, of shared hunger and unspoken daring. As they kissed, Catelyn’s body shifted, the subtle movement allowing Theon’s cock to finally enter her, the three of them locked in a rhythm that felt almost ceremonial in its intimacy.

It struck Cersei then, how unbearably close they had become, how all three seemed to move as one organism, breath and motion feeding into each other. She melted into Catelyn’s kiss, her own soft moans spilling into the other woman’s mouth to be swallowed and returned. Her hands roamed without thought, drawn to the warmth between them, her fingertips finding the silk of auburn curls. She lingered there, parting them with slow precision until she found Catelyn’s clit, circling it with a touch both reverent and knowing.

In that suspended moment, Theon felt less like a participant and more like a conduit through which the two women wove their connection. His desires receded beneath the tide of their focus on one another, his breaths hitching and slipping into gasps as he moved, the rhythm of his mouth and hips a desperate offering to the pleasure he sought to give. His lips found Cersei’s clit with a tender, almost worshipful hunger, suckling in a way that drew sharp, shuddering breaths from her, while his hips snapped upward to reach deeper into Catelyn, eager for approval that remained unspoken but always felt in the charged air between them.

Cersei and Catelyn were lost in the gravity of each other, an orbit of need and reverence. Cersei’s hands moved with quiet confidence, skilled and intimate as they traced along the warm, soft skin between Catelyn’s thighs. Catelyn’s mouth claimed Cersei’s with a hunger that burned slow and fierce, lips pressing, teeth grazing, a tenderness beneath it all that made the moment ache with meaning. Her hands cupped and kneaded Cersei’s breasts as if they were precious, sacred—each movement a silent vow, a declaration.

Cersei felt a fire ignite deep within her, a want so sharp and overwhelming she was certain she had never desired anyone as fiercely as she did Catelyn in that instant. The world had narrowed to the curve of lips on skin, the brush of fingertips, the shared breath that came faster and hotter between them. Then, with a deliberate, reverent motion, Catelyn leaned down and caught one of Cersei’s nipples between her lips, slow, gentle, and maddeningly intimate, drawing a soft, involuntary gasp from her that echoed through the quiet space they had created.

It wasn’t long before a shuddering wave of release swept through Cersei, stealing her breath and setting every nerve aflame. The warmth of her climax spilt freely, soaking Theon’s chin as she trembled, caught in the delicious aftermath of pleasure. Catelyn’s voice was a low murmur against her heated skin, words of praise that wrapped around Cersei like silk, steadying her as her body shook beneath the intensity.

But desire, once awakened, was a hunger that refused to be sated. Without hesitation, a fierce need took hold of Cersei, pushing her to shift and move with a newfound urgency. She tipped Catelyn gently onto her back, the softness of her skin inviting her forward. With careful reverence, she guided her face between Catelyn’s thighs, beginning a slow, deliberate feast on the other woman’s cunt, each touch and taste a whispered promise, a claim.

Theon’s disappointed whine was a sharp contrast to the quiet intimacy shared between the two women, and though he was forced from his place, he wasted no time. With a quick, rough motion, he then claimed Cersei from behind, his movements urgent and demanding, grounding her in the present as he took her fiercely.

Catelyn’s fingers tangled in Cersei’s golden hair, pulling her closer with a breathless moan, the heat between them spiralling higher. She was poised on the edge of something exquisite and overwhelming, her every sense sharpened by the desperate, pathetic sounds Theon made as he moved, his worship of his Queen and lady both pushing him to his peak.

When Catelyn reached her orgasm, a shiver ran through her, and Cersei met it without hesitation, her tongue tracing the tender aftermath with reverent eagerness, savouring every heated drop as if it were a secret whispered only between them. The taste lingered, sweet and intimate, binding them closer in that fragile moment suspended between breath and silence.

After a few more urgent, shuddering movements, Theon pulled away from Cersei, his breath ragged as he spilt himself across the smooth curve of her back, warm and raw, marking her with the evidence of their shared fervour.

Together, the three of them collapsed into the tangled sheets, bodies entwined and slick with the soft sheen of sweat, the air thick with the scent of desire and quiet satisfaction. There was an unspoken promise hanging in the room, fragile yet undeniable, that what had passed between them tonight would remain a secret, locked away behind these walls, untouched by the demands of daylight.

Come morning, they would return to their roles, the cold civility of court and duty pressing back in. But for this night—this rare, tender fragment of time—they had given themselves over to something delicate and fiercely alive, a connection more profound and unexpected than any had dared imagine.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☁︎

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