#Pious Faults

[mimikyusrealform]

globalization

Spencer Reid x Reader. Word Count: 3703. Summary: Three times you leave Spencer speechless, and one time he leaves you speechless. Notes and Warnings: Set during S1 at the beginning, and then at S2. Mention of Somebody's Watching and North Mammon. There's a misogynistic comment, but it's quickly dealt with.

1.

The rivalry started innocuous enough. Three months after Dr. Spencer Reid joined the BAU, you were recruited as well. Fresh out of the academy and without a prebuilt rapport with the rest of the team, you felt out of place. They listened to your suggestions, but after a week and a half, it was like they were still teaching you the ropes, coddling you. Hotch didn’t even let you go out in the field. This piling dissatisfaction reached its culmination without warning.

“C’mon now,” Morgan said one day. You didn’t even remember what led to the following statement, but you remembered the phrase that started the domino effect. “Robberies have been declining since last year.”

“The robbery rate declined last year,” you corrected him as you skimmed through your oddly small workload for the day. They weren’t working on any cases. “It’s been declining since 1986, but it’s possible that the rate will increase this year in comparison to last year’s, which was at an all-time low, at 137.”

“136.7,” Dr. Reid corrected you from his own desk. He had already finished half of his work. “That is given a population of 293,656,842.” He looked at you and Morgan. “Did you know that the U.S Census Bureau estimates the population as of July 1 for each year? Except when it's a decennial census count, like 2000.”

It took Dr. Reid a whole minute to notice your glare. What a genius. He looked as if he was panicking a bit, and his gaze drifted between you and Morgan. He seemed to be begging with his eyes for Morgan to, somehow, reveal to him the secrets of the universe and what he should do to stop your glaring. But Morgan was not a pious entity, and he turned around, suddenly blind. It took Dr. Reid another minute to figure out why you were killing him in your head.

“I—I mean, you round up from 5, so 137 is accurate,” he rectified, staring back at you, like you were the abyss and he, the hero who needed to face it.

You stayed silent for a while. And then, you said, “That's dumb. The rate was 136.7. Sigh. I thought you were a genius, Dr. Reid, how could you even suggest that the rate was 137? Maybe you should check if you need to reinstall the eidetic memory package.”

Morgan made a sound that was between a dog barking out a laugh and a dog choking on its bone. But it was Dr. Reid's perplexed expression what you burned in your memory.

It wasn't your fault, really, that your antagonistic nature decided to pursue a war with the resident genius of the team. If you were to bluff in case of being questioned why you were so adamant in aggravating Dr. Spencer Reid in any way you could, you would say, “complacency is the enemy of natural selection and I'm truly benevolent—so I'm making the Doctor a favor by keeping him on his toes.” The truth was, Dr. Spencer Reid's geeky enthusiasm and nerdy rambles had charmed you. While you weren't on the same level as him when it came to intelligence—your latest IQ test had put you around 137, and that was knowing the common patterns the test tended to use—you had a knack for deconstructing things. When you were 8, you couldn't finish a Rubik cube for the life of you, but when you broke it down to its simpler parts, you found a way to solve it after learning how the core mechanism worked.

Antagonizing was how you dealt with your crushes. All the crushes you ever had, you actively treated them as if they were your mortal enemies. In a sense, they were. Understandably, none of them ever liked you, and you couldn't blame them. But, for some reason, the idea of Dr. Spencer Reid not returning your affections was—troubling, to say the least. And that only made you pricklier.

2.

Lila Archer was not an enemy but a victim with very poor timing. You draped a towel around her febrile shoulders, and patted her back in an ode to comfort. Then, you went out of the house to deal with your real foe. Dr. Spencer Reid was still trying to dry himself with a pathetically small cloth. In another occasion, it would have made you laugh. But you were, at loss of a better word, jealous. How shameful was that? You hadn’t been jealous since Nathaniel Sterling, your crush in tenth grade, started dating Rose Harding, the cloistered girl who ruined your straight-A-record in Math because you were paired with her during one assignment.

You had the bad habit of swallowing the acid that dripped from your own soul and regurgitating it when you were alone. For now, you compartmentalized. Weirdly enough, you found yourself feeling tired, instead of murderous. You understood, then, how having a crush on someone didn’t compare to being in love.

A crush was a candle in the wind; being in love was a fire in a forest.

The color of the night sky, that reflected on the blue water, covered the world of depth and beyond all bounds. Even the air was blue; it bit your skin. Or maybe it was your own feelings that prickled down your spine. If porcupines did mate for life, they would be the most tender lovers in the world, you thought. The prickliest beings loved carefully and purposefully.

Only after Elle left his side, did you approach. Though the look she gave you was too perceptive for your liking. “I didn’t know kissing with the girl you’re supposed to be protecting from her stalker was part of the protocol. Please, forward me the exact article that describes the effectiveness of French kisses as a method of protection against erotomaniacs.”

He tried to ignore your wording, but his ears were red, and so were his cheeks, despite the fact the air had cooled the water clinging to his clothes. “I, uh, I fell in,” was all he could muster given the fact you had a gun, a motive and a cold heart.

“I see,” you nodded. “That’s what tends to happen when you pool your women.”

“I don’t pool my women! I-I don’t even—I don’t even have women.”

“Relax, Doctor, you won’t drown. If you know how to two-stroke, two-timing should come naturally to you.”

Dr. Reid made a pitiful sound when he realized there was no winning against you.

“She kissed me first,” he said.

“Maybe you deserved it.”

“Don’t make it sound like a punishment.”

“I’m not.” You were sincere.

3.

You were pretty good at remaining unmovable, and you were proud of that. But—this guy. This guy.

“All I did was show them who they really are,” he was saying with that stupid self-satisfied smile. “What they were truly capable of. People pretending to be decent. When it came down to it, they… They reacted just the way I knew they would.”

“Is that so,” you couldn’t help but interrupt his little monologue. Gideon looked at you from the corner of his eye, but he didn’t try to stop you. “Congratulations. Be proud of discovering the sky is blue for the rest of your life, I commiserate you; it must have been so hard for you. Do you really think you’re a mastermind for this?” His smile slowly disappeared, replaced by a glare directed towards you. “If you starve a dog, are you a genius for knowing the dog will end up becoming aggressive? But then, that’s a Nobel-worthy dissertation for someone so simpleminded like you.”

He started to say something, voice shaking from barely contained rage, but you were already leaving the basement. He yelled after you. You couldn’t hear him over the buzzing in your ears.

In the plane, you were shutting down the world around you by pretending to read a Russian Copy of The Brothers Karamazov. You didn’t speak Russian. That was—until Reid sat in front of you. He didn’t speak for a moment, just observed you. You flipped five pages before he finally said,

“Are you okay?”

“What an unpleasant question,” you replied. He kept looking at you, which annoyed you because it made your stomach twist. “I suppose. That guy got on my nerves.”

“I thought you didn’t have nerves,” he said. “I mean… you always act as if you’re untouched by the world.”

“I try my utmost not to be perceived. The world is a scary place, after all.”

“It is scary,” he agreed. “But, scary—how? How does someone like you find the world to be scary?”

You put your book down on your lap. “Full of people.” You twirled a strand of hair around your index finger. “And what I hate most are the people who lie to themselves. That guy—lied to himself that he was right. He decided to believe other people were his enemies instead of realizing… realizing he was his own worst enemy.”

It wasn’t without tact—though it startled you all the same—when he said, “Sounds a bit like you.”

“Oh, right.” You supposed it was a fair assessment; you never gave him any indication that you actually didn’t see him as enemy. You acted like you did, after all. Maybe he really believed you hated him. So, “I don’t hate you. If I was smart, I would go as far as to say that I like you.”

You watched him freeze for a split of a second before his face turned red, like a M-class star. It gave you terrible ideas and horrible impulses. You couldn’t help but reach for his glasses, and—gently push them up the bridge of his nose. Your index finger brushed against his skin. His face went a class up in the Morgan-Keenan classification.

“But you are smart,” he managed to choke out. “Very smart.”

“What are you implying?”

He couldn’t answer, and you returned to your book, a bit disappointed, maybe. You had thought he was ready to give in. You still couldn’t read a single word. Reid must have noticed because he ended up prying the book from your hands, and began reading out loud, just for you, just for your enjoyment. It was enough.

+1.

“Kid,” Morgan called as he slid in the seat next to him. “Seriously, when are you gonna ask her out? Save the rest of us from her pining.”

Spencer frowned. “Ask who out?”

He was only half listening, but when Morgan said your name, he spluttered. “What?!” He lowered his tone after that voice break. “Morgan, are you crazy? She hates my guts.”

Morgan looked incredibly amused. “No, she doesn't. She's just pulling your hair. And, if she actually hated you, well, I don't think I need to remind you what happened to Officer Harrison. I really wish I had been there to see it.”

Spencer almost smiled at the memory. A few months back, a case had brought them to Texas when the local police discovered two independent pairs of hands scattered across their state line. The second in command, Officer Harrison, had been a flagrant misogynistic and a stereotypical macho-man.

“But what does cutting the hands-off mean?” Officer Harrison had asked.

JJ, you and him were the only ones from the team still in the bullpen.

Hotch did trust you with fieldwork, but he found that you and Spencer were an especially good match, so he mostly paired the two of you together. You bounced off each other’s ideas with an uncanny synergy.

Before he could ramble off, you beat him to it, “The ancient Greek sometimes mutilated the body of their victim. There's a theory that says that the mutilation of the body corresponded to the mutilation of the soul, so that the shade, without limbs, couldn't enact vengeance over the killer. Maybe the Unsub’s superstitious and believes that by cutting off their hands he’s saving himself from their ghosts.”

Officer Harrison had looked at you, before dragging his gaze up and down your body. He had mainly interacted with Morgan and Hotch, sometimes himself; and almost none with you, JJ and Emily. Then, he whistled sarcastically. “That's very impressive, darlin'. I didn't take you for the smart type. No offense, but you don't look like it.”

Rage was born in the pit of the stomach, Spencer found out that day. It rendered him immobile for a moment, and before he could tell the officer off, you beat him to it, again. Intelligence wasn’t quantifiable, he knew this. But you always managed to prove it to him. Some tests might say he was several points smarter than you, but you were two steps ahead of him, every single time.

From the corner of his eye, he could see JJ’s appalled expression. He wondered how his own face looked.

“Oh,” you had said. “Looks can be deceiving. It's alright. No offense taken. I myself was deceived by your looks—I thought you were a conventionally ugly man, maybe even a rare ugliness, but you're actually a piece of shit in human form. Tell me, did the doctor perform a colonoscopy on your mother to find out if she was pregnant, as opposed to an ultrasound?”

JJ's lips were pulled inwards in a tight, flat grimace, as if she was trying and failing to stifle her laughter, and Spencer found himself playing side-eye ping-pong between you and Officer Harrison.

“Why, you bit—” Officer Harrison stammered, face growing a tint of red and fists comically clenched.

“Jonathan,” Sheriff Mendoza had interjected then, sternly. “Why don't you take a walk? Go on, get some air.”

Officer Harrison looked as if he was going to self-combust from how ruddy his face was and how sweat accrued on his temple. His shoulders were trembling when he attempted to storm out. He seemed ready to shoulder-check you, but you put a hand on his chest and held him in place.

“Officer Harrison. Harrison. Jonathan? Johnny? Johnny, by all means, please underestimate me again,” you told him lowly. “It'll make the look on your face when I ruin your life funnier.”

With that, you finally let him go, and he bulldozed his way out of the bullpen. You could practically hear his teeth grinding.

“... I'm sorry for him,” Sheriff Mendoza had offered awkwardly, a deep sigh pulled out of his chest.

You had shrugged. “Natural selection will do its work.”

Spencer thought you had never looked lovelier than in that moment.

He shook his head to clear the memory away. “Maybe she doesn't hate my guts,” he admitted reluctantly. “But I'm still his least favorite person here.”

“Wow,” Morgan said exaggeratedly. “For a genius, you can be stupid sometimes. She clearly likes you, man. Look, tell you what, the next time she picks up a fight with you, tell her this: ‘you are hot when you're talking about statistics’.” He was laughing by the end of it while Spencer choked with his own saliva. “She'll love it, I promise.”

“How can you be so sure?” he replied. “She's so emotionally repressed and so unapologetically herself, I don't think anything I do will ever get a real reaction out of her.”

“Trust me on this one, kid,” was all Morgan said with a pat to his back.

Spencer spent the rest of the day thinking about his words. When he first met you, you had offered him a handshake like most other people. He rambled his well-practiced explanation, “A study shows that the number of organisms, both pathogenic and non-pathogenic, that are passed during handshakes is staggering. Kissing is actually more sanitary than handshakes.” But instead of looking at him like he was a weirdo, you had stared at him, unshakeable, and replied,

“I can say ‘a study shows that shooting yourself in the head is an efficient way to de-stress’, but if I don't say what study it is, then does the study really exist?”

That was the first time his heart lurched in your presence. When he spoke again, his voice was a bit breathless, “Uh, it's a study published in The Public Health Journal, by H. W. Hill and Helen M. Matthews. Volume 17, number 7, July, 1927, I-I mean, 1926. It's titled Transfer of Infection by Handshakes. Pages 347 to 352. I-I can get you a copy of it.”

You blinked at him, but he didn't feel as if you thought he was a freak. He felt like you were amazed by him. It brought his heart to his throat.

“Is that so,” you had said. “Then, I expect it to be delivered at my doorstep at 5 o'clock sharp, tomorrow. Military time.”

He had been stunned into silence for a few seconds. “That's... unreasonable. I don't even know where you live.”

You said, “It's quite standard.”

“Then you have unreasonable standards.”

“I've been told.”

Spencer had thought you and him would become something like best friends. For the first week and a half, you had been quite friendly with him, and often listened to his rambles. But then, then he had made the terrible mistake of correcting an innocuous error you made regarding a statistic, and the look you had shot at him could have curled water. From that point on, you seemed to have made it your life mission to fight him at any chance.

And yet—he never got the feeling you did it out of malice. He thought you did hate him on some level, but when you argued against his points during a case, there was a glint in your eye. Like you were still amazed by him. Sometimes, you even finished his rambles when he couldn't land them. Sometimes, you were the only one who listened to him when he sidetracked. To him, you defined the wonder of globalization. When you were there, it was like talking to the stars, and having the stars answering him back in perplexing, secret ways. He kind of figured this out when you smiled at his existentialist joke. You told him it wasn't funny, but your eyes were bright.

Maybe trying Morgan's advice wouldn't go so bad.

If only you weren’t so prickly. And clever and quick, he added in his head, just in case you were hearing his thoughts. He wouldn’t put it past your abilities. For three weeks, Spencer hadn’t managed yet to seize a situation in which Morgan’s advice worked at his favor. It wasn’t until the team, you and him included, obviously, went out for drinks that he finally got his chance.

“You aren’t drinking?” he asked you. You were cradling a Virgin Margarita in your hands, and for a moment he wished your fingers were curled around his own instead of the glass.

“No,” you said. “You’re clearly the best in the profiling game. Take pride on this display of your observational skills for the rest of your life.”

He sighed. You were impossible. Still, he couldn’t keep the fondness out of his voice when he said, “You don’t have to be so defensive with me.”

“You’re right,” you nodded, and he arched an eyebrow. “I have to be especially defensive with you.”

“That’s not… that’s not what I meant,” he murmured, rubbing the back of his neck. “Okay. Why do you have to, uh, be ‘especially’ defensive with me?”

You didn’t answer him. But he knew you couldn’t go without having the last word, so he patiently waited for you to gather a satisfactorily poignant response. In the meantime, he took the time to examine your face; there was a quality to it he would never find a perfect word to describe it. Maybe it was your supraorbital ridge, or your posterior zygomatic arch, or even the vertical length of your forehead. He just knew you were lovely. He had never been comfortable with not knowing something, but with you, he didn’t need to know. He would rather discover you, if you would let him. If you were full of secrets, he would work them out; if he only found hatred for him, he would press his mouth to it and relish in it.

“Because you have a BA in Psychology,” you ended up saying, stoic as ever, “and I’m a soft girl with mental health issues.”

He laughed. It took him a lot of time to figure out that—the more matter-of-factly you said something, the less serious you were. Your lips quirked up in a little smile, and you sipped your drink. The rest of the team—besides Hotch—hadn’t yet realized your tell-tale sign.

The words escaped him before he could think them over, “You’re cute when you pretend to be emotionless.”

Your facial expression didn’t change, and that was alright, because when you turned your head to the side—he could clearly see the faint blush on your cheekbones. “Fool.”

Ah, he realized. I won. You were at a loss of words. Because of him.

“You know, the word ‘fool’ comes from Old French fol, which means ‘madman, insane person’ and ‘idiot, jester’, and fol is from Medieval Latin follus, adjective for ‘foolish’. The evolution of its meaning can probably be attributed to the use of follis in a sense of ‘empty-headed person’. The word was also used in Middle English for ‘sinner, rascal, impious person’. It actually must have been passed to the English language via its borrowing in the Scandinavian language of the Vikings. And did you know that the association between April 1 and foolishness in Geoffrey Chaucer's The Canterbury Tales could have been a copying error and...”

You didn’t look at him as he continued going on his tangent, but he knew that you were listening intently. Because your body was angled towards him, even if you kept your face away from his gaze, and when he took a pause to breathe, you hummed in acknowledgment only for his ears.

Globalization was saying hello and someone answering hola from miles away.

But you didn’t need to answer him for Spencer to understand you were in love with him and he was in love with you.

[k3n-dyll]

𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠; 18+, wlw, fem!reader, infidelity, cowgirl/southern butch!abby, set around 1800's wild west era, oral (r!receiving), fingering (r!receiving), getting caught

𝐖𝐂 - 1.2k

𝐊𝐞𝐧'𝐬 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬 ☆ I posted this a while ago, hated it, deleted it, kept it, 'fixed it' (?) and now here we are. Still kinda hate it but writer's block is turning me every way but loose.

If you let yourself linger on the thought for a moment—to do a bit of mental gymnastics to subside this nagging feeling of anxiety and shame—this really isn't your fault.

Truly. It isn't. It's theirs.

You weren't the one that wanted to marry, and you sure as hell wouldn't have chosen this suitor of all of them. That was your pious father. Good intentions aside, he was the one that confined you to this life.

And your sorry excuse for a husband, well, he took the other half of the blame. He's never home, and when he is the man always seems to have more important things to do. Not that you want his attention anyway, but still, it'd be nice to at least speak to the person you're forced to live with. Aside from when he wants to be inside of you, of course.

If not for them you wouldn't even be here.

If only your father hadn't mettled with your marital status - let you become a spinster instead. If your scraggly bearded husband had simply kept his shady business dealings in the back of a bar instead of inviting them to his home - her large, calloused hands wouldn't be caught so tightly around your hips. You wouldn't be sitting in the head chair of the office you weren't technically allowed to be in, eyeing the perpetually unfinished paperwork on his desk in a sad attempt to keep yourself grounded.

"You taste so fuckin' good, y'know that?"

Abby's voice and the warm, wet feeling of her tongue dragging along your slit bring you out of your own head, your hips bucking up slightly at the contact you've been all but begging for. Your lidded eyes trail down to the blonde positioned snugly between your legs with a furrowed brow, trying your best to seem disapproving through your moans. 

Who does she think she is? Popping up at your front door in the middle of the day, knowing damn well your husband wasn't home from work. This had only happened a few times before and even so, you knew exactly why she'd come over the moment you saw her and that stupid smug smirk she wears. 

She wanted to take you in his office this time. Defile the sacred workplace of the man she calls a "friend" simply to make you uncomfortable. To remind you that he couldn’t make you feel this good if he tried. 

Her piercing blues gaze right back into your own, half her face hidden by the crinkled up fabric of your skirts as she lets out a muffled laugh, the vibrations of her voice against your core making you shiver.

It's the last you see of her freckled face before your head is tossed back in pleasure, utter filth flooding past your lips as she laps at your cunt. No amount of guilt would ever make you feel low enough to tell her to stop - not when her tongue makes you squirm and twitch in ways your betrothed could only ever dream of doing.

Abby never fails to make herself seem like a woman starved, messily licking and sucking at your pulsing, puffy clit, slurping you up as if you were her first and last ever meal on this Earth.

And she'd be damned if she let you breathe for even a second.

She wants to hear you gasping, gulping for air before she allows herself to pull away and she does more even then. Pushing through a sore jaw and aching fingers without complaint for as long as you could handle it.

"A-Abby... can't take much more" You whine, your thighs squeezing onto either side of her flushed face as you gently palm at the top of her head.

A high-pitched whine escapes your throat at the curl of the two thick fingers pumping in and out of your pussy, a low, amused growl coming from Abby at the sound.

"Aw, c'mon baby. Y'got another one in there for me, don't you? You and I both know you won't get to feel this good for a long while once I'm gone" she speaks in that soft, honey-smooth tone that makes you weak in the knees. The gentle southern drawl laced within her every syllable sending jolts of pure ecstasy through your body. Looking down at her is a mistake you never fail to make in this circumstance. She knows what a simple look from her can do to you and she takes advantage of it without remorse, chuckling as she watches you nod eagerly in response.

"Atta girl" She lands a quick smack on your thigh before diving back into you, a concoction of spit and slick spilling down her chin and wetting your inner thighs, the only sound to accompany the smacking and sucking against your pussy being your whorish cries.

Your breathing becomes quicker and more shallow when you're close. Eyes glazing over as your jaw slacks, brows knitted together in desperation for another orgasm. Your tells are so predictable, yet so incredibly delicious to Abby. This is a state only she gets to see you in. Not that you've ever confirmed it aloud for her but regardless, it's clear that the pompous ass you're married to doesn't have the skill to make you cum.

"Say it, darlin'. C'mon, you know what I wanna hear" Abby growls, popping up from underneath your skirt, detaching her lips from around your clit, and replacing them with her thumb just to speak. Just to taunt you. You do know what she wants to hear, and part of you wants to roll your eyes at the thought. Maybe you would have if your brain wasn’t so fogged over - if you weren't so aware that she'd stop pumping her fingers inside of you completely if you didn't give her the satisfaction - maybe you would be so bold as to give her attitude.

"Only you - fuck! Only you can make me feel like this"

Abby chuckles “Yeah? He couldn’t make you feel this good, could he? Need me to take care of you, ain’t that right?”

You can only nod, bottom lip pinched between clenched teeth, the dam of tension resting in your abdomen readying to burst.

"I know, sweet thing. You wanna cum for me? C’mon, one more time.."

Your orgasm is blinding and loud, a sheen of sweat covering your forehead as you convulse under her touch, and your hair that had once been so neatly tied up is now a mess of frizz. You don't even hear the front door open from downstairs. Nor do you hear the footsteps that follow, too occupied with rutting yourself onto her fingers, gushing with each snap of your hips. Abby is just as oblivious, lifting up from her place between your thighs to crash her lips onto yours, too focused on wanting you to taste yourself on her tongue to even notice the jingling office door doorknob.

It's only when you both hear the old door begin slowly creaking open that your attention is snatched from one another, expressions shifting from ones of lust and satisfaction to pure horror as you both make eye contact with the twisted-up, angry face of the man you had just slandered aloud.

Shit.

Donations 4 Palestine - TLOU2 Masterlist

Taglist ;

@half-of-a-gay, @porcelainmystery , @tohoko, @rkivedpages,

@misfits-army-van, @vifilms , @abvisionss, @marsworlddd, @urbayolet

[swordgrace]

❝ 𝐥𝐚𝐢𝐝 𝐛𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐥𝐟. ❞

┊ 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: in the midst of a war that threatens to tear the realm asunder, you offer robb a temporary reprieve from the weight of his duties.

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: robb stark x baratheon!reader.

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 5.7K.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: smut (mdni), heavy kissing, groping, biting/marking, unprotected p in v sex, obligatory stark breeding kink (they all have one), robb is a little rougher (but loving!), missionary position, robb is a tease, robb has a thigh fixation (credit to @dipperscavern on that one!), cunnilingus, oral sex (fem!rec), getting eaten out on the war table, soft + sweet ending!

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: this is my first time writing for robb so please be gentle !! I had sooooo much fun with this though, I would absolutely not be opposed to writing more of him! I hope you all enjoy reading it, thank you so much! ❤️

𝐖𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐑𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐜𝐫𝐢𝐦𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐒𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐤 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐋𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞, 𝐰𝐚𝐫 𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐚𝐜𝐫𝐨𝐬𝐬 𝐖𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐨𝐬 — 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐡 𝐨𝐟 𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐞𝐥 𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐠 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐨𝐰𝐥 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐡 𝐨𝐟 𝐜𝐨𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐫 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐦𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐩𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐛𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐳𝐞.

War was an ugly thing — cruel, like rust upon a blade, threatening to disintegrate all within its path, or a festering plague, leaving destruction in its wake. Such exposure to all of its callousness had startled you, and yet, it did not fracture your pious demeanor.

Wed to Robb Stark in the midst of grueling chaos was something that you hadn’t envisioned for yourself; once caught within a web of luxury, now condemned to a battlefield.

Marriages of convenience were commonplace, with your status and family offering the Stark cause a wealth of resources. With what time you had at his side, Robb did not treat you unkindly — he was often pensive, agitated, brusque — but that was no fault of your own.

As you withdrew from your own family and assimilated into his own, you had realized that he deserved your compassion now, more than ever. The death of his father was still evergreen, like a fresh wound that was slow to heal.

It was effortless for you to sympathize, having lost your own father rather recently, something that did not feel entirely real. A sliver of your being wondered about your siblings — how they fared, if they truly missed you.

According to the innumerable rumors that had reached your ears, you were one of the only Baratheons sired who did not possess the blood of a bastard.

It left you with this chasm, gnawing away at your very soul — your family was not your family, your father slain, gored down by a wild boar, your uncles clawing at the throat of one another. Your Mother, a figure who had both inspired fear and fury, placing your monstrous sibling upon the Iron Throne.

Loneliness was a constant companion, save for that of your lord-husband, who was often away fighting his own battles. Gaining mastery over your own discontent, you made your loyalty to Robb known whenever you could, be it through softspoken whispers or the merit of action.

This night, however, was different; the dew-laden gale had quieted, the sting of dusk’s chill subdued to make way for a temperate evening. Having filled your needy lungs with enough fresh air, you returned to your shared tent, guards posted outside, bearing shields with direwolf sigils.

Poised beside the planning table, Robb sat firmly within a wooden seat, fist tucked beneath his bearded chin, auburn brows furrowed together. Exuding a poised concentration, you did not break his focus, silently striding toward your makeshift vanity.

Ripples of frustration wafted from him, nearly palpable as you reached for your nightgown. He hadn’t moved, picking apart the arrangement of wooden pieces across a board — his hand would soon be dealt.

In the spiritedness of his youth, Robb was both tenacious and methodical, born for the taxing role of leadership. With the title of King of the North weighing down upon him, there were expectations — men counting on him, moves to be made. He did not wish to look weak.

Clutching the silken fabric between your fingers, you quietly approached him where he sat, wanting to inquire about his thoughts. An awkward tension still lingered around the fringes of your blossoming bond — a bond that had moved slowly, but had not yet withered away.

“What is it you seek?” The first to fracture the tenuous silence, you watched as Robb exhaled; steely, resolute. Your untrained eyes were not accustomed to that of a battlefield, but you knew enough to understand the current position.

Eerily quiet, Robb’s gaze narrowed upon the lion figureheads that swarmed The Trident, measuring his own forces against that of Tywin’s. He had lost track of time, wasting away at this very table, attempting to see something that simply wasn’t there.

At last, his hand shifted from his chin to the table, clenching into a closed fist, posture coiled with a bristling irritation. It was not directed at you; merely the situation he found himself in. “I wish that I knew.” He confessed, Northern timbre thick with frustration.

Timidity had not yet gripped you, and you allowed your hand to ghost above his shoulder, clad in leather. Your hold was tender and yet so distant, as if you were afraid of leaning into it fully.

Robb sighed, allowing a sliver of tension to unfurl from his muscles when you graced him with your touch. Cerulean hues flickered from the war table to your hand; as delicate as that of bellflower that grew along the earthy banks of the Trident.

Reaching for you, calloused digits tenderly wrapped around your hand, thumb tracing over the soft ridges of your knuckles. “Forgive me for my absence, my Lady,” Robb did not want there to be some bridge between you — you were undeserving of it. “It is not a slight against you.”

A pang of warmth slithered across your body, heating your features as you squeezed his hand, like velvet against roughened leather. “I did not think it was,” You reassured, voice as sweet as summertime. “You are fighting a war.”

A brief scoff erupted from his throat, one of disdain. “If I do not plan ahead, then I will be losing a war instead of fighting one.” Robb murmured, unable to rid himself of his mounting agitation. He did not enjoy dragging this into your marriage, but it was unavoidable.

Perhaps you’d grown curious, allowing your gaze to drift over him, over his strong, comely features; the thick curls of a dark auburn, visage shadowed by a beard, hues like that of a clear brook. He was handsome to you — moreso like this.

“You underestimate your ability as a tactician,” Lips twitched into a comforting smile, hoping to offer him some brief reprieve. “The answer will make itself known to you. The longer you sit and toil over this table, you will drive yourself mad.”

A threadbare smirk had ghosted over his features, a fleeting gesture that seemed to linger for longer than expected. Appreciative of your sage advice, Robb drew your hand closer, lips pressing against the skin of your knuckles.

“It can rest until dawn.” Robb concurred, albeit reluctantly. As much as he desired to strategize here and now, the lack of clear answers had ruffled him to no end. He turned slightly within the chair, wood groaning beneath him as he angled himself away from the table.

Instead, the sight before him now was far more appealing than that of any parchment or Flayed Men figurines. He found you, standing near him in a gown of buckthorn and ivory, shades that had complimented you nicely.

Robb was fortunate to have you; dutiful, a heart swollen with kindness, and as pious as a septon. Such admirable qualities had only accentuated your beauty, one that far exceeded your rotten kin, the whole of them spoiled, save for you.

It was wrong of him to want you with such ferocity, this innate desire to covet you, keep you tethered to him, but he could not help himself. He had grown rather fond of you — overprotective, perhaps, but such was the duty of a husband.

“Is there anything that I can do to offer some relief? I cannot imagine the weight that you shoulder,” The soothing cadence of your voice had stirred some carnal feeling within him. The relief he sought was of a different sort. “You carry it well.”

A bemused huff of laughter rippled through him, a glint of something peculiar dancing within his gaze. Robb knew that you were paying him a generous compliment, careworn fingers idly caressed over your own, a beat of silence following suit.

It was then that your wandering eyes found the front of his tunic, partially unclasped, revealing a glimpse of his musculature beneath. Even following your stiff consummation, you were still incredibly smitten, as if it were the first time again.

“Your presence is more than enough, I assure you.” There was some partial truth to his words, placating you in the process. He shielded you from the brunt of his desirous thoughts, wanting you terribly, as a man yearned for his wife.

Unconvinced, you let the matter rest, offering him an amiable smile, teeming with a fond warmth as you quietly admired him. In the face of such callous adversity, Robb stood above it all — those who underestimated him would surely regret it, you suspected.

As his stare returned to meet yours, you nearly buckled at the intensity of it, as if he had dared to set you ablaze through eyes alone. A hitch formed within your throat, lips parting as he planted another kiss to your knuckles.

“You are beautiful,” Robb murmured, beard prickling against your wrist as he noted your sheepish countenance. It was easy to ensnare you so, a simple task, and he reveled in it. You were a delight, one that illuminated the hazy murk of his current state. “My wife.”

Words turned to ash upon your tongue, unable to think of some deflecting response, averting your gaze. His cadence had roused some inkling of fire within you, and addressing you as wife only served to fan this flame.

Rising from the chair, Robb’s stature began to loom above you, cerulean hues glistening with the onslaught of desire. His affection for you had steadily grown over the past few moons, and now, it seemed uncontrollable — rampant, even.

“Robb.” His name caught within your throat, feeling the plane of his musculature press snugly against your own body. Your sweetness was beguiling to him, the doe-like look permeating your eyes.

Strong palms cupped your hips through the silken plane of fabric that clung to you, his demeanor melding into something stoic, instead. There was a sliver of hesitancy present, as if he were waiting for you to consent before continuing.

Swallowing the growing lump within your throat, you felt his hand lift, sweeping your tresses aside, exposing the slender expanse of your throat to him. “I’ve missed your warmth.” Robb’s husky confession nearly makes your bones lurch, stomach churning with an intense want.

In the midst of such tumultuous chaos, crushed beneath the weight of a senseless war, Robb found himself needing you more than ever. There was a respite he found within you, a sanctuary that offered him solace from heavy responsibilities.

Admittedly, you had grown to crave him in ways you never thought possible, and this only seemed to stoke the flames. Frustration emanated from him, coiled within his broad shoulders, thinly-veiled upon his rugged visage.

“As I’ve missed yours, husband.” Breathless, you watched as Robb’s gaze became shadowed with desire, the hint of a mirthful smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. You felt his hand knead into the swell of your hip, beseeching you to sit against the edge of the table.

Planting a kiss to your jaw, Robb felt your soft palm move beneath his tunic, drifting toward the exposed skin of his chest. It evoked a gentle growl from him, more wolf than man. “I suppose I’ll have to remedy that.” He uttered, watching as you nodded in agreement.

In a heated surge, his lips found yours, biting with hunger, palms continuing to knead at your flesh over your evening shift. A gasp rippled through you, one of exhilaration as you clamored to reciprocate, arm draping over his shoulder.

The soft brush of his auburn curls swept against your fingertips, prompting your palm to cup the nape of his neck. His lips were a kiss of fire, instilled with a wanton vigor as you reciprocated with your own flurry of desire.

A soft moan bubbled within your throat, skin beginning to crawl with heat as he urged you closer, body molding to his own. Robb craved the saccharine taste of your mouth, craved the innocence and purity that wafted from you, a doe laid bare before the wolf.

One hand curled into the fabric of your gown, beginning to guide the material up, letting it drift along your legs. As if acting upon instinct, your legs began to part, as if involuntarily welcoming him in, accommodating his muscled frame that wedged between.

With an incendiary caress, your hand continued to dance beneath his tunic, urging the leather ties to come undone. A brief huff of excitement tore past his lips, gaze eclipsed by a powerful yearning, and in-turn, he coaxed your gown toward your thighs.

Mouths continued to intertwine; desperate kisses born of a mounting desire, one that had grown into an unbounded flame. Leather fell away from his torso, exposed to the pale muscle, chest covered in a generous layer of dark auburn hair.

Robb allowed one hand to slip against your bare flesh, enticed by the way your breath hitched at the brief sensation. Darkening hues raked over you, laced with possessiveness, ardor — it seemed to swallow you whole.

As his digits sought the coalescing heat between your thighs, you shivered at the caress of cold fingertips, making their way beneath your gown. “Robb.” A sharp gasp inhabited your lungs, piercing your ribs as he withdrew from your lips.

“Does this displease you?” Robb’s cajoling tone held inklings of something sultry, intended to tease you as he held you close. Met with the immediate shake of your head, he fought to withhold a threadbare grin.

“Gods, no,” As if possessed, your hips lurched forward, desperately seeking the friction of his hand. “I—I need you.” Unable to smother your own bristling desire, your hands molded themselves to his broad shoulders, egging him closer.

Lips began to pepper themselves along your neck, teeth nipping at your flesh like that of a keen predator. A moan tumbled from your mouth, knees squeezing incessantly at his hips, able to feel his fingers crawl along your inner thigh.

Akin to tendrils of searing heat, you nearly whined as Robb’s digits found your cunt, ghosting over your petals with a torturous, feather-light caress. He enjoyed watching you gasp and writhe, nails digging crimson crescents into his flesh.

Stringing constant kisses to your throat, his cerulean gaze savored you, this creature of beauty. A breathy whimper left you as he trailed his fingers over your slit, able to feel the nectar that had slicked your nethers.

“Easy.” Robb’s sultry timbre fanned beside your jugular, prompting you to still as his digits dipped between your folds. Each languid caress evoked a shiver from you, heat festering over your flesh.

“Do not torment me, I beg of you.” With a whimpered protest, your nails dug further still, countenance a reflection of exhilaration as he began to sluggishly caress along your cunt. A sly chuckle escaped Robb’s mouth, teeth greedily nipping at your jugular.

Treating you to the rhythmic ministrations of his hand, your hips continued to lurch forward, a string of moans freely leaving your mouth. A calloused hand found its way to your thin shift, seeking to remove it altogether.

Adjusting your position, you swiftly assisted your husband in the unceremonious removal of your garments, allowing the fabric to come billowing away from your form.

A low hum of approval resonated from Robb, whose mouth was voracious, seeking to kiss and suck at your flesh. In unabashed rapture, his hungry gaze raked over your form, mouth continuing to lavish you in strings of heated kisses.

“I cannot stand being away from your side,” As the unexpected confession floated into the slim space between your bodies, Robb tensed, teeth stilling against your collarbone. In the wake of rising sentiments, it was difficult not to vocalize your own wanting. “I need you here.”

Darkened hues set themselves upon you, pitch blues that seemed to sink their teeth into you. His chest swelled with desire, a feeling so overwhelming that he nearly pounced upon you.

Continuing to stroke along your slit, he pressed a kiss to your naked shoulder. “Is that so?” Robb’s cadence invoked some lascivious curiosity within you, one that made your hips jolt. “As my lady commands.”

Mouths delicately searched for one another, embracing in a brazen entanglement. The flame of his kiss left you with naught but ash, and you nearly thanked him for it. Steadying yourself atop the table, your hands reached out, cupping his bearded jaw.

Such heat was fleeting as Robb’s lips delved over your throat, his descent steady as he lavished your flesh in kisses. Hunger danced across your skin, and you felt yourself quake with a surge of desire, the scratch of his beard prickling the valley between your breasts.

A strangled whine slipped past your lips, wooden pieces of the war table clattering behind you as your hand reached backwards. Robb remained unperturbed by this, gaze ravenously admiring your physique, from the velvety skin to your feminine curves.

Down, down; his descent was paved with ardor, allowing to bleed freely from each kiss, aided with the occasional gnaw of his teeth. He worshiped you as he would some goddess, a low growl stirring within his throat as he reached your stomach.

With the table’s lowered height, it gave him an unhindered advantage, strong palms continuing to knead into your thighs. “Beautiful.” Robb murmured, hot breath fanning across your abdomen. You were the envy of all, beauty unmatched in his eyes.

Kneeling before you, a sinner come to utter devious confessions between your thighs, Robb urged you closer, feeling the rake of your fingertips through his crown. Kisses continued to etch themselves into your body, from the swell of your hips to the silky canvas of your inner thighs.

“Robb,” A tremulous moan spilled from your lips, wrought with a burning desperation. Wolfish hues did not leave you as he allowed your legs to rest against his shoulders, head nestled comfortably between. “Robb.”

Nails dug into the parchment beneath your palm, a wisp of air lodged within your throat as your husband sought the heat of your cunt. You very nearly lurched from the table, a strangled whine elicited from you.

With a broad stroke of his tongue, he raked hot embers over your core, hands steadying you, calloused digits pressing into the meat of your haunches. The unexpected surge of pleasure washed over you within an instant.

Anchoring yourself to the table with one hand, the other sought to sink into his crown of auburn curls, nimble digits finding a handful. A low, sonorous growl erupted from the depths of his throat, tongue possessing a fervent desire of its own.

The shadow of his beard scratched against your supple flesh, leaving behind a prickling burn in its wake. You cared little for what mess it would leave, galloping after whatever pleasure Robb provided. Eager lips traced the damp outline of your nethers.

Lurching forward, your hips jolted, urging yourself onto his tongue with a twinge of desperation. His tongue continued to greedily lap at your slit, teasing your entrance before moving to ghost around the pearl of your cunt.

A man starved, Robb consumed you as if he were withering away, enraptured by your myriad of throaty praises and tugs of his curls. Calloused digits kneaded into your pliant flesh, keeping you grounded, shoulders spreading you apart.

With slow, eager laps of his tongue, Robb made sure to savor you, letting the flat of his tongue fall heavy across your clit. The short, dizzying gasp that tore past your mouth spurred him on, as he pressed another string of kisses against your slit.

It was ambrosial, your taste; a finest stout, the sweetest of nectars that stained his lips with your perfection. A lascivious hunger swelled within him, an innate, domineering need to possess you, claim you like that of a wolf.

Those shieldbearers that stood diligently outside of his tent were, unfortunately, subjected to the sounds of sensuality inside. He cared little if the whole of the encampment heard, so long as they all knew whom you belonged to.

Robb remained somewhat wordless during this process of pleasuring you, preferring for his ministrations to speak for themselves.

A myriad of delighted moans tore past your lips, eyes pleasantly half-lidded, fingers continuing to rake throughout his auburn curls. You urged him closer, hips rolling into the fervent heat of his mouth, thighs quivering as he treated you to a lap of his tongue.

This barrage of bliss assaulted your body with such intensity, molten heat churning within the pit of your stomach, oozing between your thighs. Robb savored your taste, hands kneading their way along your legs, keeping you firmly rooted in-place.

The tip of his nose brushes along your petals, tongue splitting deeper still, until he vigorously laps at your nethers. Your taste permeates his mouth, a bittersweet ambrosia that draws him into some lovestruck haze.

“Gods, do not stop,” It became some desirous incantation, breathy pleas spilling from your lips, accompanied by his name, a constant upon your tongue. Thighs twitched around him, with the wolf-king rightfully smothered between your legs. “Robb, please!”

A grunt of approval reverberated throughout his chest, the vibration of it felt along your cunt. A thin layer of perspiration began to coalesce against your spine, cooling with the temperate climate. It was then that his tongue began to circle around your pearl, prompting your hips to lurch forward.

Shockwaves of ecstasy rushed through you, flooding throughout your insides like some cascading wave. Keeping you grounded against the table, he greedily lapped at the pearl of your cunt, savoring the string of mewls that escaped your lips.

A coil of taut heat sat firmly within your belly, beginning to unfurl as your Northern husband has his fill of you with an incessant need. Wanton fingers continue to tug against his crown of curls, evoking a sharp groan from within his chest.

Able to feel the first onslaught of your peak, you fought against crying out, attempting to tame your ecstatic whimpers. A sob of delight wracked your throat, body bending to his ministrations, succumbing to pleasure.

Lips pursed around the pearl of your cunt, suckling upon the sensitive clutch of nerves. A sharp gasp penetrated your lungs, like a sudden stab of intensity that made your thighs tremble. With a roll of your hips, Robb intermingled such actions with broad strokes of his tongue.

“Robb!” Gods help you; such ecstasy had been foreign to you for the longest time, and now, it was overwhelming. Strong, veined hands kneaded themselves into the swell of your hips, urging you onto his tongue as you approached your pinnacle.

It was a melody that he would never tire of, the delighted cadence of your voice, tapering off into an amalgamation of praises and moans. Flushed and desperate, Robb felt his cock throb incessantly within his trousers, aching to bury himself within you.

“That’s it, love.” Robb growled, teeth nipping at the supple flesh of your inner thigh, Northern timbre sending shivers up your spine. His tone was husked with desire, shadowed gaze closely following your face.

Buckling beneath the weight of your mounting arousal, your body succumbed, as if a barrier had been obliterated. A surge of heat flooded your insides, pooling between your thighs as you quivered in the aftermath.

Dutiful as ever, Robb’s mouth teased you further, sluggishly lapping at your nectar, a glistening sheen clinging to his chin. The scratch of his beard made for a pleasant contrast, chest heaving as you attempted to catch your breath.

Feather-light kisses etched themselves into your thigh, as your husband slowly began to withdraw. Darkened hues met your gaze, imbued with a rousing hunger that set your bones ablaze.

Despite the ruinous state of the war-table, pieces having been scattered in all directions, Robb only wished to continue. His hands found the plush swell of your hips, guiding you back against his chest, lips pressing to your shoulder.

“Shall I take you here or in our bed, m’lady?” His inquiry was permeated with a thinly-veiled arousal, tone a touch lower than before. The Northern coarseness of it made you shudder in delight, hands finding the nape of his neck.

The leather-clad swell of his cock gently rocked against your nethers, causing a gasp to inhabit your lungs. With his need made evident, your own eagerness demanded that he not be kept waiting. One hand drifted to the ties of his breeches, giving them a brief tug.

“Bed,” As the singular syllable floated from your lips, Robb steered you toward the makeshift mountain of furs, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. In the midst of your movement, you untied his trousers, letting them sag upon his hips. “Please.”

It was Robb whose legs had kissed the furs first, palms molding themselves to your curves, hastily kicking out of his breeches. His mouth sought yours, lips colliding in a fervor of teeth and tongue, able to taste remnants of yourself throughout.

Moving backwards, Robb settled onto the bed, taking you with him, strong hands gripping you with such quiet strength. Muscled forearms remained taut, maneuvering you beneath him in the midst of entangled limbs and desperate kisses.

As your back slithered across the plush hide of elk and bear alike, you gazed at your husband, whose rugged features were flushed, swirling with lust. He made himself comfortable between your legs, savoring the sensation of your thighs squeezing at either side of his hips.

Calloused digits immediately seized the plush meat of your thigh, tracing across the silken skin, reveling in your beauty. Robb considered himself fortunate, to wed one as comely as you, with your graciousness and gentle heart.

Bodies molded together, the brush of his chest ghosting across your breasts, the swell of his cock beginning to press against your stomach. The mesmerized spark within your eyes had set his body ablaze, swallowed in the same warmth that had consumed you.

“You’re mine,” Robb murmured, pressing a kiss to your jaw, teeth catching against the delicate flesh there. “My wife.” Such use of the affectionate title had roused a familiar slick between your thighs once more.

“As you are mine,” With bated breath, you allowed your legs to coax him in, continuing to flex around his hips. Shadowed hues roved over your countenance, lips peppering themselves across your throat as he adjusted himself. “I am yours.”

The tenderness of your declaration could not be understated, saturated with a yearning that rivaled his own. It was as if the flame raged between you both, demanding to be extinguished. Maneuvering himself, the tip of his cock gliding along your nethers.

A swirl of molten liquid churned violently within the pit of your belly, skin crawling with a neediness that seemed to glisten within your gaze. Robb held you close, steeling himself as he allowed his restraint to shatter altogether.

With a hasty draw of his hips, you felt him swarm inward, beginning to sheathe himself inside of your cunt. A soft whimper escaped you, feeling yourself clench around him out of sheer want. His groan vexed you, fingertips cupping the nape of his neck.

Your heart pounded within your ribcage, so powerful that you thought it might burst through. His stubble scratched against your cheek, providing a pleasant burn that let you know that this was reality. “I need you.” Your plea was met with a subtle groan.

The initial pace was one of urgency, fervent desire running rampant, an uncontrollable wildfire. Robb’s hips had started as sluggish rolls before turning into calculated thrusts, propped up atop the furs with one arm.

Clinging to him as if you were a drowning woman, your husband maintained an ironclad grip upon your thigh, digits kneading into the flesh there. A cacophony of moans tore past your throat, countenance screwed into a blissful expression.

His cock filled you perfectly, as if he were designed by the careful hand of the Seven, molded especially to your liking. Foreheads momentarily brushed together, lips clamoring until they connected in a bruising kiss.

Robb’s hand splayed next to your face, cock rocking in and out of you at a steady pace, the fervor steadily increasing. Your head spun, clouded by lust as your wolfish paramour ravished you in the way that you deserved.

A breathy ‘fuck’ spilled from his lips, caught between wanton sighs and groans of rapture. The warmth between breath and body kept you feeling feverish, and you hitched one leg around his hips, evoking a growl from Robb.

One could never mistake Robb’s roughness for something malicious, each thrust of his hips passionate; bleeding with ardor. It was this intense pace that you so adored, craved — it kept you grounded, made to understand the depths of his growing devotion.

He was invigorated, driven to madness by the sight of you, writhing beneath him. Friction blossomed between you both, an insatiable heat that only served to further his hunger. With another kiss, Robb’s teeth caught against your lower lip, allowing it to linger.

Robb shuddered at the feeling of your cunt, tight and warm around him, clenching around his cock with each roll of your hips. You took him perfectly, as if you were made for him, molded together. Heat prevailed, licking along your spine as his thrusts grew with haste.

The lewd, crass union of intertwined flesh filled his tent, breathy sighs and strenuous groans only adding to the ambiance. Hot breath fanned across your jaw as he pressed a kiss there, teeth nicking the delicate flesh.

A whimper of bliss bubbled from your lips as he became invigorated in his pace, rocking himself into you with a certain fervor. His grip upon your thigh had only strengthened, fingertips threatening to leave bruises in the wake of your lovemaking.

Digits tangled into auburn curls, briefly tugging at his tresses as you kissed him once more, swollen lips begging for another. Robb obliged you without question, hips urging themselves into you over and over again, his cock hitting new depths.

It was sticky and desirous, perspiration glistening upon his brow, features painted by the now-waning embers of the brazier. Even then, his cerulean hues were filled with such devotion, a yearning that had made butterflies erupt within your stomach.

Heat persisted, gazes meeting with such ardor, causing you to shiver beneath his stare. Arousal permeated between your thighs, slick and ambrosial, the scent of coupling invading your senses.

Robb groaned, the blissful noises spilling near your ear as your leg tightened around him, his arm caging you in against him. A coil of heat began to unfurl within the both of you, bodies constantly shifting against the other, an amalgamation of friction.

It was a perfect storm of sensations, ones that made you delirious with desire, crying out to the heavens. A sharp moan punctured your lungs, feeling his cock drive deeper still, until it nearly kissed your womb.

A white-hot haze invaded your senses, nearly seeing stars as your body trembled, slowly settling atop the furs. Robb’s hand held your thigh, reveling in the pliant flesh beneath, flesh that he coveted more than anything else.

With a grunt that spread throughout his sternum, Robb spilled his seed within you; a rush of warmth, one that you shared in. As you reveled in mutual release, hot ropes of spend invaded your cunt, an inevitable duty, that of conception.

Admittedly, Robb wished for it — to see you swollen with his babe, a sizable family that rivaled that of his own. There were discussions of this desire beforehand, one that you had taken keen interest in.

Keeping himself sheathed within you, his cock throbbed, relief beginning to unfurl from his shoulders, a tension now extinguished. In the afterglow, he made sure to pepper you in kisses, rugged scruff scratching against your cheek.

“You’re perfect.” His utterance made you smitten, removing himself from you with a lewd, sticky rush of heat. Robb did not depart from the bed, instead moving to recline against the feather pillow, placing one arm beneath his head.

Basking in the blissful aftermath of your tryst, you moved closer, taking refuge in the crook of his shoulder, crown beneath his chin. “That is one way to strip you of any stress.” You mused, smiling as his chest shook with a chuckle.

“It isn’t the only way,” Robb began, peering down at you with a playful countenance. It was the most relaxed he’d been in days — and it was all because of your very presence. Placing carnal appetites aside, he was delighted to be near you. “But I am not opposed to it.”

An ebullient giggle tumbled from your lips, nose wrinkling with amusement as you curled into his side, fingertips tracing across his chest. He was content to hold you close, digits stroking along the space between your shoulders.

“What of your table? I did not intend to ruin it,” Wooden pieces remained haphazardly scattered across the sprawling map, and in that moment, Robb cared little for it. “I suppose it was difficult to focus on anything else.”

Robb’s laugh was as warm as a midsummer’s day, pearlescent teeth glinting through the waning firelight. “Was it?” He teased, prompting you to smack at his chest — and to that, he caught your wrist, sitting up enough to find your gaze.

“It was.” A blissful shiver gripped you as Robb kissed your palm, savoring the sensation of your fingertips caressing his jaw. He leaned inward, a smirk tugging at either corner of his mouth.

“Plenty of dusk left to ruin it further, before the morrow.” He murmured, a mischievous glint swirling within his cerulean hues. It only served to make you squirm — and that was more than enough, your shared laughter filling the tent.

“Then we mustn’t tarry here.” As the lascivious remark spilled from your lips, Robb had captured your lips in a kiss, disarmingly gentle. It made you yearn for him in ways that you weren’t acquainted with — and you suspected you would be.

On the morrow, it was Roose Bolton who had sharply questioned the misplacement of the wooden figureheads — and Robb was none the wiser.

[what-even-is-thiss]

I’m about to combine my religion posting with my socialist posting for a second.

I’ve never tried to hide on this blog that I’m fairly religious. My faith is a big part of my life. I’m not here to convert anybody but I’m not interested in hiding that aspect of myself either.

Anyways I’ve been thinking about what I want from my life and wealth and how that relates to Christianity and the kind of economic system I live in.

Because in many ways pure capitalism and Christianity are kind of opposed if you really think about it. Any form of hoarding wealth and Christianity are opposed to each other if you really think about it. Yet it’s also been used as a reason to hoard wealth.

Jesus often spoke against hoarding wealth. He encouraged tax collectors to only collect what was due and not skim extra off the top. He said a poor person who gives a little money has given more than a rich person who gives a lot. He said it’s easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than enter the kingdom of heaven. And I’ve heard interpretations that that “eye of the needle” thing was actually in reference to a kind of very small door in city walls or something but point is, it’s difficult.

Then you get the invention of something like prosperity gospel. The idea that if you’re doing well it’s because you’re blessed. You get politicians working for the rich or who themselves are rich making a show of being pious while also harming the poor.

So I’ve been rattling this around in my brain. The culturally dominant religion in the western world teaches against the hoarding of wealth. Yet that same culture also puts the wealthy up on a pedestal and protects them.

I watched this video once about this guy who personally decided to donate half of his earthly wealth to charity because of his Christian faith. He wasn’t trying to tell other people they should do this. Just talking about his own spiritual journey and why he decided to do that. He sold half of his possessions, sold his house and downsized, really went through the wringer figuring out what’s really actually important to him and this guy wasn’t even particularly wealthy. He was maybe middle class. This was a huge sacrifice he made.

I’ve been tossing around in my brain how the same belief system could could create both that guy and prosperity gospel.

We get stories all the time about how the real treasure was the friends we made along the way, right? About letting go, about being happy with less, about sharing, about the dangers of greed. Sometimes we even get those stories from the organizations and people looking to hoard more and more. Disney comes to mind. The real treasure is family. And also all this money we made off of toy sales.

I feel like society is trying to push us towards a very specific definition of “success” while also wrestling with the reality that even if you aren’t Christian you live in a society with Christian ideals and one of those big Christian ideals is supposed to be charity. Not hoarding wealth at the expense of others.

Like this idea of being happy with just enough is supposed to be a message for the rich, right? Yet it seems to have been twisted around the other way. If you’re sick it’s your fault, you didn’t try hard enough, you didn’t rise and grind hard enough. Even though Jesus helped those who were suffering whether their suffering was their own fault or not, and often he rejected the notion that a person’s suffering was their own fault.

I know the answer to this disconnect is that the rich can afford to twist the narrative in their favor. That religion is a tool that can be used for both great good and great harm.

It’s still frustrating though. That I feel like I’m socialist partially because of my faith but those same messages that inspire people who aren’t even that well off to give away half of their earthly possessions are used as an excuse by others to justify bleeding the poor dry.

It’s something I’ve been sitting with when it comes to what I want with my life. It’s a cliche I guess in some Christian circles that you shouldn’t want what society wants but I’m starting to think that’s true. At least to some extent. I think I don’t want success by society’s definition of it. God asks you to not hoard your wealth. God instructs you to make time for rest. Yet society has told you to climb that ladder of success and never rest, never sleep until you get there.

Yeah, I think I’m going to rest. I think I reject the idea that success needs to involve money. I think that hoarding wealth is bad. And you don’t need to be Christian to think those things obviously but my faith leads me at least to these conclusions. However it hasn’t lead everyone to them, clearly. It’s a contradiction of values we all have to live with for now, unfortunately. Hopefully one day we can all live out the things we preach but for now that day seems very far away.

[ceoofglytchell]

A Fall From Grace

Summary: When Gwayne Hightower traveled to King’s Landing to support his nephew the King in the war, he brought along his dear daughter, you. Soft-spoken, pious and well read; Dowager Queen Alicent took you under her wing immediately, but another pair of eyes never left your form either. From the moment of your arrival you had taken Aegon’s breath away and he was intent on getting closer to you even if it meant setting foot in the Sept again to join you for prayer.

Pairing: Aegon II Targaryen x Hightower!Cousin!Reader

Word count: 3982 words

Warnings: incest, infidelity (because Aegon is still married), obvious longing from both sides, he’s a little obsessed, fluff, making out, allusions to smut, Reader is described of having Hightower like features, religious guilt (kinda?), lots of praying, no mention of Y/N

Notes: I thank you all for reading my stuff 💛 As always, feedback and criticism is always appreciated.

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It had only been two days since you had been wandering through the endless, cold corridors of the Red Keep, and for exactly two days you had been all that King Aegon, second of his name, could think about.

Every thought he had was about you, even though he was supposed to be in a meeting of the Small Council planning the attack on Rooks Rest that he had only recently learned about was happening.

Where were you? What were you doing? Who were you with? How were you feeling? Did you miss home? Were you betrothed?

Aegon turned the small white and green colored ball over and over in its holder on the council table, obviously not listening. Lord Tyland was talking about something, but his words didn't really reach his ears because he was once again thinking only of you. At this hour you would have to accompany his mother to the sept to pray to the gods or you went alone if you so wished. He himself was not a religious person, but he knew the customs and traditions of the Seven, as his mother had tried to teach him when he was a little boy, but she had failed miserably at that. As far as he knew, only his youngest brother Daeron actually believed in all that nonsense, but he had also grown up in Oldtown, where their mother and uncle came from so it was no surprise.

You too.

As far as he knew, your father- his uncle Gwayne Hightower- had fed you the religious customs and traditions of the Seven from a very early age, and you also had several Septas who raised you to be a perfect young lady, but you never took the vows that would make you one yourself. You were Gwayne's only daughter, so it was your duty to marry and give your future husband heirs to continue the bloodline, and, by the gods, Aegon swore that he would be the one.

You were not just beautiful, you were a real feast for the eyes. Your wavy auburn hair, your pale skin with your constantly rosy cheeks and your smile that always made his knees go weak were the most breathtaking things he had ever seen, which was why he could forgive you for your religious nonsense and still wanted to make you his in every imaginable way.

Your body was always covered in pretty gowns in the color of House Hightower, green, but all accents and jewelry you wore were gold, which made you a walking, living banner for his cause and no one would question where your loyalty laid. He was the king and he could have anything he wanted, and now he wanted you, his beloved cousin, whom he had only met two days ago.

It wasn't his fault that his heart had decided that way, it had just happened. If only he was still unmarried…

You were, but he wouldn't allow you to be sold to anyone like a broodmare or as a price to win another house over to his side. Even if your hand was given to Daeron, he would not approve, because the very thought of seeing you happy with someone else made him angry, but it also made him painfully aware of how much you had already done to him. Only two days... how would he feel once you had been here for a week, a month? He would probably go mad sooner or later if he couldn't have you.

He had to act, and quickly, because otherwise you would be gone and choose someone else instead of him.

Suddenly he slammed the table with the palm of his hand, which froze the other council members for a moment and the room was filled with silence for the first time in two hours.

"You bore me. You all bore me.”

Without waiting another second, Aegon stood up abruptly from the table, whereupon the other council members also stood up, since he was their king and this was yet another formal custom that he could not care less about, and he disappeared as quickly as he could from the small council. The meeting was over. For him, anyway, because as soon as the doors were closed, Larys Strong spoke again and the conversation continued without their most important member. A marriage alliance was also one of the topics that were discussed in his absence.

It was not long later that Aegon stood in front of the large entrance doors to the Sept, which he had all too fond memories of. Only two weeks ago, he had hidden under one of the altars, completely drunk, because he had not wanted the crown. He still did not want it, but it also gave him a new sense of purpose in life, and something worth fighting and living for. A lot had changed in the last two weeks, his view of his birthright, as well as a sudden deeper interest in you.

It was extremely embarrassing to admit that he hadn't even known you existed until Alicent had told him in passing. It was almost a shame how you always he had been hidden from him, albeit unintentionally.

Carefully, pulling the hood further over his face so that no one would see his silver hair and guess who he was, he entered the interior of the Sept and was immediately greeted with the smell of fire, incense and melting candle wax. As always, it was quite dark inside, the only light was the lit candles and the slight sunlight that fell through the windows above, so that it was not completely pitch black and one could still see the floor beneath one’s feet.

He let his gaze wander through the wide hall and over the individual statues of the Seven, to whom most people prayed, and there, in the distance, kneeling in front of the statue of the Mother, you were. The light from the many small candles and the light that fell through the window fell directly on your body which was wrapped in a dark green gown and in that moment Aegon decided that you must be an angel. There was no other explanation for this beautiful, divine being that he saw praying quietly a few meters in front of him.

The young king felt a lump forming in his throat and he slowly began to make his way towards you, even though he already knew that it would be difficult to keep his composure once you looked at him with your doe-like eyes.

He was not a religious man. He was not even a good man, which was why he felt guilty for corrupting someone as pure as you and dragging you into his own sinfulness, but it was necessary because part of him wanted to protect you, wanted to hold you in his arms, stroke your hair and share slow, deep kisses with you while shielding you from the horrors of war.

The gods would not forgive him, but perhaps you would.

While you were lost in prayer, you heard footsteps approaching from the side, but you did not let that distract you at first. After all, it could have been anyone; Septas, the Dowager Queen, or anyone from the common people, as was customary in Oldtown, where everyone prayed side by side, since every human - common or noble - was equal before the gods.

A small clearing of the throat from the side, however, made you open your eyes again and turn your head to the side, as you were curious as to who had come to you, but your eyes immediately widened in surprise when you looked into the face of your cousin Aegon, who had recently been crowned King of the Seven Kingdoms.

"Your Grace? To what do I own the honors?" you asked him in a gentle voice and you immediately started to stand up to curtsy to him, but he indicated to you with a quick gesture that this would not be necessary.

"Please, you may kneel. Forgive me, I did not know you were in the middle of a prayer."

A small smile played on your soft lips and you shook your head slightly, as if to tell him that he need not worry about this, which made his heart beat faster and he had to fight the urge to reach out and tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear that had come loose.

"No, please, it is fine, cousin. I was almost finished," you answered him in return and you folded your delicate hands again as if you wanted to finish your prayer, whatever it was - at least in your thoughts and not out loud.

Aegon hesitated, but when he let his amethyst colored eyes wander over your form for a brief moment and he noticed the way your dress hugged your figure, he knew there was no turning back for him. "May I join you?"

Your eyes lit up and your soft, kind smile widened into a truly happy one, whereupon you moved slightly to the side so that he could kneel on the cushions next to you. You had never thought of your cousin as pious, but there were always signs and wonders.

"How... how does this work now?" Aegon asked you carefully and in an uncertain voice, while he folded his hands together just like you, but unlike you, his gaze was not on the imposing statue of the deity on the altar in front of them, but he was looking at you alone. He just couldn't take his eyes off you and your otherworldly beauty.

A small giggle escaped you and thanks to the flickering golden candlelight he could see your cheeks turning a light shade of red, which made a feeling of pride well up in him, now that he knew he had an effect on you.

"You close your eyes and pray. In other words, you can tell the Seven anything and they will listen to you. You can also ask them anything and they will have an answer for you and show you the way.”

He was a sinner and he knew it. He could do nothing but watch your pink lips move as you calmly explained to him how prayer worked. How would it feel to kiss you? Would you kiss him back if he did it now, here in the middle of this sacred place? Did you want him as much as he wanted you?

“What do you tell them?” he asked you with a hint of curiosity in his deep voice as he continued to examine you as if you were the altar he was supposed to worship.

“I ask them for peace and that my father takes a safe journey and returns unharmed,” you told him honestly, a slight glimmer of sadness spreading in your eyes that made him want to reach for your hand to comfort you. Of course, he had never seen a war himself, but he also knew that not everyone returned from battles - especially not when fire-breathing dragons were involved.

"Well, then do not let me stop you."

You both clasped your hands together and closed your eyes to address your words to the gods and perhaps even make a request. But while you continued exactly where you had left off when you were startled by his footsteps, Aegon didn't know where to start. The last time he had prayed was many years ago and his mother had put the words in his mouth back then.

Your light breathing and the crackling candles finally inspired him and the young king actually managed to address the Seven, even though he didn't even really believe they existed, but the words just bubbled out of him - even if it was all just in his head and his thoughts would probably not be heard by anyone. He wished he could tell you all of this directly...

Your eyes fluttered open once more about a minute later and you were surprised to see, as you looked to the man to your right, that he still seemed to be deep in prayer. Whether he was actually speaking to the gods or just thinking about his day, you took the time to look at him more closely. Because he was sitting so close to you, you could see all the little details on his admittedly very handsome face. From the way his long eyelashes gently touched his cheek, to the small moles on his pale skin, the slight curve of his nose, his full lips and the way his shoulder-length, slightly wavy hair framed his face.

He was beautiful...

You condemned yourself for thinking that, especially when kneeling in front of the statue of the Mother, but you couldn't help yourself. Aegon Targaryen was a beautiful man and no one should deny that fact. After all, the Targaryens were closer to gods than to men, although you were never sure if you should believe that old saying, but as you looked at him now, you thought there must be something to it, because why else would your heart suddenly beat faster whenever he was near and you could feel his intent gaze on you, or that a warmth spread through your body as if the Seven had finally heard your prayers. Maybe he was the one you were waiting for?

After what felt like an eternity, in which Aegon poured out his heart in his mind, although no one was listening, he blinked his amethyst eyes again and immediately froze when he looked at you and you were already looking right back at him with an expression on your face that he had never seen from you before.

You quickly turned your head away and looked down at your lap, while a deep flush took root on your soft cheeks. He had actually managed to make you blush - in the middle of the Sept! If he could do that, he wondered how much else you would let him do that would most likely tarnish your purity and innocence. He was very excited to find out.

"What did you pray for?" you asked him in a quiet tone and with the kind voice that he knew from you, but you still didn't look up at him again. You probably wanted to hide your blush from him, but it was very obvious.

Aegon could go two ways here. First, he could tell you that he too had prayed for a quick end to the war and that he would not lose any more loved ones, or second, he could tell you about his thoughts about you, which he couldn't bring himself to do. No, a lie had to serve as an answer again for today.

"For strength, guidance, and a safe return," he replied at last, which was partly true. Everyone saw him as weak, his own family, the realm, and most of all his traitorous half-sister, and he could not and would not allow that. His council did not listen to him, nor even ask for any suggestions he could make, but they made their own plans behind his back. Criston and Aemond had also betrayed his trust and plotted behind his back and without his consent decided to march to Rook's Rest instead of Harrenhal, which was the really important prize in this war that Daemon of all people now owned, even though the Lord of the old castle was his very own Master of Whisperers. Why put him as king and then ignore him still and treat him like a stupid child? He had not asked for any of this.

"A... a safe return? Do you mean Ser Criston? I heard he is an old friend of the family.”

The king hesitated. For a moment he didn't know how to answer you, knowing you knew what he meant but didn't want to believe it. He would fly into battle personally to support the Lord Commander of his Kingsguard who also served as his Hand. He would not be seen as weak, ever again.

“I will fly to Rooks Rest to support Criston and your father's army. Mayhaps I can guarantee that we do not lose too many men.”

Your expression in this very moment reminded him of a little doe - innocent, heartbreaking and full of worry. You quickly shook your head, causing a lock of your auburn hair, which reminded him of his mother's locks, to fall over the left side of your face. It seemed like you couldn't believe it, like you didn't want him to go and put himself in danger under any circumstances.

"But you are the king?" you questioned uncertainly, as if he was jesting, because you couldn't imagine that he was being serious. He was not a warrior. His younger brother, Aemond, should go, he was talented with the sword and his dragon was much bigger and far more experienced than Sunfyre.

"And that is exactly why I must go, my dear." Aegon leaned one shoulder against the cold stone of the altar so that he could look at you better while you would have this difficult conversation with each other.

"No, no, you cannot. You must not do that," you contradicted him, the expression on your pretty face becoming not just worried, but almost panicked. He almost had the illusion that you might actually care about him. That thought was just too good to be true...

"I declared this war and I will fight in it too."

Without being able to hold back any longer, you put one of your delicate hands on his arm and grabbed the soft, rich fabric of his green doublet, which, like your dress, was decorated with fine gold ornaments, because you didn't want to let him go. He was barely older than you and the thought of him personally flying to battle, much like your father - who did not have a dragon but still-, was one you couldn't bear. He was one of the few people you truly trusted and if, gods forbid, you were to lose your father, you couldn't also lose your cousin who had stolen your heart since day one.

"Aegon, please... do not do this."

Your hand on his arm, your soft voice and the pleading look in your eyes were simply too much for him. He couldn't hold back any longer. Without a warning, he leaned in and pressed his lips firmly against yours, making you gasp in shock into his mouth.

For a moment you didn't know what to do, but your body made the decision for you. Your eyes fluttered shut and you began to kiss him back gently and hesitantly, even though the rational part of you screamed at you that it was a sin, that he was your cousin, that you weren't betrothed to each other, that he was already married and that you were in the middle of the Sept, but you didn't even hear those voices anymore because you were already lost in the kiss.

Surrounded by the soft crackling of the candles and pleasant silence, Aegon lost himself completely in you. He kissed you as if you were the air he needed to breathe, as if you were everything that still bound him to this world and he couldn't stop, already addicted to your sweet taste.

The tip of his tongue grazed over the seam of your lips, begging for entry, and you, always obedient and docile, opened your mouth and let him in, whereupon a soft moan escaped you. That sweet little sound alone set his whole body on fire and he abruptly pushed your back against the altar with him caging you against the stone.

Your arms wandered around his neck, your thin fingers burying themselves in his silver mane, while his hands began to wander over your body and he explored your soft, feminine curves bit by bit, but he didn't really take much time, as he was loosing himself more and more in the proximity of you and the intimate kisses you shared.

His fingers started to rip open the laces of your bodice at your back, feeling the urge to see all of you, to feel your beautiful, milky skin under his palms while he let his lips wander over every inch of your perfect body, but before that could happen you broke the kiss, gasping for air.

"We...we can’t. Not here."

"Please, I need you. I need you so much, let me have you,” Aegon begged as he began to place some hot, open-mouthed kisses on your neck, causing your grip on his hair to tighten, which only served to increase the fire that burned inside him for you.

“I want you, Aegon. I want you more than anything, but not here, don’t do this to me. We could be seen.”

A long sigh escaped him and he buried his face in your cleavage, even though he knew you were right. It would be a scandal if he was seen taking your innocence on the altar of the Mother. His chambers, however, were more than available and wonderfully secluded for such depravity. But not now.

“You’re right, darling. You’re right,” he whispered, breathing heavily, as he wrapped his arms tightly around your waist to keep you as close to him as possible, because he didn’t know if he would ever have the chance to hold you in his arms again.

“We could go to my chambers? I am sure you would find my bed extremely... comfortable, Your Grace."

Aegon chuckled at your sweet attempt at being sensual, but it worked. He could feel his body instinctively snuggling closer to yours and he noticed how wonderfully you fit him, but he slowly began to lean back so he could look into your glistening eyes once again.

"I would love to, very much, but I must go."

The hope and desire slowly faded from your eyes and a look of confusion spread across your face for a split second before realization dawned on you and you realized why he had come to the Sept that day specifically.

"You are flying to Rook Rest today..."

Before you could object, the king pressed his lips against yours again and cradled your face in his hands to reassure you that it was fine and that he had to do this.

"I will not be seen as weak. I will come back to you, love. I will come back and then I will love you as you deserve, yes?" he murmured and leaned his forehead carefully against yours, his silver hair a contrast to the auburn of your family, which was also his.

"Promise me. Here, in front of the eyes of the gods."

"I promise."

As gently as he could, as if you were made of porcelain, he tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear and let his eyes wander over you to memorize every little detail before Aegon then tore himself away from you with a heavy heart to get the conqueror's armor put on as quickly as possible back in the castle, to then mount Sunfyre and go to war.

He wanted to stay with you, by the gods, he wanted that more than anything else, but he had to do this. He had to prove to everyone that he could be the king they had wanted to mold him into.

You, on the other hand, felt tears welling up in your eyes as you watched him leave, because something inside you screamed that this kiss would be the last truly wonderful memory you shared with him.

And, unfortunately, you were soon proven to have been right.

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[farisjax]

Someone once asked a pious man, 'We never see you speak ill of anyone. Why is that?'

He replied, 'I am not yet pleased with myself to have the time to find fault in others.'

[hyewka]

idk if you’ve done this but fwb yeonjun who gets jealous of you being too friendly with other men

warnings; fwb, semi public, a little toxic, not proofread

“Why does Yeonjun keep staring at you? Wait no…glaring at you. Girl. What. Have. You. Done.”

You groan, squeezing your eyes shut, deciding to drown out your thoughts by finishing your drink in one swig. This entire party you’ve been trying to ignore it. His weirdly possessive behavior.

Throwing his hand over your shoulder and snuggling you closer to him than usual, “accidentally” introducing himself as your boyfriend, then the accident turns into an “inside joke” where he just keeps introducing himself as your boyfriend like its the most hilarious thing ever—it’s all too obvious.

But then it’s not.

Not when you decide to look over at him, only to find that his arms are wrapped around a new girl. You roll your eyes. “I fucked him Yunjin. That’s what I did.”

You expect the gasps in horror and “I told you to stay away from him”, “he’s literally a manwhore!” but Yunjin only rolls her eyes making you blink rapidly in shock. “What? I already know you guys are fuckbuddies babe, that doesn’t explain why he’s been attached to your hip the past three hours. Until, well, now.”

You snap your fingers. “You noticed it too right? It’s weird! It feels like he’s jealous but then he goes and sucks another girls face right in front of me—God.” You cut off your tyrant as you feel the sudden urge to vomit watching the girl and Yeonjun get more and more handsy right across from you.

You don’t miss Yunjin’s mutter as she drags your hopeless ass away from the scene, “Fucking manwhore.”

—

Of course the pious Choi Yeonjun, lining up with his behavior the entire night, pulled you by the wrist to a quote secluded area at the party. It’s dark but not entirely…private.

Yet you always fall back into it, you’re always in his arms, despite the setting, not anyone else’s despite being far from exclusive. It’s not your fault he finds you when you’re most horny. Which is why he has you pinned against the wall as he fucks you with the same, if not more eagerness in him.

“Shh baby, we don’t want an audience now do we?” he whispers, taking the lead—you blink away tears, slightly making out the dyed hair had plastered onto his forehead.

You nod frantically as his hand pressed over your mouth, no doubt smudging your lipstick, slowly slips. You squeeze your eyes shut when he rolls his hips against you, thrusting sharply into you, making you slightly jolt up against the wall.

“No, no don’t shut up completely, wanna hear you. Moan my name princess. Only for my ears.” he slurs, the tipsiness evident in his voice.

“Yeonjun.” you gasp for air, “Yeonjun—no, f-fuck.”

“What?” he breathes, busying himself with pressing kisses all over your neck, stably holding you up against the wall with his arms, pressing his body flush against yours.

“What the fuck is your problem?”

It’s like he didn’t expect the sudden aggression, pausing his hungry attack to your neck for a second—until you feel his lips curl up into what you assume to be a smile against your skin again. He’ll always be a cocky prick.

You feel his breath fan, as he picks up a more rhythmic speed. “Hm?” he hums, like he’s innocent. Sly fox.

You scratch at his back, curling his shirt’s fabric into your hand, breath hitching the more he hits a spot, like he’s brutally digging into your cervix. “Don’t—don’t act dumb. Pulling me away like a child from Juyeon like that was so-” suddenly, he drives his cock further, having your body bounce like a fucking ragdoll. It’s like he’s trying to shut you up.

“It was so—mmf-embarrassing.” you manage to mewl, trying not to let yourself fall into a headspace.

“Aw. Was it?” he mocks, scoffing, hand slipping down to rub at your clit, making your legs weak like jelly all the more as they tremble to keep wrapped around his waist. “You know what’s embarrassing? Everyone knowing you’re mine yet you still having the audacity to whore yourself out.”

You gasp, scandalized—though the shock doesn’t linger on for too long—not when he’s practically splitting you open.

He hides his face between the junction of your neck and shoulder, suddenly biting down having your body jolt in pain— you let out a string of hissed curses. “Laughing at every dumb joke Juyeon makes? You know he’s not even that funny right?”

His tongue licks, then he sucks, over and over again.

“God, and then slapping his shoulder, smiling at him like he’s the shit.” He dryly laughs, getting rough the faster he rubs, “So fucking annoying.”

“Yeonjun.”

It’s like he knows what you’re going to say, and he’s trying his absolute hardest from getting you to say it, so he immediately presses his lips against yours, your moans drowned out against his. It’s sloppy, but he doesn’t stop. He kisses you, again and again and again, finding your hands to intertwine with his, pinning it against the wall. It’s so…oddly intimate.

You don’t get it, you don’t. The last time you had seen him, he was about to fuck a girl right then and there for all to see then the next he’s pulling you away like an angry boyfriend who caught his girlfriend cheating.

In fact, this isn’t even the first time. Hes always acted like a boyfriend, so much so everyone was sure you guys were together for a period of time before he was off fucking some other bitch again.

It …pisses you off.

Your orgasm washes over you, the tightening finally snapping as you finally get to breathe, heaving, seeing white as you catch your breath while simultaneously feeling Yeonjun cum in you, again. Was that the issue? Letting him keep doing that? Was that your first mistake?

“Fuck, that was nice.” He says, out of breath, staying inside for a couple more seconds before finally slipping out of you.

But you’re out of it, staring at the ground. “Hey, you good?” he asks, as he pulls up his pants. “Want me to get tissues real qui-”

“Yeonjun. We’re not exclusive.”

He pauses for a second.

Then, he laughs, buckling his jeans, “No shit?”

“So…why do you act like we are?”

note: lol has anyone noticed how often i cut off with some dumbass cliffhanger 😭 yup thats just me not knowing how to end a fic properly ijbol forgive me 🙏🏼

[qvrcll]

nsfw + afab r. ❀ thomas h.

just thinking out loud here about one last night of passion with thomas hutter and how utterly sweet, how overwhelming it would be. there is no pretence in how he almost, no definitely, worships you. he is far from pious, but kneels like a man at the foot of god by your bed side. he is so impossibly pale, so warm and shivering slightly, whilst knelt between your legs. his hands dig into your sides, as if you were made to be held by him. he’d kiss your hip, a noticeable blush forming at his nape when he can see your body beneath the fabric. can see your plush thighs, the whiter edge of your undergarments, the way you glow in the flickering candlelight.

he’d apologise, though it was not his fault, for having to leave. some business about a count, and his estate, and how he hopes it’s not as harrowing as his boss has made him to believe it is. but he is distracted. by you. your presence. how can you blame him? he is besotted with you. when you cup his cheeks, reassure him, he turns his face so he can better kiss the inside of your palm. his kisses don’t stop there. they trail up to your wrist, almost sucking at the skin. he would leave a mark if he wasn’t mapping your entire body so fervently and in such little time. in seconds, he crawls to you with both hands and feet, caging you completely. his body is broad, broader than yours. and his face is twisted in agony, in need. he is so desperate that he should be ashamed, but he isn’t.

“i do not know how long i can keep away from you,” he’ll mouth against your neck, trailing hot kisses against the thundering pulse there, “this trip will test me. i know it will.”

his hands will wander underneath your shift, broad, calloused and strong, spreading apart your thighs for room or massaging your hip, or sliding downward to grab your calf so he could better adjust between your legs. he’d be such a mess, not stuttering - not yet, atleast, there’d be more of that soon enough - but begging with his eyes alone. he would roll his hips into your own, chasing for friction, finding the restriction of clothing a blessing and a curse.

if you even begin to seduce him in the way that always sets him off like a habit, maybe a fluttering of your lashes or some begging or even the mere act of being so breathless, teary eyed and chasing his hips with your own, he would hold back no longer. he near pops the button off his dress shirt from yanking it off, revealing toned, pale muscle. his hands would feel up your sides, his lips too busy kissing your own till they bruised as his hands push up your shift, revealing your body to him. your tummy, your perky nipples, your undergarments barely clinging on - and when he gets them off, you’re so unbelievably warm down there, that he actually flushes. he says unintentionally teasing little things, like “it is so warm, and my fingers… they disappear completely…” that only spur you on.

and he’d make love to you. he is a lover, not a fighter. he’d give into you so easily that you could barely call it a fight. he’d push into you, warm and wet walls clinging onto his cock like a vice. he’d stutter - there it was - his head dropping pathetically against your collarbone, his hot lips dragging against the column of your neck. he’d try so, so hard to keep it together, to last a while longer. but the way you clench down on him is only short of torture, the rest being sweet, sweet pleasure.

if you’re thinking of giving, he wouldn’t be opposed. as your husband, and contrary to conventions of the time, your pleasure would be above anything else. his pleasure too, but he finds that in your sharp little gasps and the way your body writhes. his pleasure is yours. so he is a little surprised when you roll the both of you over, him pinned to the bed. a little disoriented, sure, and a bit conscious of what exactly you were getting at - but when he sees you almost hugging his hips, your cheek squished against his hip bone and so dangerously close to his hardened cock, his heart jumps.

maybe you let slip a “please – please, can i make you feel good too?” and he can barely breathe. his vision is swimmingly, and his cock twitches ever so slightly near your lips. his hand would come to tighten in your hair. not pulling nor pushing. just there. his voice would be so breathy, all guttural and raspy as he nods. he can’t hear the words but he is half sure that he responds with a yes, yes – please, my heart, please.

© 2024 qvrcll. do not repost any of my works on any platform.

[felassan]

David Gaider on Cassandra (the last of these retrospective character threads), under a cut for length:

"This is the last of the (major) characters I wrote during my time on Dragon Age. I could go into others, and considered moving onto Stray Gods... but I feel like fewer would be interested, and I honestly can't keep up the pace. So let's make this the last, for now. So, yeah. Cassandra. We knew early on that Cassandra would come into DAI as a companion, along with Varric, that this was part of what DA2 set up for the sequel. Now, I'd written Cassandra's short scenes in DA2, yes, but I wasn't her writer for DAI. Initially, she was Jennifer Hepler's character. By mid-project, in fact, Cassandra was more or less fully written. Jennifer did a great job - solid character, solid quest. The sticking point, it turned out, was her romance. Now, to be fair, Jennifer told me straight up when we began that writing romance wasn't her forte, but she'd give it a go. The problem with the romance as she wrote it wasn't in its execution but more a clash between the character as Jennifer envisioned her and the requirements of her being a romance. See, I mentioned previously that a romance arc inherently limits the kinds of stories you can tell with a companion. Many responses I got can be summed up as "lol skill issue", but consider this: a companion romance isn't a fic you can just throw up on AO3. It's an investment of a lot of resources. If a companion has one, most of their resources need to be devoted to it - it's not "now let's ALSO add a romance"."

"That means it needs to take priority in who they are as a character and their arc. What's more, they need to be *appealing* to a big chunk of the player base - or at least someone we can imagine being broadly appealing, anyway. Thankfully, there are still many many stories this can accommodate. 😊 This, however, wasn't one of those. Was Cassandra a fascinating character? Absolutely. Her romance, though... Well, Jennifer DID warn me. She'd written Cassandra as a serious, self-righteous, pious woman who put the Inquisitor on a messianic pedestal. Romancing her meant changing her view of you. You did this by being... pushy. Jennifer didn't mean it to, I'm sure, but sometimes it came off as, at best, negging. At worst, a bit harassy. And Jennifer would have fixed it. This was a 1st draft, and the issues - while serious - were something a skilled writer like her could handle. No problem. Thing is, Jennifer left. You may not remember, but this was around the time a bunch of GamerGate dudes decided Jennifer was somehow responsible for ALL of BioWare's faults. Oh, the power she wielded! She, a writer, could even command the combat Bio made! The result was a LOT of ugly harassment. 😞 Is this why she left? You'd have to ask her, but it undoubtedly didn't help. The important thing is, she left - and there was nobody as senior nor as superhumanly fast as her to take over any unfinished work. This is where Patrick Weekes comes in: a solid, senior writer who could fill her shoes."

"It was great timing - not only did Cassandra need a writer, I'd slowly fallen more and more behind. It was clear by that point that I'd never be able to write Dorian AND Cole AND Solas as planned. They needed to pick up two. And I let them choose the ones who interested them, like all my writers. Patrick taking Solas was no surprise, and while I had Big Plans for Solas in the future I knew at least he'd be in good hands. I was reeeeaaaally hoping Patrick would then pick Cassandra... but they wanted Cole. My baby. Who I created in Asunder. I grumped, but Patrick clearly loved the character. They had ideas for Cole which... yeah yeah, sounded cool. Fiiine. 😅 Now I had to figure out what *I* was going to do with Cassandra. We couldn't move the romance to someone else, all the other female characters were well underway, and I didn't know the character well enough to fix her with tweaks. That meant a re-write. I didn't WANT to erase all that good work, but I needed to start from scratch. Yet how? A pious, self-righteous character was already a risk in terms of romantic appeal. There are only a small number of traits sorta considered universally unappealing but they're on that list. In this instance, Cassandra already being a known character helped. I came across a webcomic (by aimo, I think? AHH I wish I could find it now) that made a joke about Cassandra reading Varric's books. Off-hand, no basis for it, but funny. 😆 And I thought: YES. THAT'S IT. THAT'S WHAT I'M MISSING."

"I sat down and wrote the "fangirl" scene, just to test it out. Everyone loved it, and it served to change my image of who Cassandra was - a view of the inside, at the idealistic and awkward passion she felt, for so many things... AND the Maker. "Yes," I thought. "I could fall in love with this." Who knew Cassandra could be funny? Not anyone, coming out of DA2, yet here we were. It worked so well and her voice came so easily. Miranda Raison was game ofc, and amazing. Though Caroline did gripe that, if we ever met more Nevarrans THAT accent meant we'd have the Tali Problem all over again. 😅 Cassandra's romance is burned into my brain as the time when we THE most awkward conversation with the animators ever. See, that moment during the sex scene on the picnic blanket when she leans back and... there were suddenly these strategically-placed candles, juuuust covering the Sordid Bits. Thing is, they were so obviously placed just to do that. Plus, we'd already decided to do full nudity in DAI, hadn't we? WHY WERE THEY EVEN THERE? Turns out, the nudity thing was still pretty new to the team. They'd forgotten and put the candles there almost as a reflex. So prudish. So Canadian. 😂 I do find it kind of funny that, these days, what I mostly hear about Cassandra is from female fans upset at me because she wasn't a lesbian option. I mean, right? Who wouldn't want that? Technically not my decision, but I guess I WAS behind the companions having set preferences so... fair enough?"

"Some of them do take it to an entitled place, though, like Cassandra *should* have been a lesbian. Why? Because she looks like one, apparently, and that that's a bit of stereotyping which feels... odd? But it's not as if lesbian players are spoiled for choice left and right, so again: fair enough. It did lead to the best end credits VO perhaps ever, and overall I'm pretty happy with how Cassandra panned out. Things never end up like you expect, right? But such is game dev lyfe. 🥸🖖 Did you know Cassandra was THE most-romanced DAI character, by a good margin? Least, by a good margin? Dorian."

[source thread]

User: "Did you have any hand in her writing for Dawn of the Seeker?" David Gaider: "No, none. Nobody at BioWare had any hand in Dawn of the Seeker, outside of maybe Mike approving the script or direction? Only he could say for sure." [source]

User: "Was Miranda a specific casting choice by anyone on the team (similar to your picks for Merrill/Fenris/Solas), or was she simply a lucky find? I loved Miranda on the BBC series "Spooks", so I was very pleasantly surprised to learn she voiced one of my favourite DA characters" David Gaider: "I don’t remember how Miranda was cast. Auditioned, I expect, and she had a good “steely warrior voice” which is surprisingly uncommon among actresses. The accent she made up was all her, as well." [source]

User: "What's the Tali Problem?" David Gaider: "When Tali was the only Quarian, the actress doing a made-up accent was fine. Once there were others… do we get them all to mimic her? That’s a tall order!" [source]

User: "I'd say Solas is the most popular nowaday, but you need to be such a specific race/gender combo + most straight guys wouldn't go for him, i get hes not on top of the list, but I'd have expected Josephine over Cass." David Gaider: "You can’t go by how fans online talk about playing the game. There is almost zero correlation between the playstyles of the vocal hardcore and the masses." [source]

User: "I was a Dorianmancer. The cut content in Trespasser DLC was sad to read, it definitely felt short/abrupt for Dorianmancers. Anyway to share what was cut at all?" David Gaider: "I don’t know what was cut out of the conversation, as I never played it. I just heard about it after the fact." [source]

User: "Those end credits are truly incredible. Do you remember who wrote them? I'm guessing a combination of Mary Kirby & you?" David Gaider: "I wrote them, but I recall the entire team kind of took part in brainstorming the pieces of it." [source]

User: "I’m very curious- Do you know what direction you would have taken Cole and his story if you’d kept him?" David Gaider: "It's hypothetical at this point, but I suspect I would have been less willing to lose the serial killer aspect... or, at least, would have made that transition occur as part of his arc in DAI. Yet that's easy to say from this side of the divide. Who knows, really?" [source]

User: "With Cassandra you created one of the best characters in DA history." David Gaider: "Personally, my favorite response of hers is where she gets mocked for loving romance and she comes back with a retort about how it's a strength - how loving something and striving for the ideal takes courage. To me, that's central to her core." [source]

User: "inquiry: did you not write any of the Awakening characters?" David Gaider: "I wrote Anders, Justice, and Nathaniel in Awakening - but it was such a hurried project, my memories of it are pretty much a blur. "Yes, I worked on that" is almost all I can say about it, I'm afraid." [source]

[r0-boat]

Lucifer headcanons PLSPLSPLSPLSPLS (Maybe what most citizens of hell think of him? And how they and the kings react when mc gets close to him?) PLSPLSPLSPLSPLS

I'm not confident in my Lucifer headcanon's since I wrote that Lucifer breeding fic but heeeeeere hhhhh

Lucifer headcannons

NSFW&SFW

Lucifer was once an angel and as angels the assistance of God they help make humans and devils so it would make sense that Lucifer one of God's most prized angels would know a fair amount of human and devil anatomy.

Perhaps he became Hell's greatest doctor because he felt guilt of how much useless slaughter he and his brothers did. So, instead of killing, he wanted to help. And his subordinates, supportive of his dream, became healers and doctors with him.

However, he is still the demon of pride, and he wants to be your primary care doctor, and he will not sway his will. The Kings really don't fight him on this because, well, he is the right person to trust with your health.

My most favorite headcanon (and probably the least true, to be honest) is that since his fall, he is slowly learning about sex and sexual attraction. And you are playing a heavy hand on corrupting him, and he loves it. He was a pious angel; though not perfect to many of his brethren, he was considered highly regarded. And now look at him, fucking you till you cry in an act so obscene that it would make his brothers weep. Corruption kink Lucifer. Go brrr.

He wants to corrupt you, just like you corrupt him, but how do you corrupt someone who is already sinful filth/affectionate

Lucifer sees you as the perfect partner to try sexual acts with because he trusts you the most, and he likes you. That goes without saying. Unbeknownst to you, Lucifer is a fast learner. Once you teach him how to pleasure you, the next thing you know, he'll be making you writhe and scream.

Lucifer is a little bitey during sex. Especially when he is about to come, he clenches his teeth before to stop himself from sinking his fangs into your neck, but he can't help it. He needs to feel your soft skin in his mouth. His favorite places to bite are your neck and your thighs, other than your tears and your cum,. Your blood is the third favorite taste.

Lucifer is on the more serious side; jokes tend to bounce off his head. Especially ones made by younger devils... So much so that he gets angry when anyone mentions any word he cannot understand.

As the demon of pride it is his way or the highway. He can break any rule he wants but you, less you want to be a brat (please do He likes to punish). You may not break any rules of his.

Lucifer is as caring and gentle as he is strict; your tears frighten him just as much as it arouses him. He doesn't want to see you cry if it's not from pleasure. His gaze will grow soft, his voice deep and gentle, calling you cooing as he wipes away your tears.

He still has that little bit of animosity toward you He knows it is not your fault. He tells you straight up that it's because he is an angel. Even though most of it is mostly gone, he still gets a slight sickly pleasure from making you cry; He can't help it. He's a little bit of a sadist when he comes to you.

Everyone knows what Lucifer's penmanship looks like but no one can fucking read it. It's a mess of This is the most doctor shit you've ever seen. To you it just looks like an L and a squiggle written in a shimmering gold font (expensive fountain pen gift from Mammon)

Mammon likes Lucifer in a sort of "ooh, that man is pretty; never had an angel in my collection before." Where when Lucifer sees Mammon, it's mainly with Satan, so his first reaction is "God damn it not again."

He still calls you child of Adam or child of man And he still apologizes for it.

Lucifer is quite the romantic despite now becoming a devil, he thinks that hellborn devils should learn that sex is much sweeter when the tension is right. Basically his version of "these youngsters are still young SMH"

Lucifer unironically likes Twilight.

Lucifer texts like he is a character AI bot with perfect English and punctuation. Good luck trying to text him back because he knows nothing about text slang.

You annoy him so much and he loves it. You're so cute please keep pissing him off he'll still love you even when he kicks you out. He literally can't stay mad at you.

He's wondering how the fuck are you still alive You've been wondering that yourself all these years. Maybe that's why you so protective over your health now.

Dads you a lot. "You have to eat this finish your food it's healthy. Blah blah blah- too much screen time is bad for your eyes." "Blah blah blah-humans should get at least 8 hours of sleep Go to bed- blah blah blah." "Stop eating shitty foods and actually cook a decent meal-blah blah blah." at this point, calling him Daddy is becoming less of a joke.

Also Lucifer: buys you chocolates, takes you to fancy dinners.

Lucifer hates being called Daddy. And he hates that he's starting to like it; please stop.

[his-vibez]

If you think I’m ‘good’ or ‘pious’ because of my posts, you’ve been fooled. Social media doesn’t define righteousness—if it did, the world would be fantastic, and it’s not.

What you see is what I let you see. Nothing more. I’m human, full of failures, flaws, and faults—far from flawlessness. Only Allah knows my reality.

I’m just another person here tryna remind myself about Allah. Any good you see in me is from Allah. The faults? Those are all mine.

[lesbianwyllravengard]

i still have yet to play bg3 so i still dont go here yet but Wyll seems literally like one of the most compelling characters of all time and im not even joking. I havent even played the GAME but his character arc haunts me /pos. people are literally just racist to say that he isn't compelling

LITERALLY. He's utterly fascinating. He is a folk hero, a legend, the fantasy equivalent of superman. He's a warlock who is secretly pacted to a devil. He hates devils. He's an incredible liar. He's incredibly sincere. He's silly. He unironically enjoys puns and clowns. He over-exaggerates his Blade personality because it amuses him. He sometimes doesn't know where The Blade ends and Wyll begins. His hero-ness is a performance; not to hide ill intent, but to hide a broken man, to hide weaknesses and fears. It's who he is. It's always been a distant thing, a mask. It's who he thinks he must be. He loves freely and openly and will let anyone know it. He's only ever wanted to know he's loved. He still thinks his father's inability to trust or believe in him was all his fault. He still thinks that every bit of suffering he's ever experienced was all his fault. He thinks admitting to suffering would be disrespectful to the lives he's saved. He thinks he has to suffer or else his sacrifices were worthless. He thinks it couldn't be a sacrifice if he didn't suffer for it. He would take any suffering if it meant lessening someone else's. He is the first person to stand up for someone's life and safety, the first person to defend someone's worth and autonomy. He is the last person to do so for himself. He is of the least importance to himself.

He needs to be needed, because if he's not needed then what good is his power and the soul he sacrificed for the pact to get it? And if he can't be needed then he throws himself into the fray without hesitation because his purpose has always been to sacrifice himself so others may live. His life has always been one of sacrifice. His life has been recompense since the second he was born and his mother passed as a result. He saves lives to make up for it. It will never be enough to him. It will always be everything to those he saves. He just wants to be seen for who he truly is. He thinks if no one can see him for who he is then maybe it isn't who he is, and maybe he's fooled them all, fooled himself into thinking he can be a better person, be the hero they need. He wants to be known by someone. He's terrified of someone looking deeper. He sees others for who they are. He's a monster hunter who does not hunt the typical definition of "monster", who knows that monsters are not the ones with fangs and horns in his group of friends but the men who look harmless yet cause endless death and suffering to others. Not even the threat of his life was enough to get him to harm an innocent.

He wants to be chosen. He cannot fathom that someone would choose him. He chooses others over himself every time. He has so much love for others. He thinks he must constantly earn love. He is shocked when someone simply loves him. He thinks he cannot love and lead at the same time. His only role model was a father who could never put his son before his city. He is capable of immense anger. He is capable of immense kindness. He purposefully chooses the latter; he works hard to not let his anger consume him. He's still angry over things that happened a near decade ago. He thinks feeling hurt is the same as being angry and so he can't be hurt. He's always hurting. He takes pride in his achievements and he does not underestimate himself. He's not religious. He devotes himself to his cause with the dedication of the most pious believer. He stands by his friends in any battle, against any struggle. He stands against them if they choose to threaten lives. He holds on to those he cares about with bloody knuckles and teeth bared because loss has always been the hardest pain for him to bear. He has lost everything. He gives every part of himself to others. He cannot lose anyone else. He thinks he can do anything because he refuses to believe any alternative. Because he could not survive any alternative. He thinks his intent is as important as his actions, and so he must always intend to do the right thing.

He does not tolerate his boundaries being pushed or his father being disrespected. He tolerates any judgment because he thinks he deserves it. He defends his status as the Blade of Frontiers. He thinks the fear caused by his devil form is a fault of his own that he must work to fix. He hates the patriars and their farce diplomacy, their lethal hypocrisy. He thinks his father is infallible. He does not hold himself to the same regard as he holds everyone else. He thinks its okay if it only hurts him. Anything is okay as long as it only hurts him. He has to keep fighting to prove he can be a hero. He is so, so tired. He cannot for one second admit to wanting for anything, because once he starts he might not be able to stop wanting. He cannot accept that he deserves to not suffer, too, because if he does he might not be strong enough to continue suffering so others might suffer less. He might not want to suffer. He thinks he cannot regret any decision he's made, he cannot regret his pact, because it would be a dishonour to the good he's done with it. He thinks that saying he regrets his pact would be saying he regrets every life he's saved with it and he would never regret saving lives so he cannot regret his pact. He's accepted that his freedom will always be the cost of saving lives. He desperately wants to be free. His life has never been his own, to him. He thinks every choice he's ever made was his own, alone.

He is very complex. He simplifies himself to be easily accepted by others. People fall for it easily. He just needs one person to look closer. He's afraid of what they'll find if they do. He doesn't keep his cards close to his chest, he meticulously chooses which cards to hold at all. Which parts of himself are worth losing if need be. How much of himself he has to keep close in order to keep being himself. He has seen the worst that the world has to offer. He chooses every day to be kind, to see the best in things, in others. He chooses to care. He holds onto his pain because it's proof that he cares. There are several pathways that don't connect quite right in his brain which you'll notice after a few conversations with him. He is wise beyond his years. He is my favourite guy ever

[asce-of-hearts]

Hi! I appreciate your writing. It provides a nice escape for me when I am having a tough time in the real world. I really liked the yan sukuna x reader where they escape and I wanted to see a continuation of that perhaps? Or something of a soft nature? It doesn’t have to be yan if that doesn’t fit the perspective.

Thank you for reading this request & have a beautiful day!!

Tender

contents: Yandere!Sukuna x gn!reader scenario depicting Sukuna's softness with reader.

more Sukuna content here

WARNINGS: SOFT YANDERE, ESCAPE ATTEMPT, KIDNAPPING, OBSESSIVE AND POSSESSIVE BEHAVIOR, UNHEALTHY RELATIONSHIP DYNAMICS, HISTORICAL!AU (OR SOMETHING LIKE THAT), OG SUKUNA.

The grass beneath your feet is cold with the morning dew. You fall to your knees, tired and panting. You try to recover from running, have you been fast enough to leave him? You don't think so, you can feel him approaching. Is it only paranoia? Or is he really close?

A shadow grows over you, and four familiar arms wrap around your figure. He's so tall, he towers over you with so much ease. You want to cry, afraid of what he'll do. He only scoops you in his arms, carrying you bridal style.

 — Thought we were over this runaway phase of yours  — his voice is soft, his grip is hard enough to immobilize you, although you don't think you have the courage to fight him  — Do you intend for me to cage you again, little dove?

Your knees are scraped, covered in dirt and blood. He takes his time to clean you up, with soft towels and warm water. His hands occasionally run over your thighs for too long, he massages your feet and ankles, peppers kisses over your calves. He's being attentive and sweet, he doesn't even seem mad.

 — I don't know what you're trying to get out of me, ___  — he groans, cuddling you. He's wrapped you in a warm towel, and is carrying you to the bed. He doesn't seem bothered or aroused by the fact that you are naked, although his eyes linger to places they shouldn't from time to time  — You were being so good. Guess it's my fault as well, I was too trusting. Your mind is simple after all, can't blame you for doing stupid things like this...

He sighs, holding you tighter. His nails dig into your skin, they don't hurt enough to draw blood, but they cause a slight discomfort.

 — ___, I don't want to be rough on you, my little dove  — they dig a bit harsher, red, angry marks starting to form over the pressure points  — But I'll be forced to clip your wings if you keep trying to fly away.  — his voice remains soft, when he hears you sniffle he stops with it. He knows he hasn't harmed you.  — So tender hearted...  — he coos at you, kissing your tears away  — I'll be pious with you, my dear. When haven't I been? I'll be as soft and tender as you want and need... so long as you obey my every whim.

hope you enjoyed this

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[mortish-writes]

Tendencies, What are they for?

With the last couple of polls I've realized that not everyone understands what the purpose of the tendencies are apart from unlocking choices sometimes. Which as the writer/developer is totally my fault so let's demystify them.

Tendencies are personality traits that will add shades of distinction to your MC. Apart from merely unlocking different options, I want tendencies to also be hidden in the narrative, changing details within your scenes. With the Week One update, most of the tendency choices will be open and there will be a lot more choices woven into the narrative. Once you reach Night VIII, your personality with be (almost) fixed. You'll have very few opportunities to gain new tendencies, but you will instead have dynamic scenes which change based on your tendencies. Let's have an example.

As I mentioned in the last poll, we'll likely be transitioning to opposed stats. So let's look at the opposed stat of Pious and Irreverent. Let's say your MC is 70% Pious and 30% Irreverent. Here's a random scene for her on Night VI:

"What if..." You struggle to wrap your tongue around what you're about to say. It's been an hour since you lost your faith, and already you're about to propose utter degeneracy. "Hypothetically, if I were to be indiscreet with Valdricht, would that not bother you? Seeing as how we're traveling in close quarters." Something dark passes over his eyes, but then he smirks. "I could always join the two of you in your indiscretions." You blanch. "I fear there's been a miscommunication. I am not proposing that—" "Stop with this tedium," he interjects. "You'd end up being indiscreet even if you weren't obsessed with one another. Duvkrovyr can be very... stimulating, as you might have noticed."

And now let's read that one again with a 70% Irreverent and 30% Pious MC. I'll bolden just a few of the changes that way you can reference them quickly. Note, this doesn't radically change your MC. She's still a cute priestess who is flirting with irreverence.

"What if..." You pause, aware you’re tiptoeing toward something scandalous. "Hypothetically, if I were to be indiscreet with Valdricht, would that not bother you? Seeing as how we're traveling in close quarters." Something dark passes over his eyes, but then he smirks. "I could always join the two of you in your indiscretions." You squint. "That is... a creative interpretation of my question." “Don’t act so shocked,” he says, waving a hand. “You’d end up being indiscreet whether or not you’re obsessed with each other. Duvkrovyr has that effect. You’ve felt it.”

See? Essentially the same scenes, but a different vibe and even the banter is affected a bit. Rest assured, I will not be writing the scenes differently for every 10% of personality traits. Rather, when I feel like, for example a Romantic MC may react differently in a scenario than a Practical MC, I will make some minor tweaks to the scene and create a hidden conditional link. You'll be reading as normal, not knowing that a skill check shifted you into a particular version of the scene. This way, your MC behaves in a manner which better aligns with your perception of her. One more example, this one shorter.

Here is a scene from the Heretic, Night IV:

Inside the tent, Serax has already changed into his silken small clothes. Your gaze lingers on his bare chest as you remove your boots. He stares back knowingly. "Off praying to heathen gods, Sister $name?" he asks. "I hear they cut out your tongue for that." You stiffen. "Only if you speak the blasphemy aloud." "And what do they do to vestals who fornicate?" "Depends. Usually they get sent away. Which I suspect means confinement to ensure no child will come of the union, and then..." You draw your finger across your neck. "Glory to The Merciful Mother," he says wryly. Indeed. You shrug off your coat and then fall to your knees before the fire, warming your frigid fingers. Serax asks, "Are you hungry yet?" You're not, but you aren't about to turn down the opportunity. "For blood?" He grins. "I wouldn't offend your sensibilities with anything less."

The finger over the neck? Rather cynical, no? Let's crank up the romanticism.

Inside the tent, Serax has already changed into his silken small clothes. Your eyes catch on the lines of his bare chest as you unlace your boots. He notices—and doesn’t look away. "Off praying to heathen gods, Sister $name?" he asks. "I hear they cut out your tongue for that." You stiffen. "Only if you say the blasphemy out loud." "And what do they do to vestals who fornicate?" "Depends... Usually they get sent away from the sanctum. Removed from service. It's meant to protect them... and the child, if there is one." You don’t say what else you’ve heard. You don’t want to believe that part. "Exile and silence—the cornerstones of any good faith." You peel off your coat and lower yourself beside the fire, grateful for its warmth on your fingers. It’s easier to focus on the heat than the lingering discomfort in your chest. Serax asks, "Are you hungry yet?" Hope flutters in your chest. "For blood?" He grins. "I wouldn’t offend your sensibilities with anything less."

So there you have it. Generally, the changes will be subtle and hidden, though on occasion you'll have major choices that will be dependent on certain personality traits. I hope this clears things up!

What I like about using the tendencies in a subtle manner is that it'll give me the ability to tailor chapters for different MCs, while not necessarily creating different branches/storylines. Particularly in cases where there may be an arbitrary choice, rather than writing out tons of passages just to arrive at the same conclusion, I can write your MC such that she makes the choice in a single passage, but in a way that feels natural based on her personality.

Using this kind of conditional writing will also allow me to more easily add our upcoming Week One feature, which will be Motivations. In the prologue, you'll be able to select what will motivate your character. This is a fixed stat that will subtly shift the narrative of your storyline, allowing you to focus on what most interests you, be it the sex, the pregnancy, the romance, or your own personal coming of age story. Primarily you'll see it affecting your unstructured nights. An MC motivated by having a family will have more conversations about her pregnancy, child, and the LI's in their parental roles. An MC motivated by passion will have more opportunities for spicier NSFW content. This won't bar your MC from the other content, but rather emphasize your interest in your storyline.

Lastly, my reasoning for having your MC's personality mostly fixed by the end of Week One is so that I can maintain a consistent narrative vibe. I don't want you to have a character who feels erratic, constantly changing how she speaks and reacts because of small variable shifts. Although it might be annoying to have an MC that has a static personality, there will be opportunities for changes in response to major plot events. Additionally, it'll make for great replay value. Say you want to play as a Tender and Pious MC motivated by Family and have a sweet narrative for one playthrough, then you want to be a chaos gremlin and become an Irreverent Cynic who wants to thoroughly explore her sexuality. There will be a playthrough for both!

-Mortish

[velaryqns]

Lady Ellyn Baratheon

( art by @vhaenaera, please do not try to reuse or repurpose elsewhere, I paid for this )

Lady Ellyn Baratheon, or Lady Ellyn Bolton by marriage, is the third child and the only daughter of Lord Steffon Baratheon and Lady Cassana Baratheon, born in the year 262. From a young age, the girl was dedicated to her Faith and her learning, and would grow to be both a pious and proud woman, never afraid to boast her Baratheon heritage. She strongly carries the familiar traits of her family: black hair with dark blue eyes. Ellyn, like her brothers, is tall; but she does not carry their strong builds, being much more lithe with subtle curves.

Before Robert's Rebellion, in the year 280 AC, Ellyn was promised to the Leech Lord, Roose Bolton - an act to ensure the allegiance of House Bolton due to their tensions with the Starks. They were wedded by the year's end, and a child born the following year: Rauwen Bolton. It was by marriage and allegiance to the North that Roose Bolton would order House Bolton to fight alongside Robert Baratheon in the Rebellion. Following the Rebellion and her brother's ascension as King, Ellyn was passed over in favor of her younger brother Renly Baratheon to take their ancestral seat of Storm's End. In the year 285, Ellyn and Roose would have a second child: Raya Bolton. She would be their last child and their only daughter, raised alongside her elder brothers Domeric and Rauwen until Domeric died in 297.

Where Roose Bolton is a silent and soft-spoken man, Ellyn's voice demands attention. If her husband's order is not followed the first time it is given, she will ensure it. She raises her children to follow the Old Gods, but Raya connects with her mother using the Faith of the Seven, often praying beside her mother and asking her mother what she knows of the Faith. Roose and Ellyn had formed a quick understanding and respect for one another by the time they became husband and wife. Rauwen and Raya do not recall many moments of affection between their parents that they witnessed, but both are aware of a few details: Roose and Ellyn are loyal to one another (to a fault and extent), they respect one another both as husband and wife but also as Lord and Lady, and that while no words of affection are shared (publically) Roose and Ellyn are connected enough for many to know that there is affection between the two.

Ellyn neither likes nor dislikes the fact that her husband has a bastard son: she believes that since the boy was before her and her children's time, he holds no issue for her (until he does). She held no hatred toward Domeric when he had been living, and treated him as if he was her true son. It was only the birth of Rauwen that had caused her doubt, her pride in the way at the idea of her son being a 'spare', but she eventually grew past it.

Other Details and Factoids:

Ellyn's wardrobe and jewelry primarily consists of Bolton pink, golds, and blacks, with the occasional blood red - and she always finds a way to work in something about her Baratheon heritage. She loves furs in the cold seasons, but will also favor clothing that rests off her shoulders if she is somewhere warm

On her left pinky, and on Raya's left pinky, Ellyn wears a ruby ring cut into the shape of a blood drop. The ring has a few meanings: first, her book is called Bloodstained. Secondly, her children hold a strong resemblance to her rather than their father. Lastly, she's married to the Leech Lord (and leeches, you know).

Ellyn's left eyebrow is scarred from one of the few times she sparred with Robert and Stannis, Stannis cut her and never forgave himself for hurting his little sister.

Ellyn's book, Bloodstained, will be available on Wattpad on March 10, 2025.

[thegnomelord]

Patience Is a Virtue

CW: Sub Top reader, Dom bottom Price, monster AU, dragon hybrid Price, Mage male reader, objectification, use of cock and strap, humiliation, edging, dom/sub, praise kink, getting called 'good boy', mild mirror sex. Might be OOC as I'm not familiar with cod. MDNI

You had fucked up.

Granted, you'd never admit or acknowledge that.

You didn't even see anything wrong by charging the enemy against his orders believing the ends justified the means. You were always like that, reckless and dismissive of your own mortality, happy to rush head first into the enemy fire if it meant one enemy was consumed by your magic. He couldn't fault you fully, the raging inferno of magic controlled you as much as you controlled it, but Price still couldn't have an asset disobeying orders like you did. Conventional punishments couldn't get through your thick skull, so he'd need to come up with a better solution...

Price got creative.

He had given you one simple order: Do not Move.

His heavy body pinned you down, thick and powerful thighs bracketing your hips, pleased growls rumbling in his chest as Price rose and then sank down on a cock.

But it wasn't your dick, he hadn't deemed you worthy of using your actual cock to pleasure him, instead fastening a strap-on to your waist. The silicone was the color of your eyes, and you could see the way it disappeared inside him through the dresser mirror behind him, wet with spit and lube.

The dragon hybrid had sucked the dildo when he first put it on you, ordering you to sit and watch as his lips wrapped around the silicone head. His long draconic tongue lapped at the artificial cum hole before he'd taken the entire thing to the balls, nose flush with your abdomen and pretty lips stretched taught, throat bulging from it and drool running down his chin. Indecently lewd sounds escaped his mouth as he pulled back, worshiping the silicone cock like a pious believer.

His eyes had never left yours, draconic gold glowing in the dark and just daring you to try going against his orders. You had needed to use every bit of your resolve to just stay fucking still, thinking of dead puppies and naked grandmas — anything to stop yourself from touching him when he'd growl with the fake cock balls deep in his throat, the sound vibrating the base of the strap on against your trapped cock beneath it.

It would send a jolt of pleasure down your spine, sizzling arousal and desperate want burning in your chest, but it wasn't enough.

Now, Price languidly rode 'you', pleased growls rumbling in his chest, slow hip movements allowing the fake cock to rub every inch of his walls. You'd know when the silicone would brush against his prostate by the way his wing would flex, by the way his tail would curl up like a beast in heat and his hungry hole would flutter around the strap, by the way the most sinful growled moan would come from his chest and his hips would grind down to prolong the sensation.

Your patience was beginning to evaporate, desiring nothing more than to pull more of those sounds from him, to be the reason behind his pleasure, to replace that damned stap and feel his greedy hole suck you in, to feel his body clench around you with draconic strength.

Price knew this, and he paid no attention to your torment.

He continued to ride you like a toy(which you were in a way), his eyes closed and head thrown back, one hand lazily stroking his own dick. Your eyes snapped to the strands of precum leaking from his tip, pooling in the grooves of your muscles, your mouth watering with the sudden desire to taste him.

He caught your gaze as he cracked open an eye, a pleased smirk on his features as he dipped his fingers into the puddle of precum and dragged his claws along your skin, sharp nails making your skin crawl from feeling his touch for the first time in a while.

It was comical how quickly you could feel your resolve slipping, fiery arousal burning hotter than mana in your veins.

Honestly, this torture should be considered a fucking war crime.

"Fuck, Price." You hissed through clenched teeth, not noticing how hard you were panting, the mana inside you burning hot. "Come on, I said I was sorry. Just let me fuck you already."

Price let out a chuckle, settling to sit fully in your lap, tail curling up just so you could see how his hole stretched and fluttered around the silicone. "You are fuckin' me." He said, fangs displayed in a grin.

That fucking dragon-

"That's not what I meant." You hastily replied, groaning when he ground down, grinding the base of the strap against your cock. "Fuck, I promise I'll follow orders next time, just, fucking please."

"You will now?" Price snorted, tone degrading, making arousal burn in your chest. "Is this all it takes? Not getting your knob wet for five minutes is enough for my mage to loose all that pride?"

You just whined at his mocking words, echoing a few more pleas without even realizing it, magic sparking along your skin with the desire to touch him, even as his words kept you down.

He chuckled, reaching out to grip your hair, pulling on it until you sat up and immediately shoving your face into his chest, almost smothering you in heaven. "Go on then, love, let's see how well behaved you are."

You didn't need to be told twice, tongue lolling out to lather his pecs with licks and kisses, teeth eagerly nibbling on his skin. A pleased rumble shook Price's chest and he rocked his hips, working to make your arousal burn hotter, urging your mind to further take what was offered to you. You sucked on his skin until his skin was marked with bruises and bitemarks, his nipples hard and puffy and covered with saliva.

"Thank you, fuck." you growled, throwing a praise to the powers that be, the desperation to touch more, to feel more, driving your body as you reached out to roughly grope his arse, pulling his body down on you while you bit his nipple hard.

A resounding growl came from his chest, yanking your head from his chest as his tail slapped your hand away, the thick appendage wrapping like a chain around your arm. "What did I tell you, boy?"

The roughness in his voice made your dick just that bit harder, making it almost impossible to think. "Stay still."  You growled, teeth clenching with the desire to swear when he ground his hips down, sending jolts up your spine.

"And what did you do? The exact opposite." He growled, the rich green scales on his tail chaffing against your skin.

“But I-” You went to argue before your rational mind caught up with your dick, recognizing that all arguing would do would make Price prolong this fucking torture. “-I’m… I’m sorry.”

"Sure you are." He said in a flat tone, draconic eyes narrowed.

"I am." You repeated, your eyes glowing with the mana in your chest, casting light on his features. "Fuck, Price, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to..." It was obvious you weren't used to apologizing, and you hoped your inexperience in this department would make Price take mercy on you.

The clawed hand in your hair stroked down the side of your face to hold your chin, holding your head in place as if you'd ever dream of pulling away. Your body leaned in automatically, finally you'd be able to feel his hole flutter around you instead of that god forsaken strap, finally you'd be able to touch him after being denied for so long.

"Ready to be a good boy for me sweetheart?"

He mumbled as his lips brushed against yours, voice smooth like honey. You nodded dumbly, his fangs lightly nibbling on your lip as he ground his hips ground down on yours, sending sparks of pleasure up your spine.

Then he pushed you to lie on your back with a clawed hand on your chest, pinning you to the bed again.

"Then be a good boy, and stay still, just for five more minutes." He said, a sadistic glint in his eyes, thick thighs tensing as he began riding the strap again. "You can handle that, can't you? You did disobey me again." This time, his movements were rougher, the movements sharper, his full weight bearing down on your poor dick trapped beneath the base of the strap, pleasure and pain sparking in your brain all over again.

And you realized, you had fucked up.