#and then i had to watch a grown man sob

[linda-rose]

law and order svu is and always will be my comfort show, that I accept with all its highs and lows, but also, sometimes I just watch an episode and I'm like...that was absolutely FUCKED and entirely uncalled for y'all didn't need to do that actually

[franeridan]

no but I'm seriously so happy they're doing a saihate no paladin s2 please I remembered I loved it but I didn't remember I loved it THIS much I'm so happy it makes me so happy 😭😭😭

[starstruckmiraclekitty]

Red. That was all Simon could see as he barreled through the barracks, ignoring the concerned onlookers as he slammed open door after door.

He was just washing up for the day, ready to head to his quarters when he’d heard whispers of you being admitted to medical. The words “banged up pretty good” were all he needed to hear before setting off in a panic to find you.

You were everything to him. Simon Riley was a man who swore he’d die alone and be happy doing so, until you came along. You, with your terrible jokes, your witty personality, your loyalty and determination and gods damn your fucking smile. He’d do anything to see you smile.

Love wasn’t something that came easy to Simon, but with you it did. Loving you was as easy as breathing, it was natural. He loved you from the moment he saw you, and would love you until the day he died.

The door to the infirmary flung open, and Simon strode in with purpose, his eyes scanning the entire room. When they landed on you, Simon felt his heart drop, his blood running cold.

“Who did this?” Was all he said, his cold gaze softening ever so slightly as he took in every cut and bruise that littered your beautiful skin. It took everything in him not to yell, to scream.

Your eyes dropped from his, your lips forming a thin line as the nurse beside you finished stitching the large cut that now adorned your shoulder.

“Y/N.” His voice was stern, causing you and the nurse to jump slightly.

With a small smile aimed at you, the nurse gave a polite nod to Simon as she ran past, leaving the two of you alone in the now eerily silent room.

“Tell me.” Simon demanded, sinking to his knees in front of you. When you still refused to meet his gaze, he gently rested his index finger on your chin and tilted your head to look at him. His eyes were soft, gentle as he gazed into your own. “Tell me.”

The tenderness in which Simon looked at you had your lower lip wobbling, a soft sob slowly escaping your mouth as you replayed what had happened in your head. “Simon, it’s okay.”

“It’s not. You need to tell me what happened.” His finger gently began to graze your cheek, a tenderness that you’d grown used to over the years with him. A tenderness reserved only for you.

“The mission went south. There was a mole. We got ambushed.” Was all you said, as you struggled to regain your composure.

“Who.”

“Simon, please it’s really okay, I-.”

“Who.”

Your brows furrowed slightly as Simon ripped off his mask, his face now fully visible to you. Concern etched its way across his features as he held your gaze. You knew this was a battle you wouldn’t win.

“Coles. It was Coles.”

“He dead?” Simon asked, his face not showing any of his internal turmoil. If he wasn’t, Simon would make damn well sure he’d suffer for what had happened to you.

You shook your head as your bottom lip trembled once more. “No, but Simon-.”

Simon cut you off with a gentle kiss to your temple, his lips lingering against your skin as he murmured, “Sleep in my quarters tonight, yeah? I’ll be back soon.”

Without waiting for your reply, he strode out of the infirmary, the red in his vision intensifying as he set out to find the mole. Nobody, nobody would harm a hair on his lovers head and get away with it.

Simon would do anything for you, die for you, kill for you. He’d do anything to make sure that beautiful smile of yours was permanently etched onto your lips.

For you, Simon Riley would watch the world burn.

[nightingale-prompts]

How to Raise Your BatBoy

First | Previous | Next

Dick sighed into his cup of coffee. This is not what he wanted to see when he woke up in the morning. That and the giant bat wing covering his face this morning.

Danny was getting bigger. Not physically but his bat features are changing. The teen was getting better at changing shape. His ears are sharper ending in slight points, his fingers are more clawlike, and he has grown a thick ringed collar of white fur around his neck. Thankfully that's as far as his transformation can go right now. Danny has learned to pick and choose what traits he wants.

Danny has claimed Dick's gymnastic equipment as his. The aerial equipment is now used as roosts for Danny to hang off of and nap. But that hasn't stopped him from sleeping on top of Dick like an overgrown cat.

Bat wings expel a lot of heat as blood circulates through the thin skin which cools the blood in hot environments that they are native to. So to regulate their temperature they rest together to conserve heat. That's probably why Danny decided to grow the fur collar and sleep on top of Dick.

And why is Dick so frustrated? Because he's fighting for his goddamn life in this house. His cute aggression is barely contained. He wants to squish the kid's cheeks and ruffle his hair all the time.

Dick would be going over case files while Danny watches tv on the floor and Dick will feel the insatiable NEED to go bother him.

That damn fuzzy neck fur calls to him like a cat picking up a kitten.

Danny chirps! He fucking chirps! Like a baby bird!

Dick is trying so hard to be normal but if you had an adorable and clingy batboy you'd do the same.

Dick wants to tell the world about his batboy.

And he does. When he's Nightwing he will not shut up about how much he adores his sidekick. God forbid Robin is visiting, Dick will cry while taking hundreds of pictures of them together.

Damian doesn't like Batboy at all. At least that's what he says. He's just jealous that Batboy has bat wings. Damian warms up to him after they go out gliding together and get to study his wings.

It however goes downhill when they go on a misadventure and Batboy took a bite out of Scarecrow. Batboy had an immunity to fear toxins, instead, it overstimulated him. He ended up lounging at Scarecrow when he taunted Damian as the boy was paralyzed by the gas. When Damian was able to get back on his feet he found Batboy sobbing with his mouth covered in blood.

"Im sorry. I didn't. I didn't mean to-" His wings shielded him from sight.

Scarecrow was alive but the two sets of puncture wounds on his neck and the claw marks were not doing him any favors. The bite seemed to render him immobile at least for now. A symptom of a bat bite was paralysis.

Damian notified the others. Bruce and Dick got there first. Both adults were thankful they were okay but there was a disagreement.

"Nightwing you don't even know what the boy is. He could have killed Scarecrow. We don't know what he's capable of yet. He lost control." Batman stated firmly looking at the blood-stained teen that clung to Nightwing.

"He was protecting Damian. He didn't want to do that." Nightwing pulled Batboy behind him.

"It doesn't matter what he wanted to do. What will you do if he loses control and actually kills someone next time?" Bruce crossed his arms.

"All of us are capable of losing control and killing. I did it and you never came down on me like this. You are a hypocrite. You think he's a monster because he's not human." Nightwing was not going to let Batman point a finger at his son like this. He killed Joker once and he had don it out of rage and hate, not even to protect someone else.

"What I'm saying is that he isnt human. We don't don't know how he can be affected. We don't know his weaknesses. What if someone else figures out what fear toxin does to him and turns him into a weapon? Will his guilt be enough to stop him or will it destroy him? Do you want him to become like Man-Bat? Do you want to put your son in danger?" Batman didn't give in to Nightwing's taunt and stated his view firmly.

"We're leaving." Nightwing picked up the shrinking Batboy and made his escape but not before hugging Robin goodbye.

Nightwing had to move quickly. He could feel Danny getting smaller with every step.

This happened sometimes. Danny would sometimes retreat inwards when he was stressed. He changed to become as vulnerable as he felt.

When they got home Danny looked to be just 3 years old.

"Its okay baby bat. Not one is going to hurt you. I promised remember?" Dick held the chind aginst his chest.

"I'm so sorry. It's all my fault." Danny said between gasping breaths trying not to cry. His small wings wrapped around Dick's shoulders

"No, its not. You did the right thing no matter what Batman says. I'm proud of you."Dick said stroking Danny's black-streaked white locks.

(*Does a silly jig*)

[yanderenightmare]

♡ TW: nsfw, noncon, yandere, kidnapped reader, murder of nameless side characters

♡ fem reader

Thinking about that moment of violent change you’re forced to go through when your loving boyfriend becomes the terrifying man you don’t recognize—and how it completely eradicates the reality you’d grown so comfortable in, realizing it was all some perfectly orchestrated lie.

Rope burns on your wrists and ankles, tears streaking your chunky cheeks, and a poor soul’s blood on your pretty face belonging to some guy who’d gotten a little too close for comfort.

He’d cut him down like it was nothing.

The knife is held still by his side, a shining red murder weapon, dripping on the floor in the growing pond by his feet. He sighs heavily, casts his head back then looks behind him, beholding you through slim eyes, clicking his tongue, “Look what you made me do…”

He wouldn’t be the only one… several victims followed in his bloody path—witnesses who’d seen him struggle with you, kicking and screaming for all your worth, trying anything to get away. You were all too easily manhandled into the car, and could only watch behind the locked door, banging with bound fists on the glass while he gutted other passersby who’d threatened to call the police.

Driving off, he growls at you, first to shut up and then, “That was your fault—if only you’d been a good girl, none of those innocent people would have had to die.” His knuckles whiten on the wheel, wringing it in his stained grip—scarlet on ivory. “If you don’t want any more blood on your hands, you better sit pretty and not cause me any more trouble.”

You sob uncontrollably and inconsolably despite the threat—you can’t stop yourself—you can’t even comprehend his words. None of it makes any sense. You’d seen it all, and yet you can’t understand it—any of it. You’d watched the sweet guy you knew shed his skin and become a monster right before your eyes. It must be some bad dream, some terrible, awful, horrible nightmare.

But even if it is, you don’t want him touching you ever again. It makes you physically sick to your stomach to think you’d ever shared a bed with him—exchanged sweet nothings in the damp heat of each other. No, no, no, it’s not the same person—it can’t be. It can’t be true. What about the smiles you’d shared over breakfast, those times you’d surprised each other at lunch, all the dates, all the gifts, all the kisses, the future you’d talked about?

You’d fallen in love. But you’ve fallen in love with someone who doesn’t even exist.

He makes sure the door to the bedroom’s under lock and a key he stores somewhere you won’t find it. You squirm in your bonds on the bed when he approaches, shivering with whimpers under his hands, flinching at his touch while he unties you, then cringing as he angles your face to look at him—wanting to pry free, anything not to look into those changed eyes.

You hadn’t thought his build was imposing before, it hadn’t struck you as lethal. Naively, you’d thought him cozy—a big chest and a warm embrace he would scoop you up in, a safe place you could live. He’s cold now, menacing and filthy from his crimes—the body of a killer, a cold-blooded murderer. He’s so big it makes the room feel too small for the both of you. Claustrophobic.

He forces your gaze to him, and it’s all you see, those eyes, those unrecognizable eyes, with that look within you can’t understand, beholding you with burden.

“I still love you,” he states, though it angers him. “Even though you broke my heart. I still love you.”

You shake your head, or you try to, but it results in only tiny tremors caught in his hand where he keeps your chin, bloody fingers buried in your plump cheeks, squeezing so hard you wince.

“But it doesn’t come for free,” he seethes with an awful sneer. A type of grimace you’d never thought him capable of, overfilled with disdain. “My love is earned. And after all you did today, you’re in deep debt.”

He lets go of your face with a nasty shove, taking a mean grip on your shirt instead, using both fists to tear it down the middle. You yelp and cover yourself, but that only angers him further—causing him to grab your wrists and pin them to your side. You think you feel your joints popping.

“Test me, and I’ll hurt you,” he growls, his teeth bared at your ear where your face curls to hide itself in the pillow. “I don’t want to, but if that’s what it takes to make you sorry, then so be it. Be good, and I won’t have to take it that far.”

You lie as still as you can muster while he removes the rest—roughly as he goes—your bra, your skirt, your underwear. You only snivel and toil with the sheets in weak little fists, making your joints cramp up—feeling raw under him, at the mercy of those blood-dried hands.

You understand what he’s about to do, and yet it doesn’t really dawn on you before you hear the sharp ringing of his belt buckle being undone. You don’t look, but you don’t close your eyes either—the room is already dark enough that closing your eyes would make you feel too close to death. So, you keep your gaze fixed to the side, to the stale wall.

The bed bounces you as he shuffles. The urge to run bubbles within, but you know it wouldn’t be to your advantage. So your mind spins, thinking of other possibilities, growing ever more panicked when coming up empty.

He spits on your slit, then rears it with his spitefully erect shaft—pushing in without further prep. And you lose all sense of control.

Twisting at the attack, you scream again, “No! Stop—”

Your hands barely touch him before he’s answered the protest with a tightening grip on your neck. Unrelenting, your throat instantly snares, and you choke on any further outburst.

“I told you,” he chastises. “Why do you have to force my hand, huh?”

You gasp for any sliver worth of air, sipping through the cracks of his chokehold, but it’s very nearly sealed completely shut. You try lifting his grip with your own, both hands holding onto his wrist, wanting to pull loose but achieving nothing.

It’s so pitiful that he ignores the effort. Using his remaining hand to continue what he’d set out to do. Planting his tip at your unprepped entrance, he wasted no time before surging forward.

Your vision starts to spot, and your hands grow weak, barely hanging on.

“That’s good. Lie still and take it,” he groans—his lips on your cheek as he bullies through your dry walls, only aided by his spit. “And I might consider once’ enough.”  

You don’t have a choice, feeling your body go numb. He picks your thigh up over his hip and drives deeper—starting a steady pace without letting go of your throat, squeezing the life out of you. Your hands finally drop, lying limp, and still, you feel it deep within—the thrusting as he beats your sorry cunt into an aching mess, then fills you up with awful warmth.

♡ BNHA – Deku, Kirishima, Hawks ♡ JJK – Nanami, Geto, Naoya

♡ FEM x M INSERT masterlist ♡ GN x M INSERT masterlist

[wonbin-truther]

hey babe <3 i got a haircut

it was the text no girlfriend wanted to receive and it was your growing fear as you watched mark's hair get longer and longer. you had expressed to him how much you loved his long hair. it had become a daily activity where he would lay his head in your lap as you played with and put his hair into weird hairstyles. you took the time every morning to tangle your fingers in it and run your hands through the long locks as sleep still lingered in the air. your stomach dropped as you opened your phone and saw that very text.

how much ...

you texted him back almost immediately. it was ultimately mark's decision to cut his hair and even with how dramatic you where, you were still going to stand beside your man; even if he was bald.

just a little off the top nothing too much

and dramatic is what you where when he walked into the shared apartment. his hair that had grown past his eyes was cut back to being a little above them. the back of it that had grown to his neck and was beginning to curl now revealed a fresh undercut. "how do you like it baby?" mark had a huge grin on his face that was hard to fight against. "it looks so good," your voice was shakier than you had wanted it to be. you could feel tears brimming your eyes.

mark was quick to rush over to you, "what's wrong?" he took you into his arms. "you're bald," you finally sobbed out. you hiccuped into his chest as you clung onto him. he laughed and patted your head, "i'm not bald. it was just a little cut". you cried harder into his chest, "they took it all off". he let out another laugh and just held you close to him. your sobs finally subsided and you pulled away to finally get a close up look of the new haircut. you felt tears in your eyes again and mark stared at you in shock as you practically flung yourself back into his arms. "what happened now? you don't like it?" he moved you away to wipe your tears and kiss your forehead.

"you're so fine," was the only sentence you were able to choke out.

[shrimpybbq]

Gwayne Hightower corrupting his sweet Targaryen niece!

His young niece is sent to Oldtown with her younger brother Daeron, much to Gwayne’s delight.

Though she’s a Targaryen, she looks so much like her mother and Gwayne is simply infatuated with her. His niece was Helaena’s twin, the girl much more lucid and rooted in the earth than her sister.

Gwayne who takes her under his wing, allowing the pair to form a strong bond as she learns more about Oldtown and the history of the Hightower’s.

Gwayne watches as his sweet niece seems to grow even more beautiful as she’s older. He notices the attention she draws and the leering gazes men level at her. It makes something in his chest burn.

His niece was expected to return to Kings Landing when she became of age, and yet the time has passed and her mother and father have not sent for her yet. Gwayne comforts his sweet niece though he’s secretly happy and enjoying her presence remaining longer.

Gwayne finds it more and more difficult to resist his niece as she clings to him more in her sadness, his body growing warm at the idea of taking her for himself. He reasons with himself: if her mother married her other daughter to her full-blooded brother then surely an uncle is a less egregious pairing. Gwayne’s been influenced too much by the Targaryen views at this point.

Gwayne seizes the opportunity to corrupt his niece once and for all when she cries desperately in her arms. She’s sobbing about how no man will ever want her as a wife if she never returns to the capital, how her family do not love her, how her mother sent away.

He’s taking her teary face in his hands softly, brushing her hair back from her face as he looks into her wide eyes. The heavy kiss he places on her lips has her momentarily shocked before she tentatively responds. Gwayne’s slowly guiding her lips in the way he likes, revelling in the feeling as her fingers begin threading through his hair.

Gwayne doesn’t fuck her straight away, no, he waits and waits until his niece is so dependant on him, hanging off his every word. She’s visiting the sept with him each day, dining with him and letting him kiss her as much as he wants.

But once he does, there is no one in the world that he would let take her away from him. He would show Otto the bloodied sheets from their coupling and watch his face fall in horror, disgusted at the sullying of a proper Targaryen princess. Otto didn’t think he had it in him, not to do something so vile.

Gwayne gets his way and soon his pretty little niece is standing in front of him in the Sept at Oldtown, exchanging vows with him.

Alicent is beside herself. Her sweet daughter corrupted and defiled by her own uncle, someone she trusted her with.

Gwayne and his new wife are the picture of marital bliss, always giggling and mumbling to each other. The maids in the keep at Oldtown are always giggling as they walk past their chambers; the gasps and groans escaping enough to make a grown man blush.

Gwayne fucks his wife good. I said it. He’s a munch too and 100% makes his wife cum at least once before getting into the main action. He’s got his niece wrapped around his finger and anytime he wants her, he has her.

It’s no surprise when the Red Keep receives a raven announcing the pregnancy of the Targaryen princess, a babe expected no more than 9 months after their wedding (they got down to business right away!).

(Aegon’s giggling at the rage colouring his mothers expression. He loves seeing her so unsettled and makes a note to tease her AS MUCH as possible.)

[lovlidollie]

Can we get a prequel to how Rafe Cameron and Crybaby reader met and got together? Please 🙏

of course !! i’m so sorry it took so long 😓 also i personally think crybaby!reader can be either kook or pogue, but for this she’s a pogue <3 not proof read ^^

cw crybaby flinches when a character raises his hand but nothing happens, slightly pervy rafe ;)

the first time rafe saw crybaby!reader was when she was working up at the little cafe inside the country club, eyes red ‘n face wet as an older man yelled at her. she was wearing an apron over a brown short-sleeved top that looked one size too small, with hair tied up using white ribbons, and a pair of roughed up sneakers on her feet. her skirt isn’t that short, perfectly acceptable for workplaces, but it has rafe wondering what her panties look like. he was sure he would have noticed the pretty little thing long before, so he assumed she was a new hire. automatically rafe knew she was one of the pogues. everyone on figure 8 knew each other, had grown up around one another from the very beginning. but she didn’t look like she belonged on the cut. no, she had the face of a kook, someone who should have more money than they can count, someone who deserved to live in luxury.

it’s like some sort of instinct comes over him, vision blurring around the edges as he watches her shrink further into herself, head shaking as she spews out stuttered apologies he’s too far to hear properly. when the man’s hands come up in frustration and she flinches back, rafe can’t stop his feet from marching towards the guy, chest puffed out ‘n shoulders squared. “hey man. what’s uh — what’s goin’ on?” his voice is gritty, barely restrained, as he looks him up and down.

“she messed up my order!” the man — bob, rafe recognises as a regular — snarls, lip upturned as he looks at her with utter disgust. “been coming here every single weekend for the past ten years and not once have i ever been given the wrong thing. disgraceful is what it is!”

rafe spares a glance down at the little thing next to him, heart flaring at the way her eyes widen and fill with fresh tears. “i-i- ‘m real sorry — sir — it - it was a mistake ‘m really sorry!” her voice is all blubbery, airy and high the way someone talks when they’re trying not to burst into sobs. it makes rafe dizzy with desire, makes him furious.

he gestures between the two, “i mean, shit man — she looks like a freshie, ‘s probably her first shift,” rafe drawls out, charming smirk on his face. “cut her some slack, yeah? if you don’t want her servin’ you then tha’s fine. we’ll go get someone else for you, a’ight?” she’s shaking like a leaf and it’s taking all of him not to reach out and clasp her shoulders, to get down on his knees and talk her out of it.

“yeah whatever. fuckin’ pogues can’t never do shit right..” bob mutters, eyeing crybaby distastefully once more before strutting away, barking at another waitress to get him a drink.

rafe sighs, rubbing a hand across his mouth, tongue poking his cheek as he thinks about whether or not it would be worth beating him up. he’s brought back to earth when he hears the distressed sniffles next to him. she’s wrapped her arms around herself, right thumb placed suspiciously close to her mouth crybaby’s eyes are all bloodshot, mascara smudged around her puffy lids, ‘n she’s bitten through her lips so hard that rafe can see the previous indentations. with a furrowed brow, he notices that she’s biting on the tip of her thumb, pink tongue peeking every now and then. (rafe tries not to groan at the sight.) he gently, ever so slowly reaches out with his larger hand, pauses when she jerks slightly, and continues to softly pull her hand away from her mouth.

“‘s not a nice man is he, huh?” rafe says quietly, trying to ignore the way her mouth chases the finger he’s pulling away. the action sends a jolt of heat through to his stomach, mind going straight to the gutter. the sane part of him understands it must be some sort of self-soothing technique, but the images it plants in his head are anything but innocent.

crybaby shakes her head roughly, eyes on her scuffed shoes. “‘m sorry — i - i really am,” she stutters, voice so soft rafe almost doesn’t hear it over the noise in the background. his jaw tightens as he tries to focus on anything but how close she is, how nice she smells. “y’don’t gotta ‘pologise to me,” he says almost affronted. “not your fault he’s an asshole.”

rafe takes a step closer, eyes flickering down to her chest where the tiny little name badge was pinned. “you — uh — you come here often?” he says her name ‘n it feels so right on his tongue. he tries to joke and it looks like it works, crybaby’s eyes blinking rapidly at his question. “i- um — yeah. jus’ started today..” her glassy eyes reflect his face in them as they begin watering again moments after. “… ‘m sorry, ‘m sorry - i —.” her lips look so fucking delectable in that little pout, he just wants to shove — rafe shakes his head and reaches out before he can stop himself. “look at me,” he says, voice firmer than before as he tilts her chin up. her skin is so soft and smooth he’s almost too distracted by it to talk. “it is okay,” he enunciates for her. “alright? jus’ — uhh — take a deep breath — yeah, do that. no more sorry’s, yeah? i got you.”

rafe’s never been good at handling emotions — his or anyone else’s — but there’s something about her that wills him into being just a smidge more patient. he feels the urge to say something comforting, something to make her feel better, but the only thing that comes out is, “y’too pretty to be crying over some dickhead.”

it’s not the most appropriate thing to say — this being their first meeting and all — but he can’t help himself. it seems to do the trick though, so he can’t really complain can he? the way her cheeks warm at his words, the way her eyes grow wider — it’s almost too much. she’s so innocent, so naïve, and he knows he shouldn’t be thinking about her on her knees for him, but he just can’t stop.

“y’doing just fine. first day’s always rough, mistakes happen. you’ll get the hang of it.” not that he’d know, rafe’s never had to work a day in his life. the reassurance soothes crybaby enough for her to nod her head jerkily, teeth catching the flesh of her lips again. rafe has to look away for a second, pretending to glance around the cafe so he doesn’t do something stupid like drag her into the back room and let his hands roam. “y-you really think so?” she asks softly, voice all small ‘n shaky, like she needs his answer in order to believe it.

“i know so,” he responds, full of confidence. “how ‘bout this. anyone gives you any trouble — ‘n i mean any — you come find me ‘n i’ll deal with it.”

crybaby looks up at him starstruck, almost honoured that he’d be willing to do that for her. “that— tha’s so nice of you,” she mouths, sniffling. shyly, with her fingers rubbing away the drying tears on her cheeks, she adds, “wh-what should i call you? like — like what’s your name?” she seems flustered, embarrassed for even asking.

rafe smirks, shit eating grin on his face as he steps back and crosses his arms. oh there were plenty of things she could call him he sucks his teeth and arches a brow at her. “name’s rafe. rafe cameron.” he assumes that because she’s a pogue, she at the very least has some sort of idea of who he is, of his reputation. he knows johnb and co have nothing better to do than shittalk, but when she gives him a tentative smile instead of shrinking away in disgust, rafe knows he’s got her.

“r-rafe,” she repeats, like she’s committing it to memory, and it does something to him, hearing his name on her lips like that. he wants to hear more. needs it more than air and it should scare him how quickly he’s developed a fixation on her. “mmh — don’t you forget it.”

crybaby’s clearly not used to this sort of attention, with the way she can’t keep her eyes on him, the way she fiddles with her fingers ‘n can’t stay still. it only makes rafe want to push further, but he forces himself to reel it in. there was plenty of time to explore this later, to see how far he could take it before she broke.

“i - uh - gotta go,” rafe says, voice a little scratchier. “boys are waitin’ f’me on the green. but i’ll uh — see you ‘round, yeah?” she wipes her hands against her apron, nodding again with the tiniest, cutest smile on her lips.

he spares her one last look before he pushes through to the golf course, already making up reasons to blow of top ‘n kelce so he can instead find out as much as he can about crybaby. immediately, rafe’s thinking of excuses to come see her again tomorrow.

[swordgrace]

𝐒𝐇𝐀𝐊𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐅𝐑𝐎𝐒𝐓 𝐎𝐅𝐅 𝐎𝐅 𝐌𝐘 𝐁𝐎𝐍𝐄𝐒.

⠀ཾ༵ 𑁍┆ jon snow x female northern reader.

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

note: season six jon, follows s6 ep4.

format: one-shot — not requested.

word count: 10.5K (not sorry).

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

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

𝐀𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐡𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐢𝐥𝐲.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

None of this felt real.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Who was he to deny you?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[tiredcreatur3]

toji having the worst size kink and only realizing when the two of you started going out.

of course, you’re a grown woman in her early twenties but oh, you just look so small and so so tiny next to toji who’s almost a feet taller than you and twice bigger in width, in his late twenties.

there’s just something about you under him, all spread for him, your pretty little cunt barely taking his thick cock, legs fallen apart as you whine for him with those sad fucked out eyes of yours.

it drives him crazy, he loves seeing you all helpless and without a chance to do anything about it. he could do anything he wants to you and you wouldn’t be able to do nothing but take it.

“look at you, baby.. your cute lil’ pussy barely taking me.” he sighed softly while balls deep inside you, seeing how you were breathing heavily and shaking, tummy trembling as you struggled to take all the inches.

he slowly rolled his hips into you, his eyes never leaving yours as he rubbed at your clit as well, wanting to take care of his princess the best he could.

“i-i can’t-“ you whimpered with a little sob.

“shh.. look at that, honey. takin’ me so fucking good, god you feel amazing.. have no idea how proud daddy is.” he said as he gently rubbed at your cheek, almost melting as you leaned into his touch.

your hands rested above your tits, getting pounded in toji’s shirt that was hunched up just above your tummy so he could rub across the soft pudge here and there.

you couldn’t keep your mouth shut, moaning and whining tiredly, so so out of it, eyes all soft and teary, feeling like coming any second really, just being so so sensitive and stretched to the max.

“t-to..” you let out, staring at him as he thumbed at your slit, having you panting and shaking under him, the tall man towering over you.

he smiled to you, humming as he soon sped up the thrusts a little bit, stuffing your tiny little mouth with his three fingers which felt like having his cock stuffed down your throat due to how long and thick they were. he always knew how to shut you up and keep you from complaining.

you whimpered around his fingers like a lil bitch in heat, all teary eyed, cunt fucked dumb and raw as the consistency of his thrusts made you drool and drop any sort of self respect you had left for yourself.

“what a good little girl.. makin’ daddy so proud.” he cooed quietly, being so soft and fond of you, he truly loved seeing you like this, all spread for him without a worry or a thought in that stupid lil head of yours. he loved fucking you dumb until you were a slurring tiny mess.

he pulled out for a second which made you close your legs in with a loud whine, that tiny lil hole of yours clenching around nothing as you looked to the male with sad eyes.

“don’t worry, sweetie.. daddy’s got you.” he hummed out, tapping the head of his cock across your wet slit, watching your pathetic reactions, how needy and out of it you were, cunt so red and glistening with your own slick and his precum.

he carefully nuzzled his cock between your folds after tapping ‘em a few times, groaning softly as he gently began to roll his hips, the tip of his cock nudging at your clit with each slide up, one hand resting on your lower tummy, pressing down a bit and the other one now having a tight grip on your neck, making you feel all nice and light headed.

_

don’t have the energy to finish this tbh so yeah

[drewsephrry]

home

Rafe Cameron x fem!reader

Words: 2k

Warnings: drug abuse, dealing, cuss words

Summary: 1x06 when Ward kicks Rafe out of the house, he finds home somewhere else

A knock on her window awakened her from her deep slumber. She rubbed her eyes and looked at the window's direction, unable to see anything other than a man's shadow. She grabbed the lamp from her bedside table and held it as a bat before the knocks became louder. She slowly approached the window, pulling away the curtain only to find Rafe Cameron on the other side. She dropped the lamp and opened the window, helping him inside.

“Are you insane? What are you doing here?” She asked with furrowed brows, before noticing Rafe's tear stained face. Her face softened as she helped him sit on the bench under the window.

Truth is Y/N Y/L/N and Rafe Cameron weren't the best of friends, if you could even call it that. They had grown up together because their parents were business partners and ever since they can both remember they were always around each other.

Pool parties at Tannyhill paired with movie nights under the stars after Rose bought that outdoor projector.

4th of July parties at the Y/L/N's household barbecuing and when everyone was too busy or having too much fun, Y/N’s older brother, before he left for college, Rafe, Sarah and Y/N would steal beers and watch the fireworks from Y/N's bedroom balcony.

Midsummers with Rafe accompanying Y/N every year and always matching with each other, thanks to Rose and Y/N's mom.

Y/N only being allowed to extend her curfew if Rafe is the one driving her home, because according to her dad he is the only man he can trust with Y/N, besides her own brother.

And to make matters worse, as if they were not seeing each other enough already, Sarah, Rafe's sister and Y/N's best friend, started dating Topper, Rafe's best friend.

For the past two years, Rafe's attitude and energy had completely shifted for the worse. He was out partying almost every night, returning home drunk off his ass sneaking in with a desperate touron. He kept taunting and being mean to the Pogues, just because he and his family have power and money. But the main reason Y/N had decided to take a step back from him was because Rafe started doing drugs and eventually dealing. She was crushed when she saw him at Kelce's end of summer party, sniffing a white substance with a rolled dollar bill. The next morning, their parents and them were having breakfast at the Country Club and when she had the chance she yelled at him, lecturing him on drug abuse and dealing, but Rafe couldn't give a shit. He couldn't because he was high as a kite, with bloodshot eyes and trembling hands. Y/N ended up throwing her drink at him, telling him to wake the fuck up and she left.

She never considered him as someone to confide in or to hang out when she had no one else. And she thought that was the same for him. But seeing the way his whole body shaked and tears escaping his eyes, looking like a lost helpless puppy, she couldn't help herself but try to help him.

“What's wrong?” She whispered, sitting beside him on the bench, stroking his back in an attempt to calm him down. Rafe's head rested on his hands as he sobbed.

“You can talk to me Rafe” She tried as he continued crying his eyes out “Or not, if you don't want to. But I'm here if there is any way I can help.”

Rafe nodded, lifting his head sniffling. She got up and walked towards her ensuite.

“Where are you going?” He whispered. Y/N returned holding her tissue box, showing it off to him. She sat back down on the bench, handing it to him. He nodded his head, his way of saying thank you and blew his nose.

“Did something happen?” Y/N asked, as Rafe bit the inside of his cheek.

“I didn't know where else to go.” He confessed.

“What about Topper? Or Kelce?” She asked, scoffing.

“Fuck, I'm sorry Y/N. I shouldn't have bothered you. I shouldn't have come here. It…this was a mistake.” He stuttered, getting up as well and started pacing around the room.

“What are you talking about?” She asked but he never answered.

“Rafe, are you high?” She asked concerned and at the same time getting angry at him.

“What? No. I would never let you see me like that. Not again.” He seemed hurt. Truth is Y/N didn't know what she would do if he was. Would she throw him out? Would she try to sober him up? Maybe she would call Top to pick him up or maybe even Sarah. Maybe she would drive him home, herself. Even if she's not a good driver.

“Oh. Sorry.” She said, lowering her head feeling bad as Rafe shook his head.

“Can…is it okay if I crash here tonight?” Rafe finally asked. Y/N lifted her head, widening her eyes in shock.

The last time Rafe slept over at the Y/L/N household, he was 10. Ward and Rose had to go to the Bahamas for a business deal, so Y/N's dad immediately offered to let their kids stay at his house. The girls did their nails and braided their hair while the boys, Topper included, played with Y/B/N's Nerf guns running around and causing chaos. At the end of the night they all ended up watching a movie together and Y/N fell asleep on Rafe's shoulder.

“Yeah, sure. I can go prep Y/B/N's room for you, get you some clothes to change.” She got off the bench but before she could leave, Rafe grabbed her hand stopping her.

“Can I stay here with you?” He whispered, his eyes begging her to let him. Y/N's eyes couldn't tear away from their entangled hands until Rafe noticed and pulled away.

“Ye-yeah okay. We can do that, if that's what you need right now.” Y/N nodded her head and Rafe smiled at her, for the first time that night.

“I'll go grab you some clothes and be right back, okay?” She asked him, reassuringly.

“Yeah, yeah.” But before she could go, he grabbed her hand again, squeezing it.

“Thank you.” He whispered, making Y/N smile and then walk out of her room.

As she was searching for some clothes in her brother's bedroom, she couldn't help but wonder why he chose her. He had so many friends, he could crash at any one of their houses. Or he could just go home, his family wouldn't be awake and would never notice him sneaking in. Why did he say that this was a mistake? He wasn't high, so she thought that he made his decision consciously. Maybe he did. Or maybe he did not.

She walked back in her bedroom, finding him sitting on the edge of her bed. Her eyes focused on the lamp that was now back on her bedside table.

“You didn't have to put that back, I could have, on my own.” She exclaimed and Rafe chuckled.

“Honestly, did you think that lamp would save you from an intruder?” Rafe tried to hide his giggles.

“Shut up!” She groaned, joining him chuckling.

“Here.” She said, handing him the clothes.

“Thanks!” He got up and removed the blue collar shirt he was wearing.

“Woah. I-I umm can go to the bathroom. Give you some privacy.” Y/N closed her eyes with her hand, making Rafe chuckle once again.

“Y/N come on. It's not like you haven't seen me change before.” Rafe started unbuttoning his khaki shorts.

“Yeah, but still.” She replied, as she just turned her head away, while he was putting on the clothes she brought him earlier.

“I'm done. You can look now, princess.”

The nickname caused goosebumps rising on her skin. She looked up at him, finding him shirtless lifting the bed covers.

“Which side do you prefer?” He asked and she pointed at the right side of the bed, before he climbed on the left waiting for her to join him.

“You sure you want me to stay here with you? I can go to the guest room or the couch downstairs, maybe even the floor. I don't mind.” She started rambling.

“Don't be stupid. You'd seriously let me stay in your bed and you'd go sleep downstairs or on the fucking floor? Come on, Y/N.” He scoffed, patting the spot next to him. She nodded and approached the bed, getting under the covers.

“Well, good night.” She exclaimed, turning away from him facing the window he entered just moments ago.

“Good night.” He whispered, staring up at the ceiling. Y/N was trying really hard to fall asleep but knowing Rafe was in her bed, was making it very hard for her. She didn't want to bother him by tossing and turning, so she remained staring at the window.

“Can't sleep either?” He asked and Y/N nodded.

“Yeah.”

“He…he kicked me out.” Rafe whispered. Y/N's features scrunched up in confusion.

“What are you talking about?” She asked, turning to finally look at him. He was still staring at the ceiling.

“My dad. He kicked me out of the house.” He replied, making Y/N sit up.

“What the fuck? What do you mean he kicked you out? Why?” She was furious. She knew Rafe and Ward's relationship wasn't the best but she never could have imagined him kicking his own son out.

“He…it's not important.”

“Dude, what do you mean it's not important? Your dad just fucking kicked you out of your house!” She exclaimed, getting more furious.

“I think your parents didn't hear you well enough. Yell it once more.” He whispered sarcastically, making her grimace at him and whisper ‘sorry’.

“He found out about me dealing. That I owed Barry, my supplier, some money and we went there. He…Y/N, I…” He stuttered “I never seen him this mad. He was hitting and kicking him and I was terrified.” His body shook.

“Rafe…” she touched his arm, making him flinch “I don't know what to say.” She continued.

“Sorry, I didn't…I shouldn't have told you all this.”

“No, it's good you did. We're going to find a solution.” She touched his arm again, but this time he didn't flinch.

“Thank you, Y/N.” He said, turning his head towards her, before she laid back down. Their heads facing each other, staring at the other's eyes. Y/N never had noticed how blue his eyes were, even in the dark room, only the moonlight highlighting his face.

“Why me?” She couldn't help herself but ask.

“What?” His brows furrowed in confusion.

“Why did you come here? You could have gone anywhere but here. At Top's, at Kelce's, but you chose to come to me. Why?” Rafe gulped.

“Because I needed you.” He whispered, Y/N shook her head not understanding.

“I fucking love you. I have for so many years and I know it may not seem like it and I'm so sorry for making your life hell but I needed something to distract me from my feelings for you. And tonight, I felt like I needed you after what happened. It's okay if you don't feel the same way, we can just pretend like this never happened and I'll be out of your shoes tomorrow morning.” He confessed, shocking Y/N. She tried to find the right words as her mind processed what just happened.

“You don't have to say anything.” He exclaimed, turning around.

She put one of her hands on his cheek, turning him to look at her as her face approached his. Their noses touched as they breathed each other's air.

“Can I kiss you?” She whispered. Rafe stared at her plump lips before nodding as they closed the space between them. Her soft lips meeting his in a passionate kiss.

They pulled away, both panting with closed eyes.

“Get some sleep. Tomorrow, we're going to the Country Club for brunch. I'm paying.” Y/N said, hugging his body before falling into deep slumber.

A/N: hi, hope you like this small awful blurb i started writing a few weeks ago when i started rewatching obx for the millionth time. the ending is a little rushed, i know and i am so sorry for that but i was blocking so hard!!!

[adorehyyuka]

desperate soobie <3

smut mdni

warnings: somno, mentions of piss (not sexual), soobin's desperate desperate, overstimulation, handjob, oral (soob receiving), mention of tears but not dacryphilia, nipple play, tiniest bit of praise, multiple orgasms (only mentioned), not proofread, idrk if I like this, lmk if I missed anything!

when you woke up in the middle of the night to something wet between your legs you thought the worst. did you, a grown adult, just piss themselves ?? but as soon as you went to move you became painfully aware of your boyfriend's shuffling and breathless whimpers bedside you. slimy and moist fapping sounds filled the room and you could feel yourself beginning to get worked up at the thought of soobins lewd actions.

"soobin ? if you were horny why didn't you wake me up, silly" you yawned and turned around to face your boyfriend but he let out a sob and covered his disheveled face with the hand that wasn't working up and down his angry cock.

"y/n ! n-no, don'- ah ! d-oon't look at me fuck ! 'm sorry, sho sorry, I couldn't help myshelf." Soobins hips bucked up and he tightened his grip around himself, you hushed him and took to running your hands through his damp hair whilst guiding his drenched hand away from himself.

" 's that why I'm sticky ? did you need me ?" you cooed and pressed cool kisses to his flushed face, smiling when he leant into your touch. you watched as Soobin pushed his upper body to meet yours, pathetically trying to catch your lips in his which you made easier for him.

soobin was still breathing heavily, all he could focus on was the painful ache of his cock. he knew it wouldn't do him any good but he couldn't get the image of your pretty lips wrapped around him out of his head. he felt disgusted with himself that an innocent night spent cuddling could turn him into a puddle of desperation.

when you finally decided to wrap your hand around his dick after watching him whimper and squirm Soobin let out something akin to a scream, his eyes rolled into the back of his head and his teeth dug into his puffy bunny lips. "fuck you're so sensitive, honey. how many times have you made yourself come ?"

"c-can't remember —shit. ah ! ohhhh fuck, Y/n !" you hum in response, "mhm, what is it, baby ?"

Soobin continued to whine out as you massaged his tip, elevating his sensitivity and bringing him closer to an orgasm

"need you ! need your mouth, please !" the man beneath you cried, wriggling and writhing underneath your gaze. you giggled, pressing gentle kisses to each of his cheeks before patting his thigh. soobin sighed when you started maneuvering yourself to help him.

"lift your hips up for me," he did as you said and you hastily slid his pajamas down the rest of his shaky legs, discarding them somewhere on the floor. "Good boy." you muttered whilst kissing down his body, biting back smiles whenever he twitched. when you reached between his legs all you could see was filth, cum and spit were smeared across his thighs and he was sticky everywhere. you felt a little guilty, how long had Soobin been awake ? your poor poor baby, he must've felt so unsatisfied if he kept going this long :(

Soobin stared down at you with watery eyes, voice trembling as he spoke "please touch me. . ."

your heart melted when he uttered those words and you immediately started kitten licking over his sensitive tip, you wanted to be gentle but your desperate little boyfriend couldn't stop bucking his hips ><

"touch yourself for me, sweetheart." you spoke before engulfing as much of his length as you could with your mouth. Soobin groaned at the feeling and started to pinch and pull at his nipples just like you said to do, he couldn't stop making noise ! it wasn't his fault though :( your mouth was just so warm n wet n so so tight around him, he couldn't not make sounds !

"ha-mngh~ ! 'm close ! please, please, please don't stop !" he wailed and closed his eyes tightly, so overwhelmed but it just felt so so good.

seeing as you couldn't say anything with your boyfriends cock stuffed down your throat you took your hands and started stroking circles on each of his thighs to try and ground him, and as much as it seemed like it wasn't working what with his constant squealing and sobs, Soobin appreciated the gesture.

soon enough the stimulation became too much and his hands became limp and all he could utter were little 'ah, ah ah's, each one getting higher in pitch and volume, which was his little tell.

you pulled your mouth off of him completely and started jerking him instead, smiling as he unraveled. (further than he already had) "come for me, baby. 's okay let go" you repeated until Soobin spilled all over your hand and his lower tummy.

as soon as he'd come down from his very satisfying and fulfilling high he began to whine out for something to hold, too far gone to even think about using proper words.

"y/nie.." he called out and within five seconds he had himself laying on your chest. you smiled, peering down at him while you threaded your fingers through his wet hair.

"c'mon, sweetheart. let's clean you up and then you can sleep for however long you want"

series mlist

© hyyukas

tag list open, @cinnikoi @zzstar @mini-mews

[likedovesinthewindd]

Ex bf art donaldson seeing reader for the first time in a decade and forgetting the meaning of personal space. That man would not take his baby dear eyes and manly hands of you until you fall for his submissive aura.

I'm actually going crazy wtff I'm obsessed!!!

He's the last person you had expected to see in a place like this, but you'd suppose you would've never imagined yourself in a place like this either. Loneliness drove people to strange places, it seemed.

He looked good. He still looked good. He's visually grown and matured, no longer the coy college boy but a refined man, yet he still looked boyish when he smiled or laughed. It warmed you to see he hadn't lost that light behind his eyes after all these years – life could be cruel, after all. You had half a mind to ask him how Tashi was doing, but the slight tan line on his finger being the only indicator of said marriage told you to leave the subject unscathed for now.

You didn't say anything when he chose to move in next to you in the booth instead of across, or when he insisted on buying you a drink, or when he looked at you as if you had been the answer to an unheard prayer. You didn't say anything because you, in return, had relished in the feeling of being seen, desired after so long.

He talked about how he's retired now, about how much happier he's been since he put the racket down and about his daughter, and you listened dutifully, watching his eyes lit up in that same boyish way when he talked about about Lily.

In return, he asked you about your life and what you've doing, all while his thumb rubbed over the top of the hand grasped in his. "We probably look like some happy couple to other people right now," you had commented, looking down at your hand clasped in his but making no move to pull it away. He had laughed, thumb still across your skin, and replied with a huffed, "yeah, we probably do." Not pulling his hand away either.

It was so strange to you; after all these years things still felt so natural with him. A part of you still wanted to be bitter about the way things had ended back then, but you couldn't find it in you to be. Not when it still felt so right.

"What?" you asked after a silence a little too long. He just smiled, and your chest clenched at the sight. "I'm really glad we found each other again," he replied softly, almost too soft for the noisy atmosphere of the bar. You wouldn't be able to hear anything anyway with the way your heart was beating in your ear at his words.

The two of you sat like this for hours, catching up and laughing at each other's awful jokes until you realized how late it had gotten. He offered you a ride home which you had accepted gratefully, and now as tge both of you stood infront of your door, you wished the night didn't have to end. You weren't even sure of you would see him again.

It was great seeing you again, Art. Thank you," you spoke as you opened your arms in an offered hug which he accepted gladly. Your arms wrapped around each other, your hands rubbing against his back and taking the moment to savour his cologne. He still managed to smell the same, and you nearly sobbed at the thought.

You pulled away from him with a sigh, finding a pensive expression on his face. "You okay?" you asked. The furrow in his brows relaxed slightly before he answered. "Yeah, it's just," he breathed before continuing, "I think that's the most intimate thing I've experienced in a while."

His confession hit you like a ton of bricks, and you hadn't realized you hadn't said anything until he spoke up again. "That makes me sound a loser."

You laughed at that, not because you agreed but because there wasn't a world where you could think Art was a loser. He could be a total washout, the worst tennis player on the ranking, and you'd still think highly of him.

"I don't think you're a loser, Art," you told him as your hands rested on the sides of his face, taking a moment to appreciate his pretty face. Still as pretty and sweet and funny as all those years ago.

The kiss felt like a reunion between two hearts. Like this very moment had been exactly what you had been looking for for the last ten plus years. It felt like home, and when you pulled away, you felt homesick.

He rested his forehead against yours, breathing in the moment before his head lifted to kiss your forehead. You couldn't help but smile. You were finally home.

[alexa-fika]

Hello! Ok so can I request a whitebeard pirates x child reader?

Basically reader has this big fat crush on shanks and everytime that shanks visit the Moby dick reader would give shanks flowers, cards, and candies

Shanks also has this huge ego boost often making comments how he's reader favorite which anger the whitebeard pirates

Ace was so ready to strangle shanks but reader gets between them and there like "Stop fighting! if you keep this up I'll go with Mr shanks and his crew!"

Ace is heartbroken, thatch is sobbing on the floor, while everyone else is stunned LOL

-👻 anon

Puppy Love (Shanks x gn!child!reader x Whitebeard pirates)

Part two

A/N YALL GET YOUR GRILLS READY CAUSE I COOKED HERE, I loved making this im not really into crack fics so I wanted to keep it as real as possible but while still adding that spec of dramatics of it and I think I found the perfect balance

Reader here is replaced by Dokucha which stands for Reader in japanese

Dividers by @/saradika

At first, the Whitebeard pirates thought it was normal. Dokucha was quite the amicable child, after all, and it was not unheard of for them to give small gifts to guests who came on the ship.

The first time Dokucha had seen the red-haired Captain was when the yonko was visiting the Moby Dick on business. Upon spotting the man Dokucha was quick to sneak into the clinic and steal some candy to hand to him.

“Here, Mister Shanks,” they said shyly, handing the candy to said man

Shanks took the candy from the child and thanked them for it

“For me?”

They nodded, a faint red hue blooming on their face as they fidgeted, their upper body spinning back and forth to keep their nerves down

He chuckles softly, giving the kid a small smile and ruffling their head

"Thank you very much, kid," he said as he turned to leave

They squealed happily once he had stepped off the boat, the red hue now taking over their face entirely as they replayed the event on their heads

The Whitebeard Pirates looked on in confusion at the small kid who had grown so fond of the red-head captain

“Ne, is he coming over again?” Dokucha questioned, lying their head on the railing watching as the Red forced slowly sailed away

“Pops needs to discuss some more loose ends with him, so he will be back soon,” Jozu answers absentmindedly

“How soon?”

He looks at the little one before shrugging

“A couple days, maybe a week.”

“Why are you so curious, Dokucha?” Izou asks with a raised brow at the child’s sudden interest

“Nothing!” They said, grinning ear to ear as they went into the ship a skip to their step on their way

The pirates brushed it off as the kid simply being excited at the fact that someone out of their family was coming to visit; they were very wrong.

On the next visit, Dokucha had begged Vista to make some flowers for them and had even sneaked into the kitchen to steal some of the edible flowers to make a small bouquet.

“Here Mister Shanks”

“For me?” Shanks asked with a slight grin on his face as he took the small bouquet and gave the little one a thankful look

“Dokucha, did you make this?”

“Yeah, I made it for you,” they mutter shyly with a shrug

Shanks bends down to the child’s height

“Thank you very much; it looks like you worked hard to make it so pretty.” he takes one of the flowers and tucks it behind their ear

“Here, now you look pretty as well.”

Their face explodes with red at the gesture, a lovesick look on their face as they watch him go

The crewmates raise their eyebrows at this behavior; Ace is the first to speak up

“Hey, that idiot is trying to steal Dokucha!” mutters Ace as he elbows Marco

“That’s just how Dokucha is; you know how friendly they are,” he says with a grunt at the hit

“No, No, Ace is onto something here; he’s definitely up to something,” agrees Thatch

Marco rolls his eyes as he leaves the two to talk their conspiracy out

Turns out he should have heeded their words as he now felt the same feeling crawling up his skin as he watched his youngest sibling yet again approaching the man with another small gift, a small golden coin they had found on their last island

By now, Shanks had started expecting it, so when the kid approached them, a smirk appeared on his face

“What do you have for me today?” he said, scooping the small child up

“I found a pretty coin for Mister Shanks!”

He backs up slightly to look at the coin the child had raised

“You’re spoiling me here, kid. What has my favorite Whitebeard up to?”

They shrug

“I played with my brothers again.”

He chuckles softly

“You’re adorable; I might have to steal you; we need some of that energy in the red Force,”

Dokucha’s response was stopped as they both turned at a hot feeling enveloping them

“Red-haired Shanks,” Ace growls, a tight grin on his face as his fire flickered around him

“Don’t get me wrong, I'm still eternally grateful for you saving and taking care of my brother, but I won’t sit still and watch you steal Dokucha.”

“Would you be so kind as to put my dear sibling down?” Thatch says, a similar tight smile on his face as he swings around his kitchen knives

Marco stared at the confrontation unfolding before him, his eyes drilling into the opposing captain, waiting for the perfect moment to swoop in

“Stop! If you hurt Mister Shanks, I will be mad at you forever! And I will go on adventures with Mister Shanks!”

Thatch gasps at their words

“Dokucha…you are breaking my heart!” He said, grasping at his chest at the sight

“Ah, Thatch-nii!” They said, jumping off Shanks's hand and running to their brother

“Is you’re heart okay?! I’m sorry! I'm not mad at Thatch-Nii!” They cry

Thatch rushes forward to the kid, embracing them in a hug

“Don’t you go running off with anyone else, okay? I won’t allow it.”

“Is your heart okay, Thatch-nii?”

He chuckles

“Don’t worry, I‘m fine. I would just miss you too much if you were to leave.”

“That being said, you are not going with Shanks.”

Shanks chuckles at this, a sly smirk growing on his face

“I don’t know. I might just steal the little one.”

“You-

“Stop” A commanding voice booms

“Ace, stand down,�� Whitebeard mutters

Ace’s flame flares more as his jaw tightens

“Fine…”

Whitebeard turns his sight to the Red-Haired captain

“Boy, stop taunting my commanders.”

Shanks raises his hand in a forfeiting motion

“Couldn’t help myself,” he chuckles

“Well then, are you done messing around?” Thatch asked after a moment of silence, scooping up the child and putting them on his hip

“I think it is time for me to take my leave,” sighs Shanks, a small smile growing as he says this

“Hey, kid, say hi to Luffy for me, will ya?” He said, glancing at Ace

Ace rolls his eyes at this but grumbles out an agreement his way, a similar smile on his face

Shanks nods at this and takes his leave, jumping back to the Red Force and preparing to set sail

Dokucha whines at this, struggling against Thatch’s hold to try to follow after the redhead

Thatch looks down at the child struggling against his grasp

“Don’t.” He said bluntly

Marco glances at the small struggle before sighing and crossing over, pulling the kid from Thatch to sit on the other side of his hip, nodding at the chef in assurance

Dokucha tries to take advantage of the handover to wiggle their way out of their grasp but is unable to escape their brothers’ firm hold

“There isn’t escaping, you little troublemaker; no use trying,”

“But I want to see Mister Shanks off!”

“I know, bud, but you can’t run off with every stranger you see,” he said, ruffling their hair

They pout

“But it’s a handsome stranger!”

“And what if they're bad people? They could steal you away, you know?”

“Mister Shanks can steal me any day,” they sighed with a dopey smile

He lets out a small chuckle

“Your something else, kid,” he says, giving their head a light pat

“No, Marco-nii, Shanks is something else! So handsome and strong!”

He scoffs at that

“What are we, invisible?” he grumbles, walking into the ship

Ace and Thatch watched them walk away, the latter looking up at his Captain

“Hey, old ma-

“You’re not going after him.”

Guys let’s be honest Dokucha is just voicing much of you are thinking, I think they are intrusive thoughts voiced out, honestly I keep re-reading and I keep laughing cause I just think of you guys doing that

Taglist:

@imaginarydreams

@amethystviolin

@h0n3y-l3m0n05

[cherriegyuu]

https://www.instagram.com/reel/C4skP1tuO6F/?igsh=MTNtamg3ZmM1aDgxbw==

Can u plssss make a husband mingyu fic of his daughter absolutely hating his haircut go from long to extremely short causing him to sulk and hate his own hair then y/n having to comfort him😭😭 this video legit reminded me of this instantly idek how

i'm not supposed to be taking requests but this was just something that stuck to my mind ever since i read it. so here it is! i hope you like it! i'm also just in time for his birthday

when he cuts his hair

pairing: mingyu x fem!reader genre: fluff word count: 769 warnings: slightly suggestive not proofread

You did your best to contain your smile, or at least tried to hide it, as your daughter cried into your shoulder, her small tears soaking your shirt and her hands balled into tiny fists in your hair. Under normal circumstances, you’d have taken her hand away but in that moment, it seemed like the only option to have her calm down. 

Your husband sat on the couch, the blanket you kept on the back of it wrapped around his head and shoulder, as his eyes were two full moons in his face. Mingyu was a mixture of laughter and unwashed tears as he watched your daughter cry into you. 

“I didn’t know” his voice came out in a whine, his hold on the blanket tightening “I thought it would be okay”

Mingyu had left the house that morning saying “I’m going to cut hair, I’ll be right back”. He had kept his hair longer for almost a year and it was probably one of your daughter’s favorite things about him — that and also the fact that Mingyu even existed. “Not only does she look like you the most but she also loves you the most” you’d half-heartily complain sometimes. 

It became some sort of routine, if she fell asleep with Mingyu around, she’d most definitely have her hand in his hair. Logically and rationally you knew that Hanna wouldn't like the new haircut, but you also didn’t think that it would be that much of a big deal. What you also didn’t expect was for Mingyu to come back with the shortest hair you have ever seen on him. 

You had known Mingyu for roughly twelve years and he always kept his hair on the longer side. While the sight was a fantastic one, Hanna didn’t seem to share the same idea. 

She ran to the door excitedly the second she heard the sound of keys on the lock to greet her dad. She had the biggest smile on her face and then it just disappeared as she took in her dad’s new look. Her small features contorted and her eyes filled with tears and she ran back to you, hiding behind your legs.

Like he usually did, Mingyu kneeled to welcome the hug that always came but this time there was none. 

You wished you had recorded the whole thing, the way Hanna started to scream her lungs out because “not daddy” and Mingyu was a few seconds away from crying. 

“Hanna” you cooed “you don’t want to say hi to daddy? He missed while he was away”

She shook her head.

“Not daddy,” she said again, the new tears coming down her face.

It took you a good hour to get her to settle down and sleep. Her body still shook with sobs when you put her in bed. 

Mingyu was in the living room, in the same exact position as before, the blanket still wrapped around his head. His eyes were sort of lost until he finally seemed to notice you were back. Once again his eyes were filled with tears. 

“Babe, no, it’s fine,” you said, approaching him. 

When you were close enough he pulled you to him, hands around your waist and his head resting on your stomach. Slowly you pulled the blanket away from him and ran your hand over his hair. There wasn't a lot to hold onto, there was barely any hair in between your fingers, just a little more at the top for a quiff.

“She hates me now,” he complained.

There were these moments when it was hard to tell who was actually the 2 year old and who was the grown man.

“She doesn't, she just needs to get used to it. You're her favorite person” you assure him “She's just surprised. When you left there was hair in your head”

Mingyu groaned at your laugh.

“I just wanted to try something different”

You held his face in your hands, forcing him to look at you. Mingyu rested his chin on your stomach, beautiful dark eyes looking back at you.

“Do you like it, at least?”

You bit your lips, trying to keep yourself from saying that maybe you didn’t like it as much, that your favorite hair was that middle ground between short and longer. 

“You look younger” your words were slow, a little careful.

He groaned, pretending to cry, his arms getting even tighter around you. 

“Both of you hate it”

You bent forward and placed a kiss on his nose and then his lips until his pout was replaced by a smile. 

“At least there’s a little bit to hold on to”

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[greenglowinspooks]

(DCXDP) The obligations of a rogue versus those of a parent (Pt. 5)

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Tw: torture scene (GiW agent receiving), general angst, canon-typical violence (DC), nobody is having a good time

Will be crossposted to AO3 eventually

(Masterlist/subscription post)

—

It was pretty easy for Danny to forget that Dr. Crane was a rogue at times.

Most of the time he wasn’t comically evil, like what he’d expect of a Gotham rogue. He was helping Danny, even if only because he didn’t want to be taken in by the GiW as well. He was even downright nice most of the time, or at least neutral.

Sure, he had a strange obsession with fear and psychology, but that wasn’t really out of the ordinary for Danny. It didn’t feel like living with a rogue, just like…staying with a distant relative, or something.

He seemed like just an ordinary person.

Today, though, Danny was brought back to reality.

The GiW agent they’d tracked down together writhed on the ground, screaming in pain and terror. Scarecrow was sat a few feet away, setting up a syringe of the antidote he’d made.

After a few more moments, he injected the man with the antidote, watching him like a hawk the entire time.

Suddenly, the man surged forward, lunging at Scarecrow with a feral scream.

Unluckily for him, though, he was still weak from the fear toxin in his system, and from the beatings he’d received prior. Scarecrow easily wrestled him to the ground, settling himself on the broad part of the agent’s back with a vice grip on one of his arms.

“Let’s try again,” he said sharply, all of the warmth Danny had grown used to gone from his voice. “Where is the GiW base of operations?”

The agent took several shuddering breaths before spitting at Scarecrow, defiance and hatred written all over his face.

For just a moment, the room was utterly silent.

“Fine, have it your way.”

Scarecrow began to twist the man’s arm further. It wasn’t long before the agent began to squirm, then writhe, beneath him. Danny’s stomach churned.

“You know,” Scarecrow began, almost conversationally, “there are plenty of jobs that one can get without the use of their legs, especially with the level of education you have. Anything that doesn’t involve hard labor, really.”

The man’s face was beginning to turn red in his struggle not to scream. He took in gasping breaths, the way that his mouth moved almost reminding Danny of a goldfish.

(He felt awful for the comparison, but it was true.)

“However,” Scarecrow continued, “I find you’d be rather hard-pressed to find a job without the use of your arms. Especially in a place like Gotham, where you can always be replaced by someone eager to do your job for even less money. Of course, you could most likely coast off of savings and severance pay for a while, but…”

He leaned closer to the man’s head, his voice lowering.

“Would you be able to live like that? To live with yourself, if you no longer have a purpose?”

He allowed the agent a few seconds of rest before increasing the pressure on his arm. The agent gasped, letting out a strangled hiss. His arm bones were making fascinating noises in response to the strain. Danny felt sick.

“You seem like a rather driven young man. I’m sure your family would hate to see you unmotivated, directionless. Would they resent you, do you think?”

“Fuck you, you—”

The man was cut off by his own scream as Scarecrow finally allowed his arm to break, audibly splintering into thousands of useless shards of bone.

He had the exact pressure memorized. Clearly, he had done this before.

This was wrong. This was wrong.

Shouldn’t Danny step in, do something?

“That won’t heal cleanly. Even with the best medical care in the world, you’ll end up with permanent damage.”

The man below him wheezed and sobbed, choking on air as Scarecrow let go of his arm carelessly, letting it flop back onto the ground.

“Just the sort of thing something like you deserves,” Scarecrow hissed, his voice cold.

“You tortured a child, and you enjoyed it. You laughed with your friends about it. In your notes, one of your friends complained about the screaming,” Scarecrow brought his leg around, grinding his boot into the man’s broken arm. He howled in agony, writhing uncontrollably.

“Was it inconvenient to him, do you think? Too loud? If you were joking about it, clearly you thought so, too. I could fix that as well.”

He drew out another needle, this one once again filled with fear toxin.

“Scarecrow, wait,” Danny choked out.

Scarecrow turned to look at him.

Even his posture was different than usual. He looked… stiff, more like an animal than a man. When he tilted his head at Danny in a silent question, it looked like something in his neck had snapped, his head lolling to the side.

Danny wondered if he was consciously moving like that, or if it was habit at this point.

“You—we don’t have to do this. We can get information some other way, right? You don’t have to…”

Danny looked down at the GiW agent below Scarecrow. He didn’t even have it in him to glare up at Danny like he had before. Instead he laid limply on the ground, tremors rolling through his body uncontrollably.

“We’ve exhausted every other option and you know it,” Scarecrow said, his voice low, “this is the only way we can move forward.”

“Still, I—I don’t,” Danny swallowed, his throat tight, “this isn’t—this isn’t right. Isn’t there some other way to do this? Like—a truth serum, or something?”

“Truth serums are notoriously unreliable. They’re almost as bad as lie detectors. We’re much more likely to get a reliable result from this.”

Danny just stared at the GiW agent and his splintered, ruined arm. He began to weakly wriggle in Scarecrow’s grasp, which was graciously ignored.

He vaguely remembered himself doing the same thing when he was on the operating table; even if he knew there was no chance of escape, he still thrashed and screamed, desperate to get away. The jagged I-shaped incision on his torso felt uncomfortably warm.

What was there left to say?

“The Bat does the same thing at times, you know,” Scarecrow said, “him and the rest of his brood. By using my toxin, I’m actually lessening the amount of permanent damage that I’m doing. Physically.”

“Still, that doesn’t make it right,” Danny said desperately. “Even if—even if everyone in the world did this, it wouldn’t make it right.”

Scarecrow hummed.

They were both silent for a moment.

His next words were gentle, absurdly so when compared to the scene in front of him.

“I would love an alternative. But…”

He shrugged, hand coming to rest on the break in the GiW agent’s arm. Even without applying any pressure, the man stopped squirming immediately.

“There aren’t any other options,” Danny repeated, his voice flat and his body numb.

“Yes,” Scarecrow said. “I’m sorry.”

There was a pause. No one moved a muscle. Eventually Scarecrow spoke again, his voice strangely empty.

“You can stand outside and keep watch, if you’d like. At such a short distance their radars won’t pick us up.”

Danny said nothing, leaving the room silently.

He sat outside for quite a while.

He was grateful that Scarecrow had, with his help, dragged the agent to one of his previous hideouts. It was soundproofed, after all.

He was glad that he didn’t have to hear the rest of what Scarecrow did to the man.

After what felt like an eternity, Dr. Crane left the building, joining him outside. He guided Danny back to his beat up old truck and they drove home in silence.

“Did you at least…do you know where they are, now?” Danny asked as they entered the apartment, his voice small.

“They didn’t share the details of all of their locations with any one person. I know where one of their locations are, but not their main base of operations.”

Danny felt disgusted. With himself, with Dr. Crane, with the GiW.

He was disgusted by the agent, too. Did he just hate the restless dead so much that he would prefer to be tortured than to give them the upper hand? Did he really think he was in the right?

Was there a chance that he was?

Danny felt very, very small, and very stupid. Stupid and weak and cowardly.

“Danny,” Dr. Crane spoke, his voice soft.

“I’m truly sorry that this is happening to you. I really, truly wish that you didn’t have to endure my company. I…”

He fell quiet. Danny wondered if he was just saying this to pacify him, or if he truly meant it. He wondered if it really mattered in the end.

After a few moments of silence, Dr. Crane sighed, looking truly pained.

“I don’t know. I’m sorry.”

Danny was quiet.

“I’m going to bed early,” he finally said, turning away and leaving without a second glance.

—