#game of thrones drabble

[axelsagewrites]

Well if you still could 👀

Do you think you could do another Ned x f!wife!reader? I really enjoyed the horny!ned fic you already have but I'd be happy with anything. Fluff, sunshine, rainbows, or babies. ❤️ have a nice day 😊

Ned Stark*Sweet Wife

Pairing: Ned x wife!pregnant!reader

Word count: 942

Warnings: pregnancy and pure fluff

Masterlist Here

“My lady I don’t think you quite understand,” Lord Karstark said as you bit your tongue and tried to pretend you hadn’t had better plans for your morning than been chased down by a disgruntled Lord who thought you’d give in easier than your husband, “If you allowed my family to use that land, we would maintain it for you. Free of charge,” he said as if offering you the best deal in the world.

You took a breath before speaking, trying to compose yourself, “And while I am grateful for the offer my Lord, those lands do not belong to you, and we are already in discussion for how we will divvy them up to- “

“Okay but,” he cut you off making you sigh this time though he did not notice, “If I am trusted with them- “

“Lord Karstark,” Ned’s voice came from behind you with an unusual iciness to it. “I do believe my wife,” he said, his arm gently going around your back, his hand resting on your hip, “and I have now both explained to you your assistance, no matter how generous, is not needed in this matter. However, if your family is desperate for farm lands I’m sure a trade deal can be arranged- “Karstark opened his mouth to speak but Ned didn’t stop, “Which you can take up to the owners of the lands once I have declared them. now if you don’t mind my wife and I are late to a very important meeting,”

Karstark grumbled something under his breath but nodded, “Of course my Lord, my lady. Goodbye,” he muttered before turning to leave with his nose in the air.

“Do you think he is sniffing out the new owners?” Ned leant down, to whisper in your ear making you laugh.

Ned took your arm and began to guide you through the busy corridors, “Who do we have to meet?” you asked, eyebrows scrunched, “I don’t remember setting up a meeting,”

“I arranged it,” Ned said, smiling politely at some passing Lords, “It is of the upmost importance that we attend,”

“And whys that?” you asked as you suddenly stopped outside a meeting room.

He opened the door, ignoring your question for now to lead you inside. Once the door was shut behind you, he stepped forward, closing the gap between you with his finger tilting your chin up to face his cheeky grin, “So I can do this,” he leant down to press a soft kiss to your lips.

You giggled a little into the kiss before pushing him away, “Someone could walk in,”

“So?” he asked, hand moving to rest gently on your hip, “We’re married now remember. It’s allowed,” he teased though his hand gently rose to rest on your stomach, “And soon everyone will know anyway what we get up to,”

“Shut up,” you laughed, pulling him back down for a brief gentle kiss. Your bump was barely noticeable under all the furs and wool you wore to keep the cold out but you both knew it was there, “I hope she doesn’t inherit your cheek,” you teased.

“She?” he asked, a hopeful grin on his face, “How’d you know?”

“I just do,” you smiled but it quickly faded, “I hope that doesn’t disappoint you- “

“Of course not,” he said, cupping your face in his hands, “Nothing you do, especially not this, could ever disappoint me,” his thumb gently stroked over your cheek bone. It was a tender moment, of course ended once again by his antics, “Besides I’ll take any excuse to try again,” he said with a cheeky grin.

“As if you ever needed one,”

Your laughter both stopped when there was a knock on the door. Ned held a finger up to his lip, “Maybe if we’re quiet, they’ll go away,” he whispered.

“Lord and Lady Stark may I have a moment?” said a voice behind the door. You could swear it was the diplomat Lord Bolton sent.

“I swear if this is about those lands, I may just burn them to the ground,” Ned muttered before you both stepped back to open the door.

-

You barely got to see Ned for the rest of the day. Every Lord or noble man seemed to need his attention today and you were running around Winterfell organising a banquet for Ned’s upcoming nameday. It wasn’t till you walked into the hall for dinner you saw him again.

“Hello husband,” you greeted with a small smile as you took his seat.

“You need to slow down,” he said, not even bothering to say hello making you roll your eyes, “you’ve been running around faster than the servants,”

“That’s because I need to finish organising the details for- “

“What you need is rest,” he said, cutting you off and placing a hand over yours.

You sighed, tempted to push it away but you knew his heart was good, “You cannot confine to my bed out of fear,”

“If I was to confine you to our bed it would not be for that,” he whispered making your cheeks burn.

“Ned!” you scolded, slapping his thigh making him laugh, “You are so lucky I love you. Otherwise, I’d kill you,”

He smiled softly at that, “lucky indeed. However, I’d be even luckier if you would let me announce our news,” he said, squeezing your hand gently.

You couldn’t help smiling a little despite his antics, “Perhaps it would be a nice announcement to make on your nameday,” you finally conceded, “I just wish we could keep it a secret a little longer,”

“Then your wish is my command, sweet wife.”

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[snow-blower]

no bc i’m on my period rn and i just cried over the fact that robb is not real and he’s not hugging me rn… 😭

- 💋

What do you mean? Robb is real. He's so fucking real. Here, I'll prove it in this little drabble whilst I further procrastinate on smut fics. This is also unedited and I'm tired so it's a major mess, sorry bout that 😔

Masterlist

Robb's warmth surrounds you as you cuddle in bed, his arms securely wrapped around your smaller frame. There's a comfort in his warmth, in the way he wraps you up safely in his arms. The warmth of a fire or a million furred blankets couldn't quite compare to Robb's warmth. No — his is far more comforting. Like a home you wish to never leave.

You could feel each huff of his breath against your neck, goosebumps prickling on the skin there. Robb's limbs were intertwined with your own. It was a mess of limbs, really. You couldn't quite tell if it was your leg there or his leg here.

Your chambers were still blanketed in darkness, shadows dancing in the corners and the hearth reduced to a small flickering flame.

Shifting slightly beneath the furs, the ever-dull ache that woke you up twisted in your gut once more, wringing a huff of displeasure from your lips. Your moonblood had been wringing out pain throughout the past week. It has been never-ending, and you've found yourself debating praying to the gods in the Godswood, in hopes it would make it stop for a mere moment.

You weren't quick enough to stifle the groan you let out as your mind began to fully register the aches and pains, for Robb stirs behind you. His arms tighten around your waist, further pulling you against him. His chest presses against your back, his chin resting atop your soft shoulder as his eyes flick open.

“Darling? Are you still in pain?” He asks softly, his voice husky and deep with sleep. The words are murmured against your neck, his beard brushing softly against the skin there, tickling you almost.

A nod from you as you curl in on yourself has Robb sighing softly. His hand, large and rough but always ever so gentle with you, moves from your waist to rest over your stomach. You can feel the warmth of his palm through your nightgown and find it helps a little with the pain.

“Lie still, darling.” He coaxes softly, holding you steady as you try to shift and curl in on yourself more.

He starts to rub small circles on your stomach, soothing the sore muscles there. The action holds a steady warmth that you easily melt into. It lessens the pain but doesn't make it disappear completely, much to your dismay.

“Better?” He asks, rewarding you with a kiss to your shoulder when you nod tiredly once more. “Good.” He hums, never once stopping his gentle caress.

His other hand finds your own beneath the furs, lacing your fingers together. He brings your joined hands to his lips, pressing a kiss to your knuckles.

There's a peaceful silence between you both as you lay there wrapped in his arms. Though, it lasts only a mere moment before you speak up for the first time since waking. “You're warm,” you breathe out in a sigh, turning your head a little in an attempt to hide your face in the warmth of his neck.

Those words pull a chuckle from him, an amused smile tugging at his lips. “Well, someone has to keep my Queen from freezing,” he murmurs playfully, his smile growing at the huffed chuckle you let out.

"Try to get some more sleep, love." He lets go of your hand as he speaks, reaching to tug the furs up to your chin before grasping your hand in his own once more. A small murmur of okay from you, Robb murmurs back a soft, "Good girl."

Robb waits for you to drift back to sleep before even thinking of falling asleep himself. He watches your eyes flutter closed, your breathing evening out and your body further relaxing against his own.

He remains awake a little longer, his hand never stilling on your stomach. Pressing another kiss to your shoulder, he lets himself drift back off to sleep too, his warmth still surrounding you.

[fandom-puff]

Can I please request “It’s not my fault you keep turning me on” with Tyrion Lannister?

Thank you for your request!!

Warnings: references to smut, no actual sex tho, morning after a wild night.

“Hmmm… good morning,” Tyrion mumbled as he nuzzled his face into your hair, inhaling the sweet smell of your soap and sweat leftover from the night before.

“Mmmm…” was your response, your eyelids barely flickering open. Already you could feel the dull ache between your thighs as a result of your intense coupling, and Tyrion’s seed was smeared and dried on the inside of your legs. And more pressingly, you could feel the hardness of your Lion of Lannister pressing into your back. “Again?” You mumbled. “You’ve already worn me out, my lord,” you teased, though your hips circled temptingly on his cock.

Tyrion let out a gruff laugh. “It is not my fault you keep on arousing me, my Sweet,” he replied, his teeth already grazing against the back of your neck.

[parrish-the-thot]

A continuation of this post I made

I imagine Steve genuinely doesn’t think about Eddie, like at all. Besides the occasional “what is he yelling about in that table” or “ Munson actually showed up to class” or once in sophomore year he thinks “how much does Munson charge for an ounce of weed? Would he take a $50 for an ounce” which causes Eddie to wait around all day at the picnic table wishing for some shmuck to offer $50 for just an ounce, but no one shows up (Steve had to go pick up Dustin after school and didn’t want him to find weed the weed when he inevitably starts going through Steve’s car)

The lack of soulmate thoughts really irks Eddie, because he knows his soulmate is in Hawkins, but he never thinks about Eddie, like at all??? Positively or negatively?? Eddie jumps on more tables, he blares loud music from his van, he is in a band, he is the drug dealer for all the teens in Hawkins and all his soulmate thinks is “why the fuck did Munson double park his van, I’m going to be late looking for a parking spot now” it absolutely drives him crazy.

He eventually figures out his soulmate must be a jock of some kind because one day he hears “what is Munson doing under the bleachers?” when some sports team is let out of playing with balls practice. He is briefly heartbroken his soulmate isn’t a nerd like him, but then spends the night thinking about how a certain fluffy haired jock could play with his balls anytime.

Steve isn’t not thinking about Eddie on purpose, but they just don’t run in the same circles, so he doesn’t really think about him too much, just in a genuine, “I don’t know them, don’t interact with them, so I don’t really think about them” sort of way. Especially after befriending the kids, Steve’s focus goes to keeping them safe and being a babysitter instead of finding his soulmate.

Steve’s experience with his soulmates thoughts is completely different. Starting in middle school he heard his soulmate think he was cute which he thought was nice. As he got older his soulmate would still think he was cute, but also handsome or pretty which, he doesn’t know any girls who call their boyfriends pretty but ya know, he can roll with that. He thinks he will have to roll with a lot of stuff, since hai soulmate seems to into a…a lot of interesting things, to say the least. Steve has dated a lot of girls but none of them seemed to want to rub their face in his chest hair like his soulmate did, who also wonder is Steve was that hairy everywhere which- he was but he didn’t think a girl would want to know about that.

He would be in the middle of a basket ball game and he hit with a 15 minute monologue about how wonderful his ass looked in “thise little green shirts that ride up his ass in the best way” and how his soulmate “wanted to be those shorts” causing Steve to miss three different shots. Also with all this wildly kinky stuff and even general sex things Steve has never heard of or thought about he figures he should become more knowledgeable to better be prepared for his soulmate.

One day when Steve is cleaning up a drink he spilled in the cafeteria and heard “god Harrington looks good on his knees, bet he would look even better with my cock in his mouth” figures chances are his soulmate isn’t a girl at all.

With not much else to loose and a new door opened up to him, Steve starts spending time thinking equally horny thinvs about different guys he sees in class, just to see if they will react to what he is thinking. This is how he figures out Eddie is his soulmate.

Steve notices eddies table is getting a little rowdy, as is always does before Eddie gets up on someone’s table and he rants about jocks and preppy girls while stepping on people’s lunches, Steve thinks “what if comes over here, spits in my stretched out hole, and fucks me right next to Heathers Halloways tuna sandwich”

Eddie, whose soulmate didn’t even think about Eddie that one time his car got spray painted a fit was all the school talked about for a week, was NOT expecting that at 12:30 on a Tuesday and promptly trips on a chair and slams face first into the lunch table, breaking his nose.

Eddies friends rush him to the nurse and Steve is torn between this being a sign Eddie is soulmate or Eddie just clumsy, Steve has seen him walk into a door twice, so he don’t 100% sure. Steve decided to test this anytime he has a clear viewpoint of Eddie and starts thinking the most horny, kinky things possibly about Eddie to see if Eddie reacts proves he is Steve’s soulmate (also revenge because Steve had to go through years of Eddie horny pondering interrupting Steve during important tasks games or tests so Steve figures he should pay that forward during eddies dungeons and dorks games)

[auxmodi]

sexual tension

drabble ;)

my masterlist

summary: around the campfire, the men start teasing sandor about his size, and as the crude jokes fly, you can't help but sneak a glance at him. when you catch the outline of him beneath his clothes, your heart races, and you can't look away. sandor notices, and the tension between you two is almost too much to handle. you're left wondering what will happen when the camp settles down for the night.

warnings: nsfw, sexual tension, sexual attraction , reader's smutty thoughts, alcohol, objectification, p in v sex, unprotected sex, dirty talk, swearing , public sex kind of.

word count: 3.2k

the campfire crackled and spit, casting flickering shadows over the circle of men gathered around it. the air was thick with the smell of sweat and woodsmoke, the chatter growing louder as the ale flowed. you sat just outside the circle, not part of their bawdy camaraderie, but close enough to catch every word, and gods, how you wished you weren’t.

“clegane,” one of the younger men drawled, a drunken smirk plastered across his face. “bet you’re hiding something fierce under all that armor, eh?”

the others laughed, quick and eager to latch onto the joke. sandor, seated across the fire, didn’t so much as glance up.

“reckon it drags behind him in the snow,” another chimed in, slapping his knee.

more laughter, rough and raucous. your stomach twisted as you pulled your cloak tighter around you, hoping to disappear into the night.

sandor’s lip twisted into a mocking half-smile, his gaze sharp as it swept over the group. “keep talking about my cock,” he growled, the words a low, gravelly threat, “and I’ll make sure it’s the last thing you ever get to look at.”

that earned a chorus of hoots and hollers, none of them taking the threat seriously.

“you hear that?” the first one cackled, slapping his thigh. “big man’s got a temper to match!” he leaned forward, squinting at you. “what d’you think, girl? you’re always hovering around him, eh? got an eye for—”

you choked on your sip of water, quickly lowering the cup and staring at the ground as your cheeks burned hotter than the fire.

the thud of steel slicing into wood made you flinch. when you dared to look up, sandor’s knife was embedded in the log beside the man’s head, the blade gleaming menacingly in the firelight. the man froze mid-laugh, his face blanching as though all the blood had drained from it.

the men fell silent for half a beat before breaking into another round of laughter, though it was more nervous this time, the kind of laughter that comes when you’re not sure if someone’s joking.

“aye, no need for that,” the first one said, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “just a bit of fun, clegane.”

sandor leaned back against the log, his long legs stretched out and his lips curling into something close to a smirk. He didn’t say another word, just shook his head as if they weren’t worth the effort.

you tried to focus on the cup in your hands, but the conversation around the camp was impossible to ignore.

the men roared, and you dared a glance toward sandor. he was still as a stone, sitting against a log, legs stretched out in front of him. His bowl of stew rested in one hand, the other dangling lazily by his side.

but it wasn’t just his size that drew your eye. It was the way he carried himself, like he was more than aware of the effect he had on everyone around him.

the long lines of his legs, the thick muscles visible even under layers of leather and wool. your gaze drifted lower before you could stop yourself, there, was the unmistakable outline of him, large and thick, pressing against the fabric of his trousers. your heart pounded in your ears as you realized just how much of a hold he had over you.

you tried to tear your eyes away, but the way he filled out his clothes, the way he made you feel. you wanted to touch him, to feel that strength, feel the weight of him, his size, pressing down on you. the image of him, thick and demanding, burned into your mind, refusing to leave.

when you glanced up, you found sandor watching you. his eyes were steady, sharp, like he knew exactly what had been going through your mind. there was no judgment in his gaze, only that intense, unblinking stare, like he was daring you to admit it. To admit just how much you wanted him, how much you needed him.

slowly, almost lazily, he tilted his head.

“enjoying the view?” his voice was a low rasp, just loud enough for you to hear over the chatter of the men.

your heart raced, and you looked down, fumbling with the crust of bread in your hands like it held the answers to your embarrassment.

he huffed a quiet laugh, deep and rough. “thought so.”

the sound of his laughter, knowing, made your pulse jump. you risked a glance up, only to find he was still watching you, his lips curling into something between amusement and triumph.

you tried to gather yourself, but your body felt light, almost dizzy from the weight of the moment. but then, as the world around you came back into focus, you realized you weren’t the only one who had noticed.

the men around the fire had been watching too. they’d seen, heard everything. you could feel their eyes flicking between you and sandor, their glances filled with anticipation, like they were waiting for something to happen.

one of them, who’d been watching intently, couldn’t help but chuckle. “well, looks like you’ve caught the big man’s attention, girl.”

you could feel every set of eyes on you now, watching, waiting for something, anything to happen. and you knew that whatever had just passed between you and sandor wasn’t going to be forgotten.

-

some time passed, and you were finally alone. you had been chosen to set up the camp, and for once, you weren't mad about it. the embarrassment still lingered, heavy on your body, but with this task, there was no one around to remind you of it.

the dirty thoughts still lingered in your mind, persistent and unsettling. it was the way he looked at you, like it didn’t bother him at all. there was something strange between the two of you, an unspoken connection that you couldn’t shake, no matter how hard you tried.

lost in the depths of your thoughts, the sudden crunch of boots on the ground behind you pulled you from your trance. you didn’t dare glance over your shoulder, but the shadow cast by the moonlight told you everything you needed to know. his presence loomed large, unmistakable. it was sandor.

he stood there for a moment. then, in his usual gruff manner, he spoke. “you’re alone out here.” his voice was steady, not a question, but a statement. the air between you felt thick, but his presence, though imposing, didn't seem to demand anything more.

you glanced at him, trying to hide the slight amusement creeping onto your face. his expression was unreadable, his eyes dark as always. he was standing too close, close enough that you could feel the warmth of his presence, but still, he didn’t move, didn’t push.

“well?” he asked after a long pause, his voice rough, yet tinged with something you couldn’t quite place. “you gonna stand there all night? ain't you got a camp to set up?” his voice reeked of alcohol.

you blinked, suddenly realizing you were still rooted to the spot, caught in the strange tension he’d created. his tone had been flat, but there was something in the way he looked at you, like he was waiting for you to say something.

“right,” you muttered, shaking your head as if to clear it. you turned away from him, reaching for the bedrolls and stakes you had set aside, trying to ignore the way your heartbeat had quickened. “I’ll get to it.”

you could feel his presence still lingering behind you as you bent down to fasten the stakes into the ground, the weight of his stare making the silence awkward and thick. every movement felt too deliberate, like he was watching your every action, even though he hadn’t said a word since his last remark.

suddenly, you felt a hand press against your lower back. startled, you flinched and glanced up at him. without warning, he yanked you to your feet by your pants, pulling you tightly against his chest, your back to him. "don't make me do all the work" he murmured low, his voice thick with intent. you held your breath, feeling the undeniable pressure of his body against yours. his hips subtly thrust forward, the hardness of his bulge pressing into your lower back.

your pulse quickened, a mixture of nerves and something else you couldn’t quite place. you shifted uncomfortably, trying to create some distance between you, but his grip was firm. "sandor," you whispered, unsure of what you wanted him to do. "this isn't right."

without answering, he lowered his mouth to your neck, his lips brushing the sensitive skin just below your ear. the warmth of his breath sent a shiver through you, and before you could react, his hand moved down your body. with a sudden, forceful motion, his fingers grasped the fabric of your shirt, pulling it taut before ripping it open. the sound of fabric tearing filled the air, and your breath caught in your throat.

you gasp, instinctively crossing your arms to shield your chest, but he seizes your wrists and firmly pulls them behind your back. sandor smirks, his voice low and rough as he says, “hiding won’t save you now.”

he pulls you back into him, your ass pressing against his bulge. sandor chuckled, a sound that reverberated through you. "is that what you want?" he growled low, his voice thick with desire. you could feel the tension in his body, the way he stiffened behind you as you pushed back into him. his groan followed, deep and unmistakable, as his hips involuntarily thrust forward.

"keep pushing, and you're only going to make it worse," he whispered against your ear, his voice a mix of amusement and promise.

but you couldn’t stop. you pressed back into him again, your body moving against his in a way that left no room for hesitation. his breathing hitched, and before you could react, sandor spun you around with brutal force. you fell to the ground, the air knocked from your lungs, and you gasped in surprise.

you now sat on the floor, hands pushing up your body to regain some balance. your breath was shallow, heart racing, and as you looked up, you saw sandor towering over you, his gaze locked onto yours with an intensity that made your pulse quicken.

he took his time, slowly unbuckling his belt as his gaze never left you. you couldn’t help but feel a mix of excitement and fear, the way his eyes held you in place, his every movement calculated.

he noticed the excitement in your eyes, a small, knowing smile tugging at the corner of his lips. a low chuckle escaped him, the sound rich with amusement. "you’re eager," he murmured, his gaze darkening as he took in your reaction.

you were frozen, not knowing what to say, your words lost in the heaviness of the moment. all you could do was sit there, heart pounding, waiting for him to move, unsure of what would come next.

without warning, he unzipped his pants and slowly takes out his cock. you stared in disbelief, you couldn't help but notice how much larger he was than you'd expected. his gaze remained locked on yours, and with a slow, almost indifferent smirk, he muttered, 'didn't think you'd be this quiet. thought you’d have more to say.'"

his words stung, challenging you, and without thinking, you pushed yourself to your feet. you met his eyes, you didn’t know if you were trying to prove something to him or to yourself, but you took a step closer, your breath steadying as you faced him head-on.

you stared at him, the silence heavy between you. neither of you needed to speak to know what you both wanted, but the words failed to form. uncertainty gripped you, but something inside urged you to move, to take the first step. without thinking further, you leaned in and kissed him.

your lips met his, the kiss harsh and impatient, filled with undeniable desire and lust. you felt his tongue push past your lips, exploring your mouth, his hand tightened his grip on your thigh, finger digging into your skin. "answer me", he said, his voice low, "you think you can take all of me, huh?" his other hand quickly yanked your pants down to your knees, the urgency in his movements making your pulse quicken.

you looked up at sandor, meeting his intense gaze, your voice barely above a whisper. "do your worst." the words were edged with hesitation, but there was something else there too, a quiet challenge. he smirked, clearly appreciating the boldness beneath your uncertainty, before he spun you around and shoved you face-first into the tree.

his grip on your wrists was rough, pulling them behind your back and holding them there with unrelenting force. his breath was hot against the back of your neck, sending a shiver down your spine. as reality set in, so did a rush of nervousness, your breath quickened, your heartbeat pounding in your chest.

he chuckled, feeling the tension in your body. "you're not getting cold feet now are ya?" his voice gravelly, "it's too late to back out now."

you feel the cold breeze on your legs and chest, and you try to arch your back slightly, as if to invite him in. you feel his hard presence against you, waiting impatiently.

when all of a sudden you felt sandor's thick fingers attach themselves to your pussy. his other hand stil holding on tight to your wrists. "let me see" he mutters, his fingers brushing against your folds, stroking up and down.

you desperately tried to clamp your legs shut, the humiliation heavy in your chest, too much to bear. but his hand, strong as usual, forced them apart. the weight of it settled heavy on you, the sense of being exposed, vulnerable, naked in a way you never thought you'd be, especially with sandor, your usual companion in the mud and blood of battle, seeing you like this.

sandor, clearly tired of you already, grabbed you by the neck with a cold, firm hand, his grip locking you in place. you were shoved hard against the tree, your body pinned to the bark. there was no hesitation in him now, he didn’t want to wait any longer.

"quit fightin’," he growled. "you’ll give in, like it or not."

you were so overwhelmed by his actions that your mind went blank, unable to focus or think clearly. he noticed, of course he did. "please, sandor," you murmured, desperately trying to create some friction by swaying your hips, but he held you down firmly, laughing at your attempt.

sandor is so smug about it too, groaning just quietly enough while his hands grab your ass, pulling you further apart so he can finally enter you. "been waiting for this," he murmured, his voice low and filled with satisfaction.

you turn your head towards him, glancing over your shoulder just to see how big he looked as he loomed over you, pulling you closer while gripping the base of his cock as he slips his tip into you. the sharp, overwhelming pain makes your body ache. you cried out in desperation, you close your eyes and try to relax every muscle in your body as he slowly fills you up, little by little.

sandor furrowed his brows as he holds still for just a moment, his rough hands were all over you. "fucking hell, don’t tell me you’re a virgin" he growls through his teeth.

"not that,” you finally managed to whisper, releasing the breath you were holding. “i just- it’s been a while.”

"you're so fucking tight". he grunted, finally feeling your cunt stop clenching, he immediately pulled back and thrust into you forcefully, causing you to cry out, your arm instinctively reaching back to hold his hips back from the overwhelming sensation. he ignores your protests and starts thrusting into you quickly, your body responding to his every move. you whimper with each thrust, moving in rhythm with him, your hand still holding his hip in protest as he drives into you relentlessly.

he grabs the arm that's gripping his hip and pushes it behind your back, gaining a better angle as he thrusts into you. "c'mere," he growled, his grip tightening on your arm. "let me feel you, all of you".

the eye contact, his words, it’s almost enough to make you tap out. sandor’s eyes never leave yours as he pushes into you roughly.

as the rustling of footsteps grows closer, you freeze, heart racing. sandor's grip tightens on you, his eyes scanning the surrounding woods. the sound of your men moving through the trees grows louder, and you can feel the tension in the air.

"stay quiet," sandor murmurs, his voice low and commanding, as he pulls you closer, putting his hand over your mouth. almost covering your whole face with just one hand. neither of you can be fucked to care, the pleasure building low in your stomach as he keeps on pounding into you.

the men approach, oblivious to your presence, and you hold your breath, hoping they don't notice anything out of the ordinary.

you can hear their voices now, but they pass by without a second glance, the danger passing as quickly as it arrived. sandor lets out a low grunt, picking up his speed, fueled by frustration. his hands find your hair, pulling it harshly, causing you to yelp.

you choked on your moans, your aching pussy taking him whole, sandor leans in close as he pushes you back and forth on his cock. loving how you whine everytime he slides inside of your pussy.

he can't hold back anymore, his control snaps, and all that’s left is brute force and raw lust. he grips your hips tightly, his hands holding your ass as you let him take control. his touch grows bolder, sliding up your sides, skimming your stomach, and grazing your chest until they rest just above your throat. he pulls your towards him, looking for you eyes.

you look at him and find him staring at you, his lips parted, his eyes moving from your face to your ass, watching as he splits you open, again and again.

"oh gods" he mumbles under his breath, still staring at where you bodies keep on meeting together with his brute force. his breath quickens, short, guttural growls of pleasure escaping his mouth, you nod, sandor immediately knowing what you mean, his fingers dig into your hips even harder, his breathing becoming faster and more labored, as he picks up the pace. the sound of slapping flesh becoming even louder in the forest.

before you know it, you're cunt is filled up with his seed, you cum and his name keeps on falling of your lips. "that's it girl." he thrusts his seed deeper. it's quick, the way he eases himself out of you, how you feel it flowing down your inner thighs.

you try to stand secure on your wobbly legs and it was you who finally said something. "y- yeah, you've made your point."

sandor just watches you with a grin on his face, cocky bastard.

[fbfh]

I've literally only seen the pilot of game of thrones and I already wanna fuck Jon Snow so fuckin bad. "oooh but his oath, but his vows" I DON'T CARE. COCK IN MOUTH RN. fucking look at this

WHY DOES GOD KEEP SENDING ME THESE MISERABLE WET LITTLE BRUNET MEN WITH BIG OLD COW EYES AND EMPATHIC DOGMATICALLY LOYAL SENSABILITIES. STOP RIGHT NOW send more. bc I'll be so astronomically for real with you. this man pulls up on a horse with a fuckin direwolf puppy following him along fully believing he's its mama???? fold. instantly fold. no one can not fold at that. he's channeling all his yearning and desires into being loyal and noble and it fucking HURTS to look at him and know he's never had the sloppiest most earth shattering fucking top of all time. I'm thinking about a lot of things right now, mostly how good the tension of "I shouldn't do this I shouldn't do this I shouldn't do this" running through his mind while his heart betrays him and he moves closer to you is. the kicker is, he hasn't even done anything yet. he's maybe knelt and kissed your hand at most, but good GOD did it get you wet. because you can tell how much he's holding back. you can tell how badly he's aching for more, and the self control he's exercising makes you want to see him fucking snap. but you know he won't somehow it just makes it better and better. like you breathe in his direction and he's trying to get rid of impure thoughts unbecoming of a brother of the night's watch. and it's all self inflicted.

thinking also about Jon being assigned as your bodyguard for some reason. maybe you're of nobility, maybe you were requested to be delivered to some king or other, but now it's Jon's job to take you through the snowy wastelands of the north and deliver you safely to your destination. he quickly realizes that there is no way he'll be able to maintain his professionalism (he does, he just feels like he's throwing caution to the wind cause you make him blush). sitting you in front of him on his horse? you keep resting your head against his chest and speaking so sweetly to him to pass the time!!! sitting you behind him? your arms are around his waist!!!!!!!! he's losing it girlfriend!!!!! don't even get me started on making camp in some cave for the night to wait out a particularly bad snowstorm. you stay close to him at his insistance, knowing it's the only way for you both to stay warm. You're snuggled up in his arms under his cloak looking so sweet in the firelight. something howls in the distance, and you jump, moving closer to him. he realizes you feel protected by him. not in a professional guide-through-the-north way, in a way that you choose. you feel so deeply in your subconsious that if anything were to happen, you'd be safe in Jon's arms. you look up to him, feel protected and safe with him. you feel safe with him. and motherfucker if that doesn't stir something uncontrollable and irreversable in his chest. he knows he shouldn't, but his heart betrays him, and his arms wrap firmly around you, holding you close.

"It's alright," he murmurs so gently, "it's only the wind."

[multi-fandom-imagine]

Little Wolf || Jon Snow ||

A/n: AU where all the Stark are still alive cause I can't handle Robb, Ned or Rickon being dead. Idc it's my fic and I do what I want.

The snowstorm outside his home howled against the stone, but within Jon Snow’s chambers, the world had gone impossibly still.

He sat frozen at your side, his sword calloused hands trembling as they hovered awkwardly, uselessly, not knowing whether to touch you or the impossibly small bundle nestled against your chest.

You, exhausted but glowing, lifted your eyes to him and smiled.

That soft smile he loved oh so much.

“Jon,” you whispered, your voice a soft breath against the chaos of his heart. “Would you like to hold him?”

Him.

He had a son.

Jon stared, as if the word was foreign, unreal. A son. His son.

His throat tightened, his chest aching with a pressure he couldn’t put words to. For so long he believed he would never have this , never allowed himself to dream it. He was a Snow, a bastard, a mistake by birth. He was a sword in the dark, a man meant for duty, not softness. Not love.

And yet, there you were — his light, his impossible dream — smiling through your exhaustion, holding out everything he never thought he deserved.

With a slow, reverent motion, Jon slid his arms under the tiny, squirming form. The moment the babe settled against him, so impossibly small and warm, Jon let out a shuddering breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

He forced himself to not cry but a few tears slipped down his cheeks as he let out a shaky breath.

The baby’s tiny fist flailed weakly, brushing against Jon’s chestplate, and instinctively, Jon shifted, cradling him closer. Protectively.

The weight of him — the reality — shattered something inside Jon. All the walls he had built around his heart crumbled.

He lowered his head, resting his forehead gently atop his son’s, closing his eyes.

“I never thought…” he whispered, voice breaking. “I never thought I’d have this.”

You reached out, your fingers curling over Jon’s wrist, grounding him in that moment.

“You deserve it,” you murmured. “You deserve all of it, Jon.”

He shook his head once, as if denying it, but he couldn’t deny the fierce, bone-deep love thundering through him — terrifying in its strength, and yet the surest thing he’d ever known.

He kissed the downy hair atop the baby’s head, closing his eyes.

“My son,” he breathed. “My boy.”

When he looked at you again, there were tears in his grey eyes — but he was smiling. Not the small, reserved smiles you were used to. No, this one was wide, boyish, free.

It was the smile of a man who had been given a future he never dared hope for.

A future that had a name, a face, and now… a son.

Jon sat beside you on the narrow bed, his large form curled protectively around you both, as if daring the world to try and take either of you from him.

And as the storm raged outside the little home, Jon Snow —former Lord Commander, warrior, once a lonely boy at Winterfell — knew with absolute certainty

The raven had been sent days ago, carrying the simple but extraordinary message: He is here. He is healthy. He is ours.

When the doors finally opened to the blinding storm, it was not enemies that poured through — it was family.

Jon stood in the courtyard, the tiny bundle wrapped snug against his chest, protected by his cloak. The snow whipped through the air, but Jon hardly felt it. His heart was hammering for an entirely different reason.

He watched them ride in — his family — strong and real and alive.

Ned dismounted first, his movements still as sure and steady as Jon remembered from childhood. The sword at his hip, the solemn set of his jaw — but when Ned’s eyes landed on Jon, on the small figure cradled against him, something broke in the man’s expression. The sternness melted into something raw, something tender.

Behind him, Arya leapt off her horse with reckless energy, nearly tripping over her boots as she ran through the snow. Sansa followed more gracefully but no less eagerly, her cheeks pink with excitement. Rickon bounded after them, gangly and wild, and Robb — Robb, who had once tussled Jon’s hair and called him brother without hesitation — grinned wide enough to split his face. Bran, bundled up tightly, leaned heavily on Hodor, but his eyes were bright with wonder.

Jon swallowed hard against the lump in his throat as they closed around him.

“Is that—?” Arya gasped, her eyes wide and shining. She reached out a gloved hand but stopped herself, hovering uncertainly.

Jon shifted his cloak carefully aside, revealing his son’s sleepy face.

A collective, awed gasp filled the courtyard.

“Seven hells, Jon,” Robb said, breathless with a smile. “He’s perfect.”

Sansa’s hands pressed to her mouth, tears welling in her blue eyes. “He’s beautiful,” she whispered.

Rickon edged closer, craning his neck. “He’s so small,” he marveled. “Is he supposed to be that small?”

“Babies start small, Rickon,” Bran said with a soft laugh.

Ned stepped forward last, slow, measured — as if approaching a sacred thing. His grey eyes, so like Jon’s, were locked on the baby with something deeper than pride, something almost reverent.

Jon adjusted his hold and, with careful hands, passed his son to Ned.

Ned took the bundle with a gentleness that belied his battle-worn hands. He stared down at the tiny boy for a long moment, his lips pressing tightly together as he fought whatever storm raged in his chest.

“You have given this boy something priceless,” Ned said quietly. “A name. A home. A family.”

He looked up, meeting Jon’s eyes — and Jon felt himself stand a little taller under the weight of his father’s gaze.

“You will be a better father than you ever knew,” Ned said.

Jon’s throat tightened painfully. He opened his mouth to respond, but the words stuck. Instead, he nodded once, fiercely.

The baby let out a soft, sleepy sigh, one tiny fist clenching in the folds of Ned’s cloak.

Ned smiled — truly smiled — and Jon felt the warmth of it like the breaking of dawn through the endless snow.

“You’ll have to teach him to use a sword,” Robb said, clapping Jon on the shoulder. “And ride. And hunt.”

“I’ll teach him to fight better than you, Robb,” Arya cut in with a cheeky grin, her dark hair whipping around her face.

“Perhaps I’ll teach him to read first,” Sansa said primly, though her eyes were shining with laughter.

Rickon puffed up proudly. “I’ll teach him to climb trees.”

Bran laughed. “Only if Jon teaches him how to get down again, too.”

Jon stood there, in the midst of it all — the laughter, the teasing, the love. His son, so small and new, was already cradled by more warmth than Jon had ever dared hope for in his loneliest nights.

You came to Jon’s side then, slipping your hand into his, your eyes full of pride and quiet happiness.

Jon squeezed your fingers gently and with a kiss to your loves cheek you followed the others had gone inside, voices echoing with laughter and warmth through the stone halls of his home.

Only she remained, standing at the edge of the courtyard.

Catelyn Stark.

Jon stiffened the moment he saw her.

The memories were too old and too deep. He remembered the way her eyes, so kind for her trueborn children, had always cooled when they landed on him. A boy she had never asked for. A boy who wore her husband’s blood like a scar.

He had braced himself all his life for her coldness.

Now, as he shifted his son protectively against his chest, that old instinct flared — the need to shield, to defend.

But Catelyn didn’t speak at first.

She simply stood there, the wind teasing her auburn hair free from its careful braids, her hands clenched at her sides as if uncertain what to do with them.

Slowly, Jon turned to face her fully.

He didn’t look away.

Neither did she.

“You named him,” Catelyn said at last, her voice low and unreadable.

Jon nodded. His mouth felt dry. “Yes.”

Her eyes flickered — not to him, but to the child in his arms. Jon saw it then — the tiniest crack in her composure. Not hatred. Not anger.

Hesitation.

Grief.

A longing so raw it startled him.

“May I…?” she began, but the words faltered, as if she herself couldn’t believe she was speaking them.

Jon hesitated — just a heartbeat — before carefully, slowly, lowering the edge of the blanket so she could see.

The babe stirred, his little nose wrinkling at the cold, but he didn’t cry. His tiny hand flailed briefly in the air, seeking warmth.

Catelyn stepped closer, one tentative step at a time.

Her blue eyes softened, and Jon realized with a quiet, gut-wrenching shock that she wasn’t looking at him anymore — she was looking at the baby. Just the baby.

Something shifted in her face. Her lips parted, trembling slightly.

“He’s beautiful,” she whispered.

Jon swallowed hard. “He’s… he’s my son.”

She nodded, still staring at the tiny boy as if seeing something precious and fragile and entirely separate from the bitterness that had once lived between them.

“I have hated you for so long,” Catelyn said quietly, and Jon stiffened again — but she shook her head. “It was never your fault. You were just a boy.”

The admission hit harder than a blade.

Jon said nothing. He couldn’t. The words clanged against the iron shield he’d built inside himself, loosening things he had never dared name.

And for the first time in a lifetime of hardship and heartbreak, Jon Snow let himself believe — truly believe — that he was home.

[astrids-blog333]

To Have and To Hold

Jon Snow x Reader

Fandom: Game of Thrones

Summary: Jon returns from battle, bloodied and victorious. But all you care about is the fact that he came home to you.

Warnings: SMUT 18+ (at the end) ref to canon-typical violence, blood/injuries, mild gore, strong language, ref to war.

A/N: I will forever love Game of Thrones, and I just rewatched it for the millionth time to distract myself from exams 🤭 this doesn't follow the plot specifically, but I imagined season 6 Jon :)

dividers by @cafekitsune

MASTERLIST - REQUESTS (OPEN)

WC: 2.6k

The wind cuts through the open expanse of the North, sharp and cold against your face as you stand above the large gates of Winterfell.

The men of the North have returned.

You can hear the rumble of horses' hooves long before they appear over the ridge, the sound growing louder and louder. The warriors ride in, exhausted but victorious, with cheers from the village ringing out behind them.

The familiar scent of the north fills your lungs, the fresh pine, the earth after rain, and a lingering trace of smoke from the fires burning in every hearth. You look at the soldiers, some of them grinning, others barely able to keep themselves upright.

But all eyes are on Jon. He’s at the front of the group, shoulders broad, head held high. His dark hair is matted with dirt and blood, and his clothes are stained with the gory aftermath of battle.

But to you, he’s perfect. He's your king.

Your husband.

You’ve been waiting for this moment for so long, the worry that’s been gnawing at you since he left now turning into relief that he's come home to you unscathed.

You can’t wait another second.

Without thinking, you break into a run, your feet pounding against the stone as you sprint toward him. The villagers part to let you through, some giving you nods of respect.

Jon’s eyes lock with yours in the crowd, his gaze intense, even from a distance. His lips curl into a half-smile as he urges his horse forward. You’re almost there, and in a moment that feels as though it’s been months in the making, he’s dismounting before the horse even comes to a full stop.

He’s there, in front of you, a storm of emotions swirling behind his dark, brooding eyes. You reach him in a heartbeat. Your arms are around his neck, and before he can protest, you feel the heat of his body engulf you. He tries to pull back from you.

“No, love, I’m covered in blood-”

But you don’t listen. You’re already in his arms, his chest hard and solid as he pulls you against him, lifting you off your feet in a tight embrace.

The cheers from the soldiers and villagers fade into nothing as his lips find yours. It’s hungry and desperate, as if the entire world has melted away, leaving only the two of you. His mouth tastes like salt, iron, and something raw. His arms tighten impossibly around you, pulling you closer, as if he’s afraid you’ll slip away from his desperate grasp.

You feel his chest heaving beneath your fingers, his body trembling every so slightly, but there’s no hesitation in his touch. He holds you like he’s never going to let you go.

His lips break away from yours, just for a moment, but you’re still tangled in his embrace, your breath shaky. His forehead presses against yours, and you can hear the weight of his voice as he mutters, “I was worried, you know. I couldn’t stand the thought of you here all alone, and no one being here to protect-”

“I’m fine,” you say, cutting him off, your hands sliding up to cup his face. You smile up at him, feeling the rush of love flood your chest. “You’re back. That’s all that matters.”

Jon holds you even tighter, his hand cupping the back of your head as he buries his face in your hair. The world around you is still roaring with celebration, but in this moment, all you hear is his heartbeat and the sound of your own breath.

“You have no idea how much I missed you,” he whispers, his voice low and hoarse. His words send a shiver through you, and you can feel the weight of everything that has happened settle.

All the brutal battles, all the bloodshed, the distance.

But now he’s home.

You hold him tighter, not caring about the blood or dirt staining your dress. You’ve missed him in ways words can’t express, and all that’s left is the overwhelming need to be close to him, to hold him, to remind each other that the war is over for now.

You don’t pull away from him, your arms still tightly wrapped around his neck, but you can feel the weight of his blood and dirt pressing against you, the remnants of the battle that still cling to him. You can’t wait to get him inside, where you can finally help him relax and tend to his wounds.

Jon pulls back just slightly, his hands still resting on your hips as he looks down at you with a soft smile. His thumb brushes across your cheek, as if checking to see if you’re truly real, as if this moment is just as overwhelming for him as it is for you.

He seems to notice the way your eyes scan him, analysing the cuts littering his body.

“I’m fine,” whispers, his tone soft but still with that familiar stubborn edge. “Nothing I can’t handle.”

You give him a look, a silent challenge to let you help, and Jon simply chuckles, his shoulders sagging slightly as he lets out a long breath.

Inside the warmth of your chambers, the two of you are finally together, alone.

You move toward the bathing area, prepared to clean him, tend to him. Jon doesn’t protest. He stands, his broad frame slightly slumped, and begins to undress slowly. His movements are tired, but there’s a quiet strength in them. You can see the exhaustion in his eyes, the lingering pain from the battle.

This is the moment where you can care for him, take away the stress, even if just for a little while.

He steps into the water, sighing as the warmth envelops him. You kneel beside the tub, reaching for the cloth. The water swirls around him, dark with the blood and dirt he’s carried back from the battlefield.

You step closer, a cloth in your hand, your presence drawing his gaze. His eyes soften as you approach, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

“Didn’t think I’d get a personal healer today,” he murmurs, his voice low but teasing. “I’m used to the battlefields, not the bath.”

You smile back, dipping the cloth into the warm water. “Well, today’s your lucky day.” Your fingers brush against his shoulder as you gently begin cleaning the blood and grime from his skin, the warmth of the water combined with your touch allowing Jon to finally relax.

Jon’s gaze never leaves you as you tend to him. His chest rises and falls with each breath, and you can see the exhaustion in his eyes, but also the trust. His hand reaches up to run through his wet hair, pushing it away from his forehead. The tension in his body slowly melting away.

“You always know how to make me feel better,” he says quietly, his voice soft, adoring.

You chuckle lightly, dipping the cloth into the water again and pressing it gently against his side, where a fresh wound is healing. “That’s what I’m here for.”

But there’s something in the way his eyes watch you that makes this moment feel different, more intimate than usual. His fingers brush over your arm, light, like he’s just feeling the softness of your skin, but it’s enough to send a small spark through you.

“Do you need to be so gentle?” he asks, his voice teasing but with a hint of something else in it, like he’s testing the boundaries. “I’m tougher than I look, you know.”

You glance up at him, catching the glint of amusement in his eyes. “I’m not worried about you,” you reply, rising to his bait. “I just like taking care of you.”

His lips curl into a smile, and he leans back, clearly at ease, letting you work. “I’m starting to think you like it a little too much.”

You raise an eyebrow, not missing the playful tone in his voice. “Maybe I do,” you smirk, the smile on your lips matching his. “But you deserve it.”

You move down his body slowly, checking over his wounds, making sure each one is clean and free of dirt. As your fingers graze over his skin, you notice his attention shifting. He’s watching you more closely now, the mood subtly shifting as his gaze moves from your hands to your face.

There’s a quiet pause before he speaks again. “You’re always so focused when you care for me. It’s... comforting.” His voice drops.

You meet his gaze, not backing down, but instead letting your hand trail along his arm as you finish cleaning the last of the blood from his side. "Like I said, I want to make sure you're alright."

Jon leans in slightly, his eyes never leaving yours. “I’m more than alright with you here.”

The room falls into silence, the only sound being the gentle splash of water as you shift and move around him. You finish cleaning his wounds, your hands lingering just a little longer than necessary on his skin. He’s close now, his body warm against yours.

With a final look over his chest, you step back, letting him relax into the water.

“All done.”

Jon leans back again against the stone side of the tub, his eyes still focused on you. There’s a moment where neither of you speaks, just enjoying the quiet. Jon’s hand reaches up, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face, his touch lingering just a little longer than necessary.

Finally, Jon stands from the bath, his muscles glistening with water. He reaches for a towel, but before he wraps it around himself, he turns toward you.

“You’re right, you know,” he says quietly, his voice laced with both affection and something deeper. “I’ve fought battles, but this... this is different. You make everything easier.”

You don’t say anything at first; you just watch him, and your heart is swelling for the man standing in front of you. You move to help him dry off, your hands slow.

But Jon isn’t finished yet. He steps closer to you, his body warm and solid against yours as he cups your face gently in his hands, bringing you in for a soft kiss.

His lips are so soft, and you feel his hands move from your face to your waist, pulling you toward him until your bodies are flush against each other.

For a moment, you both simply stand there, caught in the kiss. His lips are a little desperate now, pressing against yours harder, deeper, he can’t get enough. His hands slip lower, sliding around your waist, and before you can even react, he lifts you off your feet. You gasp into the kiss, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist as he carries you across the room.

You cling to him, your heart racing, as he walks toward the bed, never breaking the kiss. His hands feel like fire on your skin, his body solid and strong against you.

You’re completely at his mercy, and you can feel the desire pumping through you. When he reaches the edge of the bed, he gently sets you down, taking a moment to look at you.

“You’ve no idea how much I’ve waited for this,” he mutters, voice thick and rough.

You reach for him, pulling him closer, unable to wait any longer. "Show me," you whisper back, your hands sliding down his chest, feeling every inch of him.

And without another word, Jon closes the space between you.

As you lie back on the bed, Jon hovers over you, his dark eyes heavy with desire, his fingertips grazing your skin. His breath is shallow, his chest rising and falling with the anticipation.

“You’ve no idea what you do to me,” he growls, his lips trailing down your neck, the warmth of his breath sending shivers across your skin. He finds the sensitive spot just beneath your ear, and you can't help but let out a soft moan, the sound barely escaping you.

Jon pauses, lifting his head to look at you, his gaze heated, focused entirely on you. His hand moves slowly, possessively, from your waist up to your breast, brushing against the fabric of your dress before pushing it aside. He groans softly at the sight of your skin, his mouth trailing down to your chest, kissing the exposed area before his hands start to move lower.

“Jon,” you whisper. You reach for him, but he stops you with a gentle hand, pressing your palm against the bed.

“Patience, love,” he murmurs, his voice low and rough. “I’ve waited far too long to rush this.”

Your heart races as his lips return to yours, his hands sliding down to your hips, pulling your body even closer to his. The heat between you both is unbearable, every inch of your skin aching for him.

Jon’s lips trail lower, his hands finding the lower hem of your dress. He pauses, looking up at you one more time, his gaze soft but filled with hunger.

“Are you sure?”

You nod, pulling him closer, not able to wait any longer. “Of course I’m sure.”

Without another word, Jon pulls the rest of your dress off, his eyes drinking you in as he undresses you. The moment he’s fully exposed you, his lips find yours again, hungry and wild. He presses his body against yours, his warmth enveloping you as he pushes you further up the bed.

As he first thrusts into you, you feel your body shudder in response. A sharp gasp escapes your lips, your fingers digging into his shoulders as he stretches you, filling you completely.

The initial ache melts into something deeper, something that sends heat curling low in your stomach. Each of his movements is deliberate, slow, drawing out the sensation, the heat building between you both until it feels like there’s no distance left between you.

Jon’s face is pressed against the crook of your neck, his breathing laboured as he continues to move against you. His hands grip the sheets beside you, and you can feel the tension in his body, the way he holds back, controlling the pace.

But as your moans get louder, his control slowly slips away.

He picks up the pace, his thrusts growing faster, harder, until everything blurs into a haze of sensation. You meet him with equal fervor, wrapping your legs around him, pulling him deeper, wanting more, needing more.

When the climax hits, it’s like a wave crashing over you both.

It's sudden, powerful, and all-consuming. Your body trembles beneath him, your nails digging into his back as he moves against you, his name escaping your lips in a breathless gasp. Jon follows soon after, his grip on you tightening as he buries his face in your neck.

For a moment, there’s only silence, the two of you wrapped in each other’s arms, recovering from the intensity of what just happened. Jon presses a soft kiss to your forehead, his breath still shaky as he pulls you closer.

“I love you,” he whispers.

You smile, kissing him softly. “I love you too, Jon.”

[castieltrash1]

Can I request Jon Snow x Lady!Reader. Arranged marriage that becomes real love?

this is so sweet ty for the req :')

jon snow x afab!reader; arranged marriage, slow burn, vague mentions of sex, mutual pining-ish i think

when you’re finally brought to the godswood, gaze averted and flecks of snow glinting between strands of hair, jon finds himself relieved. he’d known his duties from a young age so when the time to wed arrived -- a wife already chosen on his behalf -- he didn’t fight it. he tried not to imagine your appearance, but it proved difficult, and many late nights at winterfell were spent concocting an image of you in his head. not nearly as beautiful or rich as robb’s future wife, surely, but you’d be worthy of a stark bastard at least… right?

it’s odd. you’re different, but somehow more beautiful. jon can’t really explain it and he doesn’t try, not wanting to offend you. the first night is painfully awkward regardless, and he’s relieved when you both agree to take it slow for now. everything happens eventually, of course, but your patience pays off. jon considers himself lucky -- he could’ve been stuck with anyone for the rest of his life, but he had you; you, with your kind words and pretty face, practically handed to him on a silver platter. he kept waiting for you to act monstrous, assuming your beauty had to be compounded by something, anything, but it’s not. your marriage isn’t perfect, but jon enjoys figuring things out with you by his side. he likes being a united front with someone. he likes the warmth you leave on the other half of the bed, sheets smelling like the oil from your baths. he enjoys keeping you happy, noticeably fulfilled when he’s seen as a good husband and dutiful partner.

the more you go through together, the deeper jon’s feelings grow. he knows it’s happening, despite his initial attempts to ignore it. you have a lifetime together ahead of you - there’s no need for him to rush things. but the affection gnaws at him, and he can’t deny himself any longer. he loves you. by the old gods and the new, he really, truly, loves you. he hadn’t expected it, thinking any romantic dedication to you would take years to build -- if it ever even came to fruition -- but now it’s here and he almost isn’t sure what to do.

it’s been on the tip of his tongue all day. he’d nearly said it in bed the night before, limbs tangled in sheets as he stared down at you, but the words were caught in his throat. now, every time he speaks to you, the declaration begs for release, desperate for you to know the depth of his feelings. three more opportunities arise before midday, but he lasts until after dinner, when he finds you overlooking the courtyard below and feels his heart skip a beat. you turn to face him and, somehow, his gentle expression tells you everything.

“i love you.”

+ after he says it for the first time, it takes him a while to work up the courage again, even if you happily return the sentiment. it felt like a reward and he doesn’t want to spoil it. the words aren’t careless to him and he wants them to mean something, not be taken for granted. soon enough, you’ll hear it five times a day, gruffly murmured in every free moment alone. and, despite its newfound frequency, it only seems to be more genuine each time.

game of thrones weekend (reqs open!)

[kaoribriefs]

it was strange for her, it was something new even though she hadn't been a child for a long time. Dany found this way of making love from her new husband strange, he was hungry of her but it wasn't the same hunger of her sun and stars or the forgotten Daario, no, Jon Snow cared about giving her pleasure, he was strangely altruistic , when he put his head between her legs, he caressed her or looked into her eyes gently as he moved inside her. For the first time Dany felt a new warmth inside like she no longer felt from the red door, she didn't worry about being enough for Jon...but only about hearing his heartbeat...in the night.

[aphroditelovesu]

Hi, can you please write a Yan!Daenerys prompt 27?

[27]; "My dark nature is a reflection of the depth of my love for you. I know I'm a monster, but I'm your monster."

❝tw: mention of death, mildly angst (?) and obsessive behavior.

The smell of ash and blood filled King's Landing almost like a plague. The screams of those burned by Drogon, once so excruciating, became just uncomfortable memories in Daenerys' mind.

For that was all they would eventually become. It wasn't right but Daenerys didn't care. She no longer cared about becoming what she became. As long as she had you in her life, the entire world could be consumed by dragon fire.

You were all that mattered to her.

Daenerys watched the devastation around her, her eyes fixed on the smoldering ruins of the city that once represented the heart of the Realm. Her expression was a mix of cold determination and a rare tenderness reserved only for you.

She did it for you. All for you.

"I did this for us. For you." Daenerys whispered in awe, more to herself than anyone else. Your presence beside her was an anchor amidst the chaos, a shining light in the darkness she had created.

You looked at her as if you no longer recognized her and, in a way, that was true. This was no longer the Daenerys you knew and once loved. This was a shell of what she once was.

A woman dominated by grief and the fear of losing someone else she loved. And only the gods knew what Daenerys would do to the world if something happened to you.

"Some things need to be destroyed so that others can flourish." She continued, turning to look at you. "They would never understand. They would never accept the world I want to build."

You felt the weight of his words, the intensity of his gaze. There was a deep pain there, a loneliness that only you seemed able to alleviate. Even with all the power and destruction she commanded, Daenerys was, deep down, a woman looking for love and acceptance. And she wanted that from you, just you.

Her gaze, although filled with burning passion, had a coldness that hadn't existed before. The glow in her eyes was now more intense, but also emptier, as if an essential part of her humanity had been consumed by the fire of her own despair.

And it hurt. The sight of a person you loved, maybe still love, being destroyed like this was too much to bear.

"You didn't have to do that." You tried to say, trying to reach the real Daenerys that remained somewhere inside her. "You didn't need to destroy King's Landing, you didn't need to burn all those people and destroy their home. There was another way, there always is."

But your words seemed to be lost in the freezing winter wind, swallowed by the distant sound of echoes from a city in ruins. She lifted her head and the strength in her voice left no room for doubt. "I can't go back anymore." She declared. "What's done is done. And now, you're all I have."

There was a palpable fear in her words, a fear of what might happen if you walked away, a fear that made her cry out for your presence, not just as a partner, but as her anchor in a sea of ​​uncertainty. Not that she would let you get away, but she wouldn't want to hold you prisoner.

Daenerys looked at you with an intensity that mixed love and despair, her voice a painful whisper filled with truth. "My dark nature is a reflection of the depth of my love for you. I know I'm a monster, but I'm your monster."

Her words seemed to hang heavy in the air like a sentence of condemnation and devotion at the same time. She was not just revealing herself, but giving herself completely, displaying her scars and shadows as if they were a sign of absolute love.

What was left of Daenerys, the woman you loved and feared, was desperate to hold on to what she still could hold, even if it meant sacrificing the world around her. And when you looked into her violet eyes, you knew there was no going back.

She was your monster. Your queen. And she loved you so hard that she would be willing to burn the world to the ground, even if that wasn't your desire. It didn't matter in the end, though. Daenerys would always hold on to you.

[snow-blower]

it has been absolutely pouring rain here for the last like two days and i need to cuddle up in front of a fire with a warm tea, a book, and Robb and Grey Wind

Okay, smut is still sucking ass, so may I offer you all this drabble/one-shot thing to keep y'all fed? Anyways, channeled my inner love for folklore and legends here. (Please let me know if there's any grammar or spelling mistakes, no matter how many times I read through, there's something I've missed lol)

Home is Wherever I'm With You.

My Masterlist

Words: 1.7k TW: Reader is pregnant, mention of injury (in the folklore tale), pure fluff. Literally all fluff.

Greywind is the first to notice him standing in the doorway, the direwolf lifting his head to acknowledge his human with a low huff.

Robb leans against the doorway, his lips turned upwards in a soft smile as he watches you. You're sat cross-legged on the ground by the hearth, a blanket wrapped around your shoulders and a book in your lap. Greywind, ever so clingy, is curled around you with his large head resting in your lap. There's a mug of tea beside you, the steam rising in gentle coils.

Whilst Greywind had noticed him, you were still yet to. You flick through the pages of your book, focused solely on the carefully written words on the parchment. You were completely oblivious to him being there.

Robb simply watches you for a moment, his arms crossed against his chest as he takes in the endearing sight that is you. The fire casts a flickering orange colour over your soft features, making you look ever the more beautiful. You look damn near ethereal sitting there.

The rain patters against the windows, droplets sliding down the paned glass. The sound mixes with the crackling of the hearth and the gentle crinkle of parchment as you flick through your book. It creates an atmosphere that Robb never wants to leave. It's warm and cosy. It's home.

"Darling?" Robb calls softly whilst pushing away from the doorway. He shuts the heavy door behind him, shutting you both in the comfort and peace of your chambers and away from the chaos of politics and duty.

"You look cosy," he teases, unbuckling his sword belt, removing it and propping it up against the wall beside the door. He makes his way towards you, crouching down to peer over your shoulder to see what book it is you're reading.

He can't quite read the title from his position, but he can read a few words on the page. By the looks of it, it seems to be a collection of old folklore tales. One he recognises to be: The Green Man's Tales. It's a collection of old, Northern legends and folklore tales. It's a favourite book of yours — one you've read far too many times. So many times that Robb can no longer count them on his fingers.

"I am," you quip softly, allowing your eyes to move away from your book to look up at your husband. "I'd be even more cosy if you were beside me, though."

Robb chuckles softly at that, the sound soft as it fills you with a warmth. Hearing him happy — especially when you're the reason for it — makes you feel just as happy. Giddy, really.

Turning your head to face him, your nose brushes against his jaw. "Sit with me, my King," you murmur softly, wrapping a hand around his wrist. You tug him to sit down beside you, giggling softly in response to the huff he lets out as he lands on his bottom.

He loves the sounds of your giggles, of your laughter. It's always soft and sweet, lingering with warmth and surrounding him like an angel's whisper.

Extending your arm, you lift the blanket in an offering to Robb. He takes the offer greedily, slipping an arm around your waist as you wrap the furs snuggly around you both.

Tucking you against his side, he turns his head to bury his face against your soft hair. Greywind had long since returned to napping with his head in your lap, his large paws resting against your thighs.

The room is filled with a peaceful silence as you both sit there. You return your attention back to your book, contently leaning back against Robb's side. Your attention occasionally drifts as you take a sip of your warm tea, gulping down the comfort of the warm liquid.

Robb remains by your side with one arm wrapped around your waist, his hand cupping the plush of your hip. His other hand settles on your thigh, every now and then drifting to give Greywind a few pets. But it always quickly returns to the softness of your thighs.

"Read to me," Robb murmurs in your ear, smirking softly as your breath hitches in your throat. He squeezes your thigh encouragingly, bumping your cheek with his nose playfully. "I want to listen to your voice, my sweet. If you'll give me the pleasure of such."

"Of course," you smile softly, knowing you simply can't deny your husband. Even as your cheeks flush a slight red hue, you cannot deny him. Not when his hand on your thigh slides carefully up to your stomach. He rests his hand against the slight swell of there, his thumb brushing along the curve of the baby bump.

Barely a moon into your pregnancy, the bump had begun growing. It's subtle, barely noticeable unless looked at too closely, but it's there.

"This one's about Simeon Star-eyes," you murmur, pointing to the short passage about him on the yellowed parchment. Robb hums, resting his chin against your shoulder. A small encouragement for you to continue.

"Songs sing of a knight who lost his eyes in a tragic fight," You start, keeping your voice low and soft. "Unwilling to let such tragedy deter him, he replaced his lost eyes. He placed glittering gemstones in the empty sockets — deep blue sapphires."

Your soft-spoken words carry throughout the room, and Robb finds himself hanging on every word. He's heard this tale so many times — mostly from you — that he could easily recite it himself, word for word. As he can with every tale in this book. But, listening to you read the words, your hand coming down to rest over his on the bump of your stomach, he finds himself enchanted. Completely and utterly transfixed.

Greywind, who had woken from his slumber seems to mirror his human's action. His yellow eyes peer up at you, his ears twitching with each word from you and his tail thumping happily against the fur rug. Your voice is simply a comfort to the both of them. And Robb has no doubt that your child will feel the same way.

"Tell me more," he pleads softly once he realises you've paused. You're glancing down at him, your nose a breath away from his own. You've caught him staring up at you with adoration as you read and Robb goes a little red in the face at that.

Turning back to the book, you begin reading once more. "Wielding a long spear with daggers bound to each end, he'd spin it in his hands and chop down two men at once."

Robb listens carefully, hanging on each word still. He dips his head to press a few light kisses along your shoulder. They're gentle enough to be innocent, but you know your husband better than that. Yet, you don't call him out in it. Instead, you simply bask in the loving touch.

"Some say the sapphire gemstones allowed him to see what others couldn't — connecting him to the Old Magic." Glancing back down at Robb once more, you lean more into him, unable to bite back the amused breath as he kisses along your skin.

"They also say he was quite the handsome man," you quip teasingly, watching as Robb's gaze quickly snaps towards your own. His eyebrows furrow with suspicion as he processes your teasing words.

"Handsome, you say?" He asks, watching as you bob your head in a nod. Your lip trembles with the effort to bite back a grin, and Robb decides to play along with your attempt to playfully toy his jealousy.

"More handsome than I, my sweet wife?" He questions, all the while his hand on your stomach moves along your ribs, coming to rest just below your breast.

"So the stories say," you giggle, your hand falling from his own as it slides up your body.

"That simply cannot be true," he growls playfully as he pulls back to look at you fully. Your eyes are bright with a playfulness he adores, your cheeks flushed with a mix of love and heat from the fire that continues to flicker away in the heath.

"But it is!" You insist, still biting back a grin. "The stories say so. So, it must be."

Robb gasps dramatically as he pulls back slightly. His hand on your ribs moves to his heart as though he truly were offended by your words. But the grin that pulled at his own lips assured you he truly wasn't.

"I cannot believe this!" He shakes his head, mocking a man truly distraught. "My own wife, mother of my child, believes a legend more handsome than I."

You giggle then, the sound urging him to continue. Quickly, your giggles turn to laughter. He doesn't stop his act of the offended and jealous husband until he's sure you're lacking in oxygen as you laugh.

Robb chuckles then, dropping the act and pulling you close. "I love you, my darling." He murmurs against your temple, breathing in the floral scent of your hair. "Even if you think a dead man more attractive than me."

"I love you too," you breathe out, trying to steady your voice and avoid falling into another giggling fit.

Robb lets you return to your book, holding you against his chest as you continue to read quietly to him. His hand on your ribs returns to the soft swell of your stomach as he allows his thoughts to drift. And drift they do.

You've given him a child. A baby he'll love and cherish. A baby that will be so loved by yourselves and the entirety of Winterfell. Robb knows that when the baby is born, you'll read to him too. Whatever tales you think the little one would like, you'd no doubt read. Robb wouldn't be surprised if he'd come back from his duties one evening to your chambers filled to the brim with random books.

He smiles at the thought, his chin returning to sit against your shoulder. He lets your voice fill his ears, chasing away any lingering thoughts of his duties, of the wars. For a moment he lets himself relax with you in his arms. Your soft voice mixed with the peaceful ambience of the crackling fire and rain gently hitting the windows, lulls Robb into a sleep.

Greywind seems to have drifted off alongside Robb, his tail relaxing against the fur rug.

When you notice Robb lost in slumber, you smile softly at the sight. Pressing a light kiss to his jaw, you pull the blanket tighter around his shoulders before once more returning to your book.

[achaoticeternal]

electric touch

aemond targaryen x niece!reader

summary: while taking a visit to the royal library, you come across aemond who seems to have a small gift for you. word count: 1.1k warnings: afab!reader, targcest, reader is mentioned to have violet eyes but that is the only descriptor. a/n: this was just a little drabble I thought of. i'm trying to get back into the grove of writing after my summer hiatus.

Though King’s Landing was quite an enticing place to visit, the climate at Dragonstone seemed to accommodate her taste better. Where Dragonstone held warm air and cooling sea breezes, King’s Landing lacked such a luxury. Whenever Rhaenyra made visits to the capitol with her daughter, neither princess slept well for their own reasons. Both, however, missed their own beds and comforts of home.

Currently, the younger Targaryen princess was making her way down the aisles of the library. Particularly, she found herself in the special collection that her uncle had curated. Books that varied from philosophy, the history of Old Valyria, and even strategies of ancient wars. However, sprinkled in between were books that contained the sweetest words held in between pages. Yes, both she and Aemond held a secret bond over the lines of fine poetry.

It was a love they learned as children. Whenever Aemond was not training or being tormented by his brother and nephews, he would accompany his niece at the weirwood tree. Helaena would not be too far off either, allowing the creatures in the gardens to climb into her gentle hands.

Such a memory caused a small smile to grace her lips as she reached for a book that had been well-loved.

“Have you come to wreck my shelves?” The voice interrupted her abruptly.

She jumped away from her spot, the breath returning to her lungs when she recognized the man. Her hands went to smooth out her skirts, “Good day to you, uncle…”

The lady went to reach for the book again. Still, it remained just out of reach. The scoff sounding next to her changed her focus once more.

“Have you not considered using your words to ask for help, riñītsos?” He questioned.

Little Girl.

Sighing at his question, she moved back from the shelf. As she faced him, her eyes flicked from the book to his gaze. Though her actions were childish, she did not anticipate being denied her wish, “Kostilus…” Please.

His dismissive hum could be heard as he moved in front of her. With ease, he gripped the spine of the book before bringing it down. Aemond held onto it for a moment, eye scanning over the cover. Epics of Old Valyria.

“I see you’ve been working on your native tongue,” the prince stated nonchalantly, “Though it is still peculiar to me as to why you deem it fit to borrow from my personal collection?”

The corners of her lips dropped at his words, “And do you enjoy withholding the pleasure of knowledge?”

His violet eye slowly trailed up her height. Both of them had grown since they’d last shared each other’s company. This was evident to both parties. Her eye then met her own violet ones as a chuckle played on his lips, “Withholding pleasure is enjoyable for some people.”

Her posture straightened immediately, the innuendo not going unnoticed. She took the book from his grip, preparing to move past him and back to the security of her mother’s chambers.

The princess did not make it more than two paces before his hand shot out to grasp at her forearm. His touch was not harsh, yet there was no warm to it either, “What are you forgetting?”

She breathed out in audible frustration. Her eyes still trained toward the exit of the library, keeping her distracted from his intense gaze, “Are you not supposed to be in attendance of the small council meeting? Or has your seat been taken?”

Aemond’s jaw tightened at the taunt. However, his demeanor remained relatively calm.

Finally, she answered him properly, “Kirimvose.” Thank you.

After a pause of silence, she craned her neck to look up at Aemond. Her gaze was met with a playful smirk, “Issa daorun” You’re welcome.

However, his hold did not retreat from her forearm. Instead, he continued, “I have a little gift for you. Consider it a welcoming present for my favorite niece.”

“Careful, uncle,” Her eyes refocused on his face. The rest of the library remained at a soft focus, “You wouldn’t want to hurt poor Jaehaera’s feelings.”

His upper tip seemed to curl into a snarl at the quick-witted comment. Releasing his hold, his hands went to the pockets of his doublet, eyeing the item within it. Pulling out the piece, a finely forged Valyrian steel chain dangled from his nimble fingers. Resting at the bottom of the chain was a pendant of a singular dragon with a sapphire for an eye. The craftsmanship itself must have cost a fortune, not to mention the installation of such a fine gemstone.

“Kepus,” Her voice lulled, “Gevie…”

Without a word, Aemond moved to stand behind her. His gentle touch caressed her upper back as he moved her hair onto one shoulder. The cool pendant rested atop her bosom, sending tingles throughout her chest. The chain itself snaked around the delicate skin of her neck where he now clasped it together, “Dōna zaldrītsos,” Aemond purred.

As she turned back to face him, her lithe fingers toyed at the pendant. She quickly grew accustomed to the weight of it and the metallic feel against her skin, “Where did you find such a necklace?”

The look on his face was passive as if he could not drop his uncaring disguise, “I had it made for you.”

As her browed raised in motion for him to continue, Aemond added on, “I figured it would be to your liking.”

She took a moment, eyes flickering from the leather he wore to the steel chain at her neck.

“I see,” She nodded, “And what moved you to commission such a fine piece?”

Unbeknownst to the lady, Aemond fought an inner battle. He wished to step closer to her and reach out once more. He hated that he could easily despise his nephews, but never her… Not the girl whom he read poetry with between lunch and tea time. The girl who was now a woman grown before him. His greatest torment and object of his deepest affections.

Aemond faced her once more, bringing up his hand to toy with the pendant at her chest now, “The thought of you wearing it for me…”

---

all feedback is greatly appreciated. my ask box is open for requests.

[auxmodi]

nsfw sandor hc's ;)

my masterlist

a/n: i could go on for 4982 hours but here are some hc's

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ •

sandor's dick size is intimidating, and he knows it. he doesn’t care if it’s a struggle for you to take all of him, he wants you to feel every inch. “c'mon, take it.” he growls, his voice low and commanding.

his pace is brutal. his hips snap into you with harsh force. he growls under his breath "keep up." as he watches you fall apart beneath him, pride gleaming in his eyes. every moment is punishing and he takes satisfaction in your struggle to keep up.

he isn’t gentle when it comes to holding you in place. he likes to restrain you, whether it’s pinning you down with his weight or tying you up to keep you still while he takes control.

sandor’s pet names in bed are blunt, rough, and possessive. he might call you “whore,” “brat,” or simply “mine.” using them to remind you of your place under him, but always with a tone of possession, not pure degradation. It’s about control, raw and unapologetic, but with a hint of twisted affection.

sandor’s hands WILL find your throat during sex. he enjoys the feeling of power that comes with it. his large hand wrapping around your throat, pounding into you hard, while your ankles dangle over his shoulders. the way you respond and struggle to his grip, HE LOVES IT.

he likes it when you can him sir, no explanation needed. 

sandor is the type to pull you by your hair, guiding your head to where he wants it. whether it's pulling you up to meet his lips or holding it to fuck into you deeper. TEEHEE

this man has a definite size kink. he loves seeing how you struggle to take all of him, feeling every inch as he pushes deep. the size difference excites him, he’s often rough about it, "gonna ruin this pretty cunt". while teasing your pussy with his dick 😊, growling with satisfaction when you take him fully.

foreplay? not his style. he’s a man who’s used to battle, and he approaches intimacy the same way, with an intense, single-minded focus. his hands roam roughly over your body, and his impatience shows as he growls, “quit squirming, i’m not stopping ‘til i’m done with you.”

sandor’s filthy mouth never shuts up, even when he’s got you gasping for air. “what, done already?” he growls, lips curling into a wicked smirk. “didn’t think you’d fold like some godsdamned weakling.” but he doesn’t stop, hell no. he keeps going, pushing you harder, dragging out every sound he can until you’re shaking and there’s nothing left to give.

sandor’s sex-drive is relentless, fueled by years of frustration, rage, and an almost obsessive need to feel in control. when his temper flares, his desire to fuck becomes almost primal. he’s not one for waiting around, "stay still," he doesn't care if you can keep up, he just needs to release the anger and he'll make you feel every bit of it

sandor’s aftercare is all about presence, not words. afterwards, he pulls you close with a firm, possessive grip, his hand brushing over the marks he’s left, bruises and scratches. his silence speaks louder than words, and he stays close, watching over you.

[sehaedazokla]

robb stark and a witch reader

fem! reader terms and descriptions 

a/n: robb and witch reader you will always be my most beloved…

you have never cared much for human men and hold every intention to continue that tradition with robb stark. despite his own misgivings, robb wishes to offer you all the courtesies a gentleman can provide. not without a tense jaw and a tight hesitation to his body; he has asked your house for assistance and been sent a lady in return. as alluring as your peculiar and haunting beauty is, robb needs men. he is met with equal disappoint in your own eyes – you have been sent to assist the lord of winterfell, not his young heir. neither of you extends a hand in welcome, but robb at least plays the part of a gracious host. no warmth is to be found in your stunning visage.

you find him rather boorish, brutish, unseemly – likely incompetent, having never seen battle. save for the blue of his eyes, brighter and clearer than the sky above. he is offput by your strange customs and odd manner of speaking, alongside the obvious dislike for humans.

your suggestion for a blood pact to seal your allegiance, for example, gives robb pause. he convinces you a signed scroll shall suffice.

sensible and cold, your advice comes to robb in eerie whispers with unimpressed gazes. he discovers quickly you have knowledge of a great many things and does not dismiss your counsel even if he is wary. in the stressful months following his assumption of his father’s role of his absence, it is you whom he finds himself turning to.

when not directly advising robb, your tongue spins unsettling riddles and breaths of valyrian, often cast to robb when he says something you deem foolish. there is no softness in your presence, no need for it. it is practicality that you offer, and practicality that robb is requiring. 

he is left watching as you draw in the world at your whim. your penchant for shadow and flame, how light and dark alike seemed called to dance upon you. the winds of the godswood blow high and crisp as you walk beneath their branches, robb leading you to the weirwood tree his ancestors have prayed to for centuries. light breeze carrying your hair about your face as you are told warnings and wisdoms by voices long since lost to most human ears.

the strangest of strangers to him. unknown and foreign, as distant and cold and lovely as the moon.

save for when you gain the favor of his direwolf, taking long strolls through the castle with the creature at your side. you speak to him in valyrian, and robb cannot tell if grey wind understands your or not. robb is almost childishly jealous of the ease with which the wolf took to you – had all loyalty been discarded at the arrival of this witch?

and rickon and bran do not seem to fear you in the slightest. robb would find this is because you have given them no reason to. your general scorn for humans does not extend to the children, whom time and attention are given to whenever it is asked. you never seek out their company, but always provide it when you can, even if it means leaving robb in the middle of providing counsel.

and perhaps it is both of your innate instincts to parent and protect that you notice in each other as a surprisingly piece of common ground. pensive gazes watching after the other as you both engage with the young boys. robb knows without your saying that you are the eldest of your siblings as well. 

but your efficiency in that department is where your true talents lie. you bloom like nightshade in combat, your skill with a sword almost as terrifying as your eyes. many witches are natural healers, your nature is more destructive than that. you seem more creature than human when you fight. and when bran’s life is on the line and robb is forced to lower his sword, heart clenched and mind racing, he sees blood trickling from the eyes and nose and mouth of bran’s captor.

the man dies quickly, melting to his knees, choking on blood as it spills from his face in crimson rivulets. when robb whips his head to see you, he knows, but cannot prove it because you have collapsed to the ground, faint and then unconscious.

you would keep your oath no matter the price you paid, to serve and protect the starks. it is by your bedside that he waits with anxiously wringing hands, his thick brows drawn together while the maester tries and fails to discern what has befallen you. the fire in the hearth flickers lowly as the night drags on, each moment that you do not wake worsening robb’s concern. grey wind curls himself by the hearth, resting among the furs.

you wake with tired blinks and a hazy memory, the first words that come from your hoarse throat ask after the safety of robb’s young brother. robb is a turbulent wreck of emotions: relief at your waking, frustration at his reliance on you in a time of trouble, gratefulness for protecting bran, anger at your quickness to do something that seemingly put yourself in danger.

 when you stubbornly and coldly remind him of your promise to serve him, he grips the sheets of your bed in a tight ball as he leans towards you with pained and frustrated worry.

“your life is not mine. do not be so reckless, i order it of you.”

[multi-fandom-imagine]

For the Wolf’s Victory || Robb Stark ||

After the failed Frey-Bolton ambush. Carnage still fresh. His sword still warm. He returns to you under the cloak of night—bloody, breathing hard, eyes wild—and the moment your eyes meet, he’s already undoing his belt

A/n: The Red Wedding never happened, Cause fuck that.

It started out as a whisper, a comment he wasn't supposed to hear.

Death.

His men slaughtered

Grey Wind.Dead.

His mother...throat slit

And you, his gem. The one light in his life snuffed out like a candle.

Robb could barely contain the rage that simmered through him and when the moment was right he struck.

And he did not leave one Bolton or Frey alive and while is soldiers celebrate, while his mother rests he will take you and make you his in every way.

Robb made his way towards your tent, his tent. The one furthest away from everyone. He wasn't thinking, only one thing on his mind.

You

The tent flap opened, your head snapped up to meet your husband's gaze. The man was covered in blood as you stood.

“Robb—?”

He crosses the room in two strides.

One bloody hand wraps around your waist. The other grips the back of your neck. And he kisses you like a man starved, blood staining your dress.

“No one touches what’s mine,” he growls into your mouth, his eyes slipping closed as he presses his nose into your neck inhaling your sweet scent.

His hands are shaking with adrenaline as they tear at your laces. “They tried. They fucking tried. To take everything.”

Fabric ripping, breasts freeing as he then pulls you in for another kiss as you moaned as Robb bites at your jaw, only to pull you in for another bruising kiss as you felt the iron tang of blood on his lips.

“But I found out. And I burned them for it.”

Your torn dress falls to the floor. You’re breathless, naked beneath him. He’s still half-armored, still wearing the blood of traitors—but his hands are reverent on your skin.

“I killed them for you,” he says, voice low and shaking with fury and want. “For us.”

And then he lifts you, hauls you to the bed, and throws you down onto the furs. Your legs parting, a deep heat pooling at your center as Robb watches you.

He doesn’t undress...not right now. Not with how desperately he needs you.

He just frees his cock, already hard, already leaking.

And you open for him, legs parted, eager, wet, desperate for your husband, your warrior, your wolf.

He slams into you in one stroke—deep, brutal, and claiming—and you cry out, legs wrapping around his waist, hands clawing at his chestplate only for them to slide down slicked with blood.

“Robb—!”

“Say you’re mine,” he snarls, fucking into you hard, hips snapping with barely-restrained violence.

“I’m yours—gods—I’m yours—”

He grunts, slamming deeper. “Say it again.”

You do. Over and over. Each time more breathless, more raw, as he pounds into your cunt like he’s trying to fuck the memory of betrayal out of his own mind.

His blood-slick hands grip your thighs. His mouth crashes to yours. His whole body trembles as he drives deeper—rougher—until he’s gritting through his teeth. Dark curls slicked with sweat and blood as he kept his gaze on you, on the way your breasts bounced with each thrust.

“I should’ve died today.”

“But you didn’t,” you whisper, kissing his jaw, his lips, his scars. “You came back. To me..My wolf...My King.”

He thrusts once—twice—and buries himself to the hilt, groaning as he spills deep inside you, his cock pulsing, flooding you with hot, triumphant release.

You both collapse, tangled in sweat, blood, and sheets.

He doesn’t pull out.

He holds you close. Breathes you in.

And in the silence after his storm, he whispers:

“You’re the reason I survived.”