#requests are open!

[angelkiyo]

⋆ 𐙚 ̊. frat boy! grimmjow, who was struggling with his english course and had his professor recommend you; the pretty smart good girl who was at the top of her classes. he didn’t know what to expect. he’s seen you at the front of the class, coming early every lecture. you have a pretty face and was a fucking know-it-all, having him think he’ll be annoyed. however, even though you wore the baggiest clothes imaginable, he felt his eyes entranced simply at the way your hips swayed every time you walked and composed yourself.

⋆ 𐙚 ̊. frat boy! grimmjow, whose ego got the best of him, showing you his prideful smile. you were gentle. too gentle, with your thoughtful explanations to him, even if he was a little stupid compared to you. he was practically wrapped around your finger due to your actions, demeanor, and the fact that he’s passed every test since you’ve started tutoring him. your utter kindness was alluring, speaking ever so softly to him like he didn’t terrorize rushees and the the way you softly said his name drove him insane.

⋆ 𐙚 ̊. frat boy! grimmjow, who fakes being confused in order for you to lean closer and explain it. the smirk on his face when he “suddenly gets it�� is a dead giveaway, making you giggle, “ohhh, so that’s what you mean. guess i need you to repeat that… one more time, though”. he suggests studying at the frat house for fun. he slightly impressed you when he was able to do a keg stand while you were teaching him something — answering your questions about your lecture excellently. his bros eventually caught wind of his certain fondness for you and teasingly called him a ‘nerd by association’.

⋆ 𐙚 ̊. frat boy! grimmjow, who once he began trying to flirt with you, invites you to every party his house hosted. he stays by your side for almost the entirety of the party, with the only time he doesn’t, he tries to impress you with push-up contests or drinking games. he “accidentally” bumps into you on campus, making a big deal on you being “the best fuckin tutor at this school”, earning amused looks from your friends and causing them to leave you.

⋆ 𐙚 ̊. frat boy! grimmjow, who gets jealous easily (even though you’re not dating). who sees you casually tutoring somebody else in the library and texts you saying he needs “help. urgent. right now”. and when he does see you, he just happened to see you in the library with somebody else, “teach, you got other students now? i thought i was your favorite” (insert teasing sad face). when in secret, he’d stare daggers at whoever you were tutoring, especially if they smiled at you too much.

⋆ 𐙚 ̊. frat boy! grimmjow, who, once he does (surprisingly) ask you out, he shows you off at every party, arm around your waist and chin brushing your shoulder. you don’t need to ask, he’ll give you his fraternity jacket and sweatshirts to wear to your classes and on campus (purposely sprays a shit ton of cologne for his signature scent to be noticeable). he may be very much of a brute to others in his frat, especially in parties with his winning streak in drinking games—but he would be a complete dunce when it comes to romance. he asks his friend from high school, ulquiorra on what to get a girl (who also doesn’t know) which causes him to ask ichigo, who starts making fun of him. overall, to you, it’s the effort that counts.

⋆ 𐙚 ̊. frat boy! grimmjow, who likes for you to still tutor him every now and then, even for random classes such as his stats class. he takes enjoyment at the obvious closeness you two have and encourages study dates, only to take you from behind in the library. he enjoys the idea of getting caught with you as you take his cock quietly but surely in a secluded part of the library, enamored with the way you could be so quiet and nerdy yet so alluring. luckily for the both of you, you’re friends with the librarian who lets you borrow the keys for the closet. (if not, he also is into the idea of playing a game where either one of you strip if he gets an answer right).

—

lowk wanna indulge more into this but idk … “requests are open!!” i scream as i get taken back into my cell

nsfw ver

[fictionalsownme]

The fact that Damien canonically carried us to bed because we were too drunk to stand lives rent free in my bisexual head aghshhshshnsls 🥲💞

THEY WERE UNIVERSITY-MATES, YOUR HONOR (ft. my self-insert DA to illustrate the concept 😌💞)

You saying that got me thinking that Damien is so bisexual coded idek how to explain it okay. Obviously the fact that the DA is all of us, aka any gender, aka all genders, makes him queer if you believe he has feelings for us (which like HOW COULD YOU NOT) but it doesn't even matter your gender okay... boy is yearning this hard in the 1920s as the MAYOR?? for his DISTRICT ATTORNEY?? Closeted behavior, I feel. Hehehe ANYWAY--

I'm making a Markiplier Ego Discord!! Idk how interested people are but I thought it'd be fun to try! For now, just let me know if you want to join a taglist for when it's ready (soon!!) and give me name suggestions (please ;;-;;)! 🥰

[the-forgotten-one1]

Lil random idea I had

[therogueflame]

The Queen and Her Commander

Hi stinkabutts,

my second ever rhaenyra x reader! how fun. based on this ask.

✨ My Masterlist ✨

🖊️My AO3 🖊️

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❄️ My ASOIAF/GOT/HOTD Discord Server 🔥

Summary: In the quiet between battles, you learn what it means to be hers.

WC: 6.0

Warnings: 18+, fingering, oral (f!recieving), confession, slapping, wartime, left for dead, anger, (lesbian????)

Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen x Fem!Reader

MDNI!!!

They call you commander, but never lady. Lowborn, they say when their tongues are loose with wine. A woman of no great house, no storied name, no gods to shield you. No silks in your past, no septas to teach you to smile without showing your teeth. You were raised on cold steel and harder ground, your body shaped by battlefields and blistered palms, your voice too steady, too sharp, too unfeminine for their marble halls. The Queen, they think, should surround herself with courtiers, not killers. Women who bat their lashes and know how to curtsey, not ones who carry swords heavier than their pride. Yet it is you she calls for when the fires burn too close.

You ride at her side, close enough to feel the heat of her through leather and mail. Close enough that your knee brushes her stirrup when she leans to speak. You do not flinch when she looks at you, and she never lowers her voice. She gives you her commands in front of lords twice your age and watches their faces tighten as you obey without bowing. You speak too freely. You cut your eyes across the room like a blade. You kneel to no one. And she lets you.

They hate you for it. The men especially. You’ve seen it in their narrowed eyes, in the clipped tones they use when addressing you. The ladies are no kinder. They whisper in corners, behind silk sleeves and carved goblets. You have no husband. You’ve never been seen in a dress. You spend too many nights in the war tents, return too often to the Queen’s side bruised and bloodied, eyes burning from smoke and too little sleep. She looks at you too long. She touches you when there is no need. She listens. And that, more than anything, makes them uneasy.

They do not know what it means when her hand rests lightly on your arm. They do not see the way her mouth parts, just slightly, when you take a step too close. They do not know the weight of her gaze when you enter a room. They think she favors you for your loyalty, for your use on the battlefield, for the scars on your arms that speak to a life spent winning in places their sons would not last a night.

But they do not see how her hands tremble when the doors are locked and the fires burn low. They do not see how she turns to you in silence, how her eyes search your face as if trying to memorize the shape of it before it disappears again. They do not know how she presses her mouth to your collarbone like prayer, how she hides her face against your throat like confession. Her lips part against your skin and her crown is never present, not when it’s just the two of you. Not when she slides her rings from her fingers and sets them carefully on the bedside table before reaching for you like she’s done it a thousand times in a hundred dreams.

You remember the first time. You had returned from the Riverlands covered in ash and soaked through with rain. Your tunic clung to your shoulders, stiff with dried blood not your own. She had been waiting in the solar, pacing beside the window. When she saw you, she did not smile. She asked if you were hurt and you told her no. You always say no, even when it isn’t true. She didn’t ask again. Just walked across the room with slow, deliberate steps and reached for your belt like she’d done it before.

Her hands didn’t shake. Not then. Her breath was shallow but steady. She touched your cheek and pulled you down to her like a secret finally spoken aloud. You didn’t know what she wanted. You only knew how much you wanted to give it.

Your fingers tangled in her hair, dark strands spilling across your knuckles. She gasped like it meant something, and it did. It always did.

She kissed you like someone who had never been allowed to want. Like someone who had waited too long to remember how to need. Her mouth moved against yours with a hunger you couldn’t answer gently, so you didn’t try. You kissed her hard enough to bruise, because you didn’t know how to be careful, not with her, not then. She didn’t ask for careful. She pulled you closer, her nails scraping the back of your neck, and when she broke the kiss, it wasn’t because she wanted to.

She looked at you with wide, wet eyes and whispered, “They would tear you apart if they knew.”

You didn’t speak. You pressed your mouth to hers again and dragged her back against you like it was the only answer she needed.

She let you.

She always lets you.

She lets you kiss her like sin. She lets you touch her like you’re not afraid. She lets you pull her into the dark and leave her trembling. And every time she reaches for you, you let her come undone. Not as a queen, not as a wife, not as a mother or daughter or heir. Just as a woman. Just as yours.

Now the war grows heavier. The silences grow longer. You spend more nights apart than together. The hall grows colder with every step she takes toward the throne. Her shoulders are straighter. Her gaze is sharper. But still, her eyes find yours when the council breaks. Her fingers still brush yours when no one is watching. Her voice still softens when she says your name, like a secret she hasn’t yet decided to keep or reveal.

You see her less. You speak less. But you know. Every look is a promise not yet broken. Every touch is a memory waiting to be made again.

And when she says your name, it still sounds like a prayer whispered in the dark.

But prayers do not hold off armies. And her voice, when it comes for you next, is not meant for shadows.

The order comes on a morning choked in fog. You’re still shaking the cold from your armor when the page finds you. The summons is brief. The Queen requests your presence in the council chamber. Not her solar. Not her bed. Not where you can pretend, for a moment, that you are hers and she is yours. No. This is war business. You know it before you even cross the threshold.

When you enter, Daemon is already there. Leaning back in his chair like the weight of the realm means nothing to him. His fingers drum lazily along the hilt of his sword. A map is spread across the table, weighted at the corners by goblets and stone markers. Rhaenyra stands at the head, her crown newly set, her hands clasped tightly at her back. She does not smile when you arrive. She barely looks at you.

“Harrenhal,” she says. Her voice is clear, flat, carefully measured. “We need more strength along the Riverlands. My uncle will lead the effort. You’ll go with him.”

You nod. You say yes, your voice steady. You do not ask why it must be you. You do not remind her of the last time she kissed you, the last time she clutched your shirt in her fists and whispered your name like a wound. You do not ask for anything. You bow, low and long, and when you rise again, she has already turned away.

You do not argue. You never do.

There is nothing left to say, and even if there were, not in that room. Not with her eyes fixed on maps and her mouth set like stone.

You leave the next morning, long before the city stirs. There is no farewell. No touch. No glance. You mount your horse in silence and ride out with a company of hardened men who care nothing for your bruised pride or the way your stomach knots tighter with each mile. You do not look back. You do not give yourself permission.

The days stretch out like punishment. The mud in the Riverlands clings to your boots, seeps into your bones. You fight. You bleed. You command. You win, most of the time. When you don’t, you bury the dead and keep moving. Daemon is reckless and brilliant and terrible to serve under. He pushes the line further than he should. He calls you soft once and you nearly drive your blade through his chest. He laughs. After that, he trusts you more.

At night, you dream of her. Sometimes it is her hair against your shoulder, the way her fingers splay across your ribs. Sometimes it is her voice in your ear, breathless and low, whispering things no queen should say. Sometimes it is the absence of her. An empty bed. A locked door. Her name, spoken and unanswered.

You wake to silence and the snap of banners. The war grinds on.

There are letters. Stiff, formal things passed through too many hands. The kind of words that mean nothing unless you know how to read between the lines. She writes of movements and weather and supplies. You write of victories and losses and the state of the roads. Every sentence is a disguise. Every sentence is aching.

Sometimes you trace her handwriting like it might give you warmth. Sometimes you burn the parchment before anyone else can see it.

One letter never comes. You wait five days. Then ten. You tell yourself it was lost, that ravens die and couriers are intercepted. That it means nothing. But it does. Of course it does.

The silence after that is colder than steel.

Back at court, the rumors multiply. They say the Queen has grown distant. That she holds private councils behind closed doors. That she meets alone with Reachmen, with generals, with noble sons eager to curry favor. They say she wears the crown more often now, even in her own chambers. That her smile does not reach her eyes. That she no longer lingers near the windows, no longer stands on the ramparts as she once did, watching the road.

They say she dines alone. They say she does not speak of you.

You do not believe them. Not fully. But belief and doubt sit heavy on the same part of your chest, pressing down until you cannot tell where one ends and the other begins. You picture her walking the halls without you beside her. You picture her turning to someone else. Letting someone else touch the place you once did. You do not let the thought stay long. It cuts too deep.

Daemon watches you sometimes with that look of his, like he knows something you don’t. He asks no questions. He doesn’t need to. He fights beside you. He bleeds beside you. And once, when you are washing blood from your hands in a river that runs dark with ash, he says, “You shouldn’t love her.”

You don’t answer. You finish cleaning your hands and ride away.

You stop writing after that.

The war grows louder. You take three keeps in six weeks. You lead a siege so brutal the enemy surrenders before the sun rises. You sleep little. Eat less. You drive your soldiers harder than ever, because it is easier than thinking. Easier than wondering if she still says your name at all.

When word finally comes from King’s Landing, it is not a letter. It is a passing rider who mentions, in the middle of a list of political marriages and alliance talks, that the Queen has accepted a private audience with a noble from Oldtown. “Suitor,” the man calls him. “Seems promising. Her council approves.”

You turn your face away and keep riding.

Later that night, you sharpen your blade until your fingers blister.

You do not dream of her that night. You do not dream at all.

And in the morning, you wake with her name still in your mouth, but you do not say it. You cannot. The wind would take it, and she is too far away to hear.

The siege breaks at dawn, but you don’t see the sun rise.

You’re pulled from the rubble half-crushed and bleeding, your shoulder torn open, your ribs cracked, your sword snapped in half beside your limp hand. You do not wake for two days. When you do, it is to pain so thick it swallows the edges of your vision and the smell of burning tents carried on the wind. The maester tells you not to move. You move anyway.

By the time you can stand, the war has moved on. Daemon has left. The rest of your company rides north. You send no raven. No message. You say nothing at all.

You ride for King’s Landing with a blade you took off a dead man and the clothes on your back. The wound in your side breaks open again somewhere in the Kingswood. You stitch it shut with your own hand.

When you reach the Red Keep, you are unannounced. Unclean. Dried blood streaks your boots, and one arm hangs useless at your side. The guards barely recognize you. The captain calls you a ghost.

You do not stop to correct him.

The Queen’s steward stares at you like he’s seen a corpse standing. He says nothing at first, only bows and hurries from the hall. Moments later, you are summoned to her solar.

She is alone when you enter.

No council. No guards. No attendants.

Just her.

She stands with her back to you, still in her riding leathers though her crown is gone. Her hair is braided tightly down her back. The windows are open. The fire is out. The room smells faintly of ash and damp parchment. She does not turn.

You close the door behind you. The latch clicks into place.

She doesn’t speak.

Neither do you.

For a long moment, there is only silence.

Then she turns.

And then it breaks.

She crosses the room with steps so sharp they echo. Her palm cracks against your cheek hard enough to stagger you. Pain blooms bright across your jaw. Her breath hitches.

“You were dead.”

You stare at her. Her pupils are blown wide, her mouth trembling. You taste blood and salt.

“You replaced me.”

She doesn’t flinch. Her eyes are glassy and bright and burning.

Then her hands are in your hair. Your mouth is on hers. You grip her waist like you’re still trying to keep yourself from falling.

Teeth. Tongue. Hands.

Everything unravels at once. And just like that, the months of silence are over.

She tastes like wine and desperation. Like months of swallowed words and sleepless nights. You kiss her back with equal violence, your good hand fisting in the leather of her doublet, pulling her against you until there's no space left between your bodies. She makes a sound against your mouth—half sob, half growl—and pushes you backward until your spine hits the stone wall.

"Don't," she breathes against your lips, though she doesn't pull away. "Don't you dare—"

You silence her with another kiss, deeper this time, and she melts into it despite herself. Her fingers find the buckles of your armor, working them loose with trembling hands. The leather falls away piece by piece, clattering to the floor. When her palm presses flat against your ribs, you hiss at the contact. The wound there is still tender, still healing.

She pulls back, eyes wide as she takes in the extent of your injuries. Her fingers hover over the fresh scar along your ribs, the mottled bruising that spreads across your shoulder like spilled ink.

"Gods," she whispers. "What did they do to you?"

You catch her wrist before she can touch the wound. "Nothing I haven't survived before."

"You fool." Her voice cracks. "You reckless, stubborn fool. Do you know what they told me? Do you know what I was made to believe?"

You don't answer. Can't. The way she's looking at you—like you're something precious she thought she'd lost forever—makes your chest tight in ways that have nothing to do with broken ribs. Her thumb traces the line of your jaw where her palm struck moments before. "Three weeks," she says, and the words are barely audible. "Three weeks they told me you were dead. That they pulled your body from the rubble. That there was nothing left to bury."

Your throat closes. "Rhaenyra—"

"No." She steps closer, her body pressing against yours, pinning you to the wall. "You don't get to speak. Not yet." Her hands frame your face, fingers threading through your hair. "Do you know what that did to me? Do you know how I—" She stops, jaw clenching as she fights for control.

"Tell me."

"I couldn't eat. Couldn't sleep. I sat in council meetings and heard nothing. I signed decrees without reading them. My own lords thought I'd lost my mind." Her eyes search your face desperately.

"Because I had." Her voice drops to barely a whisper. "I had lost my mind. Lost everything that mattered." Her thumb brushes across your bottom lip, and you can see tears threatening at the corners of her eyes. "They brought me your sword. What was left of it. The blade snapped clean through, the hilt bent and blackened. And I held it and I wanted to scream until my throat bled."

You lean into her touch, your eyes closing briefly. When you open them again, she's watching you with an intensity that makes your pulse race despite your injuries.

"I sent ravens. Dozens of them. Demanded they search again, dig deeper. I threatened to have the entire company flogged if they didn't bring me your body." Her laugh is bitter, broken. "Your body. As if that would have been enough. As if seeing you dead would have hurt less than not seeing you at all."

Your good hand comes up to cover hers where it rests against your cheek. "I'm here now."

"Are you?" Her voice is sharp, cutting. "Or will you disappear again the moment I give you another command? The moment duty calls and you ride off to die for my crown instead of living for me?"

The accusation hits like a physical blow. You start to pull away but she doesn't let you, her grip tightening in your hair.

"That's what this is, isn't it? Your grand martyrdom. Die gloriously for the Queen and let the songs remember how loyal you were. How noble." Her eyes flash with anger now, bright and fierce. "Well I don't want your loyalty. I don't want your noble death."

"Then what do you want?"

The question hangs between you like a blade. She stares at you for a long moment, her breathing uneven, her fingers still tangled in your hair. When she speaks, her voice is raw.

"I want—" Her voice breaks. You don’t let her finish.

Your mouth crashes into hers before the last word can leave her tongue, before the grief in her voice can splinter further. You kiss her like you’re still trying to come back to life, like the only thing that kept your heart beating through every godless mile and battlefield was the hope of this—her, shaking and furious in your arms. Her hands clutch at your shoulders, your throat, your hair, as if anchoring herself to the present, and you pull her in like she’s the only thing you’ve ever believed in. There is nothing gentle in it. No restraint. Just months of hunger and rage and aching, all of it spilling out between your teeth as her body presses flush against yours and the whole world finally gives way.

Her mouth opens beneath yours, desperate and demanding. There's a wildness to her now that you've never seen before—not in your bed, not on the battlefield. Something untethered. When you tug her lower lip between your teeth, she makes a sound that's half growl, half surrender.

Her hands find the hem of your shirt, yanking it upward despite your injury. You wince but don't stop her, letting her pull it over your head with unsteady fingers. The cool air hits your skin, raising goosebumps across your scarred flesh. She takes a step back, eyes raking over you—the fresh wounds, the old scars, the map of violence written across your body in her name.

"Every mark," she whispers, tracing a silvery line along your collarbone. "Every scar. All for me."

You catch her wrist, bringing her palm to your lips. "Not for your crown. For you."

Something breaks in her expression. She surges forward again, her mouth finding yours with renewed hunger. Her fingers work at the laces of your breeches while you fumble with the clasps of her doublet. The leather falls away, revealing the thin linen shift beneath. You slide your hands beneath the fabric, finding the warm skin of her waist, the curve of her ribs, the soft swell of her breast. She gasps against your mouth when your thumb brushes her nipple, arching into your touch like she's been starving for it.

"Too long," she breathes, her voice cracking. "Too many nights alone."

You back her toward the bed, your injured arm forgotten in the heat of her skin against yours. When her legs hit the edge of the mattress, she doesn't fall back as you expect. Instead, she spins you around, pushing you down onto the furs with surprising strength. You land with a soft grunt of pain, but the discomfort fades when she climbs over you, straddling your hips, her shift riding up her thighs.

Her hair falls around her face like a curtain as she leans down to kiss you. The silver light from the window catches in the dark strands, making her look ethereal, otherworldly. But there's nothing ethereal about the way her hips roll against yours, nothing otherworldly about the heat between her thighs as she settles over you.

"I won't be gentle," she warns, her voice rough with need.

"I don't want gentle."

She pulls her shift over her head in one fluid motion, baring herself completely. In the pale light, every curve of her body is thrown into sharp relief—the slope of her shoulders, the valley between her breasts, the smooth plane of her stomach. She's beautiful and terrible and yours, and the sight of her makes your chest constrict with something too large for words.

Her hands splay across your chest, fingers tracing the lines of muscle and scar tissue. When she leans down to press her lips to the hollow of your throat, you can feel her smile against your skin. It's not a gentle smile. Not the kind reserved for courts and councils. This is something sharper, hungrier. Her teeth graze your pulse point, and your hands find her hips, pulling her closer against you.

"Say my name," she commands, her voice low against your ear. "Not my title. My name."

"Rhaenyra," you breathe, and it sounds like worship even to your own ears.

She rewards you with another roll of her hips, more deliberate this time. Her wetness soaks through the thin fabric still separating you, and you groan at the sensation. She laughs—a small, broken sound—and reaches between your bodies to untie the last of your laces.

Rhaenyra's fingers deftly tug down your breeches in one smooth motion, leaving you exposed to the cool air. Her touch is light and teasing as she traces the warmth of your arousal, her fingers slick with evidence of your desire. With a mischievous glint in her eyes, she slides two fingers along your core, feeling the heat and tension beneath her touch. Slowly, she raises her hand, bringing her glistening fingers to her lips, savoring the taste with a satisfied smile.

"Look at me," she commands, her voice carrying all the authority of her birthright. Your eyes snap to hers, breath catching at the raw hunger you find there. She slides her fingers between her own thighs, coating them with her arousal before bringing them to your lips. "Taste what you do to me."

You part your lips obediently, drawing her fingers into your mouth. The taste of her explodes across your tongue—salt and heat and something uniquely hers that makes your head spin. She watches your every movement with predatory focus, her free hand coming to rest at the base of your throat.

Rhaenyra slowly withdraws her fingers from your mouth, the warmth lingering on your lips. She then guides them downward, pressing them back into the heat and urgency of your desire, igniting a spark that sends a shiver through your entire body.

Her fingers find their rhythm against you, slow at first and then faster, more insistent. You arch into her touch, your own hands gripping her thighs hard enough to leave marks. The pressure builds low in your belly, coiling tighter with each deliberate stroke. She watches your face with fierce concentration, learning anew what makes you gasp, what makes your eyes flutter closed, what draws those broken sounds from deep in your throat.

"Look at me," she demands again when your head falls back against the furs. "I want to see you."

You force your eyes open, meeting her gaze as she works you higher. Her hair falls around her shoulders like a curtain, her skin flushed with desire. She's never looked more like a queen than she does now, naked and commanding above you, and never less like one at the same time. This woman with her hand between your legs, her breath coming in short pants as she watches you fall apart beneath her touch—this is just Rhaenyra. Just yours.

"Please," you whisper, the word torn from somewhere deep in your chest.

Her smile is sharp as a blade. "Please what?"

You can't form the words, can only arch against her hand and hope she understands. She does. She always does. Her fingers press deeper, finding that spot that makes stars burst behind your eyelids, and you cry out despite yourself.

"There," she breathes, triumph coloring her voice. "There she is."

The tension snaps all at once, pleasure crashing over you in waves that leave you gasping and shaking. She doesn't stop, working you through it until you're oversensitive and pleading. Only then does she withdraw her hand, bringing her fingers to her own lips to taste what she's drawn from you.

Before you can catch your breath, she's kissing you again, the taste of you mingling on your tongues. Her body slides against yours, slick with sweat and need, her hips rocking in a rhythm that speaks of her own desperation. You wrap your good arm around her waist and flip her onto her back, ignoring the sharp pain that lances through your injured shoulder.

She gasps at the sudden change, her eyes widening as you hover above her. For a moment, the queen returns—that flicker of indignation, of someone unused to being commanded. But it fades as quickly as it appeared when you lower your mouth to her breast, drawing the hardened peak between your lips. Her back arches off the bed, a breathless moan escaping her throat.

You trail kisses down her body, mapping the terrain you've missed for too many nights. The dip of her navel, the jut of her hipbones, the soft flesh of her inner thighs—each place sacred in its familiarity. She trembles beneath you, her hands fisting in your hair as you settle between her legs.

"Don't make me wait," she commands, but her voice breaks on the last word, betraying her desperation.

You look up at her from between her thighs, a smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. "Is that an order, Your Grace?"

Her eyes flash dangerously. "Don't you dare—"

You have your answer ready before she can finish. Your mouth finds her, tongue sliding through her folds in one long stroke, silencing her with sensation. She tastes like salt and sweetness and home, and you groan against her flesh as she trembles at the touch of your lips. You set a relentless pace, the rhythm she's always loved, working her with tongue and teeth. Her hips buck beneath you, a desperate motion, and you press your forearm over her to hold her down. She gasps at the restraint, her body responding with even more urgency. Her fingers grip your hair so tightly you feel them pulling at your scalp, and you're not sure if she's trying to push you away or pull you closer.

You give her no time to decide, doubling your efforts with a savagery to match her own. Her thighs quiver uncontrollably on either side of your head, and you can feel the tension coiling in her muscles as she writhes under your mouth. All of it, every last piece of her, comes apart for you. She is the woman you followed into battle, the queen you pledged yourself to, and yet she is none of those things right now. Not in this moment. Now she's only yours and you are only hers, a truth more binding than any oaths or crowns. Her skin is feverish under your hands, and her breath comes in ragged, uneven gulps, each one more frantic than the last.

She tries to writhe away, overwhelmed with sensation, but you hold her tightly, denying her escape. You can feel her body beginning to shatter, the wild chaos of her heartbeat, the way she shakes like she's coming undone. Her moans turn to cries, and she jerks against you in a way that feels almost violent.

"Gods," she gasps, her voice high and breathless. "Don't stop, don't—"

You have no intention of stopping, not when she's like this for you—shaking and shuddering, falling apart in a way that feels like forgiveness for those long months apart. Not when she's so wet and wanting against your lips, not when each desperate cry she makes sounds like absolution on your tongue. Her thighs clamp around your shoulders, and you know she's close. You want to keep her that way forever, trapped in the chaos of her own desire, but then her voice breaks through the thunder in your ears.

"Don't stop," she gasps again, and some lost part of you surfaces at the plea.

You slide two fingers inside her, curling them just so, and she bucks so hard her back leaves the bed entirely, her body trembling in the grip of too much sensation. She bites down on her lip, trying to keep herself together, but the moans still escape her in wild, frantic bursts. Her breath comes in uneven pants, and she clutches at your head with both hands, pulling at your hair as if your touch is the only thing keeping her from flying apart.

"There," she pants, her grip in your hair almost painful now. "Right there, please—"

You can feel her climbing higher, her walls fluttering around your fingers as you stroke that spot that makes her see stars. Her breathing becomes ragged, desperate, and you know she's moments away from falling over the edge. You press your tongue flat against her, giving her the pressure she needs, and she shatters with a cry that echoes off the stone walls.

Her body convulses beneath you, thighs trembling violently as waves of pleasure crash through her. You work her through it, gentler now, until she's gasping and pushing weakly at your shoulders. Only then do you pull back, pressing soft kisses to her inner thighs as she comes down from the heights.

When you look up at her, she's staring at the ceiling with unseeing eyes, her chest rising and falling rapidly. Sweat glistens on her skin, and her hair is a wild tangle across the pillows. She looks utterly undone, and the sight makes something fierce and possessive surge in your chest.

You crawl up her body, mindful of your injuries now, and settle beside her on the furs. Her hand finds yours without looking, fingers intertwining with a familiarity that makes your heart ache. For a long moment, neither of you speaks. The only sound is your mingled breathing slowly returning to normal and the distant call of night birds through the open window.

Her voice is hoarse when it finally comes, but the words never reach you. Just a murmur swallowed by the quiet. She shifts onto her side, her fingers trailing the length of your arm, then curling lightly over your ribs as if to count what’s left of you.

You swallow, unsure if it’s pain or fear pressing in on your throat. Your voice is nearly gone from the shouting, from the storm you both unleashed, but you manage the question anyway. Soft. Barely a breath.

“Did you ever mean to name me something more?”

The silence that follows is not cruel. It is not cold. It is something worse.

Her hand drifts to your hip, slow and reverent. She finds the bruise blooming there, the mark she left in the heat of it, and her thumb brushes over it with a gentleness that borders on apology. She doesn’t look at you. She doesn’t have to.

“They would never accept you,” she whispers.

You close your eyes.

“But I would have.”

The ache that follows is sharp and sudden, a pull behind your ribs, like something trying to surface from too deep a place. You don’t respond. You don’t trust yourself to. You shift instead, your head finding rest on her bare chest, her skin warm beneath your cheek. One of her hands comes to your chest without being asked. Her thumb moves in slow circles over your sternum, a rhythm meant to lull, to hold, to keep.

You lie like that for a long time. Tangled in silence. Nothing resolved. Nothing promised.

Just breath, and skin, and the sense that if you let go now, you’ll lose something you won’t ever get back.

You fall asleep to the sound of her heartbeat beneath your ear and the weight of her hand over your chest, like a promise that won’t survive the dawn.

By the time light begins to touch the edge of the sky, that promise is already fading.

You dress before the sun rises. The chamber is quiet, the air gone still and cool. The fire has burned low, casting faint orange across the floor, and the shape of her beneath the furs is soft, breathing slow and even. One arm reaches into the space where you lay, her fingers curled loosely against the sheets. You watch her for a long moment and say nothing.

Your injuries ache. Your side pulls with each breath. The bruises are darker today, the cuts angry and raw beneath clean wrappings. The maesters said you should rest, said you shouldn’t move far, shouldn’t climb stairs or wear steel or carry weight. But still you rise. You dress in silence. The leathers feel foreign on your skin now, stiff in the wrong places, unfamiliar after so many weeks torn from them. Your cloak smells like blood and ash. Her scent lingers underneath.

You don’t wake her. You don’t trust yourself to speak. The halls beyond her chamber are quiet. Still sleeping. Not yours.

You do not walk far. Just as far as the garden stairs, just as far as the shadowed courtyard where the wind carries in through the gates, just far enough to feel the cold against your cheeks and the sky begin to shift above the city. A maid passes behind you with a covered tray. She sees your face and lowers her gaze.

No one speaks to you. No one dares. You stand in the half-light, spine straight, hands clenched at your sides. You’re not leaving. Not today. Your body won’t let you. But the moment still feels like parting. The ache of distance carved in silence instead of space.

You stare toward the eastern wall, where the road out begins.

Let the gods call it treason—you’d do it again.

[mysterious-art-greenhouse]

a local folly reblogger comes crawling to your askbox

PLEAAASMNHSE CANYOU DJRAW FOLLY IF YOU WANT. PLEASE IM SO THIRSTY

folly regretevator amirite

thanks for requesting!

[justanoasisimagines]

Back Off

Summary; Billy won't leave Lucas alone, the Chief's eldest daughter has had enough! Pairing; Billy Hargrove x Female!Hopper!Reader WordCount; 512 Warnings; Mentions of violence, A/N; Hey lovelies, my requests are open and my guidelines are pinned to the top of the page! Credit to cafekitsune for the banner and the divider!

Billy strode through the parking lot full of swagger, confidence and arrogance. He couldn't see the hurricane marching toward him. You were mad. Beyond that. You were fuming. Billy had threatened Lucas again. You were tired of him sauntering around the place. "Hey, Hargrove!" The crowd parted in the middle, Billy turned with a smirk on his face. "Princess." "You don't call me that! Do you enjoy picking on little kids? Does it make you feel powerful does it?" Suddenly Billy was face to face with you, your eyes were fiery, standing mere inches from him. "I don't know what you're talking about." "Are those jeans cutting off your blood circulation? I'm talking about you threatening Lucas at the arcade." "See all I heard was you'd been admiring me, Sweetheart." With a quick swing of your fist, you punched Billy connecting with his jaw. Billy landed on the ground, and suddenly a crowd gathered. A chorus of O's added to the already bubbling tension. "Chief Hopper's Daughter finally got some punk to her. I'm sure he'll be thrilled to know what you've done." "Who do you think taught me how to punch? Stay away from those kids."

Several days passed. Hawkins High buzzed about the altercation the other day. You were keeping an eye on Billy. You didn't trust him. "Hey, can you take the kids to the arcade? I've got a date tonight." Steve asked you as the ell rang signalling the end of the day. "Sure what time am I picking them up?" "Around five." With a nod, you left to get home before you had to go and pick up the misfits.

"Do I need to remind you not to punch Hargrove?" Your father asked while you were slipping on your boots and jacket. "No, but I'm tired of harassing Lucas." Jim sighed as he stepped closer to you. "Kid, I don't care if you give him a verbal beatdown. Honestly, he deserves it. But you know someday he'll get his comeuppance. So whatever you do don't lay your hands on Hargrove got it."

The arcade was busy. Expected on a Friday night. The kids were off doing their own thing as were you. You kept an eye out for the most part. You were trying to make the most of your Friday night. "Stay away from my sister Sinclair, or you'll regret it." You moved away from Pac-Man, heading directly in Lucas's direction. He held Lucas by the collar. "How about you stay away from him or was one black eye not enough? Lucas, are you okay?" "Looks like you need a girl to fight your battles." "Looks like you need to pick on someone younger than you. Does it make you feel big and powerful? Clearly, you're lacking elsewhere. You should want to be like Lucas. He's good, kind and loyal to his friends. He's the type of person you should aim to be. Not someone like you who uses their looks to hide their inner ugliness." Billy's eyes widened as he left without saying a word.

[uwuyangeppie]

hiii!! so i had this question for a while now: how would yan!geppie work with a male!darling? like, he can’t baby trap him…the darling probablyyy can stand his own ground so geppie cant exactly delude himself either…unless the darling is frail or smth so like….yeah…….. would love to hear your thoughts!!

hi!! generally i work on the assumption that even if you are male he manages to babytrap you anyway LOL mpreg. (his talent is unyielding will after all so if he has enough determination who or what can stop him? and it is a fantasy game after all, so-)

but,

on the assumption that he can’t…

lowkey i really don’t think it matters how strong you are, because objectively he’s just incredible physically. he’s very strong from fighting on the front line for so many years and he has no business being that agile.

he’s wearing armour for god’s sake. why is he able to outrun some of the characters. that’s also not counting how ridiculous it is for him to be able to swing that instrument case so easily?!

and of course, because it makes the most sense really, gepard is going to kidnap you at night. he’ll manage to get the jump on you, because generally that’s how kidnappings work. you never stood a chance.

depending on how much you manage to fight back, though, he might feel a bit of pride. his darling is so strong! not strong enough though, so it’s cute too! a shame nobody’s here to see how impressive you are, but he is. and really, he’s the only person that matters.

he should be the only person that matters to you anyway!

now because your request specified no mpreg (lol), there’s one more way he’d manage to trap you into being with him, and great news- it also involves breaking the law!

he has a lot of authority. not as much as bronya (thank god to be honest), but if he wants to go rifling through old documents searching for a signature or two, nobody’s going to suspect much, especially if he comes up with an excuse. he might take one or two of these papers with signatures to his desk and trace them secretly.

but don’t be worried, he always returns them!

not the traces, of course, but really, what could he do with those?

he takes them home and a suspicious set of papers that he doesn’t show you, determined to keep this particular secret to himself. and he practices and practices writing out this new signature until he can do it smoothly in one go and hands in those lovely papers to bronya.

congratulations, MC landau!

even if you manage to make it out of his clutches through some sheer miracle, gepard plays the citizens of belobog like a fiddle. you’re gepard’s husband! why aren’t you living with him? what, are you afraid or something? gepard’s a hero, not a villain!

in a gentle voice, he says: i don’t want to push them into living with me. not until they’re ready.

you might believe it if he hadn’t kidnapped you to begin with.

some people mean well and try to convince you that moving in with gepard is a good idea. some people mean the complete opposite of well and insult you for wanting your space. why get married if you don’t want to live with him?! there are many other people who’d be happy to take your place!

at the moment, those people are a means to an end, but once he has you back in his arms…

social pressure and those damned marriage papers begin to turn into silent discrimination and dirty looks. the landau siblings are generally quite nice, but have well and truly turned their back on you. living is more expensive and serval refuses to fix your heater when it breaks.

oh, but he always looks at you so kindly and warmly.

your house is freezing. your stomach growls. you’ve been ill and injured and taken forever to heal; you’re on the brink of losing your job, you know. your boss is looking hard for an excuse to fire you. too many things are breaking in your house and it’s impossible to have them repaired.

you see him in the centre of town one day, back from the front line. people begin to whisper as you approach.

he looks at you with sickly love in his eyes, and what might be a genuine smile on his face. you’re scared to decipher it. you’re too scared to even look at him properly as you hug him. you can’t look at the crowds. can’t look at him. you close your eyes and are met with his voice.

his hot breath up against your ear, the words appearing in your mind and his arms tightening around your body:

i knew you’d come back to me, darling.

[fruitsoxs]

can we get some jealousy blurbs for astarion and/or gale?

Of course!! I love a good jealousy blurb

pairings; astarion x reader , gale x reader warnings; none notes; I was pumped up about this request i did it within a day lol. also rolan mention because i love him

Astarion

When you’ve got a little tadpole in your head that could very well be the end of you, little things like jealousy should be the least of your worries. Yet, here Astarion stands with one arm crossed over the other, pouting at the scene in front of him. He watches as his partner frets over another man who seems to keep showing up on their journey. Of course he should’ve known Rolan would be here at this stupid magic store that Gale so desperately wanted to visit. Astarion had heard you talk about how the tiefling was planning on becoming an apprentice for Lorrokoan. Pity that the grand wizard had turned out to be such a massive asshole. Yes it’s horrible he was mistreating Rolan (Astarion could always sympathize with any poor soul who suffers at their master’s hands). However, that doesn’t warrant you leaning in so closely to the man to look at his bruises. It doesn’t mean you can smile so fondly at him-

It takes you laughing at something Rolan said while the man stares at you softly before Astarion has had enough. The vampire clears his throat rather loudly, grabbing everyone’s attention. Once you are looking at him he opens his mouth to say “Shouldn’t we get going? We’ve been in this dreaded place too long.” Your smile drops as you tilt their head, giving Astarion a confused look. Astarion simply looks away. He knows it’s petty, but he doesn’t care. Getting the hint, you nod. “I guess it’s time we get out of your hair Rolan.” you express.

Rolan's smile falters, but he nods in understanding. “I do have a lot of work to do now. Of course, if you should ever need my assistance, just call for me. I’ll lend my magic in any way that I can.” the magic user tells you. Astarion huffs and starts to walk away. He knows full well Rolan’s help would be useful, especially with the coming battle you must fight. Once again though, he doesn’t care. There’s something about this situation that has made him feel uncomfortable, and he’s quite mad about it. 

When you finally exit the massive building, Astarion’s anger subsides. He feels himself grow a little ashamed by his outburst. He wraps his arms around his chest and stops. You stop with him, locking onto his gaze with a sense of curiosity. The others have kept going, opting to give the two of you a little privacy.  

“Were you jealous? Of Rolan?” You ask seemingly humored by the entire ordeal. Astarion wants to deny it. After all, he’s never been one to care much about what you do- and who you do it with. Despite being in a romantic relationship with you, he doesn’t own you. He loves you, and he knows you love him. You’ve proved it time and time again. That should be enough. For some reason though, this situation has deeply upset him. “And what if I am?” he asks defensively, sending a glare that looks more like a pout. 

“I’ve never known you to be the jealous type.” You joke, smiling. When you notice the seriousness in Astarion’s eyes, your grin drops. “You’re serious?” you ask, inching closer. The vampire doesn’t need to say anything, his expression explains it all. You simply reach out and put your hand on his arm. You do it slowly, giving Astarion a chance to pull away if he wants. “Star…” you whisper, eyes meeting his. “You are the most important person in my life. Never forget I love you. So much.” 

He knows this, but hearing you say it makes his negative emotions melt away. “And besides, you don’t need to be jealous of Rolan. Yes, I worry about him- but we’ve saved him so many times it’s hard not to.” you sigh, shaking your head like a worried parent. A small smile makes its way onto Astarion’s lips. “Bad luck does seem to follow him.”

Gale

Gale has had a rough few months. After being ripped from his home, given a tadpole in his head, and forced to adventure with a bunch of …colorful people, he’s been craving one good thing. He didn’t expect that one good thing to be the fearless leader of his adventure party, you. Along the journey, you showed the man you had a great heart. Your habit of saving others, and doing the right thing made Gale swoon. He hadn’t expected to meet such an amazing person during such a trying time. Somewhere along the way, the wizard had fallen for you and your kind hearted nature. The only problem? Sometimes you were a bit too kind.

Gale’s smile fades as he watches a man strut his way over to you, confidence in every step. After finally making your way to Baldur’s Gate, your party had decided stopping at one of the taverns to grab a drink wasn’t such a bad idea. The circumstances may be dire, but taking a little time to relax is important. That’s how you ended up here, with a bunch of people following your tail. Gale had severely underestimated how many drunkards would have the guts to hit on someone like you. Now, his mind is swimming with that funny little green monster known as jealousy. 

“So, do you come here often?” The stranger asks you, leaning against the bar between you and Gale. Gale wishes just this once you would get angry, and react in a way unbecoming of you. Of course you don’t. You simply smile at the man and shake your head. “No. Not really.” you answer, aura radiating with kindness. “Well then, allow me to fund your next drink.” The man’s speech is slurred, clearly egged on by the alcohol in his system. 

Gale watches the scene on the other side of the man, his eyebrows lifted in a way that makes him look like a kicked dog. When you don’t deny the drink, Gale feels his chest grow tighter. The thing that made him fall for you, is the thing he hates most right now. He hates that feeling. After all, it’s his fault he has yet to confess his feelings. He finds himself turning away, glancing at his drink with uncertainty. What should he do? 

“Hey…maybe after this we could go out back-”

Gale snaps his head back over to the man. “No.” he says out loud cutting the man off. Suddenly fueled by anger, he stands up, walks over to you, takes your hand and begins to pull you away. You stumble along behind him, but don’t pull form his grasp. He leads you away from the confused man at the bar, and outside into the cold air. Once he stops, he turns to look at you. You don’t seem angry, just a little confused. 

“Is everything okay Gale?” you ask. You seem a little concerned, and it makes his heart twist.

“I- No. Everything is not okay. I just...I’m..” he groans, unable to fully express what he’s trying to say. He doesn’t want to confess like this. He wants it to be romantic, not awkward and uncomfortable. “I do not like watching people take advantage of your kindness.” He decides to say.

You smile at him, and squeeze his hand. The hand he forgot is holding yours. “Thank you Gale.” you mumble. You then lean forward, and before he knows it you’re pressing your lips against his cheek. “That’s very kind of you.”

His cheeks heat up, a dumb smile stretching across his lips. “Anything for you.”

[the-angst-k1ng]

MY DRAWING REQUESTS ARE OPEN!!

(Wild Kratts only, I am more than willing to draw OCs and AUs!)

[anyashappytobehere]

I love your art style it's so cute and squishy!!! I was wondering if it's not too mush if you could draw perfectdolls art of me and @democracyrockzz's Jane and Ocean? If it's too much one or the other is fine

hold her hand 😣

[angelkiyo]

MAKE A FRAT BOY GRIMMJOW NSFW HCS ILL GIVE YOU MY FIRST BORN

a/n: LMAOOO yesss! loved writing for grimmjow ty for this ask ml ☺️💕 lowkey this isn’t even “frat boy!” but more so in general butttt shhhhh — original post<3

—

⋆ 𐙚 ̊. frat boy! grimmjow, who is as bold in bed as he is in person. giving you his cologne sprayed jackets and his shirts is one thing. but hickies? that man LOVES to mark you while having sex, strategically putting hickies all around your neck so people know he fucks you good. it’s the cherry on top when you’re at a party and a guy attempts to hit you up, only to be met with your neck scattered with hickies and grimmjow holding you, arms around your waist as he practically stares daggers at the poor guy.

⋆ 𐙚 ̊. frat boy! grimmjow, who is an insane fucking tease in bed and definitely not vanilla. while he loves to give you pleasure and goes off on making sure you feel good, he loves going that extra mile. he’s the type to be really into edging until you practically cry and beg. in the rare moments where you likes to tease him yourself by “flirting” with other people, he gives you payback by thrusting into you at such a slow pace, that it has you in tears due to overstimulation, making him grip your hips in place to stop attempting to grind on him yourself for self-induced pleasure.

⋆ 𐙚 ̊. frat boy! grimmjow, who is in love with having you suck him off. he loves how your cute doe eyes look up at him while you suck and gag on his cock. he likes to guide you, slightly tugging at your hair while doing so and praises you, “taking it so goddamn good”. he mutters filthy nothings while you’re a mess, barely keeping it together with your mascara streaked, lip gloss smeared onto his cock and everywhere but your lips.

⋆ 𐙚 ̊. frat boy! grimmjow, who loves to feel you up. he likes ass and tits, and don’t get him started on your beautiful legs and hips. he loves to play with your tits while in missionary, cowgirl, or lotus position. while at the same time, he likes to see your ass bounce against his abdomen every time he fucks you dumb and enjoys slapping your ass every time you’re on all fours. he’s really into worshipping your body and kissing every part of you. to him, you’re a beautiful sculpture of a woman that deserves to be fuckin’ praised. he likes to brag about you and how “fuckin’ gorgeous” his girl is.

speaking of which… ⋆ 𐙚 ̊. frat boy! grimmjow, who loves cowgirl and you dominating. don’t even get him started on that position. he’s no virgin or prude and he is a massive, prideful, obnoxious prick to everyone, don’t get him wrong, but there’s something about you dominating him while riding him that just makes him feel so restless. his ego swells up every time you ride him to whatever pace you’re feeling that. he’s comfortable with you to let you get the reins and loves muttering every praise in the book when you do so.

[haidynn]

can you make more kaminari and kirishima pfp?

kaminari and kirishima icons for anon! (wasn’t sure if you meant individually or together so i did both)

requests are open!

[lamnwar]

guys.... GUYS

Requests are open! 🥰🥰

[daily-fern]

Day 5

[boikhaicho]

what would craig respond with?

[justanoasisimagines]

Eyes Forced Open

Summary; Jorah has feelings for you who would have guessed his jealously would have saved your life. Pairing; Jorah Mormont x Female Reader WordCount; 1,465 Warnings; Angst, Jelously, mentions of usual canon violence A/N; Requests are open! Credit to @cafekitsune for the banner and the divider

Jorah observed as you followed Daenerys quietly as she interacted with her guests. You were a perfect picture as your dress flowed graciously around you. You were breathtaking.

The two of you had been with Daenerys from the very beginning. You'd traveled far and wide reinforcing Daenerys claim to the Iron Throne. Over time, Jorah liked to believe you'd grown close. Late-night discussions as you both attempted to figure out the next course of action. Seeking comfort from each other when times got tough.

Jorah was no fool. He could admit over time he'd developed strong feelings towards you. His heart yearned for you in ways he couldn't understand.

He'd questioned if you returned his feelings. He remained unsure. It is why he'd kept quiet and yearned for you in private.

Jorah examined the room searching for any potential threat. It was his duty to protect the Khalessi. He'd also made it his duty to protect you. He'd do it gladly even if it cost him his life.

Jorah stood with a hand on his hilt searching the room, when his eyes found something. You were standing posed while Daenerys interacted with one of the attendees, yet his attention wasn't fixated on her or the conversation.

It was on you.

Jorah felt unsettled as he focused on the interaction. Slowly biding his time observing it play out. Jorah could not allow Daenerys to be seen as weak. He would not create a spectacle.

The attendee moved a lock of your hair out of your face, Jorah could stand no more. Advances were one thing, physical touch was another.

Jorah made it over to you both in five large steps. Brushing your bare back with his fingertips, he alerted you of his presence. Glancing up you extinguished some of the jealousy coursing through his veins.

Despite the man ignoring Jorah, now he'd gotten closer, something appeared astray. The man's eyes were glancing around the room. Tension was rolling off of him like waves crashing on the shore.

A subtle nod of his head, Jorah alerted Ser Barristan. A fraction too late as the man drew his sword. Daenerys took several steps back as you gripped hold of her hand. The room suddenly diverted into chaos.

Screams and thundering footsteps while the scraping of swords unsheathing. Men moved swiftly to protect Daenerys. There were fights surrounding her. Blood and body parts smothered the once pristine floor.

Jorah fought seasonedly, yet he remained distracted as he attempted to keep you within his eyesight. He moved deliberately always attempting to adjust his position.

Jorah focused on defeating the enemy at hand, it was his duty to protect the Khaleesi. It's what continued to drive him. While her safety was paramount, Jorah was concerned about your safety and well-being. This is why Jorah cut down man after man smothered in blood, unsure who it belonged to.

He was fighting on pure instinct.

As he swung his body around sword swinging high in the air, his blood ran cold. Somehow you'd been separated from the group. Now three men were circling you like predators on prey.

Jorah released a mighty yell as he sliced down his opponent in two strikes. his focus tunneled in on you. Jorah moved with the purpose from opponent to opponent. Strike after strike. He fought hard and quick.

Nothing would hurt you.

Jorah's rage drove him. He took his anger out on the enemy. It was mere moments before he stood behind the three assailants.

"Get away from her!" The men faced Jorah in response swords drawn. Their attention was drawn to him. They played into his hand as he battled them. They were younger and quicker. Jorah was by far more experienced. Jorah is no fool. He knew the numbers were stacked against him.

"Jorah look out! The third man had sunk up behind him. While the second shoved you forcefully out of the way. You landed hard on the floor. It was the final straw, Jorah found renewed energy and brutalized the three men.

His energy depleted, Jorah collapsed to his knees. Jorah glimpsed over at you, dressed crimpled and smothered in blood, you were grasping your ankle. Pain creased your expression.

"Are you well M'lady?" Jorah asked between breaths.

"My ankle hurts" Jorah nodded. He needed to get you both somewhere safe. Jorah stumbled as he rose to his feet as he made his way over to you. Holding his hand out towards you, you took his hand and he lifted you into his arms.

Jorah stumbled as he carried you out of harm's way. He could rest soon. When you were safe. Jorah felt you bury your head into his neck. he wished it could have been in better circumstances.

Jorah could see Ser Barristan in the distance. He was so close. As soon as he was behind the double doors, he collapsed onto the ground. He dropped you and you landed to the side of him.

"Ser Jorah! Jorah! You dragged yourself towards him, you attempted to search for any sign of injury. Yet it was difficult to see as his shirt was now a stained bloodied mess. Lifting Jorah's shirt, you saw a mighty wound in his side. Ragged and red in appearance. You'd wondered how Jorah had managed to fight for so long.

"I need some help over here!" Soon, a Maester was attending to his injuries. Unable to do much more, a tear slid down your cheek. Concerned for the man who'd done everything to protect you.

Jorah slept for three days and three nights. You remained by his bedside for the majority Only leaving to freshen up. You did not want to be in a state when he awoke. He'd fought valiantly; the least you could do was show bravery while he recovered.

Pushing the needle through the fabric, you concentrated on the needlework. You'd been stitching the bear from Jorah's sigil. It made a difference from your usual flowers, but you found it beautiful nonetheless.

A twitch of a finger unseen by you. You continued to work until a groan broke through the silence of the room.

Your eyes snapped up, placing the needlework to the side. Jorah's arm twitched as you suddenly moved to sit on the edge of the bed.

Immediately you moved so you could go and find the Maester, yet Jorah's hand clasped around your wrist.

"Stay…with…me" Jorah croaked, you moved only a fraction so you could present him with some water. Undoubtedly he'd be parched after days of being in a slumber.

"Here, have some water. You must be thirsty." Resting a hand against the back of his head, you helped him lean up so he could take a drink. He drank slowly, soothing his dry throat.

"How long has it been?"

"Four days and four nights. You had everyone worried you would not wake" You replied, placing your hand on top of his, unable to meet his gaze.

On several occasions, during that time you'd been worried Jorah might not awake. You might never know his warmth or his smile. You'd never experience him walking alongside you whenever you were traveling together. It had taken nearly losing him for you to realize your feelings.

You were very much in love with Jorah.

"I am lucky to awaken to such a beautiful sight." Your eyes flickered up, as Jorah gave a weak smile. He'd longed to see your smile again. It was powerful enough to create a rainbow on a stormy day.

"You nearly died. Why would you put yourself in harm's way like that?"

"Are my intentions not clear enough? What of my feelings? I'd do it again to protect you." Jorah observed your eyes widen as he entwined your fingers together one by one.

"You can not possibly mean what I believe you do" Jorah beckoned you closer soon you were leaning close to his face. By the lines under your eyes, it was clear you had not slept a lot recently.

"You were the reason I approached you both. I could not bear another man touching you. When you are not his to touch. My heart yearns for you and I believe yours does the same, so why don't we stop pretending."

Jorah was right. Nearly losing him had forced you into a realization. Leaning down you pressed a gentle kiss onto his lips.

"You are right. Promise me you will not nearly die on me again." Jorah nodded as he brought your hand to rest directly on his chest on top of his heart.

"I will see fit to protect what belongs to you now." Both of you smiled as you got lost in one another. Sometimes it took an incident to bring two oblivious people together.