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sassypossumm · 4 days

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Me after heady desire.....ugh!!!! This was ART, meg!!! I'm dying, no, I'm dead..... the North....sigh....

War Prize

Description: To restore your house's name and ensure peace after the Dance of Dragons, your brother marries you off to Cregan Stark.

NSFW Content under the cut

“I do not need your help; I am more than capable of unpacking my own belongings.” You snap, grabbing the folded dresses from Cregan’s hands and shoving them in a nearby chest.

Cregan chuckles, the sound warm, deep, filling the room, pulling you from your memories and making your traitorous heart flutter. “I did not think you did, I merely wished to help my lady wife.”

“I am not your lady wife, I am your prisoner, your men made that quite clear when they dragged me from my wheelhouse.” You say, your head held high, your back straight, unbowed. You are not a Martell, but you will turn their house words into your own if it is what it takes to survive. Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken. You will not bend nor break, and you certainly will not bow before the Wolf of Winterfell. Not while the blood of Oldtown still runs in your veins.

You have had to bear the indignity of being married off, a moons long journey to Winterfell, the separation of you and your remaining family, the stares, and whispers of the smallfolk. You cursed your brother Lyonel for his cowardice, he should have said no, should not have sent you off to the North. If he truly wanted to restore House Hightower’s good name, you could have married a Tully or an Arryn, but no, he sold you off to a Northern barbarian.

You still remember Dowager Queen Alicent’s words, how she grabbed your shoulders and told you to slit Cregan’s throat if you had the chance. The madness in her eyes scared you, your once beautiful and kind cousin now crazed, her mind tainted by fear. You had been stripped of all weapons from the moment you left King’s Landing and did not see them trusting you with them any time soon.

“I must apologize again for their rough treatment of you, Lady y/n, I will see them reprimand for their actions.” Cregan promises, his storm-gray eyes filled with nothing but sincerity.

“Only a fool draws sustenance from promises.” You say haughtily, pretending your stomach does not flip at the cocky smile that graces your lord husband’s face.

Cregan steps closer to you, far closer than you would deem appropriate. He towers over you, the broadness of his shoulders, the strength of his arms, the cut of his jaw, it is all…appealing. “Aye, good thing neither of us are fools.” He reaches up and tucks a lock of hair behind your ear. His fingers tracing the curve of your face, trailing down the column of your neck agonizingly slow.

“I would ask you to step away from me, Lord Stark, you take too many liberties.” Your voice is unflinching, but you know he feels you shiver at his touch.

His hands go to your waist pulling you against him, dipping his head, his lips at your ear. “You said you are my prisoner, does that not mean I am able to take whatever liberties I like?”

Your eyes flutter closed, unwilling to listen to the rational part of your brain that protests when Cregan’s lips dip lower, nipping at your throat. His heated tongue darting out to soothe the sting, his hands slowly, ever so slowly, trailing up and down your body, his fingers finding their way between the laces of your gown.

“And if you are not my prisoner, then you are my lady wife. We married before we set off upon our journey here, and I did not take what was rightfully mine that night, nor any other out of respect for your grief, but I am entitled to it.” His words would normally strike fear into your heart, but they are said so softly, each syllable threaded with heady desire, his warm hands on you nearly driving you mad.

“Do you wish me to fall to my knees, grateful to you for not bedding me after you stole me from my family?” You snark quite weakly, the breath stolen from your lungs by Cregan’s large hands palming your breasts.

“I wish to fall to my knees and taste my wife, if she would let me.” He says against the skin of your throat, mouthing at it like a man starved, leaving marks like a wild beast.

“Oh…” You manage to say, knees weakening as Cregan yanks down the bodice of your dress. His lips, tongue, and teeth find new skin to conquer and claim as he walks you back towards the large bed set against the far wall.

“Would you like that, My Lady? Your wild northern brute of a husband buried between your thighs, drawing such lewd sounds from you, it would make even a whore blush?” Cregan asks, his hand sliding up your leg, bunching your skirts as he reveals your smooth skin.

Your heart is pounding in your chest, so loud he must be able to hear it for it drowns out even the thoughts in your mind. “Lord Stark I—”

His hand slips beneath your smallclothes, long fingers teasing that sensitive pearl you so rarely have time to toy with, drawing a gasp from your lips. “Speak my name, or call me husband, I have had enough of being called Lord Stark.”

“Husband, I—what do you mean to do?” You stutter out, toes curling as he strokes your folds, the slick sound making your face burn.

“How long have you been waiting for me, little wife? Have I done a poor job tending to you? That you would be so wet and ready even as you spit fire at me over a few gowns?” He coos, easing one finger in, your back arching at the feel.

“I was not waiting for you.” You protest, even as your hands fly to his hair, tangling your fingers in his thick locks.

“Oh? Were you waiting for someone else? Do not tell me you have brought a lover to our home. I will have to kill him for treason against his liege lord.” He says, and the thought of it, of someone killing for you, excites you far more than it should, your walls clenching around him.

He chuckles and slides in another finger. “You liked that? Do you wish to hear more? Hear how I would end the lives of any who looked upon you with unworthy eyes, how I would keep you here with me in this room until the pleasure I give you is enough to banish all other men from your mind?”

You whimper in response, your blood turning to liquid lust in your veins, your body far too hot for the amount of clothing you have on.

He crashes his lips to yours in a searing kiss, moaning against you, his fingers crooked and curling, rubbing up against that spot deep within your walls, the one that makes you jolt, and sing so sweetly.

“Please.” You whisper, bucking your hips against his hand, eyes screwed shut as he brings you closer to your peak.

Time stops and all the breath is pushed from your lungs when Cregan enters you, pushing past your maidenhead with a gentle apology, his hand smoothing down your hair when you whine in pain. “I will give you what you need, do not fret.”

You nod, unable to force your tongue to work, sucking in all the lost air when he pulls out then enters once more, building a slow but steady rhythm. You want more, you need more, and you tug on his hair, directing his lips back to yours.

“So greedy.” He teases, his hips picking up speed as he wraps your legs around his back, his lips crashing to yours.

It is bliss, white-hot and unending, his thick cock dragging against your walls, quick, precise thrusts sending the tip of it hammering against the spot within you. Cregan’s name is the only word that you can form, begging for more of him.

“My little wife, what would they say back in Oldtown hm? Their precious lady mewling for the Wolf of the North.” His voice is low, ragged, as he restrains himself.

“I do not care, just fuck me.” You beg, your hips moving of their own accord.

He smiles, a heart stopping, small clothes dropping smile. “As my lady wishes.” His hips snap into yours, and he spreads your legs further, before tearing your gown in half right down the middle, his arm muscles not even straining, the fabric falling uselessly to the side.

You cling to him, burying your face in his neck, desperate breaths and cries of his name falling from your lips as he dismantles you.

“Louder, I want the whole of Winterfell to hear you.” He orders, lifting your head up to meet your eyes as he tugs on your nipples with his free hand.

It is a new feeling, one you must feel more of, and you arch your back, pressing more of your soft flesh into his hand.

Cregan plays you like a lute, plucking and strumming, his hips keeping time with the song of pleasured sighs he brings forth, until you have reached your peak. The final crescendo, and when he dips his head taking a nipple between his teeth, his thumb on your pearl, his cock filling you to the brim you finally shatter.

His name is a chant to the gods both old and new, your body shaking in his arms, pleasure setting you alight as he spills within you, connecting your lips once more moaning your name against them.

Perhaps the North is not all bad.

HOTD TL: @nyctophilic0vitnir, @svtansdaddyx, @fan-goddess, @dc-marvel-girl96, @shintax-error, @bellameshipper, @the141bandicoot, @the-phantom-of-arda, @haydee5010, @partypoison00, @serrhaewin, @issshhh, @pax-2735, @malfoytargaryen, @sahanna, @dellalyra, @mxrgodsstuff, @jkhomes, @unusual-raccoon, @boofy1998, @kravitzwhore, @caribbeangel, @krispold, @issshh, @afro-hispwriter, @ryswritingrecord, @prettykinkysoul, @elissanatok, @sahvlren, @its-sam-allgood, @happinessinthbeing, @8e-h-e8, @feyres-fireheart, @just-emmaaaa, @crazylokonugget, @hedahobbit98, @devils-blackrose, @mercedesdecorazon, @snh96, @imjustboredso, @izzicle, @hiatuswhore, @aslanvez, @devils-blackrose, @yentroucnagol, @queenofshinigamis, @partyposion00, @cryptidsrcool, @jennifer0305, @solkara, @simpinonyouz, @lorarri

#cregan stark x you #cregan stark x reader #cregan stark smut #cregan stark imagine #minors dni #hightower!reader #vicky talks with meg #sassy recs #Those bedroom eyes tho....

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sassypossumm · 4 days

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Well Loved

Clearly the trailer did something to me.... or more specifically Aemond...

Sharing a tender moment with the One-Eyed prince

[MDNI]

"I'm going to do something I've wanted to do for a long time." Kissing his shoulder, you pressed him back into the mattress.

"What's that?" Aemond breathed, the smirk on his face easily giving way, the words catching in his throat as your lips trailed slowly over his flushed skin.

Leaning back, you pushed his hair off his forehead and admired his blown out pupil and labored breathing.

You'd done that.

Smiling softly, you kissed the corner of his eye, your own heart stuttering when his lashes grazed your lips. Turning his face with gentle fingers, you closed your eyes and sucked his bottom lip between your teeth and nipped the tender skin, shoshinsa him when he groaned.

"I'm going to make love to you." Ameond tensed, and you saw the battle being waged behind his eye. His brows pinched and he opened his mouth to protest, but you beat him to it, eagerly sucking the hesitation off of his tongue.

Quickly replacing any reticence with a little piece of your soul, willing him to surrender to the ribbons of pleasure weaving and winding betwixt you, binding your bodies and souls beneath the silken sheets.

Your lungs were on fire, protesting against the passion, but you willed them to burn in silence. In that moment you cared little if you suffocated, if you died, you'd die with Aemond Targaryen's lips on yours.

Running your hand down his chest, you fanned your fingers over his thundering heart and moaned into his mouth. There were no words in that purple haze.

You didn't need words when his arms braced around you so tightly, when he groaned so eagerly for you. What words could tell you what his body had so plainly told you time after time?

Tearimg your lips away from his, you buried your face in his neck and drew ragged breaths. Your fingernails dug into the skin over his heart, and your own heart sang with his growled hiss. Aemond's fingers tangled in yoir hair, and you whined when he sank his teeth into your neck.

"ñuha jorrāeliarzy." Aemond rasped, sucking at the stinging mark at your neck. Your fingers clawed at his skin, ripping g a groan from his chest. Gripping your throat and jaw, he turned your fa e so your foreheads touched.

It was hard to tell who's breath was who's, but that didn't seem to matter. Your noses brushed, then met, your eyes so close you could see the deep violet flecks swimming in his fiery eye.

"Let me make love to you." You breathed. He was so quiet you couldn't be certain he'd heard you. Then, he shook his head. Before you could make a sound, Aemond flipped you over, and pinned you to the mattress with his weight. Pinning your wrists above your head with one capable hand, he ground his cock between your thighs and nuzzled your pulse.

"You don't seem to realize, ñuha jorrāeliarzy," your heart stalled as his teeth grazed your thrumming pulse, "that you make love to me everyday." He murmured, his lips leaving a trail of fire down your chest. Pausing he gave you a seering look and mouthed at the swell of your breast as he plucked at your nipple.

Drawing your breast to his mouth, he sucked lazily. Your back arched off the mattress, and you moaned his name. Giving the pert bud a final teasing kiss, Aemond laced his fingers through yours and notched the head of his cock at your fluttering entrance.

"And I am very well loved."

#house of the dragon #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen x you #aemond targaryen smut #hotd fanfic #hotd aemond

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sassypossumm · 5 days

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Not throwing shade.... but I definitely think this Cregan turned out better than HOtD's interpretation... of course I had to do a Cregan self ship....

[@lazyjellyfish300... here's my other HOtD man 🥰]

#cregan stark #sassy speaks

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sassypossumm · 5 days

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im DEVOURING your tywin lannister fics like it's my last meal!! first editions made me start tweaking for mafia au tywin and suspicious yet besotted american who owns a coffee shoppe. if you ever continue that fic (or any tywin fics in general), i will go insane in the comments! thank you for your amazing writing!! hope all is well ❤️❤️

thank you so much!!! 🥹🥹🥹 you have NO iDEA the wonders this did for my self confidence as a writer!!! I definetly love mafia Tywin, and my procrastinating self is surely gonna get back to him!!! Don't worry, Tywin fics aren't going anywhere, I've got room for more than one obsession 😅

#sassy speaks

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sassypossumm · 5 days

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Masques

Thank you, @serpentqueenofwesteros for the request!!! I modified it a little, but I hope that you like it!

Tywin Lannister hates excess, but that's exactly what this masquerade represents, excess. But the times are strange indeed, even more so when the ever elusive Petyr Baelish shows up with a decadently dress mysterious lady on his arm...

Tywin stood in the corner, arms folded,watching the dancers in derision.

"Father!" Tyrion trot up to his father, face flushed and eyes shining, wine cup in hand. Tywin clenched his jaw and kept his eyes trained on the festivities. Tyrions gaze followed his father's and he narrowed his eyes. "Enjoying the festivities?" He again smiled brightly up at his father, clearly the wine was good, or Tyrion would have had thr presence of mind to trod more carefully with his taciturn father.

"A masque is an egregious waste of money." His tone was hard and flat, his words measured. Tyrion mumbled something good naturedly and laughed loudly as a lady clad in bright yellow grabbed his wrists and swept him off.

Amongst the masked party goers there were two staunch outliers, but for very different reasons. Tywin Lannister, and his son Jaime.

Tywin simply detested such a disgusting waste of money. Why should he bother with a ridiculously expensive set of silly clothes he'd only wear once? No, his usual court attire suited him just fine. Jaime's reasoning was simple enough, he was a king's guard. As such, he felt it was his place to set a standard, and so, watched the goings on with an alert eye.

And while Tyrion might not have noticed what his father had been so keenly focused on for the past hour, Jaime could help but take note.

Petyr Baelish, notorious bachelor, so seldom known to be publicly in the company of a woman that rumors had swirled of his 'apetites', had appeared with a lady on his arm. An lady expensively bedecked in an outrageously ornate blue costume.

Unlike most of the ladies who favored the fashion of half madks which left thr bottom half of their faces exposed, this one had worn the more traditional full faced mask.

That, however, wasn't what had caught Tywin's notice. He could honestly care less about the fineries and fripperies of the fair sex. No, what caught his interest was the fact that Littlefinger had seldom left the lady alone.

Oh. She certainly swirled past him enough times for him to become familiar with her throaty laughter wafting on the breeze, but for those brief dances with this minor lord or that, she stayed firmly by Lord Baelish's side.

And it didn't seem as though they were on the friendliest of terms.

"You've been staring all evening."

"It's not polite to sneak up on your aging father, Jaime." Tywin responded dryly, not sparing his son a glance. Jaime merely smirked and leaned closer to his father.

"Why don't you ask her to dance?"

"She's quite familiar with Baelish."

"So?" Jaime shrugged a shoulder. Tywin looked over at his son knowingly.

"So, only an fool would blindly walk into one of that spider's webs."

"But a very lovely web." Jaime whispered almost teasingly, nudging his father's shoulder. Tywin scoffed.

"More peacock than lady if you ask me." He muttered derisively. Yet, no sooner had the words left his mouth that his feet carried him towards Petyr Baelish and his masked companion, you.

"Ah, Lord Lannister, I don't believe you've met my-"

"My lady, might I have your hand for this turn?" Tywin held out his hand, cutting off Lord Baelish. Petyr Baelish's eyebrow ticked, but his features remained schooled as he was royally ignored by both you and Tywin.

"You may." Without a second glance at Lord Baelish, you lay your hand atop Tywin's and followed his lead out onto the floor. The music began, the dance a slower minuet that allowed for conversation.

"You've been the talk of the evening, my lady."

"Have I, my lord?"

"Entering the hall in the finery of a queen, and on the arm of a notorious man? It seems you intend to make a statement, my lady." Tywin considers you sharply, as you circle each other. You incline your head, but say nothing. "Just what statement that is... remains to be seen."

"As you say, my lord."

"It is said that the Westerosi may write the music, but that the Bravosi invented the art of dance."

"I see the Lord Lannister is well informed." You say lightly, your palm pressed against his as you make a turn on the floor. Tywin hummed.

"Though, I must say, my lady, you affect the Bravos accent very well for someone who was doubtlessly raised elsewhere."

"Oh?" You tilted your face up a little to meet his eyes. "And you have a keen ear, my lord, to have picked up on the discrepancy." His lips tilted up at the corner.

"Still, I am having trouble placing your native accent, my lady, mayhaps you might assist me?" You smirk, grateful for the mask thst covers your expressions.

"I am native to wherever pleases you, Lord Lannister. Pentos, Essos, Bravos, Dorne, take your pick my lord." Your tone is laced with a surety, the smug smile on your lips evident, despite the mask and dim lighting. Tywins eyes narrowed in thought, and his piercing gaze sent a shiver down your spine.

"I've seen your eyes once before, my lady, on another face." He said quietly. Your blood ran cold at the steel behind his gaze. "And those aren't eyes likely to be forgotten." His grip on your hand tightened, as he ground to a halt. "You've been long away, my lady, welcome home." He raised your hand to his lips, and his next words sent your heart dropping to your feet.

"Lady Mormont."

#tywin lannister x reader #tywin x reader #tywin lannister #Mormont!reader #tywin lannister fanfic #tyrion lannister #jaime lannister #house lannister #Tywin lannister x y/n #game of thrones fic #a song of ice and fire

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sassypossumm · 5 days

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Probably the only way I can describe how this wonderful fic made me feel!!! This is so sweet! Love that you brought in mushroom!!!

The Tower of the Wolf

Description: You, one of the last remaining ladies of Dowager Queen Alicent are brought before Cregan Stark, acting Hand of the King.

You attempt to cling to the former Dowager Queen like a child, your nails digging into her skirts. The fabric once beautiful, a vibrant green now dirtied and torn, her pale shaking hands holding your wrists trying to keep you with her. The both of you sobbing as Northmen pull you from her, ignoring your tears and your lady's pleas for your life. Your lady was good, she cared, she fought for you, even now in chains she fought for you, not only because you were her niece, but for you were a cherished member of her court

“She has done nothing wrong, have you no compassion, you beasts?” She spits out the word like it is poison, her nails digging into your skin, leaving raised marks as they drag you from her grip.

“Please, do not take me from her, she is my lady, my duty is to remain by her side!” You try to fight against them, clawing at the man's face, neck, hands, any skin you can reach, you will not leave your lady. Not when she is all you have left, not when you fear what they will do to her if she is alone. The Brothel Queens.

That horrid fool Mushroom had spread the tale, laughing at the way all color drained from your face. It had not been done, the usurper Rhaenyra had died before it could be, but who is to say it could not still be put in place? There are cruel men that remain within the Keep, cruel men who would see your lady punished for the Greens’ actions.

The Northmen clearly grow tired of your protests, and one backhands you. “Waste of time trying to reason with Hightower whores, Lord Stark should just get rid of them.” The force of the slap sending you stumbling into the wall as your lady cries out, tugging at the chains that keep you beyond her reach.

You hold your hand to your cheek, trying to scramble back to her, but you are caught before you can take a step.

“Quit struggling.” Another man snarls, before he flings you over his shoulder, your chin slamming against his armored back, the metallic taste of blood blooms on your tongue, and your vision blurs as more tears pour forth.

You can hear Lady Alicent’s cries as they carry you away. The agonized screams tear at your heart, echoing in your ears even when the door to the dungeons is slammed shut, and you find yourself back in the relative quiet of the Keep’s halls.

The Hour of the Wolf, that is what they are calling it, and you curse the whole of House Stark. How dare they, how dare they come here and act as saviors? You have not even seen Jaehaera since you were thrown in the dungeon with your lady, is she even alive?

You try to calm yourself, focusing on the floor, counting the marble tiles as your captor takes a brisk pace through the halls, muttering to himself in that barbaric northern way. He is taking you to the Tower of the Hand, and your stomach lurches. The screams of your cousin Helaena, sweet, kind Helaena return to your mind, the blood, Jaehaerys’ little body. It was beyond cruel that plot of cursed Daemon Targaryen, beyond cruel that Princess Rhaenyra would go along with it having lost her own son. How could she wish that pain upon sweet Helaena, a girl who had done her no wrong?

Finally, your captor lets you down, dropping you like a sack of potatoes, pain flaring through your body at your ungraceful landing upon the hard stone floor. Someone had removed the carpet, perhaps it had been dirtied. The remainder of the decorations were still present, the rounded window letting light spill in, the hearth empty and boarded up to prevent any assassins from sneaking in. Besides that, it was pristine, untouched by the havoc outside its walls. Though you and Lady Alicent had been allowed to bathe—to walk towards the Stranger in rags, but not filth—before Lord Stark had sent word that you both would be moved, you still felt dirty. Still felt as though the stench of death, the filth of grief, clung to your skin and hair.

“Lord Bolton, I asked you to escort Lady y/n, not drag her here as if she is a common criminal.”

“Apologies, My Lord, but she attacked my men.”

“Attacked?” You can hear the suspicion in his voice, picture the raised eyebrow.

“She attempted to claw their eyes out.”

He laughs, the damned Stark lord laughs, as if it is humorous that you feared so greatly for your life. “If your men are so easily caught off guard perhaps, they need to spend more time training, it does no good to have an army so easily defeated by a single woman.”

You bite down on the inside of your cheek, uncaring if more blood fills your mouth, you cannot stand to hear his voice, cannot even raise your head to look at him. Will he kill you? You were not a key player in the war, merely a lady-in-waiting, a loyal one, a third daughter of a second son who did not leave her aunt even when she ordered you to. Perhaps you can make a deal, offer yourself as a bedwarmer while the Stark lord is here? Attempt to convince him your lady should be sent back to Oldtown to remain under house arrest with what little family you and her had left. Though he is a Stark and their honor is known, he would not take a mistress…

Bowing your head, you take hold of the seven-pointed star around your neck, a gift from Lady Alicent. You swear that you will go with him, back to the frigid North, if it means your lady would not die in a cell haunted by the ghosts of this cursed keep.

You are too lost in your thoughts to notice that Lord Stark has dismissed Lord Bolton and is kneeling before you, his eyes fixated on the blood trickling from your lip, the ever-forming bruise on your cheek.

“Lady y/n?” He asks softly, much too softly for a man in his position.

You swallow hard and force yourself to raise your eyes, your mouth still tastes of iron, and you know you must force your spine to be made of it as well.

Lord Cregan Stark is handsome, strong jaw, dark hair, eyes like storm clouds, full lips and a scattering of stubble and roguish scars. But his handsome looks do nothing to dampen the raw strength, the aura of a warrior, a man who has killed and will again, that cannot be hidden beneath cloaks and clothing. Broad shoulders, large, calloused hands, and arms that tell of training and hard work, he towers over you even as he kneels, and you are terrified.

“My Lord?” You answer his question with a question, unwilling to give anything away to this beast.

“Are you hurt? You are bleeding.” Cregan says, reaching inside his cloak and pulling out a handkerchief, gently dabbing at your wounded lip.

You flinch back, and he pulls away slowly, his hand still outstretched, leaving the handkerchief between you. “I did not mean to hurt you, my apologies.”

“It was not your fault.” You say quietly, your eyes downcast, focusing on the handkerchief, the pristine white cloth marred by scarlet, blood scattered amongst snow.

“I will have those men disciplined, you are a lady, and should be treated as such.” He sounds earnest, you can detect no falsehoods, but still you are wary.

“Thank you, My Lord, but it is not necessary. I am a prisoner of war; I do not expect to be treated as an honored guest.” You say demurely, clasping your hands in front of you, wincing when you see the blood that covers them.

Cregan takes a waterskin from the desk behind him, the very desk Lord Hightower used to sit at, and wets his handkerchief before gently reaching for your hands. You watch as he cleans the blood from them, using soft circular motions, his calloused hands warm against your much smaller ones, and he does not release them until they are clean.

“This is your home, is it not? You should not be treated as such in your home.” His voice is warm, warmer than his hands, and if you close your eyes you can pretend. Pretend he is a brave knight who has rescued you, not a barbarian from the North who aided those who keep you prisoner.

“This is my lady’s home as well, and she is treated far worse than I.” You protest, praying that he will not grow angry and strike you.

“Your aunt—the Dowager Queen has been sorely mistreated; I arrested the men who cast her into those foul dungeons, and she should be returned to her chamber by the time we have finished here.” Cregan says, folding the handkerchief and setting it with the waterskin on the desk behind him once more.

“I am glad to hear that.” You say, finally able to meet his eyes.

“I am honored I could lighten your spirits.” He says, a wolfish grin gracing his lips, his gray eyes flashing with an unreadable light.

This is what you have prepared yourself for, you must do it, for the good of your lady, for Jaehaera if she still lives, for the realm. All women know a satiated man does not wage war, does not continue the fight when it has been won, he simply takes his prize and returns home. You gather your courage and place your hand upon Cregan’s, looking up at him through your lashes, hoping you do not look as horrid as you feel. “Perhaps you would allow me to show you how glad I am, My Lord?”

He sucks in a breath, almost imperceptibly, a blush blooming across his face, his eyes widening a fraction, and for a moment he does not seem so beastly.

“I cannot imagine you had many comforts on your journey, it is such a long way from Winterfell, is it not? And now after all that fighting you must hold a war-torn city apart until others come to a decision, how awful.” You pout at him, for him, and allow one of the torn sleeves of your gown to slip off your shoulder.

“Aye, it was a long journey.” He manages to say, his fingers twitching beneath your hand, his breath catching in his throat when you move your hand to his wrist.

His shuttered breaths embolden you, and you shift forward, placing your other hand on his thigh, the muscle is firm to the touch, you note. “Such things must weigh so heavily upon you…if I am able to lighten that burden, I would be more than happy to.��

“You do not need to.” He says, his eyes flickering from yours to your hand on his thigh. “Truly, Lady y/n, I would never press myself upon you, I am not that kind of man.”

“But I want to, I want to help.” The lie rolls off your tongue easily, for it is half-truth. You cannot deny Cregan is attractive, but he still holds your life in his hands and could easily crush it at any time. There is something dangerously appealing about that, though, and you find that despite the dangers, you are desperate for the warmth he radiates.

Cregan’s eyes darken, and he groans low in his throat, closing the distance between you, stopping a hairsbreadth from your lips. “Tell me to stop, push me away, scream, slap me, I will not fight you, I will have you seen back to your lady, there will be no punishment.”

Liquid heat rolls through your veins at the sound of his desperate rasp, the restraint he possesses to not surge forward and claim you as his own. “Lord Sta—”

“Cregan.” He corrects softly, “I wish to hear you say my name.”

“Cregan, I do not wish you to stop.” You tell him, head spinning with the way his mere presence overwhelms your senses, the scent of pine and campfire smoke, his warm hands, his eyes, so dark, so deep you may drown.

Cregan’s lips meet yours, tasting of salt and honey, an oddly pleasant combination, his hands on your waist, beacons of warmth and civility, as his lips take you under, whispering heated words every time you part for air. “Say it again, I beg of you.”

“Cregan, please, do not stop.” You oblige him, grabbing at his tunic, pulling him impossibly closer, desperate for him to do something. Like sully that Stark honor and bind himself to you forever, giving you some kind of foothold in this new era that he has helped usher in.

He pulls back, breathing ragged, and he looks at you, truly looks at you. “If I do not stop now, My Lady, I will not be able to stop at all and I—”

“I wish to hear you say my name.” You echo his words from before, threading your fingers in his dark locks, and guiding his lips back to yours, but turning at the last moment and pressing your lips to his jaw.

“Y/N, please, if you do not stop me”—he lets out a strangled curse when your lips drift lower finding a seemingly sensitive spot, your teeth making a home there—“I am a man, an honorable one, and I have fought and won a war, and I am tempted, by the gods I am tempted, but I do not wish to view you as a prize.”

“Why not? I wish to be your war prize.” You press the words into the skin of his neck, reddened marks blooming in your wake, his grip on you tightens at your words, his head falling back exposing more of his skin.

“Others take me, will you truly have me live up to their stories, the barbarians of the North who steal innocent maidens away from their homes?” Cregan asks, even as he leans into your touch, moaning when you shift in his lap.

“My home is where my lord husband is, wherever he will have me.” Your words drip with implications, your lips pressed to his ear.

He shivers at the sensation, his eyes impossibly dark, his voice low, heady with lust. “I will have you in Winterfell.”

TL: @nyctophilic0vitnir, @svtansdaddyx, @fan-goddess, @dc-marvel-girl96, @shintax-error, @bellameshipper, @the141bandicoot, @the-phantom-of-arda, @haydee5010, @partypoison00, @serrhaewin, @issshhh, @pax-2735, @malfoytargaryen, @sahanna, @dellalyra, @mxrgodsstuff, @jkhomes, @unusual-raccoon, @boofy1998, @kravitzwhore, @caribbeangel, @krispold, @issshh, @afro-hispwriter, @ryswritingrecord, @prettykinkysoul, @elissanatok, @sahvlren, @its-sam-allgood, @happinessinthbeing, @8e-h-e8, @feyres-fireheart, @just-emmaaaa, @crazylokonugget, @hedahobbit98, @devils-blackrose, @mercedesdecorazon, @snh96, @imjustboredso, @izzicle, @hiatuswhore, @aslanvez, @devils-blackrose, @yentroucnagol, @queenofshinigamis, @partyposion00, @cryptidsrcool, @jennifer0305, @solkara, @simpinonyouz, @lorarri

#cregan stark x you #cregan stark x reader #cregan stark x y/n #hotd #team green #hightower!reader #vicky talks with meg #sassy recs #sassy reblogs

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sassypossumm · 6 days

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What I Want

Cregan Stark x Tyrell!Reader

You and Cregan have been dancing around this tension foe a while, and in true Stark fashion, he's getting fed up with it, so he has one question,

What do you want?

Fire and Blood can be thanked for the chokehold this man has on me, as well as the ever lovely @feyhunter78, hope I do him justice!!! (Short little drabble, a little smutty dialogue,18+ under the cut)

"And you, Lady Tyrell? What is it you desire?"

The answer came easily enough, however, wasn't fit to be shared around the campfire.

Your opportunity came later though, when Cregan caught you outside your tent, his hand light upon your arm.

"I asked you a question, my lady." His words hushed but firm, like so many things about him. You took a moment to study those deep grey eyes and that stoic expression that had become so dear to you. His raised brow was the only tell that he was waiting impatiently, ever so good at playing thr gentleman he was.

"What do I want?" You looked down at his hand on your arm and met his eyes. "I want you to make love to me. On the shores of the sea by the moonlight. Ardent, passionate love. I want to feel your skin on mine as you press into me. I want to feel the agonizingly slow drag of your cock inside me as we push and pull in time with the tide."

Taking a deep breath, you stepped closer and wrapped your hand around the nape of his neck, pressing your fingers into his hair.

"That's what I want... Your lips on mine, legs entwined, bodies writhing, souls uniting. I want to suck the salty brine off of that devastatingly distracting freckle on your neck. I want to weave my fingers through your hair, and I want to feel you drive so deep inside me, that my bones and marrow start singing chants so heavenly even the Seven couldn't comprehend them. That's what I want."

#cregan stark #cregan x reader #cregan fanfiction #cregan x you #cregan stark x y/n #cregan stark x reader #house of the dragon #Highborn!reader #cregan stark smut #cregan stark imagine #hotd fanfic #hotd x reader #dance of the dragons #tyrell!reader

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sassypossumm · 6 days

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Whaaaaat...noooo... the Season 2 trailer of HOtD didn't turn me into an Aemond stan who had to go personalize a self ship pic... nope... definitely not me...

#aemond one eye #aemond targaryen #hotd aemond

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sassypossumm · 6 days

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Germs, Ewww

Just picturing Miguel being under the weather with my germophobic ass...

CW: fluff, protect yourselves

You don’t know how it happened, but it did. Miguel is as sick as a dog. You feel sorry for him you really do. He looks so pitiful, laying there, coughing and sneezing. You know you should be by his side like the dutiful girlfriend you usually are, but you just can’t bring yourself to do it. You see, it’s common knowledge that you have crippling germaphobia.

“Y/N.” Miguel moans pitifully. Clenching your jaw, you inch closer to the doorway. “Y/N.” He moans again, flipping over and putting the pillow over his head. Guilt tugs at your heartstrings. Making a decision you set your jaw and turn towards the kitchen.

“Migs, honey,” You whisper, inching into the room holding a mug of medicinal tea. With a groan, Miguel pulls his head out from under the pillow and squints up at you. He is taken aback by the fact that you are wearing a mask.

“Y/N?” His voice is scratchy from the coughing. Pulling himself into a seated position, he pats the edge of the bed. Placing the mug on the nightstand, you pull up a chair and sit near him. With a huff, Miguel runs a hand over his face and reaches for the mug. Taking a drink, he hums appreciatively. Looking at you over the mug, his eyes look clearer than they have in days. “Thanks, Y/N.” He rasps, putting the mug bag on the nightstand. Laying back down he reaches for your hand. Miguel looks wounded when you pull back. Sick Miguel O'hara is very clingy.

“Miggy, darling, I love you, but you are sick.”

“I promise I won’t get you sick.” He tries again, reaching for you. Sick Miguel O'hara is also full of shit.

“Miguel O'Hara, you can’t promise such a thing and you know it!” Standing, you place your hands on your hips with a chuckle. Steve scowls and rolls over.

“I can’t even get any sympathy from my girlfriend in my hour of need.” He grumbles. Rolling your eyes, you shake your head. Sick Miguel O'Hara is also dramatic. Suddenly an idea springs to mind. Quickly you rush to the kitchen and return.

“There, there.” You call soothingly. Miguel hums at the feel of his back being patted. He rolls over to look at you with a sleepy smile when he sees that you are still in the doorway… holding a broom.

“Did you touch me with that thing?” He narrows his eyes at you. You look from the broom to him.

“Maybe.”

“Y/N!” He drags a hand through his hair.

“You wanted sympathy you said.” You try weakly.

“I wanted the sympathy of my girlfriend, not a broom.” He grumbles laying back down.

“Until you get better, the most you’ll get is this broom.” You mutter more to yourself. Miguel's eyes grow darker as he narrows them. Fidgeting under his scrutiny you mutter something about ‘feel better’ and rush off. For the next several days every time you have to take care of Miguel, he gives you that dark almost predatory stare. It’s gotten so uncomfortable that you’ve sent Peter to take care of him.

****

Miguel's been better for a week now, but you’ve still been avoiding him. It’s getting harder though; you’ve heard him asking around for your whereabouts. Rounding a corner one day, a large pair of arms grab you around the middle. With a squeak you’re pulled back into a solid wall of muscle. A pair of lips lower towards your ear.

“Y/N.” You feel your heart drop. Miguel. He rests his chin on your head and pulls you closer, wrapping his arms tighter around you. “I’m not sick anymore.” You can feel the rumble of his chest.

“So, I see.” You whisper.

“No thanks to you.”

“Now, Miggy, darling,” You quickly turn in his arms and look up at him. He accommodates for you turning and tightens his grip on you again. With a smirk he quirks a brow.

“You’re not getting away from me that easily this time.” He flexes his fingers over your rib cage and begins tickling you.

“Miggy, please,” You squeal, pushing at his hands. He pulls back with a self-satisfied smile. Catching your breath, you give him a playful scowl and wrap your arms around his neck.

“Your not worried about getting my germs, Y/N?”

“I,I,” You feel a flush creep up your neck.

“Don’t worry,” He traces your nose with a knuckle, “If you get sick I’ll take care of you, unlike someone I know.”

“Migs,” He cuts you off with a firm kiss.

#miguel o'hara #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara x you #miguel imagine #fluff #miguel o'hara fanfiction #miguel o'hara fluff #miguel o'hara x y/n #spiderman 2099 x reader

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sassypossumm · 7 days

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Darn right his heart is in our claws!!! Love that Rhagar isn't his dad!!! Wonderful as usual, Meg!!!

Chapter Eight - Jon's true parentage comes to light and King's Landing comes under attack.

Jon reads the letter, again and again, looking up at you, who has your hands clasped in front of you, and Lord Tyrion who waits patiently.

“I am a Dayne?” He asks, unable to believe the words written in his father’s handwriting.

“Jon Dayne, the only living child of Arthur Dayne and Lyanna Stark, third in line to the seat of Starfell behind your cousin Edric, a boy of four and ten, and your father” Tyrion reiterates.

Jon shakes his head, he is a Stark, Ned Stark’s bastard, he cannot be a Dayne. “No, I cannot be, it is a mistake.”

You bite your lip and step forward reaching for him. “Jon…”

“It is true, we could send you to Dorne to ask your aunt herself. Tyrion says, jerking his head towards the door.

Jon folds the letter and shoves it in his pocket. “I cannot simply flee to Dorne, not while my father and sister are still in danger.”

You take another step towards him, but your father holds you back.

“That is why you must act in accordance with our plan, a marriage must take place. A Tyrell women must be made queen.”

Jon looks at him, cold fear filling his chest. Remembering how you looked when you opened the door to your father’s solar and bid him to enter. Your eyes were red and puffy, tear tracks down your cheeks. He does not want to marry a Tyrell; he wants to marry you. “I will not marry a Tyrell, I will not marry for the throne, I have no claim to it.”

Finally, your father allows you to go to him and you take his hand. “You do not have to, Robb will marry the Tyrell, he will be king.”

There is a newfound confidence blooming in him, and he takes your hand, the one already holding his and presses it to his lips, letting it linger, his eyes meeting yours burning with a new heat. “I shall do as my lady commands.”

The flustered expression that flits across your face delights him, and he turns your hand over to press his lips to your palm, then your inner wrist, directly over your pulse point.

Tyrion coughs sharply. “No one else in the Keep besides us and Lord Varys knows of your true identity, and it must remain that way. You are still a bastard in the eyes of the court, your actions must reflect that.”

You reluctantly break away from Jon. “But away from the eyes of the court?”

Tyrion sighs heavily. “Dayne, do you wish to court my daughter?”

Gods yes. Jon thinks, all his dreams that he had squashed down and locked away coming to the forefront of his mind. “Yes, I do.”

“Fine, I will allow it, provided you two do not ruin everything that is in the works. The weight of this plan is indescribable, the secrecy needed indefinable. All those fanciful dreams I can all but see running through your head can be crushed with one small mistake.”

It is not as if it is torture to act as he once did, to stand so close and yet so far from you, unable to take your hand or call you by your name, but it is torture not being able to comfort you.

You sob as you watch Myrcella depart for Dorne, Tommen himself shedding tears, only Joffrey does not cry. He sneers at you and Tommen, and Jon has the strong desire to break the boy-king’s jaw.

Then come the riots, chaos breaks out, Joffrey is yelling, the smallfolk are starving, but Jon is prepared, he has lost sight of you in a crowd before, and he will not suffer that again. He scoops you from your horse and onto his own, riding hard for the Keep, leaving behind all else, his arm iron around your waist, keeping you close until his horse comes to a skidding stop within the Keep.

You hide your laughter in his cloak when your father kicks Joffrey, yelling at him for his foolishness, but your laughter dies when reports of Fleabottom in flames roll in. Water wagons are dispatched by your father’s order, and Jon dismounts, helping you down from his horse, escorting you inside.

Then comes the Battle of Blackwater, bloody, endless screams, armies from all other the central lands crashing, explosions of wildfire lighting up the bay, the green flash seen hrough the windows of the Keep. You keep pace with Jon as you run towards the Queen’s Ballroom with the others remaining in the Red Keep.

His heart is in his throat as he begins to recognize the scene. His steps no longer meld with the others but squelch. The banners bleed, and though the door to the Queen’s Ballroom is wide open, he can see it there, half cracked, the scent of flesh, of blood seeping into his skin. He halts, grabbing your wrist and guiding you the other way, ignoring your questions until the halls are empty, and he throws you over his shoulder as he did the day his father—Lord Stark had nearly lost his head.

You protest, banging on his back with your fists, demanding answers, but he cannot get his jaw to work, his tongue too heavy to lift, his lips unable to form words.

“Jon, put me down, we are going the wrong way, are you mad?” You yell, fear tinging your voice.

He must keep you safe, he must, he cannot shake the vision, you are wearing the same dress, the same cosmetics, your hair styled the same way as in his dream, he should have known, he should have known.

Jon rips a ribbon from your gown and throws it over a nearby sconce hoping Tyrion will notice it and not follow the others to their deaths in the Queen’s Ballroom. He counts the stones on the wall until he finds the twenty-ninth one, pushing it in he glances down the hall slipping in through the opening that appears.

You are quiet now, no longer fighting him as he carefully picks his way through the tunnels, listening for the sounds of battle. Finally, he comes to a fork in the path taking the left branch and setting you down once he had walked a good distance. If he were to look out though the cracks in the stone, he would be able to see the Godswood. Jon prays the soldiers who attempt to break in will ignore this sacred place and go straight for the holdfast.

“How did you know there was a tunnel there?” You ask glancing around the darkened tunnel.

“Theon found them, he told me about them, said if we ever needed to take Sansa and run, we should go this way.” He explains, leaning against the stone wall, arms crossed over his chest.

“There are secret tunnels that go to the Godswood. I knew about some of the others, but not these.” You say, running your fingers along the rough-hewn stone. “So, if we keep going, we will be outside the Keep?”

He nods. “But we are not leaving the Keep, it is too dangerous.”

“I am aware of that Jon, that is why we were supposed to barricade ourselves in the holdfast.”

“No.” Jon says, his voice stern, sterner than it has ever been towards you in his years of knowing you.

Shock flickers in your eyes, he has always been good at reading you, others could never read your true emotions but for him? You were an open book; one he would never tire of reading.

You place your hands on your hips, lifting your chin imperiously, your eyes like jade in the shadows of the tunnel. “No? Why not?”

“If Stannis’ men breech the walls, they will go there first.” He explains, frustration building in his body, why can you not just listen?

“The holdfast is practically impenetrable, especially when the drawbridge is pulled up, which it is.” You say, leaning closer at the end of your sentence as if to put emphasis on your words.

Jon breathes out a harsh sigh, your screams echoing in his mind, he has not had that nightmare in years, but now he cannot stop seeing it. “No one knows we are here y/n; it is safer.”

Another step, you are practically nose to nose with him. “What if someone else were to know about this tunnel, what then? There is barely enough room for the two of us, how will you swing your sword?”

Shouts cut off your words and Jon grabs you, pulling you to his chest, his hand over your mouth. He can hear your heartbeat, or perhaps it is his, your chest brushes against his as you breathe, and he can feel every inch of your body against his own.

The shouts pass, he relaxes and releases you, attempting to banish the impure thoughts from his mind. Yes, he is courting you, but that does not give him leave to act on his baser instincts.

“We would not have to fear being heard if we were in the ballroom.” You grumble.

He often finds your stubbornness charming, the angry pout on your lips when you are denied what you want, he finds most endearing. You are spoiled, even more than Sansa, your father rarely says no to you, and it is only by the gods’ own hands that you are not a worse version of Joffrey.

Though Jon cannot deny, he enjoys your spoiled attitude, enjoys the way you turn to him the moment you are told no. Tommen does not want to ride horses with you? Jon does. Your father refuses to accompany you to Fleabottom so you can buy more embroidery thread? Jon will go, and he will carry all your purchases. A fool from House Royce refuses to dance with you once he learned who your father was? Jon is a wonderful dancer; and he will not relinquish your hand until it is demanded.

But now it is less charming and more…enticing. You look up at him with such stubbornness, your lips in that adorable pout, your hands on your hips inadvertently pushing your breasts out. He finds his restraint has gone.

“Gods will you shut up?” He hisses, grabbing your face and crashing his lips to yours.

You freeze for a moment, then melt into him, your arms looping around his neck, fingers tangling in his curls, as your lips meld with his.

“Is this all it took, My Lady? A kiss? Perhaps I should have kissed you ages ago.” He purrs, his lips a hairsbreadth from yours, brushing against them with every word.

“Oh…” You breathe out, your grip on his hair tightening.

“My lovely lady, my lioness, my stubborn girl.” He presses each term of endearment into your skin, saving his newest one, born from the freshly acquired knowledge of his parentage, for last. “My starlight.”

Your lips meet once more, and you part yours for him, whimpering when his tongue strokes yours, a movement he had heard Robb and Theon speak of.

Jon had not believed it to be true, the reaction they said it invoked, but your response sparks a desperation within him. He must hear that sound again. So, he repeats it, tip of his tongue dragging across yours, coaxing it into his mouth and sucking lightly.

“Oh gods, Jon, I—” Your words are muffled as you refuse to fully pull away from him, voice higher pitched and breathless.

Liquid heat boils just under his skin, one hand leaving your face to grab your hips and pull you impossibly closer. “Anything, y/n, ask it of me, I am sworn to you, I will do whatever it takes to grant your heart’s desire.”

You whimper once more at his words, and the sound strikes through him like lightning. The scent of jasmine, your soft lips, soft skin, the taste of honey from your morning meal, he could devour you, a beast he is for his thoughts, for how easy it would be to pick you up and have his way with you. You are already sworn to each other, good as betrothed, would it truly be such a crime…?

Bastard. The word is like an arrow to the chest, and he pushes you away, guilt replacing the heat beneath his skin.

“Jon? Are you alright?” You ask, going to cup his cheek.

He stops you. “I—I cannot, we cannot. We are not wed; I will not dishonor you.”

You look put out, blinking rapidly at him, and then slowly nodding. “I understand.”

Jon sags against the wall, rolling his head back, praying for strength when he hears you sniffling. His head shoots up, just in time to see you wipe away your tears. Truly you are spoiled. He reaches for you, brushing his lips across your forehead with a fond smile. “Y/N, do not cry, soon we will be wed, we must allow the pieces to fall into place, remember?”

“You will fall in love with Margaery.” You whisper, hiding your face in his leather breastplate.

He laughs, the sound echoing off the stone walls. “How? How when my heart is within those claws of yours? When I see no reason to remove it?”

“She is perfect, the tales of her beauty, her grace, her intelligence, her dutifulness, she would make an excellent wife.”

“Aye, an excellent wife for Robb, she will win his heart with a few words I am sure of it, but there is no heart of mine for her to win. It is as I said, my heart is yours, willingly given. I do not want it back, nor do I wish to give it to another.”

You turn your face up towards him, the living embodiment of perfection, your hair framing your face, your lips kiss swollen, your eyes the dark green of Winterfell’s forests. “Swear it.”

He clicks his tongue in faux disappointment. Here in the shadows he is bold, intoxicated by your raw and bleeding desire for him. If his heart is within your claws then surely your own heart sits within his maw, fragile and beating. “To think I have served you so faithfully and still you doubt me.”

“Swear it.” You half demand, half plead, your heart between his teeth beating faster, trembling in his toothy grasp.

He cups your face, resting his forehead against your own. “I swear it, and may the gods strike me down if I break my oath, if my heart strays from you.”

He feels your relieved exhale more than he hears it, and he lingers, thumbs caressing the soft skin of your cheeks.

“I swear it too.” You say softly, your hand coming to rest on his chest, heat burning through his breastplate, warming his chest. He hopes you leave a handprint, hopes you burn your mark into his skin, leave a remainder of your presence that cannot be taken from him.

TL: @mostclevermiss, @solacestyles, @2valentines, @sharknutz, @idohknow, @bdudette, @pluraldoggo

#jon snow x reader #jon snow x y/n #jon snow imagine #lannister!reader #sassy recs #sassy reblogs #The kiss!!! I just hear that raspy voice...mmmm

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sassypossumm · 7 days

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we love it!!! I absolutely love the story you're weaving here!!! of course we want a baby with Jon's beautiful curls 🥰

Chapter Seven - Back in the Red Keep, you and Jon face a new set of challenges. Note: I think R + L = J is soooo boring and basic, so I'm throwing in a theory that's been floated around online for a hot minute

“He saved me cousin, he could have left me to be assaulted and killed by the crowd, could have escaped with his traitorous family members, but he stayed and saved me.” You add, lowering your eyes submissively, you hate this, hate playing this role, but you cannot lose Jon.

Joffrey looks at your aunt then grandsire who nods. “Very well, you may keep your dog, cousin.”

You curtsy, thanking Joffrey over and over again, spilling out platitudes that makes bile rise in your throat. Dog, he called Jon a dog, your Jon, your champion, your defender, the one who chased after you instead of his father and sister.

“But I want him kept on a leash, if I see him sniffing around, his head will substitute for his father’s on the spikes of the gate.” Joffrey warns, that cruel smile spreading across his face once more.

You nod and thank him again, before taking Jon by the wrist and dragging him out of the throne room.

Once you both are safely in your chambers, you collapse onto the rug near the fire, Ghost getting up and trotting over to Jon.

Jon buries his hand in Ghost’s fur, letting out a shaky breath.

“I am so very sorry, Jon.” You look up at him from your place by the fire, feeling completely in disarray.

“I am still alive.” He says, unable to look at you, the tension clear in every aspect of his very being.

He stands stiff, his chest rising and falling as he forces his breath in and out to calm himself, his eyes stay locked on Ghost, his head bowed, his inky curls falling forward shielding his face.

“But you are separated from your family, and you had to endure Joffrey speaking of you as a dog.” You say softly as you begin to remove the pins from your hair, letting it fall free.

Jon settles down beside you, holding his hand out for the pins. “I have endured much worse than being called a dog.”

You both sit in silence for a while as you undo your intricate hairstyle, the one your aunt favored, the one you thought would endear her to you. Jon takes each pin from you, setting them in a neat pile on the end table. This is routine, something you and Jon have done time and time again, and while it is calming, you know it is not normal. That sworn swords do not sit beside their charge and help them undo their hair, that they stand guard outside their door while the servants undo their charge’s hair.

But you had seen your Aunt Cersei and Uncle Robert do it once, when you were very young. And though he was not her sworn sword but her husband, as a child you found it hard to tell the difference, husbands were supposed to protect their wives, as sworn swords were it seemed so similar. It was a good day, they were getting along, and as he escorted her back to her chambers you spotted them.

Your aunt, heavily pregnant with Myrcella, pulling out the pins, your uncle taking them, helping her detangle the stubborn ones. He was smiling, and she was too, a small one, her expression soft and open, thanking him quietly when he gently ran his fingers through her hair. For a moment you believed the act they put on in public, for if this is how they acted in private, surely it was true? It was not until you were older that you realized you were wrong.

“Is what your father said true?” You ask Jon, detangling your hair with your fingers, careful not to pull too hard.

He sighs and leans forward stirring the fire with the iron poker, his armor now fully discarded and set aside against the far wall. “I believe it to be.”

“If Joffrey, Myrcella and Tommen are bastards, ones born of incest they will never be able to inherit Casterly Rock, and Uncle Jaime cannot because he is a Kingsguard, my grandsire would not be able to give it to my aunt since she is the one who had the bastard children, which means…”

“After the death of your father, you will be heir.” Jon says, completing your thought, speaking the words you dare not speak.

You lay down on the rug slowly, shocked. “I have never even dreamed such a thing.”

“Lady y/n Lannister, heir of Casterly Rock. A fitting title, you would do well as heir.”

You hum in response, staring up at the vaulted ceiling of your chambers. You can imagine it, you a golden heir, ruler of Casterly Rock, Jon by your side, perhaps a child or two with his curls and your eyes. He would do well there, shaping up the guards, playing with your children in the Hall of Heroes.

“Do you not wish to be heir?” Jon asks, leaning on one hand, his head tilting to the side, resting on his shoulder.

He looks tired, you are sure you do as well. “It is not that, I just…I am the daughter of a third child, a second son, a disfigured, scorned son. My mother was no one, the eighth daughter of the third brother of Lord Hawthorne, I could not even claim anything from her. It is my lot to marry some old man and bear his son, not rule Casterly Rock. I am not important in the grand scheme of things.”

Jon lies on his side facing you. “If the people of Westeros believe my father’s words, then soon the only trueborn Lannister will be you. That will make you very important in the grand scheme of things. ”

You shift to face him, running your fingers over the plush rug beneath you both. “I guess you are right.”

“And if they do not believe his words—Jon reaches out and his fingertips ghost the curve of your cheek—you are still important to me, I know it is not as grand, but it is true.”

You want to kiss him, you have never wanted to kiss anyone in your life as badly as you want to kiss Jon, but you will not. You will not put him in such an awkward position, and your father’s words ring in your head. Not a husband. A lover, or a guard, but never a husband.

Instead, you close your eyes and lean into his touch, featherlight as it is. “It is grand enough, my champion.”

Jon laughs softly, more an exhalation of air than a laugh, his breath stirring the hair around your face.

“You are important to me too, Ser Jon, I do not wish to lose you.” You admit, keeping your eyes closed, not wanting the moment to shatter. “I forbid you from fighting in any other tourneys.”

“Then how will I present my lady with her crown?” He jests, his hand settling on the side of your face, his thumb resting just below the corner of your lips. “Surely the one you have now will wither beyond repair soon enough.”

“I care more for your safety than a crown.” You say, finally opening your eyes and meeting his gaze.

His eyes are the color of a gathering storm, dark storm clouds rolling in, shot through with streaks of lightning, the air alive, the taste of rain. The depth of them going on for leagues and leagues until you feel you could be lost in them.

“I would give you the crown, the throne, if you asked it of me.” He breathes, his eyes searching yours, his spoken words of treason slipping from his lips so easily you cannot help but reach for him, anchoring your fingers in his tunic.

He is a man of eight and ten, you a woman of seven and ten, you are not ready to be queen, not yet, but his words, his words make you believe you are.

“That is treason you speak of.”

He gives you a wry smile. “Will you turn me in, My Lady?”

“Never, I trust no one else with my safety, I would die before you are taken from me.” You say, tightening your grip on his tunic, panic coursing through you at the very thought of Jon being taken from you, of being alone in Joffrey’s court, of being without Jon ever, in any place.

His smile fades, that solemn, serious look returning. You have spoken at length of Joffrey’s cruelty, of your fears if your father was ever not there to protect you, what vile men wished to take you for a bride, the things they have said to you. “I would never let that happen. Do you hear me, y/n? I will never let anyone separate us.”

You nod, warmth flooding your veins, washing away the fear at his words, at the sound of your name and your name alone coming from his lips. He says it so perfectly, wrapping each syllable in his rough Northern accent. It is unlike any pronunciation of your name you have ever heard, and you adore it.

You wish to ask him to stay, to share your bed, not in a carnal sense, but to sleep beside you, to ease your fears, but you know you cannot. You and Jon already act far more companionable than most sworn shields and their charges, and with Joffrey’s eye on him, it is too risky.

Your father calls you to his solar for evening meal, Jon your ever-present shadow is ordered to wait outside the door, and not to enter until he is called for, but he does not move until you give him a nod. Once the door is closed, and you take your seat, your father laughs. “You have him trained well.”

You bristle at his words but calm yourself, this is your father, he has been insulted all his life, he would not be so cruel, not to Jon. “He is my champion.”

“Yes, I am well aware, seems we picked well out of the Stark lot.” Your father says, beginning to cut into his food.

You do the same, waiting for a moment before you speak. “Do you know who set Lord Stark and Sansa free?”

“Stannis most likely, or Renly, either stand to gain from the North backing their claim, though Renly less so now. Though they did make my plan flow much smoother.”

You chew thoughtfully, then take a long drink from your wine. Of course, your father had been a part of the plan to free Lord Stark and Sansa, he was a good man at heart, and the death of Lord Stark would mean war. “And the rumors? Of my cousins’ parentage?”

Your father sets down his knife. “I have seen Robert’s bastards, and while it sickens me to think my siblings could be engaging in such…I do not think the rumors are false.”

“So, will we be named heir of The Rock? There is no one else, besides one of Grandsire’s brothers, but I doubt he would be willing to give them control.” You hope your father will tell you yes, yes, he has been named heir. Then you will take Jon and run, run all the way to Casterly Rock, and hide with him there until the realm has forgotten of your shared existences.

“I think it is more important to focus on the current heir problem, little lion.”

Your shoulders slump, but you nod. “Of course, Father.”

He sighs and reaches for your hand. “Y/N, my darling girl, I know your life has been upheaved ever since we left Winterfell, but I need you to trust me.”

“Trust you with what?” You ask, though of course it matters not the answer, he is your father he will always have your trust.

“Renly will fall, Stannis is declaring himself king, and the Tyrells will soon move to set one of their own beside Joffrey.” Your father explains, picking up serval cubes of cheese and setting them on the table strategically. “We shall send Myrcella to Dorne to shore up allies, and for her own safety, I would send you as well but—”

You cut him off, horrified. “I will not go to Dorne.”

“Yes, yes, I know, which is why I am not sending you along with her.”

“Thank you.”

“I have spoken with Lady Olenna Tyrell, terrifying women, intelligent beyond all others, if she were not so old I might suggest she take the throne herself. And we have come to an agreement that relies on many moving pieces, ones which I am delighted to say do not involve you and Jon until later plays.”

“Go on.” You are already making mental notes, attempting to see the connections before your father speaks them aloud.

“Joffrey should not be king, this is well known, and while I do adore Myrcella and Tommen, neither are fit to rule, they are sweet and innocent, too easily taken advantage of.”

“So, the Tyrells?”

Your father shakes his head, “not entirely. The Tyrells and the Starks.”

You digest the information, about to speak when your father continues, his voice lowered to a whisper. “I spoke with Ned Stark when I helped him and Sansa escape, he revealed something quite interesting to me about your dear champion.”

You lean forward, eyes darting towards the door.

“You know of the tale Rhaegar and Lyanna, the horrid tragic downfall of the Targaryens.”

“Yes, of course, all the realm does.” You say, trying to hurry him along, your curiosity growing with each moment.

“Jon Snow was born of a Stark, but not the one the realm believes he was born of.” There is a conspiratory smile on your father's face, as if he is not speaking madness.

“Are you—Lyanna, Jon is Lyanna’s son? He is a Targaryen?” Your own voice drops to a whisper, shock seizing your muscles, keeping you frozen to your chair.

“Gods no, though that would make our lives much easier.”

“Then what is he? Do not tell me he was born of incest.” You say, your hand going to the hollow of your throat, stomach churning at the very thought.

“He is a Dayne.” Your father says carefully, watching your reactions. “Son of the Sword of the Morning.”

“He is in line for the seat of Starfell? Rhaegar’s closet companion slept with the women he assisted him with kidnapping?”

Your father shrugs. “The ways of men are odd little lion, we cannot know how it all came about, only that the blood of Dorne runs in his veins.”

“But Arthur Dayne is dead, and Lyanna Stark is dead, there is no one who can prove this claim.”

Your father smirks. “Is he?”

You massage your temples. “Father, please do not drag me about, tell me the truth.”

“My apologies, allow me to elaborate. Lord Stark said he believes Dayne to be dead, but he did not deal the final blow himself, he and Lord Howland left with Jon before Dayne had taken his assumed final breath.”

“And unless you see the body cold before you, there is no assurance of death.” You say, remembering a pearl of wisdom your Uncle Robert had impressed upon you once.

Your father nods. “We must presume Dayne is dead unless proven false and act accordingly. A marriage must take place to secure a more profitable future.”

“You will not marry off Jon, he is mine.” You snap, pushing back from the table and standing, your face like stone.

“He is not yours; truly he belongs to House Dayne, his family.” He says, raising one eyebrow at you.

“No, he does not, they do not even know he lives.” You argue, clenching your fists, anger bubbling up inside you, a fire sparking, kindling, snapping to life.

“If you do not wish him to marry, we could send him home to Dorne with Myrcella.” Your father suggests.

The flames jump, climb, scale the walls of civility built within you and consume your rational mind. Your actions are no longer your own as you seize the nearest thing you can—an apple—and throw it at your father, who easily dodges it.

“Y/N, you are acting like a child, stop this at once, you cannot keep Jon from others forever.” He demands, his voice cold, colder than you have ever heard directed towards you.

It hurts, his words, the truth of them, the idea that someone else would take Jon from you, will warm his bed, bear his children, will get to love him as you long to. But you are a Lannister, you do not feel grief or sadness, you feel rage.

“He is my sworn sword, my champion, my Jon.” You grab another thing to throw, a plate, it crashes against the wall. “I will not let you or Lord Stark auction him off like a breeding stud.” Plates, fruits, silverware, even your napkin has been thrown in a fit of rage until you have nothing left to throw but the heavy chair you were sitting in. Which you do not have the strength to throw far enough, that it will make you feel better. “Jon swore his life to me, no one else, he is mine.”

Your father’s solar is a mess, and you are breathing hard, angry tears in your eyes as you stare down at him.

“He did, which is why we will not marry him off, we will marry off Robb.” Your father says, unfazed by your display of rage. “Ned Stark was declared regent, there was no mention of who should be heir, assumptions could be made.”

You slump into your chair, tears slipping from your eyes. You are not Joffrey, not a full-blooded Lannister, Hawthrone blood lessens the lion’s rage and allows you to cry. “Why did you not say that first? Why would you allow me to think—”

“I needed to be sure you wished to stay by him, and so did you. This will not be easy, little lion; many things may change once the truth is revealed. The Daynes may call for his return, or seek retribution for the deceit, if deceit was at play.”

You wipe under your eyes with your sleeve, the anger draining from you, leaving you hollow. “Why can I not simply flee to Casterly Rock and hide with Jon there?”

Your father walks over to you and embraces you tightly. “Because you deserve more, if Lady Tyrell is correct, you could control the Westerlands, you could marry a man you love, and the realm would have a good king through Robb.”

“But what if that does not work? Stannis has a daughter, does he not? Could we offer to betroth her and Tommen?” You ask, wracking your mind to try and recall the age and name of Stannis’ only child.

“If the Tyrell’s plan does not work then I will convince my family to extend the offer, then you and I will lock ourselves away in The Rock and let Cersei and Stannis eat each other alive.”

You laugh, the sound watery. “Or perhaps we shall run to Dorne and try to install Jon in the line of succession for Starfell.”

“That may prove more difficult, but it is always an option.” Your father laughs, the sound eases the remaining unrest in your heart.

You rest your chin atop his head. “Alright then, I will trust you. But who will tell Jon?”

TL: @mostclevermiss, @solacestyles, @2valentines, @sharknutz, @idohknow, @bdudette, @pluraldoggo

#jon snow x reader #jon snow x y/n #lannister!reader #jon snow imagines #sassy reblogs #Sassy recs #I'm loving the build up!!!

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sassypossumm · 7 days

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Good morning miguel nation! Quick thought...

Miguel jealous... [Minors DNI]

Miguel so pissed seeing that same guy who's been bothering you on and off for the last hour, that he's clenching his jaw. Clenching it so hard that it's a wonder he hasn't cracked his teeth.

Miguel storming over, and grabbing your wrist and tugging you down the hallway without a second glance back.

Miguel shoving you into a closet.

Miguel silencing your protests about 'making a scene' by shoving his tongue down your throat.

Your hands flying to tangle in his hair as his tongue wrestles yours into submission before possessively running over the roof of your mouth.

Miguel hiking your dress up and ripping your panties off with a primal growl, his body pressing yours against the closet wall.

Miguel's hips grinding into your thigh, his lips and teeth leaving angry purple marks along the column of your throat. His fingers pumping in and out of you with a lewd squelch.

Miguel's mouth covering yours hotly in an angry kiss to silence your wanton moans, his fingers curling against your g spot with unnerving precision on every thrust.

You quickly coming undone, nails scratching at the back of his neck, your hips bucking into his hand, tongue sucking desperately at his as your walls clamped down around his fingers, coating them in your essence.

Miguel pressing his face into your neck, nuzzling your shoulder, he's always softer after you cum. His lips brushing along your jaw, whispering praises about how beautiful you are.

Miguel lacing this fingers with yours and bringing both to his lips to suck your cum off of them.

A couple of party guests leaving their coats behind when they heard the sounds cumming from the closet...

#miguel o'hara #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara x you #miguel x reader #miguel imagine #spiderman 2099 x reader #miguel o'hara smut #miguel o'hara x y/n #smut #it's too early for this #but i love him

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sassypossumm · 7 days

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You Just Ran...

The sequel to "I Trust You"

Hope this is a good one! I hate making Miggy thr bad guy and giving him an angst ending, but sometimes that just happens right?

"I just....need some distance, Miguel. Don't try to find me. I gotta sort this out."

That phone message was the last Miguel had heard from you. And that was three weeks ago. You hadn't returned home that night, just walked out and... kept on walking. And that was three weeks ago...

BANG, BANG!

You were startled awake by the sounds of banging coming from your front door. Sitting up in bed you squinted and turned on your phone screen. 3 am. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” You groaned to yourself, flopping back on the bed. The banging was not stopping.

“I’m coming, I’m coming.” You called, waiving your hand at nobody as you trudged to the door.

“Y/N…” Your hand froze over the knob at the familiar voice on the other side of the door.

“Miguel.” You breathed. How had he found you? Placing a hand over your mouth you smothered a gasp. He sounded intoxicated.

“Y/N!” Came his slurred voice even louder this time. Wincing you quickly unlocked the door and flung it open.

“Oh, Miguel.” You gasped, looking at the waisted man slumped against your door frame.

“Y/N,” Miguel looked at you through bleary eyes. Leaning your head into the hallway, You looked frantically in both directions. You heard a door down the hall quickly snap shut.

“Great. Just great.” You mumbled to yourself. A groan from Miguel turned you attention back to him. Narrowing your eyes, you grabbed him by the tie and jerked him into your apartment. Unfortunately, you'd underestimated your strength and probably how intoxicated Miguel was, because when you pulled him back you lost your balance and fell.

“Oof!” You let out a harsh breath as he landed on top of you. “Oh, Migs.” You groaned, turning your head to the side to avoid his rancid breath. With a deep breath you managed to shove him and roll out from under him.

Y/N.” He moaned again, rolling onto his back. Standing, You placed your hands on your hips and looked down at him.

“Oh, Miguel.” Shaking your head you grabbed his ankles and started tugging him towards the couch.

“You left me.” He moaned more to himself than to you. You'd have been surprised if he even knew where he was. Groaning, you managed to prop him up against the couch.

“How did you even get here, Miguel?” You flopped into the chair across from him.

“Taxi?” He furrowed his brows, thoroughly confused. “Pretty sure it was a taxi.”

“MigsI, this is ridiculous even for you. How much have you had to drink anyway?”

“Stopped counting after the 4th bottle.” He picked at an invisible speck of lint on his pants.

“You’re lucky you don’t have alcohol poisoning.” You looked at him dryly.

“I love you, Y/N.” Miguel looked at you intently, trying to focus on your face. “So, so much.” He closed his eyes and shook his head.

“Miguel,”

“Why did you leave me.” His gaze was accusing now, no question in his voice only bitter betrayal.

“Miguel, really? We’re not doing this right now.” Standing to her your, you turned to your bedroom and returned with several blankets and a pillow. "Alright, come on.” With a lot of your tugging and a little of him maneuvering to stand, you managed to get Miguel standing.

“Where are we going?” He looked up at you as you slung his arm over your shoulder. Screwing your face at his stench, you turned your head to the side and started tugging him towards your room.

“You are going to sleep off your alcohol binge, and I’m going to sleep on the couch.” You spoke. Turning him around, you sat him on the edge of the bed and undid his tie. Miguel just looked up at you with a besotted grin on his face.

You do like me, hermosa.” He slurred when you freed the tie from his collar. Shaking your head, you gently pushed him back onto the bed and tucked him in.

“I like you much better when you aren’t drunk.” You grumbled. When you reached the door, you shut out the light, and you was pretty sure Miguel had fallen asleep as soon as his head had hit the pillow. “Big baby.” Reaching into your pocket you pulled out your phone and hit speed dial.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Peter, I’ve got a surprise for you.”

****

HOOOOONK!

“What? What?” Miguel fell out of bed and shot up in surprise.

“Good morning, Sunshine!” He turned quickly in the direction of the familiar voice.

“Y/N?” Miguel squinted up at the woman grinning ear to ear holding an airhorn.

“Ah. So, you do remember who I am?” You smirked and shook the horn. Miguel put his head in his hands and groaned.

“Why are you in my room, Y/N?”

“I should be asking you that, Miguel.” His head shot up at that.

“Wha- ow!” He slowly put his head back in his hands. Maybe he’d think more when the room stopped spinning.

“We can talk after you’re presentable.” You placed the airhorn down on the dresser next to the door and crossed your arms. “A friend brought you some clothes, I’ve left some Advil by the nightstand, and the bathroom is through that door.” You motioned towards the door behind him. “When you’re clean and in less pain, you can join us for breakfast.”

“Us?” Miguel groaned, chancing a glance up at you. You merely smirked at him with a shrug and quickly shut the door behind you. He winced at the sound. Rubbing his head, Miguel groaned and squinted at the clothes on the dresser. “Might as well,” He groaned in pain when he tried to get up. Holding his head, he flopped face down onto the bed. “Later.”

****

Miguel gingerly toweled his damp hair as he exited the bedroom. He hissed when his eyes met with an open picture window. “It’s too early for it to be so early.” He grumbled. Quickly his attention and nose were captured by the scent of coffee and eggs wafting from the kitchen. Following his senses, he padded to the kitchen where he heard soft voices.

“He’s alive! How do you feel sleeping beauty?” You grinned over your coffee mug.

“Terrible, thanks for asking.” Miguel sat as carefully as possible and rested his head on the table. You gave Peter a look and got up to make Miguel a plate.

“Miguel.” Miguel's head snapped up at the stern sound of his name.

“Peter.” He propped his forehead in his hand and gestured to Peter. You set a plate and mug in front of him and sat back next to Peter. Reaching for the fork, Miguel looked sideways from you to him. “What is this,” He motioned between them with the utensil. “Intervention?” Peter's lips pressed into a thin line. “He’s not amused, though I’d be surprised if much amused the fossil,” Miguel mumbled, cutting into the egg. “But I’m surprised you’ve lost your humor, hermosa, you still had plenty of it when you ran away without so much as a goodbye.” He looked up at you as he stuffed the bite into his mouth.

“Oh, Miguel, don’t be juvenile.” You sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose.

"Miguel , don’t be juvenile?” He narrowed his eyes. “It should be, Y/N don’t be juvenile.” Shaking your head, you pushed up from the table causing the legs to scrape across the floor. With a strangled sound you rushed from the room. Miguel tracked your movements before reaching for the mug.

“Miguel, really,” Peter cleared his throat and crossed his arms.

“Why do I feel like you’ve had something to do with this, Parker?” He put the mug down and leaned back in his chair.

“So now you want to make this my fault?”

“Isn’t it?” Miguel responded woodenly. Peter merely set his jaw and looked at him blankly.

“Why are you here, Miguel?”

“I want my wife back.” Straight to the point. Picking up the fork he pushed egg around on the plate.

“Y/N doesn’t want to see you, isn’t that reason enough?” A muscle ticked in Peter's jaw.

“No. No, I don’t think that’s reason enough.” Shoving to his feet, Miguel raised his voice on the last part in an attempt to reach you. Peter swiftly stood from his chair, and stood in front of Miguel, acting as a barrier.

“I think you need to leave, Miguel.” Miguel narrowed his eyes and came toe to toe with the shorter man.

“Peter,” came your voice as you placed a staying hand on Peter's shoulder. Miguel's eyes flickered to the contact, and he felt his own jaw tick as possessiveness threatened to take over. “He’s right.” You said softly. Miguel looked up to meet her eye. At the terrified look in your, his own softened. Peter acquiesced and stepped to the side.

“I’ll be outside if you need me.” He leaned towards you and whispered, making eye contact with Miguel.

“I’ll be fine.” You smiled up at Peter and pat his arm. Miguel tensed again. Peter looked at Miguel one more time and took a wide step around him to leave the kitchen. Several moments of silence passed before the sound of the front door opening and closing reached them.

"You already replacing me with Parker?" His voice dripped with sarcasm. Sighing heavily, you began collecting the dirty dishes.

"He's just a friend, Miguel."

"A friend who's been snooping around for years. I've seen how he looks at you. That kicked puppy look in his eyes." Miguel grumbles, following you around the table. "He's got no right, coming around my-"

"Enough!" You snap, rounding on him. Miguel's eyes widen and he takes a step back. Slamming thr dishes on the table, you advance on him.

"Y/N," he starts weakly, holding up his hands. Holding up a hand of your own, you point a finger at him.

"I told you I needed space. Not only did you not respect that, you show up three sheets to the wind making a spectacle of yourself. And now you have the unmitigated gall to accuse me and Peter of something?!" You snort. "Talk about the pot calling thr kettle black." He winces at the coldness in your voice.

"I didn't mean,"

"Yes you did, Miguel. What? Would it make you feel better if I said I'd slept with Peter?" The shame in his eyes was your answer. Shaking your head, you took a step closer and looked up at him. "Unlike some of us, I took those vows we made seriously."

Miguel opened his mouth to protest.

"I think you should leave." Turning away, you picked up the dishes and started towards thr sink.

"Nena," He rasped desperately, touching your shoulder.

"LEAVE!" You screamed, throwing the dishes in a fury. Amidst the boom of shattering glass, Peter burst in the door, and quickly took in the scene before training in on your pinched face. A choked sob escaped your lips, and he rammed into Miguel's shoulder as he strode past him, gathering you into his arms.

Miguel staggered back. Then turned and wandered dumbly out of your new apartment. Your new life. You'd found someone who'd held you when it counted... and Miguel wasn't stupid, he knew youd never give that up.

It was over.

#miguel o'hara #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara x you #atsv miguel #miguel x reader #miguel imagine #spiderman 2099 x reader #atsv #miguel o'hara angst #angst #peter b parker x reader #i'm sorry #miguel o'hara x y/n #miguel o'hara fanfiction

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sassypossumm · 9 days

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UGHHH!!! That last line at the end tho...... PURE 👏 POETRY 👏👏👏 loved it, didn't know I needed camping this badly

Camping with Miguel🏕️

AU Co-worker!Miguel O'Hara x AFAB!Reader

Synopsis: an innocent camping trip with your friend from work, Miguel, what could happen?😏😏

WC: 1.1k

A/N: feeling self indulgent with summer coming soon. Tbh I think Miguel would HATE camping, he'll do glamping in a cabin but not a tent bc he's so huge and his back hurts, but let me dream for a sec okay🤭. Outline format bc lazy and tbh don't feel super good about this one and did it on a whim but it was fun to get out! Inspired by lyrics from the song "Candles" by Daughter. 🖤🏕️

TW: MINORS DNI,SMUT, (P IN V, FINGERING, CUM EATING) FRIENDS TO LOVERS, alcohol, fluff (MAYBE DON'T ACTUALLY GO IN THE WOODS ALONE ON A DATE WITH A MAN IRL BUT IT'S MIGUEL SO YOU'LL BE SAFE OFC 🫶🏽)

@leonsbimbogf @thatone-writer

------

-Imagine going camping with your older co-worker and friend Miguel, somewhere remote in a national park, deep in the forest with not a soul around in sight

-it was your idea since both of your dates bailed for the weekend, befriending one another initially when you both grumbled over Janet at the office's potluck, and the pitiful end of year pizza party, obvious tension between both of you for months, finally worked up the courage to ask him to do something, figuring you might as well since neither of you had plans.

-Miguel makes you get in the passenger seat after seeing how silly you look behind the wheel of the enormous flatbed pickup truck you rented, both of you from the city have no clue what you're doing

-when you arrive, evergreen trees shrouding the small campsite, biting chill of mountain wind brushing your face as you step out, breathing in the crisp temperatures of the remote woods and releasing it with a deep sigh

-you bicker over the tent, finally allowing Miguel to set it up himself, when he insists that you're doing it wrong while you pout in a camping chair, attitude slowly leaving your body as you begrudgingly eat one of the sandwiches from the cooler, some chips, and a cold soda, realizing you were just cranky due to hunger and the long drive.

-Miguel smiles, telling you playfully to save some for him, to which you flip him off.

-he feels sweat trickle down his forehead watching you try to wield an axe and chop some firewood, approaching you with hands raised, telling you to slowly put it down.

-you're suddenly feeling really turned on when you watch him roll up his flannel on his thick hairy forearms, grunting as he brings the axe down, chopping the wood like it's nothing, using his collar to wipe his forehead as he pants, those wavy brown locks of his falling in his face.

-later, as the sun goes down, and the temperatures drop, he can't help but admire how adorable you look in your oversized sweatpants and hoodie, wanting to just pull you into his arms to stop you from shivering.

-you share amazing conversation and silly banter you're throwing back and forth as you sit around the fire, your camping chairs pushed close together, your socked feet in his lap under a thick warm blanket with one of his arms resting on top of your legs, roasting you some marshmallows over the fire, telling him when to rotate the skewer so it turns a lovely golden brown on all sides (except he wasn't paying attention the first time, lighting it on fire on accident and you giggling as you watched him cutely panicking, trying to blow it out, but not before it became a crispy charred mess)

-thinking about eating s'mores and your face getting warm as you nurse your Stella Rosa wine in your tumbler while he sips beer from a bottle.

"Did you feel a raindrop just now?"

"No?"

-but soon the sprinkles come down harder and harder, until it's a full on rain shower, your fire burnt out and scrambling to save the food, your chairs, and anything else you don't want to get soaked as you run towards the tent, zipping it up behind you, sighing with relief and laughing together as you hear the rain get more intense.

-"How long are we stuck in here?" You ask. Miguel shrugs, pulling you protectively closer to him.

"I don't know..." He whispers.

-your teeth are chattering, you're standing there half hunched over in the small tent while Miguel quickly unzips the sleeping bags and lays the blankets over the large air mattress, telling you to get in next to him underneath your fortress of warmth as you cling to each other in the chilly tent.

-thinking about how both of your shaking gets less and less frantic as you hold each other in the quiet tent, listening to the rain ceaselessly pelting the outside in lulling rhythm.

-thinking about his chin resting on your forehead, the smell coming off his body smoky from the campfire with the faint musk of a man who's been working in the sun.

-he jokes that your body heat between both of you would transfer more quickly if you were both naked.

-his lips part as you look up at him, asking if he wants to test that theory.

-your teeth are chattering again as you both struggle to strip down, frigid air obliterating both your bodies in a sea of goosebumps, practically pouncing on each other again under your nest of blankets when you're both bare, electricity and pure want permeating all throughout your body when you feel his skin against yours for the first time

-imagine his full lips with the slightest dust of the bitter cold on them then the feeling of his warm tongue sliding into your mouth with a little groan, deepening kisses gradually with an increased appetite than before, the crisp taste of beer on his tongue mixing with the fruity bittersweet wine on yours.

-Miguel's cheeky smile and the playful, sweet kiss he plants against your lips at you biting your cheek in embarrassment to stifle your whiny pleas as he coaxes his fingers inside your weeping cunt,

"You don't have to be quiet, baby. There's nobody around to hear us, but you and me..."

-the chill that runs through your body when you're nice and wet, ready to be fucked when he pulls you up so you're straddling his lap so he can watch your pretty face as you slide up and down his cock.

-you gently pull at the curls at the nape of his neck, fingers curling into fists as you drown inside scarlet seas.

- you're looking at each other with a fresh set of eyes, wide like a crime scene, your passion the culprit. Lines that weren't meant to be crossed but you did it anyway as he slowly, gently, passionately, tenderly makes love to you for the first time.

-he hypnotically paints your clit with his fat tip, warm and wet massaging between your lips,

"Mirame...." (Look at me)

-a sharp intake of air between his teeth as your warm cunt hugs him so tightly all at once, his rough hands gripping the tender flesh of your hips, guiding you back up his length before letting you slide down it again, smirking when you whine

-steady soft tempo in the dark, as he soothes you with the sound of his voice, gently, and carefully moving his hips underneath you, rippling underneath you like a wave, until a ring of creamy arousal pools at the base of his cock, your love mixed with his as he brings it to your lips, telling you to taste it as you begin riding him again.

"We taste so fucking good together..."

-a steamy bubble of heat between your bodies shielding you from the cold of the outside as he rolls on top of you for another round, rainy prelude to a passionate night, bodies molded together like they were intended for the other despite never meeting before as the storm rumbled across milky skies underneath a dim crescent moon.

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#sassy reblogs #sassy speaks #i can't say no to this #miguel o'hara #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara smut #spotify #soooo good #but like

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