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Master List

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Criminal Minds

All of my criminal minds stories are posted on @criminalmindskink 💕

Here’s that Masterlist

Short Stories

These are all short stories of my own. No fandom, no reference, just my heart in a post.

The Bear and The Queen

Fuck The Memories

The Vampire Diaries

Klaus Mikaelson

Transcendence

Teen Wolf

These can be viewed on my teen wolf blog @teenwolfechoes 💞

Here’s that Masterlist

The Spinatures

Number One

#criminal minds imagine #imagines #short stories #my therapy #masterlist #master list #teen wolf imagine #the vampire diaries #the vampire diaries imagine #the originals imagine

nastyakotsk

#524

jacaerysstark

¸.*☆*.¸⁭ 𝑨 𝒌𝒏𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒏 𝒌𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒅𝒐𝒎𝒔 ¸.*☆*.¸⁭

SFW

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NSFW

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𝒅𝒖𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒂𝒏 𝒂𝒓𝒈𝒖𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕

☆ - 𝑻𝒐 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒔𝒊𝒕𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒐𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒊𝒓 𝒍𝒂𝒑 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈

𝒐𝒏 𝒖𝒏𝒅𝒆𝒓 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒅𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒔

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𝒐𝒏 𝒖𝒏𝒅𝒆𝒓 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒅𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒔 PT.2

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glossgojo

jon seeing reader in a new dress🤭

omg anon i’m so sorry for seeing this just now but this has got my eye twitching (every jon girl remembers him telling ygritte he’d rip off her dress it’s haunted us long enough…)

fem wife!reader x lord jon snow

you walk in rather casually into the shared space of your living room, jon had some guests over so you made sure to dress properly

the fabric of your gown was a deep blue velvet, adorned with silver embroidery, bell sleeves adorned your arms of a finer material, with a straight skirt, and a heart neckline that displayed your cleavage

when you went to greet the guests you bowed low and deep, they were unfamiliar to you but it didn’t matter, your husband outstretched his hand with wide eyes and small hint of a smile reserved for you alone, pressing a kiss to your hand when it found its place in his

you made polite conversation, all the while feeling jon’s gaze on you every so often, he was stealing rather obvious glances, unbeknownst to you he was counting down the seconds till he could have you all to himself, if you weren’t both under the scrutiny of your guests he would have dug his hands into the flesh of your thighs, letting the material singe his thumbs with how hard he’d grip

NSFW UNDER THE CUT MDNI

glossgojo

the starks (cregan, robb, jon) headcanons

thewritetofreespeech

Hello. For the headcanons, is there a possibility to have times when Aemond couldn't control his body in regards to his wife?

⚜️ The first time is on their wedding night. Aemond likes to think that he is superior to most men. Reserved, controlled, educated, refined. Yet when faced with the naked form of his new wife for the first time in his bed he realizes he is no better than the rest of them. His baser instincts take over, and he just hopes it was pleasant for the both of them.

⚜️ Another, more common, time is after training. His heartbeat pumping in his ears. Adrenaline racing through his veins. That hot Targaryen blood running through him and his eye lands on his sweet wife, poised to bring him a cool towel and some comfort from the hot sun. Aemond would seek more than just comfort from her then.

⚜️ After he fights with his brother. It is not nearly as often, but Aegon is still very adept at needling him right where it hurts. Even if they are older now. He cannot strike his king but he can take his frustrations out on his wife. He would never hit her either, but a sharp smack on the rump while he mounts her will suffice. Aemond is always apologetic after this one.

⚜️ When she is pregnant with his child. There is something perverse about it that Aemond is aware of, but also something primal about seeing her great with child. He is drawn to her. Protective. Dutiful. But also incredibly aroused that she is growing their babe inside her and that she carries his legacy in her belly. Luckily at these times his wife is also incredibly eager for their marriage bed so this meets both their needs.

angelltheninth

House of the Dragon Men + Kidnapping

Pairing: Daemon Targaryen, Aemond Targaryen, Harwin Strong x Fem!Reader

Tags: nsfw, smut, kidnapping, extreme dub-con, implied stockholm syndrome, possessive behavior, gaslighting, body betrayal, forced orgasms, obsessive behavior, manipulation, virginity loss

Ko-Fi | Rules | Fandoms and Characters | Commissions

A/N: These are a bit on the darker side... but this is A Song of Ice and Fire so it's expected.

This is all your fault you know

If you aceepted his marriage propsal when he asked then he wouldn't need to kidnap you

Making you his wife during the ceremony is one thing but he still needs to make sure your body knows who it belongs to

Gentle during your wedding night but also inpatient

Doesn't really matter to him if you any men before this, you won't have any after him

He'll keep you by his side and protect you, that's a promise

Before the night is over you'll know that you belong to him inside and out

Already planned it from the moment he saw you, he knew he couldn't let anyone else have you

Charming to a fault and surprisingly willing to let you roam around as long as you don't think about running away

Has you chained up to the bed when you're sleeping, by the ankle

Pulls you against him by the chain, right against him, against his cock and keeps you like that while he fucks his seed into you

Makes sure you're okay after of course, telling you how much he loves you and how this is for your own good

Laughs when he notices your pussy getting tight even around his fingers

Shamefully you're addicted to him, the safety and the pleasure

Your chivalrous savior and sworn protector

Cuts down anyone who stands in his way to save you and before anything else he makes sure you were unharmed

Sleeps next to you, holding you through the night to comfort you, telling you that he will always keep you safe

Hesitant to take your virginity but also feels that it'd be rude to say no when a lady like yourself is offering it

Teases you about being a pervert, offering yourself out in the open like this, under the stars

While he's fucking you he keeps telling you how much he loves you and how long he's dreamed of this moment of making you his

As for his connections and payments to your supposed kidnappers, well you never need to know about that part

pamurpamur

Hi, so I have an idea.

A !Dothraki reader x !young the hound.

Reader is a khalakki/princess and has mastered herbs and is a healer. One day the tribe gets attacked and she gets away wandering to Clegane keep where she passes out at the entrance, Father Clegane takes her in and once she gets better he was gonna to kick her out but she shows how good she is at healing and he decided to let her stay but as a servant/healer. She gets close with Sandor and after a few years (now 18) they have their first time together when she came to his room to try a healing herb she made and he pins her down saying no then she gets sassy back and then he lets her do it leading to more 😉😉😉 and then they become boyfriend and girlfriend at the end.

IM SORRY IK IT’S A LOT

(Maybe a lil end credit of them going to kings landing together him as soon to be Joffreys sword and her a maester.)

Yer shekh ma shieraki anni

--------------------------------------------------------------

Pairing: Sandor x Dothraki!Reader

Tags: SMUT, first time, everyone is feral, i am not joking, Sandor is mean, kissing, crushes, mentions of slavery, swearing, young sandor, post rebellion but pre canon, young love, loss of virginity, canon typical everything, no use of Y/N, reader has dark hair

Summary: Reader was the daughter of a great khal, she was once a sacred healer, and is now a mere slave in foreign land. When she attempts to escape her captors to find freedom she finds Clegane Keep in her path, and it soon becomes her only hope of survival.

Warnings: THIS IS NOT BETA READ AND I WAS SLEEP DEPRIVED. I feel like there are probably a thousand misatkes. ALSO ADULT CONTENT AHEAD.

A/N: HELLOOOOOO i am back at last! I made some minor changes and i hope you do not mind!! Also if there are mistakes please forgive me I was genuinely pulling an all nighter with this one. If it makes no sense you know why,,,,, this idea would work so well in a longfic too lol

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“Yer ver yomme rhaesheser. Reki izvena” Going to the outside world, that is forbidden.

You repeat it to yourself under your breath, just like you have done since you had been dragged over the poisoned water, the salty sea, to which no horse lowers their lips, to set foot on the wicked ground beyond the black water.

That is no place for a dothraki, you are not meant to leave the great planes. You never were meant to leave Vaes Dothrak, either. You were meant to die in the sacred city, remembered as a khalakki to the great Khal Mirthas, your beloved father, who fell to injury and died when you were but twelve, and your dear mother who died in the walls of Vaes Dothrak of a broken heart.

You were dragged away from your people, your Khalastar, first when your father died, and the sacred city second when the slavers found you.

You had been found outside the walls gathering herbs by masked slave traders, tall men with mean voices who spoke a language full of hissing you recognized as Valyrian. You fought against them when they caught you, yelling for guards to hear you, but all was vain.

You fought with the might of any mare of your khalastar, you fought with your teeth bared. But you were alone, and they were many. They cinched you in ropes and chains as thick as fists and dragged you to the slave markets to be sold, as you had seen your own men do to the women of other tribes after battle. But there was no battle here that called for slaves, just slavers riding in the lone fields looking for victims.

Before they made a fool and a slave of you, you had been part of the sacred khalen.

You had been raised in the dosh khalen and taught how to heal the hurt and nurture the weak and the young the same year your father’s funeral pyre was held, mayhaps it had been mercy, mayhaps you had not been as strong as you thought yourself and you would not have fared well in the Khalestar. You struggle to admit it to yourself, but on some nights you think your father’s death was a blessing.

Vaes Dothrak had been a nest of safety, the most sacred ground for the dothrakis, where you grew and learned without fear of scorn or death. And of course that was taken away from you the moment you stepped out of its walls. It must have been a warning from the gods above.

Dothrakis should never be alone, as no horse is on the great planes of grass. No warrior shall fight only relying on his sword and his might. You were alone when they found you and they hauled you away. Alone, weak and young and perhaps unworthy of the title of Khalakki.

The slavers took you to a slave market, you were moved from hands to hands and appraised as one would a copper pot or a measly clay bowl. They sold you to a fat man from the summer isles that barely spoke any recognizable language but had pockets full of gold. They dragged you to a fearsome ship that trembled above the poisonous water of the salty sea.

They took you to the land of the Kingdoms, Westeros.

Westeros is a lonely world.

The legends were right about the ocean being made of venom. The venom must have seeped into the earth here, and made people dishonorable and evil. Not only are you a slave, bound never to return to your city, but you are looked at with scorn rather than respect. Even at age twelve, your khalastar looked at you as they would a khaleesi, and at age fourteen you were an healer, a promising one, in the bosom of the sacred city. Now fifteen you are no other than a strange creature from beyond the poisoned sea.

“We will stop here, get the Dothraki whore out of there!” The man slaps a palm on the side of the carriage. making it rock crudely.

The sun is shining, slipping through the canvas covering your cart and lighting up the prickly bedding you wrapped yourself in. Your back aches from sleeping on the rough planks of the cart, a splinter digs into the skin of your elbow making it hurt when you bend it. You simply frown, picking at your skin to try to wake up fully. The sounds outside already bother you, five or more voices fighting over each other.

You know their language, at least some of it. You had spent scarcely one year here, travelling with these no good fools and offering remedies to their wounds when asked to. They are entertainers from the free cities.

They disgust you.

They are flabby, and weak. Bald, with no braids to attest to power or well groomed beards to line their jaws. They are not handsome like your late father, Mirthas. You can scarcely remember his face now, but he is among the stars, riding the fire stallions through the night to light the fields for what remains of your khalastar, and perhaps he never thinks of you any longer. It makes you whimper and your throat squeeze.

He was a seasoned fighter, an honorable warrior, with hair so long and dotted in copper bells that would sing in the wind when he rode into camp, holding his weapons high. And your mother was the most beautiful of the women, and you were the most respected of the girls.

You want to cry, despite the early hour. Another slap hits the side of the cart jolting you out of your mood, just to make anger rise in you.

“Get up!” Huffs the head of the circus. You lift yourself up, vertebrae by vertebrae, until you feel like a living thing and not a carcass left to rot in the sun.

“Get up! You need to re-dress the cut on Titus’ leg!” He bellows.

You slip your fingers under the canvas, wiggling your fingers outside the edge of the cart until they turn cold, you feel the sun on your skin.

Sometimes even the sun feels different here than it did beyond the narrow sea.

You have made peace with the sun, even if it is another star all together, you care not, and imagine it is the same that used to guide your path when looking for herbs in Vaes Dothrak. It feels better to think the same sun is warming your people, so far away from you. A tear slips down your face, and you ignore it, letting it roll to your chin.

“Yer ver yomme rhaesheser. Reki izvena. I broke the rules.”

—-----------------

You ride, the horse below you is quick and angry, you spur him faster, sitting on the Westerosi saddle. You dare not look back, afraid it may slow your riding and allow them to catch up to you.

You have been planning to escape ever since they purchased you. But no chance ever came, not when they distrusted you. No chance ever came, until now.

You do not know the fields of this land, or its paths and forests, it looks nothing like home, nor sounds like it. There are no eagles whistling above you, and the grass grows yellow the more you ride rather than pale green like it was back home.

But you follow the fields as far as they may take you, pushing the horse until he cries for mercy below you. Your eyes narrow, blurry with tears and blinded by anger. You are unsure where you are running to, anywhere far from the prison of the circus cart will do, even if it means being alone again, as you were when they captured you. Even if it means being as a lone horse in a great prairie, waiting on death.

The field of gold is interrupted at the horizon by a strange building. A tower house that looks to be close to toppling over, black on a field of yellow. Your horse slows, head dragging low and rolling side to side. You fist your hands in his mane.

“Go! Keep on riding! Go! Go!” You spur him, but the horse neighs angrily at you, ignoring your kicks to his ribs, or you bounding on his saddle to startle him. He stops, then lowers, bending on fragile knees until he is resting in the grass with a long sigh.

The grass tickles your knees and almost drowns the shape of the horse whole. Your hands fall from the line of his mane.

“Go! I beg you! Go!” You say, but the animal doesn’t move.

When you lift your head night is lifting from the line of the horizon, making the building ahead look even uglier, and spindly like the body of a spider. You truly think it is about to fall, the roof of the tower too heavy to be supported by the misshapen body. With the moon rising its shadow starts growing longer, as if washing ashore like waves of black to reach closer to you. It reminds you of the poisoned sea and you grimace.

The fire horses race in the sky, you look at them in near desperation, they twinkle above, and you beg them to send you strength.

They are silent, even when they continue to ride across the sky, they have nothing to give to an oath breaker and a slave like you. You feel ashamed, thinking of your father riding with the other Khals, and having to peer down at the disgrace that was made of his daughter.

“What do we have here?” Says a voice behind you, when you turn something dull hits the back of your head, and the world goes black.

—--------------

“How does a Dothraki get to the Westernlands?” The man sits on a big chair.

While the chair is big and ornate, decorated with the heads of lions, the interiors of the tower house are dim and unlit, bare, and smell wet as if the poisonous sea washed them up before you came in.

“Maybe a slave!” Says the old guard at his side, chewing on rotten teeth. A saggy leather cap keeps slipping over his brow.

“She can be a servant then,” says the man, there is a stiffness to his muscles, despite him being the lord of this poor household, he looks like the building is slowly bearing down on him to end him, he doesn’t command the room, rather he looks hunted, even in his wide stature and the seriousness of his eyes.

You stare at him carefully, sat on the floor where they dropped you to be looked at.

“We need another one, after Gregor–...” He seems to remember something and looks away. “Well, she may be useful. Unless she belongs to someone…”

“She is unmarked-” Says the guard, chewing again on his teeth and shifting.

The man of the house looks at you, then nods. A long banner of yellow and black hangs behind him, you look at the snarling dogs stitched into the fabric. The edges are fraying. He seems to notice you staring at his sigil and his grey eyebrows crease.

“I am Lord Philemon Clegane, head of this house. Do you know the common tongue, child?” he asks you, shifting back until his stiff back is cushioned against the back of his chair. Despite his pose he doesn’t look at ease.

“Yes” You answer dutifully.

“Do you know what a lord is?” He asks, looking at you with that expression you have come to know, like you are some strange sentient animal and not a dothraki worthy of her name. Or perhaps that is just what they see, a dothraki, and that is the very thing they despise so profoundly. As if they hated the blood in your veins and the tissue of your muscles, and the color of your hair, and the language of your people.

“Yes” You answer.

“Do you always say yes?” Asks Lord Clegane, a hint of annoyance where it shouldn’t be any.

You grimace.

“No.”

“She is not a dimwit at least,” He says, straightening again in his chair. He gestures to you again, dismissive. “What is your age, and what do you do?” he says.

“I am ten and five.” You say, you are careful now, you know how easily men dispose of other people’s life. As a slave if you are not useful you are as a dying man to a khalestar: a dead weight.

“I am a healer, I heal well, I was kept by a knife thrower… he died in a fight on a crossroad, I escaped” you lie, at least partially, they do not need to know your owners are searching for you in the woods, that you stole their best horse and run away from them despite them owning you by right.

“She is about Sandor’s age-” Says Lord Clegane, looking older than his years for a moment, he rolls one of his copper rings against his fingers and sits in grievous silence for a long time.

“I have a son who needs healing, will you help?” He asks, his tone suddenly subdued and almost timid. He doesn’t look at you directly but you answer anyway.

“Yes. If he is sick I can heal it.” you promise. Lord cleagen nods, looking away, into the hearth at his side where the fire is kept low and burns a dull yellow.

“Take her to Sandor, see if she can soothe his burns.” Says the lord, gesturing to his guard. The man walks towards you, grabbing your elbow to lift you to your feet. You follow, obedient for now so you may prove yourself a good servant and a good healer and show you have worth to grant protection.

The men of westeros do not keep slaves, they keep servants. If they keep you, you won’t be a slave any more, and if death takes you perhaps you will ride among the stars too, and not be remembered like a slave in a far away country and be followed by scorn in the after life. For a moment death is all you think about, and procuring yourself a safe corner to die in seems more important than life itself.

Your throat tightens when you realize you will be given burial under the name of their seven foreign gods and your body will not be burned like any other respectable dothraki.

“You know, we do not have many maids here, because our young lord Gregor tends to scare them away, he is a knight, a very strong one. The strongest.” Says the old guard while dragging you up the tower that sits at the edge of the house. The steps are slippery and narrow, and a strange fear grips your heart the more you climb up the stairs.

“As for Sandor– Ah, you will see.” The man steps further up until the stairs are interrupted by a platform. A heavy door cuts a dark shape on the wall. The man knocks on it and pushes it open just enough to slip in, forcing his hunched back through the opening without letting the door fall open on its old hinges.

Some words are exchanged inside, then the guard opens the door more fully to allow you to look inside.

You stand there, your hands held at your stomach like you did at the slave market in Pentos. You hate it, but it comes naturally, to present yourself neatly and obidiently.You do not feel like a dothraki at all, whatever it was you clung to of your people must have fallen right from your hands like discarded jewelry. Shame burns in your stomach.

A giant appears from the dark interiors of the room. A monster. Your eyes widen at the mere sight of him and your heart flips in your ribcage.

A tall and wide young man, his face clean shaven if not for a narrow line of hair on the edge of his jaw. But the hairs are abruptly cut off when they reach the right side of his chin. That side of his face is eaten away, covered in a thick matting of terrible scars.

The scarring starts at the edges as thin and grows thicker and deeper the closer to the brow, there it is red and angry, in some spots wet with humors. It eats at his browbone and hides his dark right eye under a mass of knotty skin. The features on his burnt side barely resemble those of a human male any more, what remains are the vague curves of his bone structure supporting the weight of ruined skin.

The other side of his face is far from unremarkable. He looks like a sad animal, with eyes so full of anger he seems, to you, the first true warrior you have put eyes on since you arrived in Westeros.

His hair is long, dark like the room behind him, they reach past his jaw and grow frizzy and tangled. His nose is regular, wide, and his lips are pulled in a serious line that is distorted only where the burns reach it.

You have no braids, yet you suffered the scars of a warrior, you think when he takes a step closer. You turn sharply to the guard, your eyes wide, a strange trepidation replacing the fear.

“I cannot heal this-” You say, pointing to Sandor. “This shall not be healed-” You add.

The skin has melted off the bone, like a limb lost. You have had it drilled into you that certain wounds are to be worn with pride, some stitched so they will leave a visible scar and ward off any doubt that a warrior is what he is. But you are not sure how to put this into common language. To explain to this measly guard that some pains are to be worn and not replaced with clean skin or treated with oils, they are here to stay and that is a fact of life.

You do not expect them to know, these vain pleasure seeking people of Westeros, who preen themselves on honor but practice none.

“It is not the burn you have to fix, stupid wench, but the sting” Says the young man, his mouth twitching, pulling at the scars.

Where the burns run deeper, and are still red as if they have been recently inflicted, they ooze a clear liquid. You nod, conjuring whatever memory of salves for burned skin you can think of.

“You need lemon flowers, no more tallow or animal fat, just– mint leaves, fresh cut grass, and I will need to make a balm with hazelnuts–... berries from the Reach as well.” You say. The guard blinks and hums. The young man looks at you with a sneer that, while mocking, is also somewhat tinted with curiosity.

“Well, if it works I am sure Lord Clegane will keep you around.” says the guard, adjusting his leather cap over his bald head. You swallow and pray. This is your only chance to find any sort of asylum.

“It will work” You promise.

—-----------------

“You are also quite ugly, are all dothraki women ugly? Or are you just special?” Asks Sandor. You slap him across the face and he barely flinches, if anything his mouth grows wider with a mean grin.

He is mean, very, of course. Sometimes mocking, sometimes full of a fire not fit his age and station. Sometimes he is simply quiet, and so full of a disheartening sort of sorrow that makes you want to avoid him at all costs.

You care not for his teasing. Nothing he says ever truly insults you. It would take much to do so. You were a mighty mare once, at least.

“Sit still, or I'll poke your good eye out-” You hiss, pushing him at a distance from you when he tries to stand imposingly above you.

“Both of my eyes are good, you wench” He mumbles, but still enough for you to dip your fingers in the salve and apply it to his burn. His face, the bad part as well as the good, was dragged against the stone wall of the keep’s corridors during a terrible fight with Gregor when he last came back home. Sandor almost drove a knife through his brother’s stomach, Gregor left the same night.

These things do not happen often, Gregor is very seldom here, he mostly keeps to Casterly Rock where no one attempts to gut him like his younger brother does every chance he has.

Sandor’s lip is split open, and it keeps oozing blood that he spits on the floor, uncaring for manners. He truly is no knight. You could tell him so, but he would be glad to agree.

You go back to healing him.

“I don’t need help with this- I fought in the rebellion, you know that? Have you ever seen how men behave in war here?” He asks, his teeth clench like those of a wolf, and you stare at the curve of his mouth, so very unwelcoming.

“I know war,” You say. Your hands dab at the blood on his chin. Sandor looks down at you, his chest catching measured breaths. For his age he is a monster, but you hold no fear in your heart. Sometimes you think he seems a bit like a man from your home, with long hair, and a body meant to kill. It makes you feel strangely nostalgic, even if so many years have passed and you are not welcome anymore.

“You are sad thinking of it” He says, reading the shimmer behind your pupils with interest. You shake your head.

“I miss…” You shut your mouth.

“You miss seeing dothraki brutes divorce heads from bodies” He says, a mean smile on his lips that is close to being a grimace. You slap him across the face.

“You have no honor.” You say.

“Did your khal?” He cups his cheek, soothing the sting without further complaint.

“Yes.” You answer “My father was honorable-” Your eyes hold the last words, the ones you dare not speak in front of Sandor. Unlike yours.

Sandor grins, looking in pain, not physically however. He laughs.

“You were a princess,” He points out.

He doesn’t usually speak this much, however since you have been tasked with seeing him often, he sometimes drinks in preparation to see you, and his tongue loosens. He says many terrible things, often. This evening, as the golden shimmers of the wheat fields below the window send flickers of yellow to the edge of the windows, and the dogs howl in their kennels, he seems strangely tender.

“We have no such things” You say and go to rinse the rags. His blood stains the water of the basin. At the center of the old pot is painted the snarling face of a dog, its edges ripple under the water until he looks like a thousand different things. A sparrow, a cloud, a full moon, a scythe.

You turn back to Sandor. He stands, unfolding his great height until he fills his tunic completely. You stare at him, unashamed.

“You can be a princess without wearing silk and gold,” he says.

“The khal doesn’t pass his name on like your kings do, whoever is strong leads.” You say. Sandor looks down at you. You look up at him, at the width of his shoulders in his tunic, and the strong square of his jaw under the few hairs he keeps to line it. It makes it even more striking.

“Who says it works differently here?” He says. You swat him away.

“You are so irritating” You scoff, suddenly overcome with annoyance. You do not want him to talk circles around you just to make fun of you. Sometimes the Westeros language confuses you so he wins the game without needing to try.

He chuckles, and the laughter follows you when you gather your tools and slip away from his rooms.

—------------

The clanking of armor as Sandor walks downhill is so loud it rouses you from your sleep. In the few hours you are allowed to yourself you often lay on the northern edge of the hill, where the grass is so tall it hides you completely, and listen to the bubbling of the stream downhill, the one that cinches the edge of the property.

Sandor is descending the hill, fresh from his training, undoing the straps of his vambraces. His gait is sure, it holds power even when it is slowed by the strain of his muscles. At only age eighteen he has the posture of a full grown man. He is leaner than one, however. You get to study him well from the edge of the grass.

Feeling like a beast of prey, you spy his movements when he discards some of his armor and lets it fall to the ground. The wind whips his hair back southbound. You can see the scarring on the side of his face has grown red and irritated with sweat.

Maybe you will be required to heal him tonight. It makes your mouth clench with strange hunger, a feeling balanced between passionate and tender. There is some fear too, that you hardly can tell apart from excitement.

It has been this way for many years, if you were to be honest. Sandor is a frightening boy, but he is the truest man you have known this far. Somehow something in him burns, and sometimes you can trace the shapes of the fire stallion in his eyes. If you were to tell him that you see the fire of a dothraki in him he would laugh at you. But it doesn’t keep you from thinking about it.

You continue to spy his scarred side, then the movement of his hands, tugging on the leather straps, he spits on the ground, angrily wiping his mouth on his sleeve. You lower your eyes on his frame, looking at the rise and fall of his shoulders, the weight of his breath compressing his chest and letting go great huffs of air.

“You ugly thing-” Sandor is looking at you now, spying the dark of your hair atop the golden grass. He sneers and scoffs, turning fully to face you. You do not move, imagining you are a hare and he is a hunting hound pointing right at you. It is not fear that fires up your belly.

“What are you doing? Escaping work?” He asks. You answer not, still staring.

His grimace turns to an ugly smile. If you are ugly, then you are one of the same. It makes the hair at the back of your neck stand.

When he pounces you expect it, you draw back, following the clinking rhythm of his armor when he takes two wide steps in your direction. It is a war drum, and it is the mellow ring of dothraki bells.

He grabs your foot, his thumb where the laces of the leather shoes are tied tight. He looks at you from underneath the damp curtain made of strands of his hair. He slips a finger under the rough leather straps, his pointer against the bone that pokes from the side of your foot. He strokes the arch of your ankle with his thumb, then squeezes tight, edging on pain.

You should shake him off, but you just stare back at him, silent.

He tugs. You yelp. He laughs.

When he is kneeling in the grass with you you turn sharply to slap him but decide not to just at the last moment, aborting the snap of your arm to sit very still below him.

You and Sandor both sit there, breathing the strong smell of soil and sunlight, looking each other in the eyes with no shame nor bashfulness. You feel as if you know his eyes so well, as if you have known them a lifetime, or a thousand more.

His chest heaves with a long breath, he sniffs the air like a wolf.

“I am not evading work.” You say at last. He groans in annoyance and lets go of your calf, allowing you to scoot back and curl on yourself. Your eyes stay on him, guarded, but he turns away to look at the stream downhill to ignore your staring.

In the movement of his head you see the attempt to hide the burn under the drape of hair. Somehow, despite how mean and how irritating he is, despite his violence, despite his size and his rotten words, he still hides the burn as if it offends him more than it does you.

You still do not understand his actions. Men should wear wounds with pride, not with such shame, as if they are a proof of fragility rather than strength.

One of your hands goes to his hair, moving them back without finesse. You swipe your whole palm over his hair, mussing them up until you find the knotting skin behind.

His eye, where the burns almost hide it, flicks to you.

You hold eye contact until he breaks it himself, looking at the horizon instead, up at the sky, where the clouds are growing soft and full.

“What do you want?” He snaps, once the feeling of your hand proves too much for him. You let your palm drop in silent understanding. Your hands go to your lap, and together you sit.

“You miss being a princess, I bet” he says, his eyes flicking to you again, his head turns more, allowing you to see his other handsome eye spying your shape. You do not hide, straightening your back instead.

“I lived in Vaes Dothrak, the holy city. A khalekki cannot stay in the Khalastar after the death of her father” you explain. He frowns.

“Your people are brutes” he comments.

“Are you not one yourself?”

Sandor’s mouth twitches.

“I never said I wasn’t” He says and looks at you, then proceeds to rub his blunt nails on the linen of his pant, picking at it angrily. “You shouldn’t sit with me. Do you know what happens to maids when they get too close to the Clegane boys?”

“Nothing happened to me.” You answer. He chuckles.

“You truly are stupid” He says. You launch yourself at him with a whine of annoyance.

It doesn’t take him much effort to stop your fists from battering on his back. He grabs your right hand with his own and pulls you close, until your body is leaning into his space, your stomach on his knee. You make a long sound in irritation, trying to tug yourself free by pulling at his forearm. You feel his muscles twitch under your hand, he doesn’t let up his grip, and your hand keeps slipping on the fabric of his chemise.

For a moment, a silly moment you wish he would stop being such a gross animal with you, and would instead go back to that strange quiet he showed a moment before, that almost-wistfulness, that reminded you of one of those knights from the illustrated manuscripts Lord Clegane reads in his studio when you clean it.

You tug your hand free at last and turn sharply away, offended at his contrast tugging and mockery.

“Don’t tell me the little khaleesi is angry now” Scoffs Sandor.

You slap him.

—----------------

“You have grown” Says Sandor, his mouth is on the lip of a brass cup, drinking his wine in the dark of his room.

“You have hardly been away for a few moons” You point out, grinding the herbs for his salve, the fresh herbs, the anti-inflammatory pollens, the lemon, all reduced to a gummy paste. The stone pestle grinds against the rough curve of the mortar filling the otherwise thoughtful silence.

You are no more grown than you were when Sandor left for Casterly Rock.

“If all goes well… I will leave this shit hole of a house soon” He says, informing you briefly about his travels, he doesn’t add much more but you do not ask. Instead you lift an eyebrow, skeptical.

“What do you want, you witch. I don’t fancy being killed in my sleep by Gregor. Perhaps you do.”

You do not answer him, sitting on the bed next to him to apply the salve to his scars. His hair is tucked behind the stump of his ear, what is left of it, eaten away as it is. You start there, tracing the curve of it with your fingers, spreading the salve over the blisters and the irritation.

Sandor looks at you.

“This is stupid, I am not eight, I need no stupid salve applied,” He says. Despite his bellyaching he is soft under your fingers, he allows you to rub the herbs into his scars until they shimmer green and smell strongly of weeds.

“Hush,” You whisper, and his eyes move to you. The dark interior of the room makes the sharp features of his face deepen, and, despite the shadows cutting such harsh planes over his cheeks, he looks much more fond than usual. His eyes linger on yours, and you allow it, looking back at him while your hands are busy with the healing salve.

Your faces naturally gravitate close to each other. He takes another sip from his goblet, looking at you aslant, his brows so low on his face it makes him look like a much older man. You almost laugh, but abort the sound when he frowns at your smile.

“What’s so funny now?” He asks. You can tell his anger is just performance, and you shrug, only to get him to look at you even deeper. His eyes are dark, dark, dark and lit of a late evening yellow light.

“Nothing” You promise. The conversation between your eyes continues, he says many things, with each twitch of his rough skin, and each movement of his strong jaw under the new beard he started growing in Casterly Rock.

Your eyes answer, and so do your hands, in the tenderness of your touch. You reenact that first time, when you approached him as if he was a wild stallion and had to bear the assessing force of his gaze for long, interminable minutes. But now, in that same room, tending to that same wound, you find a new sort of comfort.

Sandor stays quiet until he finishes his wine and he finds reason to grumble about that.

Another long silence stretches.

You finish your work and wipe your hands on your hemp apron.

“A girl like you should not give certain looks to a dog,” says Sandor. You keep cleaning between your fingers, your body relaxing the motion of rubbing the salve away from the creases of your overworked hands. You offer him no fear, even when he sniffs for it, tries to install it in you, not realizing the tenderness in his eyes is impossible to conceal behind his frowning.

You look back up only once you are done cleaning your hands.

“You know no girl like me.”

Sandor smiles, his mouth is full of fangs, his teeth are crooked and the slit of his mouth is not much better. It is a terrible smile and you like it too much. The pressure between your legs likes it too, the one you dare not name but know very well.

When he pulls at your sleeve you follow his lead, for once giving rather than fighting. His mouth is hot against your neck, and on your bosom, searching for the line of your dress’s neckline. He pulls at it with his teeth, and you dig your finger, hard, into his hair, pulling his face deeper.

You do not worry if someone may come in the room and find you in this position, no one tends to this dog but you.

His mouth drags over your chest, sucks on the swell of your breast where your linen garments push them up. Sandor’s fingers are quick on the lacing of your dress, the one that runs down your spine, behind the shawl you have tied around your shoulders.

It pulls an angry complaint out of you when he bites down on the skin ever so slightly, then licks over the graze of teeth with a smile pasted on his face.

“You are such a brute” You say, fisting your hands in his hair, until your palms are full of them and he groans in response. The sound is cavernous, his mouth widens with it, you spy his tongue and the line of drool that still connects your breast to his lips. You feel disappointment when it breaks and drips down to his beard.

“Are you a virgin?” he asks, finally freeing you of your dress, his movements are growing more powerful and hurried, he seems spurred along by an animal ire. You almost worry he will rip the dress altogether, with those square fists of his that tug at the wool seams and pull your sleeves off your arms.

“Yes, and you are too.” You say, only slightly offended at his questions.

“As if you know,” He groans, he plucks the kerchief away from your chest where you had shoved it for warmth and looks at the peaks of your chest against the tight linen of your undergarments.

“You always had nice tits-” His hands cup them, they are dark and hairy against the light colored material, the linen stretches and is worn thin enough that he can see the dark of your nipple and the round flesh of your breast compressed against the garment, “-just right.” He groans.

There is no humor in his voice anymore, just hunger, and a strange wild rumble that drags after every word.

You pant, pushing your chest against his palms. He squeezes them again, studying them carefully. Just then you are certain of the fact that he never laid with a woman. You do not tease him further, the words fail you and only sounds of need come out your lips.

“You wanted this, that day in the field.” He says, pushing you down on the feather bed to cage you under his body. You shuffle out of the under garments until you are laying beneath him nude, except for your stockings. He pulls them up rather than down, doing nothing to untie the garter keeping them over your knees.

You allow it.

“You wanted me to fuck you.” He says.

“Maybe, maybe I do not know what I want” You say.

“You know now, no…–” His mouth gravitates towards your neck, pulled down by the heat of your skin. You may just be his star, burning fiercely in his sky, demanding all sorts of attention, and just like the sun itself, making everything clear and chasing away the dark and the night. Sandor doesn’t feel afraid of fire this once, and he kisses the hot skin with fervor.

“You always know.” He says. You exhale, filling his palms with your ribs where he is squeezing your sides. You skin is ticklish there, and the feeling of his callouses on the soft length of your waist makes you sing.

“Gods–” Sandor removes his hands from your sides, searching for the space between your legs now, clumsily knocking over the skin and dragging his finger against the flabs of skin until he finds the dip of your hole. The wetness doesn’t disturb you, you hear the sound of his fingers sinking into you and let out a sigh to complete the melody of it.

Like a strange duet he groans above you, pulling sound after sound from between your legs and between your lips.

The world is going to sleep, and through the thin glass of the room’s narrow window you can see the stars start to twinkle outside. The sky expands in your vision, covering everything around you except Sandor and blanketing the room in dark blue draperies. The room disappears in a sea of stars, and the heat of the night is all that remains. Two bodies floating curiously against each other.

“Take me Sandor,” You ask him. You warrior nods, his hair is long and covers his face, when he looks at you he seems ready to charge in battle. All that violence, hidden behind the corded muscle, is all yours. In nineteen years of life you have ever felt this powerful.

As if mounting the strongest of stallions, you guide his rod inside you. He grabs your cheek to kiss you roughly, with a possessive sort of impatience, but he is hiding most of his face from your touches, so you grab him by the shoulders to set the rhythm.

“Ah– Sandor” Despite all your bravado the sensation is new and somehow strange. You like his fingers rubbing over you, and his mouth dragging over your neck and down your chest. You like touching his hairy chest, where his muscles bulge out the skin and his waist tapers towards the thick hair at his groin. Yet the feeling of his rod penetrating you is, by all means, unexpected.

You try to get used to it, the pressure and the pull, the feeling of your flesh allowing him to sink in, and rebelling at the very same time.

Your body curves on itself, looking down at his hips moving, as to make sense of the sensations.

“You won’t find one as big as this– in all of Westeros.” he says, brimming with the confidence of a young man his age, yet carrying the dangerous edge of Sandor Clegane. There is some fragility in his words, his face still hidden in your skin and his hands shaking ever so slightly when he pulls you back on his cock.

“Not even beyond the sea–” He continues. You allow your legs to fall open more and the feeling of being penetrated suddenly becomes more familiar. You let out a tiny sound, a gasp that seems to motivate Sandor to move deeper, and deeper, until you feel the head of his cock drag close to your stomach.

“By the gods, girl” He says. You swallow, bracing yourself on your elbow and letting one of your legs hang off the feather bed and bob above the cold flagstone floors.

“More– More- S-Sandor!” You call out. Sandor braces against the wall above your head and drives his hips deeper, rocking the wooden frame and making the feet of the bed squeak against the floor.

A drop of sweat forms and falls between your breasts, highlighting the space between them. Sandor licks it up.

“Go– Go faster” You ask him, out of curiosity more than anything. He makes a face.

“Girl, I have no intention to break you on my cock.”

“Didn’t you already?” You ask, you feel as if something has been broken, a tension, or the great wall of a dam, and everything is pouring forth now. It is so very sweet to drown in it, and allow it to take over.

“Oh shush,” He grumbles. You are not sure if he understood you, or if you understood him, but you go back to looking below you at the point where you are connected. You stare at it, like some game, until his hips start to tremble and his hands become rough and mean on your skin.

Sandor bends at the waist, hunching over himself and shaking hard against you. His hips twitch, three times, then his back unfolds again. The curve that his body draws from his navel up to his Adam apple amazes you. His shirt is slick with sweat, and sticking to his body, ruffled and wrinkled and open down to the middle of his hair chest. And his pants are lowered allowing you to follow the arch down to the powerful strain of his legs.

You lick your lips when he groans and cries out while coming.

He pants, grabbing the sheets and heaving long breaths. His rod softens inside you, you find the feeling strange, and almost funny. You feel the last twitches of life in it before he goes back to being a mere and uninteresting appendage.

You smile at Sandor, and his eyes smile back at you, even when his mouth is busy drawing in hungry breaths. He sucks all the life in the room into his lungs, and puffs out heat that clings to the sheets.

You can get used to this.

—----------------

All of Sandor’s life is on the back of a horse. Gregor killed father, and inherited the keep the same day, raising suspicion but little to no action to investigate into the strange death of Lord Clegane.

Sandor came in the night, to take his things and leave, move away and under the Lannister’s roof in King’s Landing. His armor, his two changes of clothes, his weapons, his few silver stags and his saddle pouches. And you.

“I am to be the only member of your following, you may as well introduce me as your whore” You say. Sandor scoffs. The edges of the Capital come into view, and with it the dreadful stench of life. Shit, manure, sweat and death. You draw your veil over your nose and mouth, squinting at the walls in the distance.

“If it bothers you I will marry you.” He says. “No one will care.” He adds, almost defensive. You say nothing to that, smiling under the edge of your scarf. What a terribly unromantic thing, you think, yet it makes your heart throb with affection. There is no other way for a man such as Sandor to ask for your hand.

“Who says I want to marry someone like you,” You say, because that is what is to be expected of you.

“You couldn’t do better,” he says. The self deprecation is there, but you muffle it by hanging tightly to his torso. Your eyes look at the bay where you can almost make it out, the shimmer of blue of the sea.

You miss home, in a way. Yet now you know another kind of home as well, one far from the great planes and prairies, but not without love. The same stars will shimmer over you tonight, your father will look down from atop his fire stallion, you mother atop her mare, and you will look up at them from your bed next to Sandor.

And in the morning the sun will kiss your forehead and that of many dothrakis beyond the sea. And you will kiss your man under that same sun, and rejoice in the feeling of a warrior alive under your lips.

“If you say so, my lord.” You say. The teasing earns you a disgruntled murmur and a tiny shove. Sandor’s new horse, Stranger is his name, shakes his head in discontent, chasing off the mosquitoes flying in from the bay.

So starts your new life, again, this time as a free woman, and soon as a wife.

ladyredspider

Chasing a dream

Daeron Targaryen × Female Reader

(For the sake of the story let's pretend that angels are a thing in Westeros)

Summary: Daeron refuses to meet his potential betrothed in order to search for the woman of his dreams. What will happen when he discovers they are the same woman and that he is about to lose her to Aerion?

Contains: Some angst, drunk Daeron, Fluff, Daeron is completely in love with Y/n.

Wc: 2.1k

Masterlist HERE

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Another day, another chance to make a fool of himself.

Daeron Targaryen lay in a puddle in the streets of King's Landing, a wineskin in his hand and his face smeared with mud. In his drunken state, he couldn't stand without losing his balance or utter two words without being overcome by the urge to vomit his stomach's contents. Still, it was better than reliving the horrible nightmares that haunted him every night.

He was doomed from birth. Daeron always knew his life was destined for suffering. All because of his curse.

There was a time, however, when, like an innocent fool, he believed the gods had taken pity on him and sent him a blessing that would break his cruel fate.

His angel, so beautiful and kind. On the few nights she appeared in his dreams, Daeron was able to sleep with a smile on his face. He eagerly awaited the nights to see her once more when he closed his eyes, to be enveloped in her arms as she whispered her love for him.

For the first time in his life, he wished his dreams would come true, but fate was so cruel to Daeron that he never found her, and little by little, the dreams of his angel faded away.

"Sir, are you alright?"

A melodious voice caught Daeron's attention. He struggled to lift his face from the ground and focus his gaze on the crouching figure before him.

Everything was blurry, and his surroundings spun, yet he recognized her: his angel, as perfect as the first time he dreamed of her.

"I..." Daeron couldn't form words; his tongue was numb from the alcohol.

"Oh, you poor soul." Even when he was covered in mud and his own vomit, she treated him with compassion. "Let me help you. Can you even breathe?"

Daeron fixed his blue eyes on her face, his mouth agape like a fool. He cursed the gods for sending her to him when he was at his lowest point; he wasn't even capable of appreciating the details of her beauty, much less asking her name.

"May I?" she asked, bringing a handkerchief to Daeron's face.

He didn't understand what she was asking, yet he nodded with what little strength he had left.

His angel gently wiped his face. He followed the movement of her hand, wanting to feel every part of her warm touch.

"Plea..." Daeron raised his hand. He didn't know what he was trying to tell her; he only knew that he needed her to stay by his side.

She looked at him with compassion.

"Can you stand, Sir?" his angel asked. "Will you tell me your name?"

Daeron tried. Never in his life had he tried so hard to achieve anything, and yet he failed miserably. All the wine he had drunk began to weigh heavily on his mind.

"Sir? Can you hear me?"

No, no. Not now.

His vision faded. No matter how hard he fought to stay conscious, Daeron collapsed into his angel's arms.

Daeron woke up in an inn with a splitting headache, and his guardian angel was nowhere to be seen. The innkeepers told him the girl seemed to be in a hurry, so she made sure he was alright before paying for his stay and rushing out.

"You should be ashamed of yourself," the old woman said, mistaking him for a commoner. "The poor girl used all her money to help you. Judging by the clothes she was wearing, I can tell she needed those coins."

"Why did you accept the money, then?" Daeron was in a foul mood, and his hangover was killing him. "Did she tell you her name?"

"She left the coins on the table, and I didn't notice until she left," the woman defended herself. "Why would you want her name?"

So I can find her and spend the rest of my life by her side.

"How am I supposed to pay her back if I don't know who she is?" He grabbed the wall of the room to keep from falling. He shouldn't have drunk that much.

"She didn't tell me her name, but she left this handkerchief. It looks like it has an embroidered emblem. Maybe she works for a noble house."

Daeron looked at the handkerchief on the bedside table. It had a hummingbird atop a rose embroidered on it. He didn't know the emblem; perhaps it was a lesser house.

He picked up the handkerchief and carefully put it in his pocket. "Next time, ask for the fucking name."

Suddenly, Daeron Targaryen was a man on a mission: first, he had to get sober, and then he needed to find his angel.

He barely made it through the first few corridors of the Red Keep before being intercepted by his father.

"Where were you all night? You made me look like an idiot, again." Maekar grabbed his son's arm, forcing him to stop. "I asked you for one thing. You were supposed to stay sober for one night and put on your best smile in front of the L/N, and you didn't even come to dinner. Your engagement to Y/N is hanging by a thread."

"I don't give a damn about engagement." Daeron yanked his arm and broke free from his father's grip. "I'm not getting married."

He wasn't going to accept any woman other than his angel. She was the only one for him.

"Are you drunk again? We need the L/N's resources." Maekar lost his patience. "You'd better get yourself together and come to lunch, or Aerion will take your place."

Daeron chuckled. "You'd be doing me a favor."

Aerion could marry that Y/n girl. It wasn't that Daeron had anything against her—he didn't even know her—but he knew she would never be as beautiful and sweet as his angel.

"I'm doing you a favor by arranging a marriage for you with the best contender you'll ever have. Who would want to marry you?"

His angel. She would accept being his wife, even though she deserved someone much better.

Daeron didn't have time to lose; he had to find her before she left King's Landing.

×××

A week passed, and Daeron lost hope. He spent every day searching for the emblem in the library and asking around the streets if anyone had seen his angel, but he found no answers.

He lived in his own world while rumors grew in the Red Keep that Lord L/N's daughter would soon seal her betrothal to Aerion.

"This is your last chance." Maekar intercepted Daeron in the gardens. "I can't keep making excuses for you."

"I didn't ask you to." Daeron clutched his angel's handkerchief in his hand. It was the only proof he had of her existence. "Why do you care that it's me? Aerion is a better option than a drunk."

"Aerion is impulsive, to say the least." Maekar sighed and glanced sideways at his son. "I haven't seen you drink in days. Maybe you're not the drunk you think you are after all."

His father was wrong. Deep down, he was a drunkard. Only the angel of his dreams could cure him, and if he didn't find her, he would once again wallow in the filthy streets, teetering on the brink of unconsciousness.

"Do you recognize this emblem?" Daeron showed the handkerchief to Maekar; his father was his last hope. If he didn't recognize it, no one would.

"No. Where did you get it?"

"It doesn't matter." Daeron choked back tears and put it back in his pocket. "You should go. I thought you had an engagement to arrange for Aerion."

Maekar walked away without another word, leaving Daeron to his suffering.

Why were the gods so cruel to him? Giving him a glimpse of his angel only to take her away was the worst thing they could have done. Perhaps they were laughing at Daeron, at how miserable and weak he was.

Then why did they send him such beautiful dreams if he couldn't have them?

"If she is my destiny, please help me find her," Daeron pleaded, gazing at the sky.

A beam of light blinded him before moving past him. Daeron followed it with his eyes, intrigued by the perfect timing.

It was then that he saw it: a servant carrying a laundry basket from which hung a sleeve bearing the same emblem as the handkerchief.

"Wait!" Daeron ran after the servant.

"My prince." The lady bowed. "How may I assist you?"

"This emblem, to which house does it belong?" Daeron held out the handkerchief with his trembling hand.

"A house? Oh, no. It's just something Lady L/N likes to embroider on her clothes."

Daeron froze.

His heart leaped; his angel, he had finally found her. Lady Y/n L/n, the girl he loved, the love of his life.

The lady who was about to get engaged to his brother.

×××

Daeron didn't stop to consider how inappropriate his actions were. He rushed desperately to Lady L/n's chambers and opened the door without even knocking.

"My lady, I beg you, don't marry him." The little dignity he had left vanished as he threw himself to the floor and hugged Y/n's feet as if his life depended on it.

"Leave us alone," Y/n said calmly.

Daeron raised his head, the admiration and love he felt for his angel overcoming his embarrassment at being seen by the servants. After all, it wasn't as if witnessing the drunken prince making a fool of himself was anything new to them.

"You." Recognition flashed across Y/n's face. "You're the man I found in the street. What are you doing here? Get up; the cold floor can't be comfortable."

"My lady, I am so sorry you had to see me in such a deplorable state." Daeron stood up, his legs trembling uncontrollably. He felt like a filthy animal in the presence of a gracious goddess. "I am truly grateful for your kindness; no one has ever stopped to help me."

Standing tall, in the formal attire he had worn all week to impress his angel should they meet, Daeron looked like the prince he was.

"My prince, I'm so sorry, I didn't recognize you before." Y/n bowed her head, noticing the brooch bearing the Targaryen sigil.

"No. Not you, my angel." Daeron tentatively reached Y/n's chin and lifted her face. "I'm the one who should apologize for disrespecting you and your family. I know it doesn't erase my wrongdoing, but if it's any consolation, I was busy searching for you to return this."

He released Y/n, took the handkerchief from his pocket, and offered it to her.

"An unfortunate misunderstanding, I see." She smiled and took the handkerchief, her hand brushing against his more than necessary. "I thought you were just a drunken man."

"And I thought you were a servant of a noble house."

"I wanted to see King's Landing, but my father insisted it was too dangerous," Y/n explained. "I never meant to deceive you, my prince."

"I imagine it was never your intention to find Prince Daeron the Drunken, living up to his name." Daeron looked down at his hands, embarrassed. "A truly memorable first encounter with your potential betrothed."

"As memorable as a lady pretending to be a commoner after escaping the castle."

Daeron smiled for the first time in a long time. They had barely exchanged words, and she had already warmed his heart.

"I've made many mistakes. I'm used to spending all hours of the day drunk, and I'm ashamed to admit that I know every whorehouse in King's Landing. I'm a terrible candidate, I know, but I'm willing to do anything to make you accept me." Daeron knelt and took her hands. "Please, I beg you, give me one last chance. I can't bear the thought of you becoming my brother's wife. Be my betrothed, that's all I ask. If after a month you want to break off the engagement, I'll let you go."

"I'm not the only one you need to convince." Y/N squeezed his hands. "But you have my yes."

"Really? You mean it?" Daeron brought Y/N's hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles. "Even if I’m the most pathetic prince that ever lived?"

"I highly doubt that's you, my prince."

She smiled, and Daeron forgot how to breathe.

"I promise you won't regret it," Daeron swore.

He was willing to be a better man for her.

entitled-fangirl

Northern courting.

Cregan Stark x reader

Summary: Cregan is a man of action, not words. He assumes you know you're courting. He'd be quite wrong.

Masterlist

...............................................................

Cregan Stark was known around Winterfell for never resting. He never sat down, never relaxed, never quit his work, and seemingly never took a deep breath.

When you and your family showed, that's when the staff of the castle knew you were important.

lolalov3s

Leon makes you squirt (for the first time)

Content: smut, p in v, fingering, squirting, alcohol consumption, hookup culture lol

Masterlist❤︎

There is nothing better than being fucked completely senseless.

Arguably the best remedy for a chronically overactive mind.

After five straight days of managing passive-aggressive emails and smiling through situations that tested the absolute limits of human sanity, you decided the only cure for this impending mental breakdown was a stiff drink and zero inhibitions on this lovely weekend.

Two shots of whatever was closest, and the company of a man who looked just as desperately in need of a distraction as you, if not more so.

forthereaderinserts

Kakashi: how are you…alive? You’re so normal compared to the others.

You: that’s my secret, if you crave the peace of the afterlife so much people tend to leave you alone.

Kakashi: I’m booking us a therapy session…

plutotheplum

Take All My Love

leon kennedy x fem!reader

summary: to your chagrin, you get partnered with an irritating DSO agent who happens to take an interest in the case you're working on.

cw: nsfw (18+) - mdni!!, smut, re9!leon, fbi!reader, age gap, kissing, vaginal fingering, oral sex, blow job, p in v, spanking, choking, finger sucking, brat taming, praise kink

wc: 10k

a/n: obsession's gotten so bad i started having dreams about him <3

also on ao3!

There’s a man sitting at your desk.

You’d arrived at work a little before 9, steaming cup of coffee in hand and a stack of case files tucked under your arm haphazardly. It was only until you’d heard the curious, hushed whispers that you’d realized your desk was currently taken, occupied by an unfamiliar man clad in a leather jacket.

Were you being relocated? Promoted? Demoted?

A barrage of thoughts flits through your mind as you approach your desk slowly, mentally preparing yourself to give the man a piece of your mind. The man doesn’t even flinch when the case files drop onto your desk loudly, your coffee cup following soon after as you set it down roughly before crossing your arms over your chest.

“Can I help you?”

leonsleatherjacket

this was just perfection omfg

socioparker

klaus mikaelson x mini crescent!werewolf reader, the mikaelson’s x mini crescent!werewolf reader

WOLFNAPPED

summary: when kol mikaelson stumbles upon a puppy, something he’s always wanted, and takes it home. the mikaelson’s think it’s the cutest thing, not realizing it’s not a dog at all, and that they’ve accidentally wolf-napped the most important thing in the wolf community. or that it would become the most important thing to the original hybrid.

warnings: 18+. 5.3K words!!! descriptions of accidental kidnapping. descriptions of violence. reader’s wolf form looks like a 3 month old dog. accurate representation of mates because they’re animals!!! they’re going to find each other attractive inside and outside of being in either form!!! explicit language. klaus is definition of ‘she knows where home is’. klaus’s wolf is immediately obsessed. reader’s nickname is mini. reader likes being pet and spoiled, if she’s being so then she really doesn’t gaf. #queen

it happened by chance, not purpose. kol was just on his way back from a night feed when he saw a four legged creature walking ahead. when he gets closer, making sure his footsteps aren’t loud enough to startle it, he realizes it’s a puppy. with a kneel on the hard cement sidewalk, he makes a beckoning noise to get its attention. it stops and looks at him, its eyes a soft brown with curiosity swimming in them. it looks like it could be a husky with a clean coat. the question of how it seems to be so clean as a stray doesn’t really cross the original’s mind. he just wants the dog. he extends his hand out for it to sniff and after a few seconds, it lets him pet it. it seems like it’s aware he could do something to hurt it at any moment, but for once that wasn’t his intention. plus, he’s already had his kill for tonight. setting his weight forward on his left foot, he snatches it quickly to make sure it can’t run and proceeds to continue the walk home. it -who he checks and turns out is a she- doesn’t seem to care about protesting or wiggling out of his hold. instead she watches the block pass as he does all the walking for her. when he gets back, the large wooden doors shut behind him, announcing his entrance. not that they need to because he’s calling out rebekah’s name the second he gets his jacket off.

the blonde comes downstairs exasperated, asking “what is it, kol? i was doing my nightly routine.”

he rolls his eyes. this girl and her damn routines as if she isn’t 1050 years old. “none of that matters, come look at what i’ve got!”

she walks over and sighs, hands on her hips, expecting to be met with something like a severed head or game on his beloved DS. when he holds the furry animal up, she gasps, eyes widening.

“oh my bloody heart! look at how adorable, where did you find it?”

she takes her from him without hesitation, cradling her. he explains just five minutes ago and they both agree on the name mini. the next morning comes and he goes downstairs for tea around 9:30. elijah’s sat in his reading chair with the latest newspaper, dressed in a sharp black and grey suit. of course, such a stickler when it comes to keeping his habits, he always gets up at the ass crack of dawn. as if he even has anything to do at that time.

kol sits in his favorite spot on the long expensive rust red couch, humming a pleasant, “morning”.

elijah’s eyes narrow at the black letters on the paper he’s holding. why did he sound so happy? typically, that only follows up with him having to do damage control for weeks if not months after kol had done whatever he has.

lowering it, he questions, “what have you done, brother?”

the younger maniac only sips from his mug, the smell of chamomile wafting into the air. the curtains are drawn back, windows of the compound letting in enough sunlight to make you forget that it’s late october. the tuft of fur sticking out from behind his legs shifts slightly, and elijah’s tone is filled with disbelief.

“kol. what. is that.”

“‘lijah, meet mini. my new puppy.”

if someone had told elijah yesterday that he would end up almost having an aneurysm with a side of toast the next morning, he would have believed it but not the cause of it. vampires, especially originals, don’t have pets. they all know the heartbreak that comes eventually and no one feels like dealing with that over and over again when they already experience it with friends and family. why on earth would he have gotten a puppy if he knows it’s going to die in 15 years, which is just a blink of an eye to them? the suited man looks down at her only to be met with the most adorable face he’s ever seen. her ears are rounded at the tips, fur a gorgeous shade of warm light red that fits in any season, big brown eyes holding irregular amounts of life behind them, and paws crossed in front of her. she stares at him and his brows furrow. this can’t be happening. he doesn’t know what’s worse. the fact that he’s actually falling for the classic puppy eyes or the fact that kol could get what he wants. he tries to snap out of it.

“you are not keeping any pet here. it-”, kol cuts him off, “she.”

elijah stares before gritting out, “she will take to ruining the furniture because i am sure you will not train her and there is no time to care for her with our lifestyle.”

kol scoffs, “says you. nothing will be destroyed and i do plan to train her, thank you very much. i, personally, don’t do much nowadays to make people hate me unlike you and nik so i do have time to care for her. don’t be jealous and project.”

in the following hours, kol brings her to a high-end pet supply store. if it wasn’t known that the mikaelson’s have like trillions of dollars from being alive 1050+ years, the employees would think he was insane for buying her a diamond necklace, a $200 bed, and a weeks worth of clothes. literal clothes from dresses to sweaters, booties, and somehow even hats. when he returns home, rebekah fawns over playing with her, and klaus comes back from dealing with a pair of witches that were making a stink in the peace treaty.

nose crinkling, “what is that smell?”, the hybrid demands before spotting the creature. he blinks and his eyes narrow.

“she doesn’t stink, don’t insult her. this is mini, my puppy.”

klaus deadpans, “your…puppy. are you sure? and no, she doesn’t stink, just..smells different.” for some reason, his wolf is stirring awake inside and seems to want him to get closer. he fights against it, not knowing why it would. he never listens to his wolf, even after going through the whole thousand year ordeal of trying to break the curse keeping that side of him dormant and succeeding three years ago.

“at least she doesn’t smell like your ass”, kol shoots.

offense takes over klaus’s expression, suspicion forgotten. “i smell just fine, you bobble headed urchin. that thing better not get on my expensive chair.”

“don’t worry, i’ve already let her have a go at your paint collection.”

klaus vamp speeds at him with all intentions to impale him with something, but elijah cuts it short.

“enough, children!”, the eldest shakes his head, “kol, stop antagonizing niklaus. niklaus, control yourself. the dog will be gone in a few days when kol realizes he isn’t fit for owning a pet.”

“we’ll see about that”, kol glares before he picks her up to go outside.

————

honestly, you’ve never been more pampered. is it sort of creepy that you’re just letting this guy and his sister tend to you like you’re what they believe you are? sure, but it’s literally what the pack does just without the knowing what you are part. plus, with all the bullshit this family has brought about on the city, you’re doing a service by keeping two of them occupied from causing more. you don’t mind the dress ups and trimming of your nails because he feeds you a damn good steak after each time. who can really blame you for taking advantage of the ones who deserve it? either way it’s not like you’re all human brained. you’re not just rare because of your size but because of what comes with it. you tend to have more of an animal mindset than a human one unlike all other werewolves who only have human mindsets until angry or in wolf form. obviously, you can shift at will but you’ve never really been a fan of having two legs, so you stick to this. the diamonds resting on your furry neck are a big difference to the usual 15 dollar necklaces you buy from the carts in the quarter. having grown up in the bayou, your past night and day spent here in this massive house has been like going from rags to riches over night. maybe you should wander the streets more often. right now, you’re asleep on your silk bed with an expensive blanket on you when footsteps near.

klaus stops in the middle of kol’s doorway, glancing around. kol went to go get lunch, elijah is with marcel dealing with a vampire problem, and rebekah is who knows where. he stayed behind to plot but realized half an hour ago that you were still here. the curious creature from a few hours so. he approaches slowly, the floor boards creaking slightly under his weight, but it doesn’t seem to wake you. he squats two feet away before reaching out and feeling the texture of your fur. it’s much thicker than a dogs. when his hand goes up to your neck, you stir and your eyes peel open, meeting his. you stare warily for a few seconds, he reciprocates. he knows that you know that he knows you’re not a dog. but what are you, a werewolf that somehow killed someone at the age of three months, broke the curse, and now has a tiny wolf form? he’s never seen anything like this, so he can’t just deep dive into accusations. yet. his wolf stirs just like before when he saw you hours ago and he can’t ignore it this time. it no longer takes his refusal as an answer and pushes itself forward, making his eyes glow yellow with black scelera and black veins underneath. on instinct, unexpected to him, your eyes glow yellow in response. his human/vampire side immediately wants to throttle you and demand you shift to tell you how you’ve done this, why you’re here, if you’re a spy, or just kill you. when he brings his hand to wrap around your neck, it’s as if he’s being attacked from the inside, like something is keeping him from snapping it. you watch as his eyes flicker back and forth from yellow to blue-green repeatedly but you don’t cower like everyone else would.

he attempts at clamping down on it, only for him to fall flat on his ass. his wolf is not happy with the idea of him getting violent with you. he stares incredulously at you as if you were the one who pushed him. you snort, making him realize for the first time ever that being laughed at by a wolf is much more humiliating than it is to be laughed at by a human. he begins to interrogate.

“how old are you?” when you don’t move, he counts aloud, waiting for a reaction to one of the numbers. at 23, your nose twitches slightly, making him hum.

“23 years old and you don’t even care. that you’re living my family’s home freeloading. pretending to be something you’re not. taking advantage of strangers. they believe you to be a dog and you’re going with it. you must be completely and utterly shameless.”

you purposefully shift into a more comfortable position on the silk bed, front left paw poking out from under the thick blanket, then close your eyes with a whine turned yawn. you’re the picture of relaxed and pampered. hell, your nails are pink from rebekah painting them with k9-safe polish. he scoffs.

“what is it you want, hm? a home? information? where is your pack? are you a runt?”

you roll your eyes at him as if a runt is the farthest thing from what you are, but to him it’s the only thing that makes sense. why else would you be tiny enough to carry around and why else would you be so willing to take on a place in a random family?

“or…. are you unfathomably hideous to the point where you’ve decided to permanently stay in wolf form?” he asks, honestly quite genuinely.

your paw shoots out and claws dig into his foot making his groan and then curse. he grabs it and squeezes, prompting you to let out a sharp high pitched yelp of pain and the second the noise registers, he lets go as if having grabbed fire. he shakes his head, not understanding why he couldn’t continue as if you were just anyone else. his body fills with an emotion he’s always pushed down but can’t ignore this time. guilt. his wolf snaps and snarls at him from inside, livid at him.

he finds himself apologizing regardless of how hard it is and how strained it sounds. “i-i…i’m sorry. i..mini, i lost my temper. i am trying to have this conversation without being aggressive. i am. it seems as though i have no other choice either way.”

with your paw drawn back into your chest, curled up along with the rest of your body, your gaze points elsewhere. his chest tightens and his lips purse. he doesn’t want to care, he shouldn’t, but the animalistic side of him acts as if not doing so is some form of torture. obviously as a werewolf, you’ll heal but it doesn’t take away from the fact that he still did it, even if it was in retaliation for you hurting him first. he attempts to steel himself and go back into his cold and calculating mindset where he could turn you into a pawn, this situation into a benefit for himself. if you were looking at him -not that you really have to because at this point you can almost hear it- you would be able to see the wheels turning in his head. his blue-green eyes gleam as he forms a plan, more like an ultimatum.

“actually”, he starts with a cool tone, “i’m willing to keep your secret from my siblings for something in exchange.”

your ear flicks, showing that you’re listening even if you’re still not facing him, which he pretends doesn’t bother him.

“if you want to stay under your rouse, you will become my spy. you can pass as a dog and for some reason, lack the scent of a werewolf. no one will suspect anything from you being in a room with an enemy, meaning they will feel more than comfortable to speak freely. when on these jobs, you will report back to me with everything they said. otherwise, you can say goodbye to the divine class life and hello to whatever fate my brother will have for you when he realizes the creature he’s been petting and doting on is a person. more specifically a werewolf, natural enemy of vampires.” he weaves his words carefully like intricate poison just like you’ve been told he does.

————

a day passes and you go on your first job, posing as a stray in the cemetery some witches plan to meet in to discuss how to overthrow klaus. honestly? your plan was to just give him a version of what you would hear, you don’t care about any king of new orleans. until the pack is brought up. ‘ambush the crescents and pick off their muscles’ was enough for you to decide that you’re going to start taking this seriously. once it’s done with, you go the long way back to the compound to make sure no one saw any connection and then slip through the back door. you trot up the stairs to his study before pushing the door open slightly with your side, sliding in. he’s stood on his balcony with a glass of bourbon when he hears you. you stick your neck out for him to take the bugged collar off and he presses play. the first ten minutes is of you panting and the sound of traffic passing along with pedestrians, all of which he skips, then there’s a moment where it’s quiet and you finally pick up the entire conversation the four were having. his features darken at the conspiracies he hears and he turns to you, expectant.

“where exactly where they placed?”

with a hop on the chair then desk, you look over the map of the factions territories before landing on the west side of the cemetery where there’s a tomb with an angel in front of it. you press your paw onto it and he files it mentally before scratching your ear, impressed.

“well done.”

that night, you’re gifted a perfect one-person chicken for dinner which you feast on as the others sit at the table. it continues for days before klaus finally acts on his plans and brings you with, in arm. you don’t mind the jostling of his determined stride, you’re paying more attention to some quarter residents doing double takes at the sight of klaus mikaelson, the great evil, the original hybrid, carrying what has to be the cutest dog known to man. if he notices he doesn’t show it. when you get to the location, he keeps you in hold as he speaks to the witches who are trembling but still planning like idiots to try and take him down. the second they begin to give him a brain aneurysm, he groans and instinctively brings his hands to his head meaning he drops you. one of the witches come forth and coos at you as you whine at his pain.

“don’t worry, cutie-”, she ends up cut off by her own scream as you launch yourself several feet into the air and bite her neck, shaking until her throat is ripped out. before she falls, you use her shoulder to jump onto the other witch next to her and do the same. with only one left, the surviving witch turns her aneurysm spell onto you, and the second you fall five feet to the ground writhing in pain letting out the most gut wrenching cries, a deep growl emits from klaus’s being. his eyes turn yellow with black rims and black veins and he vamp speeds at her and rips her apart unlike any kill he’s done before. he turns to you, picking you up.

“shh, you’re alright now, love. you’ve done perfectly.”

he takes in the sight of the blood coating your fur and snout. unfortunately you end up in the bath which of course, to piss him off, you keep running around in. several attempts at keeping his patience barely works and being splashed by your filthy water isn’t doing any wonders for it. when you use your tail to send a wave toward him, his composer crumbles and the sound of a crisp smack floods the bathroom as his hand meets your tailbone. a sharp yelp spills from you as your tail tucks but you shift your body a little closer to him, looking back expectantly. he immediately catches onto this, rinsing the suds off of you.

“you like that, hm? cheeky little minx. you’ll have to wait until you’re in human form to get more.”

he lets out an actual chuckle when you flatten your ears at what you perceive to be bad news. that’s the first time you’ve ever heard him laugh. you try to ignore how your tail instinctively wags at it. he dries you then wraps you in a towel. you rest on your silk bed as he pours himself a glass of amber bourbon. the room is silent aside from the sounds of jazz seeping through the cracks of the window. the sun is setting with some purple and pink on the french quarter, causing it to be dimly lit between these four walls that contain you two. his voice breaks it.

“what is the longest you’ve been in human form?” he doesn’t have to shift his gaze or any part of his body to you because you’ve entered an unspoken routine. when he asks a question that can be answered with an amount, he counts the thumps of your tail or throws numbers around aloud until you make a noise. this time, your tail thumps only 2 times. his blonde brows knit.

“i refuse to believe you mean two months. please tell me it’s two years, though even that is low in itself.”

you thump once for yes. two years. a scoff of disbelief hits your ears. you’ve gotten this reaction before from your own pack. why would anyone willingly stay in the form of an animal when they’d be much more free in human? for you the answer is simple. you’re more free in this one. you’re not expected to talk to anyone, know anything, or be anything -well, unless you end up in a situation like this- and you could relax all day with absolutely zero responsibilities. your pack, of course, has grown used to this over the years and cherishes it due to your rarity. it’s a good advantage when needed. he on the other hand, racks his brain for a reason why you choose it. there’s only a few he can come up with so he asks the one that sounds the most realistic.

“are you more ‘animal minded’ than other werewolves? and that’s why you stay in this body? human nature doesn’t necessarily agree with you, does it?”

smart man. your smart man, your wolf thinks. a singular thump, and a hum from him. interesting, he’d never thought about what it would be like to be in the wolf mindset 24/7 and not just when a werewolf is transitioned. he’d only been in it the one time he shifted the night he broke his curse. he was in it for two days and will never forget how uncontrollable everything was. how he barely had human thoughts, just primal instincts he had no choice but to follow. his own rumbles in satisfaction at the thought of you being a type of feral and it’s hard for his human/vampire mind to ignore.

“that’s why you don’t mind being pet and treated like a dog. you see no difference.” he muses, assessing how you’re as snug as a damn bug in a rug under the thick quilt rebekah got you. designed with paw prints, bones, and crowns, if he didn’t know your secret, he would have bought you being a husky. when you’re like this, he can understand how kol believes you’re one. with everything that’s happened in the past few hours, you’re exhausted, and he can see that. he approaches, kneeling at your side.

his voice is soft just like his eyes. “you killed those witches for me today. i won’t forget that.” it’s the last thing you hear before you drift off.

by the time the others realize something is up, kol is having a field day. with all that talk from elijah about not keeping the puppy and her being gone by the end of the week, he could practically hold up a neon light sign that says ‘IN YOUR FACE’ and parade around with it following the suited original for the next decade. when klaus is sat on the couch, you’re there next to him. when he leaves the room to plot someone’s downfall, which is like every other day, you follow. hell, you’ve even taken to laying on his lap. kol has had enough.

“what have you done to make her so attached to you, nik? hm? have you been bribing her with gravy on her turkey? sliding her secret treats? why would she suddenly like you over me? you’re unbearable!” the brunette fusses, glaring daggers into both of you as you sleep on his thighs, head resting against where his pelvis and thigh meet.

the hybrid ignores his little brother, sketching a portrait of you in the rain with charcoal. “perhaps she’s realized i’m the best person here.”

this time rebekah chimes in, “poppycock. you’ve done something, nik, we all know it. you don’t even like dogs, you’ve always said they’re mange infested mutts who’s fleas are attracted to them because pests recognize pests.”

his lips purse and he says, “i stand by what i said. she’s different, look at her face. even my cold heart can’t look past how unsettlingly adorable she is, mutt or not.”

elijah’s eyes narrow in suspicion. he knows klaus better than anyone considering he’s like…his only friend, which makes him his best friend. if there’s anything he’s learned over the past 1057 years, it’s that if klaus knows something everyone else does, he keep it hidden until it’s useful. the fact that he’s switched how he feels about dogs just cause one is cute? yeah right, next thing he’ll do is start handing out flowers on valentine’s day. he can’t ponder it much longer as the doors to the compound are thrown open and boots clack in a rush on the cobblestone. hayley comes into view, frantic.

the werewolf begins, “i have an emergency that i can no longer handle myself. a wolf is missing from the pack.”

elijah’s brows furrow as he stands, approaching his girlfriend. “do we know them?”

she shakes her head, “no, but they’re extremely important. usually she leaves the bayou, explores for four days and then comes back to her cabin and sleeps for three more but she didn’t return and she isn’t there. me, jackson, and everyone else have searched up and down the bayou but nothing.”

“could she has snuck off for a long tryst? or possibly just leave the city for fun. if shes known to explore she could have just gone further.” rebekah ponders, but hayley refuses.

“no, she always comes back. and she can’t be tracked by scent because she has a rare ability where she doesn’t smell like a werewolf.”

while everyone is discussing, klaus discreetly gets up and begins to go to his study when elijah stops him.

“niklaus, where are you going? this matter is urgent and as king, you need to deal with it.”

“yes yes, i’ve heard. i can’t exactly solve a missing person’s case with art supplies.” the hybrid goes to keep walking when hayley questions when a familiar tuft of apricot colored fur catches her eye.

“wait. what is that? that furry thing you’re holding.”

kol pipes in, “my new puppy, mini.”

disbelief floods her system and elijah can tell something is off, most likely exactly what he believed it to be. “puppy? let me see.”

klaus refuses, “no. it’s sleeping and is rather not fond of strangers.”

rebekah scoffs, “why are you lying, brother? mini doesn’t mind strangers. just show her.”

all of a sudden, he breaks out into vamp speed, leaving everyone astonished. seeing that he’s more than obviously hiding something, they vamp speed after him.

“niklaus, open this door at once!” elijah rattles the knob of the study which barely moves. the sound of something being pushed against it to form a barricade is heard before klaus’s voice, muffled.

“i can’t, elijah. i won’t have anyone take her from me.”

kol pounds his fist on the wood frame, “what are you on about, you delusional twat?! give me my dog!”

rebekah swats his arm, “don’t you get it? i don’t think that’s a damn dog, i think it’s that girl hayley is looking for.”

“what?! how?!”, his brows furrow. “one, mini would be the tiniest werewolf in recorded history if that were true, and two that would mean she’s been parading around as a puppy for fun. who does that?”

“someone who doesn’t care for being human, that’s who”, hayley exasperates, “klaus, please! i need to see her to make sure she’s alright!”

“she is alright, now leave.” meanwhile, you’re sat on his desk curiously watching him open a locked drawer with a jagged key and pull out a case. revealing a set of huge handled ancient looking daggers, he takes out one and begins to prepare it. your tail swishes, creating a small breeze and accidentally makes some of the white oak dust in his container blow away. he curses under his breath, coating the blade, “you and your bleeding tail, i swear.”

outside, rebekah throws her hands up, “why is he so attached to her anyway? he wouldn’t even protect one of us like this.”

the werewolf thinks before blinking. “well…she’s a werewolf. so is he even if half. he’s seemingly known that for a while now, meaning she’s communicated with him. …if they’ve had enough back and forth, then…” she trails off.

elijah looks to his girlfriend wearily, fearing what he knows she’ll say next. “then?”

“then a mate bond could have formed.”

kol’s face greens. “i think i’m going to be sick.”

“it’s natural,” rebekah rolls her eyes. “just odd to us because we haven’t known her truth. nik, if you just let hayley check on the poor girl, we’ll leave you be!”

no response. so elijah uses force to push the door open. after two rams of his body, the cabinet blocking it has fallen over and their eyes land on the hybrid with his favorite souvenirs, mini sat on a second bed placed on his desk they didn’t even know he bought for her.

“oh bloody hell, he’s gone homicidal over her already.” kol quips.

holding out both hands placatingly, elijah insists. “brother, please. think about this. do you truly want her to see this fight? she has a family and home, hayley only wants to bring her back. that doesn’t mean it has to be the end of your seeing her.”

klaus bristles, eyes glowing yellow. the concept of you going back to the bayou to a worn cabin surrounded by swamp, where any other mangy mutt could try and claim you, not living in luxury, infuriates him. his expression is cold along with his voice.

“no.” his grip tightens around the tough handle of the dagger, body buzzing with primal instinct to protect you at all costs, even if it means putting his family down and into the coffins they’ve resided in years before.

“mini, come.” your fellow crescent tries to beckon, only for you to stay exactly where you are, small furry body positioned towards him but head towards the three mikaelson’s and labonair in the doorway. they spread out and klaus uses his body to block you from being grabbed. “do you have idea of how worried sick we’ve been? only to find you you’ve been here roleplaying as a dog and having found your mate?”

you let out a huff and she says, “that’s it. you’re coming home. now.” the brunette moves forward and her and klaus begin to brawl, which makes elijah jump in. your man is wiping the floor with them which you would feel bad about if you had the cognitive ability to see it as what it actually is. the fight goes on and on and he shoves the dagger into elijah’s side and then one into rebekah’s stomach. but when he turns to kol, you let out a whine. he doesn’t react at first, pushing the tip of the blade into his little brothers chest when suddenly sharp teeth nip at his ankle. he curses and goes to kick out of reflex until he sees it’s you.

“what are you doing? stop it!”

you tug on his jean hard enough to rip it and he steps back, which gives hayley an opening, and she grabs you. before he can reach for you, elijah takes a hold of him from behind, restraining the now shouting blonde. paying no mind to him, hayley inspects you as you nip at her fingers playfully. she takes off her coat, setting you on the floor, and holds it up as a visual barrier. a sharp whimper escapes you before it goes silent. his eyes widen as you rise, now in human form for the first time since kol took you off the street, and since august in general. wrapped in a black coat, but naked underneath, your face comes into view. soft and sharp features, large brown eyes that stay puppy-ish even now, long ruffled curls that needs detangling and a wash, but still perfect in his eyes. his lips part as his wolf goes insane on the inside at the thought of what you look like under the fabric blocking your most precious work of art. he stills, no longer struggling in his older brothers grip, only paying attention to you. when your gaze lands on him, he only has one thought.

klaus mikaelson, you are screwed.

i loved this (hence why it’s so long) 😩. let me know if y’all want a part 2!! i know i do lmao.

HELP ME MAKE THE DECISION FOR THE NEXT KLAUS STORY HERE.

luvlyk-13

“my wife?”

spencer reid x wife!reader

summary: spencer accidentally let it slip that he has a wife, but he thought that they knew

The bullpen is louder than usual.

A case just closed — messy, exhausting, emotionally draining — but closed. And that always brings a certain kind of restless energy to the team.

“Alright,” Derek announces, spinning slightly in his chair. “We deserve a drink. Real one. Not whatever’s been fermenting in the break room coffee pot.”

Emily snorts. “Seconded.”

“Thirded,” JJ adds, already grabbing her bag.

Spencer doesn’t look up at first. He’s reorganizing his go-bag with that meticulous focus he gets when he’s trying to decompress.

Hotch gives a small nod. “One hour. Then home.”

Morgan leans back in his chair and eyes Spencer. “You in, Pretty Boy?”

Spencer finally looks up, blinking like he just remembered he’s in a room full of people.

“Oh, um.” He glances at his watch. “I actually should probably head home.”

Morgan frowns dramatically. “Since when do you skip celebratory drinks?”

Spencer shrugs. Casual, almost too casual.

“My wife doesn’t love when I get back too late after a case. It messes with our routine.”

Silence.

Not the normal end-of-shift shuffle silence.

The kind where the air changes.

Emily freezes mid-zip of her purse. JJ slowly turns around. Morgan’s smile drops.

“…Your what?” he asks carefully.

Spencer blinks at him, “My wife.”

Morgan stands up fully now. “Your what?”

Spencer looks genuinely confused. “My wife? Why are you repeating it like that?”

“Reid,” Emily says slowly, “you don’t have a wife.”

Spencer stares at her, “Yes, I do.”

JJ’s eyebrows shoot up. “Since when?”

Spencer’s forehead creases like they’re the ones being ridiculous, “Since 2012.”

Morgan’s mouth actually falls open. “Two thousand and— Reid that was years ago.”

“Yes,” Spencer says patiently. “That’s generally how time works.”

“Spencer,” JJ says gently, “we would know if you were married.”

Spencer’s lips press together in mild disbelief, “I assumed you did know.”

“How?” Morgan practically shouts.

Spencer gestures vaguely. “I wear a ring?”

All of them look down. He does. A simple silver band. Always has. They just never clocked it. It blended in with his watch and the ink stains and the everything else that is Spencer Reid.

Emily steps closer. “You’re serious.”

Spencer exhales softly. “Of course I’m serious. Why would I joke about that?”

Morgan runs a hand over his head. “Okay, okay. Hold up. You’re married. To who?”

Spencer’s expression shifts immediately. Softens almost.

Like someone turned down all his sharp edges.

“Her name is Y/N.”

The way he says it makes the room feel smaller somehow. More intimate.

JJ tilts her head. “You’ve never mentioned her.”

Spencer hesitates.

And for the first time, he looks a little unsure, “I… didn’t think it was relevant to work.”

Morgan stares at him. “Reid, we share everything here.”

Spencer’s voice goes quiet but steady. “Not everything.”

There’s weight there.

Hotch, who’s been silent this entire time, studies him carefully. “She’s not in the Bureau.”

“No,” Spencer says quickly. “She’s not. She’s… normal. Civilian.”

Emily crosses her arms. “So let me get this straight. You’ve been married for over a decade and we’ve never met her?”

Spencer blinks. “Well… yes.”

Morgan points at him. “That’s insane.”

Spencer looks offended. “It’s not insane.”

“It’s a little insane,” JJ says gently.

Spencer shakes his head, standing now, suddenly protective in a way they’ve never seen before.

“She’s not a secret,” he insists. “I just… I don’t bring her into this.”

Morgan narrows his eyes. “Why not?”

Spencer goes quiet for a moment.

And when he speaks again, his voice is softer. Not defensive anymore. Just honest.

“Because this job takes things.”

The room stills.

“She met me when I was just starting at the BAU. Before any of the… really bad stuff.” He swallows. “She’s seen what this job does. To all of us.”

Emily’s expression softens.

Spencer continues.

“She was there when I couldn’t sleep after my first execution-style case. She sat with me and read out loud because I couldn’t get the images out of my head.”

JJ’s eyes glisten.

“She was there when my mom’s condition got worse. When I didn’t know how to handle it. She learned about schizophrenia just so she could understand what I grew up with.”

Morgan shifts, quieter now.

“And when I—”

Spencer stops.

The prison memory hangs heavy in the air without him even saying it.

His jaw tightens.

“When I was in prison,” he finishes softly, “she visited every week. Even when I told her not to.”

Emily inhales slowly.

Spencer’s voice steadies, “She wrote to me every day. She memorized the visitor protocols. She advocated for me when no one else could. She never once doubted that I’d come home.”

Morgan’s teasing expression is completely gone now.

“She kept our apartment exactly the same,” Spencer continues, almost like he’s replaying it in his mind. “She said she didn’t want me walking into something unfamiliar.”

JJ wipes at her eye discreetly.

Spencer looks down at his ring, “She’s been there for every version of me. The anxious twenty-something. The grieving son. The addict. The inmate. The profiler who can’t always leave work at work.”

His lips twitch faintly, “She’s the only constant I’ve ever had.”

The room is completely silent.

Morgan finally speaks, softer than they’ve ever heard him.

“Why didn’t you tell us?”

Spencer hesitates, “Because this job makes enemies,” he says quietly. “And I could never forgive myself if something happened to her because of me.”

That lands harder than expected.

Hotch nods once. He understands that logic more than anyone.

Emily steps forward slightly. “So you just… what? Go home every night and we never knew?”

Spencer gives a small shrug, “Yes.”

Morgan exhales slowly. “Reid, that’s not something small.”

Spencer tilts his head, “It’s not small to me.”

There’s no arrogance in it. Just certainty.

“She makes me dinner when I forget to eat. She leaves sticky notes in my books when she knows I’ll be stressed. She reminds me that I’m more than my IQ and my trauma.”

His voice softens again, “She married me when I was still figuring out how to exist in the world. That’s not small.”

JJ smiles through tears. “Does she know what you do?”

“Yes.”

“And she’s okay with it?”

Spencer nods, “She worries. But she says she’d rather love me in a dangerous world than not love me at all.”

Morgan shakes his head slowly, “Reid, that’s real.”

Spencer frowns slightly. “Of course it’s real.”

Emily laughs weakly. “We just didn’t know you had that.”

Spencer looks genuinely confused again.

“Why wouldn’t I?”

And there it is, the quiet confidence.

He doesn’t see himself as someone unworthy of love because someone has loved him consistently for years.

Morgan finally smirks faintly. “Alright, so when are we meeting her?”

Spencer stiffens instantly, “That seems unnecessary.”

“Oh no,” JJ says. “Very necessary.”

Hotch allows the smallest hint of amusement. “Agent Reid, you’ve withheld critical information from your team.”

Spencer sighs. “It wasn’t critical.”

Morgan claps him on the shoulder. “You being married is very critical, pretty boy.”

Spencer checks his watch again, panic creeping in slightly, “I really do have to go. She made lasagna tonight.”

Morgan groans. “You’re leaving us for lasagna?”

Spencer looks at him like he’s stupid, “Yes.”

The team bursts into laughter.

Spencer gathers his bag, still mildly baffled by their reaction.

As he heads toward the elevator, Emily calls after him, “Tell your wife we want to meet her!”

Spencer pauses and turns slightly.

And there’s the softest smile on his face.

“I’ll ask her if she’s comfortable with that.”

And then he’s gone.

—

Later that night, Spencer unlocks the door to your apartment quietly.

The smell of garlic and tomato sauce greets him immediately.

You appear in the kitchen doorway in his oversized sweater, hair slightly messy, smile automatic when you see him.

“You’re home.”

Spencer exhales like the world just unclenched.

You step into him, arms wrapping around his waist without hesitation and he practically melts instantly. Every sharp edge gone.

“Long case?” you murmur against his chest.

He nods, pressing his cheek to the top of your head.

“I accidentally told the team about you.”

You pull back slightly. “You what?”

“They seemed… surprised.”

You blink. “Spence, you never told them?”

“I assumed they knew.”

You laugh softly. “Oh my God.”

He looks sheepish for exactly half a second before he recovers, “They want to meet you.”

You study him gently. “Are you okay with that?”

Spencer looks at you. Really looks at you.

“You are the best thing in my life,” he says simply. “I don’t mind them knowing that.”

Your expression softens completely.

You reach up, cupping his face, “I’m proud to be your wife.”

His eyes warm immediately, “And I’m proud to be your husband.”

He leans down, kissing you slow and steady, not desperate, not rushed. Safe.

Because no matter what the job throws at him. No matter who questions it. He always comes home to you.

And now? The team finally knows he has something worth protecting.

gtgbabie0

PLEASE I NEED RE9 LEON SO BADLY IK HE WPULD LOOK AFTER US SO WELL PLSSSSS

I cant

જ⁀➴ Aftercare with RE9!Boyfriend!Leon ᝰ.ᐟ 18+

Leon wasn’t a stranger to hard work or long distance— he was trained for it, quite literally. That’s why he cherishes his time at home, with you, why he settles for nothing more than to worship every inch of you in bed.

He’s gotta make up for the lost time somehow, right?

And fucking you into the mattress until the only thing on your mind is him… is exactly how he does that, and he’s damn good at it too. He knows your body like he knows his way around a gun; it’s second nature to him. He knows exactly how to coax those breathless moans from your perfect lips and how to get you to arch up into him, when to press deeper and when to ease up, how to bring you over that edge and keep you right on the brink.

He gives it to you good, so it’s only logical that he takes care of you after he’s done fucking you dumb.

“You always take it so good, baby,” he coos against your shoulder blade, where he brushes a series of feather-light kisses, his lips trailing slowly down your spine— his stubble whispering against your flushed skin. “You okay, hm? not too sore?” he almost sounds proud of himself.

“A little achy, it’s a good ache though.” You hum into the pillows from where you’re lying on your stomach, face buried into the silk— your voice lazy and a little muffled.

“Good, means I did my job right,” you can feel his lips curl into a smug grin as he presses his face into the nape of your neck— his big palm running over the curve of your hip. “c’mere, let me hold you.”

Your body, heavy and boneless, relaxes into his big warm arms— he had joked one time that they were shaped to hold you, just like this, with your head tucked under his chin whilst his fingertips run nonsensical patterns up and down your spine in long soothing strokes, his touch grounding you in the moment, his heartbeat under your ear.

“Want me to go run you a bath?— reheat that pizza?” he murmurs against your temple, brushing a kiss to your hairline as you tilt your head to gaze up at those baby blues of his that the warm lamplight catches.

“Mm, in a minute… just wanna look at you first,” he smirks at your needy response, bringing a hand up to run his fingers through your hair, a silent 'I'm here' in his touch.

“Don’t think there’s much to look at… m’just wrinkles now baby,” he says, a faint chuckle catching in his deep voice.

He watches you roll your eyes at him, in that fond way you do whenever he says or does something ridiculous and god does he just thrive off of your little expressions— it’s free ammunition, that frown you get between your brows and that pout to your lips of yours that he loves to kiss right from your mouth.

You huff, muttering something about him ‘ageing sexily’ as you press a kiss to his stubbled jaw, then another to the corner of his mouth, lingering for a moment. “You’re still my man.”

“Damn straight I am, baby, all yours.” He beams, pride warming behind his ribs and bleeding all through his chest as he hauls you closer to him— dragging your thigh across his hips, your soft curves pressing up into the hard planes of his body like puzzle puzzles. “My girl,” he whispers as if to remind himself, bumping his nose against yours before stealing a slow kiss that has you melting further into him with a pleased noise.

Your fingers thread through his salt and pepper hair, smiling against his mouth when you feel him lean into your hands with the faintest hum— his forehead dropping to yours.

“I’ll build you that bookshelf tomorrow, after I make you breakfast.” you feel his voice rumble through his chest like distant thunder as he speaks, low and yet impossibly tender— always tender with you. “Right now, I’m gonna run you a bath and get some food in you.”

And all you could do was nod, humming a grateful thanks. His words weren’t up for debate, not when it came to looking after you.

AN: oh my god writers block has been beating the shit out of me lol. I’m watching someone play Re9 and got the sudden urge and wrote this <3

lunexiax

𝐦𝐚𝐲𝐛𝐞 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐨𝐧𝐞 (𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫)

pairing: dean winchester x f!reader

summary: Dean will never feel anything for you but friendship, and you have long accepted that. So what's getting him all worked up about you receiving a bit too much attention from one of your witnesses?

warnings: mutual pining, jealousy, idiots in love, friends to lovers, lightly implied age gap, smut (unprotected p in v, creampie, mentions of fingering & oral - f receiving, dumbification, love confessions during the act lmao), a lot of fighting but they're soft for each other, cursing, um ig reader is a little bit of a crybaby and it's mentioned that dean takes care of her

word count: 8.7k words

a/n: if this is bad please don't tell me lol

You don’t have to fake your skittishness as you twirl restlessly on the stool, elbows sticking to the dirty bar counter. The bottle of beer in front of you looks grossly unappealing but you catch Dean’s gaze from across the bar and he raises his eyebrows at you expectantly. You bring the rim to your lips and try not to wince as the bitter, lukewarm liquid goes down.

You do your best to look out of place and uncomfortable, but something tells you that you don’t have to try too hard. The bar is dimly lit and grimy, with deer heads watching you sullenly from the wall. They’re not the only eyes on you. The bar is reasonably busy but there is only one other woman present, and she’s behind the bar. There’s a sinking feeling in your gut and you’re determined that you will never take over Sam’s gig again.

Dean saunters over, cool and cocky, the way you had seen a million times before - but this time he’s sauntering over to you like that. And it makes your stomach do strange, pathetic things.

“Hey baby, you here alone?” he asks, getting up in your space in a way that should be creepy but isn’t because it’s Dean.

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