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valarr targaryen's wife.ㅤㅤㅤㅤ𖹭ㅤㅤ ────── " i'm no ordinary woman "

[hazelnott]

" with fire and blood, i will take it "

# welcome to my secondary blog ( main blog ) !! you can call me hazel

⤷ 9teen .ᐟ pisces .ᐟ infj .ᐟ bisexual .ᐟ house tyrell & house dayne .ᐟ history & human anatomy lover .ᐟ chronic writer’s block .ᐟ valarr targaryen's darling .ᐟ lana del rey .ᐟ margaery tyrell enthusiast .ᐟ wildly inconsistent

now playing ▸ cico buff — cocteau twins

recent works

ramsay bolton's widow i ii

requests always open unless explicitly stated otherwise!

[hazelnott]

⤷ ramsay's widow ii ˎˊ˗

# jon snow / karstark fem!user

-# Synopsis ￫ jon visits you after the meeting, and you decide to take a walk to the godswood together. one thing turns to another, and you two share something very special. ˎˊ˗

-# Warnings ￫ 2.9k+ .ᐟ fluff .ᐟ mentions of death .ᐟ mentions of ramsay... he's his own warning .ᐟ first kiss .ᐟ slight mentions of sa .ᐟ ˎˊ˗

-# A/n ￫ pt. 2 to this fic (click)! i am planning to ease into the romance, but i suppose pt. 3 will include a more intimate route. i'm currently rereading asoiaf while ALSO rewatching the show, so i'm like completely immersed right now ˎˊ˗

Jon stood rooted to the spot. Watching. Ensuring you wouldn't vanish from his sight the moment he looked away. Davos approached him cautiously, “She's a fragile thing, Jon. But, there's a strength in her. I saw it in the way she looked at you.”

Turning towards the solar, Jon scoffed dryly. “I don't want her to be fragile, Ser Davos. I want her to be able to rest without the fear of what comes with the morrow.” He then strode towards the solar, his cloak billowing behind him.

As he entered the room, the chatter of a dozen Northern lords snapped into a sudden, suffocating silence. All eyes turned to him, their faces etched with a mixture of suspicion and desperate hope.

The solar was smaller than the Grand Hall, but the air felt twice as heavy. Maps of the North were sprawled across a massive oak table, weighted down by daggers and inkpots. The lords of the North—men with weathered faces and furs stained by road-dust—stood in clusters, their voices having been a bustle before Jon had entered.

Lord Manderly was the first to drift forward, his voice authoritative and thick with a White Harbor accent. “Your Grace. We are glad you've joined us. We were just discussing the… specifics of the Karstark restoration.” Jon shook his head, his voice cutting through the room with its coolness. “I am not interested in specifics. I am interested in loyalty.”

Lord Glover then stepped forward, his arms crossed in equity. “Loyalty is a two-way alley, Snow. The Karstarks betrayed the Starks when they were needed the most. Now you wish to bring their daughter into bed to wash away that stain? Many are naming that as a weakness.”

A few of the lords murmured in agreement. Jon didn't flinch. He couldn't, not in front of them. He walked to the head of the table, leaning his weight on his palms, his dark eyes scanning every man in the room. The silence that followed was that of predatory.

His voice sparse and parlous, “The Boltons are dead. The North is mine to lead. If any man here thinks my marriage is a weakness, he is welcome to voice thought outside the walls.” Lord Glover stiffened, his maw snapping shut.

The room grew still again, the only sound the popping of the logs in the fireplace. Lord Manderly waved a hand, attempting to pivot, “Of course, Your Grace. Of course. We merely seek clarity. Once the marriage is sealed, the Karstark lands must be formally returned to its initial standing. It ensures the stability of the eastern marches.”

Jon straightened up. “The lands will be returned. Not for the sake of a treaty, but because the North cannot survive if we keep carving it into pieces.” The lords murmured, the tension in the room shifting from open challenge to a begrudging acceptance.

They were men of the North; they respected strength, and Jon had just reminded them that while he might not have the name they expected, he had the will of a King. Lord Manderly nodded thoughtfully, “A wise decision. Stability is the only currency that matters as of now.”

The meeting dragged on for hours. Jon endured the endless petitions for grain, the disputes over borders, and the subtle jabs at his legitimacy. Every time a lord spoke of you—referring to you as a ‘means to an end’ or a ‘concession’—Jon’s jaw tightened.

By the time the solar finally cleared, the sun had dipped below the horizon, leaving the fortress in a shroud of bruised purple and grey. The Lord filed out one by one with their grumbled partings, their boots thumping against the stone floor like a heartbeat.

Jon remained in the solar for a few minutes after they departed. He leaned against the heavy oak, his eyes closing as he let out a long, ragged breath. The crown felt heavier than ever.

He thought of the way Lord Glover spoke of you—as if you were a piece of land to be conquered or a debt to be settled on behalf of your family. He suddenly pushed off from the table and started out of the room, his pace unhurried.

He didn't head for his own quarters or the Great Hall. Instead, he made his way towards the west wing.

The corridor was quiet, illuminated by the flickering wall sconces. He stopped outside the heavy oak door Sansa had shown you to. He didn't knock immediately; he stood there in silence, his hand hovering over the door.

Hesitating.

He wondered if you were sleeping, or if the silence of the room was too loud for even that. He then knocked softly, barely more than a tap. His voice was low, muffled by the barrier of the door.

“(Name)?”

Inside the room, the fire had burned down to glowing embers, casting a dim, orange light across the furs and the half-eaten bowl of pottage on the table. The room smelled of cedar and old stone, along with the faint scent of your signature perfume oils.

You reluctantly stood from the foot of your bed, brushing the wrinkles from the nightgown you were given. You made your way towards the door, turning the knob and opening it.

“You came.” You managed to murmur, noting the bags under Jon's eyes. He leaned against the doorframe, his expression weary. “I said I would.” He didn't step inside immediately, instead he remained in the threshold.

The flickering light from the hallway highlighted the deep lines of exhaustion around his eyes and the smudge of soot still clinging to his jaw. His gaze drifted towards the table, “You didn't eat much.” he acknowledged.

He looked back at you, his dark eyes searching yours. Now that they were away from the prying eyes of the lords and the heavy atmosphere of the Great Hall, the silence between them felt different—less like a force field and more like a mutual space.

You shook your head, “I wasn't that hungry.” you responded, which made Jon frown. “You need your strength. The North doesn't feed the frail.” He finally stepped inside, the heavy thud of his boots echoing in the small room.

He didn't move toward you, instead keeping a respectful distance, though his presence seemed to furnish the space. He glanced at the dim embers of the fire, then back to her. He let out a profound huff. “I spent the last four hours listening to men describe you as a political necessity.”

His jaw tightened, a flicker of the prior anger from the solar returning. He then shifted his weight, his hand resting on the hilt of Longclaw. “I told them the lands would be returned. I told them the union would happen.” He turned to look you in the eye.

“But I want you to know this.” He paused, letting the words linger. “Under my protection, and in this marriage, you are not a liability.” He inhaled deeply as he struggled for a moment to find words that didn't sound like the empty promises of a courtier.

Jon wasn't a man of poetry; he preferred to give the cold, hard truth, and the truth was that he felt a strange, mutual kinship with your silence. “You are your own woman. If you wish to spend your days here in the library, or the godswood, or simply in silence… you may. I will not stop you.”

You smiled at that. “On the topic of the godswood, perhaps we should take a walk there.” You offered, already reaching for your furs. “I need the fresh air anyhow, it is quite suffocating in here already.”

Jon blinked, caught off guard by your suggestion. His voice cautious, “It is late. The air… it is freezing.” he didn't say no. In fact, the idea of escaping the stifling walls of the keep was almost too tempting. He looked at you, noticing the small smile engraved on your face, and felt a strange tightening in his chest.

It was the first time he had seen you look at him with something other than reluctant acceptance, and he found himself craving more of it. He then stepped back toward the door, “Put on your furs. All of them.” he waited for you to dress, standing guard by the door like a sentinel.

Once you were wrapped in heavy wool and fur, he led the way out of the west wing, your arm interlocked with his. You moved through the keep in a shared silence, your footsteps echoing in the corridors.

As you stepped outside, the winter air hit you like a physical blow. The wind howled through the battlements, carrying the scent of pine and incoming snow. The courtyard was mostly empty now, the fires of the funeral pyres reduced to glowing mounds of ash.

You walked toward the godswood hand-in-hand, the snow crunching beneath your boots. As you entered the grove, the silence of the castle faded, replaced by the eerie, whistling wind in the branches. The weirwood tree stood at the center, its stark white bark seemingly glowing in the dark, the blood-red leaves shivering against the night sky.

Jon stopped a few paces from the tree, his voice barely above a whisper. “This is the heart of Winterfell.” He looked at the carved face in the trunk, its eyes weeping sap that looked like frozen blood.

You glanced up at the tree, your arm tightening around his. “It's… it's beautiful.” Your voice trembled slightly from the cold as you murmured. Being as observant as ever—one he picked up on from being the shadow of Winterfell—he noticed the tremble.

He stepped closer, his presence intentionally blocking the biting wind. “You're shivering.” He acknowledged. He didn't hesitate this time. Without a word, he reached out and shifted the heavy, dark fur of his own cloak, pulling the thick material around your shoulders to share the warmth.

He didn't pull you flush against him, instead being mindful of your boundaries and remaining close enough so that you could feel the heat radiating from his body. He then looked up at the red leaves of the tree, “My father… he always said the Old Gods see everything. Every promise made, every lie told.”

He fell silent, his spent, tenebrous eyes drifting back to you. In the pale, ghostly light of the weirwood, your e/c eyes seemed to luster. The stark contrast of the red leaves against the white snow created a crimson halo around you, isolating you from the rest of the world.

His voice flat and coarse, “Do you believe them? The gods?” Jon wasn't asking for a theological debate. He was asking if you believed in fate. You cocked your head to look at him, “Do you?” You inquired back, which caused him to look away.

His gaze meandered back to the weeping face of the weirwood. “I used to. When I was a boy.” His voice turned dull, devoid of conviction. “Now I only believe in what I can see. The dead. The cold. The people who need someone to lead.”

He shifted slightly, the heavy fur of the cloak pulling them marginally closer. The wind whipped around them, whistling through the branches, but within the circle of the cloak, there was a pocket of stillness. Jon didn't look back at you instantly.

“Faith is a luxury for people who haven't seen death.” He paused, his expression softening as he noticed a stray lock of h/c hair fluttering across your face in the wind. He made a sudden, instinctive movement to brush it away with his thumb, but he stopped himself inches from your skin.

His hand hovered there for a heartbeat—indecisive, almost as if he was afraid—before he dropped it back to his side. He cleared his throat, his voice returning to its dourness. “But maybe that's why we're both here. Two people, who no longer believe in fairy tales, forced into a marriage expected of by people who still believe.”

You leaned into him in the slightest, “Our wedding…” you trailed off, changing the subject. “It is to be a quick one, is it not?” He stiffened at the contact, but could not pull himself away. “Yes. A quiet ceremony. In the godswood.” He looked at you, his eyes searching your face.

He could tell you weren't asking out of anticipation, but out of desire to get the formality over with. “No feast for the lords. No grand announcements. Just a septon, the Old Gods, and the witnesses.” He shifted the weight of the cloak, ensuring you were fully shielding from the blighting wind.

His voice turning mellow, “If you want it to be even smaller… I can make it so.” You glanced up at him, “The consummation… is it required?” Jon froze in place. The question hung in the brisk air, more jarring than the wind itself.

He didn't move; he didn't seem to even breathe for a few seconds. His gaze remained fixed on you, his eyes widening ever so slightly. It was a question of duty, and of the most intimate kind of violation—a question that, for a woman who had been wedded and bedded by Ramsay Bolton, likely carried a significant weight.

His voice dropped to a rough whisper. “No.” He didn't hesitate. There was no pause to consider the political ramifications or the expectations of the lords who would want there to be an heir to secure the Karstark alliance. The answer was immediate and absolute.

His grip tightened on the cloak. “It is not required. Not by me.” He looked you dead in the eye, his expression solemn. “I will not touch you unless you ask me to. Not tonight, not on our wedding night, not ever.”

He stepped back just an inch, giving you more space, though he kept the cloak snuggly wrapped around you. He wanted you to feel the significance of his answer. For Jon, the idea of forcing himself upon someone—especially someone who had already been on the receiving end of such monstrosities from Ramsay—was a thought more repulsive than any battle he had ever fought.

His jaw tightened. “You have spent enough of your life being told what your body is for. Under my protection, you decide.” You hesitated, the back of your hand brushing against his as you brushed your hair out of your face.

“They will be expectant for a child.” You affirmed, fidgeting with your rings. His voice turned bitter, a sharp edge returning to his tone. “Let them expect.” He looked out toward the distance silhouettes of the keep. “They expect a lot of things. They expected me to stay dead. They expected that we would not win the battle for Winterfell.”

He didn't look at you, but his chest rose and fell in heavy, rhythmic, cadence. The though of the lords—men like Glover and Manderly—speculating about the intimacy of his own bed made his skin crawl. To them, a child was just another seal on a contract, a living, breathing piece of parchment to guarantee loyalty.

Jon turned back to you, his gaze softening. He saw the way you leaned into him, the feeble trust you were tentatively placing in his strength. He realize then that for you, the fear wasn't just about the act itself, but the political clock that started ticking the moment the vows are spoken.

His voice barely above a murmur, direct and pointed. “I don't want a child born of a duty you dread. I would rather have no heir at all than one that is a constant reminder of your place to the world.” You smiled slighty at his words.

“Would I be wrong to kiss you before the wedding?” You probed. His breath hitched in his throat, freezing. He had faced White Walkers and death itself, but that simple question left him vulnerable.

His voice sounded strangled, “I…” He didn't finish the sentence, for he could not. His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic sound that seemed louder than the howling of the wind through the weirwood branches. He was suddenly hyper-aware of everything. The scent of the air, the warmth of your body pressing against his thought the thick furs, and the way your lips were parted slightly.

He swallowed hard, his gaze dropping to your lips before snapping back to your eyes. “It is said that it is bad luck to kiss the bride before then.” He leaned in, closing the distance with an agonizing slowness. He stopped just an inch from your lips, giving you ever possible second to pull away, to change your mind, or to simply tell him to stop.

“Are you certain?” His voice was hardly audible. “Is the King in the North afraid to kiss a lady? And here I thought you were the bravest man I know.” You taunted, a pompous grin on your lips. A low, guttural escaped his throat, half-laugh and half-groan. “Brave is fighting a dead army. This…”

He didn't finish. The challenge in your voice was the final snap of the invisible thread. Jon closed the remaining gap, his mouth meeting yours in a kiss that was far from the timid, careful touch he had shown you moments ago.

He pressed you back slightly, his hands sliding from your cheek to the nape of your neck, his fingers tangling in your h/c hair to hold you steady against him. For a moment, everything went silent. You could hardly breathe with how long he clung on, his lips locked to yours in an perennial dance.

Then, he pulled back just as swiftly as he had pulled in.

[hazelnott]

⤷ ramsay's widow ˎˊ˗

# jon snow / karstark fem!user

-# Synopsis ￫ after the battle of the bastards, you were pledged to jon. you are ramsay bolton's widow, but also a karstark. a practical choice, for the karstarks needed to seal their loyalty back to the north for their sins. ˎˊ˗

-# Warnings ￫ 1.8k+ .ᐟ fluff .ᐟ mentions of death .ᐟ mentions of ramsay... he's his own warning .ᐟ first time writing for got...kind of nervous .ᐟ ˎˊ˗

-# A/n ￫ i wrote this fic being centered around the time jon becomes king of the north, but before he meets dany. having to write that big ass essay for finals made me lock in on my writing. there will be a pt. 2 to this, and potentially a pt. 3. but i'm wary of when i will post it because this took me like a month to post. i started on a draft, didn't like it and left it alone for a few weeks, and then switched it up just now ˎˊ˗

The aftermath of the Battle of the Bastards was a gruesome one. One Jon would've preferred to reverse, despite the necessity of it. The blood from the battle still stained the snow, a mixture of smoke and soot—a reminder of the price required to pay for the reclamation of Winterfell.

The victory had been absolute, but the cost was etched into every dead man and cracked stone of the keep. In the courtyard, men slogged in a heavy silence, hauling debris aside and gathering the dead for the pyres. The snow fell steadily, strewing the ruins in a deceitful, clean white.

Winter has come. But, now it was no longer a threat to the North. Inside the Great Hall, the air was frigid, biting at Jon's flushed face. He stood by the hearth, his dark curls draping around his face like curtains, staring into the embers. Lost in thought. He looked less like a newly claimed King and more like a man who had seen all too much.

A handful of braziers strived against the draft, casting long, spectral shadows along the walls. Ser Davos Seaworth had stepped forward, his voice low. “The lords are restless, Jon. They don't want just a leader. They want a beacon that the North is whole again.” Without looking from the fire, “I gave them a victory.” Jon responded briskly.

Davos tightened his jaw, “A victory is a moment. A marriage is a foundation. House Karstark is a powerful name, even if it's been dishonored as it has.” Jon finally turned, his dun eyes tired and rimmed with exhaustion. He looked like a man who had just come back to life and found only more burdens awaiting him.

(Name). Ramsay Bolton's widow. Jon had seen you in the godswood many a time, your figure that of a ghost. You were the Bolton's prisoner in all but name. Davos cleared his throat, “She has suffered enough at the hands of the Boltons. Bringing her into your house—properly, as your wife—cleanses the Karstark’s name and will secure their swords. It is a practical choice.”

Jon let out an empty scoff, “Practical.” his gaze shifted towards the heavy oak doors. Behind those doors awaited the woman who had survived the cruelty of Ramsay Bolton. A woman who was now being traded from one man to another. “...(Name) deserves someone with much gentler hands than Ramsay.” Sansa had chimed in, sitting at the high table nearby.

Jon glanced at Sansa for a brief moment, his brows knitted. Sansa had endured Ramsay's brutality before, Jon knew that. “She's a kind woman, Jon. She assisted with my escape. She trusted that I'd find the help she needed.” Sansa had said, averting her gaze downward as she added timidly, “You'll come to love her, I know it.”

Jon exhaled gravely, a breath he didn't even perceive he had been holding. “I have faith.” He grunted, turning his gaze back to the cinders of the fire. The doors then groaned open, a servant stepping aside as you entered the hall. You walked with a quiet dignity, your h/c hair falling nimbly over your shoulders.

You didn't spare a glance to the lords whispering in the galleries; only looking at the man standing near the head of the table. The hall fell with an abiding hush as you approached. The only sound was the soft rhythmic thud from the heels of your boots against the stone floor, along with the crackle of the hearth.

The lords of the galleries leaned in, their eyes watching your every move. Jon gradually made his way closer to the table, meeting your stop. He stood tall, the heavy Stark cloak weighing over his shoulder. He didn't move any closer, nor did he offer a false smile. His expression remained guarded, his eyes searching yours for nothing in particular.

“You've had a long journey from the Dreadfort.” Dreadfort. The place Ramsay kept you cooped up in while awaiting the battle. His voice was steady, but devoid of any hardness. Davos stepped back to give you both space, his voice soft “The chambers in the west wing have been prepared for you, My Lady. They are warm, and the servants have seen to the linens.”

Jon ignored Davos, his attention set on you. “You don't have to stand. Please. Sit.” He implored as he gestured to the high table. You offered a paltry smile as you sat, brushing your skirts beneath you. “Thank you.” The distance between you and Jon felt like a canyon, the space filled with the ghosts of the people who had fought to clear this very room.

Jon remained standing for a moment longer than necessary, his hands gripping the edge of the table. His knuckles were turning white. He finally sat back down after the silence got too loud. “I know what they say. The lords. The council.” He didn't look at Davos, but the smuggler remained a few paces away, a silent witness to their awkwardness at the moment.

“I didn't ask for this crown. And I didn't ask for you to be brought here as a payment for your father's sins.” Davos cleared his throat, “Perhaps now is not the time to bring the politics of the past, Jon.” Jon shifted, the heavy furs of his cloak rustling. “It's the only time we have, Ser Davos.”

He looked at you, his expression stoic but not unkind. He was searching for something—a flicker of anger, a sign of fear, or perhaps just a sign that you were still there behind the mask of courtesy. “You've spent years with a man who found pleasure in flaying men.” He paused, leaning forward, “I cannot give you back the dignity you lost. But you will find no cruelty here. Not from me.”

You look up at him, “I appreciate your graciousness, My Lord.” Jon stared at you for a long moment, “Not Lord, just Jon.” he corrected. “...Right. Jon.” Your voice was steady, your gaze clear, but your words felt like formality—a shield you carried out of necessity.

His expression softened in the slightest, “Graciousness isn't what you need. You need peace.” He looked away, his eyes drifting toward the high windows where the grey light of the North filtered through. The silence stretched between them, though no longer oppressive, but heavy with the things unspoken.

Davos stepped forward, “Peace is a rare thing in the North, My Lady. But it is something the King is determined to make do.” Jon grimaced at the title of ‘King’, his posture stiffening. He shifted his weight, his gaze returning to you. He noticed the way you sat—spine straight, hands resting still in your lap.

You were composed. Far too composed for someone who had undergone Ramsay's savagery. “You must be tired.” Jon's voice was gruff as he gestured to the hall, “I'll have the servants bring some food to your chambers. Something warm.” As he spoke, a low, guttural huff echoed from the entrance of the hall. Ghost, his direwolf, trotted in.

His red eyes scanned the room before settling on you. He didn't growl; he simply approached with a slow, curious gait, his paws silent on the stone. The wolf stopped a few feet from the table, tilting his head as he sniffed the air, sensing the lingering scent of the Dreadfort.

Jon watched Ghost, his brows furrowing, “He doesn't trust easily.” he commented. You watched the direwolf with a mix of awe and fright, “He's beautiful.” you murmured—more to yourself than Jon. Ghost stepped closer, closing the gap until his large, white head was leveled with the table.

The wolf didn't lunge or snap; instead, he leaned in, his cold nose nudging tentatively against your hand. Jon smiled, a true one that hadn't been on his face in quite a long time, “He likes to protect those close to me. He knows you're someone worth defending.” He glanced up from Ghost and up at you.

He swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry. “A good omen.” Davos chimed in, “With the wolf, you'll be the safest you've ever been.” The moment was interrupted by Sansa standing, the shuffling of her boots cutting through the air.

Her red hair—kissed by fire, they say—contrasting sharply with the grey of the stone walls. “I hope your journey wasn't too taxing, (Name).” Sansa smiled at you before turning to Jon, “The lords are gathering in the solar. They are anxious to hear the terms of this union.”

Jon stiffened, his jaw tightening. “Let them wait.” Sansa exhaled shallowly, “They have waited long enough, Jon. The North needs to know that the Karstarks have truly returned to the fold.” You had been petting Ghost, too submerged in the warmth of the wolf's white fur to even heed the conversation.

The wolf leaned into your touch, his heavy head resting against your palm. His red eyes closed in contentment, letting out a purr-like sound that escaped his throat. For a few seconds, the politics of the lords ceased to exist. Jon watched you, his expression unreadable.

He didn't tell you to stop. He didn't remind you of the lords waiting in the solar or the propriety of the situation. He simply watched how the tension in your shoulders seemed to dip, if only by an inch. Sansa's expression softened as she watched you, maybe a tad bit of relief in her eyes at the sight of you relaxed.

She then turned back to Jon, her tone returning to one of business inducing. “Jon, the Manderly representative is asking for a specific audience. He wants to ensure the Karstark lands are formally recognized under the Northern crown before the wedding is announced.”

Jon stood up abruptly, the bench scraping harshly against the stone. “I said let them wait, Sansa.” His voice wasn't loud, but it held a sudden, sharp edge. He looked down at you, seeing you still connected to Ghost, a flicker of something—protectiveness, perhaps, or guilt—crossed his face.

He didn't want to pull you back to the cold reality of the expectant lords just yet. Davos soon stepped in, attempting to smooth the tension, “The Manderlys are thorough, that's all. A bit of parchment now saves a lot of blood later.”

Jon sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Fine.” He looked at you one last time, “Go with Sansa. She'll show you to your chambers. Get some food. Rest. I'll deal with the lords.” He reassured, beginning to walk.

You then look up at Jon, giving Ghost one last stroke along his fur. “Will you come see me later?” You inquired, staring at his back that was partially turned to her. Jon stopped in his tracks, looking back over his shoulders, his dark eyes meeting yours.

“I will.”

He didn't promise a time, nor did he offer a smile.

[hazelnott]

𝗡𝗔𝗧𝗛𝗔𝗡𝗜𝗘𝗟 𝗝𝗔𝗖𝗢𝗕𝗦. & fem!reader

𝘀𝘆𝗻𝗼𝗽𝘀𝗶𝘀. nate got into yet another fight at a party, this time over you. now you're tending to his wounds while he begs for a kiss, even with a busted lip.

𝗰𝘄. 600+ wc since it's just a little drabble. fluff. making-out. violence. blood. sexual harassment and innuendoes. established relationship. swearing. not many given i tried my best to make nate seem like less of a total asshole but still make him himself, he may seem a bit ooc in the slightest. definition of "wear it, i can fight", which kind of contradicts that carnival ep... yuck. details.

𝗮/𝗻 mmm... jacob elordi. first off, no i am not a nate apologist. i like the idea of nate, not his actions or mentality.... let's just get that straight. working on another jacob elordi character fic at the same time as i am writing this. excuse me if the writing is a bit messy, i had to finish up two essays that were due today; so my brain's a bit fried ༝༚༝༚

the slap on your rear brought you to a sudden halt, causing you to glance behind you. nate followed your gaze, his eyes darkening subtly as he was met with a fraternity guy who had a rather shrewd grin plastered on his face. most would interpret nate's glare as a challenge to provoke him, but the guy persisted by standing his ground.

"fuck's your problem?" nate stepped forward, his imposing height practically dwarfing the frat guy. at nate's accusing tone, heads cocked towards you. the loud, booming music faded as all attention was set on you three. mr. frat guy then stepped forward, his hands lazily stuffed in his pockets as he dared to peek at you again.

nate stifled a chuckle. "uh, uh, look at me. you think you can touch my girl and live to tell the tale?" he snagged the guy's collar, forcefully pulling him closer. collective gasps filled the air as the people around conjointly ushered back. "i'm fucking talk to you!" nate shouted, shaking the frat guy frantically.

silence filled the air as the music was abruptly cut off. spit then splattered onto nate's cheek. oh. now he was really gonna get it.

nate delivered a hard blow square in the guy’s face, sending him tumbling to the ground. nate then mounted the guy, repeatedly punching him over and over again. blood flowered the wooden floor below the two.

you watched in horror as nate beat the guy to a pulp, “nate!” you shouted, resoundingly attempting to pull nate off him. as your voice froze nate's intrusive outrage, the frat guy managed to overpower him and knock him off with a speedy slap across the face.

the guy situated on top of him, passing a punch straight to nate's nose. blood spilled from nate's nasal cavity before he managed to catch the guy’s wrist in a firm grip before he could plant another blow. he then knocked his head against the frat guy’s sending him back with a groan.

with his bloodied knuckles, he continued his onslaught of incessant strikes. a few hits in, “stop, you're gonna kill him!” you hysterically clamored. nate didn't seem to even realize the guy had fallen unconscious in his blinded rage.

“serves him right.” nate sneered, brushing the stream of blood cascading down from his nose to his lips with the back of his hand.

“ow, ow!” nate yelped, “be more gentle, will you? that shit fucking burns like hell…” he yanked away with furrowed brows.

“no, i’m not going to be more gentle. you almost just killed that guy!” you shot back, grabbing his face and tugging him back closer. you dabbed a clean cloth to his lip, letting it soak up the blood from his busted lip.

“(name), he slapped your ass. you think i’m gonna let him get away with that?” he argued, his grip tightening slightly around your waist. “...besides, that's my job!” he added with a pompous grin.

you abruptly hit him with a nearby pillow, “hey, hey! you're supposed to be helping me, not trying to beat me up too!” he said as he snatched the pillow from your grasp and set it back on his bed.

you rolled your eyes, “just… stop messing around. i need to stop your lip from bleeding or you might get an infection.” you stated solidly.

“give kiss first.” nate urged snidely, puckering his lips.

you scoffed, shaking your head disapprovingly “it'll get infected if i do that.” you murmured.

nate considered it for a moment. “no tongue, just a peck.” he coaxed.

“no.” you said abruptly.

“please.” he chimed.

“no.”

“yes.”

“no.”

“no.”

“yes. wait what?”

he managed to catch you off guard by saying no too. before you could correct yourself, he leaned in and placed a quick peck on your lips.

“nate!” you yelled, pinching his ear.

"worth it."

[hazelnott]

anon request — mark dating a kryptonian + some nsfw hcs too

( 𝘀𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗰𝗵 ) 𝗠𝗔𝗥𝗞 𝗚. & kryptonian gn!reader

𝘀𝘆𝗻𝗼𝗽𝘀𝗶𝘀. headcanons for mainstream mark with a kryptonian partner. 𝓯𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓴𝔂 alien on alien action...

𝗰𝘄. as requested, there will be a few nsfw hcs (nsfw hcs are highlighted in bold). tried to do a split 50/50 of both sfw and nsfw, somewhat managed.

𝗮/𝗻. imagine it... the two of you just causing mini earthquakes as you're going at it. (small /ref to s7 e7 of smallville). was supposed to be published yesterday but i got caught up with finishing a project... and i also had to add some things ༝༚༝༚

𝗵𝗼𝘄 𝗱𝗶𝗱 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝘁𝘄𝗼 𝗺𝗲𝗲𝘁?

for this concept, i'll interpret your encounter with mark as how clark arrived on earth. (with you crashing onto earth in a foreign spaceship from krypton). cecil would probably send mark over to check the supposed 'meteor' out and surprise surprise... it's an unconscious you.

you'd be laying there somehow unscathed from the crash, your pulse still very much present. mark would loom over you with a puzzled expression like an all too curious cat. you didn't seem to be a threat... but you were undeniably an undiscovered species. so, safe to say he was still on guard.

i'll summarize the rest as best as i can. the gda had captured you, seemingly acquiring green kryptonite in the process—which made you compliant to their experiments. mark overseed their experiments, protesting to cecil about the inhumane nature of subjecting you to so many tests without your consent.

cecil would only then release you after he supposedly finished his studies, but not before ensuring a tracker was implanted inside you. due to your unknown species, the gda was determined to maintain control over you.

after being released from the gda, you would likely be taken in by mark and debbie. cecil figured it would be best if you hung around mark, as he was quite similar to you.

𝙷𝙴𝙰𝙳𝙲𝙰𝙽𝙾𝙽𝚂

much to mark's demise, oliver would be up your butt all the time, constantly asking endless questions about you over dinner. you'd find it amusing, but mark's jaw would subtly flex while keeping a smile plastered on his face. oliver saw you as a cooler big sibling and it made mark jealous (this would eventually lead into monotonous competitions of whose considered better).

you'd spend most of your time around the grayson household, occasionally going on missions with mark if required. you still weren't quite accustomed to human liveliness, but you were learning faster than anticipated thanks to debbie's help. you learned english pretty efficiently, practicing often with the others. one time, oliver taught you a potty word and told you to call mark that said word... he was abruptly scolded by both debbie and mark.

it'd take a while for you and mark to necessarily 'date'. there were a lot of signs that mark was into you. but you, being the naive alien you are, didn't quite understand those hints. things like holding hands—which you thought was a regular custom to humans—and subtle brushes of skin.

i feel at one point, in return for the grayson's helping you understand english better, you'd try and teach them kryptonese. mark would be the first to almost completely give up, while oliver was keen on learning your native tongue. seeing oliver's determination, mark would most definitely challenge oliver to seeing who knows more words in kryptonese. it'd be an endless competition of who knows what.

when you and mark began dating, it was kind of an awkward confession (expected from him). he got you your favorite food here on earth—not too sweet or salty, he knew how sensitive your taste buds were. he actually attempted to confess his feelings before, but when he uttered the one and only "i love you", you didn't quite understand. you assumed he meant in just a friendly way. the first confession was a fail, but the second was a score after you finally learned what type of 'love' he meant.

due to the gda being the only one in possession of kryptonite, you practically are unstoppable on earth. mark would be laying back sipping on one of the milkshakes the two of you got while watching you pummel a villain into the ground.

mark had to stop wearing cologne around you. anything that overshadows his natural scent would irk you. when you hug or kiss, you expect to smell that familiar smell. but, when your senses are attacked by the hints of cologne, you can't help but furrow your brows. you didn't make him entirely stop wearing fragrances, just specifically nothing that dims his natural scent.

sex wasn't something you two urgently wanted to do together. it wasn't something you considered at that. but, when mark first proposed, you were easily convinced since you trusted him—although reluctant. when it was finally time to get down, it'd be full of passion. (in my previous hcs ft mark & a human reader, i stated that he'd insist he be on bottom—for your safety of course. but, since you're a kryptonian in this, he'd most definitely switch between being on top and bottom depending on his mood).

sex with mark involves lots of touching. given you both can feel and hear the barest hint of things, you two love physical touch. your arms are always wrapped around him with your face buried in his neck, nose pressing to his pulse. the first few times you have with each other will be rather gentle and full of fervor.

i can imagine as these special times together turn more into hunger, so does the severity. funnily enough, i think you two would cause mini seismic earthquakes around the neighborhood while going at it. the law enforcement would be called over and you two would just be sitting there looking all too guilty.

one word: teeth. since you two have basically indestructible skin, you occasionally just bite each other's skin while going at it like a bunch of teething puppies. mark's the main culprit, regretfully so. the marks never last, but he obviously doesn't seem to care given he just keeps doing it.

when mark first saw you being affected by red kryptonite, he was shamefully enough turned on. he may or may not have once requested you be in the presence of red kryptonite during sex.

@mayriel

[hazelnott]

Mark dating a Kryptonian + some nsfw hcs too

omg yes, i'll get started on this as soon as i'm free. expect it to be published within the next few days. it's lowk reminding me of that one episode in smallville where lana and clark get freaky and cause mini seismic earthquakes all over smallville. might have to reference that wink wink

posted

[hazelnott]

𝗠𝗔𝗥𝗞 𝗚𝗥𝗔𝗬𝗦𝗢𝗡. & human gn!reader

𝘀𝘆𝗻𝗼𝗽𝘀𝗶𝘀. headcanons for mainstream mark (i will probably very soon make another one for all my favorite variants) ranging from basic ones to more specific ones.

𝗰𝘄. mostly fluff, but some hcs do get a bit sexual (highlighted in bold). i wrote this with late s2 and early s3 mark in mind.

𝗮/𝗻. this was not on my agenda. i was just itching to write ANYTHING for mark. i was half asleep writing this but i finally got it published.

given his past relationship with amber, mark is definitely more upfront about his superhero status. rather than bottling up all his secrets like he did with her, he figured it would be better to just come right out and say that he's a superhero. shockingly, you were understanding. mark expected you to swiftly dismiss him and say he was bluffing, so your response was a bit of a surprise.

one perk of dating mark is that despite him not being there most of the time, he never fails to make up for lost time. he always brings something back from every mission, whether it's a souvenir from a different state or just a butt load of your favorite snacks. he even occasionally brings back a bouquet of your favorite flowers. you're always on his mind.

jealousy? what's that? mark honestly wouldn't get jealous pretty easily. if he sees someone hitting on you, he kindly just ushers you away from said person. but there were rare moments, like when he peeped your ex—someone who used to be close with you—trying to swoon you and potentially steal your heart back. oh, boy. that's when mark felt true envy.

if you have any nerdy interests, trust mark will be trying to get into those interests. let it be a show you enjoy, or a comic series you are hyper fixated on. it's his favorite way to bond with you. he catches wind of you mentioning one of your favorite comic books? next thing you know he's nose deep in said comic. it's his love language.

mark was definitely a bit cautious about having sex with you at first. you assumed it was because he was still unfamiliar with such intimacy—dead wrong. mark wasn't a virgin. it wasn't the act that scared him. it was what could happen during the act that scared him. he was afraid he'd lose control and accidentally harm you. so, safe to say, he insisted you take the lead for your first time together. feel like he definitely almost broke the headboard the first time trying to ground himself.

mark is open to trying anything with you in bed. you want to try out a new position? have at it. a big no-no is anything involving him being on top (as stated why above).

cuddle demon. mark's seeking you out after every mission like a lost puppy. with his heightened body heat due to his viltrumite blood, you most of the time wake up looking like you had just run a marathon. much to his disapproval, you refuse his nightly cuddles during warmer weathers. you mostly tolerate them here and there, though. enough to keep him sane.

sex toys? his sworn enemy. the idea of you using a mere toy to please yourself sets something off in mark's brain. it irks him, really. isn't he enough for you?

mark has your heartbeat rhythm embedded in his brain. he can locate you in a crowded place just by listening for the pattern of your heartbeat.

mark LOVES doing handiwork. you need help repairing something? he'll have it fixed in a few hours. he loves being helpful in any way possible.

mark definitely would find any excuse to come crawling back to you. he's sick? straight into your arms. he's injured after a fight? pleading for you to patch him up.

he once tried to bake a cake for you for your birthday. you can guess how that went... in short, he's not great at preparing food—especially desserts.

mark is the type of person who jumps whenever a scary movie has a jumpscare—he's always watching them with you, so you unfortunately fall victim to him grabbing you. he might appear tough planning to watch a scary movie, but he most definitely will regret it midway.

he always remembers every little tiny detail about you, courtesy of viltrumite memory. types of details that make you go "did i really tell you that?" and mark just replies with a nod like he's somehow surprised you don't remember too.

[hazelnott]

𝗠𝗔𝗧𝗧𝗛𝗘𝗢 𝗥𝗜𝗗𝗗𝗟𝗘. & ravenclaw fem!reader

𝘀𝘆𝗻𝗼𝗽𝘀𝗶𝘀. mattheo has had a crush on you since third year. after some teasing from friends, he's confessing to you at a frat party under a mistletoe.

𝗰𝘄. 1.4k+. underage drinking. fluff. not many warnings.

𝗮/𝗻. ignore how i practically got lazy at the end. it was like 4am, i was tired, and i was trying to just get it done.

your least favorite time of the year. It's infuriatingly cold to the point you just camp out in your dorm with a heater and a pile of blankets. unfortunately, this is your friend's favorite time of the year. she basically drags you out of your shared dorm to go out to meet-ups and just walk around hogsmeade.

winter.

your friend? cho chang, the popular ravenclaw who managed to snag cedric diggory, the one and only golden boy. you often hung around the two, even if you were essentially a third wheel. they were the love birds, and you? well, you were just there. cho had tried repeatedly to set you up with guys, from arranging blind dates to practically pushing you to socialize with them.

cedric even managed to set you up with someone, though spoiler alert, it didn't last even a month. guess you could say you were virgin fucking mary. it's not that you were unattractive—multiple guys had tried to approach you.

however, you turned down most offers. you weren't sure anyone here was someone you wanted to settle down with. you didn't have many close friends; just cho, and if you count cedric. you had a few acquaintances, but cho is really the only one you've truly committed to.

speaking of acquaintances, let's talk about mattheo riddle.

you aren't that close with mattheo, maybe close enough that he tolerates you calling him "matty". every time he notices someone overhearing you say the nickname too loudly, he looks like he's about to sink directly into the earth's crust. embarrassment perhaps. theodore—his friend—argues otherwise with him.

theo notices everything—and i mean everything. he notices how mattheo relaxes around you, a noticeable change from his usual guarded posture. he notices how mattheo's eyes follow you constantly, whether it's subtly or overtly. he notices that mattheo's face always flushes red whenever your hands brush.

anyway, enough about you and your complicated love life. let's talk about the present.

today, you're sitting at your desk, studying your charms homework assignment—the alohomora spell. you're tasked with practicing the spell and demonstrating its steps in class. wand in hand, you stood before the closed door to your dorm, preparing to cast the spell.

"aloha—"

smack!

the door swung open and smacked you squarely in the forehead. "ow! shit..." you grimace. you soon catch a whiff of cho's signature scent—cherry blossom.

"whoops! sorry, y/n." she apologized, ushering through the door with her books in hand. she seemed rushed, placing her books on the bed before immediately rummaging through her drawers. "where is it... ah!" she muttered to herself while pulling out a navy blue dress.

you watched her intently, raising an eyebrow. "what's that for?" you asked, crossing your arms and holding your wand tightly. cho turned to you, smiling. "christmas party, remember? it's a yearly tradition among seventh-year students. something we do behind the school's back. there'll be drinks and boys. hot boys." she said, emphasizing the hot.

great. another opportunity for cho to set you up with someone and ultimately fail. you scoffed and inched towards her. "a party? you know i don't do parties." you said, turning away and setting your wand back in its case. cho grinned like a cheshire cat before standing up and staring at herself in the body mirror, holding the dress up to her body.

"mattheo will be there." she added, glancing at you. she knew there was underlying tension between you and mattheo thanks to your half-asleep confession of your undying love for the slytherin snob. god forbid you tell cho anything, because she'll never let you live it down.

after a moment's hesitation, you sighed and turned back to her. "fine," you chimed. "i know you won't let me refuse anyway." your words made cho's eyes light up. "great!" she exclaimed before grabbing a black dress from her closet. "here, wear this. i was going to wear it, but black's just not my color." she said, a smile plastered on her face.

you nodded, took the fabric, and stood beside her in front of the mirror, holding the dress up to your body. a grin spread across your face as you walked to your desk, grabbed your makeup bag, and started getting ready. the mascara wand's bristles brushed your lashes, while the blush pigmented your cheeks, creating a soft canvas.

as you walked with cho and cedric, you stared at the snow-covered ground. you were wearing the dress cho had given you, paired with a leather jacket and black tights to keep you warm. walking along the hogsmeade trail, you approached a large cabin that appeared abandoned. it seemed like a perfect spot for rebellious students to camp out and hold illegal parties.

cedric greeted a blond slytherin—draco malfoy—who was one of mattheo’s friends. draco shot you a grin before allowing you three inside.

the music pounded loudly from a speaker suspended in the air, practically shaking the cabin structure. you nervously grabbed cho's hand, a little worried about getting lost in the crowd. cho just clenched your hand and pulled you towards the kitchen, where a gryffindor was mounted on the keg stand. cheers erupted as he managed to chug the barrel for a record time of a minute.

you were handed a can of beer. swallowing hard, you chugged the entire can. cho chuckled as droplets of liquid dripped from your mouth. you weren't a fan of the taste, but you honestly would rather be wasted than deal with the bullshit going on at this party. your glance around the room revealed purple led lights casting an eerie glow.

your gaze then fell upon a familiar face: blaise zabini. one of your childhood friends, also the one who introduced you to mattheo. he seemed to be chatting with someone before his eyes met yours. as you looked away, you noticed cho had disappeared.

great. now you were alone. you turned back towards where you'd last seen blaise, but he had vanished as well. you sighed hard before starting your way upstairs, brushing past multiple wasted people. you turned towards a nearby table, snagging another beer can. you took a few whisks from it, then noticed a couple practically eating each other's faces off in the guest bedroom.

you grimaced before turning away, but you felt dizzy. you never did well with alcohol, especially if you chugged it. you were a total lightweight. you suddenly bumped into a hard, unyielding chest. turning to look, you found yourself staring at none other than mattheo riddle.

"y/n. you alright?" he questioned, his hands instinctively catching your waist for balance. you quickly nodded, your grip tightening on his shirt. he then paused for a long, lingering moment before passing you a glass of water. "drink." he peeped, nudging the rim of the cup to your lips.

you took a slow sip of the water, letting its coldness wash down your throat. It was a stark contrast to the burning sensation of the beer you'd had earlier. you murmured a 'thank you' before glancing back up at mattheo.

"honestly," he teased with a smirk, "i fully expected you to be a lightweight." your brows furrowed as you stammered, "excuse me? what are you implying?" mattheo just grinned mockingly and pulled you closer.

"you know," he rasped, his eyes meeting yours, "your eyes really shine when you look at me. am i that attractive?" he gave a sly grin.

you stood in shock, your cheeks flushing—or was it simply your blush? you heard the sound of footsteps padding as theo raced up the stairs, a mistletoe in hand. he glanced around the room before spotting the two of you. he grinned and started towards you, jingling the mistletoe above your heads irritably.

the crowd then turned towards you three, and a silence fell before they began chanting, "kiss, kiss, kiss, kiss, kiss!"

you glanced back at mattheo, who was grinning ear to ear. this asshole planned this! "c'mon love birds! you can't deny the mistletoe." theo blurted, jingling the mistle toe even more aggressively.

mattheo turned to you and purred, "it's tradition, love." he leaned forward, awaiting your distinct approval before weaving your lips together. the kiss was euphoric, though you just stood there for a few seconds, unsure what to do. you had never learned how to kiss before, so it felt a little awkward.

you leaned into the kiss, your tongues colliding. the taste of beer blended with his. you soon pulled away, gasping for breath, and the crowd erupted in cheers. you spotted cho in the crowd, snapping pictures of you and mattheo. the sight almost made you faint, but thankfully, mattheo caught you.

"how about another one, hm? damsel in distress?" he hummed.