dead reader who haunts the life of a man that loved them so dearly to the point he either tries to be a better person for you or goes insane trying to bring you back.
Anakin pins your wrists to the bed, his fingers intertwining with yours. You moan into his open, starving mouth as he moulds his hips into yours. You are so perfect — an angel in your softness as you melt into the bed beneath him. He kisses you hard and messy, tugging your bottom lip between his teeth. Your back arches, pressing your chest into his as his cock hits the sweet spot inside you that he knows makes your heart flutter. You whisper his name in a delicate, wrecked hum and fire floods his veins. His body cages yours, keeping you safe and close. His pace quickens, diving deep inside you until you’re a gasping, whining mess beneath him. He shifts, locking both your wrists above your head with his metal hand, and uses his other to push your legs further apart, bracing one over his hip to open you wider to him. Anakin traces the edges of your frame, caressing your curves with a feather-light touch as he strays lower, driven further by your hitching breath, to thumb your clit. He drinks in your moans as your body trembles, gleeful at how he is the only one who will ever know you like this. You are his. Every pretty inch is all his. You plead his name, a prayer in his ears, as you beg him not to stop. His thrusts quicken impossibly so, his skin against yours is a harmony joined with your blissful cries. His teeth drag across your skin as your hips buck. He finds the pulse point at your neck and presses his lips in to listen to your racing heartbeat. He sucks on your neck, the skin sweet across his tongue. He fingers your clit with practised precision until you hit your climax. Every noise you make as you come makes the fire inside Anakin burn hotter and more desperate. You are a holy flood around him, breathing life into him. Your body turns limp while Anakin felt a new vigor simmering inside him. He regains himself, slamming his hips into yours to chase his own high. Anakin sinks his teeth into your neck, claiming you. Your racing pulse pushes Anakin over the edge. He finishes hard inside you, spilling his seed and begging whatever gods exist to let it take so he can keep you forever. He moans as he comes down from his climax, stilling inside you and tenderly kissing the mark he made on your neck, hoping it will bruise enough to show the galaxy you are all his.
BLOOD RUNS THICKER THAN WATER ♱ Jaime Lannister x Septa Naerys (OC)
Notes: A short scene I wrote a while ago about Jaime and Naerys in Harrenhal’s bathhouse after Jaime loses his swordhand. For more on Septa Naerys, you can visit her web weave. For context, Naerys is Aerys’ daughter. No warnings except for some angst. Enjoy ♡.
Naerys entered the tub across from Jaime, the steam rising off the water guttering like a weak flame due to her sudden disturbance. As she sank beneath the surface of the water, Jaime’s eyes didn’t follow her motions, nor did it seem like he even saw her, which was something that was strangely comforting. The moment she had stepped foot in Harrenhal, the eyes had followed her every step like a shadow — those of the living and the dead. She was no longer invisible like she had been in the Red Keep, which had kept her secrets hidden for many years, but rather she was painfully visible now that her every secret had been brought to a light so harsh she would be feeling its sting evermore. Naerys was utterly exposed and helpless; she had no allies, only enemies — those who had fought to bring about the downfall of the Targaryens, and those who might now be praying on her own downfall. (A dragon amongst men who might wish to become dragonslayers.)
Naerys Targaryen. She could not recall the last time she had called herself a Targaryen or had even been perceived as a daughter of the House of the Dragon. As far as anyone knew, that daughter was dead. As far as she knew, that daughter would never return. But when Vargo Hoat had presented her before Roose Bolton, she'd had to muster up a dragon’s dignity to withstand the weight of his ghastly stare. She had clutched that dignity with a vice-like grip to maintain it as it had dawned upon Lord Bolton that he had a daughter of House Targaryen in his possession. That very moment had assured Naerys Targaryen’s resurrection. She would not be allowed to run away or hide or dig a new grave. Instead she had held her head high and faced the fire. (Naerys could be brave — the dragon inside her still knew how.)
Now she let that feigned dignity sluice off her skin as she began to bathe. Naerys’ shoulders sagged as the warm water soothed her tense body and she tore her eyes away from Jaime momentarily to stare at her reflection in the undulating water. She was surprised by the sight of matted hair, weary eyes, and sallow skin. When she looked up, Jaime was still sullenly staring at the ripples, completely unperturbed by her presence. Naerys began to worry at her bottom lip nervously. She hadn’t even known for certain that Jaime might want her to join him, but she had done so because Brienne had expressed concern for his constitution after he had collapsed in the bathhouse just yesterday following his visit to Qyburn. She had put aside shame and modesty for his needs and she still wasn’t entirely sure why. Was she truly so self-sacrificing at heart? Maybe she hadn’t questioned it now that the sacrifices she’d been forced to make had piled up.
Naerys carefully studied Jaime, who was the same half-dead husk he’d been when she’d entered the bathhouse. She was overcome by a wave of regret — perhaps this hadn’t been such a good idea. She was about to cut her bathing short and leave the bathhouse when she felt the previously still water surge with sudden vigor.
“You’re insufferably quiet,” Jaime said unexpectedly, his speech slurred. Naerys slowly turned her head to see that Jaime was shifting his body to adjust his sitting position. “I could count the amount of words you’ve spoken to me on one hand.”
Naerys had nothing to say in response to that. She simply stared at him, noticing how he wasn’t staring back. So this was the reason for his taciturnity — he had been mulling over dark thoughts.
“You must hate me most of all,” Jaime continued, sneering. “And why shouldn’t you? He was your father.” He tried to let out a sardonic chuckle, but it came out as barely more than a wheeze.
“What bothers me is that you won’t show it. I’ve seen you. Your grotesque display of piety. Is it all just to hide a sinful hate?” He spat.
Naerys flinched at his words, her mouth falling open in disbelief. Little did he know that it was hard for her to mask hatred. Her eyes readily betrayed it. She felt it so rarely that she had no way to counteract it when it came to conquer. When the royal family would visit Casterly Rock, she was fortunate Lord Tywin had never spared her a passing glance because her ill-disguised ire was dangerous and although she knew it, she couldn’t help it. For Naerys, hate was an open wound and from her eyes it bled.
If Jaime would only look her in the eyes, he would see that they were devoid of any hate. Hate cost too much and gave too little in return — the gods had taught her that.
“I did hate you,” she found herself admitting before she could stop herself, her heart pounding violently in her chest. “I wanted the gods to give you everything you deserved. To spare you nothing when they were distributing justice. But now that they have…,” she let her voice trail off.
“You pity me?” He offered before scoffing. “I despise pity,” Jaime’s emerald eyes hardened beneath the strands of his sodden hair and for a fleeting moment she thought she saw the lion return.
“I don’t pity you either,” she said, her voice gaining a bit of an edge. Pity was cheap and Jaime was a Lannister and Naerys was hardly a fool. In truth, she was choosing to view it as the start of them seeing eye-to-eye. Just as the world had tried to tear her down, so it had also tried to tear down him.
“if there’s no lion in you, taryn, there’s no wolf either. they’ll tear you to shreds. you’re too soft-hearted. this is a war.”
I AM NO MOTHER, I AM NO BRIDE, I AM KING
o fair princess taryn with sunlight in her bones — sweeter than her blood and doubtless bound to waste away in the snows of the north. more stag than lion or wolf.
Every single fic update there is an author trying frantically to find the right balance between a nonchalant aside of "leave a comment if you enjoyed =)" and clinging desperately to the coat tails of a random stranger, dragging along behind them on the street wailing "Please, please! I have to know what you thought! I'm desperate to talk to people about this! Ask me about the alliterative repetition! Ask me about the symbolism!"
Every single fic update there is an author trying frantically to find the right balance between a nonchalant aside of "leave a comment if you enjoyed =)" and clinging desperately to the coat tails of a random stranger, dragging along behind them on the street wailing "Please, please! I have to know what you thought! I'm desperate to talk to people about this! Ask me about the alliterative repetition! Ask me about the symbolism!"
Every single fic update there is an author trying frantically to find the right balance between a nonchalant aside of "leave a comment if you enjoyed =)" and clinging desperately to the coat tails of a random stranger, dragging along behind them on the street wailing "Please, please! I have to know what you thought! I'm desperate to talk to people about this! Ask me about the alliterative repetition! Ask me about the symbolism!"