jules. she/her. scorpio. anthony bridgerton's wife. slut for rafe cameron. conrad fisher. stefan salvatore. steve harrington. niccolo govender. pope heyward. coriolanus snow. aemond targaryen. bucky barnes. MUST BE 18+ TO INTERACT.
pope truly can't deny you anything. from a new closet of clothes to the simple pleasures of stopping at every local ice cream shop for a sweet treat.
pope and you were finally free of the issues that once plagued a majority of your time — just a few weeks prior, after settling back into the outer banks. in those few weeks, you spent time the bulk of your time with sarah, helping her heal from her father's abrupt death.
for a short, brief time you were with rafe — meaning no matter how much you liked ward, you were willing to set that aside for the siblings. soon enough, you were being assured by sarah, multiple times, that she would be fine without you from the night.
to which pope was very relieved, due to the lack of time he was able to spend with you recently. pope proposed a "fancy" date night ( with the small chunk of change he had saved up).
leading you to get a lot more ready than you would usually get. taking your time in a piping hot bath, that involved you, voluntarily, forcing your body into positions that they had never been in to get a perfect shave.
using all the lotions and body oils that you had on hand to be as smooth as a seal. pope didn't give a shit if you did all of that, but you knew that it was much needed after being too consumed by bigger issues to do your "girly" that you usually did.
by the time that you got to the twinkie, you felt entirely too out of breath. being showered in compliments by pope, as usual, the entirety of the car ride, you two finally made it onto the other side of the island. at first, you weren't particularly excited about being on the snobby side of town, but knew it would please pope.
after seeing pope order his weight in food, then force you to down the food with him, you were ready to go back home. well, that was until you saw a local ice cream shop. you were always down for the occasional sweet treat.
" i see you eying that ice cream shop", without having to say a word, pope swiftly pulled into the filled parking lot.
"uhhh, can we get two caramel ice cream in chocolate-dipped cones"
SYNOPSIS: you reunite with your beloved childhood friend, jon snow, at the edge of the world. the both of you have changed, but your feelings certainly haven’t.
note: season six jon, follows s6 ep4.
format: one-shot — not requested.
word count: 10.5K (not sorry).
warnings: SMUT (mdni), ramsay bolton warning, friends to lovers, confession of feelings, reunion sex, description of scars, jon is definitely more of a switch, horny reader (valid), lots of groping, making out, oral sex (fem!rec), cunnilingus, jon loves to munch, body worship, hair-pulling kink, unprotected sex, p in v sex, lotus position & missionary position, reader is on top and on bottom, light biting & tit sucking, soft ending + aftercare
author’s note: I don’t know where this came from, but I’m glad because I had so much fun with his one! I’m a Jon girlie until the very end <3 I would honestly love to write more of him if you guys enjoy this! thank you so much for the love and support!
𝐀𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐡𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐢𝐥𝐲.
Direwolf sigils were replaced with that of flayed men, befitting for the screams that often emerged from the bowels of the Keep or the kennels, where enemies were fed to Ramsay Bolton’s pack of slavering hounds. Old faces that you had grown up with as a girl were gone — removed or slaughtered.
Your father, once loyal to House Stark and to Eddard himself, was strung-up and butchered for all to see, flayed alive by the Bolton men who now controlled Winterfell. You grew numb to the pain, numb to the shifting environment around you. It wasn’t the home that you had grown up in.
When you had caught sight of Sansa Stark in the courtyard, auburn tresses like searing embers against the backdrop of endless gray and snow, tears on her face, you knew that you needed to act.
You hadn’t known Sansa very well, but you did know her brother, Jon Snow. A beloved friend in your youth and teenage years, you had watched him go to the Night’s Watch. Any letters you’d written were likely thrown to the wayside, given the oaths that Men of the Watch swore, but you had longed to see him again.
Sansa recognized your face, no longer that of a young maiden with her head in the clouds. The both of you were women grown, trapped within Winterfell, and you wholly intended on escaping.
Fleeing Winterfell was perilous — dangerous, especially with the winter so biting and icy that it threatened to freeze away your extremities. Aided by Theon Greyjoy, once a captive of Ramsay, the three of you escaped into the harshness of the Northern woodlands.
Much of your time spent was in constant peril, with the looming threat of Bolton hounds nipping at your heels, search parties sent sprawling across the Wolfswood and beyond. Every rustle in the trees, every snap of a twig, distant scream of the wind made your steps quicken.
It was only when your lives were spared by Brienne of Tarth and her squire that you knew you were truly safe.
Castle Black had stood the testament of time, the last line of defense against whatever monsters lurked outside of The Wall. When its massive gates had opened, making way for your caravan, you felt shrewd in the presence of strangers. You hadn’t left Winterfell for much of your life, and only now, the world seemed so much larger.
When you saw Jon Snow again, more a man now than a boy you’d left behind in Winterfell, your heart nearly shriveled up within your chest. Youthfulness had left him, replaced with a permanent twinge of melancholy. A scar circled around his right eye, seemingly newer, and his mound of curled tresses remained tugged into a half-bun.
You stood in Brienne’s shadow, shuddering from the gnawing bite of the cold, feeling it slowly eat away at your bones. Sansa sobbed into her brother’s shoulder — and you couldn’t fault her for it. The viciousness she suffered at the hands of the Boltons was some of the worst cruelties one could imagine.
It was only when you caught Jon’s eye that he felt his breath hitch within his throat, and he felt like a young man again — freshly eight-and-ten, watching as he introduced you to Ghost for the first time. The sound of your curious laughter had filled the courtyard of Winterfell, and he remembered it as if it were yesterday.
You were from a distant dream, somewhere close yet far away, slipping in and out of his thoughts.
The last thing that you wanted was to detract from Sansa’s reunion with her brother, and so you kept quiet, bringing yourself into the shoddy shelter of your cloak. Your visage was icy, stung by the bitter wind of the far North, and your hands ached.
“You are safe here,” Jon murmured, brown hues glistening with appreciation as he looked upon Brienne of Tarth. “I owe you my gratitude for saving my sister. Whatever you need from Castle Black, you’ll have it.” He nodded, finding his gaze drifting towards you, begging for you to look his way.
Perhaps you didn’t recognize him, but that seemed far-fetched. Edd beckoned for Sansa to follow him at Jon’s command, hoping to find warmth in the guest chambers in the Lord Commander’s suite. The burden and duty no longer belonged to him.
Brienne bowed, hand atop the pommel of Oathkeeper, the Valyrian steel sheathed within its scabbard. “I swore an oath to Catelyn Stark that I would keep her daughters safe — and I shall keep it.” She replied, cerulean hues flickering towards you. “Lady Sansa’s escape wouldn’t have been possible without her.”
Jon gazed at you as if you had brought down the sun and stars themselves, moved mountains with will alone. Gods, he missed you terribly. His departure for the Night’s Watch had left a gaping hole in your heart, never to be filled, but seeing him again only seemed to make it ache with something painful.
Wordlessly, your feet carried you before logic could stop you in your tracks, and you flung yourself into Jon’s embrace, feeling his arms wrap around you. Brienne’s countenance glistened with the realization that you knew Jon, and she seemed to steer Podrick away, allowing the both of you some privacy.
“You’re alive,” You whispered into his shoulder, feeling hot tears trickle down your cheeks. Part of you worried that he might’ve perished, but here he stood, Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, a man. “It has been so long, Jon Snow.”
He hadn’t been alive days ago — death had claimed him once before.
The scars that littered his body seemed to ache and throb with the mere thought of his own demise, and the anguish of betrayal that came with it. His dark brows furrowed together, visage one of gentle joy as he released you from his grasp. “You look older.” Older in the eyes — not in the face.
You were still just as beautiful, the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen — your appearance hadn’t changed, and he hoped that your heart hadn’t, either. Your friendship kept him afloat for many years during his time in Winterfell, living as a Stark. You never cast your judgment upon him for being a bastard — and you never would.
“So do you,” Concern crept into your voice as you looked over his rugged beard and the scar upon his brow. “What happened to you, Jon?” There was so much he wished to tell you — from the Wildlings to the White Walkers, and his death. You could see it in his face — the maturity, the weight of duty, an abundance of stoicism.
“It’s a long story.” Jon huffed, Northern timbre crackled with a bout of faint amusement, lips twitching into the ghost of a smile. He gestured for you to follow him, striding across the courtyard of Castle Black in-search of his own quarters. He no longer held the Lord Commander’s chambers, and for good reason.
The men of Castle Black weren’t accustomed to seeing a woman — it evoked his streak of protectiveness when it came to you. He ensured that he kept close to your side during the lengthy trek to his chambers. Brienne was sworn to Sansa, and Jon knew that she would be well looked-after in the Lady’s stead.
Ascending a flight of rickety wooden steps, Jon led you to his quarters. Smaller, but he preferred his solitude. His brothers had stabbed him, tore away his mantle of Lord-Commander, killed him — as soon as he could, he intended on leaving.
Pushing the door open, you were met with the gust of a raging hearth, warming your brittle bones as you rubbed your hands together, “Gods,” You whispered, immediately moving toward the crackling fire, extending your hands to the flames, eyes closing in satisfaction. “I nearly thought we wouldn’t make it.”
Jon’s brows furrowed together, and he pulled up a wooden stool for you to sit, and so did he, firmly planted at your side like a dutiful guardian. “You’re safe here. I’ll have a bath drawn for you.” Dirt stained your visage, clothes tattered and worn from travel, hem shredded and covered in snow and mud.
Something forlorn reached his eyes, a distant glimmer of melancholy that you immediately recognized. He was still Jon, but something else seemed amiss. You lowered your hands into your lap, basking in the lick of the firelight. “All my life, I longed to see beyond Winterfell. Here I am — and here you are.” Your smile was threadbare.
The both of you had endured unimaginable hardships during your time apart, yet the warmth and fondness of your friendship remained, strong as ever. If Jon told you what all had happened, what he saw, what he went through — he wondered how much of it you would believe.
“Do you remember the night of the feast, when King Robert came to Winterfell?” Jon remembered — he remembered you, most of all. Gods, you looked so beautiful that night, bringing him a heaping plate of foodstuffs from the banquet, keeping him company throughout the night’s festivities.
“Of course,” It was one of the last days you had spent with Jon before he departed for the Night’s Watch. You had a plethora of regrets, and not kissing him that evening was one of them. The opportunity had dangled itself before you, and you never acted on it. “They sheared your face clean. A disservice to you, truly.”
A brief huff of laughter escaped him, lips twitching into a faint smile. “That’s what you chose to remember?” He remarked, planting his forearms against his knees. Admittedly, he chose to remember you — the way your dress clung to you, the vibrancy of your smile, tenderness in your eyes.
Your nose wrinkled in amusement before you waved him aside, a smile stretched across your features — happier this time, full of warmth. “I remember more than just that, but yes. You weren’t so dour, then.”
Jon chuckled, effectively shattering his stoic mask as he looked at you, head canting to one side. “I still was, always sulking about in some corner,” He mused, peering toward the hearth. “The things I’ve seen — the things I’ve been through …” His jaw tightened, and the wound to his heart seemed to ache.
Empathy tugged at your countenance, one that dissipated from something lighthearted to seriousness. You reached out, resting a palm against his bicep. “What happened to you, Jon? You don’t seem the same.” You asked, glancing toward the scar on his face.
He didn’t have the heart to tell you about his death and resurrection — not yet, anyway. It was still too fresh a wound to speak of, left gaping and open, one that would take time to fully heal. “I went beyond The Wall.” Jon stated, as if that would answer all of your questions.
Silence drifted between you both, and you exhaled, brows creasing in contemplation as you looked toward the fire. You let your hands drift closer again, hoping to absorb any lick of heat that you could find. Jon stared at you, unbeknownst to you, studying the intricacies of your visage, the way your tresses framed your face.
Abandoning the rank of Lord-Commander had been a liberating thing. He was done fighting for men who had countered him at every turn, men who slaughtered him. He was unsure of his next course of action, but he wanted you there with him, regardless.
Hunger and famine gnawed at your stomach, chewing you up and spitting you out. Even Jon could hear the violent lurch of your stomach, see the exhaustion etched into your features. He didn’t want to keep you, but he didn’t want to leave you, either.
“You should clean up, join us for supper,” Jon prompted, melting away the tenuous silence. “I’ll see about finding you something proper to wear.” He wanted to continue to reminisce with you, but you deserved a moment of solace, a chance to bathe and warm yourself without his intrusion.
You nodded, offering Jon an amiable smile. “I want us to continue our conversation,” You insisted, your voice soft and tender, a silky resonance. Instead, you reached for his hand, finding the calloused, roughened plane of his palm. “I’ve missed you, Jon.” If he hadn’t realized it by now, then he might’ve been blind.
Jon’s breath hitched within his throat, reduced to a mere boy in your presence. Whatever he thought of at that moment, it was inappropriate — it transcended all bonds of propriety and proper friendship, yet he couldn’t help it. How long had he thought of you? Yearned for you, dreamed of you whenever he was laying on the cold earth somewhere beyond the Wall?
If it weren’t for his uncertainty, he would’ve kissed you then and there.
He never stopped to consider what your life was like now — perhaps you had a husband and a family, a life that had moved on from him, no longer frozen in the time of your youth. Jon always feared that being a bastard would’ve stopped you from courtship, but he knew now that you didn’t care. You never did.
Years of letting yourself toil over Jon Snow had amounted to this — to this unspoken affection that permeated the fringes of your friendship. In his absence, you hadn’t taken a husband, you hadn’t wed. Part of you thought you would become a spinster and live out your days caring for your ailing father.
Tension simmered, sparking to life in the wake of your intertwined hands. “I missed you, too.” His accent seemed deliciously thick, noticeably huskier with the rougher pitch of his tone. Those earthly-brown hues of his bored right into you.
Your stare became doe-like, able to feel his calloused digits, how strong his hands had become, careworn from holding a sword. Swallowing the growing lump within your throat, you let your hand recoil, placing it back into your lap. Your fingers curled tightly into your dress.
With a brief clearing of his throat, Jon decided to give you privacy. “I must speak with Sansa,” He murmured, standing up from his stool with an abruptness. His heart thumped madly within his chest, throat becoming thick as he gathered his bearings. “Come to supper when you’re finished.”
“Of course. Thank you, Jon.” You smiled, and he stepped out to give you your solace. His quarters were noticeably smaller yet homely, and you immediately decided to go to the washroom to clean yourself. Endless dirt and grime stained your flesh, making you feel worse than you already did.
As soon as you disrobed, sinking into the steaming-hot waters of the metal tub, you submerged your head beneath, coming up for a gasp of air. You glanced toward the hearth, scrubbing yourself down with a bristle brush and sponge, using the scarce amount of herbs and soap given to you.
You thought of Jon — thought of his hand, the firmness of it, the rough-hewn texture of his skin, the hardened muscle of his bicep beneath your grasp. You thought of the dismal, tempestuous storm of emotions raging war within his gaze when he spoke of being beyond The Wall.
It gave you much to dwell on as you scrubbed away the dirt from your skin, smoothing handfuls of hot water across your face. A simple Northerner’s dress and a furred cloak lay on the chair beside you, something suitable to wear that weren’t your tattered rags.
Sloshing around within the steaming water for a moment longer, you finished cleaning up, feeling the continuous gnaw of hunger strike at your stomach. The air was brusque and still bitter with a noticeable chill, the hearth continuing to roar in spite of being left with little attendance.
Tugging on the coarse, linen dress, you retrieved your boots, having thoroughly cleaned them off of hardened dirt. You let your hair dry by the fireside, swaddled in the cloak given to you by Jon. It swallowed you whole, yet it smelled like him — woodlands and scented smoke, the musk of a battle-hardened man.
By the time you joined the others for dinner, you felt cleaner than you had in some time, liberated from the weight of grime and hard travel. Exhaustion still clung to you like a shroud, but you assumed that a proper meal would make it easier to deal with.
Sansa greeted you with a thin smile, moving aside for you to sit next to her. There was never a fondness you shared between one another in your youth — you were always Jon’s friend, a girl who preferred mucking about in the outdoors and watching him fight with steel instead of any ladylike endeavors.
You had become quite proficient with an embroidery needle, and a dagger. They were one and the same for you at-times.
Jon’s silent admiration of you continued, hues fluttering over your form, now rid of soot and dirt. A warm plate of heaping food sat before you, helpings of potatoes, stewed vegetables, and roasted venison. You ate as if you hadn’t consumed a bite in years, the richness of it filling your belly.
“We are to take Winterfell back from the Boltons,” Sansa stated, her tone resolute and assured. “Do you think that there are still allies in Winterfell who might help our cause?” She inquired, her question directed towards you. You knew Winterfell — you’d been there this whole time.
“If Ramsay hasn’t flayed them all alive, then yes,” You murmured, thinking of your father’s corpse, strung-up on some wooden cross, muscle and flesh peeled away to reveal his bones. You shivered, masking your discomfort through a bite of vegetables. “There are still denizens inside who remember the Starks.”
Tormund Giantsbane, Jon’s ally and the leader of the Wildling forces, noisily bit into a haunch of meat, juices spraying across his ginger beard. Brienne’s discomfort and bewilderment was palpable as she turned away, blonde brows furrowing together.
“Could you find your way back in?” Tormund grunted, and you understood the insinuation of his proposal. If you were to rally those who still supported House Stark to Jon’s cause, staging a coup from the inside, it might assist his chances of taking the Keep.
“I suppose I could, but the Boltons rarely let anyone in or out, save for those bearing the Flayed Man sigil,” Jon seemed visibly apprehensive at Tormund’s suggestion, jaw tightening as he stuck his fork into a piece of meat. “It is dangerous now — one wrong move, and they string you up on the banisters, flay you for all to see.”
Tears glistened within your eyes at the harrowing memory of your father — you watched him be pinned to that post, screaming for mercy, men with knives cutting him apart as if he were a pig for slaughter. You hastily wiped them aside, chewing at the inside of your cheek.
Jon’s gaze never wavered from you whenever you spoke — Sansa could see it, Edd could see it.
“That is the fate that befell my father.” With a sharp exhale, you continued to eat, momentarily meeting Jon’s sullen-eyed stare, full of sympathy for your loss. His condolences were unspoken, but he didn’t have to say the words to convey meaning.
“We will find another way,” Jon murmured, brows knitting together. “You’ve risked enough to save Sansa’s life. I won’t let you risk it again. Out of the question.” There was a finality to his words, wrought with a glaring overprotective nature.
Sansa remembered the day they left your father out to bleed in the courtyard — Ramsay’s sickening smile remained emblazoned in the back of her mind. She reached to squeeze your hand, and you nodded, the both of you returning to the food.
She plucked at hers, turning a piece of meat over along her fork. Edd stifled a brief chuckle through a mouthful of hard rations. “Sorry about the food, m’ladies. It’s not what we’re known for.” He stated.
“That’s alright. There are more important things.” Sansa smiled, but you were in the throes of consuming everything that you could. Foodstuffs had become scarce in Winterfell, especially to those who weren’t Boltons — just residents. You had to scrounge and work for every scrap — this meal was the best you had in ages.
A brother of the Watch entered the Great Hall, carrying a scroll of parchment for Jon, one that was marked by the wax seal of Ramsay Bolton. “For you, Lord Commander.”
“I’m not the Lord Commander anymore.” Jon uttered, yet he took the scroll, anger seething within his eyes when he realized whose sigil held the parchment together. He unraveled it, jaw tightening as he began to read it aloud.
“To the traitorous bastard, Jon Snow, you allowed thousands of Wildlings past the Wall. You have betrayed your own kind and you have betrayed the North. Winterfell is mine, bastard — come and see. Your brother Rickon is in my dungeon …” Jon trailed off, breath quickening as he looked at Sansa.
Her countenance was one of shock and horror, tears welling within her eyes as she nodded for him to continue reading. The Hall was eerily silent, and you listened, brows furrowing together.
“His direwolf’s skin is on my floor — come and see. I want my bride back. Send her to me bastard, and I will not trouble you and your Wildling lovers. Keep her from me and I will ride North and slaughter every Wildling man, woman, and babe living under your protection. You will watch as I skin them living, you will …” He stopped.
“Go on.” Sansa murmured, but Jon refused, rolling up the parchment with a despondent, rageful expression. He felt it blossom throughout his chest, the very same anger that consumed him when he sentenced his brothers to die.
“It’s just more of the same.” Jon quipped, preparing to tear it asunder, but Sansa reached over to take it from his hands, unraveling the parchment.
“You will watch as my soldiers take turns raping your sister and your Northern bitch. You will watch as my dogs devour your wild little brother — then I will spoon your eyes from your sockets and let my dogs do the rest. Come and see. Ramsay Bolton, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North.” She read, a shudder within her voice.
You shivered, feeling a pang of disgust and fear rattle through you, goosebumps cascading along your spine. Ramsay knew of you — knew that you helped Sansa to escape, and knew of your affiliation with Jon Snow.
“Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North.” Jon grit out through clenched teeth, fists tightening around Ramsay’s missive. He would kill him for what he did — to Sansa, to you, to his brother. He swore it by whatever Gods were willing to listen.
“Roose Bolton is dead — Ramsay killed him. Now, he has our brother — he has Rickon.” Sansa’s voice trembled, but she remained stalwart, even if she knew what a monster Ramsay was. She used to think that Joffrey was the root of all evil — she was wrong.
“We don’t know that.” Jon protested, but Sansa stopped him.
“We do. He has five-thousand men, at least — I overheard him talking about it when he prepared for Stannis’s attack.” She replied, folding her arms together. You felt nothing but admiration for her — sorrow, perhaps, but you admired her strength in the midst of this.
“How many men do we have?” Jon looked to Tormund, desperate for answers, for a shred of something positive. They were lesser in numbers than the Boltons — they would need allies, and they would need them swiftly.
“Ones that can march and fight? Two-thousand.” Tormund replied. They had a Giant — that had to count for at least fifty men, if they were lucky.
“Jon,” You spoke up at long last, finding your voice as you sat soundly at Sansa’s side. “You are the last true son of the Warden of the North. Northern families are loyal, and they will fight for you if you ask it of them.” The gentle encouragement you offered gave him much to think about.
Sansa reached across the table, seizing Jon’s arm. “A monster has taken our home and our brother. We have to go back to Winterfell, to save them both.” She pleaded, auburn brows furrowing together. It was the right course of action — it had been years since a Stark had truly sat in Winterfell.
Jon nodded, determination tempering his anger, and the desire for justice. He remembered wanting to ride North to help Robb’s cause, and he didn’t. Sometimes he wondered what would’ve happened if he did — if his brother might’ve survived. There was no time for inaction, not anymore.
“We will reconvene at first light, to discuss our next move.” He briefly squeezed Sansa’s hand before glancing at you. “You need to rest — both of you.” It wasn’t a request — more of a command, really. You and Sansa had been running from Winterfell for days before Brienne happened across you.
You took your leave, hoping to pray about your father alone before dusk settled in.
Brienne had taken Sansa back to her chambers for the evening, and you had gone to the ramparts after finishing your supper.
The death of your father was still an unsightly wound, something that had cut you right to the bone. He was your only family left — the last tether that you had, the last one to truly care for you. It left you with a gaping void of loneliness, one that had only felt healed in Jon’s presence.
Flickering torchlight danced along the wooden bridge that connected two sides of Castle Black, and despite the chill of the air, you remained outside. Rest eluded you, and you knew that you would be up all evening, tarrying around to try and occupy your mind.
Darkening skies twinkled with stars, partially obscured by large wisps of gray clouds, and with it, a light snowfall. The fur-lined cloak you wore kept you warm, shrouded from the gnawing chill as you listened to footsteps resonate from your left side.
The pale shadow of Ghost trotted alongside him, those crimson eyes glowering through the encroaching dusk. The last time you had seen Jon’s direwolf, he was the size of a small dog — now, he was massive, nearly coming up to your shoulder with the tips of his ears.
“What did you feed him?” You mused, kneeling down to greet Ghost as if he were an old friend. You recalled the day that Jon had brought the albino pup home, nothing more than a scraggly runt hidden in his cloak. Ghost nudged your hand, silently asking for a scratch along his ears.
Jon smiled, coming to stand near your side as he peered down into the silent courtyard of Castle Black. It was quiet, save for the occasional soldier scurrying across the dirt or the distant howl of the wind. “He’s much larger than I expected him to be,” He confessed. “Seems he remembers you.”
Ghost whined, ruby eyes studying you intensely, as if he recalled your last meeting. The pale direwolf allowed you to dote on him for a moment longer, padding off to lay outside of Jon’s chambers. You watched him go, a smile spreading across your face.
Your countenance softened at the sight of Jon, tousled curls still tugged into a loose half-bun, a smile toying at either corner of his mouth. “Aren’t you cold?” He questioned, noticing the way your form quivered beneath the cloak he’d given you.
“Quite,” A brief chuckle left you as you wring your hands together, letting them sink into the thick fur that you tugged tighter around you. “I don’t believe that I will be able to sleep tonight, given the circumstances.” You confessed, and he seemed empathetic.
“I don’t sleep much — not anymore.” The night that he had found himself resurrected from the black shroud of death, he did not sleep. Instead, he lay waiting for his brothers to burst through the door, knives drawn, waiting to send him to the cold, hard earth.
Jon slept with Longclaw at his side — he imagined that he’d never feel safe again without it by his hip.
A comfortable silence of understanding drifted between the both of you, and you felt him lean closer, brows furrowing together. “I am sorry about your father,” Jon murmured, knowing what it was like to lose his own. “I am sorry for what they did to him.”
Tears pricked your eyes again, yet you refused to let them fall, jaw tensing before you shook your head. “He is with the Gods now,” You whispered, mustering a threadbare smile despite the melancholy of your talks. “I hope that Ramsay Bolton is not shown any mercy.”
Jon hadn’t heard you speak like that before — so full of pain, an agony in your soft tone that he wished he could rip away from you, place the burden on his shoulders. “We will take back Winterfell — for my family, for yours, for the North. I promise.”
“You’re a good man, Jon.” The two of you remained huddled close together, and you very nearly reached for his hands again, but decided against it. “You always have been, despite what insults you’ve been hurled. They are half the man that you are.”
He was a good man, despite what he thought of himself — an honorable man, the very best of them. His shining qualities were often diminished in the face of being a bastard, and you wished it weren’t so. Jon had long been ostracized for it, even if it was no fault of his own.
Jon hadn’t believed it, that he was truly good. He had done plenty of wrong — broke his vows to the Night’s Watch, killed many men, killed a boy, and for what? What good had come out of it all, other than being sent to an early grave for his actions?
You had always believed in him steadfastly, and he often felt undeserving of your praise. Nonetheless, Jon offered you a forlorn look, smile not reaching his eyes as he bowed his head. “I wish I could believe you.” Through a softly-spoken confession, he turned to face the cutting bite of the Northern winds.
As darkness hovered, the cold beginning to bite at his flesh, Jon gestured toward the doors to his chambers. “It’s getting cold,” Even he had his limits, hardiness tested by the harshness of winter. “Come on.” His hand hovered near the small of your back, sending a shiver down your spine.
The warm sanctuary of his chambers offered you a much-needed relief, hearth roaring beside his bed, lined in countless furs. The furnishings were scarce, and he placed Longclaw at his bedside, never very far from his grasp. An orange glow permeated all it touched, encompassing you in its gentle heat.
Ghost stayed outside, furs able to outlast the encroaching winter. He was the watcher tonight, ensuring that no strangers or brothers disturbed his friend.
You moved to sit against the large, rustic footlocker that sat at the end of his bed, closest to the hearth. The cloak you wore swallowed you whole, allowing you to descend right into the pile of furs, warming your icy flesh. Jon sat beside you, keeping a comfortable distance, one that many might’ve labeled as prudish.
Jon’s lack of subtlety became brazenly clear, dark hues shamelessly fluttering across your face, absorbing the finer details of your form. You had grown into your beauty, and even then, he was at your mercy — you were incomparable in his eyes.
The sting of embarrassment rippled through him, his behavior akin to a young man with an unrequited affection. His one experience with a Wildling woman had been in an effort to feel something, anything — a retaliation against the Night’s Watch.
You were different — you were his friend, a girl he’d known since childhood, now grown into the prettiest woman he’d ever seen. It was as if you reduced him to a mere pup without even trying, unbeknownst to you.
Jon carried a flagon of honeyed mead, the warm liquid churning about within its leather confines. It tasted stale, but it was better than he expected it to be, taking a brief swig. He hoped that it would quell his nerves, but perhaps it was wishful thinking.
“I’ve never been so far away from home before,” You sighed, breaking the comfortable silence with an amiable smile. “I used to always dream of going elsewhere, an adventure away from Winterfell. Now that I’ve gone, I want nothing more than to go back.”
“Has it changed much?” Jon inquired, voice dropping into a husky lull that made you shiver. His tone had become rugged, gruff — that familiar Northern timbre always filled you with a sense of comfort and ease. He hadn’t been to Winterfell in years.
“No,” Your visage grew forlorn, tinged with a peculiar sadness as your lips wavered into a half-frown. “Just those who command it.” The homely stone and Stark banners were all you knew for the longest time — and you hoped that it would be so again.
You wanted to cease dwelling on all things bleak and dreary, and instead, you smiled at Jon, countenance melding into one of genuineness. He caught your eye, features growing unbearably hot beneath the ardor of your gaze. Something passed between the both of you, something that caused you to look away; smitten.
Jon exhaled, taking a swig of the mead before offering it up to you. Liquor wasn’t something he necessarily enjoyed, but it did take some little edge off — for now, anyway. He watched with a faint smile as you took it, giving the cork a brief sniff, nose wrinkling.
Nevertheless, you took a drink, stinging liquid burning your throat on the way down. You sputtered, your expression one of clear distaste as you handed it back to him. “Gods, what is that supposed to be? The Night’s Watch isn’t known for their ale, either.” You huffed.
A huff of laughter tore past his lips, and at last, you could see the glint of his pearlescent teeth, a smile that could melt The Wall itself. “Still can’t handle your drink after all this time?” Jon remarked, corking the flagon of mead as he placed it aside. He didn’t want to drink himself into a stupor with you present.
“There were never any occasions that called for it,” You retorted, a warm playfulness permeating your tone. You leaned forward atop the footlocker, gazing into the flickering flames, its heat basking your visage. “Winterfell wasn’t the same after your family left. Everything seemed so dour, so hopeless.”
Jon hung his head, hands folded together as he contemplated your statement. “Sometimes, I wish I’d never left.” He confessed, tone slipping into something silent, as if he were sharing his greatest sin with the septa. There were times where he missed home — missed what might’ve been.
Chewing at the inside of your cheek, you didn’t hesitate to look at him, hues swimming with a wet sheen. Reminiscing often brought about plenty of sentiments for you, sentiments that you thought you’d buried. “Sometimes I wish that you hadn’t left, either.” You whispered.
None of this felt real.
There was a noticeable shift in the atmosphere, a tension that had risen from the lingering flames of a longstanding friendship. Jon felt an unusual swell within his stomach, the onslaught of boyish nerves, yet he pushed them aside for the sake of the moment. It all seemed to feel so right, as if this had been long in the making.
Jon stared at you, absentmindedly tilting closer, enough to where you could feel the heat of his honey-tinged breath fan across your face. “What would’ve happened if I hadn’t?” He murmured, hoping that you would confirm whatever it was that he felt, too.
“I am not sure,” Butterflies erupted within the pit of your stomach, hands beginning to reach for one another, even if you hadn’t fully realized it yourself. “I would like to think that I would’ve gained the courage to tell you how I truly felt about you.” There wasn’t an ounce of subtlety present — you knew what you meant, he knew what you meant.
I love you — it was on the tip of his tongue, begging to be released, to let his confession take wing into the open air. He should’ve told you that night of the feast, when you took his hand and told him that you would always defend his honor and his name.
“Jon.” Your voice was nothing more than a saccharine whisper, eyes wide and doe-like, a wordless plea to act on whatever it was he felt. Before you could say another word, Jon’s mouth was on yours, hot and rugged, everything that you imagined it would be.
His calloused hand rose to cup your face, rough pads of his digits tracing across your cheek, your jaw — you felt like velvet, an unblemished plane that had eagerly awaited his touch. Jon had always fantasized about kissing you, and the reality of it far exceeded any expectations he might’ve had.
The sudden intensity of the kiss had grown, as if throwing kindling onto an open flame. You weren’t prepared for it, but you needed more. A moan stirred within your throat as you pressed forward, hands reaching for the front of his leather-studded tunic.
Jon kissed you as if you were the air itself, every breath he drew consuming you, dragging you in until you were intertwined. He seized your waist, rough palm sinking into the coarse material of your dress, nearly shuddering at the feeling of your body beneath his palm.
“I love you,” He uttered against your mouth, forehead briefly bumping into yours as he held you close, the weight of his confession beginning to sink in. “I never wish to be parted from you — from this day, until my last day.” Jon promised, voice rumbling and solemn, knowing that he would keep his vow.
Incredulously, you gazed at him with wide eyes, unable to escape the feeling of complete and utter joy you experienced at his confession. Breathless, you took a moment to compose yourself, gather your bearings before you smiled. “Don’t leave me again, Jon Snow.”
“I wouldn’t dare.” Jon murmured, eagerly seeking your mouth again, tugging you in for a heated kiss. Gods, your mouth was so disarmingly soft, pliant and plush against his lips, giving him everything that he ever imagined and so much more.
A gentle, uttered string of breathy ‘I love you’s’ left you over and over again, each kiss ripping the air from your lungs, leaving your heart hammering beneath your breast. You shrugged the cloak aside, letting it pool around you, partially strewn across the footlocker.
Desperation laced your kisses, as if something might threaten to rip you away from the excitement of the moment, or that you might wake up from a distant dream. Jon was lost in your mouth, a grunt blossoming from his chest when he hauled you closer, until no sliver of space remained.
He stood up, bringing you with him, standing atop the sprawling furs of slain stags, closer to the lick of the hearth. It allowed him to better hold you, hands respectfully roaming your body, never allowing himself to slip below your hips. “Wait.” He rasped, removing his mouth from yours.
“What’s wrong?” You whispered, fearing that you had vastly overstepped. This was all somewhat unfamiliar, the territory new and unexpected. You had been with a man before, but it never crossed a certain threshold — you wouldn’t allow it.
“Is this what you want?” Jon questioned, dark brows knitting together as he regarded you with caution, a devotion reserved only for you. He couldn’t continue without hearing the certainty escape your mouth — he hadn’t done this in some time, himself.
Gods, you loved him. There was a lack of hesitation in his movements, but instead, a desire for clarity. He didn’t want you to feel obligated or trapped in some corner — he wanted you to want him. A twinkle of ardor glistened within your warm gaze as you brought your hands together at the nape of his neck.
It’s what you’ve wanted for such a long time — a terribly long time, at that. Everything felt as if you were wading through a dream, one that would shatter at any moment. “Yes,” You whispered, longing to unfasten the leather buckles and straps that held his tunic together. “More than anything.”
Jon’s breath hitched, a subtle noise, desire beginning to blossom throughout his chest. His grasp on you became innately protective and needy, hands gingerly kneading into your curves. He bent down for another kiss, arms caging themselves around you, bringing you into the warm expanse of his chest.
Soft fingertips raked through his dark curls, bringing him to heel as he kissed you, unashamed of his clear desperation. It no longer felt like the ghost of a distant thought — this was a blissful reality. He helped you to remove the bulky leather of his jerkin, but part of him feared fully removing his clothes.
His scars would reveal the abhorrent truth — that he died, brought back to life from the twisted magic of a Fire Priestess. Jon’s hesitation was palpable, especially when your digits sank into the coarse material of his tunic. The leather fell to the wayside, and you were closer to seeing him disrobed.
Jon sluggishly reached for the linen ties that held your dress together, and you gave him a nod, subtly encouraging him to unravel you. As he gently tugged upon the tie, the fabric sagged upon your shoulders, allowing you to push it aside, stepping out of it altogether.
A strangled gasp caught within the depths of his throat, manifesting as a sharp exhale that consumed his ribcage. You were every bit as wonderful as he’d imagined you to be — such fantasies had clung to the fringes of his mind out in the frozen wastelands beyond The Wall.
The plane of your flesh was velvetlike, bathed in the flickering firelight of the hearth, dancing across your body with its incandescent glow. Jon’s jaw visibly tightened, restraining himself from touching you as he pleased. The longer he stood, gawking at your body like some clueless boy, the more emboldened you became.
Careworn digits gingerly wrapped around his vambrace, unfastening the buckles there before you guided his hand to your chest. “There isn’t a need to be bashful,” You whispered, noticing the way his pupils dilated when his calloused palm embraced your pliant breast. “I want you to touch me.” You gently encouraged him.
Jon appeared a touch forlorn, attempting to mask his gnawing fear at the idea of you seeing him. “It’s not you,” His smile was humorless — pensive, even. “Gods, you’re beautiful.” He huffed, hand drifting toward your hip, shuddering at the satiny texture of your skin.
Warmth crept across your spine in the wake of his breathless compliment, prompting you to unfasten his other vambrace. He aimed to distract you, mouth moving toward the spot where your jaw met your neck, beard scratching ragged against your flesh.
He palmed your breast, reveling in the softness of you beneath his rough-hewn hand, tracing along your hip until he squeezed your derrière. Everything about you was plush and inviting, as if you were a goddess incarnate.
Jon’s kiss became hungry, wanton and passionate as his mouth peppered itself along your throat, from your jaw to jugular. He treated you kindly; gracious hands that melded themselves to your form, like a sculptor to his masterpiece.
Saccharine soaps and hints of underlying flora clung to your flesh like a springtime haze, powerful enough to melt this ice he felt. You brought with you such warmth that it threatened to swallow him whole; he delighted in it, letting you shake the frost from his bones.
Lips danced together with a long-repressed passion, now exploding like crackles of fire within a hearth, spontaneous yet heated. You kissed Jon as if he might slip away from you, turning into dust between your fingertips.
A low moan stirred within the depths of your throat when his fingers toyed with your pebbling nipple, prompting you to grip his tresses with an unexpected harshness. You mumbled a sheepish apology, yet he paid little mind to it, dusky hues swirling with an ardent adoration that made your stomach churn.
As your hand drifted to the hem of his worn, linen tunic, he very nearly stopped you — yet, part of him wished for you to see him without a spoken word. Jon’s chest tightened with quickened breaths as you kindly maneuvered the clothing away, and he watched, hues fixated upon your bewildered countenance.
A battlefield — innumerable scars, so fresh that you nearly held your hand over them to stop the bleeding, gouged across his pallid flesh. One that seemed to sting the most rest over his heart, curved and garish, the stroke of a vengeful knife that ended his life.
Wordlessly, you lifted your hand, fingertips tracing across his chest, feather-light and disarmingly gentle; the opposite of the knives that had left their mark. Your brows furrowed together, and you wondered how he could’ve survived something like this — if he survived something like this.
Jon shivered at your embrace, as sweet as the maiden’s grace, caressing him with your resplendent touch. He held you close, arm caging you in, his other hand stroking beneath your breast, above your ribcage. “I didn’t make it,” He rasped, noticing the glimmer of understanding in your eyes. “I’d like to think that the Gods wanted me to see you again.”
His smile warmed you, more than any blazing hearth could, more than that of summertime. A fluttering sensation spread throughout your chest, followed by a hitch in your throat that you stumbled over. “Jon,” You whispered, stroking across his chest with a peculiar tenderness. “I am so sorry.”
It wasn’t the time for condolences — such sentiments could wait. Jon didn’t want your coupling to be soured by what had happened, and instead, he shook his head. His yearning for you trumped that of any sorrow and mulling over death, prompting him to press his mouth against yours once more.
The kiss seemed to convey the unspoken message, his desire to tend to you before discussing the intricacies of his scars. Jon dutifully dipped down to kiss your throat again, and then your collarbone, guiding you towards the fur-laden expanse of his bed.
As you lowered yourself onto your back, Jon kicked his boots aside, crawling across the thick mound of pelts to cover your body with his. You sluggishly spread your legs, allowing him to reside in the space between, palms planted on either side of your head.
Each heated kiss blossomed across your flesh, as he peppered his lips along your shoulder and collarbone, descending toward the valley between your breasts. It was flesh he’d longed to grace, savoring every second spent; his mouth smoothed across the silken flesh beneath your breast.
“Jon,” A sigh of passion tore past your lips, gooseflesh coalescing along your spine as he continued his descent, knowing exactly what he sought. The heat between your thighs sang to him like a siren’s song, and you weren’t about to intercede. “Please, please.”
Who was he to deny you?
The ragged scruff of his beard scratched pleasantly against your skin, the sort of burn that left you aching for more. He kissed across your stomach, inch by agonizing inch, hand reaching back to caress along your calf. It was slow, exploratory — he wanted to learn every curve, every dip and expanse of flesh.
A hazy heat gripped your surroundings, as if everything had become feverish, touched by a fog of warmth that permeated you, sank into him. Doe-eyed hues flickered toward the taut muscle of his back, the blackness of his curly tresses, the scar around his eye.
Planting a kiss against your hip bone, Jon sighed into your thigh, hot breath fanning over your sensitive flesh. His belly churned with an excitable heat, having waited for such a terribly long time to finally have you. He smoothed his calloused palm along your leg, ascending until he held your haunch.
Gods, you were in ruins — Jon hadn’t even placed his mouth upon you, and you writhed in anticipation. No man had been courageous enough to treat you this way, yet Jon lacked hesitation, settling onto his stomach as he bullied his way between your thighs.
Raking hot embers across your cunt, Jon lapped along your slit, eyelashes fluttering at the sound of your euphoric whimpering. He hadn’t heard a sound quite like that before, and from your lips, it was abhorrently sinful.
He sighed your name; reverent, a prayer only spoken between Gods and men — and you are no man. It made you shiver, belly filling with a fire that demanded to be extinguished, soothed only by the sweet laps of your lover’s tongue.
Jon’s mind reeled with the sight of you — flushed with pleasure, visage contorted into a look of complete and utter bliss. He continued without pause, nose brushing across your mound as he buried his tongue into you, greedily lapping at your cunt as if he were a man starved.
Your heart hammered beneath your breast, that of sheer excitement, consuming you like a tidal wave as you brazenly reached for his tresses. Sinking your digits into the crown of his tousled curls, you tugged, showing your appreciation in an unorthodox manner.
“J—Jon!” A strangled moan tore past your mouth, wisps of air being ripped from your lungs. Jon was inherently greedy, consuming you in the way that you deserved, finding his solace between your thighs. His dutiful lapping continued, from the pearl of your cunt to your aching entrance.
Akin to ice against your skin, Jon’s palms glided along your thighs, moving to trace your hips. His mouth was like a wave of fire, beard searing the silky flesh of your legs as you involuntarily squeezed his head. You hadn’t intended to suffocate him, but it was a worthwhile demise, in his perspective.
One hand fisted the furs, digging in until you threatened to rip it apart, hips occasionally jerking and jolting forward into his mouth. He hadn’t tasted something as sweet as you, like a fine stout coating his tongue, leaving him intoxicating; craving more.
His eyes had nearly fluttered shut, half-lidded slits that occasionally flickered to catch a glimpse of your blissful countenance. Your back arched from the furs, seeking his mouth with reckless abandon as he lapped along your cunt, tongue briefly flicking over your clit.
It was as if you’d been struck by lightning, body bristling with a long-repressed pleasure, something that only he could cure. The sensation of his calloused skin against your plane of silk was a satisfying juxtaposition — he never wanted another’s touch again.
Jon burned for you in every way imaginable, a sonorous groan ripping through the depths of his throat as he moved to lap at your cunt again. His ministrations were slow, made to explore and to savor you instead of letting it all become rushed.
Your fingertips brushed across his scalp, untangling his curls from the half-bun he’d placed them into. They fell across his head, dark and somewhat cropped. He groaned at the sensation, feeling you pull and grip his tresses, guiding your hips closer.
Rough-hewn hands gingerly kneaded into the pliant flesh of your thighs, caressing their way up and down in a soothing manner. Jon savored your taste, letting your nectar find its purchase against his chin, glistening along his lips. He kissed your clit, evoking a breathy sigh from you.
It had been such a long time for the both of you, intensified by feelings of a long-seated desire and carnality, friendship transcending all bonds of propriety. Jon felt his cock twitch within his trousers, incessantly throbbing and straining against the thicker material, longing to be inside of you.
A cry of delight tore past your mouth as you involuntarily jolted forward, grinding yourself into his mouth. Jon treated you to a barrage of eager laps of his tongue, from your entrance to the sensitive pearl of your cunt.
Dragging his tongue in languid circles around your clit, he watched as you quivered and moaned, mouth agape, back arched off of the furs. Knowing what path to follow, he showed attention to your neglected pearl, nose buried into the softness of your mound.
“Jon,” You sputtered, thighs molding themselves to either side of his face, feeling the scratch of his beard rake itself against your silky skin. He listened, dutiful and with a burning desire to please you, continuing to lap at your clit. “Gods, don’t stop.” A trembling exhale left you.
It was then that he melded his lips around the aching bud, beginning to suck on your pearl with a pang of vigor. You shuddered, rattling like a leaf as you haplessly tugged on his mane of curls, hips tilting upwards into his mouth. You whined, fisting the furs at your side.
Jon did not relent, feeling the ironclad grip you assumed, knowing that he was bringing you close to your release. White-hot sparks fluttered across your vision, body singing his praises, collarbone glittering with the first inklings of perspiration.
A strangled gasp tore through your throat, followed by a myriad of moans and pleading whimpers, seeking friction against his mouth. Your release was fast approaching, like a tidal wave of heat, flooding across your body with its intensity. Jon’s name emerged from your lips as if it were the only word you knew.
The pinnacle of your release made you feel as if you were floating, legs shaking in the blissful aftermath, feeling Jon lap at your core a few times over. You exhaled, chest heaving from exertion as you loosened your hold upon his tresses.
“You’ll have to let me do that again.” Jon murmured, and that seemed to ensnare your attention. Seven Hells — you would let him do that for as long as he pleased, whenever he liked. He pressed a few soft kisses against the inside of your thigh, crawling up to be near you.
“Whenever you would like, I will never protest.” You mused, gaze sparkling with mirth and adoration, inviting him back to being on top of you. Though, your impulses had other plans, as your palm pressed against his shoulder. “There is something I wanted to try.”
The softness of your suggestion seemed to placate Jon, who felt you push his shoulder until you guided him onto his back, hooking a leg over his lap. Gods, he would’ve stayed like that for an eternity if you asked it of him. As you situated yourself on top of him, Jon sat up enough to reach you, kiss you if he wanted to.
He felt your fingers move towards the laces of his breeches, and he didn’t stop you, observing you in rapturous hunger instead. His breath hitched, mouth moving inward to press a string of hot kisses against the column of your throat.
“Do you know how long I’ve dreamed about this?” Jon’s confession emerged as a husky sigh, murmured against your neck, sending shivers down your spine. It came as a surprise, a wonderful one, and it only made your hands move in a borderline frenzy.
Freeing his cock from its confines, you moved yourself up upon your knees, aided by his strong, firm hands, coming to rest just below your derrière. The flushed tip of his length nudged against your cunt, prompting you to sigh with passion.
“Jon,” A pleading moan tore past your mouth, mind becoming fuzzy as you attempted to absorb the genuineness of his words. The Northern timbre of his hoarse baritone made you tremble, hands steadying themselves upon his shoulders. “Please.”
In a sluggish descent, he gently lowered you onto his cock, the both of you shivering in-tandem. The low, throaty groan that escaped him made your stomach churn with molten heat, letting you find your own pace. He was bigger than you imagined, filling you perfectly.
Mouths danced together and then clashed again, kiss after kiss of pure ardor, tongues becoming exploratory as you brazenly lapped at his lower lip. It was messy and hot, feverishly so, bringing the both of you to heel as you happily drowned within desire.
Your cunt was tight around him, slick with arousal as you continued to lower yourself, inch by blissful inch until he was fully sheathed inside of you. Jon’s heavy pants fluttered across your throat, mouth pressing near the curve of your jaw.
Jon was captivated by you, inhaling a gust of your soap-laden scent, beard ragged against your soft skin as he continued to kiss along your neck. His hands were resolute in guiding you, rocking you up and down along his cock, chest to chest with you.
Tangled sighs and low, heavy breaths wove together, forming a heated cacophony that filled his chambers with your lewd activities. The feeling of his calloused hands sinking into your plush flesh was mesmerizing, leaving behind a wave of goosebumps that crawled across your skin.
The sensation of his cock filling you completely, nearly kissing your womb, almost made you sob from delight. The friction of your bodies was a delicious thing, with your chest brushing against his, knees squeezing near his waist, hands gripping his shoulders.
A burning sting began to dance along your thighs, the exertion of muscle as you rode him, moving up and down in somewhat rhythmic motions. His cock speared you over and over again, filling you completely before you nearly drew yourself out, and back down again.
“Gods,” You sighed, nails sinking into the muscle of his shoulders, your countenance one of complete and utter pleasure. Leaving behind angry-red crescents against his pale skin, you didn’t want the feeling to end. “Jon, please — don’t stop!” With a simpering moan, your head began to roll back slightly.
Spurred by your softly-spoken praise and breathy sighs, Jon did not relent, hands sinking into your thighs as he guided you against his cock. The angle allowed for friction to blossom, chests bumping together, bodies tangled up within one another.
He kissed his way along your collarbone, bringing you up enough to trap one of your nipples within his mouth. The head of his cock remained pleasantly buried within your cunt, the warming of it making you writhe. He held you steady, greedily kissing at your pert breasts.
One of your hands fisted into his dark curls, tugging on them as if you were attempting to wrangle him into submission. His mouth peppered warm, needy kisses around the valley between your breasts before he let you sink yourself back down, cunt clenching around his cock.
Shameless strings of sinful noises left you in droves, eyes closed in a state of ecstasy. Jon groaned with you, vocalizing his own pleasure as he coaxed you down towards the furs, not wanting to place you there unless you consented.
With a brief bob of your head, you found yourself beneath Jon, his musculature covering you, content between your legs as he hitched one around his hips. The calloused plane of his palm wrapped around your calf, causing you to shiver at the foreign contact.
He could look upon your face, see the way your visage contorted into pure pleasure when he rocked forward, cock burying itself deep into your cunt. His skin was flushed, expression somewhat doe-eyed and awestruck, even if you were too lost to notice.
Your hands moved, one finding its purchase against his bicep, the other on his shoulder as his pace began to intensify. It was a chase, galloping after his release as he bent to kiss you, releasing a grunt into your mouth when you rolled your hips forward.
The wooden frame of his bed began to creak, groaning in protest from the vigor of his ministrations. You didn’t care if he was a touch rougher with you — Gods, you needed him. Heat swirled within your stomach, gnawing at your bones, making your toes curl in delight.
“Jon!” You cried, and that nearly sent him soaring over the edge, cock throbbing inside of you. The friction of your pelvis grinding against him almost made his resolve shatter into two. He lost count of how many times his cock sank into you — it was all blurring together.
The inevitable rush of euphoria reached him when his release came, hot and blistering, making him see stars as he groaned your name. Your nails were digging into his bicep, a gasp emerging from your throat when he thrust into you again.
Ropes of warm spend painted your insides, and he very nearly collapsed on top of you. He had the decency to hold himself afloat, hand tracing along your calf and to the crook of your knee, letting you unhook your leg.
Jon removed himself from you, attempting to gather his breath as he laid at your side, gazing at the dark ceiling above. Your breathing was just as unsteady and erratic as you drifted down from your buzzing high, wiping beads of perspiration from your brow.
Once he recuperated, Jon looked at you, noticing the smile on your face, the unrestrained delight you were experiencing as you rolled over. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?” He murmured, watching as you began to shamelessly crawl into his arms.
“Quite the opposite,” You hummed, feeling him adjust the furs, drawing them both around you. Despite the feverish pitch of the room, the frost would settle in again soon, especially at the hour of the bat. “Were you jesting when you said you dreamed about this?”
Bewildered, Jon cast his eyes toward you, canting his head to one side. “Of course I was serious,” He huffed, surprised that you would think otherwise. “You were all I could think about, north of The Wall.” His confession was genuine, sweetly-spoken.
“You don’t have to dream about it anymore,” Your voice soothed him, a sound that he had yearned for with a blistering ache. He felt as if you would slip away from him if he let you go. “I won’t leave you.” Your smile was warm enough to melt even the hardiest of frost.
Jon’s lips tugged into a smile, one that you rarely saw beneath the brooding curtain of his visage. He pressed a kiss against your forehead, allowing you to get comfortable against him. The silence that followed allowed for some contemplation, absorbing all of what had transpired.
His scars seemed so fresh when they caught your eye. With a forlornly look, you dragged your fingers over the scar above his heart, feeling him shiver beneath your touch. Your body still felt as if it were caught in some haze, coming down from the blissful aftermath of your coupling.
“If you hadn’t come back …” You trailed off, attempting to refuse to think of some painful reality where Jon perished, but the thought briefly crossed your mind. If he had, none of this would be happening — he wouldn’t be holding you in his arms.
“But I am here,” Jon’s husky timbre shook you to your core as he planted his palm against your cheek, guiding you to look at him. “I’m not going anywhere, and I’m not leaving you.” It was a promise — insistent, spoken from a man who now fully understood the weight of love, the weight of sacrifice.
You nodded, wordlessly reaching to hold his hand, feeling the arm he had caged around you plant itself against the small of your back. He drew circles there, brows knitting together as he leaned in to kiss you. It was hard and warm, so real — he made sure that you understood exactly what he meant.
Within the warm embrace of his arms, you let your head recline against his chest, feeling him draw you closer, until there was no space left between the both of you. He listened to the steady, shallow sound of your breathing afterwards.
At the edge of the world, he had you — and that was all he would ever need.
jayj maybank struggled with constant, unwavering uncertainty that was entirely paralyzing. never relenting for even the briefest moments in time — a prime example of his environment.
however, after eleven, entirely too long months of an on-and-off relationship — a girl would lol her eyes when the same excuses were thrown at her when broken up with, every time.
"i-im like really fuck'n sorry. i just can't be do'n this, you know?"
the same look would be given when he would come back crawling to you after one, two weeks max of being broken up. to which you would inevitably cave — becoming putty to his touch. stuck in a constant, revolving loop.
on the occasional chance, the most recent time, you saw him well, happy. it had been longer than the standard few weeks, close to a month, maybe two.
unlike the others, this time you let go of the nagging heartbreak that took over you when the inevitable breaking up took place. feeling a lack of judgment towards him. see, you can't feel anger towards someone that you have a clean slate about. someone you let go of a long time ago. slowly you approach him a genuine smile plastered on your face, in contrast to the smirk he has when he catches you in his sight.
like always, jayj is the first to talk, not shying away from applying his confident facade, "you're looking real good, i didn't think you could get, well, y'know hotter. wanna get out of here?"
staring directly into his eyes, not making a peep. that was until he started fiddling with the neckline of the dress you were currently wearing. an agile scoff is tossed entirely into his cast, before completely ignoring his request, and his touchy nature altogether — "i just came over to tell you that you look better. happier."
"well, i think i would be doing a whole'lot better if you gave me some sugar"
besides the annoyingly obvious trait of self-destruction that possessed jayj at a constant rate. he always had impeccable timing for his dumbassry.
"n-nevermind. this was a mistake, you can't take anything seriously," you said, in an annoyed tone with swift movements to exit the situation entirely. it had been the first exchange since the most recent break-up, and all he could bring to the table was his unrelenting childish tendencies.
"wait i-i get this, you leave. i follow." jayj says with full confidence in his voice. though, quick to catch the glance you gave him. yet, he chose to continue.
"so-so no one suspects that we are leaving together"
"i swear you just hear what you want to, i was just coming to say you seem to be doing good, a-and that i have moved on"
let out a gulp as he attempted to nonchalantly catch his breathe at the confession. running his hands through unbrushed, light locks, he spoke asperated, "what? what could you possibly mean, you 'moved on',"
you barely had time to register his air quotes before he continued his rant, "i-if you 'moved on', then e-explain why were you come'n over here trying to y'know?"
a slight shake took control over him when the thought of you. with. another. guy.
"what?! i wasn't trying anything. at. all. i was just checking on you, and y'know i should've known that you would turn it into something it wasn't." "a-and honestly i felt real sorry for you — but, i won't allow myself anymore. you did this to yourself. i was there for you, and you blew it time and time again."
feeling completely hollow inside from the entire confession that took place, you only had it in you to push to walk away. leaving jayj maybank, standing alone, entirely by himself.
Tags ✦ arranged marriage, dubious consent, p. in v. sex, mention of pregnancy
Wordcount ✦ 3,325
Aegon Masterlist
As Rhaenyra's only daughter, you were married to Aegon to secure peace after the Dance. You soon realized that in order to insure your survival and that of your younger brothers, you would need to win the king's affection.
There is no war so hateful to the Gods as a war between kin, you had heard the princess Rhaenys tell your mother once, as the war of succession had swept away your life and shaken you to the core. You had been forced to face hardships and bloodshed, losing all your kin one after the other, until there remained barely any.
The defeat of your mother had sealed your fate, and you had been given the cruel choice of imprisonment or marriage, which was a prison of another sort, you knew. If you had been the last of Rhaenyra’s brood to be standing, you would have gladly chosen a life of imprisonment, but accepting marriage came with an offer you could not refuse.
In exchange for your union with Aegon, and the fulfillment of your marital obligations—providing him with a male heir, as both his sons had died during the war—your younger brothers, fathered by Daemon, would be kept safe.
So you endured perjury as you recited vows you did not mean, and you endured the indignity of lying with a man who did not care for your pleasure. You plotted revenge in your head as he pounded into you, often from behind, your head pushed down into the pillows.
You considered your duties with an unemotional view. It was a means to an end, and the idea that you would eventually be with child and bring your enemy’s babe into the world felt foreign and almost impossible. Yet you knew it would happen, it was inevitable.
It was a night like any other when a knock came at your door and a maidservant entered, quiet as a mouse. “The king has requested your presence in his chambers,” she said, her hands clasped in front of her nervously.
“Let him know that I am denying his request,” you replied coldly.
You had no wish to spend more time than necessary in Aegon’s company. Since your blood was not due for another week, there was no way to confirm that you were not with child, and therefore you did not wish to spend an evening in his bed if it was not necessary.
The maid licked her lips, bowing her head slightly. “It wasn’t exactly a request, your grace,” she said quietly.
“Then I shall come at once,” you replied, resigned, as you pushed the bedcovers aside and stood.
You did not take the time to brush your hair or even slip on a robe, preferring to march out into the cold corridor with your feet bare and your curves barely hidden under your nightgown. It served you more to allow the night-time roamers to see you being summoned into the king’s chambers, the purpose of your visit plain for all to see.
You had long learned that it was best to endure Aegon’s drunken endeavors in order to keep your peace and that of your brothers. You knew they were only tolerated in the Keep at the king’s permission, and so far he seemed inclined to grant it as long as you performed your marital duties when it was required.
You knew Aegon despised you, and you loathed him equally. He had usurped your mother’s throne, and adding to the insult, had been the one to end her life. The only thing on your mind was your brothers’ survival. One day they would grow up to be men, and you desperately wished they would become decent ones. You would see to their education, you had vowed to yourself and to the memory of your mother.
As you crossed the threshold of the king’s quarters, you didn’t wait for the guard to close the door before you started pulling at the laces of your nightgown, letting it pool to the ground before you walked to the bed. In front of the hearth, Aegon was nursing a cup of wine as was his habit, and didn’t say a word as you crossed the room without even throwing a glance his way.
“On your back,” he said as you climbed among the rumpled sheets.
They smelled of a flowery, sweet perfume you didn’t recognize and you swallowed in disgust, knowing a whore had probably warmed his bed earlier in the night.
The command did surprise you, however, as it was common for Aegon to prefer you on your knees, facing away from him. You obeyed wordlessly, keeping your gaze on the canopy above the bed as he climbed after you. He pushed his long linen shirt up his hips and wasted no time pushing into you.
He groaned as you expelled a sharp breath, forcing yourself to lean into the intrusion despite the pain. You had learned that making your core ease under his assault soothed the pain. “Fuck,” he groaned at your tightness, and you shut your eyes forcefully and swallowed the bile rising in your throat.
Barely any time after your arrival, you marched back out into the cold hallway, ignoring the trail of liquid running down your leg. In your quarters, a warm bath awaited you.
“One final push, your grace,” the midwife encouraged; the unconcealed joy in her voice gave you courage.
Your hands gripping the arms of the other midwives surrounding you. You leaned into the wave of pain and followed it as it pressed downward; with one last wail your labors ended. As a babe was pushed from your body and into the midwife’s rough hands, you breathed a sigh of relief.
“A daughter, your grace,” the younger midwife announced with pride, and you could not help but smile despite your exhaustion.
Your hair was sticking to your face, sweat running down your temples as pink fluid was running down your legs, but a triumphant feeling rose in you as the babe wailed. Tears came to your eyes as you looked down upon the sweet face of your child. She was bright as a new sunset after the rain, and love flooded your heart like none other before.
You hummed soothing sounds as you reclined against the pillows, midwives fussing about you and the babe as you cradled her against your breast. You trailed your lips across the bridge of her nose, breathing in her sweet scent as she melted against you, her cries quieting as her eyes tentatively fluttered open.
“Sister,” a child’s voice called from the archway into your bedchamber. It was Viserys, and his eldest Aegon padded behind him—the two boys had waited impatiently in your solar, eager to meet their niece.
“Have you chosen a name?” the eldest asked, still a child of eight, as they approached you. Their gazes flitted about you, worried about the tainted sheets the midwife was carrying away.
“The king will want to name her, no doubt,” you replied, smiling tenderly at them despite the ache in your heart.
A terrible realization came to you later as you watched their eager faces hovering over the cradle, soothing the crying babe with gentle murmurs. Their position was only guaranteed as long as you didn’t bear a son, and then despite his promises, Aegon might still cast them away, and you along with them.
When your duties would have been fulfilled, there would be no need for you, and no reason to tolerate your brothers’ presence in the Keep, or even their lives.
“The king wishes for the child to be brought to him,” a maid interrupted your sad musings, and you didn’t hesitate.
“I shall take her,” you replied, even as your brothers looked up in alarm, rushing to your side when you stepped out of the bed with a pained groan.
“You should rest after your labors, my queen,” the maid insisted, but you would not be deterred.
“I will take her,” you confirmed, wrapping a robe around yourself.
As though peace had been secured by your marriage to him, Aegon still felt the echoes of the war every day that the Gods made. Its ripples had damaged the realm, fractured it in its very core, and only time would be able to rebuild the strength that had been lost.
The trust that had been shattered, and to heal the wounds that had been inflicted. Even the humiliation that came with your agreement of the marriage was not enough to soothe Aegon’s fury.
You were the daughter of a traitor, of a woman that had precipitated the realm into war when she had refused to bend the knee, clinging to the words of a man too weak to make the right decision for his own legacy.
An entire dynasty had buckled under the weight of such treachery, and now the very essence of what made the Targaryens so great was threatened. Your own dragon had perished on the battlefield, as you had fought alongside the lords foolish enough to join your mother’s cause—now most of them were dead, and their infant sons sat in their places.
Aegon supposed it was their one victory, as he had no sons anymore. The memory of Jaehaerys and Maelor was still an excruciating one; the only mercy he could think of was that their mother had joined them in the arms of the Stranger.
He had preferred to remain in his quarters upon learning that you had started your labors. He had no wish to pace the corridor like a caged animal, nor did he feel the need to—he knew an heir was needed, but he loathed that your blood was the strongest one there was.
“A daughter, I’ve been told,” he greeted you as you crossed the threshold, carrying a bundle of linens.
Your face was flushed, and there was an air of wonder to your face. The only expression he had ever seen on your features was contempt, disgust, and hatred, but now you looked as though it had all faded away, carried by the waters that had run out of your body. The undercurrent of his anger soothed for a moment, surprise taking over.
“Indeed, your grace,” you replied as you came to stand in front of him, slightly breathless and unsteady on your feet. Still, he didn’t offer you a cushion or a seat. “Healthy as can be.”
“If we can have a healthy daughter, then we can have a healthy son,” he commented, looking down at the babe. She was pink as newborns usually were, sleeping peacefully, and he had to admit that his stomach quivered at the sight of her. She came from him, as much as he detested you and what you represented, your bloods had mingled and brought a new soul into this world.
It seemed your labors had truly mellowed you, as there was a tender smile etched across your face—it was the first smile he had seen of you in months, and the last had been a fleeting one, given in passing at one of your brothers; he had been lucky to see it at all.
“What shall you name her?” you inquired, and his brow furrowed.
“You would leave the choice to me?” he asked, surprised at the lack of defiance on your part.
“It seems appropriate, your grace,” you replied quietly, and he smirked, slightly victorious. You had always resisted his advances, and he had long stopped caring about your pleasure or your pain, but it seemed that the result of your couplings had finally broken you.
“You can name her. I shall name our sons when they come,” he replied.
Aegon had feared that as the residual pains of your labors passed and your moods settled again, you would grow cold and furious again. However, he was soon proved wrong as you behaved with utmost politeness, seemingly so taken with your daughter that you had forgotten about the hatred you held for him.
Aegon could not deny his relief, and as occupied as you were with your newborn child, a more peaceful atmosphere had fallen over the Red Keep.
Perhaps the lords that had suggested the match, hoping to secure peace, had been right in their endeavor. You surprised him again, as you had on the day of the birth, when you stepped into his rooms a few weeks later, dressed in an embroidered nightgown and robe, your hair braided neatly.
“The Maester has deemed me healed, and so I wondered if you desired my company tonight,” you offered, and Aegon could only nod. His loins stirred despite himself, and even if your fury was to come back eventually, he wouldn’t refuse a night of respite, burying himself in your pliant body.
As you left the rooms, wrapping your robe around yourself, a sense of satisfaction came over you.
“May I have a word?” you asked the guard, and the young man tilted his head obediently. You stepped closer, keeping your voice low but your intentions clear and firm. “If you notice the king is in need of comfort of any kind, please send for me. I would rather keep my own husband satisfied.”
You held the knight’s gaze as your meaning took root in his mind and he bowed from the neck.
It was how a few nights later, as your maid was brushing your hair and loosely braiding it, a knock came to your door and a young page entered, suggesting it would be appropriate for you to visit the king. You could hear frustrated groans and sharp words coming from the royal quarters as you approached a few minutes later.
The knight bowed at you as you walked past him and you expressed your gratitude with a small nod and smile. “The king is in quite a bit of pain, tonight,” the man informed you.
As you crossed the threshold, you were met by a pitiful sight. In a large copper tub placed in front of the fire, Aegon was sprawled over the rim, his lower half soaking in the water as the Maester was spreading some sort of ointment on the burn scars that ran across one of his shoulders and his upper back.
The old man noticed you before your husband did, rising slowly and nodding at you in respect.
“I was wondering if you required my company tonight,” you offered, ignoring the old man. Aegon startled slightly, looking up at you from under his furrowed brow. His face was flushed, sweat running down his temples.
“No,” he grunted with difficulty. He hissed as the Maester resumed his ministrations, and slapped his hand away sharply.
“You may leave, Maester,” you decided. “I will tend to the king.”
Blinded as he was by the pain, Aegon did not protest as you took the ointment from the old man’s hands and kneeled in front of the tub as the door closed, leaving the two of you alone. He panted and whined pitifully as you warmed the cream between your palms and spread them on his shoulder.
He rested his forehead on the rim of the tub, melting into your touch as you soothed the scars. The skin grew more supple under your palms as you pressed gently, loosening the tensions.
“What has gotten into you tonight?” he grunted after a long moment of silence.
“You have given me a daughter I cherish. I simply wish to show my gratitude,” you replied, and before he could protest or express any doubts about your intentions, you had reached for a nearby copper cup and dipped it into the war, wetting his hair.
He leaned into your touch as you tilted his head, careful not to pour the water on the scars, as not to dilute the ointment. He mumbled something, gesturing to a cup on a nearby table. You smelled the strong tea, surely laced with liquor or another substance before you brought it to his lips. You watched as he swallowed a few sips, his eyelashes fluttering, casting shadows on his cheeks.
Putting the cup aside, you resumed your ministrations, washing his hair with a soap that smelled of oats and honey. Aegon had to admit you had gentler hands than the servants, and more patience than the whores he often called upon. You weren’t there for the gold in his purse, or for the insolent pleasure of having been in the king’s bed, and it comforted him slightly.
His mind hazy with the drink, he felt his cock harden slightly as you bent to reach the water in the tub, your chest coming closer to his face. He leaned into you, sighing as he nestled his face between your breasts, mouthing at you lazily through the cotton of your clothes. He chuckled softly as you unlaced your robe and pushed it off your shoulders, the fabric falling to the floor around your knees.
It wasn’t long before your upper body was soaked as Aegon clung to you, suckling at your breasts through the wet cotton, his burning pains forgotten in favor of the sweet comfort you provided. He didn’t bother to care about the water running down his limbs and onto the floor when he pushed himself from the tub.
Your clothes stuck to his skin as he pressed fully against you, trying to pull them off as he led you to the bed. As your clothes came off, so did your apprehensions; for once you weren’t here by obligation or coercion, but for yourself. You allowed him to guide you, only reaching up to cradle his face again, as you pressed up against him, chasing his mouth, he melted into you.
As you kissed him slowly but deeply, Aegon made a soft sound, almost like a whimper of longing. He went willingly as you pushed him on the bed, climbing after him, and as you shoved him onto the sheets, he looked up at you with a wild, dazed look. He wasted no time in pulling you against him, the tip of his cock parting your folds, one of his hands squeezing your breast.
You looked down at him, hesitating, but the triumphant feeling rising in you held too much power. Your lips stretched into a smile and you forced a sigh out of your mouth—you could not deny that the pressure on your sore breast was heavenly. Your sighs soon filled the room as you rocked atop him, and you gasped as he reached between your bodies and pressed on your pearl.
It had been too long since you’d felt the sharp heat of a man focusing on your pleasure and you allowed yourself to take it. You reached down and cradled his face in your hands once more, moaning his name before you captured his mouth in a kiss. He groaned, pulling you into an embrace that betrayed the desperate feeling inside him.
It was easy to lose yourself in the rocking of his hips and the drag of his cock inside of you. You succumbed to the pull towards pleasure he looked pleased to supply. Night after night you lost yourself in his arms, pulling him under with you each time, and as the weeks passed, his cruelty lessened and was instead replaced with something gentler.
You could see how proud he was of his conquest, how triumphant at your surrender. You were tamed, back into the fold, under his influence—or so he believed, as men so easily trusted the sweet poison of a kiss or the heat of a cunt.
It was worth it, you decided. You traded the appearance of surrender for moments of fleeting pleasure and the safety of your brothers. You would be patient, meek and sweet, laying in wait.
As he laid asleep with his head cradled against your chest one night, your fingers carding through his hair, you contemplated the future ahead. You had seen first-hand the influence of mothers and you knew you would be no exception—you would give Aegon a son, and behind closed doors the boy would learn from you. You would have your own victory.
pope was one of the lucky ones — able to use his deep understanding and intelligence to gain access to the education he had always feigned for. leaving him to be taunted at, by kooks.
as the person he was, he did tend to take it too personally. yet, another adoring quality of pope was he avoided conflict at any cost. no matter the environment, he stayed his honorable self.
though, the belittling began to get under his skin less and less with the help of your encouragement. he never knew how he could possibly have a girlfriend that was the complete opposite of him. maybe you were always, well, fiery. or you were the product of your environment.
just accustomed to the competitive, power-hungry atmosphere you were brought up in. then, popey came along with his upbeat personality, not persona — real-life personality. just thrilled to have the opportunity he did. it didn't take long for you two to connect; becoming inseparable.
when first getting together, pope invited you to have dinner at his parent's restaurant, to which, his parents were rather confused by the dynamic that was unfolding in front of them.
y'all kept each other in balance — he kept you from strangling every last person at school, and you forced him to become unscathed by the commentary of the entire school. or rather, every critique in his life. though, you were hell-bent that he should at least stand up for himself once.
your abrupt, forward personality grew quickly on his entire family, leaving them, rather, fond of you. you forced pope to unstick himself from the wall — getting him out of his comfort zone. without freaking the fuck out constantly.
pope about had a panic attack the first time you suggested him sneaking in your house, and spending the night. the simple idea of being caught caused a frenzy in his mind. along with fears of what would come after sneaking in. he has performance fears, what can he say?
slowly, but surely coaxing him out of his intimacy fretting spell. you didn't mind it though. every other guy in the school would be pushing for sex the second interest was shown. not pope, though.
ᯓ★ cw: 500 words, explicit sexual content, gender of reader is unspecified (although art calls them mommy, so idrk) biting, sub/dom undertones, subby!art, dom!reader, he's so so pathetic, pet names (baby, good boy, mommy), love marks and bruising (r), a little bit of shaking, mention of multiple orgasms (m), implied established relationship, short little drabble, mentions of solo!art, a little bit of crying, oral fixation, you guys remember when he bit tashi's hand and was constantly chewing gum.... yeah. — let me know if i missed anything ᥫ᭡
art and his little oral fixation… it had all started a few months ago, while burying himself deeper inside you than your walls could allow, on his fourth orgasm with not a single moment of rest, when he lifted his hand to his face to bite down on the palm of it. your face buried in his neck and unable to see him, you had not a clue in the world.
it goes on for months after that. he’s too ashamed to tell you, and resorts to exclusively doing it while he gets himself off. after cumming, he’ll often leave himself with a set of pink little bite marks in the skin of his forearm or fist. or even a patch of wetness on the neckline of his shirt or your stolen panties, where he’s bunched up the fabric and gotten close to tearing it with his teeth.
the first time he bites you, it’s by accident. he stutters in and out of you messily and desperately, working himself toward his orgasm. your shaking legs wrap around his hips loosely from below him while he whimpers against your neck. you card your fingers through his hair before tugging at the curls from the root, eyes rolling and back arching. from the feeling of his hair being pulled and the way you tense around his cock, he’s cumming for the second time tonight. hopelessly, he wraps his arms under your shoulders tightly, pressing wet open mouth kisses to the pulse point of you neck.
it isn’t until you let out a moan that he finally bites you. “art!” you yelp at the feeling, making him yank himself back, his orgasm currently the least of his worries. he scans the state of you, mouth drying when he sees the red marks on your soft skin from where his teeth have scraped against it. “oh, god. i’m so sorry- i didn’t mean to.. i swear i won’t do it again-“
“baby, be quiet. it’s okay. you just surprised me,” you reassure. wiping a stray tear from his eye before it falls down onto your face instead. he peppers feather-light kisses to the bruising mark, trying his best to ease the pain he’d created. even when you reach between the two of you to grip his cock, even as he lets out a desperate little whimper, even as you soothingly coo in his ear to calm him, he kisses the skin of your neck, wet eyes closing and brows furrowing as he does.
“so sorry, mommy-“ he whines, sniffling as he does so. “didn’t mean to…” he trails off, mumbling incoherently into your skin as you push down on his lower back so he sinks into you.
“open,” you mutter softly through a moan, hand moving to his face so you can ease your finger between his lips. he happily obliges, opening his mouth wider and wider until you’re happy with it. you take hold of the back of his head, lightly pushing down and relishing in the way he moans as his teeth make contact with your skin. he sloppily kisses your skin, teeth scraping and tongue licking. “good boy.”
ZEBRA!READER is the youngest of three. With two, much older brothers. parents never too shy to admit the slip-up in pregnancy. even occasionally blaming her for ruining things, and that's if they even notice her.
ZEBRA!READER's parents from the day she began retaining memories dragged her around from place to place. See, once their sons hit a particular age, they planned on traveling the world. but when she came along, they were too selfish to even skip a beat, never canceling a single plan.
ZEBRA!READER being left to fend for herself in whatever foreign country occupying her parent's entire brain capacity at that moment. usually, when she began to get her footing, she would be forced to leave.
ZEBRA!READER hadn't been in a single residence for longer than a year, or two if lucky. until she came to the outer banks. one of the least exotic places that she had lived. to her surprise, her parents wanted to settle down for a while, with there being a "business" opportunity in close proximity. who knew that if you didn't work for almost two decades you'd run out of money.
ZEBRA!READER only had two constants in her life. one being the unpleasant company of her parents. company was giving though. usually, the word implies that there would be some kind of communication. well, and the other isn't much better. her ability to run away from things.
ZEBRA!READER was a result of her environment. never having to face consequences. any slight issue she would face would be directly in her rearview mirror. a bottle of wine and a dozen or so sly comments could easily persuade her parents to switch locations of living.
ZEBRA!READER had to face the fact that her consistent lack of a stable environment made her unloveable. she couldn't keep a boyfriend for the life of her. either being broken up with, for being "too hostile", or fleeing the second the guy wanted to become remotely serious. but that didn't stop her from following her demeaning parents, even after she became of age. the validity of fucking up her parents did never set in. because that would have to make her vulnerable.
ZEBRA!READER was rarely interested in making friends. knowing that she wouldn't see them for long. yet, she found an unexpected friendship in a cameron kid. sarah cameron. which, eventually led to her meeting all of her friends.
ZEBRA!READER didn't really find any of sarah's friends that pleasing. though it's to be said that there was never a dull moment when forced to be in proximity to them.
ZEBRA!READER found jayj and john b idiotically irresponsible when it came to every aspect of their lives. every interaction observed made her believe that they were begging to be killed. kiara and cleo were rather calm when it came to the whole group situation. and as for pope, he tends to reek of anxiety, forced by his friend's lack of care.
here is a link to the website i use! you don’t have to tweak anything but the two color wheels given. i just chose the color i would like to begin with, and end with; enter both in. after, choosing the colors, above you will see a box where you will enter the text that you want! from here, you will hit the “Run”. now, left with a long set of code in the very bottom box, you will copy ALL of it. moving over to the tumblr website, you should open up a draft. for the gradient text to be done properly, you have to change the setting directly in the draft, meaning i have only had success with my laptop. sheerly because the same setting options aren’t offered on the phone, i don’t know about any other devices.
in the editing section, look in the top right corner, where you will see a toggle button. click on it. appearing, will be a ton of extra setting. scroll down to “Text Editor”, click off of “Rich text” to “HTML”. after doing that exit out the setting. now, you will be met with a option of a “HTML” or “Preview” screen. chose “HTML”. this is where you will paste the previously copied code. after doing so, you will click on the preview screen to make sure that it is to your liking!
i apologize for the word vomit that has occurred. i rather say too much than too little! if there is any confusion, let me know, and i can go more in depth.
𝜗𝜚 she is definitely a milf and s3 rafe’s baby mama (not a tiger mom LMAOO)
𝜗𝜚 a bit like kitty!reader (from @princessbrunette) but more mature and less weird? like she is always ready with a quick comeback to anyone who wants to test her and she always does it with a sarcastic smile too (rafe is the primary victim)!! doesn’t use her claws unless some bitch does it first
𝜗𝜚 golden arm bangles and especially low rise anything, maybe tank tops and occasionally wears belly necklaces
𝜗𝜚 the sole person keeping their little family together to be honest, she’s carrying them on her back
𝜗𝜚 very independent and absolutely does not fear rafe which both pissed him off sometimes and amused him when they first started dating
𝜗𝜚 best believe she is there to humble him when needed ૮꒰ ˶• ༝ •˶꒱ა ♡
𝜗𝜚 managed to get the big, bad rafe cameron wrapped around her finger and you bet she walks him like a dog too !!
𝜗𝜚 lowkey constantly overworks herself with the baby and the house without realizing so rafe has to stop her cause he hates it, “Hey— hey. Let me do it, y’know I don’t like you doing this shit alone. I’m here for a reason, woman. Use me.” eek <33
𝜗𝜚 very laidback but also a no bullshit type of person
𝜗𝜚 hasn’t been wifed up yet so everytime rafe even brings up the idea of a second baby, she’s always like “still waiting for a big fat ring..” to which Rafe responds “I— I’m working on it, alright? Don’t you worry your pretty little head about it. I’m gonna propose soon, just wanna make it perfect.”
𝜗𝜚 every time rafe goes on one of his stupid rants where his words start stumbling over something minor she did, tiger!reader is just like “Rafe, bye.” rolling her eyes and putting up a hand to his face
𝜗𝜚 her purse collection is either tiny little hand purses (apparently they’re called baguette bags) or like those big leather mom purses with a ton of pockets— no in between!!
𝜗𝜚 if it’s boxer!babydaddy!rafe, he makes the money while she manages the finances
𝜗𝜚 constantly gives rafe weird looks when he’s listening to his dumb rap music with questionable lyrics, just looking him up and down like “what are you doing..”
𝜗𝜚 knows tiny little things to calm rafe down when he gets overwhelmed— for example, putting his hand into the back pocket of her jeans when rafe starts to get impatient after she dragged him along to grocery shop, letting him use her butt like a stress ball cause that’s the only way he’ll shut up
𝜗𝜚 fine with sitting on rafe's lap and looking pretty as long as he doesn't spout some shit
𝜗𝜚 rafe and tiger!reader constantly tease each other throughout the day that either causes rafe to chuckle or smirk while shaking his head or to huff and puff. Either ends with a good ol’ dicking <33
partying with girlfriend!sarah implies that she will have to act like she is interested in the current frat guy nagging at her. not even remotely entertaining the possibility.
being openly out with the relationship would have easily given both, sarah and you, the advantage of not being as bothered by men at parties. not to say that none of them would be annoyingly interested in a threesome.
but in an attempt to respect sarah's wishes, you and she, have yet to reveal that y'all were more than platonic friends. blooming at another party, you and sarah slowly, but surely became officially a couple. dating.
though, not a single person had questioned the closeness of you two. due to the tight-knit proximity that was present years before the ever-altering relationship.
leaving the two of you to awkwardly laugh at the advances that frat douchebags would insistently make. arm wrapped around her waist, prancing off into the sunset. i mean their cockiness was overwhelmingly amusing. often conversations for months on end about their idiotic behavior.
"god! th-they're like dumb and dumber!"
yet, on the off chance that you would occasionally get slightly jealous. (usually at the guys that actually stood a chance, and didn't look fucking ugly carbon copies of each other). you would be approached by one of his buddies not soon after, distracting you from the guy hitting on your girl.
Feeling the mood in the air, quickly, thicken; sarah would aggressively push the guy off of her tanned shoulder. sliding her hand onto the small of your back, she would make a completely unbelievable excuse for leaving with haste. not giving a damn what the guys think at all.
"i totallyyy forgot we gotta'b home by 11:30"
"it-its only 9:15-"
only hearing a small portion of what the guy had to say, sarah and you would flee the scene giggling like no other.
synopsis: your boyfriend, pope, and you had been together for a while when he changes his mind about not going to college.
tw: fluff, implied sex, profanity (no use of y/n)
any type of interaction including likes, comments, and reblogs is appreciated! but ultimately not necessary. let me know if im missing any warnings!
“ok, baby! which one should i wear? this one or thissss one?” you questioned pope, holding two of your swimsuits in a display manner. one was a lilac-colored string bikini, the other being a cheeky, polka-dot one-piece.
you could never make a final decision for the life of you, only leaving it up to pope for his opinion. though, pope had known you long enough to know, whichever item you tend to show last was the option you had in mind. hell — most of the time you don’t even know that you prefer one option more than the others.
you wanted to wear the left one, pope concluded. no matter if it was clothing, makeup, nail color, or decor-related. not actually having input into the choices, he usually would just coax the answer out of you. it made it easier on him, besides he didn't give a fuck what you wore, because well... he would still find you beautiful dressed as the grinch. which you did a couple halloweens previously.
“uh… i don’t know — which one is more comfortable?” he asked, putting you on the spot, hoping to get an honest answer out of you.
clicking your tongue to the roof of your mouth in deep thought — lifting each and inspecting it. trying to remember if it was uncomfortable or not the last time you wore it.
“well i… mean. huh. why is this so hard?” you said truly debating both options. making your final answer, “i would probably go with the right one being more comfortable”
“probably… and i’m just sayin’ this as a thought…maybe it’s hard because you have too many swimsuits”
letting out an obnoxiously high-pitched scoff, you halted your attention from the bathing suit debacle to pope, who was leisurely laid back on your rope hammock swing that you had in your room. you never took kindly to anyone, including pope, criticizing your inability to get rid of things, especially your bathing suits.
“firstly, i don’t have too many swimsuits, and one could never have too many of them. secondly, even if i did — how could that possibly affect my ability to pick a swimsuit?”
awkwardly looking at you, pope reluctantly replied, “you can’t keep up with all of them, making you not even remember the last time you wore them… and the last time you chose the right one, you were complain’n the entire time”
ignoring his truthful statement altogether, you thought for a moment. he was right. the previous time, you ended up bitch’n the whole time about having to hold the straps of the one piece to avoid flashing innocent bystanders on the beach. which was the worst, considering the excitement that you experienced when in the water. flailing around without a care in the world.
a light switched when you came to this realization, noticing that you were rather harsh with your poor boyfriend, who did not deserve that in the slightest.
“oh my god! you are right!”, you said squealing, right into hugging pope’s sitting body.
taking his face into your hands, before hugging him again, “i’m so sorry baby! you know i didn’t mean that, right?”
staying firm in the hug, while he pulled himself out of the hammock, “yeah, yeah i know you didn’t mean it.”, pope said brushing your rudeness off. you and him rarely argued, and if you did, you were talking within the next half hour, easily.
looking up at him with doe eyes, and an innocent cast appearing on your profile. an all-knowing look that pope was very familiar with. one of the ways that pope and you were able to get over any kind of tiff was by admitting to being wrong and taking the proper steps to apologize.
for example, this one time pope got all panicked at the future and started freaking the fuck out. which led him to harboring that he was in the wrong and mishandled the situation at hand. before slipping his hand into you. well... two fingers but either way! pope was giving in that way, regularly lending a helping hand to you when in need. it wasn't an obligation as much as a want. you and pope were alike in that way. always willing to put others first.
"c-can i make it up to you?"
sooner than later making it to the intended place of hanging out, the local beach on the outer banks. looking into the surrounding area in your eyesight, the beach was practically empty. a lot of spring-breakers had vacated the week before. having access to almost a completely bare beach.
you helped pope set up on the beach, before laying horizontally on his vertically propped-up body.
pressing a kiss on the crown of your head, that was in his lap. when he did the leaning down motion, you pushed the pineapple in your hand, to his lips. silently urging him to take a bite. to which he did.
immediately snickering when it ran down his face, halting laughter when it dripped onto yours. lucky that the acidic fruit juices didn't collect in your eyes. either way, pope was quick to wipe it off your face.
oftentimes, pope and you were silent when hanging out. you wouldn't per say it was a con, because it was due to being around each other every second, when not at work. though, when pope's dad, heyward, was short-staffed, you would offer a lending hand. taking a couple shifts, with pope. even, visiting each other at work.
along with packing an array of fruits to snack on, you also brought a weed. one of the conversations you had meant to bring up was the future.
pope was wicked smart, at least, school-wise. his choice of friends was questionable. and as much as you love your shared friends— they tend to be dumbasses. pulling pope down to their level. to which, a couple foul decisions led pope to not attend college— as he previously intended.
one late night, he admitted that he felt like "all the work he put in was sliding down the drain". which riddled you with resentment towards your friends. not that you cared what pope did. only that he was happy— which he wasn't at all for a passing time.
"pope? can i ask you something?"
"yeah— what's up?"
"d-do you have any idea what you want?"
"what i want?", pope asked, not understanding the question at hand.
"want for the future?"
looking at you bewildered, pope had no idea where the loaded question came from.
"uh — besides being with you, i have no clue.", a tinge of sadness rolled off his tongue.
grinning at his, rather, romantic proclamation, "o-ok, well, um i was expecting a little bit more of an answer, b-but that works for me"
"i-i'm worried... like really worried", he admitted.
coming off your high, out of your own fantasy land— that was induced by his heartfelt statement, "why?!"
still supporting his weight with one arm, he took the other and rubbed his face, "why shouldn't i be? i-i mean i was going to go to college, b-but now I'm just working at my dad's restaurant"
pope tended to self-destruct when his fears kicked in, sending him into overdrive. sitting up, looking at him directly in the face, "h-hey don't say that! one, you know that your dad would not keep you unless you were working your ass off! you're like the smartest person i know, out of anyone in outer banks, or hell, anywhere! a-and we'll figure it out."
set on helping understand that he and you would be good, you pulled a small baggie out of your beach bag, "ok?"
"o-okay"
"now, let's get high. and forget about everything, ever."
although he wasn't completely sure, he knew that you would stay by him, meaning he would be completely fine. if the world ended that day, he wouldn't have cared as long as he had you. well, and he would prefer if he had the other pogues and his parents.
hello dear!! i saw your request and IMMEDIATELY got to work! part two has been posted:)) it is shorter because of the lack of time that i have had the past couple of days. butttt if i make a part 3 it will be them on the date! hope you enjoy <3
