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modern!valarr and modern!aerion x reader at manhattan party
i’m writing and fantasizing about this during my vacant in uni; modern valarr and aerion being rich spoiled heirs of a multibillion family business attending rich people parties at high rise establishments and they gain interest in one of the partygoers and wants to share them… yes yes, stay with me here.
The Manhattan skyline glittered below the penthouse like spilled diamonds. Valarr stood near the bar, a crystal glass of whiskey balanced perfectly in his perfect hands. His suit was impeccable, posture immaculate, but his eyes never left the small chaos in the corner—a pretty little woman slumped against the chaise lounge, clearly far too drunk to navigate the room on her own.
Aerion, sprawled across the velvet sofa, noticed her too. His smirk was sharp, indulgent, as though he had just spotted a new toy. “Look at her,” he murmured to his equally hungry and observant cousin, voice low but meant to carry. “She doesn’t even know how lost she is.”
Valarr’s lips quirked slightly. “Not for long,” he said smoothly, finishing his sip and making his way toward her. Every step measured, every movement deliberate. He crouched slightly, offering his hand with perfect manners. “Careful there,” he said, guiding her gently but firmly to sit upright on the sofa.
Aerion moved at the same moment, leaning in from the other side. His fingers brushed hers as if by accident, his presence warm and intrusive. “I’ll keep her entertained,” he murmured, eyes gleaming.
Valarr’s hand rested on her lower back, steadying her, claiming her in a way only he could… polite, controlled, but entirely his. Aerion’s arm curved around the back of the sofa, trapping her subtly between them. She giggled, swaying between the two, caught in their dangerous orbit, completely unaware of the silent agreement passing between them.
The cousins exchanged a glance, almost imperceptible. Valarr’s gaze was calculating, assessing limits. Aerion’s grin was reckless, daring, and indulgent. Neither needed words—they were in perfect sync, orchestrating the moment together. She leaned on Valarr for stability, laughed at Aerion’s teasing, and they both watched her with quiet, predatory amusement.
“Think you’ve had enough?” Valarr smiles sweetly, head tilting, Aerion beside him, gaze hungry and anticipatory.
By the time the song changed, it was obvious to anyone paying attention; they weren’t just keeping her safe. She was theirs to toy with, entertain, and guide. The party around them blurred into background noise; the world shrank to the small, intoxicated chaos of the young woman caught perfectly between two spoiled, entitled heirs.
i cannot write smut for the life of me but i do hope you guys get my vision here. i’m horny but my smut writing is too pathetically rustyy, i hope someone whose good at writing sees this and it falls into good hands, please… smut writer gods, heed my call (and tag me as well.) p.s its 100% a filthy kinky nasty disgusting threesome!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! yes yes yes. aerion is a huge spoiled brat, and valarr is a spoiled brat with manners.
harry castillo x curator!reader “a million dollar man”
masterlist | previous chapter
chapter 3 — spatial negotiation
You wore red.
Not crimson. Not something timid like maroon or softened like rust.
Red.
Clear, loud, undeniable.
The kind of red that felt like a warning. You chose it intentionally—the only form of armor that didn’t ask to be forgiven.
The dress was simple in shape, no glitter or tricks. Structured satin, sleeveless, falling just above your ankles. The neckline sharp enough to suggest elegance, the open back enough to suggest you knew what rooms you were walking into. Your hair was clean and off your shoulders, your makeup minimal but unforgiving.
You looked like someone who hadn’t needed to beg for her place at the table, even if you had, privately, many times before.
The Castillo estate wasn’t gaudy. It was discreetly opulent, the kind of wealth that didn’t bother proving itself anymore. The hallways were lit in soft amber tones. Art hung like language, every piece a sentence carefully placed, murmuring something about power, legacy, taste. The entrance hall opened into the main gallery dining room like a stage, all marble floors and hushed luxury.
You were offered a glass of Laurent-Perrier the second you stepped in.
There were ten people at the table. You recognized most of them by name, if not by face—curators, critics, one or two gallerists whose careers were rumored to have been fast-tracked by Harry himself. A silver-haired woman in couture who once chaired the MoMA expansion board. A young man whose sculpture review had caused an entire residency program to collapse. And him.
Harry Castillo stood at the head of the table, glass in hand, smiling in that impossibly even way that didn’t reach his eyes. The room moved around him, not toward him—but for him.
He wasn’t loud. He didn’t have to be. He welcomed each guest not with fanfare, but with small, intentional touches, a brief hand on the shoulder, a reference to a recent acquisition, a private joke with the man beside him about a badly timed Venice flood.
When his eyes landed on you, however, everything in him paused.
His glass lowered. His smile didn’t move.
You knew what red did in a room. But the way he looked at you was like he’d been expecting fire and still got burned.
“Glad you came,” he said, voice lower than necessary.
You didn’t let yourself smile. “I figured someone should represent the underfunded.”
He held your gaze, a flicker of amusement beneath something heavier. “And red’s a generous gesture.”
“It’s just a color,” you replied.
“No,” he said softly. “Not on you.”
You took the seat furthest from him. He clocked it. Didn’t say anything. Just poured your champagne himself before returning to the opposite end of the table.
Dinner was a performance.
The first course was a chilled saffron consommé with a single, floating quail egg—delicate, surreal, intentional. Followed by a halibut carpaccio laced with yuzu oil and pink peppercorn. Then came the real centerpiece: slow-cooked duck over black garlic polenta, garnished with edible petals and a foam you didn’t ask about. Wine was poured at precise intervals, white, then a bold burgundy that made your teeth ache.
The guests laughed, but not always out of humor. Some were performing, others genuinely enthralled.
You could tell who was used to this life by how little they flinched at the menu, or the curation of the guest list. Harry was magnetic in these spaces—not dominating, just quietly omniscient. He leaned in at the right times, called out a guest’s comment to draw chuckles from the others, recited a quote about post-war abstraction that had the older critic beside him nearly applauding.
Still, his eyes flicked to you more than once. Like you were a different kind of question he couldn’t quite fold into his script.
You weren’t passive either. You spoke when you had something to say. You matched their references, dodged a man’s attempt to box you in by mentioning your “youthful eye.” You countered it with a brutal but fair critique of the stagnant trends in commercial sculpture.
The woman across from you raised her glass. “She bites,” she said, smiling.
Harry watched. Not possessively—but with the quiet intensity of someone who wanted to know where your mind would turn next.
At dessert, the air grew denser. A plate of fig panna cotta with honeycomb shards, next to miniature spiced chocolate tarts. The wine turned golden. The table quieter. Someone asked if you’d seen Castillo’s newest acquisition, the oil painting in the west wing, the one “too dense to hang publicly.” You admitted you hadn’t.
“She has a thing for tension,” Harry said suddenly, not looking at you.
“She curates it,” another guest added.
He finally looked over. “She lives in it.”
That shut the room up for half a beat. You said nothing. Just lifted your glass, not in toast, but in subtle defiance.
Eventually, the table scattered. Cigarettes in the garden. A decanter of whiskey passed around the lounge. Some guests left with drawn-out farewells, others disappeared into side rooms, murmuring about funding and co-commissions.
You found yourself at the gallery wall near the exit, half on purpose, half because you needed air. The silence was cooler there. Marble beneath your heels. A soft whir of air conditioning overhead.
“You stayed longer than I thought,” came the voice behind you.
You turned. He was two feet away. No tie. Sleeves still rolled. A little tired around the eyes.
“I thought about leaving early,” you said.
“I would’ve stopped you.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Is that another test?”
“No,” he said. “That’s honesty.”
A beat passed.
“Do you always study your guests this much?” you asked, eyes scanning the painting beside you. A large abstract piece, deep reds and bruised golds, edges almost violent in their layering.
“You ask too much questions,” he said.
You turned to face him fully then. Neither of you smiling.
“Why am I here, Harry?”
He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at you like he was weighing every way not to say what he wanted.
“Because I don’t believe in accidents,” he finally said. “And you’ve disrupted too many rooms for it to be coincidence.”
You swallowed. His closeness made the air harder to breathe.
He stepped closer—barely—but it felt like a question. Not a move.
“I’m hosting something more private next week,” he said, voice quieter now. “A smaller dinner. Fewer people. Just artists. Come.”
You didn’t answer. You let the tension sit between you, like a wire you weren’t ready to cut.
But you both knew.
You’d say yes.
Just as you turned your head to break the gaze between you, something low and warm stirred in the walls, music. Distant at first. A faint, nearly imperceptible hum that filtered through the quiet like a fog. The kind of melody that wasn’t planned but always finds a way to settle in at the end of nights like this. Something old. A jazz standard, maybe, a brushed snare drum, a dragging piano, and a voice full of velvet and regret.
Harry glanced toward the sound system hidden in the gallery’s recesses, then back to you. His expression was unreadable at first, somewhere between amusement and challenge.
“Careful,” you said, watching him. “That almost sounds like intention.”
He smiled faintly. “Not everything is.”
You felt your pulse shift in your throat. He stepped forward, not to crowd, but to be known. To be in your frame of reference again, entirely. He didn’t ask the next question with words. He offered his hand, slow and open, like a soft proposal.
You looked down at it. The invitation wasn’t romantic, not entirely. It felt… deliberate. Weighted. A dare in silk gloves.
“This is not the Met Gala,” you said, half under your breath, fingers brushing against his palm without committing yet. “And I don’t dance with men who donate anonymously.”
He tilted his head, a smirk flickering just under the edge of his mouth. “Then don’t call it a dance. Call it… spatial negotiation.”
You laughed once—soft and reluctant—and finally placed your hand in his.
His hand was warm, steady. You expected it to be colder. More practiced. But there was something about the way he held yours, not too tight, not too loose, something curious, unhurried.
He didn’t lead you toward the center of the room. Instead, he pulled you into the shallow spill of light near the painting you’d both been standing in front of, letting the thick brushstrokes and gold leaf witness whatever this was becoming.
The music folded around you like breath.
His other hand found the small of your back. Not possessive. Anchoring.
You hadn’t danced in years—not properly.
Not like this. Not in a room where someone like him was watching you like this. You’d always thought of dances as something ornate, frivolous, reserved for people with less urgency, with more time to spare. But now, pressed into the sound of something languid and slow, your heels steady on the stone floor, your pulse echoing in your ears louder than the saxophone, you realized something terrifying:
You liked being seen by him.
You weren’t sure you liked him, not yet. But being observed by Harry Castillo felt like being translated.
He didn’t say anything. He simply moved with you, intent, restrained, respectful in posture but charged in proximity. You could feel the faint pull in his fingers when the tempo dipped. The slow glide of your bodies in tandem, a low hum of friction where fabric met fabric. His gaze never wandered, never dipped to your mouth or your collarbone, which would have been obvious.
Lazy. Instead, he held your eyes the way a man might hold a match, close enough to feel its heat but not let it burn.
“You’re a good liar,” you murmured into the space between you.
That caught him off guard, faintly. “About what?”
“About not orchestrating this.”
He grinned, slow. “Again, I don’t believe in accidents.”
A silence fell between you, not uncomfortable, just pregnant with things neither of you were prepared to say.
You let yourself lean in, barely, enough to feel the breath on his throat. Not out of intimacy, but to gauge him. To test. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t react. Just matched your energy like a mirror.
Outside, you could hear the shuffling of staff, the murmur of doors opening for departing guests, the low thud of heels on stone. Inside, this gallery-turned-dancefloor remained suspended in some other hour.
Eventually, the song dipped toward its final bars. The notes began to stretch, the singer’s voice fraying at the ends like thread.
You didn’t pull away.
Neither did he.
It wasn’t a kiss. It wasn’t a promise.
It was the breath before it.
He released your hand slowly, letting it drop with a trace of finality. The music faded into silence. Your heart did not.
“I’ll send you the address,” he said, voice quiet and even.
“To what?” you tilt your head curiously. “Just some small dinner, whiskey neat.”
You nodded once. “I’ll think about it.”
He said nothing more.
You walked out of the gallery alone, your red dress a slow flash of heat against the cool night.
And when you reached the car, when your fingers finally touched the handle, you exhaled for the first time in twenty full minutes.
You were no longer ascending.
You were spiraling.
And for the first time… you weren’t trying to stop.
harry castillo x curator!reader “a million dollar man”
masterlist | previous chapter
chapter 2 — portrait of a climb
You were starting to consistently ascend.
Not with the noisy spectacle that came from nepotism or art-world lineage, not through magazine covers or cocktail party features, but with intention. With an obsessive kind of precision.
Your days started to move like a blade through silk: curated, sharp, unremarkably beautiful from the outside. Studio visits, endless email threads, clipped conversations with gallery directors, grant panels, coffee you never finished. Every hour accounted for.
You weren’t climbing to be admired. You were climbing because you couldn’t bear the thought of staying still. And yet, even as you moved higher, your name was still spoken in cautious italics, always bracketed, footnoted, as if you hadn’t quite arrived.
But people noticed.
Your first few projects didn’t make waves. But they made impressions, the kind that settled in people’s minds a little longer than expected. You weren’t chasing spectacle. You were chasing sincerity, coherence, something with weight.
You wanted people to linger, not because they were dazzled, but because something about the work made them pause.
The earliest exhibit you curated was tucked in the back room of a shared gallery space. It wasn’t officially yours, you were assisting, but the lead curator let you take the reins on one room, a modest lineup of mixed media pieces from young, unknown artists exploring domestic labor and migration. You arranged them in a tight, enclosed flow, intentionally claustrophobic.
A few visitors commented on how personal the space felt, like they’d walked into someone’s memory.
You took that as a quiet win.
Later came “Threshold,” your first small solo curation, staged in a small artist-run space with a leaky ceiling and one working spotlight. It featured mostly installation work, found objects, video loops, soft sculptures sewn from old uniforms.
You spent more time handling logistics than anything creative, transporting borrowed pedestals in your friend’s car, staying past midnight to label walls with hand-cut vinyl. But you loved it.
The mess, the hustle, the quiet joy of hearing someone ask, “Who put this together?” and watching the gallerist point to you.
You were drawn to work that wasn’t flashy. That sat with the viewer slowly. You were interested in transitions, border crossings, adolescence, grief, the spaces in-between. Not everyone noticed. Some write-ups forgot to mention your name.
Some gallery emails addressed you as an assistant when you weren’t.
But the artists noticed. They thanked you. And those words stayed with you longer than the rest.
Your current projects are still modest. One involves curating a rotating wall of student photography inside a campus café.
Another, a pop-up exhibit in a defunct bakery slated for demolition, focused on spatial memory and erasure. You’re planning a collaborative zine to accompany it, with short essays and handwritten notes from the artists.
It’s not glamorous. There’s no budget.
But it matters to you.
You keep a spreadsheet of possible venues and another of themes you might explore someday, absence, noise, textile memory, digital rituals. You’re not waiting for a big break. You’re building a body of work that, over time, might speak louder than you can now.
Because you know your taste is developing. Your voice is still sharpening. But it’s there.
And one day, it’ll be unmistakable.
And now the right people were beginning to murmur.
That woman.
That curator.
She has an eye for collapse.
You didn’t come from the kind of life where people taught you how to name colors like smoke or stone or ruin or love.
No name to call back to, no quiet stream of backup funds if things went wrong. No basement filled with archived artworks from relatives, no trust fund to float you between internships.
Just you.
Just your work.
And a series of jobs that paid barely enough to cover rent, let alone frame a piece.
Sometimes you felt like an outsider, but not in the romantic way people like to frame it.
It wasn’t charming. It was logistical. You had to weigh every opportunity against how much time it would cost you, how many meals you’d skip, how much you could fake your way through another room full of people who spoke about artists like they were stock portfolios.
You’ve smiled through conversations about collectors’ summer homes while your student loan interest piled quietly in the background.
There were nights you’d walk home from install shifts with the taste of metal in your mouth, not from hunger, but from the adrenaline of trying to appear composed in front of someone who could change everything for you if they felt like it.
And they usually didn’t. Because the truth is, people notice. They notice when your blazer isn’t designer, when your shoes are scuffed, when you don’t drop names because you don’t have any to drop. You learned how to stay in rooms without shrinking.
You learned how to talk just enough to be memorable, but not so much that they’d ask where you grew up or how many jobs you worked at once.
You weren’t reckless. You couldn’t afford to be. There was no net. One mistake, one mistimed reply, one badly handled event, one late rent check, and you’d have to start over.
Others could afford to fail upward.
You had to land every jump.
But you didn’t resent them, not entirely. You just envied the quiet cushion they didn’t even realize they walked on. The way they could speak without urgency. The way their careers were structured around choices, not survival.
Still, you kept going. Not because of some noble dream. But because quitting would feel like agreeing with everyone who silently decided you wouldn’t make it anyway.
And despite it all, you knew you had taste. You had instinct. You could feel something shift in a room when you laid a piece just right, when a viewer paused a second longer than they meant to.
You knew how to build meaning from absence.
You knew how to notice.
So you made yourself undeniable. You outread, outresearched, outlasted. You stayed late.
You made enemies. You earned your taste, didn’t inherit it.
Love? That was a deferred thing. A pleasure for later. Once you had made yourself unshakable. When your name could stand without leaning against someone else’s fame or donation.
So when the messages began, you didn’t flush or preen.
You bristled.
The first came with no sender, no timestamp, just a single card slipped into your department mailbox, thick, brutalist paper stock, faintly perfumed with something sharp and chemical.
Varnish, maybe. Or money. It read: “Saw your curation of Soriani’s triptych. You have an eye for collapse. That’s rare.”
No name. No request.
Just a statement. Clean and quiet, like a bullet. You stared at it for a full minute before folding it into your planner, between notes and press releases.
You told yourself to forget it.
But forgetting him wasn’t going to be simple.
The donation came a week later.
Unnamed, substantial.
Enough to secure the next six months of your exhibition. The exhibition you’d pitched on adrenaline and stubbornness and risked your professional credibility for. No press announcement revealed the donor, but you knew. It was the same unnerving sensation as walking into a room and knowing someone had just left.
That trace of attention. The chill of being seen without being touched.
Then you started seeing him.
Not often. Just enough to feel inevitable. The first time was during a symposium at The Nest—industrial repurposed architecture, lecture chairs with bad lumbar support, the kind of audience who measured intellect by who could quote Foucault faster.
You were mid-panel, articulating a case for object fragmentation as political rebellion. You felt yourself on fire, words moving fast but exact, and still—somewhere in your peripheral, your rhythm stalled.
There he was. The Harry Castillo.
Standing alone near the back.
Not leaning, not distracted. Hands folded. Not even pretending to take notes.
Just watching. As if he’d been waiting to see what you’d do.
You found him by the freight elevator after the event, just as you were about to call a car. He stood in front of a piece no one cared about, a melted-wax diptych installed too low on the wall, the kind of thing interns leave out of the tour path.
“You didn’t mention this one,” he said.
You paused. “It’s not on the itinerary.”
He didn’t look away from the piece. “Or maybe you thought it aligned too closely with your thesis.”
Your throat tightened. “Do you always do this?”
“What’s that?”
“Lurk. Watch women work.” you cross your arms like he’s some kind of hindrance, you wished it was just that.
He turned to you slowly, as if deciding whether to smile or not. “Only the ones who don’t realize they’re performing.”
You didn’t flinch. But your stomach did that thing it does, hollow and hot all at once.
He didn’t touch you. Didn’t follow. He just walked away like it hadn’t cost him anything to speak to you. And somehow, that restraint unnerved you more than if he’d made a move.
You threw yourself back into work. Answered emails faster. Canceled drinks. Switched your perfume to something clean and mineral.
You reigned yourself in, tried to cauterize the corners where he had somehow seeped in. But he remained like a watermark. A residue. You started to feel him before he entered the room, never early, never late, but always just as the tension in your shoulders lifted.
It wasn’t what people thought. You weren’t sleeping with him. He wasn’t flattering you. He barely spoke. But he was always near. Watching. Not with desire, but with an intent that made you feel exposed anyway.
You started catching yourself searching for him. At gallery events, at academic mixers, even at auction previews you knew he wouldn’t attend. You started dressing differently, sharper tailoring, deeper necklines, darker lipstick. Not for him. You told yourself that. But something in you wanted to command the gaze he refused to offer fully.
He finally approached you again at a temporary installation in a decommissioned train station. You were adjusting lighting angles on a mirrored kinetic sculpture, pacing with a tablet in hand. You sensed him before you saw him.
“You move like you’re always ready to vanish,” he said softly behind you.
You turned, slowly. “Maybe I am.”
He studied you, his eyes quiet and brutal. “That’s what makes you dangerous. You know how to disappear. That’s rare.”
Your throat was dry. “You’re not supposed to be here.”
“I go where the interesting things are,” he said.
You could have stepped back. You could have ended it.
But instead you asked, “What do you find interesting, exactly?”
His gaze dropped—quick, unreadable. Then:
“The way your voice flattens when you lie. The way your hands pause mid-gesture when you’re second-guessing yourself. The way you never look away from confrontation. You catalog everything. And yet, you hate being seen.”
The worst part wasn’t what he said. It was the unbearable stillness between his words. Like he was daring you to flinch.
You didn’t.
Later that night, back home in your apartment, you sat fully dressed on the edge of your bed, too tense to move, your phone heavy in your hand. You should’ve deleted his number, if you’d ever had it. You should’ve blocked whatever ghost he used to reach you. But you didn’t.
You’re still humming, almost buzzing. That’s the best word for it—buzzing—from the top of your scalp down to the soles of your feet. The silk blouse you peeled off still smells faintly of champagne and someone’s too-expensive cologne. You fold it carefully, like you always do, even when your brain feels like it’s made of gauze and light.
The bathroom mirror catches your eye. Your lipstick is half-worn, but your eyes—God, your eyes look alive. Electric. You lean in. Were they always this bright after a night like that?
You take your time with your skincare, fingers pressing into your cheekbones, jaw, neck. That lingering ache behind your ears from too much smiling, too many “Of course, I’d love to connect,” still pulses. The panel was a blur—names, deals, dry laughter layered over dry martinis. You held your own. More than held your own. You thrived.
You talked about art like it was blood. Like it was religion. And they listened.
The bed is cool when you sink into it. You tuck your legs beneath the sheets and exhale, but the tension doesn’t leave your body—it coils somewhere under your ribs. Something between pride and a faint, aching hunger. You should sleep, but your mind replays snippets of conversation, the way a hedge fund darling said your eye for surrealist Latin American work was “audacious,” the way someone slipped you their number with the weight of a promise.
You smell the night on your skin. You feel the weight of the room still pressing against you, like it hasn’t let go yet. Neither have you.
You’re becoming someone. And it thrills you more than you’ll admit.
Ultimately you just sat there.
Your inbox pinged once, then twice. A briefing reminder. A logistics file.
Then, another message. Short. Unsigned.
A private dinner. Saturday. Castillo Estate. Confidential list.
You will be seated beside the host. Dress code: interpret “red.”
You stared at it until your eyes blurred.
You didn’t respond. But you knew your silence was its own answer. And you knew, deep in your spine, between your legs, somewhere shameful, you were going.
Not for power.
Not for permission.
For something you couldn’t name yet.
Maybe when the party happens, there will be a glass of wine you wouldn’t drink, and a room full of people who’d wonder why the only woman Harry Castillo looked at like that… was you.
next chapter
notes…
just rewatched triple frontier for the 1000th time
please comment down below if you wish to be tagged in future chapters!
harry castillo x curator!reader “a million dollar man”
masterlist | previous chapter
chapter 1 — grief and desire
You told yourself it didn’t matter.
It didn’t.
It shouldn’t.
Right?
It was one encounter.
Merely even a flicker, maybe at least for a man like him. A glimmer of interest, like the trace of some strong perfume left in a room long after the person who wore it was gone.
The Harry Castillo had looked at you, really looked at you—and you’d felt a thrill so acute it frightened you. Electricity trickled down your spine so deliciously you wanted to feel it again, that pleasant shiver, that delicious itch you so badly want to scratch immediately.
You didn’t blush easily, but your neck had obviously grown warmer, and mind you, the gallery was so cold you second guessed on wearing something less thin. You’d left the gallery with a strange buzzing beneath your skin, like your nerves had been tuned to a new frequency, and now every sound under felt louder. Every movement, yours or anyone else’s felt exposed.
The name, Harry Castillo, nestled itself in your thoughts with the casual weight of something inevitable, something that evaded your mind even while you did the most mundane things, biting your lips, him. Checking for texts and emails, him. Drinking your usual cup of tea, him. Visiting book stores, him.
You didn’t Google him that night.
Not because you didn’t want to, but because you knew what you’d already find.
You’d heard of him in corners of conversations you weren’t meant to be part of. Among esteemed professors who lowered their voices when his name came up during random conversations. Among every types of artists who spoke of him like some kind of fable: a man with a Midas touch, and a taste for the unruly.
A mogul, others always said. A patron. A very generous man. A collector of minds before things.
“Harry Castillo doesn’t buy art,” someone once murmured during a roundtable talk your second year in grad school, you contemplated about it for a moment, twirling and playing with your pen. “He consumes it. Entirely. Devours it whole. And somehow makes you think he’s doing you a favor by doing so.”
You hadn’t understood it much then.
You do now.
His card had stayed in your purse for days. Each time you reached for something, your lip balm, your pen, your books and notebooks, your wallet, it brushed your fingers like some kind of dare, like being offered the pearly gates while also being offered a once-in-a-lifetime deal with the devil.
Thick.
Sleek.
Matte black with embossed gold type. No number. Just a name, and the Atelier’s insignia—abstract, sharp, private.
Once in a lifetime.
You tried not to fixate.
You tried to drown yourself in your work. You were knee-deep in preparations for a tightly curated group exhibition. Your first with partial autonomy, you were already incredibly happy with that, honestly. It was a critical step for someone still building her name in a field ruled by the already known.
It mattered.
This wasn’t just about mere aesthetics of environment or colour, or mediums of arts. It was networking. It was visibility. Being seen and heard. It was just how careers were truly made in the world you are about to step to: whispers in rooms you weren’t invited into, grants given over drinks at rooftop bars, opportunities passed between the hands of men who never looked at your resume, just your potential.
Of course, you were not naïve about it.
You dressed a little more sharper, more red lipstick, it was daring, you figured it didn’t matched your skin tone first, but you’ve gotten used to it. You spoke with more measured control, did some confident pauses here and there, as if you’re dragging every syllable in a perfect, disciplined way.
You offered opinions only when you knew you could defend them, you’re becoming braver, yes, not stupid enough to blabber too much about something you haven’t dive much into yet.
You made yourself smaller and sharper all at once, so you’d take up just enough space to be noticed, but never enough to be a threat, yet, of course, you start competing, not too much to the point where you were digging your own inevitable grave, not too soon. Not yet, not now.
So when an email appeared in your inbox one morning, a short, pristine message marked CONFIDENTIAL… you reread it at least five times.
Subject:
In Conversation: Castillo Atelier + Carnegie Project
From: Assistant to Mr. Castillo
Mr. Castillo would be pleased to host an informal studio tour for select emerging curators.
Your presence was specifically requested. Should your schedule permit, kindly RSVP.
Location details to follow upon confirmation.
You stared at it, stunned. Lips trembling, hands doing the same as well. The words “specifically requested” sent a ripple of heat down your spine, both thrilling and unsettling.
It couldn’t be real.
You even checked the sender’s address for signs of phishing. You triple-checked the logo.
Your fingers hovered above your keyboard. Every rational cell in your body told you not to read into it. It was probably a blanket invite. Someone on his team looking to make nice with the newer generation of tastemakers. Or maybe he was collecting names like he collected canvases… indiscriminately, temporarily, just to see what they looked like in his light and see if he’d like it enough to keep it for a while.
But still. He’d looked at you.
And now… he’d called you closer.
So, you said yes.
It rained the night you arrived.
The car sent to pick you up was black, unbranded, with deep-tinted windows and a silent driver who never once turned his head toward you. It felt like entering another world, one where time slowed and your pulse counted louder than the music, soft jazz filtering from hidden speakers.
The townhouse was located in a discreet pocket of SoHo. Nothing marked it from the street, but the architecture was deliberate. Concrete wrapped in soft shadows, sharp lines softened by the golden glow of interior lights, the hush of money that doesn’t need to announce itself.
You stood under the awning for a beat too long before ringing the bell.
A woman answered the door. Tall. Polished. Unfazed. She greeted you with a neutral elegance and took your coat as though it weighed nothing. Her French accent was smooth, her cheekbones godlike. She handed you a drink in cut crystal, pear liqueur, subtly chilled, and gestured to a gallery lounge deeper inside the space.
You followed her steps like a dream.
She didn’t say his name, and neither did you.
The lounge was… well, transcendent. Quiet in the way sacred spaces are quiet.
Large canvases lined the walls, pieces you didn’t recognize from any public collection—angular, erotic, dangerous in tone and texture. A Calder mobile hung above you, its motion subtle but constant, like breath. The whole room smelled faintly of oil paint, ozone, and something else you couldn’t name. Something warm.
You wandered. You took slow steps, one at a time. You sipped the drink but barely tasted it. Your heart beat in your mouth.
And then… “I didn’t think you’d come.”
His velvety voice broke the silence behind you, dragging down your spine like silk catching on bare naked skin.
You turned before you could prepare yourself.
He was leaning against the doorway, half in shadow, wearing a black shirt with sleeves rolled just enough to bare his forearms, solid, tan, a thin chain catching the dim light against his collarbone.
He was older up close.
Better that way.
Lived-in.
Real.
The kind of man whose presence takes up space long before he speaks.
“I wasn’t sure I would,” you replied, coolly. Or you hoped it was cool. You couldn’t tell if your voice was shaking or just soft. You stepped a little bit closer to appear more confident than you’re supposedly feeling inside, you feel hot and heavy and your spine feels tingly but you continued, still.
“You said yes,” he said.
You nodded. “It was a professional opportunity.”
“Of course,” he murmured, crossing his arms and shifting slightly in his place, fixing his posture for a little, a flicker of amusement in his tone.
“That’s why I invited you.”
You should’ve moved. Should’ve kept the upper hand by walking more into the room, gesturing to the work, launching into critique. But your feet stayed planted. And he stepped inside.
His gaze didn’t roam. It rested. Steady. A heat held in restraint.
“I watched you at the last opening,” he said quietly. “The way you looked at that Tetsuya Ishida piece. You stood there like you were trying not to feel it.”
You blinked, looking away momentarily to try and remain . “Well, I was doing my job.” you said, as if stating the obvious.
“No,” Harry said. “You were trying not to respond. It was written all over your face.”
That stirred something low in you. Unfair, that he could read you like that.
“I’m not here to be read,” you said, softly, shrugging softly as your gaze explored the expanse of the room. “I’m here to read the art.”
Harry stepped a little closer.
Still not touching.
Never touching.
“Then read this,” he said, gesturing to the massive oil piece to your right, unframed, thick with texture, and aching with movement. “Tell me what you see.”
You turned to the painting, hiding the fact that you’re lightly biting your lip to ground yourself. grasping for words, for detachment. But the scent of him was already curling at the edges of your mind. Cedar, leather, something warm and faintly spiced, like bourbon soaked into wood.
The gallery room was quiet, soaked in the hush of dim lights and polished marble, with only one painting commanding the space.
Carnal Repose by Luisa Ferretti, a large, feverish thing of oil and silk and skin. But Harry Castillo wasn’t looking at the painting. He was looking at you.
And even as you began to speak, articulating color theory, emotional narrative, the dialogue between brushstroke and body, you could feel his gaze on you.
Not devouring.
Not invasive.
But attentive in a way you weren’t used to.
Like you were the artwork.
And he wanted to know what it felt like to be inside your skin.
You could feel his eyes, sharp and deliberate, more precise than the tailored lines of his charcoal suit. He stood across from you, relaxed in the way only men who owned too much could be, hands in his pockets, lips curved in the barest hint of something unreadable.
You kept your posture straight, voice steady, clipboard clutched like a shield against the way your body betrayed you.
“It’s one of Ferretti’s final works,” you explained, gesturing toward the canvas without meeting his gaze. “Painted during her time in Florence. The brushwork is chaotic, but deliberate. A visual tension, some say it reflects grief. Others say desire.”
He stepped closer, the sound of his shoes soft on the floor, eyes dragging slowly over the painting before finding you again. “Grief and desire,” he said, his voice low, too smooth. “Funny how easily they get mistaken for each other.”
You didn’t let yourself react. “The drapery clings to the subject’s spine. See there?” you pointed, as if distraction might cool the heat rising in your throat. “It’s a study in restraint. The figure’s tense, like she’s trying not to move. Or trying not to give in.”
“So she’s holding back,” he murmured, now only a foot away from you.
You nodded once. “Trying to.”
His eyes flicked to your mouth. “And failing.”
You swallowed, breath caught behind your ribs. His tone wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. It slipped under your skin, nestled there. You kept your gaze forward, not on him.
Not yet.
“It’s compelling because of the control,” you said, voice cooler than you felt. “Because of what’s withheld. That’s what makes the piece intimate—not what’s exposed.”
Harry smiled slightly, tilting his head, like he was measuring you. “That’s exactly what couture is. Power in precision. Knowing what to show… and what to keep hidden.”
He moved closer…so close you could feel the heat from his body across the small space that separated you. Still not touching. But the air felt different now, charged and tight. His voice dipped even lower. “Do you think she liked it?” he asked. “Being seen this way. Tense, composed, but still exposed. Do you think she wanted to be interpreted like this?”
You exhaled carefully. Your voice stayed even. “She knew exactly what she was doing.”
“So do you,” he said.
You turned toward him, your chin lifting slightly, expression unreadable but eyes sharp. You didn’t need to say anything. The tension in your stance spoke for itself. Turning back to the painting, you added, quieter now, “Ferretti believed beauty came from restraint. Not surrender.”
There was a pause. Then Harry’s voice, rich and slow: “Some of us would disagree.”
You stepped away, your heels the only sound in the room. You didn’t look back. You didn’t need to. His eyes were still on you, and the moment hung there, stretched thin and glistening like wet paint.
Whatever this was, it wasn’t over.
It’s only starting.
next chapter
notes…
i apologize for the delay on the first chapter, something came up but here is the first chapter! consistent updates will be provided soon!
please comment down below if you wish to be tagged in future updates <3
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harry castillo x curator!reader “a million dollar man”
masterlist
introduction — something real
You weren’t supposed to be there.
Not really.
You had been invited, yes—but not by name, not through clout, not through any recognition of your own work apparently. It had been passed along through a colleague you barely even talk to, a senior curator with too many busy events and not enough evenings to spare, who’d sighed and muttered, “Go in my place if you want. It’s just another collectors’ circle jerk.”
And she said it like she wasn’t handing you a rare key to the highest gates of New York’s elite art underworld.
It was an invitation by mere convenience, not design. But still—an invitation.
You told yourself it didn’t matter how you got in, only that you were there. Because this was your year. You could feel it clawing toward you from the dark. You were done being the assistant. The temp. The second voice in the panel, the fourth name in the press release.
You were curating your first major exhibition in the spring—“Myths of the Body”, a sharp, interdisciplinary show on femininity, intimacy, and resistance in contemporary art. It was small, yes, and it didn’t have institutional backing, but at least it was yours. And you needed funders. Partners. Names to put on the poster.
Names that sat in rooms like this one.
So, ultimately, you went. Nervous but polished.
In your sleekest black wool coat, your grandmother’s gold earrings, a minimalist wine red dress that hugged your form without apologizing for it.
Your hair was still damp from the rain when you stepped into the building, you forgot to bring a damn umbrella, too optimistic that the weather may be on your side, obviously it wasn’t; your heels took you in front of the building—a narrow, windowless space in Tribeca, hidden behind an industrial facade like a secret someone rich wanted to keep.
No signage.
No red carpet.
Just a clean black door and a buzzer you had to press like a gamble.
Inside, it was warm and dim, the kind of curated hush that comes not from silence, but from money. From restraint. From discipline. From the knowledge that no one here needed to prove anything.
You stepped into the space like it might bite you.
The gallery was breathtaking in its simplicity—concrete floors that had been polished until they glowed, massive floating canvases, large-scale kinetic sculptures suspended mid-air as if the very laws of gravity were negotiable.
Everything smelled of soft wood, citrus perfume, and candle wax. The crowd was older, dressed in neutrals and subtle silk.
Minimalist jewelry.
Intentional eye contact.
The elite.
You were the youngest person in the room by at least what… decade?
You lingered near a brass tray of drinks, accepted a glass of something expensive and white, and reminded yourself: You belong here. Even if your heart felt like it was trying to crawl out of your chest. Even if the hem of your coat was still damp from the damned rain.
You weren’t famous, yet. You didn’t have patrons. But you were hungry for more. And maybe that counted for something.
You moved slowly, letting your gaze travel from piece to piece, noting curatorial choices, labeling fonts, lighting angles.
You weren’t networking yet—you were strategizing. Watching. Picking out who looked like money, who looked like taste, and who looked like both.
You had just stepped toward a large abstract installation—glass and steel layered like vertebrae—when your attention snagged on someone standing alone, you barely even looked, but the presence felt so heavy you scratched the itch to look.
He didn’t look at you.
Not at first.
He was standing with his back to you, hands behind him, spine straight but relaxed. He was older.
Not old, but seasoned, his presence rooted and gravitational, like someone who knew how to bend a room around himself without saying a single word. He wore a dark coat over a navy turtleneck, tailored charcoal trousers, and heavy black shoes.
Understated, expensive, unbothered.
You didn’t recognize him.
You studied the line of his profile. The almost delicious salt at his temples. The rough edges of stubble and mustache softening a very handsome face.
He tilted his head slightly at the sculpture in front of him, as if he were listening to it speak.
“You don’t like it,” you said, before you could stop yourself.
He turned.
It was the kind of turn that felt deliberate. Like he was offering you something. And when his eyes found yours, you forgot your name for a second.
His gaze was dark, amused. Sharp. He looked at you the way some men looked at paintings they couldn’t quite understand—but desperately wanted to.
“I never said that,” he replied.
His voice was deep. Smooth. A little raspy, but warm—like fire catching slow in the distance.
“You didn’t have to.” You lifted your glass toward the piece. “Its as if your entire body was disappointed.”
That made him laugh—low, rich, unforced. It settled in your stomach, hot and unwelcome, and just— fuck…
“You’re an artist?”
“No,” you said. “A… curator.”
He looked you over, not in a way that made you feel small, but in a way that made you feel seen. As if he were picking apart layers—ambition, edge, nervousness beneath the eyeliner.
“Curating where?”
“The Carnegie Project.” You tried to keep your voice even. “I’m guest-curating a spring show.”
“Ah,” he said softly. “The idealists.”
Your mouth tilted. “And you’re not one?”
“Perhaps something else entirely.”
You didn’t know what that meant. But you were intrigued, in spite of yourself.
He stepped closer, just enough to disrupt the safe little bubble you’d created. Close enough for you to catch his scent—smoke, something leathery and green.
Deliberate.
Expensive.
He looked down at your glass. “Nervous?”
You blinked. “Why would I be?”
He smiled. It was lazy. Knowing. “Because you’re new here. You’re watching everyone else watch you. And you haven’t decided whether you’re supposed to shrink yourself or expand.”
You looked away, the truth of it searing.
“You’re observant.”
“I’m invested,” he said simply.
“In what?”
“In art,” he said. “And people who are trying to make something of it.”
You glanced back up. “And you? What do you make?”
“Trouble,” he said with a glint in his eye. Then: “And opportunity.”
He slipped his hand into his coat pocket and pulled out a black business card—no phone number, no email. Just a name embossed in gold:
Harry Castillo
Castillo Atelier
The moment you read the name, your brain clicked.
Oh.
You didn’t show it. Not yet. But heat began to rise in your chest.
You’d heard of him. Of course. You’d even studied some of his more controversial acquisitions, he was a collector, a curator, a CEO of something fluid and powerful and very well-funded. A man who could make or unmake reputations in the industry with a single acquisition.
People hated him for it. Others adored him. He had the kind of presence you’d think would merely be a myth.
And he’d just handed you his card.
“If you’re ever curious,” he said softly, voice like a velvet drawl. “Or if you get tired of theory and want to play with something real.”
Then—just like that—he turned and walked away.
No goodbye.
No follow-up.
Just vanished, like a man who never questioned whether he’d be remembered.
Of course he will be.
You looked down at the card in your hand.
Your glass was trembling slightly.
next chapter
notes…
and there’s that for the introduction of a million dollar man, i’m genuinely being serious when i say the last time i wrote a fanfic was back in 2022-2023ish so my writing mighhttttt be rusty, consistent chapters will be released soon, promise!
please comment down if you wished to be tagged and notified on future chapters <3
In a world where reputation is curated as delicately as a gallery wall, you are a rising name—sharp-eyed, eloquent, and hungry. Carving your place in the elite art world with nothing but taste, nerve, and tireless ambition. No trust fund. No family name. Just raw, rising power.
Enter Harry Castillo—reclusive multi-millionaire CEO of Castillo Atelier, known for his decadent touch in the global art scene and the kind of presence that disarms without ever raising his voice. Silvered, sensual, and always watching. He knows talent when he sees it… and he wants to taste it.
Desire simmers. Restraint cracks. And touch becomes inevitable.
chapters…
ao3 link
introduction
chapter one
chapter two
chapter three
notes…
i see pedro pascal in another movie role, i get hungry and not think of anything else; the trailer for materialists has got me sooo intrigued i’ve decided to try start writing again. it’s like getting back to my damned roots.
this fanfiction has consensual age gap, art world aesthetics, intellect is almost foreplay, reader has career anxiety, pedro pascal but its mr. darcy meets eros?!
obviously haven’t seen materialists so his characterization here is purely from my imagination!!!
please comment under if you wish to be tagged and notified on future chapters!
disclaimers…
18+ ONLY. MINORS DO NOT INTERACT.
this fanfic contains adult themes including power imbalance, explicit sexual content, age gap dynamics. reader discretion is advised.
summary: a runaway girl and a grieving man drive through the belly of a burning america—fucking, fleeing, forgetting. she’s his ghost in the passenger seat; he’s her ruin in the driver’s side. they don’t call it love. they just never stop driving.
notes: i’ve been painfully inactive in this account since 2022, and it seems i have rise from the dead because of the influx of dbf!joel miller fanfictions and i wanted to write my own rendition but with an ethel cain-esque twist. this was written in a whim and my writing may be rusty! english is not my first language. also not proofread!!!!!
disclaimer: this is au-ish, the outbreak never happened and loads of stuff has been changed for better immersion and i’m kinda lazy to research. reader is in their 20s.
warnings / contains: i don’t even know anymore, angst, strong and explicit language, allusion of sex/sexual themes.
♱
You leave like you’ve committed a crime, something unforgivable.
One night, your mama’s stirring soup and asking about job interviews. The next, there’s nothing but a note that says I had to go. Even that’s a lie—you didn’t leave because you had to. You left because staying was the loneliest thing you’d ever done. That house felt like a coffin with curtains. The town was all eyes and whispers and dust that never left your skin. Your dad works too hard overseas for a future you feel like you don’t wan’t anymore.
So you disappear.
Just a drawer emptied. A toothbrush gone. The fridge light blinks like it’s lonely when your mother opens it at midnight, calling your name into the kitchen like it might answer back. You leave your cap and gown on the back of the chair—pressed, still smelling like sweat and lilies. The perfume you wore is clinging to the collar. She keeps it hanging for weeks, like it might walk back in with your shoulders in it.
There’s a switchblade in your worn down boot, a prayer you never meant whispered to the ceiling fan. You take the money you’ve been hiding in a sock since sixteen, shove it into a cracked wallet with stickers from old bands you forgot you loved. One missed call. One unread message. You pack it all in silence, like a sinner making their bed for God.
You don’t have a plan.
You just drive until the mountains start to feel like teeth.
Oregon is quiet in a way you weren’t ready for.
A little wet. A little dead. A little his.
You find him out near Eugene, where the woods swell thick around the road like a throat about to close.
Joel Miller opens the door with a gun in his hand and a look in his eye like he’s been waiting for you in his sleep.
Now he opens the door and stares at you like a ghost.
Like you’re another funeral come early.
He’s older. Meaner. That permanent Texas squint like he’s staring into the sun, even when it’s raining. You remember his voice from that backyard once—soft Southern drawl, wrapped around a beer bottle. You were just a kid then, Sarah still alive and laughing over fireworks, your father and him laughing about something you’re too young to understand.
He hasn’t laughed since.
He doesn’t ask why you’re there. He doesn’t ask your age. He just lets you in.
You stay three nights. You never leave.
The first night, you sleep on his couch.
The second night, you sleep in his bed.
The third night, he fucks you like you’re both being punished in the kitchen table.
It’s not sweet.
It’s not tender.
It’s mouths torn open, fingers gripping hard enough to bruise, a need that’s closer to violence than love. You pull him in by the belt, spit on your palm when he isn’t fast enough, whisper please like a curse against his throat.
He groans when you ride him, low and strangled, like it’s the only thing keeping him human. Like he wants to ruin you just to keep you.
You sleep on his chest after, breathing like you’re afraid to wake up.
There’s a photograph of Sarah in the hallway. You see it once and never again.
The whole house is haunted.
Not by ghosts—by absence.
By the sound of silence where a little girl used to sing along to the radio.
You don’t ask.
He doesn’t offer.
But sometimes, when he touches you, it feels like he’s begging something dead to forgive him.
You both drive.
Through America’s rotten belly. Past strip clubs turned churches. Past boys in trucker hats that whistle when you walk into gas stations. Past women with bad eyes who stare too long and smell the sin on you.
The pickup rattles like bones. The cassette deck is broken and plays nothing but static when you try. You hum instead, let your voice fill the gaps. He never sings. Just grips the wheel like he’s keeping it from slipping into the past.
You fuck in parking lots and roadside motels with cracked mirrors and cigarette burns in the curtains.
You fuck in the backseat while it rains so hard you think the world might flood again.
He pulls your panties aside, lips wet and eyes half lidded and mutters your name like it hurts.
You kiss him until your jaw aches.
You call him sir once.
He nearly stops breathing. His eyes darken.
Sometimes, you wonder if Sarah would hate you.
Would she see what this is?
Would she see the way Joel holds your hips like a lifeline? The way he makes you beg?
The way he growls, That’s it, baby girl, open up for me, like it’s your goddamn name?
Would she know you’re not replacing her—just filling in the silence she left behind?
You think maybe Joel doesn’t even know the difference anymore.
He watches you sketch him with a dull pencil on the back of receipts. You don’t show him the ones where he looks too lonely. You keep those tucked in your book like pressed flowers, like evidence.
He rolls cigarettes he doesn’t smoke. Just feels them between his fingers like muscle memory, like pain he doesn’t want to forget. You light one just to feel something warm in your mouth. The paper burns crooked. You ash it on the map.
“You’ll outlive me at this rate,” you tell him, exhaling.
“Not likely,” he replies. You don’t laugh. Neither does he.
In Missouri, you wake up to him crying into your neck. Quiet, ashamed.
He thinks you’re asleep.
You’re not.
You close your eyes tighter and pretend.
You press your thighs together and ache.
He never says he loves you.
But he touches you like worship. Like desecration.
His hands on your thighs are scripture. His mouth between your legs is a benediction. You bite your fist when he fucks you slow, like he’s unraveling a hymn. You dig your nails into his back and mark him up like territory.
“You’re not gonna leave me, are you?” you ask once, during a thunderstorm.
He doesn’t answer. Just takes your hand and puts it over his chest.
This is yours now, it says. Don’t break it worse than it already is.
You sleep in cheap motels where the neon signs flicker like bad thoughts. He pays in cash. You always take the bed closest to the window, even though you never sleep well.
You press your head to his chest in the middle of the night and whisper, “Do you think my mom thinks I’m dead?”
His breath stutters. “Maybe,” he says, quiet like an apology. “Do you?”
You don’t answer. You just close your eyes and listen to his heartbeat.
Slow. Wrecked. Steady like regret.
You don’t talk about the future. The present is too loud. Too wet. Too feral. Too hot with things you can’t name without blasphemy.
In Alabama, you fuck like you’re punishing each other. Like the world did something wrong and you’re gonna fix it with blood and spit and bruised hips.
You cry after. He watches you in the dark and doesn’t touch you.
Just breathes like he’s drowning again.
In Arizona, you pierce your ear with a safety pin in the rearview mirror. “This is my penance,” you say, more to yourself than to him. He wraps the bleeding edge with a piece of his shirt and doesn’t say anything.
In Oklahoma, a cop pulls you over. You lie. Smile like sugar rotting your teeth. Say you’re his daughter. Say you’re headed to school. He nods, lets you go.
Joel doesn’t talk for hours. When he finally does, it’s just your name. Your real name. Like it tastes bad.
You let him fill you raw. You let him press his lips to your bruises. You let him call you baby girl like it’s the last good word he knows.
You drive through states like you’re shedding skin.
You take photos of each other you’ll never print.
You fuck with the windows down.
You sleep with a knife under your pillow and his arm around your waist.
It’s not safe. It’s not holy. But it’s yours.
He calls you beautiful in the mornings, rough and ragged.
Like a curse. Like a blessing he’s not allowed anymore. You call him Joel like it’s a psalm. Like if you say it enough, he might believe in it again.
He flinches when a teenage girl laughs too loud.
You see it—the way he shuts down, turns away like smoke.
You don’t ask about Sarah. You asked about Tommy once and merely received a grunt.
But their name lives in the silence between every mile. They’re in the way he drives. In the songs he won’t play. In the way he sometimes looks at you and then turns his head too fast.
You think about dying more than you should.
Not in a sad way. Just in a curious one.
Would it hurt? Would it be quiet? Would he care?
You wonder if he thinks about it too.
Once, at a gas station in Georgia, he cups your face and says, “I’d bury the whole damn world if it meant keeping you safe.”
And you believe him.
God help you, you believe him.
You never talk about the future. You don’t dare.
You steal peaches from roadside stands.
You eat gas station pie on the hood of the truck. You kiss until your mouths taste like fire and forgiveness.
People stare at you sometimes—you, too young and wild-eyed, him, all gristle and grief and oil under the fingernails. Like you don’t belong together.
Maybe you don’t. Maybe that’s the point.
You don’t call it love. But it is.
Ugly, feral, holy.
Filling you raw with tears in your eyes and ‘I love you’ is on the edge of your bruised lips but you can’t. You really… just can’t.
summary: mickey has just been cloned for the seventeenth time, and he ultimately can't hide his dark, lustfilled eyes whenever he sees you, mickey 17 wants nothing more than to please you.
requested by: anonymous
wc: 1.5k +
notes: MDNI, FDNI, oral sex (r!receiving), ass play, fingering, praising, pathetic!mickey, whimpering reader, thigh kink, cum swallowing (r!swallowing).
You slowly fall back against your bed, bouncing upwards ever so slightly hitting back against it once more as you press your hands over your eyes, submerging you into darkness. The knot in your stomach tightens as your cock soaks your underwear in your sweet tasting pre-cum, aching for a touch, a release that has been forced upon you from a pleasureful experience. You lay there fantasising about your co-working Mickey Barnes, the well-known disposable employee at your workplace. Throughout the workplace, Mickey comes across as quite submissive and pathetic, but you enjoy that about him. You find it so fucking sexy, almost orgasmic. You can imagine him right now, his perfectly chiselled face buried between your legs as he laps up your perfectly tight hole. You slowly slide your hand down your body and into your underwear, getting yourself ready to touch yourself until you're interrupted by a knock at your door. You let out a low grunt under your breath as you slip your hand out of your underwear. You adjust yourself ever so slightly, and you head towards your apartment door, pulling it open and being shocked at who is waiting behind it, "M-Mickey, what are you doing here?" You mumble out in pure shock as you swallow down a large amount of spit that you almost choked on the moment you opened up the door. Mickey smiles nervously as he scratches the back of his neck, "Can I come inside?" He says in his usual nervous tone. You nod your head and step to the side, allowing him to come inside your small apartment that was gifted to you when you took on the job.
You are completely shocked out of your mind that Mickey was here after the pure, smut filled fantasy that you were just about to blow a load over. "What made you stop by?" You ask him in a soft tone, stepping closer and closer to him, shutting the gap that was between the two of you. Mickey's face reddens with a deep blush as you slowly trace your fingers along his shoulder and then up his neck and down his jawline, you watch his eyes soften and he lets out a quiet whimper from your touch. You smirk as you notice how easy he folds for you, "Such a good boy.." You lean closer and mumble in his ear, which causes his eyes to soften even more, and a very obvious bulge begins to appear in his trousers. "Seems like someone is happy to see me." You say in a sultry tone with a cheeky smirk on your face as your hands travel down his body, feeling him until your finally reach what you've been waiting for; his huge fucking bulge. You gently grip at his bulge, causing him to let out a quiet whimper. You lean closer to him again and whisper in his ear, "Mickey... wanna come back to my roo-" but before you can even finish your sentence, Mickey eagerly nods his head with a huge eager smile on his face as he stares at you with his longing eyes wanting nothing more than to give you the best orgasm you've ever head. You take his hand and lead him into your bedroom, and suddenly, you feel Mickey grip at you from behind, and you hear his breath suddenly hitch when he whispers in your ear "I-I want to focus on you... all on you." He mumbles out in a soft tone, and your eyes flutter back as you reach your hand round to gently caress him.
Mickey's hands grip at your oversized t-shirt, and in one swift motion, he pulls it over your head, and he leans down ever so slightly covering the back of your neck and along your shoulder in soft and gentle kisses as you feel his raging boner pressed against your plump ass. Mickey's hands wrap around your waist from behind, and he grips at the hem of your joggers slowly pulling them down. He moves with it, dropping down onto his knees. Mickey slowly flutters his eyes open, and he's face to face with your bare asscheeks. His breath shudders as he reaches up, gripping at your hips as he pushes his face forward, your plump cheeks opening up to allow Mickey's mouth to reach in, his mouth coming into contact with your exposed asshole. Your body jolts, and your eyes widen at the sudden warmth and wet feeling of Mickey's tongue against your hole, "M-Mickey!" You gasp out in pure pleasureful bliss just from the sudden feeling of his tongue slowly lapping up your hole, coating it in his spit giving him the leverage to slip his tongue past your tight muscle ring and into the warmth of your ivory walls as they clamp around his tongue, you laugh out a breathy moan as you feel Mickey smirk around your asscheeks as he flicks his tongue back and forth getting closer and closer to your g-spot. You bite down onto your lower lip to keep you quiet.
Mickey pulls away from your asshole, his tongue slipping out and away from your tight muscle ring, and he looks up at your slightly arched back as you wobble back and forth. He places a gentle kiss on your asscheek before standing back up, "lay down." He mumbles into your ear as you walk over to your bed where you lay down onto your back and you open up your legs to see Mickey pulling his shirt off as he climbs onto the bed, his face inbetween your thighs. Mickey side smiles at you which causes your stomach to flip upside down and become riddled with butterflies, "fuck, he's never looked hotter." You think to yourself as he places a kiss on either side of your thigh until you grip at his hair pulling him down towards your cock where he takes your cock fully inside his mouth causing you to gasp out in pure bliss, "f-fuck!" You mumble out as you slowly fall back entirely and your eyes flutter back. "M-Mhm," you whimper out as Mickey works his head up and down, making sure that his lips are suctioned around your raging hard-on, that is all because of him. Mickey continues to work away at your cock, taking every inch of your cock into his mouth without taking his eyes off of your face that is so obviously full of ecstasy. Mickey's fingers travel up the bed and into his already full mouth as he coats his two fingers in his spit. Once they're covered in his own spit, he brings them down to your already tongue-worked asshole. He gently pushes his fingers against your hole, and without a doubt, your body allowed his fingers into you, "M-MICKEY!" You sharply moan out as you feel his tongue swirl around the tip of your dick as well as his fingers curling up inside your asshole, perfectly hitting your sweet spot that you've been dreaming of having Mickey touch.
You let out a sharp whimper as his fingers directly curl against your sweet spot, and once he hit that once, he continued to hit it over and over again. Mickey milks your sweet spot, which creates a ripple effect as your cock leaks like a facet in his mouth and Mickey is loving every moment of this. You slowly begin to run through his hair, gripping in against it, gently tugging on it, which causes Mickey to throw his head back and show off his extremely sexy smirk. "I love it when you whimper." Mickey mumbles out in a breathy moan as he continues to finger fuck you except with his other free hand that was gripped against your thighs, Mickey now wraps it around your slick wet cock and he slowly begins to pump your cock. "Cum for me baby, p-please cum for me... I've never wanted anything more then to watch you explode a fat load all for me." He says in a clear sultry tone which completely sends you over the edge, "M-Mickey! F-FUCK!" You gasp out in pure orgasmic bliss as with one more swift motion of Mickey's wrist and curl of his fingers, you get sent completely over the edge. The tip of your cock pulsates and your entire cock twitches until you spill your load, completely shooting rockets of cum all over the place. Mickey sticks his tongue out as he pumps the load out of you, "Good boy!" He whispers to you as some of your cum hits his face and lands all over his tongue. Your eyes flutter back as you try to stay focused on him, but the pure blissful delight of the orgasm that Mickey has just given you has caused you to see stars. Mickey climbs up closer to you as you take deep breaths to try and cool down from what just happened. You turn over and look directly at him, and you can't help but smile. You don't even have to say a word to Mickey for him to just pull you against his body. "You're perfect." You mumble out underneath your breath, thinking about all the things you can do together in the near future, but until then, you lay there in his warm embrace listening to the sound of Mickey breathing and hearing his heart beat... for you.
Tags: Marc Spector x Reader x Steven Grant, afab!fem!reader, consensual voyeurism, unprotected piv (pls wrap it in real life omg), dirty talk, slight degradation, Steven watches Marc fuck you through a mirror idk what to tell you (w/c: 1K)
A/N: Back with the boys because I love them and I cannot help myself okay!!! And this is consensual, even though Steven doesn't exactly know it at the beginning, he just thinks he's being a perv. But in my fics, everyone is a perv alright! (this month I have been using these prompts from flightlessangelwings!)
Steven knows it’s wrong, God, it’s fucking wrong, but it’s like he can’t stop himself.
There’s something about the way Marc fucks you, the way you scrabble at the bedsheets when the shoves you into a lewd arch, his hand pressing into your back. The way you moan for it, heaving breaths into your lungs. It’s the way Marc talks to you through it, talking to you like you’re the filthy one, like you’re the one who’s desperate for it, even though Steven knows it’s both of you.
“God damn, baby,” Marc snarls, fucking into you hard enough that tears are starting to leak down your cheeks. “You’re fucking sucking me in, sweetheart. Feels good, huh? Getting fucked like you need?”
“Yes, fuck, yes,” you gasp through the moans he forces out of your mouth with every thrust. “It’s so fucking good, Marc, you’re so fucking deep.”
Steven should stop, right now. Go hide in the headspace, go to sleep and let you both have some privacy. Fuck, he's as naked as Marc is right now, he should feel exposed, have some god damn decency. But it’s like he’s stuck in place, staring in through the mirror as Marc rips you apart in ways he’s never dreamed to. It’s fucking addicting to watch the way your eyes roll back, the way your ass smacks back against Marc every time he shoves himself in, in, in. He reaches down to his bare cock and squeezes, unable to help it.
You’d only put this mirror up a week ago, and he hadn't even thought about the positioning of it. It’s placed on the wall right across from the foot of your bed, and fuck, he can see everything. He hadn’t noticed, hadn’t thought about this view when he had helped you set it straight, Marc coming into view in the reflection and smirking at Steven like he knew something he didn’t. Steven had brushed it off.
He shouldn’t have fucking brushed it off.
Because he’s sure, almost fucking positive, that Marc had somehow known. He’d known that Steven would watch, just like this, how Marc takes care of their girl. How he destroys you in ways that Steven can’t even think up on his own. It’s a special kind of torture, seeing you like this and not feeling it, not feeling you.
Marc’s thrusts are brutal, violent like the man himself. He treats you with so much care normally, Steven has seen it, but this isn’t gentle in the least. And you love it, crying out and drooling onto your sheets as Marc rips you to pieces, pulling you back onto his cock with thick fingers digging hard into your hips. He’s not sure how long he’s been watching intently, unable to tear his gaze away, when he sees Marc’s head snap up.
Looking right fucking at him.
Steven should go, disappear from the consciousness entirely, but it’s like he’s glued to the spot, his gaze locked with Marc’s. Marc’s thrusts don’t stutter, don’t stop, and you’re blissfully unaware as Marc watches Steven watch you.
Until Marc grins like the bastard he is, and leans down to mutter, just loud enough for Steven to hear, “Guess who’s here, gorgeous?”
“Wh-what?” you gasp through Marc’s unrelenting thrusts.
“He’s watching, baby,” Marc smiles, glancing up at Steven. “Just like you wanted.”
You wanted- you wanted? Steven’s breath catches in his throat, he’s pretty sure his heart stops fucking beating.
“Steven,” you moan like it’s been punched out of you. “Steven’s here.”
“He’s watchin’ in that mirror you put up, sweetheart,” Marc says, “Watching me fuck you.” Steven is flushed beet-red, he knows it, but still, he watches. “Look at him, baby,” Marc growls, “Fucking look at him.”
Marc reaches up and curls a fist into your hair, tugging your head up to look straight into the mirror, straight at Steven. And God, you’re beautiful, tears falling down your face, your lips plump from the way you’ve been biting at them. You can’t see him, Steven knows that, but you look anyway, like you really can.
“She wanted this,” Marc snarls, and you clench your eyes shut, like you want to hide from Steven’s gaze. “She put that mirror up, hoping you’d watch like this. Wanted me to watch you both too, Steven.” You whine, and Marc’s thrusts seem to get even harder. “Our baby’s a little slut, just wants someone to watch her get fucked, isn’t that right, honey?”
“Your-” you gasp, staring into the mirror, like you’re talking to Steven, too. “Your slut, fuck, just yours.”
Marc fucking growls, his hips driving his cock into you. Steven can hear the way your pussy squishes around him, so wet you’re dripping down onto the sheets beneath you. Your body is covered in sweat, glinting in the light, practically glowing.
“Gonna let him fuck you after this, baby?” Marc grits, “Fucking whore for this cock, can’t get enough.” You slur a stream of yesyesyesyes as Marc reaches beneath you to start rubbing furiously at your clit, and you tremble beneath him.
“C’mon, gorgeous, cum for me.” Marc glances up at Steven. “Cum for both of us.”
Your eyes go wide, your mouth gaping open around a silent scream as you gush down Marc’s cock, body shaking as Marc fucks you through it, letting out a strangled groan of his own. Steven is hard as a fucking rock, straining against his stomach, begging for your touch. He watches as Marc thrusts deep and stills, his eyelids fluttering as he pumps you full of his cum.
You slump into the sheets, and Marc slides out of you, leaning down to kiss down your spine, muttering little praises of “such a good girl,” and “took it so well, looked so pretty,” into your skin. You roll onto your back, tugging Marc down to press a gentle kiss to his lips. Marc smiles against your mouth, and Steven feels that familiar pull to the front.
He shuts his eyes, and when he blinks them open again, you’re smiling up at him, reaching up to brush a reverent hand across his jaw.
“Enjoyed the show?” you whisper, and Steven can’t help the way he grins, the way his heart flutters.
“More than you know, darling,” he mutters, and leans to lick into your mouth. “Got to give Marc a show now, yeah?”
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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Tags: Steven Grant x Reader x Marc Spector x Jake Lockley, yeah that's right they're all here baby, afab!fem!reader, oral and fingering (f!recieving), unprotected piv (wrap it irl I am begging you), edging, crying during sex, orgasm denial (w/c: 1.3K)
A/N: Yeah that's right the boys are back in town, and by that I mean all three moonboys. They're all little shits and I adore them (For Kinktober, I've been using this list from flightlessangelwings!)
You think that you’re finally wearing Steven down.
He’s been at this for hours now, you think, burying himself between your thighs and losing himself like he never wants to leave. He’s fucking incessant when he gets you like this, licking at your cunt until his eyes have glazed over and he’s grinding slowly into the bedsheets. He moans when you tug at his hair, the vibrations from it going up your spine.
“Fuck, Steven, I need-” you moan, your chest heaving with the way Steven sucks your clit into his mouth, licking at you in a way that has your eyes rolling to the back of your head. Your hips hump into his face, chasing the sensation. “I can’t, fuck, I’m gonna- think I’m gonna-”
He pulls his face away just like that, watching as you shout, your hips grinding into nothing but air as your pleasure and your orgasm dissipate. He holds your thighs apart and just looks at the way you tremble, his eyes wide and a blush high on his face.
“That’s it, darling, so fucking gorgeous,” he mutters, and you grind your teeth together. This is the third time, the third fucking time, he’s done that. Gotten you so close, your body locking up and threatening to fall off that precipice, before he pulls himself away, leaving you with nothing.
It’s fucking maddening, and Steven just watches, squeezing at his thick cock as it aches between his legs.
“Please, Steven,” you whine, high pitched and needy. “Need you to let me cum, fuck, please let me cum.” You sound so pitiful, so desperate, that Steven’s eyes soften at your begging.
“Oh, I know, love,” he murmurs, sliding a thick finger up the seam of your cunt. “Need it so bad, yeah? It’s okay, darling, I’ll let you cum,”
You nearly sob with relief when he leans back down and sucks your clit into his mouth, sinking two fingers into your entrance. He’s relentless, playing with your clit with his tongue, nudging the tips of his fingers into a little spot inside of you that makes you want to cry. Your orgasm surges back up inside you without warning, and you can’t fucking breathe.
You brace yourself for him to do it again, to pull away when you start babbling, “Gonna cum, fuck, please let me cum,” between heaving moans. But Steven doesn’t let up, doesn’t slow down, and you start to smile with the fact that he’s actually going to let you have it this time without pulling away.
Except, he does pull away.
You cry out as Steven’s head shoots up from between your legs again, but you can only watch as his eyes roll to the back of his head, his jaw clenched.
Marc looks up at you from his place between your thighs, a cocky little smirk playing at his lips.
“Oh baby,” he says, and his voice is gruff, dark, so unlike Steven’s. “You didn’t think it’d be that easy, did you?” You gasp for air as Marc sinks a third finger into you, and he grins.
“So pretty when you’re almost fucking there, sweetheart,” Marc murmurs, and he leans close to brush his lips against yours in a whisper of a kiss. “Whining, pleading for us to just let you cum. Steven was going to let it happen, put an end to your misery, but me?” He fucks his hand into you so hard that you choke on a moan. “I like seeing you squirm.”
And the process starts over again.
Marc fucks you on his fingers without a hint of remorse, driving into your g-spot in violent, debilitating thrusts that have you reeling.
You get so close so many fucking times, over and over and over again, your body drawn tight with the overwhelming need to cum. You beg, plead, gripping the bedsheets so hard that you fear you might tear them. But Marc. Doesn’t. Stop.
Every time he feels it, that tell-tale tightening of your body, hears the way you start to go quiet as you focus on finally falling over that precipice, he pulls his hand out of you without any finesse, any mercy.
Around the third time he does it, you really do start to cry, sobbing for Marc to finally let you cum, that you need it so bad it hurts.
“Can’t- it’s too much, Marc, please, please let me, need it so ba-ad,” you hiccup through your moans, tears bubbling up in your eyes and spilling down your cheeks.
Marc leans down and kisses them away, cooing at you as he grinds the calloused tips of his fingers into the most sensitive parts of your cunt.
“Okay, sweet girl, I’ve got you, come on,” he murmurs, his thumb coming up to press against your clit, grinding little circles into it and sending you fucking flying. “Don’t cry, baby, I’ll take care of you.”
“Thank you, thank you, thank-” you’re in the middle of thanking him, practically tasting your orgasm on your desperate tongue, when Marc’s eyes roll back, and his hand rips away from your cunt.
“No,” you whine, choking on your tears as your body quakes beneath his, “no, no, please.” You’re practically hysterical, desperate for it after so fucking long, after Steven and Marc have shredded you apart.
“Princesa,” Jake grins down above you, unmistakable with his dark gaze and a smile that is purely fucking primal, feral. “If you think you’re going to cum on anything but my cock, you’re wrong.”
And you can only gasp at Jake notches the thick, leaking head of his cock against your gaping entrance, and shoves himself in to the hilt.
You scream, your back bending into an obscene arch as he fills you up so perfectly.
“Jake, Jake,” you sob through labored breaths, “I can’t, it’s been, I don’t know how long it’s been, please, please. I need to cum, fuck, ‘m begging.”
“Oh, my beautiful girl,” Jake croons, “Of course you can.”
Of course you can. Like you’ve had permission all along, like it was that easy. Like you haven’t been broken apart by each of them, over and over again, reduced to a sobbing, shaking mess beneath their body.
He’s only one, two thrusts in, but you’re coming anyway, screaming with it as tears flow down your cheeks. Your entire body locks up with it, your cunt squeezing tight around Jake’s cock in rhythmic pulses that have him clutching painfully at your hips. Sweet, sweet relief fills your body, like water in a desert, the sun after a hurricane. It’s fucking bliss, incomparable, absolutely debilitating.
“Mierda, that’s fucking beautiful, fuck,” Jake growls, and he presses into your body so deep you think you can feel it in your stomach, and pumps you full of his cum. “Good girl,” you hear him mutter, “Good fucking girl,” before darkness grows into the edges of your vision and quickly swallowing it whole, leaving you to fall into pitch black oblivion.
When you finally come back to yourself, you feel warm, safe. It’s no surprise to you, since you usually feel that way in this flat, in this bed.
“I didn’t fucking kill her, Steven,” you hear Jake growl. “She’s breathing just fine. And don’t act innocent, you and I both know that you worked her just as hard as Marc and I did.”
“And you all better pamper me,” you croak, still refusing to open your eyes, “As soon as I take a nap.”
“Hermosa,” you hear Jake breathe, and you feel his lips press to your forehead. You crack open your eyes to meet Jake’s gaze, his eyes wide and more worried than he usually lets on. “Are you alright? You- you passed out.” he asks, and you giggle.
“Never been better,” you murmur. “But any of you try that shit again, it’s no sex for a fucking year.”
Jake grins in that roguish way that makes your heart flutter. "As if you could resist any of us for that long, mi vida."
Summary: A short piece about obsession, blood and love. What more do you need?
To be the bride of a Blackwood, you got to have something wrong with you.
To be willingly married to a man so crazy, so devoted and obsessed.
It was madness.
But anytime someone asked you for your reasons, man or woman, you always said the same thing.
"Imagine that devotion and craze when he loves. When he truly loves. He gives. And he gives much. You say he is insane. But I see a man willing to do anything for me. I see a man on his knees just to be in the same room as me. You say he will murder me and bleed me out, but the truth is he would never touch me anyway I do not want him to. You ask me how can I love someone so mad, and to that I say, he loves me. His love is deep, it's loyal and fierce. I know he would burn entire villages, and turn against any House or man just to have me. You say it is insanity, I say it is exactly what I want."
But the comments never stopped.
No matter what you have done. People didn't see him as a Lord, people saw him as a crazy child.
Any lady you have ever met always asks the same stupid question.
"How can you be happy about having him as your husband?" the faces the ladies make never helped your anger.
"You say he is crazy and yet you hide in your homes whenever he is near. You say he could never love, but he does, he loves me and he has me, fully. He has my heart, my mind and my body. In reality, it is you who are jealous of me. I have a husband who kills for me, without any hesitation. You truly never felt lust until you saw him behead another man simply because of the way he looked at me. And then, as the man's blood is still dripping from his lips, he kisses me."
To be the bride of a Blackwood, you got to have something wrong with you.
a witch’s touch | benjicot blackwood x witch! fem reader
: What would your lords think now when they hear rumours of what their fearsome lord Blackwood did to the captured witch?
: They won’t be hearing rumours of me when I will be making the entire fucking Raventree hearing it by their own ears.
a/n : in this story he will be lord of Raventree Hall, therefore I will be calling him Benjicot here. (characters are of age)
rating : explicit. mdni !!
words count : 3k.
warnings : smut. oral sex (f receiving). p in v sex. religious beliefs/witches seen as evil. slight use of seduction magic. fancast benjicot. also not really proofread.
“My lord, we’ve been informed of a crossing from Bracken land to ours,” a knight rode hurriedly to the training yard, where his lordship usually was. Benjicot spent most of his time here with his fellow lord Tully, but today seemed to be only just himself. “A strange woman dressed in a black cloak disguising herself. We’ve caught her now,” the knight continued as his lord’s attention shifted from the sword to himself.
“Is she a Bracken? I did not know their lords are fool enough to let their lady wander into the wrong place.” Benjicot raised an eyebrow at him. It was known that the Blackwood and Bracken were never at peace. Such things as going between the border as one pleased could cause fatal damage to either houses. While sons were warned not to cross them, daughters were locked within the walls of their home. Benjicot wondered if this woman they caught was some craven lord’s daughter. If so, he must be shitting himself as of now.
“We’re not sure, my lord. She would not speak,” the knight answered uncertainty. “Where is she now?” if the woman was actually a Bracken lady, she must be hosted well as her title – even in Blackwood land. When the knight told him that she was still held at the border. Benjicot ordered her brought to the Raventree Hall at once, and let the servants know to ready her chamber, also guarded.
When the realm was at war, nothing was worth the risk. Especially when both houses stood on opposite sides of war. House Blackwood had pledged their loyalty to queen Rhaenyra. While house Bracken pledged theirs to king Aegon. The usurper. Benjicot had called him.
While Benjicot went to change himself into more proper clothing, the lady was brought inside. But before he could go to the hall where she was held, an old lord approached him. “Forgive me my lord, I assumed you were going to meet that woman in the hall?” the old lord said carefully in a low tone, “Yes, I am. Has she spoken yet?” Benjicot asked him as they both walked together. “Not yet my lord, but I may know something of her,” this time Benjicot casted him a questioning look, waiting for the old man to continue his sentence. “This lady, they say she’s a witch my lord,”
Benjicot’s eyebrow frowned further at that, “A witch? and who are they exactly my lord?” he pressed, his old lord no longer held eye contact with him. Afraid of admitting his beliefs of rumours among the people of riverlands. “When she was caught, they found numerous kinds of plants and herbs inside her bags. She refused to let it be taken from her.”
“Herbs,” Benjicot almost scoffed, “You’re telling me that carrying herbals simply means one a witch, my lord?” The old lord said nothing as he lowered his head. Benjicot shook his head as he walked past the old man, marching through the hall where the lady was held. As the large wooden door opened, there she was. Stood in the middle of the large hall by herself, with one knight guarding behind her of course. Her cloak still hung over her shoulder, covering most of her face. Benjicot approached closer and tried to take a look at her face. Eventually the woman noticed his stare and lowered her cover.
When he finally saw her face, his jaw slightly agape. There stood the woman before him, though her face was covered in some dirt as of now. Benjicot could not deny her beauty beneath the dust. Is this the woman who was called a witch? But how could he know? Witches tended to be seductive and stayed pretty by their magic.
“Do you know who I am?” Benjicot began, carefully studying her face. The woman cleared her throat before answering. “That I know, your name is Benjicot Blackwood,” her voice came out so dry that Benjicot almost forgot the state of her now. He made a note for food and water to be fetched to her after the conversation was done – if she remained breathing. Her gaze low, not because of fear, but of uninterest. “A witch, my lord, we covered her eyes when she’s brought here!” the guard behind her spoke abruptly, so eager for his lord’s command to rid her off. Earning a questioning look from Benjicot. This was the second person who told him about the woman in front. Although he was raised as a religious man and well aware of darkness outside. He found the situation hard to believe as there was war going on. An encounter with a witch was the last thing that could happen in his opinion.
“I can see the bloody sigil on your cloak right now if you're wondering,” her head shot up, her gaze filled with annoyance. Then her eyes locked with the young lord, “My lord,” she spat. Benjicot almost stopped feeling bad for her dry sore throat. But to be honest, he was impressed. Though he did not try to hide that by the curve on the corner of his lips. His gaze flashed to the guard behind her, who was now lowering his head in embarrassment.
“Who are you?” Benjicot asked again, stepping back to sit on the large table. Her face was blank as she gave him no answer. “I’ve been told that you are a witch. Are you?” Benjicot pressed further for an explanation. “I am a woman, my lord. And I am no good to you,” her gaze found him. Benjicot suddenly rose from his spot. Straightening his posture, he approached the so-called witch and circled her carefully. “You expect me to believe that and let you go easily?” he was getting tired of her indirect answers. If she wasn’t a woman, he would have the guard threaten her with a blade for any answer he wished by now.
“I can tell you that I am not a Bracken nor any threats towards you and your men. And I am not a scheme or bait from your enemies in this war,” she spoke more clearly now. Her demeanour changed as she tried to reason with him, and hopefully to be set free sooner or late. “My men found you near the border between Blackwood and Bracken land, how do you explain yourself then?” Benjicot stopped before her, his stare pierced through hers as if it would burn if they kept it too long.
“I went into the woods to find some herbals as you know. The woods are infinite, I could not tell which land is whose and which is not,” she explained. Benjicot found her reasons make sense while he nodded. “I see. And where are you heading to with your herbs?” Benjicot stepped closer, studying her face once more. Ready for her truth or her lies as she would. “To my home, my lord. I am a healer. Times like this are tough, people fall ill and many are injured. The cause of this war,” her last sentence was quiet but not unheard by the lord of Raventree.
Benjicot paused and considered her response briefly. He quickly gazed down to her lips, it was still – not quivering. He believed her. “Very well then. I will let you go – but in the morrow. It’s getting late for you to travel alone,” Benjicot nodded at his guard as he turned to lead the lady to her chamber. But before he could leave to attend to other lordship matters, she quickly grabbed him by the shoulder. Her fingers made a light contact to the skin on his neck, and he faintly heard her voice whisper.
“Then I am grateful for your kindness, my lord.”
While Benjicot was tempted to meet the lady again after supper, he could not yet – due to important matters of war that caught up around him. But he made sure to remember to give her a visit when all was done. In the meantime he had the servants fetch her food and water as he noted, along with clean clothing for her to change into. By the time everything was done planning and discussing, it was already midnight. Benjicot dismissed his lords as the hours grew dark. The rest of the matters shall be continued by morrow. But before he went to do anything, he had one more encounter to get done.
As Benjicot strolled through the hall of Raventree towards the guest chambers where she was, his mind wondered. For some reason, he found the presence of her clouded his mind. Her face, her eyes, her voice. He had shared merely ten minutes with her but somehow she stuck in his mind. As if bewitched. The way she held herself as she spoke. Her spirit was hot and strong as wildfire, spreading all over his mind. Benjicot barely made it through the meeting without barging out to her right the second. She was very intriguing. Whenever he looked into her eyes he found himself being drawn closer, as if it was an invitation.
What have you done to me?
He would hold her face in his palms, searching as he got lost in her eyes.
Would she smirk at him and laugh devilishly? or would she play naive and look at him doe-eyed?
Either way he was doomed.
When approached her chamber, he simply nodded to the knight who guarded her door, signalling him to depart his position for the night. As the man bowed slightly and left, Benjicot knocked lightly on her door. “What do you need?” what do you need? she called, not who are you? Benjicot smiled to himself at her strong-willed nature he had just discovered. “It is me. May I come in, my lady?” Benjicot waited patiently for her permission before entering, which she eventually gave.
“How are you settling in?” Benjicot began as he closed the door behind himself. His eyes observed the surroundings of the room. He saw a dress she once wore on a desk nearby, along with other clean dresses he had fetched for her. “Fine, my lord. I am grateful for your hospitality. Even though your lords disagree with my presence,” she gave him a soft smile, which Benjicot returned one for her. He fazed out for a brief moment at her smile. For once since their encounter, she did not seem to be as relaxed as she was now. The woman who stood in the middle of the hall, who publicly called his man out for being stupid was now trolling jest with him.
“They also told me it was not good for letting you stay here overnight,” Benjicot said, earning a light hum from her. “But I couldn’t let you go after dark. Too much danger out there,” he added. And the smile of the woman before him only grew wider. “Trust me, my lord. There is no danger as fatal as a witch,” she sat down at the chair in front of the fireplace, offering the young lord a seat next to her as their conversation continued.
As he sat down, Benjicot could not help but let his eyes wander to her face. Since the dirt was washed off during her bath he assumed she just had, he only found her beauty even more. Her hair cleaned and no longer was covered beneath the cloak. She let it fall free, still damp for a little from the wash earlier. Then his gaze lowered to the dress she was wearing. A thin white nightwear they had in the cabinet. So thin that it barely gave her any warmth – or covered any part of her breasts. Especially the slight wetness of her hair that had soaked up upon her top. Benjicot silently cursed himself for intruding on such a thing. She noticed his eyes were no longer to her face, and could not help but tease the young lord furthermore by adjusting her position in her seat.
“Has nobody told you that it’s rude to stare, my lord?” she asked with a small curve on the corner of her lips. Benjicot only returned her smirk as he replied. “Forgive me, my lady. But I couldn’t help but wonder how they are calling you a witch, when you clearly possess the beauty of an angel?”
Unexpected. She had not hoped the young lord would give her such compliments. Of course, her touch and her spoken words had seduced him since. But she could feel how true and genuine his words were when his eyes were practically lost in hers. His feelings were true that it broke her spell. The spell she casted only to have him favour her. At a loss of words, she leaned closer to Benjicot. The position gave him a closer and clearer look at both of her face and her hardened nipples underneath the thin fabric. Benjicot felt his mouth dry at the sight.
“If a witch is what I am. Are you afraid of me, lord Benjicot?” hearing his name from her lips was like a challenge. He brought his hand to cup her jaw, bringing her closer to his face. “Why would I be? I faced battles fearlessly. They called me Bloody Ben for a reason. If a witch is what you are, then I am ready for sacrifices,” his lips brushed against hers, not giving in yet. “My name. My house. My worth. I will be yours wholly. My heart, my soul. You may use me as you wish and I’ll worship you with every breath I take.”
Then he kissed her finally, finishing his sentence. Her hands immediately went to pull him closer. The kiss was hot, burning and dangerously good. Their tongues danced as the burning kiss continued. Benjicot felt doomed when their lips touched.
This is it then. I’ve tasted poison and I am doomed for it. Unable to escape, unable to be forgiven.
“Have you bewitched me, hm?” Benjicot pulled her upon his lap as their kiss barely broke apart. She instantly grounded herself on it, earning a low groan from the lord beneath her. “If I did, would you curse me?” she panted out, his lips trailed down to her neck, leaving marks and wet from his lips.
“I would tell you it is no use to bewitch me with your spell when I am already madly with you,” his hands wandered on her back as her soft moans fell out of her soft lips, as sweet as honey for him to taste. “What would your lords think now when they hear rumours of what their fearsome lord Blackwood did to the captured witch?” her voice low as if a whisper. Benjicot let his hands slide up beneath her dress, which he eventually ripped apart, making her yelp in surprise. “I was hoping I could keep that one!” she laughed breathlessly, kissing Benjicot on the corner of his scarred lips. “I’ll give you all of it if you wish. And to answer your question–” Benjicot lifted her up suddenly, carrying her to the tidy-untouched bed before dropping her softly.
“They won’t be hearing rumours of me when I will be making the entire fucking Raventree hearing it by their own ears,” with that his lips crashed hers once again, with passion, with fire, with burning desires, with every bit of a man he was. If a witch she was, then he was ready to be damned. His kisses travelled down to her breasts, where he kissed and sucked on it with all affection, teasing her pretty buds until they perked up. To her stomach, where it fluttered with butterflies insides – and down, down, down until he reached her core. Benjicot planted soft kisses on her skin as he gently spread her legs apart. He looked up at her once before dipping his head into her core as eager as ever.
“Fuck— Benjicot! Please,” and when Benjicot Blackwood thought hearing his name being called out by her was pleasing. Hearing her cry out for his name was like he had gone to heaven and back – back here right between her folds as his tongue worked its way to please her – and gods, how eager was Benjicot to hear more of it.
He devoured her with all his might, licking and sucking it until his breathing became hot. And she thought she was going to run out of breath because of him.
Him. Him. Him.
All she could think of as the pleasure started to build up inside of her. While Benjicot noticed the breathing in her changed, he inserted his index finger inside of her, his tongue teased at her bud. And by how she reacted, he could tell it was a good idea. Her walls clenched around his finger, pulsing and throbbing only for him. Benjicot could not help but groan at the feeling as he could tell she was near her peak.
“Enjoy yourself are you, dear? I could feel it,” he shot his head up briefly to look at her face. Brows frowned, her eyes closed as her pretty voice called out for his name. Begging him to bring her to release, and he obliged just so.
When she came down from her high, she could not think nor say anything. Benjicot then pulled himself up to her face. She could see the glisten of her own wetness coating his lips and chin. The sight was lewd, but neither of them seemed to care as their lips touched. Benjicot pressed himself close to her while her hands started to unbutton his tunic off, leaving his muscled chest bare at her sight. She noticed the scars on his skin. All of it from battles and reminders of his victory as he still breathed above her.
She would save him, if any of it went wrong.
Benjicot took one of her hand and pressed it on the bulge of his breeches. His voice low, dangerous when he whispered in her ears. “Look what you’ve done to me. Could you feel it? My pain, my cock aching for you.” She moaned at the feeling. Benjicot was frustratingly hard above her, and that knowledge fed her with pride. “No, my lord, I could not feel it. You might have to show me then,” her voice matched his and herself matched his nature. Benjicot was sure that the lady beneath him would be the death of him.
Even if he did, only she could save him.
Not wasting any more time, Benjicot unlaced his breeches with help from her. He reached down and grabbed at his cock as he teased her entrance with his angry-red tip. She whined at the sensation, so eager for him as her legs spread wilder on its own, ready to be taken by him and only him. And both of their pleasured-moans matched when he finally entered her.
“Fuck—,” Benjicot groaned, feeling her tight wet cunt throbbing hard around his cock. He gave her a brief moment to adjust to his size. When she gave him a light nod, urging him to move, his pace started soft and slow then eventually hard and fast as he was growing impatient. His dark-lustful eyes watched her face, the way she frowned lightly and eyes almost closed but kept looking at him still. How her cry went high-pitch when he stroked her insides with his every move. With one hand holding her hip, he used the other to hold her face. He wanted to look at her, her witch beauty which possessed his mind.
Grabbing onto his broad shoulder, her nails dug into the skin of his back with overwhelming intensity, leaving trails of red marks down his back. Benjicot moaned at the feeling, pure euphoric rode along the burning pain. He found himself enjoying it more than he should have had. “You’ll be the death of me,” his praise came out as a dark growl in her ears. Rewarding him with the feeling of her sweet cunt clenched around him. “I would rather not be that, lord Benjicot,” she hummed, “They would curse me if so. The entire Riverland will put me at the stake and burn me to the ground— until I’m all but ashes,” her voice low and sweet, music to Benjicot’s ears, he savoured every moment of it.
“If they dare so, I would rise up from death to defend you. I will put all of them to the sword. Sentencing them to meet with the Strangers themselves,” Bloody Ben indeed he was, even death. He worshipped her heartily. He was known as a strong-headed man who bowed to no one. But for her, he was more than ready to give all of his for. Benjicot Blackwood was truly at her mercy.
“Please, Ben..”
His pace quickened as he felt his high approaching. Benjicot could feel hers too, by the way her perfect cunt tightened around him so gracefully and her sweet voice called out for his name. “I want you, Ben, please.” He let his finger reach down to her core and rubbed on the bundle of nerves to help her reach climax. Her eyes glossed in pleasure, her breathing hot and fast. Benjicot kissed her cheek, whispering sweet praises in her eyes as her moans grew louder and her orgasm near.
“That is, my darling girl, come for me— fuck! you feel so good. So perfect for me.”
With a sweet-pleasured cry of his name from her, she finally came. Her cunt wet and tight around his cock, milking him with all its might while he felt his own orgasm hit. Benjicot grunted out her name like prayers on his lips as he spilled himself inside of her. His seed coated her walls until it became too much and leaked down between them.
Benjicot slowly pulled his softened cock out of her and she whined at the loss of contact. Both wished they could stay like that forever. Carefully, Benjicot reached for her ripped nightgown to clean up the mess he left between her legs before throwing it on the floor when finished, and dropped himself beside her.
“Are you alright?” he asked with his arms wrapped around her as she moved closer, their skin covered with a thin layer of sweat as he mindlessly stroked his fingertips on her scalps. “More than ever,” she replied with a pleasing smile on her face before he kissed the crown of her head assuredly. “Happy that you are.” Benjicot felt her soft lips on his shoulder then, her kisses planted all over the scars on his chest and her fingertips gently stroked ones on his back that she could not reach.
“An overnight is no good idea indeed,” Benjicot started, earning a questioning look from the woman in his arms. “So I will let you stay longer than just one. How everlong as you wish,” he flashed her a smile, welcoming under the care of himself. “As I wish, lord Benjicot?” she teased him with a small tucked on the corner of her lips. “How about I then?” Benjicot kissed her, pulling her closer to the warmth of his hold. As they both laid there, comfortable silence surrounded, Benjicot eventually found himself drifting away with her breathing sang him to sleep. But before he was completely out, he could hear her faint voice whisper to him — of what he could not tell.
When morning came, Benjicot found himself alone in the bed. The spot next to him, where his lady once lay, now empty. As he reached for his breeches on the floor he noticed the skin of his own hand. Flawless with no scars as well as those ones on his chest and his back. Though, only fresh red marks which trailed down still remained — a reminder of their once shared intimacy.
Hi! Could I please request another threesome with Cregan, reader and Jace. Maybe they get jealous when they see reader with another men and want to teach her a lesson? Thank you and love your blog!
i get drunk on jealousy.
Modern!AU — After they've ignored you for a week, you were desperate to have their attention back. Flirting with a random guy might not be the best idea.
MASTERLIST
PAIRING — Cregan Stark x Fem!Reader x Jacaerys Velaryon.
TAGS — polyrelationship/polyamorous, m/m/f, smut (p in v, clit play, handjob, oral sex, creampie, spitting, cum eating, male on male action), jace x cregan, use of alcohol and drugs, kind of drunk sex, dom!cregan, switch!jace, sub!reader, jealousy, cursing. If something is missing let me know!!
AUTHOR'S NOTE — Don't expect so much of this fic, I saw this picture, I saw a vision, and basically my horniness wrote this by itself. Not my best work, but fuck it, this is just for fun. Also, this made me realize that I'm unable to write dom!Jace if Cregan is there too, oops??? I guess??? NO BETA, WE DIE LIKE MEN.
I took this request as an excuse to write this fic so... thank you for sending it and hope you enjoy this!🤍
WORD COUNT — 3.1k
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤ ㅤ ㅤenglish is not my first language.
Most people on Campus knew about your strange relationship with Cregan and Jacaerys. Some guys would often call you a whore behind your back, while some girls would prefer the term ‘lucky bitch’; it was no secret that the both of them were quite known for being handsome and gallant, almost acting like real life prince-charmings. Every girl would drool for them, acknowledging their chivalry and politeness. Of course, they already knew about the attention that they received from the opposite sex, they knew about how many girls would love to be in your position. Which is why they didn't understand why you were so eager to act like a brat.
Jace tapped Cregan's shoulder as he saw you chatting with some random guy that suddenly appeared next to you on the couch. Neither of them had seen him before, he was probably a freshman or someone that sneaked into the party without invitation. Both pairs of eyes were intently staring at you, watching every move you make. They knew you weren't oblivious enough to not see it; he was obviously flirting with you, and you were clearly enjoying every moment of it. Jacaerys, being the most jealous out of the three of you, tightened his grip around his bottle of beer, his fingertips turning white as Cregan turned to look at him.
“Don't do anything stupid,” he warned him. “She'll deal with us later.”
“But look at her!” Jace snapped, his breathing ragged.
“She's doing it to piss us off,” Cregan attempted to calm him down. “She won't do anything with that guy. Just wait until the party's over and we'll take care of it, okay?”
He looked at him, obediently nodding as he took a long sil out of his beer to calm down a bit. Jace forbade himself to turn your way, ignoring your desperate attempt to make them jealous. Cregan, being a lot less hotheaded than Jace, acted nonchalantly toward your attitude, pretending you were doing nothing wrong, even when he wanted to grab your arm and take you right in that couch just to clarify that you belong to them.
Cregan knew your purpose, you both had spoken about it earlier that day after one of your classes together. They both have been ignoring you, neglecting your needs and spending more time alone — without you. At first you didn't mind it, thinking that they were busy with the final exams and their final projects of the semester; however, when you knew they were using all that time to plan this stupid party you got pissed, almost screaming at him in the middle of the campus, frustrated. Now here you were, sitting with a freshman trying to get in your pants, all while they were still ignoring you.
Both guys spent the rest of the night drinking, playing some games with other members of the fraternity and having a blast while you were standing in a corner, alone and bored; your two lovers out of your sight. Perhaps that was why you couldn't see Jace searching for you everytime he could, unable to control the jealousy that had grown within him. He couldn't find you anywhere around, which made his mind overthink about where you were, and with whom. Cregan would try to calm him down, offering him his blunt which Jace would accept in order to relax.
Hours passed, it was 4am when the music stopped and everyone passed out in random parts of the fraternity house. Cregan and Jace were stumbling their way up to their dorm, the effects of the alcohol still lingering in their bodies as they struggled to reach for their room. They both were holding onto each other until they opened the door and saw you standing in front of the mirror, wiping off your make up and getting ready to sleep. They noticed you had moved their beds together, making a bigger one as you usually do whenever you stayed with them.
They entered the room in silence, and while Cregan was closing the door and turning the lock, Jace stood closer to you almost drooling once he saw you were wearing one of his shirts. He wrapped his arms around your waist and hid his face on the crock of your neck, leaving wet kisses all over your skin and completely forgetting about the fact that he was supposed to be ignoring you.
“You're so fucking weak, Jace,” Cregan scolded him, removing his shoes and shirt, getting ready to bed.
You turned to look at the eldest guy, who just ignored your intense gaze.
“You're mad?” you dared to ask.
“We both are, actually,” Jacaerys murmured against your skin.
“And why would you be mad? I should be the angry one!”
“Oh, really?” Cregan finally turned, stepping closer to you. “Why is that?”
“You know why! We talked about this and you decided to keep ignoring me!”
Stark laughed dryly, his gray eyes getting darker as he narrowed them. “Is that why you've been acting like a fucking whore tonight? Trying to get into a freshman's pants to get our attention. Fucking pathetic.” He took a step close enough to grab your jaw and force you to look at him. You tried to squirm away from him, but Jace's arms tightened their grip around your body, and you had no escape. “Jace couldn't even enjoy the fucking party because he thought you were sucking another guy's cock. You think that's fair? To make him feel like shit the entire night because you were just needy of attention?”
“I- I didn't-”
“You broke my heart tonight, sweetheart,” Jace whispered in your ear as his fingers reached the hem of your shirt. “You need to pay for what you've done…”
“I'm- I'm sorry, I never meant to-”
“It seems like you need a lesson,” Cregan interrupted you, tightening his grip on your face and making you whine. “Something to remind you that you belong to us.”
Jacaerys' hand cupping your core with one of his hands, burying his fingers between your folds and covering them with your growing slick. He giggled, “she's not wearing panties…” he informed, smiling up at Cregan who clenched his jaw.
“Get her on her knees,” he commanded, and the youngest obeyed immediately, letting you go from his firm grip.
You fell to your knees, scratching them with the raspy carpet beneath you. Jace removed his shirt as Cregan started to unbutton his pants until they pooled around his ankles along with his underwear. You whimpered once you saw his cock starting to get hard under your haze, your mouth watering as you leaned towards his side.
“Get on the bed,” he pointed at Jace. You tried to stand up and follow the instructions too, yet he stopped you by gripping the front of your head and pulling it back. “Not you,” he sternly said. “Open up.”
Obediently, you did as you were told, opening your mouth and letting him press his tip on your tongue. He gave it a few taps, teasing before ge finally decided to start fucking your mouth. Cregan grabbed the sides of your head to keep you still in your position, and his hips started to snap against your throat without further warning. You found stability when you placed your cold hands on his thighs, grasping onto them so you wouldn't lose balance as he had no mercy with you.
You looked up teary eyed, gagging and gulping loudly as you heard his moans slipping out of his plump lips. The small eye contact suddenly became too much for him, so he leaned his head back as he closed his eyes. “Such a delicious mouth,” he praised you, “taking my cock so fucking well.”
His grip around your head started to hurt a bit, his fingertips burying in you as he fastened his pace. It wasn't hard for you to become a mess; your own drool was falling down the corners of your lips as you cried out, your whines being muffled by him inside your mouth, and your slick already starting to leak out of you. Your arousal only grew once he buried himself completely in your mouth, grabbed the back of your head and forced you to stay there for a few seconds, with his length fully sheathed in your throat. Your nose brushed against his pelvis as the air started to escape from your lungs.
“Come on now, baby,” he murmured with a strained voice, feeling his cock pulsing inside your mouth. “Take it… take it all…”
He chuckled softly as you started to tap on his thigh, and he quickly let you go. You gasped once he pulled out of your mouth, gasping for the air your lungs desperately needed. He moaned softly once he saw you; tears on your face, drool falling down your swollen lips — you looked so pretty he even thought about letting you go unpunished and just please you, but then he turned to see Jace; his cock was achingly hard, his ruddy tip leaking as he desperately fucked his fist; he had been so good to you, and you made him feel so bad throughout the night; he deserved a reward, and you deserved a punishment.
Before you could react, Cregan grabbed your body with ease, lifting you up from the ground and carelessly carrying you towards the bed. You moaned with his touch, so needy of him that even his roughness made you squirm out of pleasure. He moved your body around as if you were a ragdoll, shifting your position in bed until you were sitting on top of Jace's pelvis, his cock right between your legs. For a second you thought it was finally the time for them to fuck you, but you were so wrong.
“Grab her hips,” he commanded, using that mandatory tone that drove you and Jace insane. “Don't let her move.”
He positioned himself between the boy's legs, leaving you more confused than before. “What- what are you-?”
“I'm teaching you a lesson,” he stopped you before you could finish your question. “You'll see what happens when you behave and when you don't.”
You saw him leaning down, his plump lips wrapping the tip of Jace's cock and making him squirm beneath your body. Your mouth dropped as you looked at Cregan taking him entirely, his haze fixed in you as the frustration in your body grew even more. The youngest had his nails buried in the flesh of your hips, you heard him moan so prettily that you could even feel the slick oozing out of you, even when you were untouched. It was such a sinful image to witness, especially when Cregan's eyes became teary once he gagged around Jace.
“Oh, fuck…” you mumbled, tears of despair gathering in your eyes as your breathing became ragged. “P-please touch me…”
Jace's hand attempted to reach for your throbbing clit, but the older grabbed his hand and pushed it away. “I'll stop if you touch her,” he warned him. All you could do was cry out.
Cregan's ragged breathing would reach your folds, causing shivers all over your spine. You would try to move your hips to at least rub yourself against Jace's skin, but he didn't allow it, holding you down so tightly that you were certain it would leave a bruise.
The moans turned into whines as Jace started to quickly feel the orgasm coming. His skin was burning as Cregan fervently sucked on his tip, using his tongue to clean up the precum spilling from his slit. Whenever you would cry out or move on top of him he would feel closer to the edge, his body burning inside. “I'm so fucking close, baby,” he whimpered, “keep sucking my cock, I'm- I'm gonna fucking cum… f-fuuck.”
You saw Cregan hollowing his cheeks, milking Jace dry as he came inside his mouth. Drops of the pearly seed escaped from his lips and you felt the need to lick them both clean. You needed a taste, anything that would make you feel some kind of relief.
He sat back up, and as soon as he laid his hazy eyes on you, he grabbed your neck pulling you closer towards him. As if it was a reflex, you opened your mouth while you stared at him through your glossy eyes. He let his spit fall onto your mouth, to then pull you close and fervently kiss you. The salty taste of Jace's release lingered in your mouths as you devoured each other, you would whine against his lips, still sobbing as your pussy was already aching for the lack of attention.
That's when the boy beneath you wrapped you between his arms, forcing you to lay on top of his chest. He didn't even let you catch a break before you felt his cock slowly making his way inside of you, and you gasped out of relief. He stretched you out, providing you with that sweet sting of pain that drove you insane. His hands grabbed your thighs, folding you in half as he started to thrust upwards.
“Don't ever forget who you belong to,” he grunted against your ear as you struggled to keep it quiet. Probably the whole house knew what you were doing, and maybe that was their purpose all along. “You're fucking ours, baby. This tight pussy belongs to us, do you hear me?”
Cregan's hand fell hard on your throbbing clit as you remained silent. A whine left your lips as Jace kept bullying your gummy, wet walls with his girth.
“Answer him,” he demanded, getting closer to you and placing his leaking cock on top of your swollen pearl. You felt the room spinning.
“Yes! Yes! I'm- fuck… I'm fucking yours,” you sobbed.
The whole situation became overwhelming, while one was burying himself in the deepest part of you, the other was rubbing himself on your sensitive flesh, searching for his own release as he wrapped his hand around your throat.
“Fuck, you're fucking squeezing me so tight, baby,” Jace moaned, breathlessly as he felt the mixture of your slick falling down his sack. The lewd sounds of your folds getting stretched by his thickness almost making him cum again. “So fuckin delicious…”
“We've just started and we already fucked her silly,” Cregan chuckled. “She's a fucking mess for us…”
A layer of sweat covered your body; you felt the blood burning inside your veins, the orgasm approaching you embarrassingly fast as they were stimulating your senses. Your eyes rolled back, the desperate pleads slipping out of your lips as you were begging them to make you cum. You were shaking, your face covered in tears as the moans were ripped out of your throat.
“So loud,” the older teased you, “gonna wake up the whole fucking house…”
“I- I need to… please, I need to cum!”
Cregan leaned towards you, and Jace instinctively fastened his pace, burying himself deeper and harder; you had a hard time thinking straight as the older’s hands tightened around your neck. “Ow, poor girl, wants to cum. I don't think you deserve it.”
“P-please, Cregan…”
“Work for it,” he demanded. “Make Jace cum and then you're free to do it too.”
Almost as if it was an instinct, you started to move your hips up and down Jace's cock, making the thrusts more intense and deeper. The younger moaned loudly, already feeling overstimulated by your movements and feeling his sack heavy with a new load of his release. He thought about how pretty you would look with your legs spreaded and his seed falling from your weeping hole; that image alone almost made him peak right in the spot.
“Jacey, please!” you whined, already growing tired. “Please, please, cum in me!”
“Want me to fill your pretty cunny, baby? Mhm? Want my cum inside of you?” he teased, and you rolled your eyes as your walls clenched with his filthy words.
“Yes… yes, please… give it to me, please…”
As a spectator, Cregan groaned loudly, quickly rubbing his hands around his shaft with his eyes fixed in the way Jace was filling you up, bewitched by that bulge in your belly that grew each time that he would bury himself deep inside of you, touching your sweet spot over and over until your head feel dizzy and all that left your mouth were incoherent mumbling.
“I can't… I can't hold it…” you sobbed.
“Come on, baby, I'm so fucking close, just wait for me,” Jace whimpered, his movements getting more desperate and sloppier.
“I can't! I can't! F-fuck…”
Everything came to a breaking point once your release gushed out of you, spurring all over them and making a complete mess. Neither of them could hold back after such an obscene view in front of them, and they were quick to follow. Jacaerys finally spilled himself in you, his seed painting your walls and filling you to the brim. Lastly, Cregan stained your shirt and flesh with his pearly drops, moaning so beautifully that it made you feel butterflies in your belly.
You hissed when Jace pulled out of you, feeling your legs shake while Cregan struggled to stand up from the bed and looking for something to clean you up while you laid against the younger’s body, who softly wiped the tears out of your face.
“Shh… it's okay, you did so good for us, my love,” he cooes, so gently. “So, so good.”
“I'm- I'm sorry,” you mumbled while Cregan returned to your side with a towel in his hand. With soft brushes he started to clean your thighs, your belly and the raw flesh between your legs. “I- I never meant to make you two feel bad… I was- I was being so selfish-”
“Hey,” Cregan stopped you, holding your face with gentleness; so different from his previous touch. “It's already behind us, okay?”
Once he finished cleaning you up, your body fell into Jace's embrace as he wrapped his arms around your body, pulling you closer to him and cuddling with you. He hid his face on the crook of your neck and softly hummed when the remains of your sweet perfume reached his nose.
“We love you so much,” he whispered, “please, don't ever do that to us again…”
You grabbed your face only to see his puppy, brown eyes. A gentle, soft kiss was shared as you felt Cregan laying down behind you and fondling your body, soon you three had your limbs tangled as you kissed and caressed each other without shame. Loving touches that relaxed all of you.
“I'm sorry,” you whispered again to the both of them. “I'll never do that again.”
“Do you promise?” Cregan asked.
“I promise,” you softly nodded.
The Northern boy leaned to leave a soft kiss on your cheek, you both shared a gentle smile which let you know that the anger that was once within him was now fully gone.
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Description: You have been Prince Aemond's secret for years now, but a certain visiting Stark opens your eyes to what could be.
Inspired by the line “think I’m gonna call it off, even if you call it love, I just wanna love someone who calls me baby.” From Good Luck, Babe by Chappell Roan
This was ridiculous, you are a Lady of a fine house, virtuous, beautiful, intelligent, kind and your embroidery skills have been praised by Queen Alicent herself and yet here you sit waiting for Prince Aemond to return. To return and not spare you a single glance. Not until you are tucked away from the prying eyes of the court, until he is confident no one can hear your conversations.
You wonder if it is foolishness that keeps you sitting there, leaning against one of the many windows in the library, searching the skies for Vhagar’s great form set against the clouds.
You have rejected a number of suitors, worried your father and mother, made yourself seem all but undesirable in the eyes of the court, all because the prince swore that he would tell his mother. That he would announce to the whole of the realm that he loved you, and that you would be wed as soon as possible. He does not want a Valyrian wedding he said, he has no taste for it, he wants to honor you, honor his mother, and the Seven whom he worshiped.
“Lady y/n?” Lord Cregan Stark’s voice rolls through you like thunder, the deep baritone, the rouge northern brocade that made him pronounce your name just slightly different from everyone else, just enough that shamefully it makes you feel special.
You turn your head away from the towering window and give him a small smile. “Lord Stark, I did not expect to see you here.”
He returns your smile and leans against the wall; arms crossed over his chest.
Seven help you, he did have such strong looking arms, the sight of them never ceases to distract you. Even his thick tunic, and his dark-colored cloak could not hide them. Truly, everything about Lord Stark seemed strong. Queen Alicent said it is common of a Northmen, that they must be strong to survive the winters, while Lady Frey said it was the wolf’s blood in his veins. That all Starks had unnatural strength, speed, and stamina granted to them by the Old Gods. Neither woman’s explanation accounted for the man’s looks though.
Lord Stark is quite handsome, a strong jaw and sharp cheekbones with a close-cut beard, more stubble than a full beard though, and gray eyes like a winter storm. His dark hair is around Prince Aegon’s length, though often tied back and much better cared for. His lips are full and healed, having been cracked and dry from the drastic change in temperature on his trip down south. A small scar runs through the corner of them, on the right side, giving him a more roguish appearance. He said he had gotten it as a child, playing around with his father’s sword. And he was tall, so, so tall, towering over you in a way no man has before.
Then he laughs, the sound warming you to the bones, making a blush rise to your cheeks. “Do not tell me you think me a barbarian, as the others do. I thought you knew me better than that, little fox.”
The name he has graced you with never fails to make your heart stutter and disrupt any coherent thought you might have had. It is a reference to your house sigil, you know that. But the way he says it, how his accent wraps around each syllable, makes it seem far more…intimate than simply a friendly moniker given to you by a man who does not know your customs.
Aemond calls you his, or some sweet term of endearment in High Valyrian in private, sticking to Lady y/h/n in public. You wish he would use your name, you have told him time and time again, even the Queen and Princess Helaena use it. You have been at the Red Keep for nearly a decade now, been in the Princess’ inner circle of friends for almost as long, it would not seem strange to others.
“Lord Stark—”
“Cregan, or Lord Cregan if you must add the lord, as I have told you before.” He corrects you, but not unkindly, his lips curling up into a fondly exasperated smile.
“Lord Cregan, I did not mean to imply I believe that libraries were not your preferred place to spend your time, only that I thought you would be joining the other men on their hunt.”
He glances out the window towards the Kingswood. “And I would think you would be taking tea or sewing with the other ladies.”
You have been caught.
“Ah yes, well, as you know, Prince Aemond is to return today and Princess Helaena asked me to keep watch. She loves her brother very much but has to entertain the other ladies so could not watch for him herself.”
You pray Helaena will forgive you for involving her in a lie.
Cregan hums low in his throat and his eyes flicker to you, picking you apart. “Did she now?”
You nod, not trusting your own voice.
“The prince is lucky to have such a vision of beauty to return home to.” He says, running his eyes down your form, drinking in every detail with something akin to reverence? Though you know you must be seeing things. Cregan Stark would not look at you in such a way, there is no reason to.
“Princess Helaena is quite beautiful.” You agree, trying to keep an air of propriety around you even as your mind screams at you to flee for fear you will say something utterly stupid.
Cregan reaches out, tucking a lock of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering for a moment caressing your cheek. “Aye, but she is not who I speak of.”
You? He means you?
You duck your head, cheeks warming once more. “You flatter me.”
He shifts forward, invading your space, the scent of forest air and woodsmoke filling your nostrils. “Is it flattery if it is true?” He is so close, still a respectable distance but close enough that you can reach out and touch him, can feel the warmth radiating from his skin.
“I believe that is a question for the maesters.” You tease lightly, your heart pounding in your chest.
“You are a smart girl, little fox, I am sure you can figure it out.” He teases back, a glimmer in his eyes that excites you.
No one teases you; no one jests or challenges you like Cregan does. You assume it is because they all know Prince Aemond has claim on you, or because you are a lady, but you are educated, and strong-willed, you enjoy a good challenge. You enjoy Cregan speaking to you like an equal.
“Truth is relative, as they say.” You offer, cocking your head innocently, barely able to keep a smile off your face.
“Aye, some say. Though your beauty is truth, relative or not. Surely you must know that.” He counters.
“Vanity is not a virtue.” You say, meeting his gaze. The storm gray of them has softened to a dove gray, mirth dancing within them.
“Neither is lying and yet…”
“Are you accusing me of lying, Lord Cregan?” You gasp in mock outrage.
“About knowing that your beauty is what every man dreams of returning home to? Yes.” He says, his tone light and blithe, but his words, and the way his eyes darken for a moment? It takes your breath away.
“Your beauty, little fox, is one that haunts men’s dreams, that keeps them fighting when they are the last standing. That they keep in their mind as they clash swords, traverse through snow and sea.” He continues, holding your gaze, voice no longer light, but heavy with intent and promise. “It is a beauty one wishes to see the moment they return home before all else, or any others. A beauty that should be admired in all lights and shadows. The setting of the sun and its rising, the summer days and winter nights, one to be cherished.”
You break away from his gaze, a twinge of sadness in your chest. Aemond has never spoken to you in such a way, he has waxed poetic about your beauty, flattered you, lavished you with sweet words, but it has never felt the same as Cregan’s did now. Guilt replaces the sadness, and you toy with the edge of your sleeves. You should not be engaging with Cregan in this way, it was not right, even if it made you feel…something. “You are too kind, My Lord.”
Cregan reaches for you, breaching what was proper, and taking your hand in his. They are so much larger than yours, so warm, so gentle. “Have I spoken out of turn?”
“No, no, I am just—I am a maiden of the South, Lord Stark, I am not used to such forwardness from a man I am not courting with.”
“Honesty, it is honesty, though I apologize for my forwardness.” Cregan says, subconsciously stroking the back of your hand with his thumb.
“Either way, I am not used to it.” You say heart calming with each stroke of his calloused thumb.
Cregan’s brows furrow. “I have heard tales of—the other noblemen, they speak highly of you. Of your beauty, your kindness, your wit, are they all struck dumb by your very being, is that why no one has praised you as you deserve?”
You feel you should say something about Aemond, but what could you truly say? There is no formal betrothal in place, he has not publicly staked his claim beyond a possessiveness that those who spent enough time in court could see. But nothing is ever outwardly stated.
You go to speak, but Cregan stops you. “My apologies, I should not have asked such a thing, how are you to know what lies within the minds of man?”
“You are correct, I do not know their minds.” You say instead and bury down any explanation involving Aemond and his invisible claim.
A dragon roar fills the air, the window vibrates with the force of the sound, and your eyes shoot back to the window. Prince Aemond is home.
“Or they fear the mind of one man and thus hold their tongues.” Cregan says, releasing your hand.
“The prince? I—he—we…it is not—” You cannot get the words out fast enough.
“I will take my leave.” He says, remaining for a moment searching your face until it seemed he had found what he is looking for, and left.
You watch him go, admiring the strength in his stride, when he turns back, a strange look in his eyes. “At the feast tonight, might I have a dance?” He asks.
“With me?” Your heart is pounding against your chest.
He nods.
Footsteps rush by the open library door, and you can hear Princess Helaena calling out to Prince Aemond.
You stand, smoothing out your skirts with shaky hands, why did he make you so nervous? Or is not nerves, but excitement? “Of course, Lord Cregan, I would be honored.”
“I will hold you to that.” Cregan smile, then he disappears down the hall, and you are left alone to hurry after the princess.
Aemond does not call for you until hours after he has returned. When you knock on the door to his chambers, dressed already for the feast, he bids you to enter in a soft voice, exhaustion tinging each word.
You hurry to his side, clasping one hand between your own. “My Prince, I cannot tell you how happy I am that you have returned safely.”
He uses his free hand to cup your cheek, that half smile, half smirk he wears so well on his well sculpted face. “I was only gone for a mere moon, and I was never in any danger, did you doubt your Prince, ñuha nūmio?”
“No, of course not, but…you would not tell me where you were going, no one would.” You say, looking up at him through your eyelashes.
“That is simply because it was not information you needed.” He says, brushing the pad of his thumb across your lips.
“But if I am to be your wife, would it not be prudent if I were to know where my husband is?”
Aemond’s eye, a brilliant amethyst, hardens, then he looks away and sighs. “Lady y/h/n I have told you patience is a virtue, and your virtue is what I adore most.”
You bite your lip, internally chastising yourself. You know better than to rush him. “My apologies.”
Aemond frees your bottom lip from between your teeth and brushes his lips across your forehead. “Do not take my words so harshly, your eagerness is quite endearing, and I to wish for us to be wed, but it is not yet time.”
You lean into his touch, “I understand.”
“How have you been amusing yourself while I was away, ñuha nūmio? Did anything exciting happen?” Aemond asks, his thumb resting beside the corner of your lip.
“Not much, it seems you had taken all the excitement with you. Though as you know Lord Stark’s arrival has caused quite a stir and now two moons later still is. Many ladies are jockeying for the position of Lady of the North.” You tell him, giggling at the memory of some of your friends’ actions.
“But not you?” Aemond asked, his tone making the hairs on the back of your neck stand up.
“No, I am yours, why would I wish to be Lady of the North?” You reassured him, brushing back a lock of silver hair from his face.
For a moment, you are struck with the feel of Cregan’s fingertips, rough and calloused but gentle against your skin. The warmth of his skin, the softness of his gaze, the earnestness of his words. What was he looking for when he stared into your eyes, when he took in every detail of your face?
“If you are too distracted, you may leave, My Lady.” Aemond says, the irritation in his voice drawing you from your thoughts.
“No, no, I am not, I am just so happy you have returned.”
Aemond hums in acknowledgement, dressed in his feast finery as well. “I have missed you.”
Your heart flutters. “I have missed you as well.”
He releases your chin to trail his fingers down the column of your neck. His cool touch causes goosebumps to follow in his wake, and he dips his head low to press his lips to your cheek, then begins to follow his fingers with his lips. “I have missed you, your voice, your smiles, your touch.”
You shiver in response, grabbing onto his doublet.
“Do not touch, you will wrinkle the fabric.” He warns, even as his hands grip your waist.
You remove your hands, clasping them behind your back.
“I will not be able to dance with you tonight, mother has brought another girl for me to try and charm.” He says, into your skin, his silver hair brushing against your exposed décolletage.
Your heart sinks. “Not even one dance?”
Aemond sighs and presses a final kiss to the hollow of your throat. “You know I detest it as much as you do, but it is my duty.”
You nod, blinking back the tears that threaten to appear on your waterline.
He smooths down your hair and turns you towards the door. “I will try to find time for one dance, but I cannot make any promises.”
His words lift your spirits, and you smile at him. “Thank you, Aemond.”
“Prince Aemond, we have guests tonight.” He reminds you, then he shuts the door, and you hurry back to your chambers.
The Great Hall is decorated beautifully, and you sit at your table with the other ladies of Helaena’s circle. A wine glass in hand as you watch Aemond dance with Cerelle Peake, her brown hair pinned up with a net of gold and sapphires, her umber gown flowing beautifully as she twirled.
“Come now, y/n, you will never be asked to dance with such a scowl.” Johanna Swyft says, poking your cheek goodnaturedly.
“No, she will never be asked to dance because the prince glares at anyone who tries.” Mina Redwyne says, clinking her glass against yours in silent sympathy.
Johanna shoots her a look. “Do keep your voice down, Mina.”
You take a long drink from your glass, emptying it, then setting it down, scanning the crowd for another servant. “Perhaps I do not wish to dance.”
“I am crushed to hear that Lady y/n.” Cregan’s presence makes every lady at your table sit up straight, and you turn to face him.
“Lord Stark.” You say, bowing your head in his direction.
He holds out a hand, and you remember how it nice felt, the phantom warmth still lingering. “I do believe you agreed to a dance, earlier today?”
“Lucky.” Mina hisses, as Johanna juts her elbow into your side to prod you up and out of your seat.
You stand, and take his hand, trying to ignore the twinge of pain in your side. “I did.”
Cregan leads you to the dance floor, and you can hear your friends giggling behind you, much to your utter embarrassment.
“Your friends seem quite encouraging.” Cregan says, barely holding back a laugh.
“When they learned I have no sisters, they decided that they would act as such, apparently that means acting in a most embarrassing way.” You say, falling into the rhythm of the dance.
“I knew you had brothers, but I did not know you were the only daughter, that must make you very precious in your father’s eyes.” Cregan ventures, his large, warm hand pressed to yours as you circle each other.
“I would like to think so.” You smile, your heart aches for a moment with homesickness. “He could not attend this feast, he is too ill to travel, my eldest brother is here on his behalf, accompanied by my second-eldest brother who is here to drink and presumably enjoy the Silk Streets.”
“I never had a taste for brothels.”
“Nor I.”
Cregan smiles and twirls you. “I thought not, for I have heard you are far too virtuous.”
You shrug. “It is more, I do not wish to spend the coin.”
Shock flashes across his face then he laughs, repeating your words quietly with a chuckle, and as you are spun back into his arms you cannot help but laugh as well.
“You are clever, little fox, I will miss you when I return home.” He says, his eyes searching you once more.
Your heart stops, and you trip over your feet. “You are leaving?”
His grip on you tightens as he helps you right yourself. “Aye, I have here for two moons, that is far too long, my people need me.”
You do not want him to leave, you will miss him dearly, his laugh, his expressions, his stories. You will miss the walks you had taken together, the discussions that ran late into the night, just outside your chambers, the men standing guard pretending they were not listening. The way he presented you with the pelts of animals he had hunted, regaling you with the tale of how he felled it. Who would challenge you now, who would make you laugh, would listen to your words, and respond as if you were an equal, as if your sex did not diminish your intelligence?
“When will you leave?” You ask, unable to keep your voice steady, so you spin away from him to give yourself a moment to smother your emotions.
Cregan pulls you back into his arms, trapping you with his steady gaze. “In a few days time.”
“Oh…” You manage to choke out, swallowing hard, your eyes on your feet.
“I have been meaning to tell you, there just never seemed to be a good time.” Cregan says sheepishly.
You nod, still staring at the floor. “Well, I will miss you.”
“I will miss you too, y/n,” he says softly, then he slips a finger under your chin and lifts it gently. “In all lights, in all seasons.”
Tears blur your vision, and you hastily blink them away, not even noticing he has said only your given name, no title attached. Cregan’s warm thumb catches any stray tears that fall, and you lean into his touch, desperate for more of that something he had made you feel before. That something you realize he was always making you feel, and that he is making you feel right now, though it is tinged with grief. “Cregan, I—”
“Lady y/h/n, I believe I promised you a dance.” Aemond’s voice is steel, ice, the frigid fear that ran through the veins of Vhagar’s victim, and you hurriedly wipe away any remaining tears plastering on a false smile, before you turn, Cregan’s other hand still on your waist.
You drop into a curtsy. “My Prince, that you did.”
Cregan’s hand lingers, and your heart lurches in your chest when the warmth of it is finally removed.
Another song has begun to play, one you love dancing with Aemond to. It allows for close movements and lingering touches that you always long for with him.
“I thought you did not wish to be the Lady of the North.” He says, his eyes picking you apart as Cregan’s did but there is a cold methodical feel to it that makes you feel utterly and horribly exposed.
“He was merely being kind, no one else had asked me to dance.” You protest, falling into the rhythm as you had before.
“No one else should, you are mine.” Aemond say, spinning you out, and then back in.
His hands burn through your gown, your skin, meeting bone, and before you would have loved it, relished the feeling, but now you feel they are too hot, your skin prickles uncomfortably.
“I like to dance; I do not get to dance when you are occupied, and you are often occupied.” You say quietly, your head bowed ever so slightly.
“I had them play your favorite song, as a reward for your patience.” He says, ignoring your words. “Do you like it?”
“I do, thank you.” You smile and raise your head, hoping to catch his eye and find it brimming with affection. That would soothe your wounded heart, would banish the grief you feel at Cregan leaving.
Instead, his eye is elsewhere, you follow its gaze to see it land on the Peake girl. You do not blame her, do not hate her, though your blood turns to fire in your veins, and you brace yourself for what you are going to say next.
“When are we going to be wed, I have been patient for many years, and you never tell me when my patience will be able to end.” You say, holding your chin high. You are not a Peake, but you still have pride.
His eye flicker back to you, his grip tightening. “Are you truly asking this now?”
“Yes. Yes, I am, because I am tired of waiting, tired of watching as you charm others, tired of being shunted to the side because even though you will not claim me, no one else is allowed to.” You can no longer keep your emotions contained. “I want to be happy Aemond, I want to be happy with you, but I am not happy.”
“Not everything is about your happiness, Lady y/h/n.” Aemond snaps.
You reel back as if you have been struck. “I did not say it was. You have been the one saying you wished to marry me, promising me you would tell the whole of the realm how deeply you care for me. I have done nothing else but dote on you and be patient.”
Guilt flashes across his face, and he reaches for you, but you push his hands away. “It is not so simple.”
“Do you see my face in your dreams, does it keep you fighting, keep you marching on, am I the first person you wish to see when you return home, do you wish to see me in all lights, in all seasons?” You throw Cregan’s words in Aemond’s face and wait for a response.
Aemond laughs, taking your hands, and bringing you back into the dance. “You have picked up a new book of poetry, I see.”
You cannot find it in yourself to be angry, the shock settling in, muffling everything until it is as if you are floating underwater. The rest of the night passes that way, you go through the motions, avoiding Cregan, your friends, shooting you concerned looks.
Then the feast ends, guards escort those too drunk to find their chambers, all others dispersing to their places for the night, or into Fleabottom for more revelry.
You try to sleep, but it will not come, Cregan and Aemond’s words echoing in your sleepless mind, until finally you throw off your blankets and wrap a robe around your nightshift.
You creep through the halls, no true direction in mind, letting your feet take you where they wished, when a flicker of umber catches your eye. Pressing yourself behind a pillar, you wait a moment then peek out.
“Lord Stark, might I be allowed to enter?” Cerelle Peake’s voice is soft, as was required for the late hours.
“Lady Peake, might I ask why you wish to enter my chambers?” Cregan asks, his words thick with sleep. His hair is loose, his night shift exposing his broad chest.
“I thought perhaps you might enjoy some company.” She says, as she takes a step towards him, moving to run a finger down his chest.
Cregan catches her hand and gently returns it to her side. “I do not wish for your company, Lady Peake. Please return to your chambers quietly, and I will not speak with your father about this.”
Cerelle scoffs and turns on her heel, storming down the hallway. You wait until Cregan’s door closed then follow her.
Halfway there, you know where she was going, you have walked these halls many times. Not wanting to further your own pain, you turn back to your own chambers, but your feet disobey you, and you find yourself in front of Cregan’s door.
You knock before you could stop yourself and the door swing open, a tired and angry Cregan standing before you. “Lady Peake, I do not need any comp—” His words die on his lips as he realizes it was you and not Cerelle. “Y/N?”
“All those things you said, about my beauty, about me, did you mean them? Truly?” Tears prick at the backs of your eyes, your chest tight, your bottom lip trembling.
Cregan rubs the sleep from his eyes. “Do not tell me you woke me only to hear more flattery.”
A sob escapes your lips. “I thought you said it was truth, not flattery.”
Cregan snaps awake, pulling you into his arms. “Little fox, I am sorry, I was half asleep, yes, yes, it is truth.”
You cling to him, gripping his night shirt, your face buried in his chest as you sob, every fear, every pain spilling out into his warm embrace. “Tell me you meant it, that you see me in your dreams, that you want me, in all lights, all seasons, that I am not destined to wait forever for someone to love me.”
“I love you, y/n, I love you, you do not need to wait, I will tell you as many times as you desire. I meant it, all of it, you haunt my dreams, you plague my waking thoughts, I want you in at any time, in any manner, or light, or moment I can have you.” He says, his voice is steady, and you can feel the vibrations of it deep in his chest, alongside the sound of his beating heart.
“I want to go with you to Winterfell, I want to be your Lady of the North, or even just your mistress if my house is not a good enough match, Cregan I do not care. I love you and all I care about is that we are not parted, that we are never parted, I do not think I will be able to breathe if we are parted.” You confess, looking up at him afraid to see what you saw in Aemond’s eye.
Cregan cups your face and kisses you, the taste of honeyed ale on his tongue, his hands warm as he keeps you close, using his foot to kick the door closed so he can press you against it.
Now in the safety of his chambers he breaks the kiss, your breaths intermingling. “You will not be a mistress, you will be my wife, none will come before you.”
“Will you tell your people, will they know?” You ask, your lips brushing against his with each word.
“I will wake the whole Red Keep to announce it now if you wish.” He says, his forehead resting against yours.
You reconnect your lips with his, his stubble brushing against your skin, but you pay it no mind, letting Cregan devour you, his hands moving into your hair, as you loop your arms around his neck, keeping him close.
He groans against you, his tongue tracing the seam of your lips, delving in when you part them and exploring every inch of you. “My little fox, my y/n, my wife, my beautiful, clever wife.” He presses the words into your skin, heated lips trailing down to your pulse point.
“Husband.” You sigh, tilting your neck further exposing yourself to him, his teeth sinking into the skin claiming you as his own.
“Say it again for me, my wife, tell me who I am.” He breaths, sucking, and nipping at your neck, returning to darken the marks between creating new ones.
“You, Cregan, my husband.” You say, eyes snapping open when he releases you and stalks over to the window.
He threw it open and stuck his head out, shouting. “Y/N Y/H/N, is to be my wife.”
You rush forward and pull him from the window with a scandalized giggle. “Cregan it is the middle of the night.”
“Then at the very least a few guards heard.” He says, pulling you close and kissing you again, in full view of the window, the moon, anyone else who might look up, and it is exactly as you want it.
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