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.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
𖤓 Summary: you were meant to marry Prince Aemond Targaryen. But war changes everything, and you’re sent to the North instead, to marry a stranger, Lord Cregan Stark. Winterfell is cold, unfamiliar, and unwelcoming, and so is your new husband.
⚝ Warnings: arranged marriage, dubious consent (implied non-con), emotional neglect, mild ilness, non-explicit smut, cold intimacy, culture shock (reader is from the south), social isolation (reader doesn’t feel welcome in the north) lmk if I forgot something
⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊ A/N: this is supposed to be a slow burn fic, so the relationship dynamic is intentionally cold and distant at first.
⭑ Word count: ≈3.57k
You were six when your father first told you about your betrothal to prince Aemond Targaryen. He spoke with pride in his voice as he told you of Aemond’s strength, of his claim, of the glory that your union would bring to your house. ‘A Targaryen,’ he said, ‘in our bloodline, in our future. Your children would be dragonriders, just imagine it.’
You had memorized every single detail of your husband to be. Aemond’s long silver hair, his mismatched eyes, one deep violet, the other scarred with a blue stone in its place.
You dreamed of yourself in velvet and silk green dresses, riding beside Aemond, your skirts brushing against his dragon-scaled armor.
You began to count the days until your union. Until your life would begin to have sense.
But war, as your father now told you, has its own plans.
You were in your balcony when the raven landed. You remember the silence in the air the moment the wax seal broke. Your father read the message in silence, and his lips pulled into a hard line.
“Aemond Targaryen has taken a Baratheon girl to wife.” he said not even looking at you. “For alliance. For strategy.”
“But-” you began, your voice tight in your throat.
“You were nothing but a piece in this game.” he snapped “Now you are a useless one.”
He tossed the scroll into the fire, flames swallowing the parchment like it didn’t matter.
That night, you didn’t cry. You sat by the window, staring at the moon’s pale reflection on the pond, and thought of what you had lost.
“You’ve heard the news,” he said, “I have received proposals for your hand.”
“One caught my attention,” he continued. “Lord Cregan Stark has written. He seeks to marry you and bring you north.”
You sat rigid, heart pounding. “Winterfell?” you whispered. “The North?”
He nodded.
“You know northern men are savages.” you said, voice trembling. “And, their winters never end.”
Your mother, also worried, added quietly, “He must be a brute... Surely there is a gentler lord?”
Your father stared at you both, unmoved. “He has a strong army, a great house. With the war, I want this alliance sealed, immediately.”
• ────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────────── •
The next morning, the carriage was ready, your belongings already packed: dresses, nightgowns, books to keep you entertained, and your small dog nestled in a blanket on the seat beside you.
As the carriage left the familiar walls of your home, your heart sank. Your dog whimpered softly and looked at you for comfort. You stroked its head and whispered, “We’ll be alright” but you were not certain about it either.
• ────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────────── •
The trip to Winterfell took forty days. At first, the roads were smooth and the sun was warm. You passed green hills and quiet rivers, and for a while, it felt more like a long ride than a farewell. You spent your days reading in the carriage, your dog curled up beside you, and your maids chatting softly behind the curtains.
But as the days went on, everything changed. The trees grew thinner, the sky turned gray, and the wind came sharp through the cracks in the carriage. The farther north you went, the colder it got. You started wearing wool under your dresses, wrapping yourself in every blanket you had packed, but it never felt like enough. At night, you could see your breath when you spoke, even inside the carriage.
Your dog huddled close for warmth, shivering a little, and you held it in your lap, whispering that everything would be alright.
By the time you were halfway there, the ground was dusted with frost even in the morning, and you had developed a cough that worsened with every stop. Your maids tried to keep your spirits up, but even they had stopped smiling as much. The journey became quiet, slow, and heavy, like the snow beginning to fall outside the windows.
On the thirtieth day, the first flakes of snow fell. You thought Winterfell must be even colder than that. Your nose burned from blowing your nose constantly, and by the time you disembarked at the gates, you had a fever.
The keeper at the gate informed you that Lord Stark was away at the wall, helping to organise supply lines. You felt a rush of disappointment. You had expected at least a greeting from your husband-to-be.
Sara Snow stands in the courtyard, arms folded, already draped in thick furs. She meets your eye with a nod.
“Welcome.” she says “Come inside before the cold stiffens your fingers.” “Thank you” you reply as you follow her inside.
Your maids hurry forward to help with your things. One of them whispers ‘Stay strong, milady.’
The halls echoed with your own footsteps. A few passing servants gave you short bows, but their eyes lingered on your clothes, your fine gloves, your southern style. Even your jewelry seemed too bright here.
Sara led you through the great hall. “You’ll want to meet Rickon before the evening meal” she said. “He’s two. Cregan’s son. I hope you find it in your heart to care for him from now on.”
“Of course” you replied, unsure of what else to say.
The nursery was quiet. A little boy with dark hair and pale skin sat beside a low fire, chewing on a wooden bear. A young nursemaid stood nearby, nodding at you before leaving. Sara crouched beside the boy.
“Rickon,” she said gently. “this is the lady your father will marry.”
Rickon glanced up at you, blinking solemnly. You knelt slowly, offering a soft smile. “Hello, Rickon,” you said. “It’s cold out there, isn’t it?”
He didn’t answer, but his gaze settled on your dog. He stood, waddled over, and gently touched its fur. Your dog let out a low huff and licked his hand. Rickon giggled.
You exhaled, surprised by how quickly you took a liking for the child. “He’s sweet.”
“He’s a Stark.” Sara replied, standing again. “Born in winter. He’ll survive anything.”
You stroked Rickon’s hair once, then let your hand fall. You were already exhausted, and the cold had settled deep in your bones. Your cough returned on the walk to your chambers.
Sara’s voice broke the quiet. “Milady, those southern dresses are too thin for our winds. You’ll freeze if you keep dressing like that. You would do well to learn our ways.” There was no warmth in her tone or her expressions.
You nodded, trying not to tremble. “Thank you.”
• ────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────────── •
Your rooms were… modest. Not small, but everything was built for function, not luxury. Dark wood, thick furs, heavy curtains. Your maids unpacked in silence, hanging your gowns, all too bright, all too thin, beside plain northern cloaks that had been left in the wardrobe.
You sat by the fire, your dog curling up at your feet. “I feel out of place.” you murmured.
Elaine, the youngest of your maids, gave you a look. “They’ll warm to you,” she said. “They just don’t know you yet.”
You weren’t as hopeful. “These people don’t want a lady from the South. They wanted one of their own.”
That night, the stew in the hall was thick and hot, but you barely tasted it. Conversation hummed in the background as servants passed. Sara sat near the head of the table. You kept your head down, only speaking when spoken to.
The next day, snow still fell, and you hadn’t yet seen your betrothed.
When you asked Sara if Cregan would return soon, she only said, “Tomorrow, if the winds are kind.”
“He didn’t think to send a message?”
Sara’s face didn’t change. “He has men to feed and guard. He’ll come. You’re not the only burden on his shoulders.”
The words stung, but you said nothing.
• ────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────────── •
Later that day, she brought you the gown you’d wear for the ceremony. It was gray wool, unadorned, thick and scratchy.
“I didn’t have time to have a dress made,” you said, eyeing it. “I brought my own, but-”
“They’re not suited for the weather. This one is. You can thank me later.”
You stared at the plain fabric. “It’s not… what I expected.”
Sara’s eyes met yours. “Neither was this marriage. You’ll wear it.”
When you were alone again, you sank onto the edge of your bed, staring at the flames. You missed your mother. You missed your father, even in his anger. You missed the songs sung in your courtyard, and the honeycakes your cook used to make just for you. Here, even the fires felt colder.
You wrote a letter to your mother that night, then tucked it away before sealing it.
• ────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────────── •
The sky was grey when the horns blew from the distance. You rushed to the window, nearly tripping over your gown. Men had gathered in the courtyard, among them, unmistakable even at a distance, was Lord Cregan Stark.
He dismounted his horse, towering over the men around him. He was broad-shouldered and tall, face hard and handsome in a way that was somehow both noble and brutal.
When a knock came at your chamber door, you nearly jumped.
Sara entered, gaze cool. “He’ll come see you now.”
You nodded, smoothed your gown with trembling hands, and followed.
The corridor felt endless, your steps quick on the stone. You kept your head high, reminding yourself that you were no mere lady. Still, your hands were cold when you stepped into the receiving room.
Cregan stood by the fire, arms crossed. He turned when you entered, and for a moment, he simply stared.
“My lord,” you said, curtsying. “it is good to see you returned safely.”
He gave a short nod. “You arrived without trouble?”
“Yes, though the cold has been… challenging,” you replied with a small smile. “It’s far colder than I imagined. Even in summer.”
He stepped forward, closer but still keeping a respectful distance. “This is summer, my lady”
You tried again. “Winterfell is vast. I walked the gardens yesterday. There was snow still clinging to the branches.”
He looked away slightly, toward the fire.
“I also met your son” you said, more softly now. “Rickon. He’s lovely. He came right to me without fear.”
Cregan’s jaw shifted. “He’s usually shy with new faces.”
“I’m glad he wasn’t with me.” you said, hoping he would meet your gaze again. “He reminds me of my little cousin, curious, but quiet. I brought him a book. Stories from the south, with illustrations.”
“That was kind,” he replied. His voice was quieter now, but still flat. “He’s too young to read.”
“Still… I thought it might comfort him.”
He looked at you again.
“You need not try so hard,” he said at last. “We are to be husband and wife. That is enough.”
Something in your chest tightened. “I just… I hoped we might speak. I thought-”
The air in the room seemed colder than before. Your fingers curled at your sides.
He nodded once, as if that concluded the matter. “If you require anything, send for the steward. Sara can attend you if your maids are unfamiliar with the keep. I will see you at the ceremony.”
You opened your mouth to say something, anything to stop him from turning away, but he had already reached the door.
He paused there for a breath, then looked back. “I am glad you’re safe.”
And then he was gone.
You stood alone, heart aching, staring into the fire he had left behind.
He was handsome, and terribly polite.
• ────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────────── •
Later that afternoon, you took a walk through the hall, your dog beside you. Your gown rustled with every step, blue silk with silver thread. You had chosen it carefully, trying to blend in. But the stares had already started the moment you arrived, and they hadn’t stopped.
As you passed a narrow corridor near the staircase, you heard some voices. You slowed your steps instinctively.
“I don’t care how great her family is.” a woman muttered. “She’ll never be a better lady of Winterfell than Arra”
“She doesn’t know our customs. She had a fox fur cloak, fox! Not even northern stitched.”
“I saw her reading at breakfast,” another said with a chuckle. “A book about courtly love. May the Gods help us.”
“And they say she’s to raise Rickon,” someone whispered. “After what Arra gave to bring him into this world? They’ve already forgotten her.”
You didn’t wait to hear more.
You turned, walking back the way you came. Your cheeks burned, your stomach twisted. They didn’t even lower their voices.
Back in your chamber, you shut the door and pressed your back to it.
“She gave her life,” you whispered to yourself. “and I’m just the stupid girl who wears silk and doesn’t belong in Winterfell.”
Winterfell was colder than snow. And so were its people.
• ────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────────── •
The morning of your wedding, the cold seemed crueler, as if Winterfell itself wanted to remind you you did not belong there. You sat at your vanity in silence while your maids did your hair, curling and braiding it. The dress Sara had insisted on laid folded on the bed.
You didn’t touch it for a long while. You stared at your reflection, face pale and heavy eyebags from days of little sleep. Even your lips looked colorless.
Elaine offered you a cup of tea, “You’ll feel better once the vows are spoken, milady.”
You looked at her through the mirror. “Will I?”
She hesitated. “Perhaps not right away. But he’s your husband. You’ll grow into this place.”
You didn’t answer. Your eyes drifted to the window again, where snow fell slow. There were no bells. No flowers. No guests from your homeland to celebrate your union.
Eventually, you dressed. The gown fit just right, but it didn’t make you feel in any special way. Only your wedding jewels gave a hint of color, delicate emeralds, a gift from your mother, and apparently too bright for this place.
The ceremony was held in the Godswood. A short, cold affair beneath the great weirwood tree, its red leaves falling from its branches. A few northern lords and ladies stood by as witnesses, wrapped in furs. No one smiled.
Cregan waited near the tree, wearing a dark cloak. When he saw you, he gave the slightest smile. He complimented you, and you nodded in response. He didn’t reach for your hand until the Septon gestured for it.
You stood side by side before the old gods and the new. Your gloved fingers barely touched. You could feel the tremble in your own hand, though you prayed he couldn’t.
The Septon’s voice was low.
“Do you, Lord Cregan Stark, take this woman to wife, to cherish and protect until your last day?”
“I do.” Cregan said.
His voice was steady, but not warm.
“Do you, my lady, take this man to husband, to honor and serve, until your end?”
“I do.” you replied, your throat tight.
When it came time to speak your vows, you forced your voice not to tremble.
“I take you, my lord, not for glory nor gain, but in duty, and in good faith. I will honor your house, raise your son as my own, and stand with you through storm and frost.”
Cregan replied in turn.
“I take you, my lady, not for softness nor song, but in duty, and in trust. You will keep my hearth, and bear my name, and I shall shield you from wind and war.”
• ────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────────── •
The septon gave the final blessing, and you turned to Cregan just in time to see him step forward. His hand lifted, firm and callused, and cupped your cheek, giving you a soft peck on the lips.
The crowd gave a cheer, though no one shouted your name.
And then the feast began.
The great hall of Winterfell had been decorated with pine boughs and candleholders. The long tables were overflowed with roasted meats, some vegetables, warm breads and thick stews.
Cregan sat at your side at the high table, but barely looked at you once the food arrived. He drank deeply, laughing as other northern lords made bold toasts and crude jokes.
You watched him loosen the collar of his cloak and throw his head back in laughter after a tale about a bear fight on the Kingsroad.
You smiled politely when people looked your way, but no one truly spoke to you. You had no friends at this table. None of your family had come.
“Where is Rickon?” you asked softly, trying to bridge the distance between you.
Cregan turned his head toward you. “Abed already,” he said. “he’s too small for such noise. He sleeps like a bear.”
You nodded, unsure what else to say. “I thought perhaps he could’ve-”
He had already turned away again to laugh at something Lord Dustin had said.
You watched him, your new husband, surrounded by people who actually understood his jokes, which reminded you, you were still an outsider.
“Seven hells,” Lord Roderick said, clapping Cregan on the back. “you truly found yourself a jewel from the south.”
Cregan smirked. “Aye, I have been blessed by the Gods with such a beauty.”
You kept your eyes low, cheeks hot.
Lord Dustin leaned in toward Cregan, his voice loud enough for you to hear. “She’s a southerner. But she’s here now. The cold will make her northern quick enough.”
Someone laughed loudly. “And if it doesn’t, the Stark bed might.”
The lords chuckled, but not cruelly, just old men with old jokes.
Cregan said nothing, but you felt the tension in his arm beside yours. He didn’t smile at their jokes, nor laugh. He simply drank and watched.
“To the bedding!” a voice shouted.
The crowd responded with roaring approval. “To the bedding! Strip them bare and warm the sheets!”
You stiffened.
Ladies surrounded Cregan, pulling at his cloak, laughing as they undressed him.
“You’ve had your feast, my lord,” one woman teased, her fingers on his chest. “Now let’s see if you’ve the strength to finish the night.”
“Don’t trip on your own boots, Stark!” called another. “You’ll want to make a good impression!”
Cregan chuckled, allowing himself to be tugged forward, his boots brushing the floor as the women led him toward the chamber.
On the other side of the room, the lords surrounded you.
“Easy, my lady.” said one with a crooked grin. “We’ll carry you like a princess.”
“She looks like she might faint already.” said another, loosening your gown’s laces. “Afraid of your lord husband, are you?”
“Don’t be,” one added, too close to your ear. “He’s a gentle beast. Most nights.”
You tried to squirm away as hands found the ties of your dress, laughing as they pulled it looser.
“Hold her tight, lads. She’ll bolt otherwise.”
They lifted you off your feet. Your breath caught in your throat.
You let out a fake laugh, trying to keep your dignity.
As they carried you through the halls, you saw Cregan ahead, already bare to the waist, his cloak gone, his shirt half-unlaced. He turned briefly as your eyes met. He gave you a smile, the kind meant to reassure, but you were shaking.
The door opened.
They tossed you gently into the room, your half-undone gown falling.
Cregan entered moments later, followed by the final chorus of cheers from the departing guests.
The door shut behind him.
You stood there, arms crossed, shoulders trembling. You couldn’t bring yourself to look at him.
“I’m sorry.” Cregan said after a moment. “They meant no harm.”
You swallowed. “It’s just… it’s not how we do things in the south.”
“I know.” His voice had softened slightly. “It’s a tradition here. Old as the trees.”
“I’ll let you undress.” he said, stepping back toward the hearth.
You hesitated, then reached behind you. The dress slid off your arms, then your hips. You were left in only your underclothes.
Cregan came back toward the bed.
You climbed in slowly, lying on your side, facing the wall.
He slid under the furs beside you, and for a moment, there was only warmth and the faint sound of the wind outside.
He touched your shoulder, gently.
“Look at me.” he said.
You turned, slowly.
He kissed you, not harshly but you didn’t feel anything.
His hand slid over your hip, then to your thigh. You stiffened.
He paused. “I’ll be gentle.”
You nodded, but you couldn’t find your voice.
When he entered you, it burned, a slow, burning pain that made your eyes water. You gripped the fur beneath you, holding your breath. Your whole body tensed, unsure of whether to fight or endure.
Cregan didn’t speak.
It didn’t last long.
He moved inside you with slow thrusts, the scent of wine on his breath, his skin warm against your chest. You winced more than once, but bit your lip to keep from making a sound.
When he finished, he let out a low groan and dropped beside you, pulling the furs over both your bodies.
His breathing steadied.
Moments later, he was asleep.
You laid there, legs sore, a dull ache between your thighs. His seed was already streaming down your thighs.
Your eyes welled.
You turned to your side and let the tears come out.
Can you do a Stark x reader where it's readers B-day and he's kinda freaking out because he has a big crush on her but he has absolutely no idea what to get her please
[A/N] of course here you go hope you enjoy
[Type] imagine
[Summary] it's your birthday and Stark is freaking out
[Genre] fluff / friends to more?
[Paring / Characters] Stark x gn! Reader (Frieren)
Stark
Stark had been going about the day as usual, unaware he was overlooking something important until a passing comment from Frieren made it click. His heart dropped. It was your birthday. And he hadn’t said a word. A creeping wave of guilt and panic took over as he retraced every moment of the morning, realizing with horror that he hadn’t even looked you in the eye properly. You hadn’t brought it up either, and that somehow made it worse. He felt like he’d let you down, not just as a friend, but as someone whose quiet presence he cherished far more than he ever admitted aloud.
He spent the next few hours scrambling through ideas, restless and distracted. His nerves were a mess. Everything felt either too grand or too impersonal. Stark wasn’t good with birthdays or feelings, really but the thought of you going to bed without anything special gnawed at him. Eventually, he found himself whittling a small piece of wood, carving with the kind of care he usually reserved for battle. It wasn’t perfect, but it was sincere something made with you in mind, shaped from both nerves and affection. It was the only way he knew to say what his words never quite managed.
When the sky turned golden with sunset, he finally gathered the courage to ask you to join him by a quiet ridge. The evening was simple, just a warm meal, a soft breeze, and a little distance from camp. He handed you the wooden charm, not saying much, but watching carefully for your reaction. Relief washed over him when your smile softened. He didn’t need to explain himself. His actions, his effort, the way he sat a little closer than usual all of it spoke for him. That night, he didn’t feel like a coward. Just someone lucky enough to make you smile.
Stark rubbed the back of his neck, eyes fixed on the horizon as he handed you a small, unevenly wrapped cloth bundle. “Here. I, uh… made it. Kind of rushed, but… I didn’t want to do nothing.” You opened it slowly to reveal a small, hand-carved wooden pendant shaped like a bird in flight—rough around the edges, but clearly made with care. “It’s… not much,” he added quickly, stumbling over his words.
“I mean, I wanted to do something better, but I didn’t even know it was your birthday until today and then I panicked and—” He stopped himself, exhaled hard. “I’m just… I’m really glad you’re with us. With me. You being here… I notice it. Every day.” You looked up, surprised by the sudden shift in his tone. He sat down beside you, not quite looking at you. “I know I mess things up a lot. I’m not good with words or big gestures. But I care. A lot more than I know how to say.” You reached out and touched his hand gently.
He looked at it like it might disappear. “So,” he said, eyes finally meeting yours, “happy birthday. And, um… if you’d let me, I’d like to spend more days with you. Not just as friends. I mean—if that’s okay.” His cheeks flared red, and he laughed nervously. “Stars, that sounded cooler in my head.” But when he saw your smile, his shoulders relaxed. Maybe he didn’t need perfect words; just the courage to be honest.
You would be lying if you said it wasn’t constantly on your mind.
It’s such a minor detail. It shouldn’t even matter to you that much. It shouldn’t even matter to you at all. But when he turns to you, you find that you start every conversation with him by looking at his eyes. They’re bright, beautiful, and can be just as expressive as the rest of him. It makes you want to look him in the eyes. It makes you want to engage with him. Like a proper person should. But for some reason, you always find your eyes trailing up and up and up slowly throughout the conversation. And before you know it? You’re staring right at the top of his head.
Right where the black roots of his hair start.
You asked him about it once. He told you they were natural. He told you that his hair was always this way. Ever since he was a little kid. You remember giving him a skeptical look. And you remember him nearly falling over himself, crying, trying to make you believe him. But ever after that conversation ended, you never stopped staring. You never stopped wondering about it, either. Just a weird little sense of curiosity that you had whenever you looked at him. And admittedly, you looked at him a lot.
But right now? You don’t have to worry about looking at him. You don’t have to wonder about him either. Because right now?
“Ahh…been dreaming of this for forever…”
You have the real thing pressing up against you as if he’d rather die than let you escape from him now.
It almost feels like a blur how you got here. One minute, you were going back to the Inn where you and the rest of the group decided to stay for the next couple of days after a long, long day of gathering intel about the next leg of your journey. The next minute, you’re being dragged into an alleyway and pushed up against the wall by a desperate Stark. One that you had no idea was following you this entire time. One that you had no idea felt this way about you. One that currently has you caged against his body as he grinds something very, very hard against a part of you that is very, very, very sensitive and very, very, very receptive to his touch.
“Strark…ah~” You gasp out his name as he continues to press your core against the erection he has straining in his pants. It’s an almost overwhelming feeling- getting jumped like this. Being pushed up against cold stone walls with a warm, warm body at your front. It’s a lot. It makes you head spin and blood run hot because it’s just, so, so much.
So much so that you couldn’t help but reach out for any and everything you could grab- looking for something to stabilize you. But when you find that wrapping your arms around his shoulders isn’t enough for you, you go ahead and grip onto his coat. But when he takes it as an excuse to shred his coat and bring himself impossibly closer to you, your hands find their way into his vibrant red hair. Reaching higher and higher until you’ve found your target.
“Shit…” Stark lets out a groan at the sensation of you gripping the top of his hair and tugging hard. One that topples over the delicate line of being low and needy and utterly desperate. It’s deep and gluttaral and unbearably attractive as it causes his eyes to fly open and for him to stare at you helplessly as he utters a single request. “D-do it again.”
He doesn’t give you a second to respond or think or even process his words before he’s pressing his lips against your own for the umpteenth time since he pinned you here. His tongue darts its way to your bottom lip, licking at it sloppily before pushing it past your lips and brushing it up against your own tongue. As the kiss turns from some messy lip-locking in the middle of some random alleyway to something scorching, you opt to do what he asks of you. You tug at his hair again- imagining the dark strands in your fist and pulling as hard as you can because you know he can take it.
And you’d be lying if you said his reaction didn’t go exactly how you dreamed it would go.
Almost immediately, he lets out another groan (though, perhaps it would be better to call it a growl at this point), his voice uncharacteristically low for the Stark you’re so used to traveling with. But it is something akin to the ferocity that you see from him when he’s fighting. You can feel it in the way he holds you, too. You can feel it in the way that one of his hands tightens around your hips as the other searches for your leg to hike it up and against his body. You can feel it in the way he ruts against your core more frequently now, in between the sounds of his moans and your gasps.
Somewhere along the way, he mutters against your lips for more. And so you give him more. You pull even harder at his hair as he lets out noises that sound like pure sex itself against your lips. He holds you even tighter in that moment. And his movements- his grinding of your core against his become even more frantic. Like he has nothing yet everything to lose if he doesn’t do this right now. And that’s when it hits you.
He’s insatiable, you realize. It’s been mere minutes since he concerned you, and all he’s done is pull you against him and make out with you. But you can just tell he’s insatiable.
Just like you can tell his hands are itching to undo his pants- itching to take you right here and right now in this quiet little alleyway. Where could you be all his. All his to touch. To hold. To kiss. To fuck. While he would be all yours to be held and to kiss back and to enjoy and to play and mess with and tug on his hair. As much as he needs you to. As much as you want to, too. Because you would be lying if you said it wasn’t constantly on your mind. Even here. Even now. The only difference? It doesn’t have to just be in your mind anymore.
Because it’s in your hands now.
“Can’t…can’t wait until we get back to the Inn. Can I put it in now? Can I? Can I?”
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.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
PAIRING: Frieren/Fern/Stark x Male Reader (Platonic) (Fluff)
SUMMARY: A warrior mage with a streak for violence shows his strength in a fist fight.
Having some help while traversing the north was a nice change of pace. It was by mere chance that Frieren and her party met you; (Y/N), a wandering warrior always looking for a fight. The man, myth, and legend yourself. She found your ability to defeat demons and monsters alike with just your bare fists, despite having the option to be a mage, impressive.
Though she will admit that seeing you in action was rather frightening. You were even more terrifying than the monsters. Normally, like any warrior, you’d fight with a weapon; yours being a massive wooden club. Unconventional, but it got the job done. However whenever it broke, you’d get…excited. Frieren had lived a long life, yet it was rare she ever saw a man have his eyes bulging out of the sockets with pupils small as a grain.
Somehow your fists did more damage than any of your weapons ever could. She almost felt bad for the monster. Your strength was useful, but Frieren didn’t want Fern and Stark to become stale with the lack of fighting; you were killing everything because it always died “too soon”. Eventually she would have to put you in timeout and limit your fighting to once a day.
Freaky. That’s how Fern saw you. Every time you started fighting something she’d cower behind Stark. Not because of any fear, but because she found your barbaric way of killing to be too uncontrolled. She preferred methods that were simple and quick, effectively getting the job done without exhausting her mana.
Yet you, a man who was both a warrior and a mage, didn’t fight like either. You were violent and when the enemy died too fast you’d become even more irritable than Frieren during a tantrum. She never saw someone get more into a fight the moment their weapon broke. She almost believed you were a demon in disguise. But Fern overtime would grow use to your antics.
Though she’d always prefer the way Stark and Frieren took out demons, your way was okay. She certainly treated it like an opportunity to learn after the initial shock. Fern wouldn’t ever get as a passionate about the battle as you, but she would seldomly admit the feeling of getting even with them was nice; she won’t ever get used to seeing you pull a chunk out of a tree to make it a club though.
Oh. Wow. That’s a different style of fighting alright. Stark knew he could get a bit reckless while in battle, but that was due to him being determined to get the job done and defend his friends. Your style though was more than reckless, it was bloody awful. But Stark didn’t find it as off putting as the others; he’d been around plenty of other guys who were just as aggressive in battle growing up.
He actually wanted to train with you. Sure, your violence was certainly more wild than his, but he would love to have another training buddy who could keep up. Plus it was easier to ignore Fern’s comments on his “monstrous” strength with someone else taking the brunt of the banter.
Though he never fought with a massive club before, Stark found that he quickly adjusted to it. And it was surprisingly durable. It made the amount of times it broke in your own hands all the more impressive. Especially when you’d switch to fist fighting. Your knuckles weren’t even red from the punching, but rather from the blood of the enemy. The fact your body could withstand such intense pressure only fueled Stark on his quest to be a stronger, braver man like his brother, Eisen, and you.
[AN: first time writing anything for stark! Hopefully he's not too OOC💔]
-ʚɞ He's literally the sweetest, so so affectionate and very loving. Has to be the biggest green flag ever.(Let's not talk about the fern and stark date...that was a mistake on his part and its in the past guys🥺)
-۶ৎ he has a lot of trust in you, like a lot. But he tries not to depend on you too much but sometimes he'll slip up. He likes it much more when you depend on him.
-ʚɞ he's incredibly shy with you, doesn't matter if your in a relationship or not. Incredibly blushy when complemented by you.
-۶ৎ it took him awhile to confess, like awhile. He was overthinking it a lot, trying to make sure you liked him first before making assumptions. He's also very attentive before entering the relationship. Noticed a lot of things about you, even the smallest. How you styled your hair,What styles of clothing you liked more,books you liked reading, and your sleeping pattern, And those are just to name a few..
-ʚɞ Into your relationship nothing much changed if we're being honest. Well except the fact that he's much more affectionate with you both physically and with words. He'll try his best to compliment you and let you know he loves you a lot, but he really can't keep a straight face at all. When giving compliments he'll have his entire face red. Unable to say anything afterwards.
-۶ৎ he loves flexing, and he'll make sure to flex a lot when your around. Subtle bicep flexes and shit😭 please compliment his physique, he gets a little insecure when seeing the physiques of other men..
-ʚɞ he'll sometimes be incredibly vulnerable with you about his trauma, how his parents thought he was a complete failure and confiding in you about his brother. He may look tough sometimes but he's dying to have someone let him be vulnerable, to let him have a shoulder to cry on without any judgement.
"I built a place inside me - small, quiet, warm. That’s where you live now... where the cold cannot reach."
☆ Listening to "All of me" by John Legend while writing this. ☆
Pairing: Jon Snow x fem reader (18+).
Warnings: none.
Synopsis: hot bath together.
Author's note: hey guys, it's been a long time since I last updated you but it's been a very stressful time. I've been rewatching the series lately and I had to write something for Jon Snow! I hope you like it!
The reader is of legal age (I will never write for underage readers, only 18 and up).
Minors must not interact (MDNI).
If you want to make any requests, feel free to do so!
English is not my native language so I ask you to have a little tolerance :)
⋆ ˚｡⋆౨ৎ˚
The warm water slides over you slowly, silently... like a caress. It's a heat that melts your shoulders, your neck, your thoughts. It steams under the flickering light of the torches and then you hear the footsteps... light, slow. There's no rush, it's him.
Jon enters the tub without saying a word, as if he also respects that silence. The water reaches his chest, the muscles of his back move under his wet skin and you look at him without shame. There's no more of it now. You've already overcome the hard part or maybe it's yet to begin.
His hair is loose, a little wet from the steam and his gaze always seems to think too much and speak too little. He looks at you, he doesn't say anything yet, but you understand... you're the one who broke the ice he carries inside.
He sits next to you and the water sways between you. His legs brush yours, but you don't move away. "I didn't know a place like this existed," he says softly "Me neither" you answered. Your heart is beating fast and your breathing is short. For a while there is only the sound of water dripping from a stalactite.
The orange light of the torches outlines his profile: dark eyes, focused, but less hard than usual. "I thought nothing would ever make me forget the cold of the North," he says, looking at the water. "I was wrong." He lifts his face, meeting yours.
His hand finds you under the water and his fingers search for yours, hesitate for a second, then intertwine. He no longer seems like a commander, or a bastard, or a warrior. Just a man. A man who trusts. You.
"Jon," you whisper, and you don't need to say anything else. He understands, always. The two of you move closer slowly. His breathing mixes with yours. His lips touch yours slightly as if he's afraid of waking you from a dream. But you're awake, more than you've ever been.
It's slow... deep. There's nothing urgent, just need. Calm, inevitable... as if he had been waiting for it for days, or forever. His forehead rests on yours. His fingers explore your skin carefully, with respect. He stops only when his eyes meet yours, seeking your permission. You give it to him with a nod, with a sigh, with another kiss.
No one speaks anymore, there is no need. And there, in the heart of the North, you find a fragment of something fragile but real. Something that no one can take away from you.
