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feyhunter78 · 21 hours

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Chapter Three - Your father has taken notice of your blossoming interest in a certain dark-haired northerner.

“The boy is looking at you again.” Your father drawls, moving his elephant across the cyvasse board with disinterest.

You take a sip of your wine and hum in response, moving one of your trebuchets forward.

He clicks his tongue. “Bad move, little lion, that leaves me free to attack your king.”

You glance at the board and curse internally; you have been far too distracted by Jon’s barely subtle stares to properly play the game. “Perhaps I am simply letting you win, you are getting older, Father, it is only the kind thing to do.”

Your father raises an eyebrow and delivers his final move. “Ah yes, it is kindness that distracts you, not the strapping lad who seems he will burst into flames if he does not look at you every three seconds.”

You glance over at Jon, who swiftly turns his attention back to Arya, correcting her stance out in the training yard, the ground freshly cleared of snow.

You and your father have taken a seat on one of the benches within one of the entrances to the guest chambers that spills out into the yard. It’s the perfect mixture between the warmth inside and the crisp morning air outside.

“I have not the faintest idea what you speak of.” You say, popping a grape into your mouth and chewing slowly, trying to hide your smile from your father.

He sighs and shakes his head. “All those years spent teaching you to mask your emotions, to have the perfect expression that never reveals anything, gone with the simple presence of a dark-haired northern boy who does naught by train and brood.”

“He reads as well.” You say, unable to stop yourself from defending Jon.

“Oh, does he now? Someone send word to the Grand Maester, we have found his newest acolyte.” He snorts, taking a drink from his glass.

You wrinkle your nose in response. “You are quite humorous, Father, truly you could put the court fool out of a job.”

He sets his wine down and heaves a heavy sigh. “You know I only ever wish for your happiness.”

“Yes, it is why you are my favorite father in the whole continent.” You smile teasingly, pulling your cloak closer around you as the wind picks up.

“But he is a bastard—”

“You said all dwarves are bastards in their father’s eyes, and yet you are still a man worth respect and titles.” You cut in, surprising even yourself with your outburst.

“Y/N.” Your father says sternly, laying his hands flat on the table.

You duck your head. “Sorry, Father.”

“He is a bastard, he cannot be your husband, a lover, or a guard, yes, but not a husband. If we were not Lannisters, if our house was not as it was, then perhaps it would be allowed. Gods know I do not wish to force you into a marriage you despise, but you are still a lady, still have the potential to win over great victories for our family.”

You bite the inside of your cheek, turning his words over in your mind. “Are you suggesting I proposition him, like Queen Rhaenyra did Ser Criston Cole?”

“I am not suggesting anything, I do not wish to think of my only daughter as a lady grown, but if you must follow Queen Rhaenyra’s footsteps…perhaps it is a Lord Harwin Strong you should seek instead.” His tone is careful, teetering the line between fatherly advice and the words of a Lannister.

You toy with the edges of your cloak. “Jon cares much for his honor, it would be shameful to even ask him such a thing.”

Your father’s hand covers your own. “That bleeding heart of yours, it comes straight from your mother.”

You smile. “And you, as well, do not downplay your kindness. An unkind father would have shipped me off to the richest man who asked for my hand the moment I first bled.”

He shivers in disgust at the thought.

Your eyes drift over to Jon and Arya, the latter who has been distracted by the appearance of Sansa and Joffrey.

“Perhaps a guard then, you could do worse than a guard you have grown alongside, it breeds loyalty.” Your father muses, watching how Jon shifts to put himself between Arya and Joffrey.

You cringe when Joffrey challenges Jon to a playful duel, ignoring your father’s words. “This will not go well.”

“Perhaps it will be good for your cousin’s ego to be beaten into the ground by someone he deems below him.”

You meet your father’s eyes and you both burst into laughter.

“Y/N, Uncle, stop laughing and come, all must witness this display of skill.” Joffrey calls, beckoning you both over.

“I cannot, Nephew, I must meet with your Uncle Jaime.” Your father calls back, hopping down from the bench.

“Father.” You hiss, silently begging him not to leave you with Joffrey.

He pats your hand. “You will be fine, stiff upper lip, little lion, remember?”

You groan and pout at him, but he shoos you forward.

Sansa crushes your hand as you watch Jon and Jeffrey spar, it’s clear Jon is holding back, you’ve seen him training, he puts more effort into hitting the dummies than he does attempt to hit Joffrey.

“Should you not cheer for your cousin?” Sansa asks.

The thought has never crossed your mind, and now it makes your stomach turn. “I would not want to break his concentration.” You say gracefully, trying to keep your eyes on the clashing swords and not Jon.

“Who cares?” Arya cheers, “Go Jon, knock him flat.”

Jon flashes her a smile, one born of confidence and the rush of near victory, and your heart skips a beat. For a moment, you can imagine him competing in a tourney. His polished armor flashing in the sun, ripping his helmet off and letting it fall to the ground, his curls set free as he directs that smile towards you, the crown of roses in his hand naming you his Queen of Love and Beauty.

“Good work, My Prince, hit him hard.” Sansa cheers in direct opposition of her sister.

Joffrey turns towards Sansa, basking in her praise. A fatal mistake, his distraction allows Jon to knock him to the ground.

The action rips a gasp from you, not many aside from your Uncle Jaime would dare to knock Joffrey off his feet.

Your cousin lies there stunned, then he darts up, sputtering, his face turning red as he hurls insults at Jon, before storming off, Sansa jumping up to follow after him.

You catch her arm. “Lady Sansa, I would leave him to his solitude, my cousin is not fond of sharing in his embarrassment.”

Sansa looks as if she wishes to argue, but relents and turns to scold Arya for her cheering.

Jon’s gaze falls upon you, he hasn’t even broken a sweat, his eyes the color of a winter storm in the sunlight.

Perhaps a guard then. Your father’s words echo in your mind. You didn’t need to follow in Queen Rhaenyra’s footsteps, you could follow in Queen Alicent’s. Your maester had spoken of the pure and courtly bond between her and Ser Criston Cole when you were young, and you had been enraptured by the devotion Ser Cole had to his queen.

“Well done, Lord Jon.” You say, giving him a smile and a slight nod of your head as you take a step forward, then another until you are standing before him. Then you lean in, “though I would not have protested if you bruised his jaw when you knocked him flat.”

A slight smile tugs at Jon’s lips, and your eyes dart down to them.

He sucks in a breath, then takes a step back, putting more space between you, an overly appropriate amount of space. “Thank you, Lady Lannister.”

“Y/N, or if we must use titles, Lady y/n.”

Jon swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his pale throat. He has a nice throat, well-formed, pale with a smattering of dark stubble where it meets his chin. He must be freshly shaved, there’s a slight nick near his right ear.

You must get a hold of yourself, a nice throat? Y/N, you are shameful. You chastise yourself internally, tearing your eyes from him.

“As you wish, Lady y/n.” He whispers, his voice nearly stolen by the wind.

Jon TL: @mostclevermiss

#meg's writing #jon snow x you #jon snow x reader #jon snow x oc #jon snow imagines #jon snow imagine #jon snow #lannister!reader #tyrion lannister #tyrion is such a good dad #got fanfiction #game of thrones fanfiction #game of thrones #asoiaf #asoif fanfic

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feyhunter78 · 3 days

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Chapter Two - Your arrival in Winterfell stirs more than just feeling within Jon. Ch 3

He is an honorable man, not as honorable as his father or his Uncle Benjen, but he strives to be as good and true as they are.

The thoughts that enter his mind as he looks down at Lady y/n do not make him feel honorable. She’s beautiful, with emerald eyes and thick lashes, snow dusting her hair, the light of the moon giving her a crown of light, one befitting a princess. That’s what she is—practically is, the daughter of a Lannister, not any Lannister but Tyrion, the imp, the clever one. Jon could study for a hundred years and never come close to the knowledge her father possesses.

His own boldness surprises him, the way he claps his cloak around you, securing it deftly, lingering a moment too long, wishing to spend eternity mere inches from you, breathing in your perfume. It’s light, floral, and sweet, perhaps jasmine? Sansa had been given a bottle once, she hadn’t liked it, preferring the scent of vanilla, and had thrown it out. Jon remembers how he retrieved it from where she had disposed of it and secreted it in his room. That night he dreamt of a future; one he knew he could not have but craved anyways. He had a keep, and a wife, a pretty, sweet wife who smelled of jasmine, and children who had his curls and ran to him smiling when he returned home. He would take them all into his arms, his children, his wife, and would be loved.

Perhaps it was the knowledge that you had been watching him, that he had heard the sharp intake of breath when he lifted his tunic to wipe the nonexistent sweat from his brow. He had known you were there by the sound of your bracelets clattering against the stone wall, the sound of your half step in the snow. He could feel your gaze burning into him the same way it had when you first arrived.

The lovely Lady Lannister, that’s what he’d taken to calling you in his head. The sound of your laughter was like bells, the smile you gave Bran and Rickon, the interest you paid to Sansa as she prattled on, it ensnared him.

So, he lingers, desiring nothing more than to gently tuck back the hair that the wind has blown in your eyes, to caress the curves of your face, to brush his lips against your own if only to know the taste for one fleeting moment, to pull you closer and drown himself in the scent of jasmine— he wants you. It’s a shocking thought, not that physical desire is unknown to him, he’s not a child, but this is different. He’s always known his place, known to rein himself in, but now? Now he has to jerk himself away, cast all thoughts of you from his mind lest he fall upon you like a madman and ravage you in the snow.

His throat tightens at the thought of what the Lannisters would do to him if he disgraced you in such a way, nevertheless what his father would do.

There is a flicker of hurt that flashes in your eyes, he can see it in his peripheral, but he stands strong. You’re not for him, you’re too good for him, he’s not worthy, what could he give you? Snow, that is all he could give, and snow is not enough for his lovely lady.

After he escorts you back to the guest chambers, he sets to walking, wandering the halls in the darkness, his mind so entangled he nearly misses the muffled cries. They come from an alcove, further down the hall, and he approaches carefully.

The sight he comes upon makes his heart drop, it’s Anna, one of the kitchen staff, a sweet girl with dark hair and joyful eyes, she is young, a year older than Arya. She’s curled in on herself, her clothes torn, her face wet with tears. There are even some marks, some bruises beginning to form.

Jon drops to his knees, holding his hands out and calling her name softly.

Anna looks up at him, startled, a doe nearly in flight. “Lord Jon—I—I am so sorry—”

He shakes his head and shushes her gently. “What has happened.”

Her bottom lip trembles, her voice thick with tears. “The prince, he—I was only trying to return to my chambers, I was not tempting him I swear, but he grabbed me and…” She burst into tears once more, burying her face in her hands.

Jon clenches his jaw, he had heard rumors from the other servants, stableboys who came with the Lannisters, he had hoped they would prove untrue. “Anna it is not your fault, please, let me walk you to your chambers, then I will call Laurayn to come and sit with you.”

Anna took his hand, her own trembling, and lets him tuck her under his cloak, keeping her close as they made their way to her chambers.

“I will tell my father the truth of it; you will not be blamed.” He promises her, letting out a slow, steady breath to keep from raising his voice in righteous anger and startling her. Anna was kind and meek, she did her work diligently and didn’t cause any trouble, she should not have been attacked in her own home, his father would not stand for such violence against one of his people.

Anna shakes her head, clinging to the door frame of her chambers, tear tracks down her cheeks. “Please Lord Jon, do not tell him, I cannot bear the shame.”

“It is not your shame to bear Anna, it is his, that cruel prince, you did nothing wrong.” Jon says, the words coming out more forceful than he intends.

Anna shrinks back, and he apologizes softly, tucking his hands behind his back.

“No good will come from Lord Stark knowing, Prince Joffrey is heir to the throne, there is nothing that can be done, I will not be believed.” She says, resigned to her fate.

He has always felt caught between two worlds. Too common for the nobles and too noble for the servants, but he prides himself on keeping a strong rapport with those who serve in his home. Prides himself on striving to protect those who are more vulnerable, which is why it wounds him so that there is no action to be taken for Anna.

Laurayn arrives, wrapped in a cloak, her hair in disarray, and she thanks Jon before ushering Anna into the dark of the servant quarters, leaving him staring at the thick wooden door that closes behind them. It’s not right, Joffrey should be held accountable for his actions, Anna should not have to suffer in silence.

His jaw clenches and he turns on his heel, stalking back to his own room. There’s nothing to be done, and soon he will be at the Wall, he will be able to fight to protect everyone there. He will join a band of brothers dedicated to upholding the sanctity and safety of the North, of the continent.

Ghost is waiting for him, curled up beside the fire, raising his head, at his approach. Jon sinks onto the floor beside him, resting his head on the wolf’s flank, and scratching that spot behind his ears. He stares into the fire, breathing slowly like Old Nan taught him, calming his mind. Ghost gave a huff and licked his ear before laying back down, content.

He awakes on the floor, his body stiff, Ghost slumbering beneath him, the fire nothing but cooling embers. The room is cast in shadows, the moon full in the night sky, and a strange melody floats through the air, reminiscent of the wind whistling through the parapets as Jon gets to his feet to pull the curtains closed. His window overlooks the Godswoods, he draws comfort from the sight, and closes the curtains swiftly before turning to remove his clothes and slip into his night clothes.

The melody grows louder, no longer sounding like the wind, but high-pitched screaming, it pierces through him, and he stumbles forward, throwing open his door and falling into the hall. The hall is doused in blood, bodies lying strewn about and strung up on the walls. Jon pushes forward, bile rising in his throat, seeking the source of the screaming, if only to make it stop. His footsteps echo and squelch, he keeps his eyes forward, his mind racing even as it feels he is fighting through molasses with each step towards the sound. Where is Robb? Where are Arya, Bran, his father? Theon, Sansa, Lady Catelyn? Where has everyone gone?

The screams die down replaced by heart-wrenching sobs, and the hall transforms, it’s no longer his home, instead he’s in a holdfast he’s never seen before. The walls are lined with Baratheon and Lannister banners, the carpet plush beneath his feet. The world spins, his head reels, the wind knocked out of him as if he’s been knocked to the ground during sparring, then there is a door before him, half opened and marked with blood. He pushes it open carefully, and steps into another foreign hall.

It's much smaller than the Great Hall of Winterfell, with panels of richly carved wood and sconces made of silver mirrors, reflecting the torchlight. High arched windows on the south wall allow the daylight to stream in, and through them, he can see what some part of his mind whispers is King’s Landing. The sight would be beautiful if not for the carnage the lay before him. Dozens of bodies litter the floor and against the far wall is you, slumped to the ground, your sobs echoing off the ceiling, your gown darkened with blood as you clutch your father’s body. The scent of winter roses mired by the stench of blood seeps into the air, choking him.

He cannot stop himself, he retches, the sight, the smell, the sensations, all too gruesome to bear.

“Jon?” Your voice is weak, choked with tears and disbelief.

He wipes his mouth and looks at you, his feet moving without his command. He doesn’t want to approach you; he doesn’t want to see the dead, not like this.

You’re badly injured, the blood on your gown ever spreading, a sickly tint to your skin. “How could you do this? How could you leave me?” You sob, the look in your eyes hollows him, digs into his soul and dumps it among the corpses at his feet.

“I—what is this? I do not know what has occurred.” Jon says, keeping his eyes steadfastly on you, and away from the corpses.

“I was able to help Sansa escape but—there was no time, I could not go with her.” Your words are broken by a fit of weak coughs, speckles of blood covering your hand.

Jon’s heart bangs against his chest like a war drum as he reaches for you. “Do not try to speak, I will carry you away from here. We will find a maester, then Sansa, then we will go North, my father will be able to help.”

“Your father is dead, murdered, and Robb will soon follow. Our—our bannermen, they rose for the wrong bastard.” You mumble, your eyes threatening to close, your head lulling forward.

Jon kneels, and gently lifts your head, fear striking through him at your words. “What do you mean, Lady y/n who killed my father, who will kill Robb?”

You grab the collar of his shirt with surprising strength. “You cannot leave me, you cannot go to the Wall, Stannis will come, he knows, he knows about Joffrey, Jon, he will kill us all.” You cry, eyes alight with fear. “Promise me, promise you will protect me.”

The scent of winter roses returns, mingling with your jasmine perfume. His tongue is heavy, the words catch in his throat.

“Promise me.” You beg, your grip failing, your shattered expression so painfully clear it’s like a dagger through his chest.

“I will, I will, I swear it. By the old gods and the new.” Jon says, stumbling over his words as he gathers you in his arms.

A kick to his side startles him awake, and Arya stands over him, her eyes shining with mischief. “You cannot sleep here all day; you promised you would help me train.”

Jon Snow TL: @mostclevermiss

Grey title card = Jon POV Red title card = Y/N POV

#meg's writing #jon snow x reader #jon snow x you #jon snow x oc #jon snow imagine #jon snow imagines #lannister!reader #jon snow #got fanfiction #game of thrones fanfiction #Changed up the title cards #for fun

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feyhunter78 · 5 days

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This is so Jon and Lannister!reader coded just y’all wait

what the fuck is rizz. tell me i’m the knife you twist inside yourself

#meg talks #lannister!reader

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feyhunter78 · 5 days

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Description: During your Uncle Robert's Royal Procession, you find yourself enraptured with Ned Starks' bastard son. While Jon has never dreamed so vividly until your arrival, a thread seems to exist between you and him, pulling you together. Luckily for you both, your father Tyrion sees the need for a sworn sword in his beloved daughter's life.

You should know better, truly you should, but you’ve always had a weakness for pitiful-looking creatures, or at least that’s what your father has always said. He stands a pace ahead of you, watching as your uncle, the King Robert, embraces Lord Ned Stark with a boyish joy you have never seen in your uncle. Your Aunt Cersei stands to the side of them, smiling politely at the Lady Catelyn Stark, Joffery all but hanging from her skirts, demanding attention. Usually, you would scowl at the back of the boy’s head, but the sight of Ned Stark’s bastard son has you quite distracted.

He is pitiful, even his name, Jon, it’s so common, so often used it cannot differentiate him from others. He stands stiffly, with gray eyes so dark they almost seem black set beneath thick brows. He has curly dark hair that frames his face, an unchanging frown upon his face, and his hands clasp and unclasp nervously as he watches the mingling of your two families. Jon’s dressed like all the other Starks, but somehow lesser, as if he has chosen only the drabbest of colors in an effort to blend into the dreary landscape. There’s a solemn softness to him that intrigues you. What secrets does he keep? Why does he look so mired in grief? He notices your gaze, and his face tints pink as he ducks his head further into the fur collar of his cloak. You bite back a laugh, for a moment he looked like a turtle.

The boy beside him, Robb, stands an inch or so taller with cornflower blue eyes, and auburn hair. The clear son of Lady Catelyn radiates confidence, nearly bordering on arrogance, as he surveys the servants unloading your family’s belongings from the wheelhouses. Beside him stands a boy whose arrogance you wouldn’t mistake for confidence, even if you were less astute than you are. But the arrogance rings false, you can see the cracks in his bravado, the insecurity leaking from every pore. It’s in the way he hovers so close to Robb, as if he fears to be away from him would be his undoing. This one you know inside and out; your father had drilled you on everyone you were going to meet before you even stepped foot outside King’s Landing.

Theon Greyjoy, last surviving son of Balon Greyjoy, a war prisoner disguised as a ward, the closest companion to Robb Stark, both accepted and held at a distance, Lord Stark’s sword an ever-looming threat should his father ever revolt once more. Theon has eyes like the sea and tousled hair the color reminiscent of the mahogany desk in your father’s study. He is lankier than the other two, hungrier, and when your eyes meet his, he winks. You resist the urge to wrinkle your nose in response, you were a lady, a Lannister, you were not so easily swayed. Theon is handsome, but if your father’s reports were true, he spent much of his time in brothels. The tactics that worked there would not work on you.

“And this is my eldest daughter, Sansa.” Lord Stark says, motioning to a girl that was perhaps two or so years younger than you. She is beautiful, with fiery red hair, eyes like Robb’s, and high, graceful cheekbones. She curtsies with the air of a Southern lady, and smiles when you do the same. This is who you are meant to befriend, and it does not seem it will be too difficult, Sansa’s eyes eagerly drink in every aspect of your being, as if she wishes to glen all she can of Southern life before it is ripped away from her.

“She is as beautiful as her mother.” Your father says, giving her then Lady Catelyn a smile.

They both thank him, Lady Catelyn beaming at the praise, while you notice Sansa’s cheeks flush with color. She is easily flattered; you must remember that.

“Allow me to introduce my own daughter, Y/N Lannister.” Your father introduces you, putting emphasis on your surname, the very fact that you have one. You are not a bastard, no matter what awful Joffrey likes to say. Your mother and father had married in secret, she died giving birth to you, it was tragic and left your father quite saddened, but you were not a bastard.

Your eyes dart back to Jon taking him in subtlety. You wish to see him blush again, but you will not make your actions so easily observed.

“It is too cold, why must we stand here all day?” Joffrey whines, crossing his arms over his chest and stomping his foot resoundingly.

Your aunt fusses over him, and Lord Stark leads you all inside, talking jovially with your uncle as you hurry to catch up with your father.

It is loud in the Great Hall of Winterfell, made of gray stone and smelling of smoke, meat, and a hint of dog, which you must assume is from the Direwolves. It is well lit and filled with people, all enjoying the bountiful feast set before them on long wooden tables. You’re seated away from your father, something you despise. He is closer to your Uncle Jaime, nearer to the King and Lord Stark, while you have been seated with the other children. It has only been you and your father for so very long, a part of you feels anxious to be separated from him, but you are a Lannister, if you cannot charm the strangers around you then can you truly call yourself such?

“Will you tell me more of King’s Landing, Lady y/n?” Sansa asks, looking enraptured by the mere thought of it. She is dressed in a gown of blue silk, her fur lined cloak on the back of her chair, her hair done up in a style you’re quite familiar with. She is very beautiful, and you spot many men staring at her, one of them being Theon who is seated at the lower tables. You catch his eye and smile knowingly. In response, he scowls and ducks his head.

You must mention this observation to your father.

You smile and return your attention to Sansa, regaling her with tales of festivals and feasts, of tourneys and services in the Great Sept. Her siblings either listen as well or turn their attention elsewhere, which you don’t mind. They are not who you are here to befriend.

Sansa sighs dreamily and turns her gaze to Joffrey, who is seated next to his mother further up the table and is staring down at his food as if it has offended him. “And what of Joffrey? Surely you must be close?”

Your cousin, and closest companion, Myrcella snorts into her drink, and you shoot her a look. Myrcella was meant to be sitting next to Joffrey but had convinced someone to switch with her so that she could be next to you.

“Joffrey is a…spirited boy, he has many…passions.” You say carefully, running your finger along the rim of your glass.

Your father suspects Robert will wish to wed Sansa and Joffrey. It’s a strategic match, but your cousin is a horrible bully, you have marks hidden beneath your sleeves to prove your words, and you do not wish to see innocent Sansa suffer in such a way. True, you have not spent much time with her, but she has been warm and welcoming, her innocence shining through like the sun on a spring day.

“Does he enjoy tourneys? I have heard the King was quite the warrior, he and father fought together.” Sansa continues, resting her chin in her hand.

You smooth out the nonexistent wrinkles in your skirts. “Joffrey has not competed in any tourneys quite yet, Lady Sansa, he is too young.”

“He is three and ten, is he not? Most squire by one and ten, why has he not been sent to one of your bannermen like his uncle?” Robb says, taking a long drink from his glass.

“My mother does not wish for him to get injured; he is heir to the throne, after all.” Myrcella chimes in, saving you from coming up with another excuse for why Joffrey has not been allowed to leave King’s Landing.

Sansa nods and gazes longingly at Joffrey once more. “That seems most wise, what a dutiful mother Queen Cersei is.”

“Where is your mother, Lady y/n? I did not see anyone else arrive.” Bran, one of the younger Starks asks, his round innocent face not dulling the sting of his words at all.

Myrcella takes your hand under the tables and squeezes it. She has been privy to the nights of crying, of mourning the mother you would never know.

“Bran, that is not polite.” Sansa hisses.

You shake your head, a soft smile on your face. “My mother died giving birth to me, but I am told she held me in her arms before the Stranger came for her, that she named me and spoke of how dearly she loved me.”

Bran makes a soft noise of apology, and the conversation lulls, until finally you have finished your meal and are free to retire to your chambers.

You wave off any offer to escort you, telling them all you wish to admire the architecture of Winterfell in solitude.

It’s not wholly a lie, though you cannot say you ever wish to be alone , you enjoy the company of others, are invigorated by it, but tonight feels different. Perhaps it is the mention of your mother, or the false face Joffrey is putting on for the Starks and their bannermen, the sound of his laughter ringing about the hall. You wander the halls of Winterfell with a faint knowledge of where the guest chambers lie, when you find yourself approaching the training yard. The night is quiet, snow falling gently, the brisk air seizes your lungs, purifying them with an icy chill.

You are not alone, the thud of blunt metal upon wood, the sounds of exertion, the turn of boots in snow covered dirt. You slowly move towards the sound, knowing your father will scold you later for such carelessness. There are countless people here, and you cannot be assured they all wish you well.

Jon Snow, the ever so distracting bastard, stands in the middle of the yard, training alone, the moonlight shining down on him, making his pale skin glisten. You rest your hand on the stone archway, one foot on the dirt, the other still firmly planted on the stone. You should leave him alone, you know it, but you’re mesmerized by the sight, the tension in his muscles, the expanse of his back, the strength in his arms. He is a little older than you, six and ten to your five and ten, both old enough to be married, yet both remaining unbetrothed.

There had been offers for your hand, even though you were the imp’s child, and many wondered if you would sire broken children, if you would pass on your father’s curse. But for the gold that backed your name many were willing to risk it. You didn’t like your suitors, they were too brash, too lewd, too old, or simply just not right.

Jon stops and lifts his tunic to wipe the sweat from his brow. His stomach is toned, his skin mostly smooth, though there are some faded scars.

Yes, they were simply not right, they did not look like that.

You feel heat rise to your cheeks and you avert your eyes. What were you, a child? A lovesick maid? You have spent no more than mere minutes in his presence, and already you are lusting after him like some silk street whore? It must be the chill that is muddling your mind, yes, the chill. Not the kindness that you saw within him as he played with Arya and Bran in the courtyard earlier in the day. Or the way he stood stiff lipped while Joffrey threw barbed insults at him as he passed him in the hall, or the stack of novels you had overheard the maester say were to be set aside for him. Merely the chill. The chill and the flights of fancy all young girls are prone to.

With that in mind, you wait until he has returned his tunic to its rightful place and step fully into the snow.

He turns on his heel, weapon at the ready. He is perceptive, you note, good reflexes, excellent hearing, fine form, carved from marble, glowing like a god in the moonlight.

Gods y/n, pull yourself together.

“My apologies, I did not mean to startle you.” You say, wrapping your cloak tighter around you. It is thin, far too thin to wear in the chill of night.

Jon lowers his sword. “Lady Lannister, why are you not inside at the feast? Are you lost?”

“Yes.” You lie, batting your eyelashes at him, crafting your expression into one of helplessness. “I wished to return to my chamber, but I lost my way.”

Jon stows his sword and retrieves his cloak from a nearby rack. “I will escort you, if you do not take offense?”

You tilt your head in faux confusion. “Why would I take offense?”

He shuffles his feet and busies himself with his cloak. “You are a lady of a great house, and I am…” He lets the unspoken words hang in the air, and you have the grace to act surprised.

“Oh, yes, right, you are a Snow.” You say, taking a step towards him and extending your hand, waiting to set it on his arm. “Well, I care not if you are a Stark or a Snow, I am sure you are more than capable of escorting me to the guest chambers of your home.”

He ducks his head, that delightful blush returning to his cheeks, and he holds out his arm for you.

You take it gratefully, allowing him to guide you back towards the way you came. The wind blows through the yard as you walk and cuts straight through your thin cloak, a shiver shooting down your spine.

Before you can blink, Jon has draped his cloak over you, clasping it shut with a surprising boldness. “It is far too cold for such a thin cloak; you must remember to wear your furs if you find yourself wandering out here once more.”

You look up at him through your lashes, your heart skipping a beat at the proximity between you and him, the depth of his dark eyes. “And if I were to wander out here again…might I be able to count on you to escort me? I must confess I find the halls of Winterfell quite confusing.”

He lingers for a moment, drinking you in, his head nodding almost imperceptibly, then he wrenches himself away, his gaze set forward. “Anyone in Winterfell would be more than able to escort you, My Lady.”

You nod, feeling the sting of rejection. It’s no matter, this is only the first night, there’s still plenty of time.

Ch 2

Yes I used a Hozier line bc it's perfect for the vibe of this fic

#meg's writing #jon snow x reader #jon snow x you #jon snow x oc #jon snow imagine #jon snow #tyrion lannister #lannister!reader #new series alert!#I know y'all don't want this but I wanted to make the title thing so bad #tyrion's daughter #theon greyjoy x sansa stark #theon greyjoy #sansa stark #got fanfiction #robb stark

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feyhunter78 · 6 days

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Hey! Correct me if I’m mistaken, but you have a blog that had fics for The Chosen characters right? I think maybe I unfollowed it by mistake or maybe you just got tired of it and deleted the blog altogether. But, if you still have it would you mind tagging it so I can find it again? If you have absolutely no idea what I’m talking about because I’ve got the wrong person feel free to ignore this ask 😂 many blessings to you my friend.

Hi! Yes, I did have that blog but I ended up feeling weird about it, so I deleted it! Just felt kinda bordering on icky for me so it had to go

#meg talks #mail time #blessings to you as well!

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feyhunter78 · 11 days

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Finallyyyyy I kept seeing this made but in the opposite POV BUT THIS, THIS IS THE REAL ONE THIS IS THE TRUTH

🚨Flicker warning🚨

Made this as soon as good luck, babe came out

#meg talks #not mine obvi #alicent hightower #hotd #rhaenyra targaryen #house of the dragon #I know this is probably for the FLF crowd but for me there is nothing quite like when you tell a friend her bf is shit and you’re right #like vindication in that field taste so sweet bro #like I told you that man was shit

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feyhunter78 · 12 days

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@sassypossumm exactly what we said

Cersei Lannister & Rhaenyra Targaryen:

Are forced to marry someone they don’t love, so they find solace in the arms of a family member and commit incest

Seduce members of the Royal Guard

Have their husbands murdered because they didn’t like them

Have three bastard kids

Commit atrocities to claim the Iron Throne

Betray their allies when they feel threatened

Rule with fire and blood

Live in constant paranoia so they murder innocent servants whom they believe will betray them, even if said betrayal would be a direct consequence of the way they treat their subjects

Are hated by the people

and lets us not forget the -

But no, please go ahead and tell me all about how Rhaenyra is this feminist icon who has the divine right to rule over hundreds of thousands of people because her daddy said so, therefore if I don’t support her I’m a misogynist.

#house of the dragon #team green #hotd #meg talks with mutuals

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feyhunter78 · 12 days

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WIP Tag Game!

Rules: in a new post, show the last line you wrote (or drew) and tag as many people as there are words (or as many as you feel like).

I was tagged by the lovely @cchickki

No pressure tag!!! @celestialsolstice @sassypossumm @dilf-superiority

So here’s a banger line that I’m intending to put in that Jon Snow x Lannister reader fic I just started:

“But he was not a poet, and he could not call himself a lover. For he did not have the skill with words others did. He could only say that he was yours, even if you did not want him, even if you fled across the continent, returned to the South and cursed his name for all to hear. He would be yours until the day his breath escaped him for the final time.”

And then a rough scene from the first chapter:

He ducks his head, that delightful blush returning to his cheeks, and he holds out his arm for you.

Before you can blink Jon has draped his cloak over you, clasping it shut with a surprising boldness. “It is far too cold for such a thin cloak; you must remember to wear your furs if you find yourself wandering out here once more.”

You look up at him through your lashes, your heart skipping a beat at the proximity between you and him, the depth of his dark eyes. “And if I were to wander out here again, might I be able to count on you to escort me? I must confess I find the halls of Winterfell quite confusing.”

He lingers for a moment, drinking you in, his head nodding almost imperceptibly then he wrenches himself away, his gaze set forward. “Anyone in Winterfell would be more than able to escort you, My Lady.”

You nod, feeling the sting of rejection. It’s no matter, this is only the first night, there’s still plenty of time.

#meg talks #meg's writing #wip game #tag game #jon snow imagine #jon snow x reader

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feyhunter78 · 12 days

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Y’all tell me why I was going to work on one of my Miguel fics and then suddenly I’m 2000 words deep in a Tyrion’s daughter X Jon Snow fic???

Where did this motivation come from??? Also I’m insane for writing 2000+ words for a fic whose topic I’ve never even breeched before????

#meg talks #jon snow x reader #jon snow imagine #why do I do the things I do????

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feyhunter78 · 16 days

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Chapter Twenty - Finally, there is nothing left to keep you two apart, and Miguel is ready to take you.

Final chapter and NSFW content below!

“Touch me?” You were barely able to get the words out, mind so flooded with memories and long dead emotions. You want something to hold onto, an anchor to keep you tethered here with Miguel, to prove to yourself it’s all real.

Miguel looks as if you’ve punched him in the stomach, eyes wide, lip parted, you almost hear the oof, but he recovers quickly, and nods, capturing your lips with his, it’s passionate, but not aggressive, not rushed, or sloppy. It is slow, soft, you can feel the adoration seeping into your pores.

His touch is soft too, large hands on your breasts, your thighs, your hips, between your legs. He can’t seem to find a spot to settle on, roaming your body, his lips pressing against yours, against your cheek, the shell of your ear, the crown of your head.

“Te amo, mi dulce, te amo; te amo; te amo.” He breathes the words into your skin, his touch on your body like a painter, a sculptor, etching his name, his love into you for all to see.

It washes over you, his thumb on your clit, rubbing small circles, his other hand on your hip, keeping you close.

“Yes, yes, right there.” You tell him, head falling back against the tiled wall, Miguel’s scent overpowering everything else, his body pressing against yours.

“Does that feel good, mi vida? Is your husband making you feel good?” He asks, his warm breath against your ear.

“Yes, he is.” You stutter out, hips rocking gently against his hand, his long fingers working your inner walls, coaxing you higher and higher.

“My beautiful, beautiful y/n, you sound so pretty, feel so warm around me, so tight, keep sucking me back in, do you want me, dulce? Tell me what you want, and I’ll give it to you.” He promises through ragged breaths as if he was the one close to climax.

“You, I want you, Miguel.” You whine, arching your back, your breasts pressing against his chiseled chest.

He moans, eyes rolling back in his head, his fingers dismantling you from the inside out until you’re dissolving in his arms, crying out his name as he works you through your high.

Now you lay on your bed, fresh from the shower, Miguel hovering above you, hair curling as it dries, his lips brushing across every inch of your face, avoiding your lips until you make eye contact once more.

He groans, low in his throat, a desperate sound as the tip of his cock nudges against your entrance, one of his hands interlocked with yours. “Let me have you dulce, I promise I will please you.”

“I know you will.” You tell him, wriggling your hips, the tip of him slipping between your folds.

Miguel swears under his breath, and you laugh.

You’ll do better than Todd ever did, I know that for sure.

He growls playfully, sinking in while you’re distracted, filling you to the brim, heated and heavy. “Much better than he ever did, I assure you.”

You already know he’s right, not only because of your memories but because of the way your body reacts to him, walls fluttering, his tip pressing against your spongy spot that Todd could never reach. You shift your hips, testing the waters, and his cock brushes against that spot, and you bite your lip to keep from whimpering. It feels so different, then with Todd, better.

“It’s because we are made for each other.” He drags a hand down your body, settling above your entrance. “All this was made to take me, made to be pleased by me.” Then he pulls out, stroking his cock with his hand, the size of it has you drooling. “And this, this was made for you, made to fill you, and feel you come around me.”

You make a noise that’s half a whine and half a flustered exhale, as he slides his cock between your folds, using the tip of it to toy with your clit. “Miguel, please.”

Your words spark something in him, and he pushes back in. His thumb on your clit, rubbing slow, slow, slow circles as he thrusts in and out, leaning back over you, recapturing your lips. Then he trails his them down, down, down, until he wraps them around your nipples, lavishing them, biting, tugging, rolling, until you’re panting, hips jerking against his, back arched, head thrown back.

“Eso es todo, buena chica, déjame verte, muéstrame cómo te gusta.” He coos, his thumb swiping across the back of your hand, still joined together. Trsl: That’s it, good girl, let me see you, show me how you like it.

You grab for him, nails digging into his broad back, writhing underneath him, desperate for more. You want to feel him, want him to take control, to slam into you, fuck you until you can’t think straight.

Miguel chuckles against your skin and in a swift he’s yanked your legs up and over his shoulders. “Want me to ruin you, dulce? Make you scream, get you all messy for me?”

You don’t even need to answer, Miguel’s inside your head, but you do anyways. “Yes, fuck, please, please.”

He rears back and slams into you, splitting you in half, his hand in yours, the other tugging at your nipples. He’s got you right where he wants you as he rails you, thick cock bullying your spot, his fangs dragging against your skin, his eyes on you, always on you.

It’s almost too much, you turn your head, but he turns it back, and you can hear him in your head. Keep those pretty eyes on me.

You whine his name, each thrust of his hips moving you up the bed, your vision white, pleasure washing over you again, and again, and again. “I’m gonna—fuck Miguel, I’m—”

“Cum for me, mi dulce. I know you can do it, smart girl like you, my pretty little wife, taking me so, so well.” His voice barely reaches you, you’re floating above your bed, skin alight with pleasure, his name the only thing you can say as he ruins you.

You come with a scream of his name, but Miguel doesn’t stop, he continues on, pounding into you, picking you up and spearing you on his cock. The elevated position allowing him to hit deeper, and you’re babbling, head empty, clawing at him as he throws you off the precipice, and you plummet into ecstasy once more.

He follows you, sinking his fangs into your neck as he comes, moaning as he drinks deeply.

Miguel lowers you down onto the bed, still inside you, pressing kisses to the plains of your face. “Te amo y/n, we will be together, forever, I promise.”

“Sounds good, I love you too.” You yawn, eyelids heavy, sleep threatening to overtake you.

“We’ll go to the courthouse tomorrow, get married, then we can go home.” He says, brushing back the hair from your face.

“Okay.” You say sleepily, wrapping your arms around him.

Miguel drags a blanket over your entwined forms. “Your transformation will be gentle; I will stay by your side. You will not be alone.”

You nod and snuggle up to him before slipping into dreamland. Tomorrow, your new life will begin.

TL: @obi-mom-kenobi, @poutysprouty, @oharasfilipinawife, @laysmt, @cicithemess, @unabashedcroissanttreefan, @lynxslokley, @thedevax, @generalkenobitrash, @keiva1000, @wilmontana987, @caslistener, @lotionlamp, @chrishy973, @havkjhdecs, @nyctophilic0vitnir, @prowlingforfood, @crystal-crax, @hwasoup, @chooalvina

#meg's writing #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel ohara x reader #miguel o'hara x you #miguel o'hara x y/n #morgue miguel #vampire!au #vamp!miguel #vampire!miguel #vampire!miguel o'hara #vamp!au #nsfw chapter #minors dni

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feyhunter78 · 16 days

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Chapter Nineteen - Your memories have returned, but what does that really mean for you and Miguel?

Ch 20

He holds you close, your clothes are soaked through, your form trembling against his, and he holds you tighter, resting his chin on the crown of your head, eyes closed as he breathes in the scent of you. Your face is buried in the crook of his neck, your arms squeezing him so tightly, if he were a mortal man, he might be a bit concerned.

“I can’t even—I don’t know what to do now, I don’t—” You pull away, looking up at him, raindrops and tears dripping off your lashes. “Miguel I…I’m so sorry.”

He shakes his head. “No, no, I am sorry, I didn’t reach you in time, I didn’t save you. I broke my promise.”

“There was nothing to be done, you were a man, a normal man, you couldn’t fight all Todderick’s men yourself. I didn’t hold it against you.” Your voice is soft, your fingers gripping his shirt for stability. “I just…I thought you were dead, and I couldn’t, I couldn’t stand the thought of—”

He shushes you gently, rubbing your back soothingly. “I know, dulce, I know.”

Your lips tremble, tears mixing with the rain. “I can’t be without you, I can’t. Even before I got my memories back. You were in my dreams, I couldn’t stop thinking about you, couldn’t stop wanting to see you, talk to you, be near you.”

His long dead heart flutters to life for a moment, he wonders if you remember when you first spoke such words to him.

I cannot be without you, Miguel; it tears at the very fabric of my being. I cannot banish you from my mind, you are in my dreams, my thoughts, every moment I breathe I long to see you, to speak with you, to simply be in your presence.

“It is maddening.” He breathes, taking the words right out of your mouth.

“Yes, it is.” You say, brain working overtime to try and weave your memories into their rightful places. “But I don’t care. Drive me mad, keep me sane, whatever the fuck you want, I just can’t be without you anymore. Not now that I know what I know.”

You look so beautiful, just as you did when he first met you, long ago on another stormy night like this one. He wants to tell you that, to hold you as he did, to take the action he wished he had back then.

He moves to release you, but you tighten your grip, a sob escaping your lips. “Don’t leave.”

You’re overwhelmed, a lifetime of memories and emotions flooding through you, the adrenaline from your flight through the wood is wearing off, and you’re cold. He can see it, feel you shivering against him.

“I won’t, but we need to get out of the rain, you’ll catch a cold.” He says gently, sliding his hands down until they rest on the backs of your thighs. “Jump.”

You do as he says. A bit awkwardly, but you do it, and he slides one arm under your thighs, the other remains on your back, as he carries you back to his car, your sobs quieting to sniffles by the time he buckles you back in.

The ride to your apartment is quiet, your hand in his, the sound of rain on the windshield disrupted every so often by a sniffle from you.

Miguel guides you into your apartment, locking the door behind him before helping you get rid of your waterlogged clothing, ditching his own as well.

You’re a vision, a work of art, lips pouty, hair plastered to your skin, bare before him, eyes shining with leftover tears. He swears he’s seen a painting of the goddess Aphrodite that looked just as you do now.

He wraps you in a fluffy robe he found in your bathroom and puts you up on the sink. The mirror fogging as the shower heated up, your pastel pink shower curtain pulled slightly back as he sticks his hand in and out of the water.

“Do you want to shower alone?” Miguel asks quietly.

“You’re already naked, might as well join.” You mumble, reaching out towards him.

He takes your hand and presses it to his lips. “I can wait.”

You hop down off the sink, shaking your head. “I want you to join, we never got to…not as a married couple at least.”

He bites back a smile; he knows exactly what you’re referring to. “We have plenty of time, no need to rush.”

You let the robe fall to the ground, and step past him into the warm water, looking over your shoulder at him, waiting.

Heat rushes through him, and he smirks when your eyes dart down to his hardening cock. Then he joins you. It’s a tight fit, the spray covering you both. He trails his fingertips down your arms, interlocking your hands after you’ve both gotten clean.

“Can you still read my mind?” You ask, your face tilted up, your skin dotted with water droplets, running down in rivulets, taking any leftover soap bubbles with them.

“I can.”

Do you still love me?

The thought is echoing in your mind, anxious and small.

“Of course, I do, why would you think otherwise?” He cradles your face with one hand, searching your eyes for an answer.

“I ran from you, I forgot you, I didn’t trust you.” You whisper, eyes on the cords of his neck.

“That was not your fault. You did not blame me, and I do not blame you.” He reassures you, dipping his head to brush a gentle kiss to your cheek, then your lips, then the other cheek.

It makes you smile, the first smile he’s seen from you in ages. It’s as if the sun has returned after a long winter, and he basks in it.

“I love you.” You say, your hands finding their way to his hair, playing with the soaked strands.

It is a symphony, a miracle, the most wondrous thing he has ever heard until he hears the next words that fall from your lips.

“Touch me?” It’s a quiet plea, one of gentleness and longing.

#meg's writing #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel ohara x reader #miguel o'hara x you #miguel o'hara x y/n #vamp au #vamp!miguel #vamp!miguel o'hara #vampire au #vampire!miguel #vampire!miguel o'hara #mourge miguel

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feyhunter78 · 21 days

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defending alicent hightower on the internet is the sixth pillar of feminism

#alicent hightower #house of the dragon #hotd #I love her #she is me and I am her

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feyhunter78 · 21 days

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Rhaenyra vs Daemon now THAT would be good, I’d pay to see that front row

No, but if we stop to think about it, indeed the set up for the dance is so weak, specially when George had a better set up right then and there that he solved with the council of 101: Rhaenys vs Viserys. The daughter of the eldest son and heir vs the son of the second son. This should have been the configuration of the dance.

Then he had the second best set up: Rhaenyra vs Daemon. The daughter of the king vs the brother of the king.

He screwed over both scenarios and went with the worst one, one that would never really make much sense, especially when you consider the reasons why Rhaenyra was chosen as an heir (to avoid Daemon ascending to the throne). Not only Viserys fixed this problem by marrying again and having not only one, but three sons… Rhaenyra went to marry Daemon. Like, there’s no realistic scenario where she wouldn’t have been disinherited right then and there, or where the realm wouldn’t rally behind Aegon instead of her, especially when she fucked off to Dragonstone instead of trying to assert herself as heir and future queen in KL.

George just made really bad choices overall, that’s why the dance feels kind of weird and some plot points are very forced to fit into the narrative instead of feeling like natural consequences of what was happening.

#fire & blood #asoiaf #house of the dragon #no bc Rhae and Alicent team up #is always my fav

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feyhunter78 · 25 days

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Jacaerys rejecting Sara Snow in chapter 28 of The Dowager Queen

#meg makes bad memes #yes I know I haven’t posted it here but it doesn’t really pop off on here so it will remain on AO3 #my AO3 girlies will get this one #jacaerys velaryon #jacelaena #TDQ series

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feyhunter78 · 25 days

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Aftercare

Artist cred: Lxstari_

Description: A soft moment with Nerd!Miguel. Nerd!Miguel masterlist

You look beautiful. He always thinks that, but especially now as you fit yourself into his side, watching as he flips through Netflix for something to watch.

It wasn’t like this before, with Ava she would leave when it was done, put her clothes back on without sparing him a second look. But not you, you stayed, slipped his t-shirt on, climbed back into bed with him, clinging to him like a teddy bear.

“Do you want any more water?” Miguel asks, turning his head to you.

You shake your head then rest it on his chest. “No, I just want to stay right here for a bit.”

He’s pretty sure you can hear his heart pounding against his chest, his face burns, and he wants to melt into the mattress, his affection for you overflowing. “Yeah, no problem, you know you can stay as long as you like.”

You hum in response and place your hand on his chest, right over his heart.

“How about this movie? I’ve heard it’s good.” He suggests, trying to calm his frantic heartbeat.

“Whatever you think is best, I trust you.” You say sleepily, curling further into him.

I trust you. Is he dead? Is this heaven?

He clicks the movie and settles in, pulling a blanket up from the end of the bed and draping it over the both of you.

You and Miguel chat back and forth for a while pointing out inaccuracies in the movies, laughing at the jokes, cringing at the cheesy acting then fall silent, absorbed in the movie playing on the screen mounted to the wall.

Miguel gently trails his fingers up and down your back, the TV casting a soft glow across the floor, rain tapping against the window, the fuzzy blanket arranged haphazardly, your head still resting on his chest, flooding his senses with the scent of your perfume.

“As if you could splice DNA that quickly.” He snorts, eyes still locked on the screen.

When you don’t respond, he glances down. Your eyes are closed, your face half-buried in his sweatshirt, your fingers gently curled around the fabric keeping hold of him, your breathing soft and even.

Miguel smiles, warmth flooding through him, his heart skipping a beat as he takes in the sight. He never thought he would be here, with you, the pretty popular girl from his lab, the one every guy wanted, every guy fantasied about. But here you are, in his room, wearing his t-shirt, curled up and sound asleep on his chest.

How did he get this lucky? You could have anyone you wanted, he’s seen the way guys on campus look at you, but you never seem to notice. You say it’s because you’re always looking at him, and maybe you’re right. It’s intoxicating, the way you look at him. All pretty and perfect, looking up at him through your lashes, a smile toying at your lips. Or when you’re concerned, the emotion brimming in your eyes, the way you latch onto him, cling to him.

He bites the inside of his cheek as images from earlier make their way center stage. The feeling of your nails digging into his skin, the warmth of your walls desperately trying to coax him deeper, the hunger in your eyes as they met his. Of course, you’re tired, he did everything he could to pull climax after climax from you until you begged him to stop.

He pushes the memories away, wanting to soak in this peaceful moment. The sound of your breathing, the way you sigh softly and bury more of your face in his chest.

You’re so beautiful, so perfect, he wants to freeze time, wants to never let you go, wants to live in this moment forever.

An explosion lights up the TV screen, the sound rousing you from your slumber, and you lift your head blinking at him blearily. “What’s going on?”

He brushes his lips across your forehead, already missing the comforting weight of your body resting on his. “It’s just the movie, I can turn it down.”

“Oh no, the movie, Miguel, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to fall asleep.” You tell him, smoothing your hair down with your fingers, now wide awake.

Miguel shakes his head, his voice dipping low. “Don’t worry about it, you obviously needed the sleep.” A catlike smile spread across his face at your flustered expression.

You smack his shoulder playfully. “Perv.”

“You like it.” He teases, slipping his hands under your bare thighs and pulling you closer.

You yelp at the sudden movement, but soon relax into him, tracing his facial features with the tip of your finger. “I guess I do.”

He marvels at you, at the beauty of you. Even with smudged makeup, and your hair a bit tangled, you’re still breathtaking.

“What?” You ask, smiling down at him, radiant as the sun.

“You’re just so…beautiful.”

“Miguel.” You drag out his name, smiling embarrassedly, turning your face from his.

“Y/N.” He mimics, turning your face back towards his, and kissing you.

You melt into him, like you always do, as if he’s the only one who knows how to kiss you, the only one who should ever kiss you.

“You’re really handsome, you know? Insanely so.” You say between kisses, wanting to return his compliment, unable to just accept his praise.

“Oh really?” He asks. He can feel himself blushing, so he presses his lips to the corner of your lips.

You nod the best you can, eyes fluttering shut when Miguel’s lips drift lower, tilting your head instinctually, allowing him more access to your already marked skin. “Yeah, it’s not fair.”

“Dulzura, dulzura, dulzura, have you not heard the saying all is fair in love and war?” He presses the words into your skin, preening at the sight of his earlier marks. Later you’ll chide him for leaving such obvious hickeys, but right now he knows you don’t care.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever, just kiss me.” You say, cupping his cheek and bringing his lips back to yours.

He does so happily, humming against you, endorphins and dopamine blooming, traveling across his synapses with unparalleled speed. “As you wish.”

TL: @bat-bae, @nyctophilic0vitnir, @smokeywhalee, @obi-mom-kenobi, @prowlingforfood, @penggion, @crystal-crax, @oharasfilipinawife, @generalkenobitrash, @melsimps, @chrishy973, @farrowroyale, @palesatan, @scaryplanetdestroyer, @denzmallows, @36namey, @scoobysnakz, @ihateuguys, @idkbros-world @smartyren, @deputy-videogamer, @blackrose8425, @amberpanda99, @marshhbs, @queerponcho, @chooalvina

#meg's writing #miguel ohara x reader #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara x you #miguel o'hara x y/n #college!miguel #college au #college!reader #sorority!reader #nerd!miguel #nerd!miguel o'hara #nerd miguel

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