Theo Nott's Eyes. That's It. That's The Post.

LADY STRONG

Benjicot Blackwood x Velaryon/Strong!Reader

Summary - Stuck in the Riverland's on a marriage tour, you pretend to be Lady Strong when Benjicot Blackwood doesn't recognize you as the Princess of the Seven Kingdoms

Warnings - none except not edited!!

Word Count - 3.1k

!MINORS DNI!

// masterlist // send me your thoughts // comments & reblogs appreciated! //

As if the prospect of a marriage tour was not horrid enough, your first stop was proving to be positively dreadful.  

You had imagined the lands surrounding the Trident to be beautiful. A lush, verdant landscape—filled with fragrant herbs and bright, blooming flowers, painting the Riverlands in rich, colorful hues. You pictured babbling streams and plush grass, stunning castles and, perhaps, some equally as stunning men.  

What you hadn’t imagined, however, was the weather.  

Even from within the confines of Riverrun—the ancestral castle of House Tully—you still feel the effects of the merciless heat beating down upon the sandstone walls.  

Your handmaids had tried to dress you accordingly, stuffing you into your thinnest—and, consequently, your least regal—gown, in hopes that it might prevent sunstroke. Yet still, even as three of Lord Tully’s own servants try fanning you while you sulk in the dining hall, you feel as though every inch of your body is drenched in sticky sweat.  

“This is miserable,” you groan to Ser Lorent, the Kingsguard who had been assigned to your tour. Flanking your right, you spare the knight a pitiful, sidelong glance. “I believe I would sooner die a spinster than be forced to live in this sweltering purgatory!”  

The servants, haphazardly positioned around the table, remain utterly stone-faced, not letting on if they found your comment about their homelands to be humorous or offensive.  

Ser Lorent merely laughs. “The Riverlands are known for their humid summers, princess.” With a wink, he adds, “If you ever bothered with your studies, you would know this.”  

“I study!”  

“With the blade, perhaps,” Ser Lorent muses, his teal eyes twinkling with lighthearted mockery. “But certainly not with books, princess.  

Rolling your eyes, you slump further into your chair, your body practically melting into the upholstery. “Leave the geography lessons to Jace,” you tell him, waving an idle hand. “After all, he is the heir to the Iron Throne. I am only the prized broodmare—” focusing on your plate, and the half-eaten lunch upon it, you try swallowing the bitter tang now filling your mouth—“a royal womb to be sold off to the highest bidder.”  

And, at times, you aren’t even sure if that is considered an honest truth… You’ve certainly never felt royal.  

Like your brothers, you were born extraordinarily plain-featured. With no silver hair or lilac eyes, you appear more like a common-born peasant than someone of prized Valyrian stock—and it didn’t help that, unlike your brothers, you had no dragon, either.  

Ser Lorent watches as you absently push a piece of seared cod around your plate, sighing. “That isn’t true, my princess.” His words are tinged with sympathy. “You are being sold to no one. Your mother wishes for you to have a marriage born of love—not duty.”  

“Ah, yes,” stabbing the fish with the prongs of your fork, you bring it to your lips, “which is why I’m being forced to spend my summer meeting with the haughty sons of fat country lords—for love.”  

His tongue clicks with disapproval. “Your mother has given you a choice in selecting your own husband, princess; which is a luxury not granted to many women.”  

Frowning, you pop the piece of fish into your mouth, turning his words over in your head.  

Gods.  

You hate it when he’s right.  

“Fine,” you relent, still chewing. Turning sideways in your chair, you raise your fork to him in a mock threat, “But my earlier statement stands! If I must take a husband, then it certainly won’t be anyone from here—lest I become no more than a puddle of sweat.”  

Ser Lorent cracks a smile at you. “Should you turn to a puddle, princess, then I vow to mop you from the floor.”  

“How valiant of you, Ser Lorent,” you laugh. “I’m unsure of how I might ever repay you for such loyalty.”  

“I’m not sure you have to worry about that, princess—I don’t believe that puddles are much concerned with matters of debt.”  

Turning back to the table, another soft laugh spills from your lips. “I suppose you’re right, Ser.”  

All too soon, however, your amusement begins to fade. A warm breeze blows in through the many open windows lining Riverrun’s dining hall, the stifling air only accentuating the stickiness of your skin.  

Sucking in a deep, heavy breath, you ask, “How long do we have?”  

Ser Lorent doesn’t ask for clarification, knowing almost at once what you were asking him. “We’re expected back in the Great Hall in a little under an hour, princess.”  

You blow the breath out, groaning slightly.  

An hour—that was all the time you had left before you would be forced back upon the dais, expected to once again smile and be cordial as men and boys from all across the Riverlands made their case for your hand.  

How many of them could possibly be left? This morning alone you had met with dozens upon dozens of them, their voices all blurring into a monotonous hum as they spoke of the history of their Houses—if one considers nonsensical legends from the ancient Age of Heroes as true history, that is.  

Noticing the dreadful pall cast over you, Ser Lorent clamps a comforting hand on your shoulder. “How about a walk before we go back? It might help to clear your head,” he suggests. Then, with a wry grin, “Perhaps you might wish to think back on the men from this morning—see if any of them might make you change your tune about life in the Riverlands.”  

You pin him with a playful scowl. “There’s not a man alive that could change that tune,” you vow. “But you’re right—a walk might be nice.”  

Rising from your seat, the servants around you lower their fans, silently dismissing themselves.  

“Will you be accepting my company on this walk?” Ser Lorent teases—though you know what he’s really asking is: will you be accepting my protection.  

“After this morning, I believe I’ve had enough company for a lifetime.”  

The knight’s brow draws tight, an apprehensive frown beginning to pull at the corners of his lips. You roll your eyes.  

“Oh, don’t worry so much, Ser Lorent. It gives you wrinkles,” you tease. Adjusting the slit running along one side of your dress, you reveal the dagger holstered on your thigh. “I assure you that if any of these Riverlanders dare lay a hand on me, they’ll lose some fingers.”  

Ser Lorent snorts, head shaking. “It’s not you I worry about, princess,” he jokingly admits. “Just stay close by, understand? Your mother will have my head if anything happens to you.”  

“Yes, yes—understood,” you dramatically gripe, already walking past him to the exit.  

“Oh, and princess?” He calls out just as the guards pull the doors open for you to leave. You glance over your shoulder at him, brows lifted. “At least try not to injure anyone.”  

With one last roll of your eyes, bright with mischief, you shout on your way out, “No promises, Ser Lorent!”  

Wandering through the outer yards of Riverrun, the blistering sun beating down upon your skin, you find yourself overwhelmed by a sudden ache in your chest.  

You miss home. Desperately.  

You miss Dragonstone’s near-constant cover of clouds, forever shielding you from the heat. You miss the cool breeze rolling in off the Blackwater, the air peppering your cheeks with salty kisses.  

But, even as you dream of a reprieve from the muggy Riverlands, you can’t help but miss your family—your brothers—most of all.  

Perhaps it is that feeling that led you here, to the training yard, guided by the familiar lull of splintering wood and steel slicing through the air, the sound offering a much-needed remedy to the homesickness twisting in your gut.  

Smaller than the one at Dragonstone, Riverrun’s yard was no more than a cramped stretch of dusty-dirt, lined with old training dummies and archery targets. Mostly encircled by the towering sun-bleached stones of the castles, only a small part of the yard remained open to the sprawling gardens beyond, sectioned off by ornate iron fencing.  

Striding over the open gate, your attention falls upon the lone boy standing in the yard's center.  

As the sunlight beats down overhead, long shadows dance around his feet as he glides through a set of movements—each step calculated, every strike deliberate.  

You step closer, keeping your steps light as you approach. With his back turned to you, you watch as sweat drips down his neck, glistening. It soaks into his tunic, the thin black material clinging to his lean, muscled back.  

He’s talented—you think, lips pursed as you study his form.  

Talent was something you were familiar with—intimately. You were raised around warriors—trained by the Rogue Prince himself—and yet never before have you found yourself so utterly bewitched by a fighter.  

He didn’t move like other boys.  

He wasted no time on the flowery style displayed by so many summer children—the ones who thought of battle as a performance rather than a matter of life or death.  

Instead, he moved with the lethal prowess of an apex predator—his blade cutting through the air with a controlled ferocity that, while lacking the flourish of other warriors, was undeniably impressive.  

Dirt flies as he throws himself into another set of movements—a series of strikes and parries, executing with unbelievable precision. With every twist and pivot, muscles tense and shift beneath his tunic, his body as powerful a weapon as his sword.  

He lunges forward—and wood cracks! as he slashes his blade along the belly of one of the dummies, a move that would have disemboweled a living opponent.  

Cutting through the sudden stillness, you bring your hands up to your chest, filling the yard with a slow clap. Back still turned to you, the boy's spine goes ramrod straight at the unexpected sound.  

“Impressive,” you muse, taking another step towards him. Mere feet remain between the two of you, now. “You move well—better than most, I’d say.”  

The boy spins around to face you, his once elegant movements now blundering as he nearly trips over his own feet. Biting your tongue, you try to hold in a laugh.  

Big, storm-cloud eyes meet your gaze, pinning you in place as he blinks, visibly thrown-off by your presence. “Sorry-” he stammers, out of breath. “I didn’t think anyone else would be coming out here-”  

You lift a hand, cutting him off with a smile. “Oh, no—don’t apologize on my account! I enjoyed the show,” you tell him. “Seems that you have a real talent for swordplay.”  

His cheeks flush, his lightly sun-kissed skin turning a stark crimson. “Thanks.” His laugh is a nervous, awkward thing—endearing, too. He sticks a hand out towards you, the other still limply holding his sword. “Benjicot. Blackwood,” he introduces himself, fumbling over his words, “but you can call me Ben or Benji—or anything, really.”  

You take his hand, biting your lip to mask your amusement. “Pleasure to meet you, Benji.”  

A beat of silence passes before confusion finally tugs at his features, his hand falling back to his side. “Uhm—” another sweet, awkward laugh— “and you are…?”  

Realization dawns on you, leaving your brows to shoot up to your hairline.  

Seven Hells!—he doesn’t know who you are, does he?!  

Your jaw goes slack, a sudden speechlessness grabbing hold of your tongue.  

You suppose you shouldn’t be surprised—after all, you weren’t what many expected of a Targaryen princess. Plain-featured and dressed in thin, common clothes, you imagine you likely appear no different than the servants surrounding you at lunch, fanning you to keep the heat from going to your head.  

Even so, it was rare that you met someone who didn’t know who you were. And, selfishly, after a morning filled with insincere compliments from haughty Lord’s, you like the idea of remaining nameless—titleless—for the first time in your life.  

“Wow—sorry—that was thoughtless of me, wasn’t it?” Tapping a finger to your temple, you laugh. “I’m Mylissa,” you lie, stealing the name of one of your handmaidens. “Mylissa Strong.”  

“Strong?” He echoes, brow furrowing. “Strange—you don’t sound like you’re from the Riverlands. Your accent is—”  

“Southern?”  

Benji nods.  

“Well, I’ve spent the better part of my life in the Crownlands, so I suppose I’ve picked up their accent,” you explain. “I’m here with the princess, actually—as her lady-in-waiting.”  

The mention of the princess—you—turns his skin a pasty white.  

Keeping a tight leash on your curiosity, you try not to sound too intrigued when you ask, “And what about you? Raventree Hall is a decent ride from here, is it not?” On horseback, the ancestral seat of House Blackwood was two days away from Riverrun, if not three. “Are you here to meet with the princess?”  

Benji shifts his weight, leaning from one foot to the other. “Supposed to,” he begins, his words tumbling out, “but I don’t know—I’m not so sure that I’ll go through with it.”  

Your expression falters, disappointment washing over you like a cold wave, combatting the intolerable warmth of the sun.  

“Why not?”  

He shrugs—a timid, shy gesture that feels so unlike the predator you had snuck up on. “There are over a hundred men in there,” he waves an arm to the castle, to the Great Hall within, “all waiting for an opportunity to impress the princess—meanwhile, I can hardly get out a single sentence without choking on my own spit.”  

Your laughter bubbles up involuntarily, a few giggles spilling past your lips. The Blackwood boy shoots you a playful glare from beneath long, dark lashes.  

“Well,” you begin, absentmindedly toeing the dirt between you, “perhaps the princess might find it endearing, don’t you think?”  

I do find it endearing, you think.  

Benji scoffs. “Doubtful. I mean, think about it!—she’s a princess!”  

Your eyes widen, glimmering with mock-offense. “And what is that supposed to mean?”  

Once again, that crimson tinge returns to his skin, crawling up his neck, this time.  

“I meant no offense,” he defends himself, mistaking your expression for one of a Lady meaning to back her princess. “But what could I possibly offer a princess?”  

You tilt your head, pretending to think on his words. “Well, the Blackwoods do have a history of being valiant warriors, do they not? And you seem to be quite skilled yourself,” you say, daring to let your stare drift down to his arms, the short sleeves of his tunic revealing well-muscled, sweat-slick biceps.  

He snorts. “I’m willing to guess that the princess would likely care naught for my skill with a sword.”  

“Then you would guess wrong,” you retort, a faint, teasing smile on your lips. “Many say that the princess herself is quite skilled with a blade—I imagine she would quite like a boy that’s capable of challenging her.”  

Benji’s eyes darken a shade, an unreadable expression crossing his features. “And what about you, Mylissa?”  

The false name catches you off-guard, but you do your best to hide it.  

“What of me?”  

A bit nervous, he asks, “Would you like a boy that can challenge you?”  

Your heart stutters in your chest—skipping several beats as his stare lowers, dipping past your waist and falling upon your thigh. On the dagger sheathed there, no doubt.  

Heat begins to crawl up your neck, hotter even than the sun's blistering rays. “Oh—” You stutter, words lost upon you.  

It’s true that you were used to the attention of men. After all, your morning has been filled with it, and soon enough the rest of your day will be, too.  

But this was different.  

Benji wasn’t giving you attention because you’re a princess, a mere royal womb to strengthen his House’s bloodline. Rather, he was doing it simply because he wanted to—a feeling that was utterly foreign to you.  

Wiping a clammy hand on his sweaty tunic, Benji misreads your silence, taking a half-step back. “Apologies, my Lady—that was far too forward and-”  

You don’t let him finish his rambling. Taking a step forward, you close the gap he sought to create between you. “I’ll make you a deal.”  

“A deal?”  

You nod. “As you know, the princess will be in the Great Hall for the rest of the evening, holding court with the other Lord’s who’ve come for her hand. I'd like for you to meet with her.”  

Benji cocks his head, confusion crinkling the corners of his eyes. “I truly mean no disrespect to your princess, my Lady, but I was asking if you might be interested in–”  

“I know what you’re asking, Benji.” You lift one shoulder in a casual shrug. “And after you meet with the princess, if you still wish to inquire about my hand,” you say, placing a palm to your chest, “then I will happily hear you out.”  

In the distance, a bell sounds out—signaling the time, you realize.  

“If you’ll excuse me,” you start, already taking a few small half-steps backwards. “I’m expected inside.”  

Letting his sword drop to the ground, Benji lunges forward to catch your wrist. “So you agree to meet with me after court, then?”  

“If you’re still interested,” you muse, a tinge of anxiety laced through your tone, “then yes.”  

The corners of his lips twitch into a bashful smile. “I give you my word that–”  

You planned to interrupt him. To tell him not to make oaths he wasn’t certain he could keep, knowing that he may very well change his mind about you once he realizes who you are—that you’re not technically a Strong. But, before you can, another voice intervenes.  

“Princess!” Ser Lorent calls out, exasperated, as he walks through the gate. “We must hurry, princess,” he continues, pausing only to give a wary glance at Benji’s hands wrapped around your wrist. “We’re late.”  

Your pulse begins to pound, a surge of adrenaline coursing through your veins at being exposed as a liar by Ser Lorent. 

Benji’s face goes blank—then his eyes go wide, big as saucers as you snag your wrist from his grip.  

“Princess?” He utters, voice laden with disbelief. “Princess?!”  

You can hardly bring yourself to do anything other than grin stupidly at him, nearly stumbling over yourself as you back-up to where Ser Lorent is waiting impatiently.  

“It was lovely meeting you, Benji!”  

You hope he can hear just how genuine your words are.  

“I’ll see you in the Great Hall,” you call out over your shoulder, sparing him one last glance as Ser Lorent guides you to the gate, watching as he blinks in astonishment, still processing the revelation.  

Walking back towards the inner-castle, Ser Lorent glances down at you with a knowing look. “You seem giddy.” There’s a teasing glint to his words that makes you roll your eyes, cheeks flushing. “So,” he continues, his brisk pace never faltering, “does this mean that your statement from lunch no longer stands? That, perhaps, this sweltering purgatory may yet grow on you?”  

You bite your cheek, a permanent grin still etched onto your face.  

“Let’s just say that I’ve decided it’s best to keep my options open, Ser Lorent.”  

a/n - you may ask yourself: lainie, why would you refer to him as mostly BEN in the last fic and BENJI in this one??

and the answer? I have not ONE clue. my brain is rotting and benji is cute.

anyways, hope you guys enjoy this one! feel like I got to explore more of his personality here. additionally, I need HBO to know that if this boy ends up not being benjicot blackwood then I'm gonna fucking riot

benjicot blackwood tag list - @a-song-for-ages @ghostinvenus

Karlach Unable to Get Enough of You

Pairing: Karlach x Reader

Tags: fluff, touch-starved, kissing, cuddles, tail shenanigans, playful biting, protectiveness

A/N: She's been on my mind for a while, I need to get these brainworms out. Plus I find the whole "romance but can't touch" thing very appealing both as a writer and as someone who's ace.

The pining was almost too much to handle for you both, unable to touch from the fear of being hurt, well this was more Karlach's fear then yours, you were willing to endure a few burns if it meant that you'd kiss her

Once she's able to touch you she becomes the clingiest person in your party

This isn't just towards you but towards some of her friends as well

Although with you it's a lot more romantically intimate

She'll place her hand on your thigh when you're sitting by the camp fire, she'll wrap her tail around you when you're sleeping, it doesn't matter if her back is turned or not, she'll pull you into her arms and growl at anyone who flirts with you

You're hers, and it feels strange to admit to it, to have this new protective and possessive urge to be with you

Kissing happens multiple times a day, after every fight, before you go to sleep, as she holds you up against a tree, biting at your lips, pulling them between her sharp teeth and letting you moan against her lips

You always feel her tail around you, even when you're walking

This has tripped you up a few times before but now she's able to catch you, spin you around and kiss you better

She no longer minds when you catch her looking at you because now you can both do something about it, a touch, a kiss or something more, it's all finally on the table for you two

hiii could you please write something where reader doesn’t know ethan is gf and during sex he slips up and is like “ i would kill for you” or something like that and reader just thinks he’s being passionate but he’s being serious lol

he's fucking you so passionately, hips meeting yours with deep thrusts, his face hovering above yours so you can feel his warm breath against your nose and lips. he has a hand pressed into the pillow above your head, the other clinging onto your waist until you can feel his blunt nails digging into your skin.

"fuck, you feel so good," he tells you, his voice a little shaky but missing that whimper-y edge you're so used to. although, you're whimpering enough for the both of you, your sounds broken up with breaths that come from the harsh thrusts ethan's giving you.

"s...so do you," you compliment, but your words are butchered and it takes a few moments to get the three words out. ethan's lip curls up into a smile and you try to reflect the expression, but his cock angles just right and your mouth falls open in a moan instead.

your eyes pinch shut, but you quickly reopen them to look at ethan. the way his cheeks are flushed, how pink his lips are, his long eyelashes framing doe eyes that are lidded as he stares down at you. his hair bounces with each thrust, and your sudden desire to dig your nails into the locks overcomes you until your limbs react before your brain realizes it.

ethan sighs into the feeling, his thrusts faltering for just a second. "i ..." he stutters, hesitates, then tries again. "i would kill for you," his hand on your waist slides up until it sits below the column of your throat, splayed across your collarbones. you tilt your chin up as a way to give him permission, then his hand slides up to gently wrap around your throat, not squeezing. "you understand that?"

you nod, even though in this state you don't really understand. but your eyes are so watery and your eyebrows are pinched and you look so sincere so ethan leans down and presses his lips to yours.

"i mean that," he whispers, but you're lost in the moment, reaching your peak, nonverbally begging for ethans help to get you there. with his undying love and obsession for you in his mind, he helps you reach your climax until you're clenching around him, bringing him to his peak as well.

Masterlist

F1

Lando Norris:

Reckless Driving

When McLaren thinks its funny to put Y/n in a sports-car with her boyfriend and a set of question cards. Spoiler Alert: She doesn’t!

The Infamous Stream

When Max streams and the chat goes wild for Lando and Y/n’s sappy love.

I Can’t Help Falling In Love With You Pt. 2

What if love isn’t enough? What if the obstacles are too great and all the whirlwind romance ends up being is the right person, but wrong time?

Call Your Mom

Y/n’s struggle with mental health and the journey, accompanied by Lando and her best friends, she goes through in order to get better.

London Boy

In which she falls in love with a London boy as an American girl.

Flowers

After the Silverstone Grand Prix, Y/n wants to do something nice for her successful boyfriend, but she quickly finds out her kind gesture means a lot more to him than what she expected.

Caught

When living with their best friends proves to be the worst decision Lando and Y/n ever made.

Used Pt. 2

A bet can do more harm than good.

She Doesn’t Know Who I Am Pt. 2

Lando’s in New York and no one knows who he is. Especially the girl who asks for his number.

Enemies To Lovers, Ya Know?

They’ve always hated each other. Always. Right?

Gentle

In which Y/n’s past is a little haunted, but Lando knows exactly how to make her understand that she is safe with him.

Spa

When a reality check causes Y/n to worry about him coming home to her every day for the rest of their lives.

Try On! (Smut Warning)

She thought his opinion on some new lingerie would be good. Spoiler alert, it was good. Really good.

The Softest Launch

He tried to be a secret, but the eyes never lie.

It’s the High Altitude. (Smut Warning)

They’ve missed each other. What can they say?

The Video Pt. 2

Y/n and Lando’s club dancing sends the F1 world into a frenzy.

Lando’s Biggest Fangirl

His girlfriend. Lando’s biggest fangirl is his girlfriend.

I’m Sorry To Go

She’s not quite ready to have him leave just yet.

What Are You Doing Up?

She can’t go to sleep when he isn’t there.

I Can’t Go a Second Without You

She was gone for five hours, but apparently that’s too long in Lando’s book.

Happy Birthday

It’s his favorite person’s birthday.

Don’t Wake Up Yet (Smut Warning)

When Lando gets home from a race weekend without his girlfriend, he just can’t wait.

Lacy Pt. 2 (Oscar Ending) Pt. 2 (Lando Ending)

To the song “Lacy” by Olivia Rodrigo, that should be enough summarized.

Oscar Piastri:

Let Me Love You

A friendship where the lines are incredibly blurred is risky, but it’s even more risky to fall in love with a girl who won’t let anyone in romantically.

Caught

Y/n’s and Oscar’s fun in his room takes a surprising, awkward turn very quickly.

- The Vacation

They just keep getting caught. (Could be read as a Caught Part 2 or a standalone)

This Is About Oscar?! Pt. 2

Y/n’s new song exposes a side of Oscar no one knew about.

I’ll Be The Fred To Your Daphne

He’ll always be the Fred to her Daphne, the peanut butter to her pb and j, and the salt to her pepper.

Best Friends To Benefits To Lovers

They’ve been dating for months after being the closest of friends for years. The question is, however, did they start out as best friends with benefits?

The Quiet Night and the Loud Morning

It was bound to happen at some point.

Hurt Me Once Pt. 2

In which they just miss the childhood best friends to lovers trope.

She Wears The Pants, Right?

Nobody saw it coming. Nobody.

Let Me Help

She’s got a math test the next day and unfortunately, she can’t do math. However, her boyfriend can.

Charles Leclerc:

Edits

When Carlos exposes Y/n watching edits of her boyfriend on Instagram. She’s incredibly embarrassed, but after an interesting conversation with the man himself, should she really be?

Criminal Minds

Spencer Reid:

Coming Soon ❤️

me: man my job sucks i want to play video games or somethin

the nefarious anglerfish:

"Kill them with kindness" WRONG. drop the opera house chandelier on them.

when you say you're unlucky do you mean like a "I lost hydraulics and crashed in the formation lap" or "I kept it clean at the start, went from p17 to 12 and then a tyre, as though sent from God, struck me down in a biblical, guided missile way"