aiyaiy

[aiyaiy]

For King and Kin

22/12: Party and Position Changes - Aemond Targaryen Word Count: 1.6k~ | Warnings: mentions of pregnancy, smut, prince regent aemond, doggy

12 Days of Smuff Masterlist

“She is of a weak disposition, I heard. Perhaps she is with child.”

“The Prince Regent certainly needs an heir.”

“He has looked sour since his Lady Wife left the celebrations.”

Aemond scoffed from his spot at the high table, circling a finger over the rim of his cup, half-filled with wine. They spoke as if he did not hear them, whispering such gossip. It was infuriating.

It was true that his lady wife suffered from sickness, especially in the mornings, but not exclusively. The maesters had told him in quiet confidence that they suspected she was with child, but that it was sensible to wait until the quickening to confirm.

What an excruciating wait.

She had graced the court with her presence earlier in the evening, but when she began to feel her stomach churning, she need only pay him a furrow of her brows in pain and he was more than happy to allow her rest if she needed it.

He was willing to carry her even, excuse himself from the celebrations himself. But she reassured him she was still able to walk, with a small, amused smile.

Even with the conqueror's crown planted firmly upon his head, all he could think of was the sweet curve of his wife's body in his. How warm she is. How smooth her skin. How plush her thighs. How tight her—

“Your Grace.”

Aemond blinked, swallowing thickly as he felt his breeches tighten at the mere tangent his mind was about to embark upon. Nothing softened him faster than the sight of Ser Tyland Lannister though, smug and stood tall as if he himself had been crowned instead of him.

“I wish to congratulate you on your Regency. As always your council will remain steadfast and trustworthy. And should you ever desire a Hand—”

“Thank you, Ser Tyland,” Aemond half-smiled, half-grimaced, “your loyalty is appreciated.”

Aemond nodded curtly to Ser Tyland, signalling the conversation was over, though the Lannister lingered a moment too long for Aemond’s liking before finally bowing and stepping away. 

His good eye drifted across the festivities. Everyone was drunk at best, smiles too wide, laughter too hollow, and he was overcome with the sudden desire to leave it all behind. He glanced in his mother’s direction as he pushed his chair out, her brown eyes wide with curiosity and judgement perhaps. 

She had given him no other look since Rook’s Rest.

“I believe they’ve seen enough of me tonight,” Aemond said, his tone firm. “The realm will not crumble if its Regent retires an hour early.”

“Aemond–”

“Mother,” he interrupted, his voice low but final.

It was only in the hall where he felt he could finally breathe. Air flowed easily, no longer stifled by the pomp and proper of the evening he had just sought to leave. He opened the heavy door to their chambers and stepped inside. The fire had burned low and she was already in bed, lying on her side, her hair spilling over the pillow.

“You left early,” he said quietly, closing the door behind him.

Her eyes opened slowly, and a small smile curved her lips. “And yet you followed.”

As he reached the bed, she shifted to sit up, the blanket pooling around her waist. “I thought you’d stay longer. Your mother will have words, I’m sure.”

“She always does,” he replied, sitting on the edge of the bed. His hand reached out to brush a strand of hair from her face. “Are you feeling unwell?”

Her gaze dropped for a moment, her fingers grazing her stomach in that way that had haunted him all evening. “No,” she said softly. “Just…tired.”

He hummed, “when will the maesters give their opinion?”

She looked up at him then, her expression caught somewhere between apprehension and hope. “They said it would be unwise to speculate for a few more weeks,” she replied. “But I am aware patience is not your strong suit, is it?”

He smirked faintly. “It is not.”

“You’ve waited for so much, Aemond,” she said softly, her voice warm and soothing, eyes glancing up at the conqueror’s crown sat atop his head. “A little longer won’t harm you.”

“Hm,” he murmurs, crawling over the bed towards her delicate form, pressing his face to her stomach with his hands on her hips, “spare me, dear wife. Have the maesters forbade coupling? I do not think I can wait.”

Her fingers threaded through his hair as she let out a soft laugh. “No,” she said, “but we must be careful. They warned against anything too…strenuous. Until we know for certain.”

“I am no beast,” he muffled against her shift, bunching it up as if desperate to touch her flesh, “I know restraint.”

“I seem to recall differently,” she countered with a teasing lilt.

With a hand to his chest, she pushes him back, enough to be able to straddle his lap as he sits with his back against the bed frame. For a moment his pupil widened slightly and she relished in the warm pride that spread through her at his reaction. 

She wasted no time. Unlacing his breeches was the simple part, but in this position, face to face, it was novel and intimate, more than usual. It was always Aemond on top, commanding her body to his. She wasn't sure how her husband was likely to cope with the change.

His breath hitched, eye closing as she pulled his cock free and worked him to full hardness, her slight palm massaging the ruddy tip, knowing what he liked. He was surely about to speak before she rose her hips, and the tip of him kissed her waiting slit, and slowly, slowly took her husband to the hilt.

Her movements were slow, deliberate, her hands braced against his chest as she guided them both into a steady rhythm. Aemond’s hands gripped her hips, his fingers pressing into her flesh as he resisted the urge to take control. He let her lead, his lips parting as a low groan escaped him.

“Ābrazȳrys” his voice caught, his eye blazing as he gazed up at her. “You are perfection.”

She leaned forward, her fingers threading through his silver hair, and pressed her lips to his. The dark crown brushed her fingertips, and in her annoyed breath, she slipped it from his head onto the bed. An action only the wife of the Prince Regent in this intimate moment would ever get away with.

Their breaths mingled, their shared movements growing more heated, more desperate. It felt good to roll her hips against him, each slide home was easy, aided by her unending desire to please him. But soon, she began to slow, the strain in her thighs becoming too much.

Her brows furrowed, her rhythm faltering as she let out a shaky breath. “Aemond.”

He must have felt the shake, as he was already moving her off his lap, “enough. Allow me.”

He guided her off him carefully, laying her down on her side before helping her onto her hands and knees. She looked over her shoulder, her eyes wide, and for a moment, uncertainty flickered across her face.

Her cheeks burned as he pulled the shift over her backside, pulling her legs apart so he might see the wetness that glazed her womanhood. She felt exposed and utterly at his mercy in such a compromising position.

Not to mention, this was uncharted territory.

“We’ve never…” she began, her voice trailing off.

Aemond smirked, his fingers trailing down her spine. “No,” he murmured, his tone low, “but we will now.”

He positioned himself behind her, and watched with curiosity and admiration, as for from this angle, he was able to watch himself disappear inside, swallowed by her silky walls. She gasped in turn, this was deeper than she had ever felt him, with her spine curved and backside held against him. Her fingers clutched the sheets as his pace began slow enough, before his restraint began to ebb away.

“Alright?” he rasped, leaning forward to press kisses along her shoulder, his voice rough with both pleasure and concern.

Her hips instinctively pushed back, “don't stop…”

Her approval shocked him, but ignited his confidence all the same as he began to push into her with renewed vigour. She was surprised at how much she liked it, the way he fit against her, the way his hands held her so firmly. It felt raw, intimate, and utterly consuming.

His hands slid up to her waist as he felt her peak quiver through her body, her walls spasming around him and in the force of it, her arms gave out and she pressed her front to the sheets. She swore she felt the palm of his hand on her lower stomach, stroking lovingly as he reached his, pushing hot, pearly ropes of his release so much inside her, that she felt it dribble down her thigh.

Aemond helped her shift onto her side, gathering her into his arms as they both caught their breath. His hand instinctively returned to her stomach, his thumb brushing over the soft skin in slow, soothing circles.

“You will let me know once the maesters give their opinion, won’t you?”

“Of course,” she replied, leaning into him. “But tonight, you are Prince Regent. Let us celebrate that.”

Aemond shook his head, his lips curling into a rare, genuine smile. His gaze softened as he looked at her, his wife, who had managed to calm the storm in him more times than he cared to admit.

“Tonight, I am your husband. Nothing else matters.”

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[aiyaiy]

The Swan Princess; Westeros Version.

The Targaryen Princess is the younger sister of Rhaenyra and the second daughter of King Viserys and the late Queen Aemma x Lord Cregan Stark in a dynamic inspired by The Swan Princess.

Viserys and Rickon Stark arrange for the princess and Cregan to be wed once she comes of age. To build familiarity, they reunite them every few years (a rare moment of decency among men in House of the Dragon, but let's roll with it).

However, from a young age, they absolutely despise each other, setting the stage for a classic love-hate relationship.

Young fem Targ reader x young Cregan Stark.

Warnings: kids being kids.

The second encounter.

Cregan Stark lingered by the sweets spread, trying his best to fade into the carved wooden panels that lined Dragonstone’s grand banquet hall. The lavish celebration for Prince Aemond’s second name day was in full swing, the chamber brimming with lords and ladies draped in silks and velvets. Overhead, crystal chandeliers cast dancing lights across the polished floors, while the mingling scents of spiced meats, honey cakes, and salt-laced sea air reminded Cregan just how far he was from the North.

He would not have chosen to be here of his own accord—his father, Lord Rickon, had insisted upon it. The North had to show deference to the crown, and so here he was, a wolf trapped among gaudy southern birds. The swirl of vibrant fabrics and the swirl of conversation grated on him, making him feel more foreign with each passing moment.

He absently picked at an apple tart, gaze drifting around the hall. Laughter rolled in waves, bright silks shimmered, and voices overlapped like waves against a rocky shore. Then he saw you.

You, just eight summers old, stood on the dance floor, your silver hair braided and held in place by glittering dragon clips. A genial lord—perhaps one of your father’s many courtiers—guided you through a stately dance, each step practised and careful. Your gown of pale red silk, shot through with gold thread, flared as you twirled, catching the light as if it were spun from Dragonfire. Beside you, Princess Rhaenyra clapped politely, regal and composed, yet it was you who drew every eye, all luminous joy and childlike grace.

You seemed taller than he recalled—though still slight in that dainty, southern way. Everyone knew that you and your elder sister were the King’s favorites, and your presence commanded a sort of reverence. Lords angled for a moment of your attention, ladies curtsied and cooed with honeyed compliments. It was as though the court revolved around you.

From her seat by the King, Queen Alicent watched you dance and laugh. Her mouth curved in a careful smile, but even at ten, Cregan could sense it was a mask. The queen, he suspected, did not relish sharing Viserys’s affections with the daughters who stole so much of his warmth.

He glowered at the thought, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Honestly, what made you so remarkable? You were willful, well-pampered, prone to speak your mind, and insufferable too, if anyone were to ask him. You weren’t that special. Plenty of other children had those traits, too. And yet—no matter how he tried to turn his attention elsewhere, his gaze kept straying back to you, spinning in the lord’s gentle arms, your soft laughter rising above the music as if it had a life all its own.

Cregan stiffened the moment you approached, his posture snapping to an almost militant straightness as though he were preparing for a lecture rather than a conversation. The mischievous gleam in your lilac eyes immediately set his jaw tight—it was the same infuriating spark that had earned him countless reprimands from his father for failing to act with proper decorum around you. You sank into a delicate curtsy, the motion practised and graceful, yet the teasing quirk of your lips betrayed any semblance of genuine respect.

“Princess,” he greeted you with a curt bow, voice clipped. “What an unexpected honour.”

Your tone dripped with feigned gravity as you replied, “The honour is all mine, my lord. Stumbling upon the northern wolf lurking beside the sweetmeats… One might almost think you’ve been tamed.”

Cregan’s brow furrowed in irritation, a flash of defiance sparking in his grey eyes.

“A wolf doesn’t require taming, Your Highness,” he countered. “I stand exactly where I choose.”

You tilted your head toward the table piled high with sweetmeats and pastries, your voice light with false innocence. “And this is where you choose to linger, Lord Stark? Tell me, do the pastries in Winterfell rival these in quality?”

His retort was clipped. “They’re simpler, yes—but far more to my taste than this… southern absurdity.”

You drew a theatrical gasp, hand pressing over your heart. “How you wound me, my lord. Are you implying that life in the North eclipses all else?”

A faint smirk tugged at his lips. “I do not imply. I state fact.”

Your eyes sparkled with mischief, your voice carrying an air of mock civility. “Well, I ought not to take this as an offence. After all, it’s remarkable that you manage the common tongue so gracefully, considering your… brutish northern customs. Tell me, Lord Stark, do you and your kin still howl to your old gods beneath trees, hoping for a reply?”

Cregan’s hand tightened around the tart, the edges of the crust crumbling under the force of his grip. His jaw locked, and his stormy gaze fixed on you with a warning glare. “Since we’re trading such pleasant observations, Princess, perhaps we should turn our attention to dragons—or rather, your conspicuous lack of one.”

The teasing light that danced in your lilac eyes extinguished instantly. Your expression sharpened, the flush of indignation colouring your cheeks.

“What did you say?” you demanded, your voice like the edge of a blade.

Cregan didn’t flinch, folding his arms as he leaned slightly forward, his tone steady and deliberate.

“I said,” he repeated, drawing out each word with an almost casual air, “that a Targaryen princess without a dragon… is painfully ordinary.”

Your entire body stiffened at his words, and your hands curled into tight fists at your sides. Your face burned, the flush deepening as you glared up at him with fiery intensity.

“You will take that back,” you hissed, your voice trembling with barely restrained fury.

“I will not,” he replied simply, meeting your gaze without so much as a blink. It was a standoff, the air between you crackling like kindling set alight, neither willing to back down.

Before he could utter another syllable, you thrust both hands against his chest. The force of the shove made him stagger backwards, one heel catching on the table’s wooden frame. In a desperate bid for balance, he reached out, only for his fingers to catch the trailing hem of your fine silk gown.

The sound of ripping fabric tore through the air, followed by a cacophony of disaster as you both tumbled backwards onto the table. The grand centrepiece—a towering, intricately decorated cake—collapsed under your combined weight, sending frosting, crumbs, and sugar flowers flying in every direction.

For a moment, the hall was silent, the music grinding to a halt as every pair of eyes turned toward the spectacle. The only sound was the slow, steady drip of frosting onto the polished floor.

Cregan blinked up at the chaos, realizing he was sprawled awkwardly amid a sea of ruined confections. Beside him, you were similarly dishevelled, your silver hair streaked with frosting, your gown torn and stained with layers of cream and crumbs.

“You… absolute… oaf!” you hissed through clenched teeth, scrambling to sit up, your lilac eyes blazing with fury. With surprising agility, you scrambled onto him, flailing your small fists in a chaotic flurry.

“You shoved me!” Cregan barked, raising his arms to fend off your flurry of tiny fists. Your attempts to pummel him were more chaotic than effective, but you were determined.

“You insulted me!” you countered, your voice sharp with indignation.

“And you called me a brute!” Cregan retorted, his voice rising in frustration as he seized your wrists, halting your frantic blows.

“That’s because you are a brute!” you snapped, wrenching your arms free with a sharp tug. Your small frame trembled with indignation as you raised a tiny fist, ready to land what you clearly thought would be a devastating blow—but before you could make contact, a broad-shouldered knight, Ser Harwin Strong, intervened.

In one swift motion, he scooped you up and hoisted you over his shoulder like a sack of grain, preventing any further skirmish while you continued to struggle, your fury undiminished. His expression was caught somewhere between amusement and exasperation.

“Unhand me, Ser Harwin!” you demanded, still reaching out in an attempt to land your blow, your face aflame with indignation. But Ser Harwin only tightened his hold, keeping you securely aloft as your small fists flailed at empty air.

“Cregan.”

He froze the moment that familiar voice reached his ears—low, firm, and unmistakably displeased. Heart thudding, Cregan scrambled upright, hastily brushing crumbs and frosting from his tunic in a futile attempt to salvage some semblance of dignity, feeling heat rise to his cheeks as he prepared to face his father, Lord Rickon Stark, whose stern grey eyes were now fixed on his son’s every move.

And then, beyond the circle of onlookers, came the voice of King Viserys. The instant he called your name, your thrashing ceased as if a spell had been broken. One fist remained clenched mid-swing, but the sound of your father’s stern summons froze you in place. You wriggled once more on Ser Harwin Strong’s shoulder before going limp with a huff of frustration, clearly aware that further resistance would only make matters worse.

The great hall seemed to hold its breath as King Viserys stepped forward, his frown deepening at the sight of the battered dessert table and his frosting-smeared daughter. Guards and courtiers parted to let him pass, and in the stillness that followed, every eye was fixed on you and the young Stark lord who stood before you, equally dishevelled.

The King’s gaze swept over the scene: the shattered remnants of the centrepiece cake, frosting streaked across the floor, and two children—one caked in sugar and silk, the other in crumbs and frayed northern dignity—standing stiffly before him. His expression shifted from confusion to thinly veiled disappointment as the whispers around the hall grew.

When he finally spoke, his voice was calm but carried the commanding weight of the crown. “What in the Seven Hells is the meaning of this?”

Ser Harwin carefully lowered you to the ground as though handling a volatile brew. You straightened your spine as best you could, brushing futilely at the frosting streaked across your gown. Despite your bedraggled appearance, you jutted your chin up stubbornly, attempting to smudge away stray frosting with all the dignity you could muster—though you succeeded only in spreading more crumbs along your sleeve. You shot a fiery glare at Cregan, who still looked like he wished the floor would swallow him whole.

Lord Rickon Stark chose that moment to step forward, clearing his throat. “Your Grace, my son—”

Viserys raised a hand, silencing him without a word. All eyes were on the King, and he, in turn, focused on the two of you with a mix of bewilderment and annoyance.

“Princess,” he said, meeting your gaze. “You will speak first.”

You gave an indignant huff, shooting another scornful glance at Cregan before reluctantly turning to face your father.

“He insulted me grievously, Father—told me I was ordinary because I do not yet ride a dragon!” Her lilac eyes flashed, and she swiped another glob of cake from her hair with a wrinkled nose. “So I merely defended my honour.”

“Aye, by launching yourself at me,” Cregan muttered, though he tried to appear calm, there was no hiding the stiff set of his shoulders—or a dollop of frosting sliding down his cheek. “And need I remind you, Princess, that you provoked me first by comparing my prayers to… howling at the moon?”

A chorus of hushed snickers rippled around them. Viserys’s brow lifted, and for a brief moment, it seemed he fought off a faint smirk.

“I see,” he said, folding his arms. “So, if I follow correctly, you have reduced a royal banquet to a frosted battlefield… because of a few sharp words?”

At that, you set your jaw stubbornly. “Words are not so harmless, Father. They carry weight, and his were particularly unkind.”

“And what of your words?” Cregan interjected, his chin lifting in quiet defiance. “They were none too gentle either, Your Grace.”

You flicked your gaze back to him, a sharp retort already on your tongue. “Oh, do hush, northern brute. I’d not have wasted my breath if you hadn’t been so—”

“Enough.” Viserys’s voice rang out, firm and commanding, cutting through the rising tension like a blade. The authority in his tone stilled you both, silencing further outbursts.

“You are both of noble blood,” he said, his gaze hard as it swept between the two of you. “This—” he gestured at the ruins of the cake, the scattered fruit, and the stunned courtiers “—is not how nobility ought to conduct itself. Especially not before half the realm’s finest lords and ladies.”

Your cheeks burned hotter than dragonfire, but your pride refused to crumble entirely. “Father, I—”

Viserys’s gaze hardened, silencing your protest before it fully formed. “You will each apologize. Properly.”

Your mouth opened to argue, but his iron stare left no room for negotiation. Your teeth clenched, but with a long-suffering sigh, you turned to Cregan, your lips pressed into a thin line.

“It seems,” you began, each word forced through your stubborn pride, “I owe you an apology.” Your gaze flicked to your father, then back to the northern boy. “By the King’s command, of course.”

Cregan’s jaw tightened as he met your glare. He gave a shallow bow, his voice measured and formal.

“And I apologize for my words, Princess. However,” he added, unable to stop himself, “they were not spoken without reason.”

Your eyes narrowed, and for a moment, it seemed as though you might lunge at him again. But instead, you stood straighter, fixing him with a withering look. The silence stretched between you, heavy and sharp, until your father cleared his throat pointedly.

Both of you turned away at last, but the exchange between your gazes spoke louder than any words: I despise you.

And his? The feeling is mutual.

Helloooo, I hope you all enjoyed this one mess lol. But Oh, do I love making this. Also, thank you so much for the support, the likes, comments and reblogs, you all really make me have so much motivation.

<3 Thank you so muchhhh.

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[aiyaiy]

The swan Princess; Westeros Version.

Okay so, I can’t this out of my brain so just imagine this with me:

The reader-insert Targaryen Princess, the younger sister of Rhaenyra by about 16-17 years, and the second daughter of King Viserys and the late Queen Aemma x Lord Cregan Stark in a dynamic inspired by The Swan Princess.

Viserys and Rickon Stark arrange for the princess and Cregan to be wed once she comes of age. To build familiarity, they reunite them every few years (a rare moment of decency among men in House of the Dragon, but let's roll with it).

However, from a young age, they absolutely despise each other, setting the stage for a classic love-hate relationship.

Young fem Targ reader x young Cregan Stark.

Warnings: kids being kids.

The towering walls of Harrenhal surround you like sentinels, their dark history hidden beneath the banners of red and black for your name day celebration. It's your sixth name day, and the great hall is alive with music, laughter, and the scent of roasted meats. Nobles mill about in their finest, offering you warm smiles, expensive gifts and endless congratulations. You curtsy, thank them, and do all the things a proper princess should.

You’ve been told countless times how loved you are—how your bright smile and kind words can soften even the grumpiest lord. But the truth is, your feet ache from standing, your cheeks hurt from smiling, and you missed you sister Nyra, she couldn’t attend because she was about to give birth to her babe. You’re already planning your escape.

Your father’s voice pulls you from your thoughts.

“Come, sweetling,” King Viserys beckoned warmly, his hand resting gently on your shoulder. “There is someone I would have you meet.”

With his guiding presence, he led you across the hall to a man of imposing stature, his broad shoulders and solemn expression marking him unmistakably as a lord of the North—Lord Rickon Stark. Beside him stood a boy, perhaps a few years your elder, with a mane of dark curls and piercing grey eyes that seemed to observe the world with unnerving precision.

“Lord Stark, I trust your journey was swift and uneventful?” your father inquired with the easy grace of a king accustomed to courtesies.

Lord Rickon inclined his head in a deep bow, he straightened from his bow, his voice deep and steady, carrying the weight of northern formality.

“Your Grace, the journey was as kind as one could hope this time of year. The North sends its regards, and I am honored to stand in your presence once more. Thank you for the honor of hosting us.” He glanced at you and also bow, “May the princess’s name day bring joy to all who celebrate it.”

You smile politely, dipping into a curtsy. “Thank you, my lord. It’s a pleasure to meet you and your family.”

Rickon gestures to the boy at his side. “This is my son and heir, Cregan.”

Cregan steps forward, bowing stiffly. It’s obvious he’s not used to it. He’s taller than you expected, and there’s something about the way he holds himself that reminds you of the knights in your father’s court—serious, reserved, and trying far too hard to look older than he is.

“Princess,” he says in a deep, measured voice, “happy name day. I hope it has been a joyful celebration.”

You smile at him, tilting your head.

“Thank you, my lord. It has been lively.” Your tone is polite, but you can’t help teasing him a little. He seems so serious, like he’s never laughed a day in his life.

Your father turned to speak with Lord Rickin about something you honestly had no interest in. Instead you turn to the boy, the young Lord, Cregan Stark.

“Do you always speak like that?” you ask before you can stop yourself.

Cregan blinks, clearly taken aback. “Like what?”

“So formal,” you say with a grin. “Do you practice in front of a mirror?”

His ears turn red, but he doesn’t lose his composure. “It’s important to speak with respect,”

You’re about to tease him further when your father nudges you gently. You remember your manners and curtsy again, leaving Cregan to stare after you as you’re whisked away to greet the next guest.

Later that evening, after what feels like hours of endless conversation and feasting, you finally find your chance to slip away. The gardens outside Harrenhal are quiet and cool, a welcome escape from the noise of the hall. The moonlight dances on the fountains, and the scent of night-blooming flowers fills the air.

You’re wandering down a stone path when you spot him—Cregan Stark. He’s crouched under a tree, poking at the dirt with a stick.

“You’re not supposed to leave the hall,” you say, your sudden voice startling him.

He shoots to his feet, hastily brushing dirt off his tunic as though it might erase his guilt.

“Neither are you,” he counters, his tone careful yet edged with a hint of accusation.

You arch a brow, crossing your arms. “I’m the princess. I can do as I please.”

“That’s not true,” he retorts, his grey eyes narrowing as he mirrors your posture. “The king said the garden is off-limits.”

A sly smirk curls your lips, your lilac eyes gleaming with mischief. “Well, my father isn’t here, is he?”

Cregan’s frown deepens, his expression growing more serious. “If something happens to you, it’ll be my fault.”

Ignoring him, you take a step closer, letting your gaze drop to the stick he clutches. “What are you doing out here, anyway? Were you digging for treasure?”

His shoulders stiffen as he quickly moves the stick behind his back. “That’s none of your concern.”

Your grin widens, delighted at his discomfort. “So you were digging for something!”

“I wasn’t!” he insists, his ears tinged with a flush of embarrassment.

“Let me see,” you say, darting forward with a burst of energy and snatching the stick from his hand before he can react. You hold it aloft like a trophy, inspecting it with exaggerated curiosity. “What is this supposed to be?”

“It’s just a stick,” Cregan replies, his tone laced with exasperation, as if he couldn’t believe you were making such a fuss.

You tilt your head, pretending to examine it like it’s some ancient artifact. “Were you digging for dragon eggs? Gold, perhaps?”

His cheeks flush, and he glares at you. “Stop teasing me!”

But teasing him is far too entertaining to stop now. You smirk, twirling the stick.

“Or maybe you’re looking for a duel,” you say, taking a step back and mimicking a defensive stance you’d seen knights adopt in the courtyard during their sparring sessions.

Cregan raises an eyebrow at you, incredulous. “I’m not fighting a girl. And a princess, no less.”

You narrow your eyes at him, your grin growing wider. “Why not? Afraid, Stark?”

He bristles immediately, straightening his posture. “I am not afraid,”

“Really? Then prove it,” you challenge, tapping the stick against the ground like a knight preparing to strike.

Before he can respond, you jab the stick lightly at his side, making him jump. “Ow!”

You laugh as he lunges for the stick, easily sidestepping him.

“You're slow," you taunt, spinning the stick like you've seen the knights do.

It's far too big for your small hands, but you make it work, grinning all the while.

Cregan narrows his grey eyes, his jaw tightening.

"I'm not slow," he says, his voice low and deliberate.

"Prove it, then," you say with a smirk, backing away a step. "Show me what the great Stark of the north can do."

He hesitates, glancing down at the mud smudging his boots, as if weighing the consequences.

“It wouldn't be honorable," he says stiffly, his tone full of the self-importance you've come to expect from boys who think they're men.

You roll your eyes. "You're no fun, Stark. What's the point of being a lord if you can't even defend your honor from a girl with a stick?"

His cheeks flush redder. "It's not proper to fight a princess!"

"Then you'd better run," you say, raising the stick and charging at him.

Caught off guard, Cregan stumbles back, his hands flying up in defense.

“Stop that!" he growls, but you've already jabbed him lightly in the side.

"First blood!" you declare triumphantly, poking him again before he can react.

"That's enough!" he snaps, grabbing for the stick, but you dance out of reach, laughing all the while.

"Not until you admit l've bested you," you tease, circling him with the mock seriousness of a seasoned warrior.

"Never," he mutters, his brows drawing into a stormy line.

But you don’t stop. You jab him again, then again, each time with just enough force to make him flinch. His face turns red—not from pain, but from anger—and you can’t help but laugh at how easy it is to rile him up.

“That’s enough!” he snaps, lunging forward and grabbing for the stick. His sudden movement catches you off guard, and you stumble, the stick slipping from your grasp.

The two of you freeze for a moment, glaring at each other, breathing hard. Then, as if on cue, the tension explodes again, and the scuffle resumes, this time with both of you trying to wrestle control of the stick.

The tugging begins. You yank the stick one way, he pulls it back with equal force. The push and pull grows more intense with every second, the dirt beneath your feet slipping as you both struggle for control.

“Let go!” he growls through gritted teeth, his stance wide and firm.

“You let go!” you fire back, gripping the stick with all the determination of a dragon refusing to yield its hoard.

You yank the stick back with all the determination your small hands can muster, and Cregan pulls harder in retaliation. The scuffle becomes a tug-of-war, and with one final, unsteady pull, you both lose your footing.

You fall first, landing ungracefully on the grass. Thankfully, you’re spared the mud, but the same cannot be said for Cregan. He topples beside you, landing with a loud squelch in the wet muck.

For a moment, the garden is silent save for your uneven breaths. You push yourself up, brushing grass off your skirt, and glance at him. His tunic is streaked with mud, his hair tousled from the fall, and a dark streak smudges his cheek like a careless smear of war paint.

You press your lips together, trying to stifle it—but it’s no use. Laughter bursts out of you, uncontrollable and bright.

Cregan turns his head sharply, his grey eyes narrowing as he sits up stiffly.

“Why are you laughing?” His tone is formal, but there’s a sharp edge to it, his annoyance barely restrained.

You hold your sides, laughing harder at his expression.

“Because—” you manage between giggles, pointing at his face, “—because you look ridiculous! Like a pig in a mud pit!”

Cregan stiffens, his jaw tightening. “You are hardly in a position to jest, Princess. You’re the one sitting in the dirt!”

His words make you laugh even harder, and for a moment, it seems like he might let it go. But then his temper flares, and with deliberate precision, he scoops up a handful of mud.

Before you can react, the cold, wet clump splatters across the front of your gown. You gasp, your laughter replaced with sheer outrage gasp.

“You big brute!” you exclaim, rising to your knees. You scoop up your own handful of mud and hurl it back at him with all the righteous indignation of a wronged queen.

The mud hits his shoulder, leaving a dark smear on the fine fabric of his tunic. His eyes widen, and for a moment, he looks genuinely shocked. Then his lips press into a thin line, and he glares at you with all the gravity an eight-year-old can muster.

He grabs another handful of mud, flinging it with far more force this time. You shriek as it lands on your sleeve, and without hesitation, you retaliate.

The garden becomes your battleground. Mud flies through the air as you dodge and lunge, your giggles ringing out as Cregan growls in frustration. He tries to maintain his formality even as he hurls clumps of dirt at you.

“Your behavior is unbefitting of a princess!” he calls, though the mud streaking his face makes him look anything but dignified.

“And yours is no better for a lord!” you reply gleefully, tossing another clump that narrowly misses him.

By the time your attendants arrive, the scene they stumble upon is one of complete chaos. You’re both caked in mud from head to toe, your gown a ruined mess, and his tunic utterly unrecognizable.

“Your highness!” one of your handmaidens exclaims, rushing forward. “What in the name of the Seven happened here?”

“She attacked me!” Cregan says immediately, straightening his posture despite the mud dripping from his hair.

“You threw the first mud!” you counter, pointing at him with a haughty tilt of your chin.

The attendants exchange exasperated looks as they pull you both to your feet, fussing over the state of your clothes and muttering about what your fathers will say when they see this.

The second encounter.

[aiyaiy]

Favourite | Bridgerton AU

pairing: Prince Aemond x Reader (Hightower)

summary: As a new social season dawns, Queen Alicent is determined to do more than simply name the diamond, but to secure the perfect match for her son, Prince Aemond. Too bad he’s your favourite cousin, too bad you’re in love with him. As intrigues, romances, and rivalries unfold, nothing escapes Lady Whistledown's quill.

rating: mature/explicit,!MDNI!

status: in progress

a/n: the idea came to me unexpectedly and captured my thoughts and soul. very excited about this story and hope you'll like it as much as i do! 💗

divider credit: @saradika-graphics

➤ chap.1 ➤ Welcome to the Ton ➤ chap.2 ➤ The Princess and The Dragon ➤ chap.3 ➤ Sweet, Sweet Meringue ➤ chap.4 ➤ Of Shadows and Stars ➤ chap.5 ➤ in progress

[aiyaiy]

Tyler Owens thoughts as he’s standing at the altar, waiting for you to walk down the aisle 🥺

“Sorry, I’m Late”

Twisters Masterlist

Pairing: Tyler Owens x Fem!Reader

Summary: Tyler’s nerves begin to get the better of him when you’re late walking down the aisle.

Author’s Note: I literally squealed when I saw this request! Thank you so much for sending it to me! (Also, I apparently can’t limit myself to 100 words to save my life, so I hope these “drabbles” are still alright. 😂)

Warnings: Lil bit of fluff. Tyler Owens being a nervous wreck. I think that’s it. 🤷🏻‍♀️

Word Count: 563 (I said I couldn’t limit myself!)

———————————————————————————

Tyler Owens, Tornado Wrangler, the guy who drives head-on into tornadoes for a living, was nervous. Swallowing past the tightness in his throat, he wiped sweaty palms against the fabric of his dress pants, eyes locked on the back doors of the church.

“Where is she?”

The soft murmur of guests whispering and shifting in their seats rang like a cacophony in his ears. The clock on the wall ticked, fifteen minutes past the hour.

“She’s never late—Boone, where is she?”

“Relax, T.” Boone, best man, dressed in a clean-cut navy suit and lavender tie, patted Tyler’s shoulder reassuringly. “It’s a wedding. Things go wrong, the bride shows up late. It’s nothing to be worried about.”

Against everything screaming within him, Tyler nodded. You were probably just late. You wouldn’t leave him here, standing at the altar with his heart on his sleeve, his hopes for the future balanced precariously on a twist of fate. Would you? His eyes never left the sanctuary doors.

“He’s going to be freaking out! Lily–” You reached your hand out, bouquet of flowers horizontal in your grasp. “Lily, he needs to know why I’m not out there.”

“It’s a wedding,” Lily mumbled through a mouthful of pins as she attempted to hide the blooming coffee stain soaking through the layers of your dress. “Nobody expects it to start on time.”

“But I’m never late!” Panic flared in your chest, heart racing against the confines of your ribcage.

You knew it was likely a culmination of caffeine and jitters causing such an intense reaction, but you didn’t care. Tyler needed to know you were coming….

“There!” Lily chirped. “You’re good, let’s go.”

“I’m going to go find her.”

“No, T!” Boone grabbed his sleeve before he had a chance to step forward, placing himself between Tyler and the room and leaning in close. “Tyler, listen to me. That girl is head-over-heels for you. Whatever’s going on in your head… it’s wrong. She is coming. You got it? She’s gonna be here soon.”

Tyler released a long, shuddering breath, gaze landing on the solid barrier of the closed sanctuary doors.

“You got it, T?”

Tyler tore his eyes away from the door and met Boone’s.

“Yeah.” He breathed again, steadier this time. “Yeah, I got it.”

“Good!” Boone patted his arm and stepped beside him again.

The pianist began playing. All eyes turned to the back of the church, and Lily stepped through the creaking doors, lavender gown matching Boone’s tie and a small bouquet of baby’s breath in her hands. She nodded slightly at Tyler as she placed herself on the bride’s side, then faced the aisle.

The music seamlessly shifted into the bridal chorus.

Floating through the back doors, illuminated like an angel come down to earth, you entered the sanctuary.

Tyler couldn’t take his eyes off you as you walked down the aisle, a graceful smile curling your lips and nothing but love spilling out of your eyes. Your dress swished and flowed around you, serving as a background to the delicate piano.

Stepping down to meet you, Tyler grasped your hand, tears pricking the backs of his eyes. Your smile turned to something softer, and you nudged his shoulder gently with your own, leaning in close before you stood together at the altar.

“Sorry, I’m late.”

Tyler smiled, squeezing your hand. “I was never worried.”

[aiyaiy]

all's well that ends well to end up with you

bucky barnes x reader

summary: bucky isn't going to let an extended mission, a severe thunderstorm, and a delayed flight ruin your first valentine's day together.

word count: 3.8k

warnings/tags: SMUT, 18+ only mdni, oral (m&f receiving), fingering, nipple play, reader is afab, established relationship, no use of y/n, reader is described as being shorter than bucky, fluffy as hell, sweet domesticity

wrote this for my bb @embbarnes 💕 happy (very early) valentine's day, everyone!

Of all the ways you had been hoping to spend the last few hours of Valentine’s Day, over 30,000 feet in the air next to a snoring man who has never heard of deodorant was at the bottom of your list.

You should have seen it coming from the moment that your two day mission was extended to a three day mission, but you naively held out hope that you’d be able to make it back home in time to salvage the second half of the day.

Getting back early enough to keep the seven o’clock dinner reservations that you’d made for a new, upscale steakhouse in Brooklyn would have been possible if a last minute thunderstorm hadn’t delayed your flight back to New York.

Now it’s already half past seven, and you’ll be lucky if you make it back home before midnight.

Truthfully, you don’t care about the dinner reservations. Sure, you’d heard great things about the food and you had been excited to go, but you could easily reschedule the reservations for another time. The only thing that you were truly bummed about was not getting to spend the day with Bucky.

Today is your first Valentine’s Day as a couple, and instead of spending it with him, you’re spending it on a commercial flight with dozens of strangers. You can’t help but wonder how many of them are missing their significant other, too.

If you’d had it your way, you would have woken up to his face this morning. The two of you would have slept in as late as you desired, and had a slow, lazy morning before cooking him brunch. Waffles, sausage and bacon, scrambled eggs with extra cheese and hot sauce – all of his favorites. You would have taken a stroll through the park before stopping at the bakery that you frequent for doughnuts and coffee, and maybe visited the botanical gardens before your dinner reservations this evening.

Bucky had assured you that it wasn’t a big deal and that the two of you would make up for it when you were back home. He patiently reminded you that life doesn’t take holidays and special occasions into consideration when dishing out things such as extended work trips and inclement weather conditions.

Valentine’s Day aside, you simply miss him. You’ve been missing him since the moment you left for Nebraska, and you’re more than ready to be back in his arms. This is not the first time you’ve been apart due to work related trips, but this is by far the longest – a whopping seven days.

You miss the way he wants to keep at least one hand on you throughout the night, the way he talks to Alpine as if she will actually respond, and the way that he hums without even noticing that he’s doing it. All of the seemingly little things that you don’t think much of on a day to day basis, but when you’re apart, make you miss him all the more.

By the time your flight lands in New York and you catch an Uber back to your apartment, it’s nearly eleven o’clock. Bucky, of course, had offered to pick you up from the airport, but you had insisted that you were okay with getting an Uber, not wanting him to get out so late at night in the heavy rain.

Plus, if he had picked you up, it would have ruined your plan to surprise him by stopping by his favorite pizza parlor down the block from your apartment on your way home. Sal’s Pizzeria is always open until midnight, and every year they run specials the entire week of Valentine’s Day on heart-shaped pizzas.

Knowing Bucky, he’s likely been living off of instant Ramen since you left for your trip, so you figure he’ll be ecstatic over a late night pizza. Not to mention, you’re famished yourself – all you’ve eaten since lunch being the pack of Biscoff cookies you’d been given on the plane.

Lugging your suitcase, a backpack, and the large pizza box, you fumble with your keys before unlocking the door and stepping inside.

At first, you assume that Bucky is already asleep. But as you walk down the short hallway, you realize there’s soft music playing from somewhere in the apartment. You don't think much of it, since you know that Bucky prefers playing music as opposed to the television for background noise.

It’s almost completely dark, minus low orange lighting that trickles into the hallway from the kitchen.

“I’m home, baby,” you call softly as you approach the kitchen’s entryway. “I know it’s late, but I brought you some pizza, if you're hun—”

You stop dead in your tracks when you step into the kitchen. Dozens of tea light candles illuminate the room, placed strategically on the island in the middle of the room. And on the countertops, and the shelves – basically any flat surface twinkles with the delicate flames.

You stand frozen as a statue with your mouth agape as you take in the scene before you. In addition to the candles, there’s a spread of food across the island. Plates of delicious smelling pasta, small bowls of soup and glasses of red wine. Tied to the backs of the barstools are red and pink heart-shaped balloons.

It looks straight out of a romance movie.

“Pizza pairs well with pasta, I think,” Bucky's voice breaks you out of your trance. “Can never have too many carbs.”

Your gaze snaps over to where he emerges from the den. He wears a bashful smile, and even in the low glow of the candlelight, you can see the faint hint of blush blooming across the apples of his cheeks. He has his hands behind his back, as if trying to conceal something from you.

“You did all of this?” You ask lamely. Your voice is barely a whisper and contains a noticeable quiver. “For me?”

You can’t wrap your brain around it. No one has ever done anything quite like this for you. All of your ex boyfriends always shrugged off Valentine’s Day, leaving you feeling lucky if you got so much as a card. You’d long ago learned not to expect much of anything. Definitely not anything as intimate and thoughtful as this.

“Of course for you,” he murmurs with a low chuckle. He saunters over to where you’re still standing with the pizza box clutched in your hands, and pulls what appears to be a bouquet of flowers in a large mason jar out from behind his back.

“Who else would it be for? Alpine?” He teases, extending the jar to you. You plop the box onto the counter so that your hands are free to accept the flowers.

Upon closer inspection, you realize the bouquet of flowers are not real flowers.

Well, yes and no – they’re wildflowers, made of out Legos. You can’t help but giggle, remembering how you had mentioned how cute you think the Lego set is when you saw it while buying some groceries at Target a few weeks ago. You giggle even harder when you picture Bucky assembling all of the tiny pieces of the bouquet with his large, vibranium fingers.

Your eyes begin to well with tears that threaten to spill over. You quickly blink them back, not wanting to show just how emotional the ornate, colorful arrangement of plastic flowers is making you.

Not just the bouquet – all of it. The food and the wine, the balloons, the candles, the forties music playing lowly from the record player in the living room – the sheer amount of time and attention that he put into creating such a romantic display, and all from the comfort of your home.

“They’re perfect,” you murmur, wiping away a stray tear with sleeve of your sweater. You place the mason jar of the plastic flowers in the midst of the spread of food in front of you, making the scene complete.

“It’s all perfect.” He opens his arms to you, and you happily melt into his embrace. He smells of his familiar earthy cologne, and you can’t help but inhale deeply, relishing in the comfort of his scent and warmth.

Even if you’d come home to him passed out in bed, you would’ve been ecstatic to just crawl under the covers beside him. All of this is more than you ever would have hoped for.

“All I got you is a lousy heart-shaped meat lovers pizza,” you sniffle against his t-shirt and you feel his chest vibrate with laughter. You know that you have the reasonable excuse of being on an assignment in the middle of butt-fuck nowhere Nebraska for the last week, but you still feel bad.

“Hey,” he murmurs, using his index finger to tilt your face to look up at him. He grins down at you for a moment before tenderly pressing his lips against yours. You melt into him right away, having missed the feeling of his lips on yours in the week that you’ve been apart.

His hands travel to your lower back, pulling you flush against him. Your own hands cradle his face, your thumbs caressing the light dusting of stubble that adorns his cheeks. You can already feel the outline of an erection forming through the thin material of his pajama pants when he pulls away, much to your disappointment.

“I love meat lovers pizza,” he assures you with a smirk. “And I love you. The best present you could give me is coming home to me.”

“Still. I’m going to make it up to you,” you promise with a feather light kiss to his lips. “I promise. First thing tomorrow, I’m going to—”

You’re cut off by a low rumbling noise that sounds from between your bodies – a reminder that you haven’t eaten a substantial meal in twelve hours now. You glance over to the plates of food on the island beside you, inhaling the delicious aroma of the dishes.

“I made an educated guess that you’d be hungry,” Bucky chuckles. He reluctantly drops his hold on your waist and moves to pull the barstool out for you. You hop up, taking your seat in front of a heaping plate of pasta and a bowl of French onion soup. Your stomach growls again at the sight.

“Did you make all of this?” You ask, unable to hide the surprise in your voice. It’s not that Bucky is a bad cook – he has a few go-to meals that are always excellent, but he normally doesn’t stray too far out of his comfort zone.

“I did not,” he admits with a sigh. He takes a seat directly across from you. “I ordered takeout from the bistro down the street before they closed earlier. Heated it all back up when you texted me that you were almost home.”

“Well, it’s fucking delicious,” you mumble through a mouthful of the creamy pasta.

You eat together in the glow of the candlelight, with soft music playing in the background and heavy rain beating down against the windows of your apartment. You talk about everything from the details of your mission to what he did while you were away. The food is delicious, the wine he picked out pairs perfectly, it’s cozy and peaceful and romantic – and you realize that you’re enjoying this so much more than you ever would have enjoyed an upscale steakhouse in downtown Brooklyn.

You both end up being too full of pasta and soup to eat any of the pizza that you’d brought home, but you’re happy that you’ve got a whole pizza to look forward to having for lunch tomorrow.

“Thank you, baby,” you tell him after swallowing the last sip of your wine. “For all of this. It was more than I could’ve hoped for today.”

He reaches across the counter, grabbing your hand in his own and bringing it to his lips. “Of course,” he murmurs against your skin, eliciting goosebumps down your arm. “As much as I wish we could’ve spent the day together, I still wanted to make the last hour of it as special as possible.”

He stands, releasing your hand as he begins to collect the empty plates and glasses. “You go on and get ready for bed, yeah? I’ll clean up in here.”

“Nonsense. It's almost midnight. These dishes can wait until the morning. Just stick them in the sink and come shower with me.”

You don’t even care if the whole apartment still smells of garlic and French onion soup in the morning – you’ve been showering and sleeping without him for the last week, and it’s still technically Valentine’s Day, so you’ll allow the dirty dishes to sit for the next eight hours.

To your pleasant surprise, he needs no further convincing. He piles the dirty dishes into the kitchen sink and puts the uneaten pizza in the fridge while you get the shower water up to temperature. By the time his pajamas fall to the bathroom floor, you’re already standing under the hot stream of water.

He opens the shower door, a cheeky grin spreading across his face as soon as his eyes trail up and down your body. The way he looks at you never fails to make you feel like he’s seeing you naked for the very first time, every time.

His hands immediately come to rest on your hips, easing you back against the cool tiling of the shower wall. “God, I missed you,” he sighs as he massages his fingers into the meat of your hips. The contrast of his warm flesh hand and cold vibranium hand on your waist has you arching into his touch.

“I can tell,” you giggle, pulling his face down to yours by the back of his neck. His mouth slates over yours, his tongue sweeping along your bottom lip. You part your lips for him right away, more than ready to feel and taste him after all of your time away.

He nudges your legs apart with his knee, inserting one of his large thighs in-between your own. You sink your bare pussy onto the expanse of his muscular thigh, dragging your center across him for friction. He kisses you until you’re breathless, and only pulls away to instead latch his mouth over one of your nipples. He rolls it between his lips and tongue, using his hold on your waist to help move you up and down his thigh. He alternates between each nipple, kissing and sucking on each until they’re pert and pebbled.

His erection gains your attention as it juts against your belly. You reach between your bodies, taking his length in your hand and stroking him with ease, the water from the shower making his skin slick.

You whimper above him, desperate for some release. He laughs, peppering kisses across your breasts and up your neck. You feel him smiling into the column of your throat.

“I think you missed me, too,” he murmurs against your pulse point.

“Maybe,” you admit, your voice etched with impatience. “Why don’t we hurry and get out this shower so I can show you just how much I missed you?”

He presses a final kiss to the side of your neck before pulling away and smirking down at you. He reaches over to one of the shelves in the shower, grabbing a loofah and your bottle of body wash.

“I’ll have you know that I showered before you got home,” he says as he squirts a dollop of the gel onto the sponge. “I’m just here for your entertainment – and your convenience, of course. Now turn around.”

You do as he says, turning around to face the shower wall. You brace yourself against the tiles with your forearms, relaxing as he begins to massage the soap across the tops of your shoulders and down your back.

He takes his time, lazily rubbing the skin of the backs of your thighs before reaching around and doing the same to your stomach and chest. As good as it feels, all you can focus on is the head of his cock nudging against the curve of your ass.

“Bucky.”

The word comes out somewhere between a moan and a warning – a warning that if he doesn’t finish lathering your body in the next two seconds so you can rinse the fuck off, you’re going to take matters into your own hands.

“What is it, baby?” he asks innocently, stepping forward ever so slightly so that his cock inches between the space where your thighs meet your ass.

You turn back to face him, grabbing the loofah out of his hand and tossing it to the opposite end of the shower. The stream of water that beats down against your bodies washes the suds down the drain.

“You’re really going to tease me like that? On Valentine’s Day, of all days?”

“Pretty sure it’s after midnight now,” he quips with a smirk.

You turn so that you’re out of the direct line of the water, and lower yourself to the shower floor. His cock bobs inches in front of your face. You grasp him in your hand, languidly stroking his length as you stare up at him.

“Then I guess you’re lucky that I missed you so much.”

He opens his mouth to retort, but snaps it shut with a sharp intake of breath when you wrap your lips around his tip. You swirl your tongue around him, lapping up the beads of pearlescent white that had gathered around his slit. You begin to bob your head, taking more and more of him into your mouth until he hits the back of your throat.

Above you, he throws his head back and hisses at the sensation. His metal hand cradles the back of your head, guiding your movements. You gag at the overwhelming fullness, pulling away from him for air. You ease him back into your mouth, setting a steady pace. He rocks his hips forward, meeting your movements with his own.

In one hand, you cup his balls, gently massaging the sack. With your free hand, you attempt to relieve the growing ache between your own thighs by rubbing quick circles over your clit. The thrusts of his hips start to grow erratic, and you feel him twitch against your tongue when he suddenly pulls away from you.

“Not gonna cum in your mouth,” he answers when he looks down to see your questioning stare. “Not tonight. Missed you too much.”

He pulls you up by the tops of your arms and eases you back against the shower wall once more. He then takes your place on the floor, kneeling in front of you. He trails kisses along the wet skin of your thighs as he hooks one over his shoulder. He wastes no more time, diving into your pussy. His tongue swirls over your clit as he brings one long, metal finger to tease your hole. He nudges it inside as his lips suction around the sensitive bundle of nerves at the top of your folds.

Your body goes relaxed, your back sliding down the wet tiling of the shower wall. Bucky helps support you from down below as he sinks his vibranium digit deeper inside you.

The coil in your lower belly tightens quickly, pent up from a whole week without his touch. He can always tell when you’re close by the little noises that you make and the way that you tug on the short brown locks of his hair with your fingers.

He groans as he licks a thick strip up your slit, sending you over the edge. Your orgasm washes over you, your cunt clenching around his thick vibranium finger as he sucks your clit until you go still above him.

It's then that it hits you that the water from the shower has started to run cold.

“Come on,” Bucky says, rising as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. He turns the faucet off and grabs the two towels that hang over the glass wall of the shower, handing you one before wrapping his around his waist. “Let's get out of here. I’ve got one more gift to give you before we continue this.”

“Another gift? You’ve already done so much. I didn’t even get—”

He gently shushes you with a sly grin, exiting the shower before you can protest any further. You pat your skin dry before securing the towel around your chest and then follow him into your shared bedroom.

Alpine is snoring softly at the foot of your king sized bed, completely oblivious to the fact that you’re even home. Everything is exactly as you left it, from the stack of half finished books on your nightstand to the orange Himalayan salt rock lamp that hasn’t been turned off a single time since the two of you moved into the apartment together. The comfort and familiarity of everything makes you feel all the more grateful to be back home.

You grab a bottle of lotion off of your bedside table and begin lathering it onto the skin of your legs as you watch Bucky rummage through the drawer of his own nightstand. After a moment, he pulls out a small, dark red colored box.

“Catch!” He warns before gently tossing it across the bed to you. You catch it, a smile blooming across your face as you sooth your thumb over the velvet material encasing the small box. He walks over to your side of the bed to stand beside you.

You raise the lid to box, revealing a dainty gold chain with a capital letter B dangling in the center.

You think it’s perfect. It’s isn’t overly ostentatious – it’s the perfect size, and so very you.

“Do you like it?” Bucky asks, a hint of nervousness in his voice.

“I love it,” you assure him, overwhelmed by how sweet and thoughtful he is. “Help me put it on?”

You don’t care that it’s the middle of the night, you want it on you right now.

Bucky takes the box from you, carefully removing the necklace. You turn away from him, letting him drape the delicate chain around your neck. The charm lands just below your clavicle.

“There,” he murmurs as he clasps the chain together. You turn back to face him, letting him see his initial displayed across your chest. “Perfect.”

“Thank you, baby,” you whisper as you raise up on your feet to press your lips to his. The light flavor of your slick lingers on his lips, sending a fresh wave of arousal through your gut. “So much.”

“Of course,” he murmurs against your mouth. “Now lay down. Wanna see how it looks on ya without the towel.”

••••••

thanks so much for reading!! comments and reblogs are very appreciated ♡

[aiyaiy]

Since Forever

SUMMARY: After a harrowing near-death experience in the sky when a routine training exercise goes wrong, you and Jake are forced to confront the unspoken tension that's always simmered between you. With a crash landing and a moment that changes everything, the line between squadmates and something more begins to blur.

A/N: Thank you to the person who sent this request in! I'm sorry it's been like 3 weeks since you sent it in, but hopefully, it's worth the wait! Hope you enjoy it! xx

WARNINGS: Angst, Mutual Pining, Plane Crash (Smoke, Impact, Head Injury, Blood), Cussing

WORD COUNT: 3.6k

TAG LIST: IN COMMENTS

If you would like to be added to any of my Tag Lists please feel free to comment, send an ask, or send a DM and I'll be happy to get you added! Below are the fandoms I currently write for.

Glen Powell: Himself (RPF), Characters He's Played

Twisters: Tyler Owens, Boone, Scott, Javi

Top Gun: Maverick: Rooster, Hangman, Bob

Marvel/MCU: Bucky Barnes, Steve Rogers

WWE/Wrestling: Cody Rhodes, Corey Graves, Damian Priest, Drew McIntyre, Finn Balor, Jimmy Uso, Jey Uso, Kevin Owens, L.A. Knight, Pat McAfee, Roman Reigns, Seth Rollins (if there is someone you're thinking of from WWE and they aren't on the list feel free to ask! There are so many guys on the roster that these were the ones that came to mind.)

The dry California air carried the hum of activity on the tarmac, the heat shimmering in waves off the asphalt as you stood in your flight suit, clipboard in hand. The roar of jets echoed in the background, a familiar symphony you’d grown accustomed to over the years. North Island was as bustling as ever, a mix of old faces and new ones prepping for the upcoming training exercises.

You were focused on your pre-flight checks, meticulously going over every detail on your clipboard. Attention to detail had always been your strong suit, something that had earned you respect in the cockpit and plenty of snide comments from one particular squad mate.

“Still babysitting that clipboard, Ace?”

You didn’t have to look up to know who it was. Jake “Hangman” Seresin’s voice was unmistakable—smooth, cocky, and always laced with that infuriating Texan drawl.

“Still babysitting your ego, Bagman?” you shot back without missing a beat, your eyes remaining on your checklist.

From the corner of your eye, you saw him saunter closer, his helmet tucked under one arm, a smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. Jake had a way of walking that oozed confidence, like he owned every space he entered. It was both maddening and, if you were honest with yourself, slightly impressive.

“Touché,” he drawled, stopping a few feet away. “But seriously, Ace, you’ve been doing this long enough to know the damn thing’s not going to sprout wings and fly off without you.”

You finally glanced up, arching a brow at him. “Says the guy who spent fifteen minutes arguing with the crew chief yesterday about the ‘perfect’ alignment of his seat harness.”

“That’s called being thorough,” Jake replied, unfazed. “You should try it sometime.”

You rolled your eyes, turning your attention back to your jet. “Is there something you actually need, or are you just here to be a pain in my ass?”

Jake’s grin widened. “Can’t a guy check in on his favorite squad mate?”

“Favorite?” you echoed, snorting. “You must be losing your touch, Hangman. Last time I checked, I was the one gunning for top marks on this run.”

“That’s what makes you my favorite,” he said smoothly, his tone dropping just enough to make your stomach do a small, unwelcome flip.

You hated how he could do that—how he could make the simplest comment sound like it was loaded with a thousand unspoken things. It was part of the tension that had simmered between you two for years, a strange, undefined thing neither of you had ever acknowledged out loud.

“Well, don’t get too comfortable,” you replied, setting your clipboard down. “I’ve got a jet to fly, and you’ve got an ego to stroke somewhere else.”

Jake tilted his head, his green eyes glinting with amusement. “Careful, Ace. One of these days, that sharp tongue of yours is gonna get you in trouble.”

You stepped closer, narrowing your eyes at him as you adjusted the strap on your helmet. “And one of these days, Seresin, you’re going to realize that not everyone is impressed by your southern charm.”

For a moment, neither of you moved. It was like a standoff, the air crackling with the kind of tension that was all too familiar between the two of you. Then Jake stepped back, a soft chuckle escaping him as he raised his hands in mock surrender.

“Fair enough,” he said, his grin still firmly in place. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

He turned and started walking toward his jet, his gait as cocky as ever. You shook your head, exhaling slowly as you tried to refocus on the task at hand.

Damn him.

Even now, years after you’d first met, Jake Seresin still had the ability to get under your skin in a way no one else could. And despite the irritation bubbling in your chest, you couldn’t entirely shake the small, secret part of you that liked it.

* * * *

The sky was a perfect blue—no clouds, just an endless expanse stretching out in front of you. It was supposed to be a simple exercise, just another day in the air, but your instincts had been nagging at you all morning. Something felt off.

You were flying at full throttle, running through the mission parameters, your fingers lightly grazing the controls as you focused on the task at hand. In the distance, you could see Jake’s jet—smooth and precise, cutting through the air just like always. You kept your distance, the tension between you two still palpable, even miles above the earth.

Then, without warning, the engine sputtered.

"Shit," you muttered under your breath, eyes flicking to the gauges. The warning lights blinked red, and your stomach dropped like a stone. The engine—your primary engine—locked up.

“Ace, you copy?” The crackling voice of your Captain came through your comms, sharp and urgent. “What’s your status?”

You took a steadying breath, trying to keep your pulse under control. The jet was starting to lose altitude, slowly at first, but it wasn’t going to be slow for long.

“Engine’s locked,” you said, voice tight. You glanced down at your instruments again, hoping for a miracle. “I’m losing power. Going down.”

 Jake’s voice exploded through your earpiece. “Don’t do anything stupid, Ace. You hear me? Eject if you have to!”

The words felt like a slap in the face. He was always the first one to play the hero, always telling you what to do like you were some rookie.

“Don’t tell me what to do, Seresin,” you snapped, teeth gritting as you struggled to maintain control. You banked hard to the left, trying to level out, but the jet was sluggish—too sluggish. It was dropping faster now, and the ground was coming up at you way too quickly. “I’m not ejecting.”

“I said—” Jake’s voice broke through again, but you could already hear the Captain cutting him off.

“Ace, listen to me. You have two options right now,” the Captain said, his tone firm, no room for negotiation. “Eject, or try to bring her in. But you don’t have much altitude left.”

You had a split second to make a choice. The sky was shrinking, the earth creeping closer with every heartbeat. Your mind raced—ejecting would be easy, sure. But it would cost you the plane, and it would mean another mission down the drain. And there was always that sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach when you had to rely on someone else to pull you from the wreckage.

You focused, blocking out the voices in your comms, focusing on the controls, on what you could do.

You had one good engine. It wasn’t ideal, but you had just enough altitude to make a hard landing. If you timed it right.

“I’m landing this bird,” you said, your voice steely with determination. You could feel the sweat building under your helmet, your pulse pounding in your ears, but your hands were steady. “I’ve got this.”

“Ace!” Jake’s voice came again, a mix of frustration and panic threading through his words. “You don’t have the altitude—”

“Shut up, Seresin,” you cut him off, your jaw clenched as you took a deep breath. The ground was closing in fast now, the harsh reality of the situation crashing over you. You had seconds to decide how you were going to do this. You could almost hear your heartbeat in your throat as you worked the throttle, pushing the remaining engine to its limits.

“Ace, eject now!” Jake was practically shouting now, but you didn’t have the time to argue. You were already lining up the rough terrain, calculating the risks in your head. You’d done it before—this was just another challenge to overcome. “If you crash—”

“I said I’ve got this!” you growled, pushing the throttle forward and making a last-ditch effort to pull the jet back into some semblance of control.

The sound of the engine was sickening now, almost wheezing, but it was still holding on. You could feel the nose of the plane dip, and you knew it was time. There was no turning back now.

You aimed for the small strip of flat ground, mentally calculating the distance between you and the crash site, praying to every deity that you could pull this off.

The jet dropped faster.

Your stomach lurched.

You could hear the voices of your team—your Captain—fading in the background, their instructions turning into static. All you could hear now was the roar of the engine, your breath, and the sound of your own heart pounding in your ears.

And then the wheels hit the earth. It was harder than you expected. The jet groaned under the strain, the fuselage screeching as you fought for control. The wheels bounced once, twice, and the jet jerked to the side as you fought the controls with everything you had left. The impact was brutal. You slammed into the seat, the world going black for a split second before your mind jolted back into reality.

Your head throbbed, a sharp pain searing behind your eyes. You blinked rapidly, trying to focus, but everything felt off. Dizzy. The pain was sharp, but you couldn’t focus on it now.

Your hands still gripped the controls like you were trying to hold the whole world together. You could feel the tension in your neck, the tremor in your hands.

And then, the voice you hadn’t realized you were waiting for came through your comms, strained and desperate:

“Ace, talk to me. Are you okay?”

You were silent for a moment, trying to find your bearings. The crash had knocked the wind out of you, but you had to focus. You had to focus.

“I’m... fine,” you gritted out. Your vision was blurry, your head swimming, but you needed to keep it together. “I just need to—”

The world went black for a few moments. The crash had been rough, everything moving too fast, and then you were suddenly weightless, disoriented, and struggling to remember how you had even ended up in this situation. The impact had jarred you, rattling your body so hard you weren’t sure which way was up. The cockpit was filled with smoke, the once-pristine view of the sky now replaced by the harsh, metallic scent of burning fuel.

You could hear the sounds of the control tower in your headset, distant voices now muffled and indistinct. Your head throbbed, dizziness clouding your thoughts. Something was wrong—you were wrong—but the panic started to subside as your mind tried to latch onto something, anything familiar.

The sound of a plane's engines revving pierced the air, and that was when you realized you weren’t alone anymore. Jake's voice cut through the haze.

"Stay with me, Ace, I’m almost there" he barked, his tone uncharacteristically sharp, the usual cocky bravado gone. His voice was full of urgency, tight with a level of fear you hadn’t expected to hear.

You managed to open your eyes, the world around you spinning, but through the haze, you saw his plane descending in the distance—he was landing, landing without permission. Your heart skipped a beat, knowing he was disregarding protocol to get to you.

Within seconds, Jake's jet was on the ground, its wheels screeching as it touched down, and he was already sprinting toward you. There was no waiting for rescue teams, no giving orders. It was just him, and you.

Your chest was tight, your breath shallow, and for a brief moment, you wondered if it was all just a nightmare. Then, through the haze of your spinning mind, Jake’s face appeared—his eyes wide, his expression frantic as he reached the wreckage.

Without hesitation, he pulled open the hatch, the cockpit door groaning under the force. He didn’t hesitate, didn’t waste a second. He carefully pulled your helmet off of you. His eyes moving to the blood that was caused from the impact. His hands then started working to undo your harness, fingers shaking as he snapped the straps free, pulling you into his arms before you could even comprehend what was happening.

His breath was frantic, like he was holding it in, waiting for some kind of confirmation that you were really there. That you were still alive. And in that moment, as his arms wrapped around you, pulling you into his chest, the world started to stabilize. Your breath came in shaky gasps, your head pounding as the dizziness slowly began to fade.

You blinked a few times, trying to clear the fog from your brain. The weight of your body felt heavier than normal, your limbs still stiff from the crash. But it wasn’t just your body that felt like it was slowing down—it was your mind. Everything was racing too fast, the adrenaline still pushing you into action, but in Jake’s arms, there was a moment of stillness. A second where nothing mattered but the fact that you were safe.

"Don’t you ever do that again," Jake muttered, his voice trembling despite the tough exterior he always wore. His words hit you harder than any of the physical pain, and you felt a strange, overwhelming wave of emotion rush through you. It was as though all the walls you’d both built over the years had crumbled with one unspoken truth. Jake was scared, and in this moment, it wasn’t about flying, or missions, or protocols. It was about you.

You barely registered that you were leaning into him, your chest falling against his as you came back to yourself, your body reacting without thinking, your mind still spinning. His hands were gently running over your back, soothing you, grounding you, even though you could feel the anxiety still vibrating through him.

“J-Jake,” you stuttered.

"I'm here. I’ve got you." His words were a soft mantra, repeated over and over as if he needed to hear them as much as you did.

You shook your head, trying to clear the fog. 

“I... I’m fine,” you said, your voice shaky as you pulled away slightly, lifting your head from his chest. But the moment you tried to step back, you felt his arms tighten, keeping you close. The intensity in his gaze was enough to make you stop moving entirely.

“No, you’re not fine,” he shot back, his voice low but full of conviction. His hands still rested on your back, holding you steady, like he wasn’t going to let go anytime soon. He wasn’t just holding you. He was holding you like he was terrified of losing you.  “You scared the hell out of me, Ace.”

You swallowed, feeling a weight in your chest you hadn’t been prepared for. The vulnerability in his words was jarring. He had never let his guard down like this before. But there it was—raw, unfiltered concern.

The words stuck in your throat, but somehow you found yourself meeting his gaze, feeling the space between you two close, the tension palpable. 

"Since when did you ever care about me like that?" The question slipped out before you could stop it, more of a breathless thought than anything.

Jake froze, his hand still on your arm as he stared at you, his jaw tight, eyes searching yours. For a moment, the world felt suspended in that one breath between you two. He didn’t back away. Instead, his face softened, his expression caught between frustration and something deeper, something he wasn’t saying.

“Since fucking forever, you idiot,” he replied, his voice thick with emotion, almost a growl.

Jake stepped closer, his hand slipping from your arm to the back of your neck, his thumb brushing the skin there in a rare, intimate gesture. The contact sent a jolt through you, and suddenly, nothing about this situation felt like just another close call. This felt like something else entirely. Something you couldn’t ignore any longer.

“I thought I was gonna lose you today,” Jake murmured, his voice low, steady now but still thick with emotion. His forehead rested against yours, his breath mingling with yours. “I can’t lose you, Ace. I don’t think I’d make it.”

The weight of his words landed heavily in your chest. The truth between you two was finally out, raw and real. You swallowed, trying to hold back the lump in your throat.

“I’m not going anywhere, Jake,” you whispered, your voice hoarse. “Not without you.”

Jake sighed and then asked you again, “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” you said, your voice softer now. You still felt the ache in your head, the sharp sting in your chest, but it wasn’t nearly as important as the way Jake was looking at you now.

His hands slid down your back, lingering for a moment longer than necessary. You could see his jaw clench, the words stuck somewhere between his teeth, and then he shook his head.

“Are you? You sure as hell didn’t look fine in that damn cockpit,” he muttered, his voice low and tight. “You could’ve—You’re the closest thing I’ve got to family out here, Ace," he said, his voice barely a whisper. "I... I don’t know what I’d do without you." His words were a stark contrast to the cocky bravado he usually carried. This was real, and it was raw. "You don’t get to put me through that again, got it?"

You swallowed hard, your heart beating so fast it felt like it might explode in your chest. All the tension, all the unspoken things that had hung between you two for years, were now laid bare in the open. There was no hiding anymore. No pretending like you didn’t feel it, too.

“Jake…” you started, but the words wouldn’t come. 

Instead, you pulled him down into a kiss—soft at first, tentative, but it was as if something broke open between you. You felt the fear, the relief, the longing all tangled up in that moment. His lips moved against yours, a little desperate, a little shaky, but it was real.

When you pulled away, you were both breathing heavy, eyes still locked, both of you trying to process what had just happened.

“I don’t know what this is, Jake,” you whispered, your voice trembling just slightly.

“I don’t either,” he admitted, running a hand through his hair as if trying to pull himself together.

The words hung between you two, thick with meaning. You didn’t know what was going to happen next, but for the first time in a long while, it felt like maybe you didn’t need to figure it out all at once.

You both stayed there, in the middle of the wreckage, still alive, still here—and for the first time in a long time, that was enough.

But then, all too soon, reality crashes back in.

A voice from outside the cockpit, sharp and professional, cuts through the intimacy of the moment like a splash of cold water.

“Hangman! Ace!” The search and rescue team has arrived, and the urgency in their voice snaps Jake out of his daze. “We need to get them out of there, now. Base is requesting immediate transport.”

Jake pulls back slightly, his forehead resting against yours as he takes a deep breath, like he’s trying to steady himself. His hand still lingers on your waist, the warmth of it grounding you, but his eyes betray a hesitation—reluctance to let go of the moment.

“Come on, let’s get you out of here, Ace,” he mutters under his breath, almost to himself as much as to you.

You nod, feeling your heart hammering again, but for a different reason now. His gaze softens, and there’s a flash of something unspoken between you—a promise, maybe. You can’t quite find the words for it, but you feel it deep in your bones.

The medics are waiting outside, and with one final, reluctant glance at you, Jake starts to lift you away from the cockpit. With his steady presence, and one arm around your waist, he helps you out of the cockpit.

“Easy now,” he murmurs as he guides you down, keeping you close to his chest as if he can’t bear to let you out of his arms just yet. “Take it slow.”

As soon as your feet touch the ground, the search and rescue team rushes to assist you, but Jake doesn't let go immediately. His fingers linger on your arm, his gaze flicking between you and the team as if he’s weighing something—like he’s not quite ready to leave you in someone else’s hands. He hesitates, looking like he wants to say something, but the team is already ushering you toward the waiting helicopter.

“I’m coming with you,” he says, voice firm.

“Jake, you don’t have to—” you start, but he interrupts, his tone brokering no argument.

“No. I’m staying with you.”

The hum of the helicopter’s blades is loud against your ears, but everything else seems muffled as you lie back on the stretcher, still reeling from the crash and the kiss that’s left a strange warmth in your chest. The medics are busy around you, but you can barely focus on them, your mind still racing, spinning from the events of the last few minutes.

The moment Jake climbs in beside you, his presence fills the space. He doesn't hesitate, sitting down next to your stretcher and taking your hand immediately, his fingers curling around yours like it's the only thing tethering him to reality. His face is tight with worry, but the way he holds your hand gives you a strange sense of comfort, something steady amidst the chaos.

The medics move quickly, checking your vitals and assessing your condition, but you can barely register it, your heart still thumping in your chest as the adrenaline from the crash ebbs away, leaving you exhausted. One of the medics starts to remove your flight suit, carefully peeling it off your shoulders to get a better look at any possible injuries, leaving you in nothing but a thin tank top that clings to your skin.

You feel exposed, vulnerable, as the cool air brushes against your skin. It’s an unsettling feeling, but Jake’s hand is still in yours, and when the medic starts to prod at your ribs, you squeeze his hand instinctively, a shiver running down your spine.

“Hey,” Jake murmurs, his voice low and soothing as he leans in closer, his gaze never leaving you. “Focus on me, okay? Look at me.”

His voice is calm, reassuring, and even though you're still reeling, his presence is grounding you, pulling you out of the haze of discomfort and medical poking. His thumb rubs small circles over the back of your hand as the medic continues his examination, but Jake doesn't flinch. He doesn't pull away.

“Just look at me,,” Jake repeats, his voice steady. “You’re fine. I’m here.”

You manage to meet his eyes, and the intensity of his gaze sends a strange warmth flooding through you, cutting through the nervousness. In this moment, it’s just you and him, as if the rest of the world has faded away. You want to say something—tell him that you're okay, that you don’t need all this attention—but the words get lost in your throat.

Instead, you hold onto him tighter, needing him to keep you tethered, to keep you from feeling so exposed and raw.

The medic moves on to checking your head, and you wince at the touch, the sting of pain making you flinch. Jake immediately leans forward, his hand tightening around yours as he shifts closer.

“Easy, Ace,” he murmurs. “You’re okay. Focus on me. That’s it.”

You nod, trying to focus on his words, trying to push the discomfort and the questions swirling in your mind to the back of your head. His presence is like a lifeline. His voice is the one thing that makes you feel like you’re not alone in this. Like you're not just another casualty.

“Once they’re done poking and prodding, we’re going to get you something strong to drink,” Jake says softly, the corner of his mouth quirking into a half-smile as his thumb brushes against your hand once more. “And I’m not talking about water. I’m thinking something a little more... celebratory.”

A part of you wants to laugh, but you're too exhausted, too wired from the whole experience. Still, there's a glimmer of something in Jake’s eyes now, something more than just the mission or the tension between you. There’s something new in his gaze, like a shift, and you feel it too—this unspoken understanding between you both that things are different now.

"You're gonna be the death of me, you know that?" you murmur, your voice hoarse from the adrenaline. "One minute, you're flying like a maniac, and the next, you're talking about taking me out for a drink like it's a... date."

Jake’s grin widens slightly, the kind of smile that only happens when he’s completely unguarded. “I’m thinking it’s more than a date, Ace,” he replies, squeezing your hand again. “Maybe it’s a... celebration. You know, to celebrate you not getting yourself killed.”

His tone is playful, but there’s something real behind it, a tenderness that wasn’t there before. Something that’s been waiting to come to the surface for a long time.

The helicopter ride drags on as the medics continue their work, but Jake stays by your side the entire time, never letting go of your hand, his steady presence like a quiet promise that he’s not going anywhere. His words from earlier echo in your mind, and you realize that, for the first time, you don’t feel alone. Not with him here. Not after everything you’ve been through.

When you finally land back at base, you’re still a little shaky, but the thought of what Jake said—of what he hinted at—keeps you grounded, keeps you looking forward to what comes next, whatever that is.

[aiyaiy]

By The Warmth Of The Oven

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Avenger!Reader

Summary: You are baking cookies for the Avengers holiday party when a certain super solider comes into the kitchen tipsy for the first time...

Word Count: 1.1k

Warning(s): none. pure fluff. tipsy bucky.

Prompt/Event: @the-slumberparty december daze -> is it those cookies that smell delicious or is it you?

a/n: This fluffy drabble is my holiday gift to you my dear Bella @nickfowlerrr ♡ In honor of Can You Feel It? being the first of many beautiful fics I read of yours 🥹🩷 Thank you everyone for reading! ₊˚⊹♡ Likes, comments, and reblogs are much appreciated!! ♡♡♡

bucky masterlist ♡ || fluffy winter drabbles masterlist ❆

“Smells good…” Bucky’s voice comes out of nowhere from behind you as you grab another tray of chocolate chip cookies from the oven. You glance over your shoulder to find him sauntering into the kitchen, making his way over to you. 

“Freshly baked cookies always do,” you reply with a gratified grin, placing the tray on top of the stove so the cookies have some time to cool off before you plate them. Your friends had already gone through three batches of them and they practically begged you to make more. It was a nice feeling, almost rewarding in a way, knowing something you made was so loved by your friends. 

“‘m not talking about the cookies, doll,” there’s a bit of a slur in his cadence that catches your attention at the same time that your heart skips a beat at his words. You turn to him to see he’s staring at you with a dreamy smile and a twinkle in his eyes, propped up against the counter by his elbow. You frown at his unusual nonchalant demeanor. You’ve never seen him act this way before. 

Your head tilts slightly as you examine him a little closer. There’s a bit of a sway to his stance and his cheeks are tinted pink. “Bucky, are you drunk?” Almost immediately he shakes his head at your question, “No. I can't get drunk,” he replies with an obvious tone, and yet the pouty frown on his face tells a different story. 

“Right, you can’t…” you affirm, mulling it over for a moment,“Unless…did Thor give you some of his special Asgardian liquor?” You ask, stepping slightly closer to him, the apples of his cheeks getting rosier in response. 

“I took a shot. I started feeling funny and came here—felt safe,” he mutters that last part reluctantly, sharing something with you he wouldn’t if it weren’t for the alcohol in his system.

“In the kitchen?”

“With you.” 

Your amusement is replaced with a soft expression at his response. He most likely hasn’t felt the effects of alcohol in decades and a part of him doesn’t know how to cope with the resurfaced inhibitions. The fact that while feeling unwell his first instinct was to come looking for you—it made a warmth spread throughout you that could easily rival the heat of the oven.

You reach out to cup his cheek, soothing the flushed skin with your thumb. He instinctively leans into your touch, his eyes shining with a gentle vulnerability that causes your heart to squeeze in your chest. You and Bucky have always had a flirtatious friendship for as long as you can remember, but it's never gone past that. Seeing him so openly affectionate with you stirs emotions deep within you that you aren’t sure you’re ready to bring to the surface.

“I don’t think the alcohol is going to stay in your system for long, Buck. How about we do this…you wait for me here while I go out and serve the cookies I baked,” his eyes widen slightly and you can tell he wants to protest until you add, “I’ll bring back some hot chocolate for us to share and we can enjoy it along with some cookies while we wait for that liquor in your system to wear off. How does that sound?” You suggest softly and you can see the way he thinks it through before he agrees with a nod.

He doesn’t take his eyes off of you as you plate a few dozen cookies on decorative plates, leaving a handful behind for you and Bucky to share. You make sure to quickly take them out to your friends and serve up two piping hot mugs of hot chocolate before making it back to the kitchen in no time. 

When you meet back with Bucky you find him sitting on the counter where he watches his legs as he swings them lazily to and fro. You observe him fondly for a moment longer than necessary. Trying to commit to memory how carefree and unguarded he is at this moment. When he notices you his face lights up in a way that makes you feel like the most precious person on earth. 

“Here, as promised,” you hand him a mug of hot chocolate which he takes eagerly—too eagerly—as he immediately goes for a sip of it. Before he can, however, you stop him, placing your hand as a barrier between his lips and the mug. His mouth ends up pressed into your palm, and you ignore the heat that finds its way to your face at the softness of his lips brushing against your skin.

“Bucky, it's scalding hot! You’ll burn yourself! Wait until it cools down a bit, please.”

“It’s not gonna burn me, doll. I’m a super soldier. Watch—”

“Bucky!” 

You use the cookies as leverage to coax Bucky into waiting for the hot chocolate to cool down before he drinks any of it. For the next hour or so, you enjoy each other's company. Between the sweet treats and the lighthearted conversations, time flies by in a heartbeat. 

Then, while in the middle of a discussion over your last mission, Bucky does something that completely takes you by surprise in the best way possible—he kisses you. It’s short, but profound in the way he pours everything into it. Every flirtation you ever questioned could mean something more was proven here with this kiss, that it had meant so much more for more than just you. 

You’re speechless when he pulls away beaming as if his heart might burst.

“Looks like I was right.” 

“Huh?”

“I asked myself what was sweeter. You or the cookies. I knew it'd be you,” he states as a matter of fact, drinking up the way his words affect you as much as the kiss had. There’s a part of you that doesn’t believe him, but it's not because of him, but more so because you think you must be dreaming. 

“That's the liquor talking.”

“I've sobered up a while ago, doll.”

You search his eyes for the truth of it all and you find it. This is real. This isn’t a dream. And the yearning that burns bright in his eyes is one you know all too well. It’s the same one reflecting in your eyes as your gazes lock on one another.

“I still think the cookies are sweeter,” you whisper, your eyes shining with a playful challenge despite the way your heart races in your chest with anticipation. He catches on, licking his lips as his flesh hand snakes its way to the back of your head to cradle it gently.

“‘m gonna prove you wrong, doll,” he declares in a huskier tone as he pulls you in for another kiss. And that night, by the warmth of the oven, Bucky continues to kiss you until he successfully proves you wrong. 

[aiyaiy]

Dancing With The Devil II

Pairing: Alternative!Bucky Barnes x Cheerleader!F!Reader

Word Count: 5.8k

Summary: It’s the night of the fundraiser, and after a few heated encounters with the one boy you should be staying away from, the tension between you finally comes to its peak when Bucky visits the kissing booth.

Warnings: College AU, bad boy v. good girl trope, inexperienced!reader, jealousy, kissing, dirty talk, smut, fingering, daddy kink, p in v penetration, tit/ass slapping, tit sucking/biting, degradation, mentions of fisting, mild drug use.

Author’s Note: Unbeta’d. Divider by @saradika-graphics. Part 2 and the final installation to this fic — Dancing With The Devil ❤️ song inspo: Chase Atlantic - Slow Down. Thank you for all the lovely comments for the first part, I will get round to responding, I promise 🤍 enjoy x

The night of the fundraiser had arrived; your college campus was set up with an array of stalls that were all decorated beautifully. But you were proud to say, thanks to your hard work, that the cheerleader’s stall, embellished in shades of pink and red, was a show stopper.

The kissing booth had been a huge success so far. Hundreds of students had joined in on the fun and you witnessed many shy pecks to the cheek, some very awkward kisses and a few audacious make outs that had the gathered crowd whistling and hollering. 

Even your own cheeks heated as you discreetly watched the more outgoing boys slide their tongues into your teammate’s mouths, wondering how such an insatiable kiss felt. 

Luckily, Sharonl had been by your side all night, inadvertently keeping you self-aware and in check of your own thirstiness. 

Somehow, you had managed to convince Daisy to let you be a part of the kissing booth. You weren’t all too fussed that she had put you on the sidelines, unable to participate as you were stationed on ticket collection. In fact, you were more relieved. 

A few students had tried to choose you for a kiss and without fail Daisy came rushing over each time to instantly shut them down, harshly explaining that you were only the help. 

While it stung, you were kind of grateful. You had no desire to kiss anyone. Almost anyone, anyway.  

Sharon had redirected your wandering gaze every time you looked through the crowd. You knew it was silly to look for Bucky, even when he asked for you to be there. But a small slither of hope within you couldn’t shut the possibility down, even if it was just to see him in passing. 

Your thoughts had been stuck on him all week. From your waking moments to the silent ones at night on your own while you were trying to fall asleep. His scent seemed to follow you, no matter where you went and his salacious grin, rotting your brain, had gotten you in trouble a few times while you zoned out in class. 

Bucky was a drug you craved — one you couldn’t shake, even if you didn’t really want to. 

In your peripheral vision, you caught a familiar face trying to discreetly peek around the side of a stall opposite you and get a glimpse over in your direction. 

“You know, Shar. You never actually told me if you had any plans tonight.” It was true. She had been too busy dealing with your own crisis for you to consider how she could be spending her time. 

Your friend shrugged while sipping on her fruity slushie. “Nope. I’m a free woman, spending time with my girl.” 

Guilt began to settle in your stomach, then. Sharon had been by your side all night, refusing to help set up the kissing booth when Daisy set you on the sidelines. And by the sight of her man, hiding out just to get to see her, you knew she must have blown plans with him to be with you. Instead, she had decided to be a good friend and keep you company. 

You slammed your own drink onto the makeshift table with a sigh. “Sharon, you can’t stay here.”

She abruptly stopped sucking up the last of her drink through the straw to look at you like you had grown two heads. “And why the hell can’t I?” 

Pointing your finger over to a freshly caught, red faced Steve, you gave her a deadpan glare. “Because right there is your man, literally stumbling over his own feet just to see you. That’s why.” 

You watched closely as your friend took a quick glance at her boyfriend, tightening her lips with amusement before shrugging her shoulders nonchalantly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

“Don’t play dumb with me,” you scolded, ignoring her attempt to butt in. “Just because I’m on ticket duty, it doesn’t mean you have to waste your night with me. You should be over there with him! He looks like a lost puppy.” 

Sharon scoffed and shook her head. “Don’t be silly, I like being over here with you.” But you couldn’t quite believe her when you caught her once again sneaking a look over to him with a longing in her eyes. 

“Shar.” You leveled with her, grabbing her hand with an honest smile. “I promise I’ll be okay, go have fun with your man.” 

She looked as though she was about to retort back, though before she could, you stood up and brought her with you. “I mean it.” 

Your best friend looked skeptical for a second before she gave in with a sigh. “You’re sure you’ll be fine?” 

“Positive.” You reassured her instantly with a bright smile. “Now go! Shoo—go smooch Stevie and tell me all about it later.” 

Sharon pulled you into a crushing hug, rocking you dramatically from side to side while she squealed in excitement. “I promise, I promise! Thank you, sweets! You’re a fucking angel.” Squeezing you tightly one last time, she eventually let go, kissing your cheek with a wet smooch and taking off to her boyfriend. 

Slumping back into your seat, you wiped your cheek and watched as Steve caught your friend into his arms, spinning her around with a huge grin and bright eyes. You sighed in bittersweet happiness, truly glad to see your friend so loved up — you didn’t regret sending her off at all. 

Even if you were now pathetically alone, working the ticket collection of the kissing booth you put together. 

The line of students queuing up to hand in their one free kiss tickets seemed never ending as the night went on. You collected so many that the thought of seeing another physically made you feel sick — you didn’t even bother to look at whoever was in line anymore, fixated on your only entertainment of the evening; watching everyone but you enjoy the kissing festivities. 

So when the next forsaken pink ticket with a lipstick print came into your line of vision, you sighed with bitterness. 

“You can go through,” you mumbled while you reached up to take the token. But as you tried to pull it into your hold, you were met with resistance. 

You frowned, beginning to look up. “I said you can—“ 

“Oh, I heard you loud and clear, Bunny.” Devilish, bright blue eyes stared you down. “But believe me when I say I’d rather stay here.” 

It took everything in your power to stay composed. Bucky actually came, your mind internally screamed at you. 

Your nerves went haywire while the two of you still held onto the ticket. As the night had progressed, your hope to see him dwindled by the second until you eventually gave up. But as he currently stood in front of you, eyeing your body in your cheer uniform, you had a hard time not throwing yourself over the table at him. 

“H-Hi, Bucky,” you whispered, still a little awestruck. 

He smirked. “Hey, you.” The finger that held tight to the ticket caressed over yours, sending a shudder down your spine. “Good turn out, then?” 

You cleared your throat. “Mhm, we’ve raised a lot of money so far.” That’s when you noticed two of his friends behind him. “I see you brought company.” 

“I’m a man of my word, sweetheart.” Bucky grinned until he raised an eyebrow. “I thought you’d actually be at the kissing booth, though. Not collecting the tickets for it.” 

“Oh,” you muttered. How could you put it without sounding so lame? “Yeah about that—“ 

Before you could try to explain, Daisy came trotting towards you and the entirety of your body filled with dread. Instantly dropping your hold on the ticket, she was soon by your side wearing her practiced fake smile. 

“Newbie,” she called, gratingly. “What is with the hold up? I gave in and let you do this because I thought you weren’t so incompetent after all.” 

Daisy’s harsh words cut into you like a knife and you slumped into yourself, embarrassed to be scolded in front of Bucky. 

You missed how she glanced to the queue, subtly changing her tune once she realised who was watching. “Come on, honey,” she said in a sickly sweet voice. “You’re not just letting me down, you’re letting the team down. I know you can do better than this.” 

Swallowing the lump in your throat, you mumbled, “Sorry, Daisy.” You were so angry at yourself. The thought that Bucky had seen the whole exchange had you suppressing the urge to bolt it out of there.

But you were even more mortified as you looked up and witnessed Daisy twirling her hair and batting her eyelashes in front of him. “You’re Bucky, right? The one who beat up Tony Stark?” 

You watched silently while he looked her up and down. Though it was the exact opposite of the way he looked at you, you couldn’t help the sinking feeling in your stomach that he may be interested in her. 

“It’s actually James,” he said, face devoid of his  happy expression from earlier.

“Huh?” Daisy replied. 

You thought you heard Bucky scoff, but you told yourself you were hearing things. “My name is James.” 

Daisy laughed. “But I’ve heard people call you Bucky.” Leaning over the table, she not so discreetly pushed her chest together with her arms, a pout on her lips. “Don’t you want me to call you that too?” 

A thick haze of green burned your skin. You weren't sure how long you could take watching their back and forth, especially when the one person who disliked you was so obviously flirting with your crush.  

To your surprise though, Bucky didn’t once let his gaze falter down, inherently keeping his eyes on hers. “No. I already told you my name is James.” 

Daisy reeled back a little, shocked that her usual tactics of spinning boys’ into her web was going down the drain. “Anyway,” clearing her throat, she recovered quickly. “I see you bought a ticket. So I’m sure you’ll be happy to hear that any of our cheerleaders in the lineup are available for a kiss.” She flicked her hair over her shoulders and added, “Me included.” 

You ducked your head, trying to force down the sick feeling rising up your throat. Bucky choosing Daisy would break your heart. You already knew you had become quite besotted over him, but with the new tortuous idea of them in your head that could soon become reality, your heart felt like it was ripping out of your chest. 

Unable to see his expression, you missed how his  eyes flicked to you, a handsome smile he only reserved for you on his face. “Easy.” He licked his lips. “I pick my Bunny.” 

“What?” Both Daisy and you looked at him in shock; you instantly snapped your gaze up to him with wide eyes while she scowled in frustration. 

Bucky kept his eyes on you with his next words. “How about it, pretty girl? Wanna kiss me?” 

Your mouth dropped open, jaw unhinged. No words were able to formulate together to answer him quick enough before you were interrupted once again. 

“Unfortunately,” Daisy snapped. “You can’t kiss her, you can only choose from the line up.” 

Rolling his eyes, Bucky begrudgingly looked back at her. “Says who?” 

“Me,” she retorted smugly as she crossed her arms. 

He scoffed. “No one—least of all you—is gonna tell me who I can kiss.” 

You gulped, head still swimming with the fact Bucky was putting up a fight to kiss you. 

“It’s the rules!” Daisy shouted, garnering the attention of more people. 

Exasperated, Bucky sighed. “Listen, Dorothy—“

“It’s Daisy.” 

“—If I were interested in you,” he spoke over her. “I would have asked for you. That is the whole concept behind this kissing booth, right? You know the idea you didn’t come up with.” 

Daisy’s cheeks turned bright red while the people who listened in from the queue snickered at her expense. 

Bucky glanced back at you, his lips curling up while he still directed his words to her. “I should be grateful, though. You just made my job of making sure no one else got to Bunny before me so much easier. Thanks Denise, you can go now.” 

The hushed laughter of the students was agonizing, even for you. Therefore there was only so much painful embarrassment the ice queen herself could take. Defeated, Daisy spun around with a huff and stormed off. 

You followed her retreating back, half panicked about the fallout it could cause in the future. But you were brought back to the present as Bucky held his hand palm up between you. “What do you say, then? Wanna get outta here, Bunny?”

Looking up at him, his eyes gleamed with mischief and satisfaction. A small bout of confidence gave you the courage to stand up, take his hand and be led into what was bound to be danger. “Yes please.” 

His hand engulfed yours while he trailed you away from the swarm of people on campus, whoops and hollers fading into the distance, and to a secluded alleyway. Gently, Bucky backed you up against the wall and stood in front of you, leaving hardly any room between you. The light breeze along with the cold bricks chilled your bare arms from your cheer outfit as goosebumps cascaded over your skin. 

“You cold, angel?” Bucky asked, a tenderness to his voice. 

“N-No, not r-really.” You tried to lie, not wanting to be a pain. But the stutter to your response as you shivered didn’t help your case.

He smiled while he shook his head. “Stubborn girl.” Pulling his arms out of the sleeves, Bucky shucked off his hoodie and wrapped it over your shoulders. “Perfect.”

His intoxicating scent hit you all at once — it was an effort to not bury your head into the material and deeply inhale. 

Instead, you shyly gazed into his eyes. “I actually wanted to thank you for the other day. With—with Tony,” you clarified. “I didn’t get to say it before.” 

Bucky drew closer to you. “That was nothing, pretty girl.”

The thick tension in the air and the proximity between you, so similar to the events in the storage closet, caused you to overshare. “You’re not actually so scary Bucky—like everyone says you are. You’re actually kind of like a big teddy—“ You cut yourself off, too embarrassed to continue what you were saying. 

He lifted your chin with his finger to look at him. “Ah ah, don’t stop there, Bunny.” His nickname for you sent tingles shooting up your thighs. “Carry on.” 

You closed your eyes and took a deep breath. “I was going to say you remind me of a teddy bear, because you’re soft on the inside even if you do look a little scary on the outside.” Biting your bottom lip, you slowly opened your eyes. 

Bucky smirked. “Yeah? You scared a’me, sweetheart?” 

“Nu-uh,” you whispered as you shook your head with hooded eyes, placing your hands over his chest. “I really like how you look.” 

Bucky grinned even wider. His large hands firmly gripped your face, eyes boring into yours. “I like how you look too, baby.” He pressed you further against the wall, licking his lips with animalistic hunger. His thumb smoothed over the pulse in your neck, watching with rapt attention as he felt the steady pump of blood.

Bucky was intense, full on and the epitome of your parent’s worst nightmare. But you just couldn’t find it in you to care. Sharon’s warnings, the common sense in your head — they were fighting a losing battle. You were doomed from the moment you met him. 

“Y’know what else I like, Angel?” Bucky closed the distance between you, the weight of his body delicious while he skimmed his lips over the sensitive skin of your neck. “I like that a sweet innocent little thing like you can’t stay away from me either.” 

“You don’t make it very easy,” you gasped as his tongue swept over the skin behind your ear. 

He chuckled breathily. “Does your friend know you’re with me?”

You timidly shook your head. “N-No. She's with her b-boyfriend.”

“Oh.” The sensation of his teeth scraping the lobe of your ear forced a whine out of you. “So my Bunny’s bein’ a bad girl, right now?”

Your fingers tangled in the material of his shirt, pulling him closer. “Mhm.” 

“Good,” he growled. “You’re not escapin’ me this time. No running away from Bear. I paid for my kiss after all.” 

With a crazed look in his eyes, he ripped himself out of your neck and tightened his fingers into your hair, pulling you into him to crush his lips against yours. 

“Mmph!” There was no time to process what was happening. Bucky’s fervid desire was blazing, like he couldn’t possibly stand the thought of not touching you for another second. 

His tongue snaked into your mouth and you moaned at the delectable feel of his piercing flicking against your own tongue. The wet slaps of your lips while you made out echoed down the dingy alleyway; it was far from a comfy bed, but the rough brick scraping against your back strangely heightened your excitement. 

Bucky suddenly grabbed your leg and hiked it over his hips. Saliva strung from his lips as he quickly pulled away to breathe into your open mouth. “Holy shit.” His chest rose and fell erratically, but a salacious grin decorated his face as though the struggle to catch his breath was exhilarating to him. “You’re sexy as fuck, Bunny.”

Your head spun from desire, a burning fever coursing through your veins like never before. “I’m so dizzy,” you slurred, completely relying on Bucky for balance.

“Yeah, sweetheart?” he cooed before grinding his hips against your heat. “You haven’t seen nothin’ yet.” 

The material of his denim jeans rubbed tantalisingly over your thin underwear — you felt the full force of his bulge against your covered cunt as your tiny skirt raised up. 

You clawed desperately at his neck while your eyes rolled back. “Bear—please—”

“That’s right. Sing for me, baby,” he murmured, eyeing your neck with want. Your cries bounced off the brick walls when he began sucking your skin, just above your collarbone. 

“Never—oh god—I've never done anything like this before,” you panted.

Bucky pulled away with a wet pop. You watched as his eyes dilated at the sight of a dark hickey staining your neck. “Don’t you fuckin’ worry about that. I’ll take care of you.” 

Sharon’s warning still danced around in your head, a small voice clinging on to your last shred of restraint. “But—”

“Shh, Bunny baby.” He looked at you then, with his bright blue eyes and swollen lips. You hung onto his every word, even when the tips of his fingers teased the inside of your thigh. “I’ve got you, okay? You’re with me now.” 

And just as Bucky pulled the soaked gusset of your panties to the side, you knew you were a devout sinner, ready to let him take over the entirety of your mind when he said, “Daddy’s never gonna let his Angel go.” 

The pads of his two fingers slowly slid through the middle of your folds, the substantial amount of slick making the glide easy for him. “Oh fuck me,” he gasped. “Baby, you’re fuckin’ drippin’.” 

Words were lost on you. Your nails dug deeply into his arms while you struggled to stand on one leg without shaking. “I—oh my god—I can’t.” 

You missed the awestruck expression on Bucky’s face as he watched his own fingers move over your sex, the glisten of his rings coated with your arousal. With a sudden growl, he slapped your pussy, splatters of your wetness flicking over his forearm while you yelped in surprise. “Mm—that’s the good shit right there.” 

He seemed to be entranced, lost in his own world as you clung to him. “Bear,” you whined needily. “Bear, I need you.” 

But your cries went ignored. At least, only until he slowly sunk two fingers into your tight hole and made you scream out his name. “Bucky!” 

The groan that rumbled through his chest vibrated through your whole body. His free arm slithered around your waist and pulled you into him. Blowing the strands of hair dangling in front of his eyes, he stared you down while he continued to fuck you with his fingers, each time grinding them into you as deep as possible and basking in the fluttering of your eyes. “You fuckin’ love that, don’t you, huh? Love Daddy shoving his fingers so far into your wet cunt?” 

All you could do was nod dumbly, your head heavy and clouded over with lust. 

“Of course you fuckin’ do.” Bucky laughed before suddenly pulling his fingers out of you and leaving you emptier than you felt before him. 

You whined loudly with the sudden loss of fullness and slumped against him. “W-What—what’s goin’—Bucky—”

The sound of slurping beside your ear caused you to lift your heavy head with immense effort to the sight of Bucky sucking each of his fingers that had just been inside of you, like a starved bear. It winded you. He made sure to lick down to the knuckles, not a drop of your essence left untouched, even as he rolled his tongue over his rings. 

You watched, dazed and dizzy until he hummed in satisfaction and finally opened his eyes to look at you. “You taste fuckin’ incredible.” 

The fuzziness of your head switched off the part of your brain that made you tremble in his presence. You were holding on by a thread as you mumbled a “T-Thank you.” 

A couple of seconds passed by with your heaving breaths and an unbearable knot pulsing away in your lower stomach. Though, Bucky soon interrupted the silence. “Wanna come take a look at my car?”

You frowned, an unfulfilled orgasm made you feel delirious. Had you heard him right? He had just stuffed you with his fingers, literally leaving you a disheveled mess on his shoulder and he asked if you wanted to go see his car?

“It’s a Mustang Mach 1. She’s a real beauty.” Bucky offered, as though the model type would sway you to say yes when you knew absolutely nothing about cars. He seemed so casual and so the only way you thought to act was the complete same. 

Nodding your head, you took a deep breath and replied. “S-Sure.” 

Grabbing your hand, he grinned and began walking you to the parking lot of the campus. 

Little did you know, your very own devil was about to drag you into the pits of hell, tarnishing your white wings and making you his queen of the underworld. 

“Oh my god—Bear, please!” 

“Right fuckin’ there baby, ride my fuckin’ dick like the good girl you are.” Bucky’s fingers dug into the skin of your hips while you bounced on his cock, the skirt of your uniform bunched around your waist. “That's it, Bunny. Keep on hoppin’ for daddy, sweet girl.”

When Bucky had asked if you wanted to see his car, you truly thought that was what his intentions were. Even if he had just fucked you with his fingers, your naivety still let you believe he had no ulterior motives. Oh, how wrong you were. 

You followed him blindly when he wanted to show you the interior, thinking nothing of the fact that he made you climb over the console and into the backseat for comfortability. 

But now, as the windows fogged up and your bare tits bounced up and down since Bucky had torn his hoodie and the shirt of your cheer uniform over your shoulders, the only nonsensical thought your mind could supply was how much of a sucker you were for temptation — an innocent lamb ready to sin. 

The meat of your asscheeks clapped against his thick thighs while your hand slammed against the window; the built up perspiration inside the car coming away as your palm slid down with a screech. “So—so big—you’re so big, Bear.” 

Bucky’s sweat-stricken hair stuck to each side of his temple and he grunted deeply while the sound of your slick sloshed over his cock. “God, you’re leakin’ all over my dick.” He looked down and grinned at the sight of him stretching your hole wide open. “So fuckin’ wet for me, bun bun.” 

Your needy whines were music to his ears as you threw your head back. “Mm—can’t help it—you— you do this to m-me.” 

That seemed to please him greatly. “Yeah, Bunny?”

Bucky grabbed you by the chin, the chunky rings on his fingers indenting marks onto your protruding cheeks. “Who’s cock is stuffin’ your cunt full, huh? Who’s fuckin’ makin’ you soaked? Tell me, baby.” 

“Y-You, Bear,” you moaned.

But Bucky wasn’t satisfied. “Say it like you fuckin’ mean it.” 

“You’re keeping me full, baby! Daddy’s making me all wet!”

Bucky groaned with a sinister smile. “That’s more fuckin’ like it.” The thrust of his hips began to piston up into you and his balls slapped against the meat of your ass with the force. “Look at ya—all dumbed out ‘cause Daddy’s so deep in your hole.”  

Drool started to dribble down your chin. The tip of his cock hit the sensitive nerves in your cunt just right and words were the last thing on your mind. “Can’t even think for me, can you, baby?” 

The car bobbed up and down with the fast rhythm between the two of you, the suspension taking most of the beating. If you were of more sane mind, you would have been mortified with the thought of the scene should anyone walk by the parking lot. But as the muscles in your thighs burned from exertion, you couldn’t find it in you to care; not for the life of you would you stop, not when you had never felt such sinful pleasure in all your life. “I'm aching, Bear—please—I need more.” 

Bucky’s eyes rolled back with the sweetest plea he had ever heard. With a growl, he ripped his hands from your waist and spanked your tits before wrapping them both around your neck to bring you nose to nose with him. “Don’t gotta do anything else but this baby, keep makin’ me feel good, yeah? Gonna fuckin’ blow soon.” 

“Oh,” you whimpered. Your clit tingled with the prospect of Bucky cumming inside of your cunt and with a newfound energy, you worked harder to ride his cock. 

Gazing at you with hooded eyes, he chuckled deliriously. “Sound good, bunny? Want me to blow my load inside a’ya?” 

“Yes!” you pleaded, nodding your head desperately. “Want you to cum in my tight pussy, Bear.” 

He laughed hysterically. “Look at how far you’ve come, Angel. Taking what you want like you own it.” 

Your nails dug into the skin of Bucky’s chest. The quick glide of his cock in and out of your cunt was too much for you, so much that your mouth hung open shamelessly.

“Such a good slut for me, bunny—you wanna be my slutty little bunny, huh?” Gripping your throat tightly, he manhandled you away from his forehead to hold you up like a ragdoll. When you didn’t answer he lightly slapped your cheek until your eyes widened and looked at him. “Answer me you fuckin’ slut.” 

“Yes Daddy!” you cried. “Please—I just wanna cum. Let me cum!” 

Bucky bit his bottom lip as he looked down at your pussy sucking him in. “I don’t know, pretty baby. I don’t think you wan’ it bad enough.” 

He was toying with you. You were a wreck in his hold with tears streaming down your cheeks. 

“I do—I do!” you swallowed against the dryness of your mouth as you fought for breath. “Do anything—I’ll do anything for you, Bear. It's too much—please!” 

“You cryin’ for me?” He laughed breathlessly. Sitting up with an excited vigor, Bucky licked the tear tracks on your cheek, still managing to thrust up into you while he whispered into your ear with a moan. “So goddamn beautiful when you cry for me.” 

Running the tip of his finger down your stomach and down to your pussy, he forewent touching your throbbing clit and instead teased it against your already stuffed hole. 

You gasped harshly at the feel of him pushing against your stretched cunt. “B-Bucky! N-No you can’t, you’re already—I’m already so full.” 

But you were hopeless to the devil on your shoulder, the same one who began inching his finger beside his cock and pushing it into you. “Shhh, you can take it, baby. Make Daddy Bear proud.” 

Taking a deep breath, you squeezed your eyes closed tightly as your slick helped to suck in both his cock and his finger. The sensation was unusual, but somehow you wanted more. Your mouth hung open on a silent scream. 

“There’s a good Bunny—knew you could do it, sweetheart.” Bucky rubbed his thumb over the skin of your throat soothingly, giving you a couple of seconds to get used to the new feeling. But as soon as he felt the flutter of your pussy, he grinned wickedly and hooked his finger over the soft spongy spot inside of you. “Now hold on tight while I ruin your cunt.” 

A loud squeak was finally forced out of you once he began fucking back up into you. You thought you felt full before, now you were holding onto the last of your sanity; lost in the pits of a torturous yet addicting feeling.  

“What’s a’matter, hm? Thought you were already too full, baby? But just look at your slutty little pussy taking more.” Bucky hummed with a nefarious gleam in his eye. “Wonder if I could get my full fist in you.” 

The juices from your cunt squelched loudly, dripping down the length of Bucky’s finger and gathering in the palm of his hand. The image of him steadily working you up to take the size of his fist, imagining the wide gape your hole would make as you clenched around his wrist was too much for your already overstimulated self to handle. 

“Wan’ it,” you garbled around the spit in your mouth. You could barely keep your eyes open as you withstood the battering your pussy was so greedily taking. “Wan’ you to fuck me with your whole hand, Bear.” 

Bucky sucked bruises on the skin of your tits as they bounced in his face, the wicked intent smothering his face deepening the more you lost your will to him. “Fuck, angel. You really are perfect.” 

With his free hand, he palmed your ass, forcing you to bounce on him even harder. “We’re gonna have so much fun together, yknow that, baby?” His voice rang like a melody in your head, one you were becoming lost to. “Yeah. Daddy’s gonna teach you all kind of new things, pretty girl.” 

The blossoming ache in your lower stomach magnified into a tight ball of pleasure, your clit painfully throbbing with the need to let go. 

“I can’t—,” you sobbed. “I need to—gotta cum, Bucky—please.”

“Are you askin’ me permission, sweetheart?” 

“Yes!” You cried to the roof of the car. “Please—please Daddy—please let me cum. I can’t hold it any l-longer.” 

“You gonna cream all over Daddy’s hand, baby?” Bcuky’s voice grew hoarser as he pistoned his hips into your waiting cunt, meeting you each time you threw yourself down. “Gonna give me your sweet little cunt juices so I can taste you again?” 

“Ugh!” You whined, high pitched. “Anything you want—anything you want!” 

You were balancing on the fence between heaven and hell; the lines of pain and pleasure blurring so much that you were sure you were going to pass out as your legs shook and your stomach cramped with refrained edging. 

But by some almighty higher force, your prayers were answered when Bucky’s fingers harshly pinched your enlarged clit and twisted, timing his motion perfecting with a scrape of his fingertip against your inner walls. “Make a mess on me then, Bunny.” 

White noise blasted over the deafening screams released from your inner core, the rattle of the bouncing car and Bucky’s deep moans as your pussy clenched unforgivingly around his cock. Your soul seemed to ascend, overtaken by some unnatural force as your limbs seized and became weightless all at once. 

It was like your body wasn’t yours anymore, like you weren’t actually present as your conscience waned in and out. One second you felt the explosive ricochets of electricity dance along your veins, and another you were sure you blacked out. 

Your clouded mind came back into focus as a pair of hands squeezed your hips, your sex clamping down tightly on the length of a cock grinding inside of you. 

“You were so fuckin’ good, Bun.” Bucky’s gruff timber woke you up fully. The sight of him licking your combined juices as he stared heatedly between your legs brought you back to the current. 

Looking down, you blinked several times to find a thick load of milky white cum leaking from your hole. 

“You—,” you swallowed the dryness of your throat as you tried to gather your thoughts. “You c-came in me.” 

Leaning his head back against the seat, Bucky laughed with a fucked out smile. “I absolutely fuckin’ did, Angel.” He thrusted up into you one last time, smirking at the yelp you let out. “And don’t you look a pretty picture.” 

Your bashfulness came back in full force as you buried your neck into Bucky’s chest, slumping onto his body with a whine, his cock still hard in your cunt. 

“Nothing to be ashamed of, baby.” He sighed, satisfied as he grabbed a smoke from his front pocket half way down his thighs. “You did real good for me, sweetheart.” 

You turned your head into his cheek. “I did?” You asked, craving his validation. 

Lighting his joint and taking a hit, Bucky blew out the smoke from his mouth, grabbed your chin and fused his lips to yours once more, taking no preamble or measures before tangling his tongue with yours. 

You whimpered as the taste of weed teased your tastebuds, squirming unashamedly, even when more of Bucky’s load rolled down your legs. 

Regretfully soon, his lips left yours and he gave you one last peck to your forehead before bringing you to rest on his chest again. 

“I’m fuckin’ keepin’ you, bunny baby.” Bucky slapped your ass and you jolted, clenching around him as you whined out loud. His tongue darted out to lick his raw-bitten lips, a hungry smirk on his face while he squeezed the bruised, sore flesh. “All mine.”

[aiyaiy]

Dancing With The Devil I

Pairing: Alternative!Bucky Barnes x Cheerleader!F!Reader

Word count: 5.2k

Summary: You were always a sensible girl — an angel some would say. But how quickly are you willing to shred your wings when the devil himself is so damn tempting?

Or, Bucky Barnes, college’s resident bad boy, upturns your ethics, your morals, your life when you invite him to support the cheer teams’ fundraising kissing booth.

Warnings: College AU, bad boy v. good girl trope, inexperienced!reader, Bucky has tattoos and piercings, pet names, unwanted groping (not from Bucky!!), violence, mention of blood, sexual tension, almost kisses.

Author’s Note: Unbeta’d. Divider by @saradika-graphics. Part 1 of 2 — this is a build up to the smut. Hope you enjoy!

The fundraiser season was upon you — an event your college went a little crazy for every year and as a new member of the cheer squad, it was a main part of your duty to join in with the festivities. 

A proposition of a kissing booth, shyly put forward by yourself had become a hit amongst the rest of the cheerleaders that they instantly approved of — most of them, at least. It was all in good spirit to raise money for charity. 

And so wanting to gather hype around the event — one you had tirelessly worked day and night to put together — you and your best friend, Sharon, volunteered to hand out fliers together. The two of you wandered aimlessly around the courtyard in your team uniform to spread the word. 

“I think this is going to be really good, sweet,” Sharon excitedly spoke over her shoulder as she stapled a flier onto the notice board. “I checked our hashtag on the school's twitter page this morning and we’re already trending.”

Your eyes widened and you spun your head towards her in shock. “Really?” Whipping out your phone from your skirt pocket, you quickly brought up the app and checked the post — already the most anticipated fundraiser of the night. “That was fast!” 

“Mhm,” she mumbled, nodding her head. Slyly, she looked over at you from the corner of her eye. “I bet you’re excited about all those hot and sweaty football players who are gonna be lining up for a kiss.” 

Your head snapped up from your phone with your mouth parted, struggling to scold her. “Sharon!” you squealed. 

“What?” The smirk on her face was all too teasing for your liking. “You know most of them are gonna be desperate for a small piece of you, sweets.” 

Your cheeks grew warm, an embarrassed heat growing up your neck as you stumbled over your words. “N-No I don’t think so—“

“C’mon babe.” Sharon stopped what she was doing and cocked her hip towards you with a raised eyebrow. “You really don’t see the boys practically drooling over you?” 

Honestly, you didn’t see it. Spending most of your time practicing your routines or studying in the library, there was no time to worry about boys and you didn’t have much experience within the relationship department anyway, which made you blind to any advances. 

“Even if they did, they’re not my type.” You shrugged, not giving in to the disbelieving expression on Sharon’s face. “I’m serious! I’m just not into that.” 

“Okay, sure—whatever you say.” Your friend playfully taunted you with a smile until her gaze locked onto something behind you. A small frown appeared on her lips and a not-so-subtle sneer lined her cheeks. “Just so long as it isn’t them, for fucks sake—the last thing you need is an asshole like that.”

Spinning around, you squinted your eyes, looking for whoever Sharon was talking about. A group of students, dressed collectively in hoodies, leather jackets and combat boots were gathered around the bike sheds with a cloud of smoke billowing over their heads. 

“What’s wrong with them?” you asked inquisitively, genuinely stumped for her dismay. 

“Trust me, sweets. You don’t want to get wrapped up with those people. They’ll fucking eat you up and spit you back out,” Sharon replied. 

Leaning on your tiptoes, you spotted a familiar face in the crowd. “Well, what about Wanda? She’s with them and she’s not an asshole.” 

Your friend seemed to struggle to come up with an answer to your question. “That’s different. She’s part of our squad and she’s actually nice.” 

That didn’t appease you, though. “Couldn’t that mean the others are nice, too?”

Sharon was protective, fierce to those she loved and held dear. She had befriended you the day you bumped into each other on the field for practice; when your eyes were holding back tears after Daisy, the second in command cheerleader, made a remark with her friends about how on earth you had managed to be accepted onto the team. 

Since then, the two of you have been glued at the hip — like sisters you dared to think. Her advice was gospel to you and so you took her word seriously. “Sweetie, they’re no good. Just trust me.” 

“Okay,” you sighed as you turned back around. A solemness took over as you remembered that you had been benched to the sidelines for your very own event. “I don’t actually think I’ll be working the booth anyway. Daisy said she only needs me on clean up duty.” 

Sharon’s body suddenly tensed with aggravation.

“Excuse me?” Her eyes were burning with fury as she turned to look at you. “Daisy said what now?”

“T-That I have to clean up?” you offered once again unsure.

Your friend scoffed. “She can’t do that—she has no fucking right to do that. You came up with the idea!” 

The intensity of her anger, even when not directed at you, was overwhelming and your eyes darted down while you mumbled disheartenedly, “I know but what can I do? What she says goes.” 

The fire in Sharon’s eyes was unlike anything else as she went on a tirade of rage — her own dislike for Daisy getting the better of her. 

You zoned out of the conversation, not wanting to dwell on the upset Daisy’s disapproval of you caused. Instead, you counted the rest of your fliers, satisfied to at least have made progress for the day. 

Just as you were about to jump back into the heated conversation, laughter behind you caught your attention. While Sharon was busy brewing in her hatred, you glanced over your shoulder to once again look at the group you had become so intrigued by. 

The colourful paper in your hand, rustling together with the slight breeze drew you to look at them. You only had a few fliers left and you knew Daisy would have something to say if you came back with them. 

A lightbulb dinged in your mind. Your head snapped up; your whole face lit up with the prospect to gain a wider audience for your event. 

Sharon’s voice became clear then. “I can’t believe she even has the audacity when she’s not even the head cheerleader. Such a stuck up bi—“ 

“We still have fliers left!” you interrupted your friend mid sentence, feigning shock as though you had only just noticed. She stopped talking and frowned while you began to walk backwards. “M-Maybe I should just head over there to hand them out. We do need all the people we can get after all.”

Looking behind you, the direction of your steps, her eyes widened once she saw where you were going. “Sweets—,” she warned, as though she was talking to an animal ready to run. “Come back here, please.” 

But there was no use; you had already spun around and started skipping on over. “Hey—Wait! Get back here you little shit!” 

The pleats of your skirt bounced along with you while you giggled, your shoes scuffing along the pavement until you stopped in front of the large group. With the little confidence you had, you cleared your throat before squeaking your greeting over the loudness. “Hi!”��

Instantly, conversation amongst everyone died down, every single person turning their head to you. A pin drop could be heard over the busy courtyard. 

The amount of beady eyes, all wondering who had interrupted them, caused an overwhelming anxiety to fester in your stomach. Regret soon sank in as what small bout of bravery you once had soon whittled away once you gained their attention. 

Swallowing the lump in your throat, you were sure everyone heard your gulp before you forced yourself to speak.  “I—I um, just wanted to—to hand these out.” Your hands shook as you held the vibrant fliers up — the red and pinks contrasting to the sea of black and greys staring you down like prey. “For our fundraiser cel-celebration.”

The awkwardness dragged on in the silence and your skin crawled with nerves. This was a terrible idea. Sharon was right, you should have never come over and instead listened to her. But you were soon pulled from your inner turmoil. 

A brooklyn drawl, raspy yet smooth cut through the deafening stillness at the same time a tall figure stood up in the crowd, whistling low as he feasted on you. “Well ain’t you the prettiest lil’ thing, hoppin’ on over in your short skirt.” 

It was difficult, even in the daylight, to make out the face of this stranger; long shaggy brown hair, hidden behind a hood. Even partly elusive, you had never seen anyone like him before, but you couldn’t deny the tingles that shot up your arms and made the fine hairs stand on edge. 

His thick-soled boots, covered in buckles that jingled with each step, thudded menacingly along the concrete while he made his way over to you. And as the sun hit his face just right, that’s when you saw his eyes, bright blue and sparkling; giving attention to his silver nose ring.  

You were held to your spot, breathless and squirming. Though you tampered yourself as he drew closer and finally came before you, one step away from touching your toes. “So, what’s this you got planned, sweet thing?”

A gruff blonde with cropped hair and a sleeveless denim jacket snorted behind him, a thick scruffy beard decorating his face. “Go easy on her, punk.” 

The stranger that had you a little starstruck brought himself even closer — within an inch of you — crossing his arms behind his back and squinting curiously to look directly into your eyes, a gleam in his own.

You were intoxicated by the smell of leather and smoke, a combination that should have made you feel sick and yet rendered you dizzy with heat. The spell he bound you with held you in a deep trance. “A kissing booth,” you whispered timidly. 

“Oh?” He grinned wide, a huff of fresh mint from the gum he was chewing combined with his aroma. “A kissing booth, you say?”

“It’s for charity.” You licked your lips with hesitation. “You—um—you pay for a ticket and in return a girl of your choosing from the team can k-kiss you—“ A sudden thought that you had no idea who you were talking to stopped you from continuing and you shook your head apologetically. “I’m sorry I didn’t catch your name.” 

The man in front of you smirked, sinister and perverse. His eyes darted between your own while you trembled, close to breaking a sweat. “You can call me Bucky, sweetheart,” he replied, smoothly. 

Murmurs and quiet chatter from the rest of Bucky’s friends picked up while he took you in, his eyes clinging to the bare skin of your thighs, barely covered by your cheer skirt. 

You began to introduce yourself, too. “My name is—“ 

“Oh, I know who you are.” The corner of his lips curled up while he dragged his eyes lazily up your body. “I’ve seen how you move. The twirls and spins and shit, lookin’ all cute.”  

“Y-You have?” you asked in shock, surprised to find he was already familiar with you. 

“Mm, I’ve heard all about you.” He nodded, before cocking his head behind him. To your surprise, you looked and found your squad mate, Wanda, who threw you a sly wink. Your attention was brought back to Bucky, gliding his pierced tongue across his pearly white teeth. “A cute bunny showing off her tricks is kinda hard to miss.” 

His presence was all too intimidating, but one of the sweetest addictions you knew would give you an all time high. You couldn’t keep still, switching your weight between you feet as subtly as you could possibly manage. Opening your mouth, you readied yourself to respond until Bucky’s eyes flicked to your side. 

An all too out of breath Sharon, weary eyed and scary looking stormed towards you. Uncaring for your new friend, she stood in front of him, blocking his view while her hands grasped your upper arms to check you over. “Sweetie! Are you okay?” 

The strenuous effort to tear your eyes away from Bucky was almost impossible. “Mhm,” you mumbled noncommittally, finally able to bring your gaze to Sharon. “I’m okay.”

Leaning to the side, Bucky caught your eyes once again as he asked. “Will you be workin’, sweetheart?”

Confusion fogged up your mind, disorientated as your eyes played tennis between him and your best friend. “I’m sorry?”

“The kissing booth.” He reiterated, standing straight to pluck the cigarette tucked behind his ear. Those damned eyes never left you while he placed it between his lips and grabbed a light from his back jean pocket. “Will you be workin’ it?” 

“Oh!” You shook your head, trying to get out of your daze as he lit his cigarette. “I—um—I don’t know. I don’t think so. Technically?” Nerves made you ramble on. “I’m sort of working—but I won’t be near the booth and—”

Stepping forward, Bucky gently pushed Sharon out the way. “Hey!” she huffed, glaring at him. But he ignored her in favour of closing the distance between the two of you.  

He placed his thumb over your lips, effectively silencing you as he took a drag of his smoke and blew it out to the side of you with a smirk. “You’ll be there, Bunny.” Your eyes fluttered when he chucked your chin and winked. “Make sure of it and you won’t regret it.”

Struggling to come down from floating in the clouds, you almost whined as he teased his finger along your neck when he stepped back — his chilled rings lit your nerves on fire. You stared hopelessly after him as he started to walk backwards away from you to his friends.  

“I’ll bring some of these fuckers too!” he shouted over the growing distance between you, gracing you with one last grin. “Good for business and all.” 

You sighed, a love-sickening one that caused your friend to roll her eyes. Sharon clicked her fingers in your face, snapping you out of your haze. “Sweets!” 

You shook your head and your hooded eyes darted over to her. “Huh?” 

Sharon grabbed your shoulders, a firm scolding ready on her lips. “Listen to me,” she implored. “You need to stay away from him. He’s bad news.” 

You swallowed, unable to help the flicker of your eyes back to Bucky, watching as he threw his head back while he laughed, his full head of long hair framing his face beautifully. 

Sharonl cleared her throat pointedly and you snapped back to her, a guilty expression to your features. “Okay?” she reiterated. 

You begrudgingly nodded, and she sighed, seemingly appeased for now. Looping her arms through yours, she pulled you away and began to speak about your fundraiser once more. 

When once, incessant talk and arrangement of the kissing booth would have spilled from your lips, you held quiet; basking in whatever the hell had just happened. 

It was impossible to stop yourself from looking over your shoulder once more. To catch a final peek of Bucky, and your heart jumped as you caught his steel eyes already focused on you. Glancing back to Sharon, she was in her own world, already deep into discussion about decorations. 

Discreetly, you turned around, happy to find Bucky’s gaze still reciprocated and so you waved, small enough to not catch your friend’s attention. You held back a squeal, fighting to stave off the bubble in your throat that was desperate to escape when he brought his inked hand up to his mouth and blew you a kiss. 

It was a couple of days later while you were grabbing your books for your next class when you next saw Bucky. Earlier than expected but not at all in the way you imagined. 

You were at your locker, reaching to the back for that one annoying book that always seemed to hide from you. Your back was turned to the busy corridors, other students passing by as your fingertips ghosted along the textbook you needed when the feel of someone’s hand groping your ass caused you to jump in fright. 

Spinning around in shock, you came face to face with an all too pleased Tony Stark — the school’s rich playboy. “Hey, sweet cheeks.” 

The sleazy grin he donned made you feel queasy, but to avoid confrontation, you instead laughed nervously, hiding your discomfort. “Um, h-hi, Tony.”

He leaned his arm over your head against the lockers, trapping you in with no way to escape. “How haven’t I noticed you before, hm? Nothing better than some fresh meat on the cheerleading team.” 

Beginning to squirm, you shifted away as best as you could with hardly any distance between you — the unease you felt clear from your expression. “Excuse me—I’m sorry—you’re just—a little too close—“ 

“Let me take you out tonight,” he interrupted, careless to your lack of comfortability. “I’ll show you a real good time.” 

Alarm bells started to ring in your head. The fact that he had touched you without permission in such a crowded place and continued to ignore your requests unsettled you deeply. 

You looked around frantically, trying to silently scream for help. But no one batted an eyelid to your situation.

“Tony,” you quietly said, not wanting to cause a scene. “I’m not interested and I’ve really got to go—“

“Don’t be a prude, babe.” A lump tightened in your throat as Tony pawed at your waist, his clammy fingers digging into you harshly. “It’s not a good look on you.” 

Fear clouded your ability to shout out. Sharon wasn’t there to be your knight in shining armor like usual and you clawed down your cries as best as you could. To your dismay, tears began to gather over your waterline. “Please. Just—just move back and we can talk—“ 

“It’s okay,” he whispered against your neck. “Just say yes and I’ll take care of you.” 

Closing your eyes tight, you willed for him to leave you alone, your fingernails digging into your palms so hard they created indents into your skin. His breath against your neck made you desperately want to crawl out of your skin, his unwanted touch and proximity more of a burden than a compliment. 

You were rendered useless, weak. His heavy weight pinned you down to the lockers and left you unmoving. Overwhelmed, your breathing started to become erratic, panicked and just as you thought you couldn’t take it any longer, Tony’s presence disappeared and the air rushed back to your lungs. 

A loud commotion sounded on the other side of the hallway, but the blur of it all was disabling. It took you a while to gather the courage to squint your eyes open and once your vision became clear, you gasped at the sight of Bucky slamming Tony against the other side of the lockers, holding him up by his shirt with an unparalleled fury in his darkened eyes. 

“B-Barnes!” Tony squeaked in shock. “Heyy there, take it easy big guy—“ 

Bucky jolted him brutally another time. “What the fuck do you think you’re doin’ to her?” he growled, venom in his voice and a tone that held no room for humour. 

Tony laughed, apprehensively. “C’mon man, we were just having some fun.”

Disgust was clearly visible on Bucky’s face as he reeled back, only serving to make him angrier. “Fun?” he scoffed. “You think it’s fun bein’ a fuckin’ creep? She told you no.” 

Soon enough, a mob of students had gathered around the commotion, filming with their phones and whispering amongst themselves in anticipation for a fight. 

You watched as Tony’s cheeks flared red, the embarrassment of being so easily overpowered by Bucky in front of the whole school paralysing him when his eyes suddenly shot to you, a vein bulging from his forehead. 

You cowered back as much as possible, covering your body with your arms while he spat, “Are you fucking kidding me? She—she wants it! Look at her! The bitch is practically begging for it in that skirt.” 

There was a stilted pause, a deathly quiet over the hallway before a chilling laugh echoed from Bucky. “You’re gonna fuckin’ regret that.” 

A flock of shouts and cheers bounced off the lockers as Bucky threw Tony to the ground. Without remorse, he grabbed him by the scruff of his shirt before he tried to desperately crawl away and pummeled him to the floor with a single punch, the silver rings on his fingers cutting the skin of Tony’s cheek and smothering blood over his face. 

You winced as you heard Tony’s pleas for mercy as Bucky continued to lay into him. The sight should have worried you — Sharon’s previous warnings clear as day in your head — but your thighs rubbed together instead, an ache between them leaving you equal parts aroused and concerned.

The one sided fight seemed to be over within seconds. Bucky stopped, letting Tony flop to the floor, gifted with an instantaneous black eye and most likely broken nose. 

Stepping over his body, Bucky squatted down, a grave warning grunted as his chest rose and fell with adrenaline. “If you ever talk about Bunny like that again, or even look at her.” He paused, laughing sadistically. “Who am I fuckin’ kiddin’? If you dare breathe the same air as her again, I won’t be so fuckin’ kind next time.” The humour died from his tone within seconds. “Are we clear?” 

When he didn’t hear a response from Tony, he forcefully kicked his boot into the side of his ribs. “I said, are we clear?”

“Y-Yes! Yes—please—we’re clear!” Tony coughed out a quick reply, the pain in his voice evident. 

Satisfied, Bucky swept his long hair back from his face and stood up. He caught his breath for a moment, hands on his hips as the students watched on, just as mesmerised as you. 

But he paid them no attention as he suddenly brought his gaze over to your direction. He had no trouble finding you as he towered over the crowd and they immediately parted the way for him while he strode towards you. 

You held your breath when he reached you and immediately cradled your face with his hands — his delicacy while he handled you compared to Tony stunned you. He wiped the remaining tears away with his thumbs as he looked at you with concern. “Angel, are you okay?”

It took you a while to respond, still reeling from the previous events. “I—I think so,” you stuttered, though not from fear of Tony anymore. 

Bucky’s hands gently fell down to your waist, the cutout of your uniform allowing him to touch your bare skin. “Don’t worry, baby. I’ll make sure he—“

As he lightly squeezed your hips, you inhaled sharply, a shoot of pain radiating through your body. 

Bucky instantly stopped in his tracks and quickly lifted his hands, only to find bruises in the shape of fingertips staining your skin. A dark cloud fell over his cerulean eyes. “That fucker,” he growled, turning to shoot daggers at Tony’s form still crouched on the floor. “I’m gonna kill him.” 

Before Bucky could lunge back at him, you grabbed at his arms, a desperate need to keep him close. “No!” you cried, waiting until he whipped his head back round to you as you pleaded, “Please stay with me.”

His gaze flicked back to your bruise, confliction locking up his muscles. “Bunny, he fuckin’ marked you. No way am I lettin’ him get away with that shit—“

You grabbed his hand and began dragging him along, away from everyone still lingering and staring at the two of you. “Please, Bucky?” 

The fury dissolved from his features, your sweet request too difficult to ignore. “Okay,” he sighed, following you blindly as you led him into an empty storage closet. 

Locking the door behind you, you turned the light switch on. There was limited proximity between you in the tight space, but Bucky seemed to have no qualms being so close to you. 

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, diverting your eyes away from him and fidgeting with the hem of your skirt. 

You didn’t see the confusion on Bucky’s face, how perplexed he was for your apology. “Bunny,” he called for you, waiting until you looked at him. “What in the fuck have you got to be sorry for?” 

Your breaths started to come in heavy, lips trembling as you tried to hold your tears back. “I didn’t—I didn’t mean to—to cause a fight,” you sniffled. “I shouldn’t have been wearing my uniform and—“ 

“Hey,” Bucky cut you off, stern and resolute. His fingers sweeped your hair out of your face gently. “You did absolutely nothin’ wrong, you hear me?”

Your eyes darted down, however he was quick to catch your chin with his forefinger and thumb. “Look at me.”

With glassy eyes, you did just that, reluctant but submissive to his order. 

Bucky wrapped his hand around the back of your neck, his thumb running back and forth soothingly, “Don’t you ever apologise for that shit.” His blue eyes bore into your soul. “I beat the shit out of that fucker because he deserved it. No one talks to you like that and gets away with it. You understand, baby?” 

Timidly, you nodded your head. “Mhm.”

“I mean it.” He reiterated, determined to make you see sense. 

You weren’t convinced, Bucky could tell. Delicately, he smoothed his free hand over your waist. “Besides,” he shrugged his shoulders, a teasing smile crawling onto his face. “My Bunny looks fuckin’ hot in her uniform.” 

Heat began to creep up your neck and a nervous giggle escaped from your lips. The anxious knot that had built in your stomach slowly began to unravel in Bucky’s presence. 

“There she is.” He stroked your bottom lip with his thumb. “C’mon, sweetheart you’ve gotta know how fuckin’ good you look in that outfit, waving your pom poms and puttin’ on a show.”

“You’ve watched me?” Your breathing picked up. 

“Course I fuckin’ have. Knew you were somethin’ special when Wanda mentioned you.” 

You relaxed into his hold, melting from his touch. However, from the corner of your eye, a flicker of dark red running down from his hand down to his wrist caught your attention. 

You gasped, grabbing his hand and turning it to get a better look at the damage to his knuckles. “Bucky! You’re bleeding!” 

He raised his eyebrows, a little surprised to see he was in fact bleeding. Laughing it off, he tried to ease your worries. “Ah sweetheart—it’s nothin’. Don’t even worry about it—“

“Like hell I won’t!” The unexpected fire in your voice stunned Bucky as his eyebrows rose in shock. Thinking on your toes, you spun around towards the shelves. “Let me find something.” 

While you were busy rummaging through storage boxes, you missed the heated glint in his eyes and the subtle squeeze of his own dick through his denim pants. 

You searched until you found an unopened pack of bandages along with some ointment cream. Softly, you took his hand over to the old sink in the corner and began washing the dried up blood staining his skin. 

Bucky watched intently while you gently cleaned him up, your tongue stuck out between your lips as you wrapped the bandage around his knuckles in concentration. 

“There. Good as new.” You smiled happily with your work and without thinking, you carefully lifted his damaged hand up to your lips to kiss over the bandage. 

The realisation of how bold your action was finally caught up to you. With caution, your eyes flitted up expecting the worst. However, your mouth slightly dropped open as you noticed the wicked glint in his eyes while he stared you down like a wolf. “You’re just precious, ain’t you, angel?” 

You didn’t have the chance to respond as Bucky spun you around and cornered you against the wall. You should have felt as vulnerable as you did with Tony, but you only whimpered with curious delight as tingles shot down your spine. 

Your noses bumped together when Bucky moved in even closer, lips so close to touching. “This okay, Bunny?” 

Fighting off a shudder, you quickly nodded without hesitation. “Yes.”

He chuckled breathily. “I haven’t stopped fuckin’ thinking about you.” 

Common sense seemed so far from reality as you closed your eyes and rested your head back against the wall. His scent dizzied you, his whole presence threw you for a loop. How the hell had he gotten into your system in such a short span of time? 

“You know I’d kill anyone who tried to touch you like that don’t you, baby?” Your fingers tangled into the lapels of Bucky’s leather jacket while his soft lips teased yours. “No one else can have you. You were mine since I laid eyes on you.” 

“Oh—Bucky.” Just as wrecked as you, he began to lean in and you closed your eyes in anticipation for his kiss. All he had to do was push forward, connect the remaining distance and claim you. 

But to your luck, the school bell for the beginning of class rang loud through the hallway. Sense came back to you then. Opening your eyes, you quickly untangled yourself out of Bucky’s hold. 

You half-expected him to be annoyed, but instead he had the biggest grin on his face, almost predatory. 

Skittishly you started to walk backwards towards the exit of the storage closet. “I—um,” you began. “I need to go—go to my class.” 

Bucky smirked even wider while he combed his ringed fingers through his messy hair and then slid his hands into his pockets. “Mhm,” he mumbled devilishly. 

“I’ll s-see you around?” You offered, lamely while you fumbled with the handle of the door. Your nerves built even higher when he started to stalk towards you and the simple task of opening the door seemed impossible. 

“You sure will, Bunny.” Bucky gained closer, a couple of steps away from you when you finally managed to swing the door open with urgency.

Hurriedly, you excited the closet, breathing heavily. But you shrieked as you collided into another person. Turning around to apologise, your words died on your tongue when you found the person you had bumped into was none other than Sharon. 

“Sweets?” she asked, instantly concerned at your flustered state. “What’s wrong? Did something happen—“ 

Then, her eyes glanced behind you, a scowl appearing on her face while a disheveled Bucky exited the same closet you just stumbled out of. 

You gulped as her fierce gaze shot to you. “I can explain.” 

“We’re having a serious talk.” Once again, Sharon dragged you away from Bucky and you fought to keep up to pace with her. 

You felt like a child being pulled away from their favourite toy. Bucky was trouble, that much you knew. But of course, you couldn’t help but look over your shoulder — a common occurrence it seemed — and you also couldn’t help the grin that crept onto your face as you watched him wiggle his fingers at you in goodbye with a wink. 

Trouble had never looked better — with horns and a tail that could make heaven’s most loyal angel want to sin. 

[aiyaiy]

Surprise

Anthoy Bridgerton x reader

Summary: Anthony's wife sometimes feels lonely while Anthony works. So he prepares a little surprise for Y/n

Requested: yes

The Bridgerton mansion was flooded with the now-weakening rays of the setting sun. Y/n was relaxing on the couch engrossed with a book, resting after a tiring day playing with her husband's younger siblings. For the first time that day, the house was completely silent.

However, Anthony Bridgerton was up to something. He had arrived about an hour ago, greeting her with a small kiss and quickly locking himself in his office.

Finally, she heard his footsteps heading towards where she was. His mischievous smirk and the odd lump beneath his greatcoat were telltale signs to anyone who might have been watching, but thankfully no one was home except for the couple and the maids.

She glanced up as he entered, her lips curling into a smile.

“Anthony,” she greeted warmly, placing a bookmark between the pages and setting the novel aside. “You look suspiciously pleased with yourself. What have you done this time?”

Anthony placed a hand over his chest, feigning indignation. “What makes you think I’ve done anything? Must a husband not simply look pleased to see his wife without suspicion falling upon him?”

Y/n raised an eyebrow, her smile growing. “Knowing you, the answer is most certain no.”

Chuckling, Anthony stepped closer, his coat shifting ever so slightly. A faint noise—a soft, high-pitched squeak—escaped from within the fabric. Y/n froze, her eyes narrowing.

“Anthony,” she said slowly, her tone a mixture of curiosity and warning, “what is that sound? What did you do?”

Anthony’s grin widened as he knelt before her, his hands carefully reaching inside his coat. “I thought you might like a little company when I’m away at those tedious meetings with the other lords.” he said. “And so…”

With an almost uncontained enthusiasm, he withdrew a tiny puppy from the folds of his coat. The animal was impossibly small, with fur as soft as clouds and a pair of bright, curious eyes. It let out another soft mew, its tiny paws reaching for the edge of Anthony’s sleeve.

Y/n gasped, her hands flying to her mouth. “Anthony!” she exclaimed, her voice high with delight. “You didn’t!”

“I most certainly did,” he replied, his own heart swelling at the joy lighting up her face. “Meet your new companion, my love.”

Y/n reached out, gently cradling the puppy in her hands. The little one nuzzled against her fingers, purring contentedly. “Oh, Anthony,” she murmured, her eyes shimmering with emotion. “It’s perfect. She’s perfect. I don’t even know what to say.”

“‘Thank you, Anthony, for being the most thoughtful and dashing husband in all of England’ would suffice,” he teased, leaning forward to press a kiss to her forehead.

Y/n laughed, the sound soft and melodious. “Thank you,” she said earnestly, her gaze meeting his. She kissed his lips, trying to show him all the love she felt for him. When she pulled away, his lips chased hers. “Truly. This is the sweetest surprise.”

Anthony settled himself on the couch beside her, his hand brushing against hers as they both admired the puppy. It was now batting at the ribbon on Y/n’s sleeve, its movements clumsy and utterly endearing.

“Have you thought of a name for her yet?” Anthony asked, watching as the puppy made himself comfortable on Y/n's chest, who kept all her attention on the animal. Maybe that had been a bad idea, now he would have to compete for his wife's attention.

Y/n tilted her head, considering. “Hmm. What about Honey? She’s so cute and sweet.”

“Honey,” Anthony repeated, testing the name. He nodded approvingly. “It suits her.”

For a while, they sat together in comfortable silence, the golden light of the setting sun streaming through the windows. Y/n petted the animal while Anthony watched the two with a soft gaze. Honey had settled herself into Y/n’s lap, her tiny body rising and falling with contented breaths.

Anthony reached out, brushing a stray strand of hair from Y/n’s face. “You deserve all the happiness in the world, Y/n,” he whispered, as to not break the comfortable moment, his voice filled with warmth. “If a puppy can bring you even a fraction of that happiness, then it was worth every moment of sneaking around.”

Y/n leaned into his touch, her heart full. “You bring me happiness every day, Anthony,” she replied. “But this little one is certainly a wonderful addition.”

As Honey let out a tiny snore, Anthony and Y/n exchanged a look, their laughter filling the room. In that moment, surrounded by warmth and love, they knew they had found the kind of joy that could only come from the simplest, most unexpected surprises.

[aiyaiy]

We’re Together

Carmy Berzatto x reader

summary: After Carmy smacks your ass your coworkers go after your secret boyfriend

a/n: felt like writing something funny

It was a regular day at The Bear. Syd and Carmy were prepping, Marcus was piping a cake, and Richie was helping you set up the place settings outside. You were off some silverware, so you made your way to the kitchen.

The skirt that you picked out today was tastefully short and didn’t go unnoticed by Carmy. He was discreet enough in his glances that nobody would’ve guessed you were anything past coworkers.

Through the bustling kitchen, you squeaked a quick, “Behind,” as you passed. A large, tattooed hand planted a light smack to your ass. It was a mindless thing that he’d done a ton of times at home whenever you’d pass him in the kitchen wearing only one of his tees. But right now, you weren’t at his apartment, and this wasn’t his kitchen. You two weren’t in the cozy atmosphere of the apartment, and everyone had just seen that.

Everyone froze, and the busy kitchen stilled. Sydney’s eyes widened, jaw hung open, as Tina crossed her arms and Marcus stood, dumbfounded.

Richie was the first one to speak up. “What the fuck, Cousin, that’s not cool.”

Carmy’s head was in his hands, face turning bright red as he tried to say, “Guys, it’s not li—”

“Not like what, Carm?” Syd asked. Tina pulled you closer to her, defensively, away from Carmy. “Because this seems an awful lot like harassment.”

Richie continued his scolding. “You’re the fuckin’ boss. What were you thinking, slapping the kid’s ass?”

Your face paled at Richie’s recollection of the event. “Guys, stop, it’s fine,” you muttered, voice cutting through the chaos. Carmy ran a hand through his hair, mouth still open.

Tina began her angry rant with a, “Jeff,” and the rest was very fast, angry Spanish.

“We’re together, alright,” you cut her off, hands up in surrender.

Moving next to an overly embarrassed Carmen, you ran a comforting hand over his forearm, watching the revelation of your relationship hit everyone.

Richie frowned, slinging an arm over Carmen’s shoulder. “Cousin finally got a girl and didn’t tell me about it.”

“We,” Carmy corrected, “didn’t tell anyone about us.”

Syd spoke up. “But, like, how long has this been going on? Because that was way too comfortable to be new.”

Speaking for the first time, Marcus narrowed his eyes, agreeing. “Yeah, how long has this been goin’ on?”

“Six months,” Carmy muttered quietly, looking down at you.

“Six months?!” Sydney’s eyes widened.

“You’ve been lying to us for six months?” Richie interjected.

“Not lying,” you answered. “Just… withholding the truth.”

Everyone took in the news before Syd raised her voice, saying that we still need to prep and to get moving.

Carmy pulled you away from the crowd into the office. “M’sorry, I didn’t mean t’do that out there,” he breathed, hands running up your sides.

“I know.” Your arms circled his neck. “They were gonna find out anyway.”

The tension dissipated from his shoulders when you pressed a soft kiss to his lips before returning to the front.

[aiyaiy]

Sweet as plums

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x wife!reader

Summary: On a hot day in Kings Landing, very close to the festivities celebrating the day of conquest, Prince Aemond sends a basket of fresh fruit to his sweet wife in her chambers, not expecting that the sweetness of the fruit would make her even sweeter to him than she normally is.

WARNING: +18 mdni! Smut, p in v, fingering, oral sex F receiving, no description for the reader.

Word cont: 2.100 k

Author's note: I wasn't going to write anything for the end of the year because it's really hot at Christmas where I live so it's a bit strange to write about snow and hot cocoa. So I thought I'd write something closer to my culture, since due to the heat, we traditionally eat fresh fruit at Christmas! I hope you enjoy this piece!! 💖💖💕💕

The sun burned the walls of the Red Keep with overwhelming force, leaving everyone enveloped in scorching heat in the process. The ladies of the court wore looser dresses and softer fabrics to try to survive the heat, while many of them walked around in a way that could easily be considered shameless, being called whores in low whispers by the more conservative ladies when they weren't looking.

Among the keep's servants, there was a general rush that day, as at nightfall the banquet that would open the celebrations of the day of conquest would begin, which would be celebrated with a tournament and endless dances. Ships and carriages kept arriving with guests from all over who needed to be allocated to their respective places. And as well as guest ships, dozens of merchant ships also arrived with fresh supplies to be served to the royal family at the banquets.

On one of these ships from Gulltown there had been a shipment of sweet, fresh fruit, so ripe that its skins shone when they met the golden sunlight. Prince Aemond had barely set eyes on the crates being carried by the servants when, with a very serious look, he ordered that some of the fruit be immediately separated into a basket and taken to his wife in their shared chambers, which was promptly obeyed.

The prince found himself reasonably regretting the decision to send his wife those fruits now, while he tried to discuss with her important matters regarding the banquet later. Since he could hardly concentrate on what he needed to say to her with the juicy juice from the bright plum that she delicately devoured gently running down her chin and down the line of her neck until it reached the neckline of the flowing nightgown she wore for the hot day. and get lost adorably between those breasts, exactly the way Aemond would like to do it at that moment.

-Husband? - The words left her soft, red lips, still moist from the juice of the fruit that Aemond was sure was sweet.

-Aemond? - Y/n's voice pronouncing his name woke him from his trance, bringing him back to reality and almost making him lose his breath once again as he looked into his wife's bright eyes. - Is everything okay?

-Could you please leave your fruit to eat after I leave? - Aemond practically panted, staring at her with a crease in his forehead while his eye burned with a glow that Y/n had come to know very well in the last few months of being married to the prince.

Lust.

Concern instantly left Y/n's gaze as she tilted her head to the left side with a mischievous smile still holding the plum between her fingers.

-Why husband? - She sighed with a soft pout, before biting the juicy fruit once more, feeling the sweet flavor with a slight sourness at the end invading her mouth. - It's so sweet.

-Wife. - Aemond practically growled as he approached her slowly, with that glazed and predatory look on her, making the girl's heart flutter in her chest.

-Taste it, husband. - She smiled, lifting her torso from the sofa with a provocative look while biting her lower lip and extending the plum towards Aemond.

The prince's slightly purplish blue eyes sparkled against his wife's with each slow step he took towards her. His breathing was heavy as he gently ran his tongue over his lower lip, watching her hungrily.

When he finally approached the sofa, Aemond leaned forward, bringing his plump pink lips closer to Y/n's hand, who was holding the plum firmly between his fingers, feeling the juicy broth run down his palm and onto his wrist.

She felt her entire skin stand on end when her husband's tongue moved across her wrist, sucking the fruit juice that had hungrily flowed down there, leaving soft kisses and sucks along the way to her hand, where he finally bit off a generous piece of the plum. making a few drops of the fruit juice run down his chiseled chin. With a sideways smile, Aemond just wiped one of the drops with the tip of his thumb and sucked it right away while admiring her with that same hungry look.

-Doña. - He murmured, leaning against her, bringing his face closer to his wife's, making her gasp slightly.

-What does it mean? - She sighed, feeling dizzy as her whole body tingled at the sound of her husband's voice speaking in Valyrian.

-Sweet. - He repeated in the common language, subtly licking his lower lip and moving even closer to her. Y/n had never been struck by lightning, but she supposed that if she had been, this was how her body would feel.

With her eyes shining with greed, she saw another remaining drop run down the left side of Aemond's face, and before it could drip down the tip of his prominent chin, she licked it. Traveling the entire path that the juicy drop had taken before her, running her hot tongue from her husband's chin to her lips with a wanton smile on her own lips.

-Do you take pleasure in setting me on fire acting as if you were a whore from Lys? - Aemond gasped, holding her face firmly between his hands, squeezing her cheeks with his fingertips and staring at her with his eyes burning with desire.

The smile on Y/n's lips grew even wider if possible upon hearing that.

-I like to see the hunger in your eyes when you desire me, husband. - She sighed, looking at him from beneath her eyelashes, still with that wanton smile on her lips. - I take pleasure in watching you burn when I warm your bed every night.

The words had barely left Y/n's lips when Aemond closed the short space that remained between them, pressing a firm and demanding kiss on those sweet lips filled with the soft flavor of ripe plums that almost made him sigh.

Even in the middle of the kiss, the smile did not leave Y/n's features, who tangled her fingers in the silver strands of the prince's hair, pulling him closer and closer. Amidst the gentle tugs on his hair, she dragged her hand through the clasp of his eyepatch, pulling it carelessly and throwing it back. Averting her lips from his, she moved her kisses up to the prominent scar on his left eye, kissing it with barely contained desire until she reached the shiny sapphire protean, gasping as she felt Aemond's kisses spreading through her own as well.

With a hungry smile, Aemond sucked on her chin and neck, licking greedily where the sweet and slightly sour juice had dripped moments ago, until he reached his prize. The neckline tied with a light green string of his wife's nightgown that he untied with just one excessively strong pull, exposing her plum-sweet breasts to himself, making Y/n sigh as she felt his warm, wet tongue descending over her breasts, licking all the sweet and sticky juice in the process until he reached her nipples erect with desire, which the prince sucked and squeezed between his fingers with dedication.

Amid Y/n's sighs of pleasure, Aemond's left hand slowly climbed up her soft thighs, searching for something even sweeter that he would love to devour. The smile on the prince's lips only widened when his fingers found the growing wetness at the apex of his wife's thighs, and she emitted a strangled moan as she felt her husband's rough fingers rubbing against her soft folds.

-Open your legs for me, Doña lanty. (Sweet fox). - He murmured, looking at her from beneath his light eyelashes, still with his face buried between her breasts, laying them even further against the sofa. - I want to taste your sweetness now.

Feeling almost faint, she nodded, opening her legs for him languidly, losing her breath when Aemond's lips finally licked a strip from her entrance to the pearl, gently sucking the latter while circling it with the tip of his tongue, making Y/n scream out begging for his name, tangling her hands again between Aemond's silver strands.

-Yes… - She sighed, gently pulling his hair while she felt his hot tongue feasting on her pussy. - Aemond… Husband…

Y/n could feel him smiling against her wetness as he moved his head against her eagerly, coaxing all the pleasure he could out of her. Aemond's rough fingers teased her entrance, and slowly penetrated her, thrusting languidly and firmly, making Y/n writhe beneath him on the edge of climax. However, before she could reach the peak of her pleasure, Aemond stopped his ministrations, almost making her scream in frustration in the process.

-As sweet as the fruit, ābrazȳrys. (Wife). - He moaned with contentment when he finally removed his head from the inside of Y/n's thighs, feeling her shudder beneath him as her sweet juices ran down his chin just like the plum's had run down earlier.

-Husband, please… - She whimpered, lifting her torso from the couch to pull him towards her, her lips finding his, feeling the taste of her own arousal mixed with the sweet juice of the plum flood her tongue causing a frenzy of sensations.

-Please what, Doña Lanty? - Aemond murmured against her lips, nibbling lightly in the process, making her writhe beneath him.

-Aemond… please, I want you! - She sighed, lifting her hips and rubbing them against his, moaning as she felt his growing bulge against her heated core. - Please, husband. - She sucked a subtle mark on his jaw as she gasped those words.

Feeling his breath catch, Aemond pulled the ties on his pants as fast as he could, untying them with just one hand, since the other was too busy squeezing Y/n's hips and holding her close to him, while she kissed him passionately and desperately.

The prince didn't bother to take off his doublet and finish undressing, or to remove what was left of the thin nightgown his wife was wearing, he just pushed the pants down enough to free himself and penetrated her in the next instant, feeling her moist heat embracing him and taking him deeper and deeper, while listening to the sweet sighs and moans she emitted for him.

When Aemond made the first thrust, Y/n dug her fingers firmly into the dark green leather of the doublet, pulling him closer and closer, begging passionately for more while kissing and biting her husband's lips.

Aemond couldn't stop, he couldn't even breathe. The taste of her lips drove him crazy, the heat between her thighs made him want to never leave those rooms again. The perfect mix of plums from her lips with the bittersweet taste that remained of her pussy on his lips intoxicated him to the point that he could barely control his own thrusts.

The moment his wife's heated walls pressed against him amidst her uncontrollable sobs of pleasure at her climax, was the moment when Aemond spilled himself inside her with a muffled moan, lightly biting her right shoulder in the process.

-So good for me ābrazȳrys. - Aemond murmured against her shoulder, leaving a kiss on the place where he had previously bitten. - So sweet.

-What…- She began to speak lightly laughing and still breathless, feeling her whole body burning with heat and her heart racing with happy contentment after the strenuous activity while they were both still dressed.

-What would you like to tell me about the Conquest Day banquet earlier husband? - She finally managed to speak a few moments later, still below Aemond even though she felt like she was going to melt from the heat, while she gently caressed his silver hair.

-Forget the banquet Ñuha Doña. (My sweet). - He spoke muffledly against the valley between her breasts, lying there comfortably feeling his wife's caresses, even though he was sweating due to the heat.

-Don't you want to celebrate? - She questioned with a subtly arched eyebrow, still slowly caressing her husband's silky locks even though she was confused, since it wasn't typical of Aemond to ignore duties. - Everyone will be there, it's conquest day!

-The only form of celebration that brings me joy is when I celebrate on your sweet body. - Aemond murmured, raising his face to his wife's height, covering them with his curtain of silky, silver hair, leaving the shine of his sapphire even more prominent when his lips joined hers once more, in a kiss as sweet as the fruit they had just shared.

N/a²: Thanks for reading, reblogs and comments are very appreciated! 💕💕💖💖💖

[aiyaiy]

hopefully i’m doin’ this right;;

may i perhaps have daemon targaryen x autistic female reader (whom is very physically affectionate and occasionally clingy) with a song inspiration of: the “JUMPIN’ OVER!” cover by Amiaryllis?

Hello, hello! Thanks for the request, hope you like it ♡

The Rogue Prince and His Wildflower *⁠.⁠✧

daemon targaryen x f!reader

The halls of the Red Keep were alive with whispers, the servants and lords alike speculating about the strange girl who had caught Daemon Targaryen’s attention. You weren’t like the other ladies of the court, with their polished manners and sharp tongues. You spoke plainly, sometimes too much, sometimes too little. You often avoided the endless formalities, finding solace in small, familiar routines.

But it was your touch—your constant, gentle touch—that seemed to mystify and disarm the Rogue Prince.

You were seated in the gardens of the Red Keep, your fingers trailing through the soft petals of a row of wildflowers. Most would have seen nothing remarkable about the scene, but Daemon, ever observant, noticed the way your lips moved silently, as if speaking to the flowers themselves.

“What secrets do they tell you?” he had asked, his voice smooth and teasing.

You startled slightly but didn’t retreat. Instead, you looked up at him with wide, curious eyes. “They don’t tell secrets. They just… feel nice. Gentle.”

Daemon smirked, intrigued. “Gentle, hmm? As if the world were not a well of kindness.”

Your connection grew quickly, though not without its challenges. You had your routines and rhythms, and Daemon—ever impatient—sometimes found them frustrating.

“Why must you count the steps to the door every time?” he asked one evening as you paced the length of his chambers.

“It helps me think,” you replied simply, pausing to glance at him. “And it feels good. Like… jumping over waves.”

Daemon tilted his head, considering your answer. He didn’t always understand your ways, but he respected them, even if they puzzled him.

“What if I carried you to the door instead?” he teased, striding toward you with a playful grin.

You didn’t resist when he scooped you up, wrapping your arms around his neck. “You’re warm,” you murmured, leaning into him.

“And you’re clingy,” he replied, though his tone was more amused than annoyed.

“I like being close,” you admitted. “It makes me feel safe.”

For all his bravado and sharp edges, Daemon found he couldn’t deny you. “Then stay close, wildflower,” he murmured, holding you tighter.

Daemon learned quickly that you expressed love differently from most. Where others used words or gifts, you used touch. You often reached for his hand, brushing your fingers against his when you thought he wasn’t paying attention. You leaned into him during council meetings, your head resting lightly on his shoulder.

One night, after a particularly grueling day, Daemon returned to his chambers to find you waiting for him. You didn’t say a word, simply pulling him down to sit beside you. Your hands moved to his shoulders, massaging the tension away with surprising skill.

“Thank you,” he said softly, his voice carrying none of its usual sarcasm.

You smiled, pressing a kiss to his temple. “You looked like you needed it.”

Not everyone in court was kind to you. Whispers followed you wherever you went, and there were those who mocked your inability to navigate the subtleties of court life.

Daemon, however, was quick to silence any slight against you. When one particularly cruel lord made a jest at your expense during a feast, Daemon had slammed his goblet down, the sound echoing through the hall.

“Say another word,” he warned, his voice low and deadly, “and you’ll find yourself feeding Caraxes instead of your hounds.”

Even though the lord did not comment on it further, his body was found near Caraxes the next morning.

From then on, the court learned to hold their tongues.

Later that night, as you curled into Daemon’s side, you whispered, “You didn’t have to do that.”

“Yes, I did,” he replied, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “No one speaks ill of what is mine.”

There were moments of pure joy between the two of you, moments where the world and its expectations seemed to fall away.

One day, as a storm raged outside, you pulled Daemon toward the balcony, your eyes alight with excitement. “Come on!” you urged, your hand tight around his.

“You’re mad,” he said, though he didn’t resist.

The rain soaked you both as you danced across the slick stones, laughing and spinning as if the storm were your own private song. Daemon watched you, his heart swelling at the sight of your unrestrained happiness.

“You’re incredible,” he murmured, pulling you close.

“And you’re wet,” you teased, laughing as you wiped rain from his face.

Daemon’s grin was wicked as he wrapped his arms around you, spinning you once more before pressing his lips to yours.

[aiyaiy]

Fangs and Flames (Vampire!Aegon Targaryen x Witch!Reader x Vampire!Aemond Targaryen)

Chapter One: The Dinner

Summary: In a world of supernatural creatures, magic is no surprise. In fact, it is what defines you. As a witch, you feel like you have control over your life—until that day arrives. On their 21st birthday, everyone receives a golden envelope. No one knows where it comes from, and no one dares to question it. Inside lies the name of your destined soulmate, the person you’re meant to share the rest of your life with. For most, it’s a moment of wonder. But for you, it’s anything but magical. The moment they entered your life, both Targaryen brothers turned it upside down—though one of them seemed more determined to do so.

Word count: 3k

Chapter warnings: Language, modern AU setting, mentions of sex, Aemond is very much loved, Aegon being a menace

author's note: It's my first time writing a fanfiction and even though I struggled a lot the urge was too strong.. if the story's interesting enough I'd be happy to continue writing it! as you may notice those are not your typical vampires.. they can conceive and well, exist and function like normal human beings! They are immortal, though. feel free to ask questions, I'd love to discuss anything! english is not my first language, so I hope you keep that in mind.. any feedback, writing tip and criticism will be appreciated! hope you enjoy it as much as i've enjoyed writing it (no i was not stressed at all)

You don't know why everyone is making such a big deal out of it. When your mother came into your room and informed you about the dinner with guests coming over, you did not pay much attention to it. You supposed you would wear a pretty dress, put on a smile, make small talk with other ladies, and pretend you were interested in Westerosi politics. It is the routine you had mastered over the years, even if it is something you do not particularly enjoy. You never complain; you know it is your duty and a small price to pay for the privileged life you have. 

You are the daughter of the Prime Minister, the most powerful man in Westeros, and you are perfect. You have to be. It's what everyone has been telling you; it's what your parents have been expecting from you since you could remember yourself.

You enjoy the process of maids preparing you. They brush your hair, put scented oils in it, and curl it loosely, just the way you like it. When Mellory pulls out a dress from your closet, you smile and raise an eyebrow. It is stunning; a long dress adorned with dark green stones and deep V neckline, but surely it is extravagant for a dinner. She dismisses your point and assures you it is perfect for the occasion. You trust her judgment, but a question lingers: what makes this evening so different from the others? You can't think of anyone who is worthy of this special welcome.

The dining hall is lined with extra flowers, and you notice candles placed on the table, their soft glow casting a flickering light over the polished silverware. Despite the beaming smile on her face you know your mother is nervous. She is constantly touching her necklace, a habit you often display when you are overwhelmed. The maids seem to share her anxiety, repeatedly adjusting the silverware and ensuring everything is in perfect order. Still, you refrain from asking any questions—you would find out soon enough.

The first person to catch your eye is Alicent Hightower. Her auburn curls cascading down her back always fascinate you, no matter how many times you’d seen them. She compliments your mother's dress and the jewellery adorning her neck. Only then does her brown eyes find you and she lets out a small gasp, grasping both of your hands to tell you how precious you look. You know her kind words does not necessarily mean she is being sincere, but you blush nonetheless. Your father seems to be ecstatic seeing his old friend, Viserys Targaryen. You can't recall the last time you had seen him. He was not present for his youngest son's graduation and his health prevented him from attending lavish parties wealthy people often hosted. Yet, here he is. You suppose this indeed is a special occasion.

You feel someone staring at you and turn to find Aegon Targaryen eyeing you with his arrogant smile. You know him back from the academy, how could you not? It was impossible to ignore all the trouble he caused in your freshman year. Your friend Maria called him a leech, a creature who thrived on other's humiliation and pain. That is only thing firstborn son of Viserys is good at: not missing a chance to embarrass and vex others. He often teased you for a small crush you had on senior Rafe Cameron. There was even a time when Maria almost got into a physical fight with him. You had to pull her back, reminding her he wasn’t worth it. That is true. Everyone knows Aegon Targaryen is useless. He is little more than a waste of space, a burden on the planet. People who have crossed paths with him agree on it, including his parents. Luckily he is few years older than you and graduated before he had a chance to make your life miserable.

You presume the taller man with long hair braided behind his back is Aemond, the heir to the Targaryen dynasty. He studied in Oldtown and you never had a chance to meet him. He is beautiful, even with the scar on his left eye and stoic expression. While your parents entertain their guests, you sit on the couch with Aemond, sipping cherry liqueur and occasionally nodding at whatever he had to say. He is educated and well-mannered, but you can't help feeling bored. He is trying far too hard to appear polite and every time you attempt to steer the conversation toward something more fun, he shuts you down. It's as if he doesn't want you to get to know the real him.

"Oh, stop it brother, she does not give a shit about your philosophy professor" you had nearly forgotten about Aegon until he appeared with a drink in hand and plopped down on the couch beside you. You recall there is another thing he's good at: drinking and whoring around.

"Hold your tongue, Aegon"

"It's fine, really" you smile at younger brother, amused at the direction the conversation had taken "It's not like I think of him as someone whose reputation could be tarnished any more"

"Is that so? Do you think of me often?"

"Only on the rare times I'm feeling blue. I recall there are people more useless than I can ever try to be" you reply calmly, not even looking at him. You are good at pretending, even with the most insufferable people like the Lannisters, but you don't need to when it comes to Aegon Targaryen. Or perhaps you simply can't.

"Aren't you still feisty" he is not affected by your insult at all. It's a game he likes to play. "After all I don't think I'm that useless if the thought of me lifts your spirits. Maybe the thought of me also helps you.. mhm otherwise"

"Aegon" Aemond says his name like a warning or a plea. You can't exactly tell it from the expression he's wearing

"No, let him talk" you squeeze his knee in an attempt to let him know you're alright, that you can handle the white-haired man you're now facing. You don't know when he managed to get his glass refilled, but he's sipping on it with an unbothered face. His blue eyes are fixed on you, challenging you to bite back. "Every time he opens his mouth, I am reminded of how low the bar for wit has fallen"

Aegon chuckles, and just as he’s about to say something, you hear your mother calling your name, signaling that everyone should hurry to take their seats around the dining table. Aegon purposefully sits in front you but you refuse to give him the satisfaction of winning. You do your best to avoid looking at him and maintain a nonchalant look. Instead, you take small bites of your meal, listening to your mother and Alicent discussing the latest charity event. Suddenly, Viserys struggles to rise, barely managing to stand. Everyone falls silent, their eyes fixed on him, waiting to hear his announcement. Everyone except Aegon, whose gaze remains locked on you like you’re the dessert he’s about to devour. His stare, his unfaltering grin is unnerving you. Somehow you take it as a warning that something is about to happen. Something definitely unpleasant to you. You don't listen to Viserys until he mentions your name.

"How fortunate it is to know that gods decided to unite our families" his voice is cheerful, though his hands tremble slightly as he holds a glass of champagne "Your daughter's name has been written alongside my son's where no living man can interfere"

Suddenly all eyes are on you and you feel small. You glance at your mother with helpless look and she offers you a faint smile. Anger rises within you. The Targaryens are robbing you of the magical moment you’d been dreaming of since childhood. Your birthday is only a few months away, you were supposed to find it out yourself.

"Please, forgive me, my sweet girl" he is looking at you and you can sense the sadness in his voice "I know you wanted to see it yourself, everyone does, but.. I'm afraid my health does not allow me to wait any longer"

There is an awkward silence and from the corner of your eye you can see Alicent drop her head low. There was no love between them—not like how a husband and wife should love each other—but there was mutual respect and care. Viserys was a widower and while he experienced happy marriage with his first wife Aemma, Alicent had never been given the chance to marry. She was still a teenager when her betrothed, Criston Cole was murdered by a vampire. You suspected that's why Alicent never seemed to be proud of her powers while other vampires flaunted theirs with arrogance—her sons included.

"I want to see my son with his betrothed while I still have some time. I want to see him fall in love" he says, and then he attempts to laugh "Surely that can excuse my audacity"

"Nonsense, Viserys. I am happy our families will be united" your father stands up and places a reassuring squeeze on his shoulder "I cannot ask for better husband for my daughter"

Surely he cannot be talking about Aegon, but why is he looking at you from across the table like he owns you? You know he can hear your pulse quicken and he smirks at the effect he has on you. You desperately look at Aemond who does not say anything. You cannot tell what he's thinking.

Maybe it's Daeron. He is handsome, sweet and charming. You always got along well and you would not mind falling in love with him. But why isn't he here?

"May we know who the lucky sibling is?" your mother nervously chuckles and you notice that she's fiddling with her necklace. Your fingers instinctively move to your chest to find it empty.

"Aemond"

There. The answer you have been waiting for almost 21 years, but it does not excite you. It does not send shivers down your spine because it was not supposed to happen like this. It was supposed to be magical, like you've read in the books, like you've imagined it.

"May I see the letter?" you ask impatiently, and Aemond stares at you blankly for a few seconds before pulling out the golden envelope from his pocket. You snatch it away from his grasp, and the chair screeches against the floor as you rise to your feet.

"Excuse me" with a forced smile you leave the hall and step onto the terrace. You hold the letter, examining it closely. Across his name is yours, engraved in black ink. You touch it, as if trying to make sure it’s real. It is very much real, and in a few months, you will be married to Aemond Targaryen.

You begin to think about him but how can you judge a person you've known for only an hour? Everyone speaks of him highly, which is why Viserys named him heir, but what is he truly like behind the stoic expression? He’s a puzzle you’re desperately trying to solve, but you only have a few pieces.

"It's cold outside" you hear his voice and turn around to give him the letter. He tucks it into the pocket of his jacket as if it’s nothing—just a piece of paper.

"I've wanted to see it myself. Sorry if I came across as rude, I never thought you were lying"

"You don't have to explain yourself, I understand" you both lean against the railing, looking at the sky without speaking a word. This man next to you is supposed to be your other half, but to you, he's just a stranger.

"How long have you known?"

"More than a year"

"A year?" you don't know why you sound so shocked. Most people have to wait longer. You think of Aegon who is 24 years old, still not married. You wonder who the girl destined to exchange vows with him is "I don't think I could keep that kind of secret"

"I did not exactly have a choice, did I?" You can hear amusement in his voice and you can't help but smile.

Talking to him is awkward, you realize. There are so many questions you want to ask him, but the moment does not quite feel right. This whole situation does not feel right or real for now. You can't help but feel disappointed. You're not sure whether it's because of the circumstances or because the person who's supposed to be yours is Aemond. All you want is to take a long shower, crawl under the bed and pretend this day didn't exist.

The silence is comfortable, and as much as you don’t want to go back inside, it’s truly cold outside. Being the gentleman Aemond is, he wraps his jacket around your shoulders and leads you back inside.

Your parents seem to get along together just fine. Even Alicent is laughing at something your mother said. Viserys calls Aemond over, and when you notice your favorite bottle of cherry liqueur is empty, you make your way to the kitchen. Of course, the maids can bring it to you, but you use it as an excuse to be alone.

You're walking down the stairs with slow steps when you hear the giggling. The young blonde maid, Annabelle, if you recall correctly, is standing dangerously close to Aegon. He is caging her against the wall, whispering softly and despite the fact that she seems to be enjoying his company and it's not really your business, you can’t bring yourself to simply walk past them.

"Is everything alright?" You don't intend to, but you sound a little annoyed. Her smile fades into a frown and she opens her mouth to say something, but only mumbles few words before rushing back into the kitchen.

"Trying to play the hero? She was clearly enjoying herself" though his voice is as serious as ever, you know he’s not angry

"Well, I certainly would not enjoy you two having sex in my house"

"And I certainly do not enjoy you taking all the fun away from me" he is walking towards you, the smell of alcohol lingering on his breath "Keep in mind that just because you're miserable, it doesn't mean I have to be too"

"And who exactly says I'm miserable?"

"Have you looked in the mirror?" his smile is wide, mocking and you feel a strong urge to punch him in the face.

“Ever considered it’s because I’m forced to breathe in the same room with a pathetic creature like yourself?”

"Right, I'm pathetic" he steps even closer, far too close for your comfort, but you do not move "Yet you're standing here, wasting your precious time with me"

"I like to do charity work" satisfied with your response, you swiftly walk past him.

"Then you'll surely enjoy my brother"

His words stop you and you turn around to face him. No matter how little you know about him, Aemond is still your betrothed, and you will not allow anyone to disrespect his name, especially someone like Aegon.

"You truly are pathetic"

"Eh, is that all you can say?"

"About you? Oh, there's so much I can say. Nothing remarkable though" your tone is laced with venom. You’re done with this evening, and with him. "You think insulting your brother will change the fact that you're a complete failure? You think whatever flaws he has make you look better? Grow the fuck up, Aegon. No one thinks of you as anything more than a disgrace to the Targaryen name. You’re nothing. Just flesh and bones. A body, ready to be used and discarded the next day.”

He does not say anything, he does not have to. His pale blue eyes are almost dark and you know you've hit the right spot. Yet, to your surprise, it doesn’t give you the satisfaction you expected. You turn on your heel and move past him, but he pulls your arm back, almost whispering.

"You forget what I'm capable of"

"And what is is that you're capable of? Disappointing me?" he can’t do anything to you, not if he wants to continue roaming the earth, burdened by his own existence. "Have some dignity and let go of me"

"Think you know everything, huh?"

His gaze lingers on your neck, eyes drifting toward your carotid arteries, and you know he wants to taste you—devour you—until you stop screaming, fighting, breathing.

"Have fun putting the pieces of him back together"

You stand like that for a while before he removes his grip from you and resumes drinking whatever he had been holding.

You contemplate it for a while, but on your way to the kitchen you mutter a few words to yourself. Then you hear glass shattering and Aegon cursing your name. A faint smile curls your lips, and the maids glance at you suspiciously.

"I need more cherry liqueur"

They're happy to oblige your request. When you finally go back to the dining hall you don't look at Aegon and his stained shirt. Instead, your attention, like everyone else’s, turns to Viserys, who is frantically coughing. Alicent and Aemond try to help him up. Soon after, they leave, but not before your betrothed kisses the back of your hand and Aegon throws you a disgusted look.

You are laying in the bed, staring at the ceiling. Whatever effect alcohol had on you seemed to wash away under cold shower. You think of Targaryens but it's not Aemond that occupies your thoughts. You think of his brother and what you said to him. A wave of guilt consumes you. Perhaps you were too cruel? Your words were truthful, but they were harsh—even for someone like Aegon. You can’t shake his disgusted expression from your mind, and as sleep finds you, you dream of him.

He is clutching your waist, his hand pressed between your neck and shoulder, while you desperately claw at him, trying to push him away. His grip tightens, and every attempt to escape only seems to encourage him further. Tears stream down your face, and your breath quickens. The last thing you see is his bloodstained mouth. Then everything fades to black.

[aiyaiy]

Any thoughts for WETnesday with Bucky?🤭🤭

Okay, Syd. I wrote this after work for Wetnesday and promptly fell asleep. So, I'm posting this on Thirsty Thursday! And that has to be Mr. Barnes before you two are married.

Dinner Plans

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Summary: Bucky doesn't want to be late for dinner, but you don't seem to be in a rush to go.

Word Count: Over 2.8k

Warnings: Established relationship, quick unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it, lovelies), possessive behavior, a bit of humor and fluff, feels, Bucky Barnes (he's a warning, okay?).

A/N: I love this couple, okay? @targaryenvampireslayer and @starlightcrystalline, I hope you enjoy! ❤️ Not beta read and written on my phone, so any and all mistakes are my own. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!

It was still early in the evening as Bucky got ready for dinner. Checking his watch once he put it on, he sighed. If he was late, Steve would give him a hard time. And if Steve gave him a hard time, Sam would only give him the gasoline to fuel the fire. Just the thought of it had his face shift to his grumpy stare you loved.

His gaze softened when you went to the vanity. Would the guys give him a hard time if he said he was in love and wanted as much alone time with you as possible? How being with you was like floating on a cloud and being pulled back down to earth all at once? He didn’t care if they’d call him out for being sappy. He sure as hell suffered enough in his life that he could afford to be appreciative of you and maybe a little selfish when it came to you.

But checking the time, he grumbled. “We were supposed to leave five minutes ago,” he said.

He would’ve rather gone to a hole in the wall kind of place or a diner to have dinner, but it wasn't his turn to pick the dinner out with some of the gang. Plus it was nice getting to dress up with you since you liked how he looked in suits. To be fair, you said he looked good in anything and he felt the same way about you. How you always managed to look like a goddess, he’d never know.

You hummed. “We still have a few minutes to spare,” you said, which he wasn’t sure how you knew since you hadn’t looked at the time. “And you are not dressed yet, so it’s not like we can head out the door.”

He paused to stare at you. “Neither are you,” he pointed out, licking his lips as you leaned forward a bit more as you applied your makeup. He shook his head after a moment, trying to snap himself out of the spell you always managed to put him under. “I’m bringing you one of my cardigans to put over your shoulders in case you get cold.”

Because the weather was nice for the evening, you picked out a sleeveless dress. He didn’t know if the restaurant would be cold though, and he didn’t want you shivering through the meal. You likely had something to match your dress, but putting one of his cardigans over you was like that extra touch of belonging to him in case anyone got any ideas.

“You just want one of your shirts draped over me like a big neon sign that says I’m yours and you don't want guys checking me out on my dress,” you said like you knew exactly what he was thinking. There was no reason to deny your words since it was the truth. “But I appreciate the thoughtfulness.”

“I do like my clothes draped over you,” he smirked. He liked having his smell on you, too. “But you know what I don’t like? Steve and Sam bitching if we’re late. It’ll spoil my appetite.”

“Aww, my poor super soldier,” you teased, smiling at him in your reflection and making his heart skip a beat. “If we’re late, you can just blame me. I won’t let them give you a hard time, okay?”

Bucky couldn’t blame you though. Not entirely. You were late getting in the shower thanks to him insisting on the two of you staying in bed. Serum stamina or whatever you wanted to call it, but he felt bad some days for his almost constant need. You didn’t seem to mind though.

“They won’t believe me,” he said, staring again when the strap of your bra slipped from your shoulder. “And baby, you know I adore you, but you need to quit distracting me so I can finish getting dressed.”

Ever since you moved in, you’d been a distraction in a wonderful way. He often found that he’d pause to look at photos or little touches you incorporated into the place, giving him a chance to reflect on memories you made together and even learn more about who you were before you met. Hearing your laughter or voice call to him from another room also made him drop whatever he was doing, too. Sharing a space with someone could be daunting, but it was easy with you, like you had lived together for years. It made him look forward to more.

“Me? Distracting you?” You turned your head toward him and gave him an innocent glance. You were anything but innocent. “I'm not doing anything.”

Bucky almost snarled. Like hell you weren't doing anything. Swaying your hips and prancing around in your lingerie before you sat to get ready, lingerie which barely covered your gorgeous tits and sweet cunt. He wanted to rip it to shreds or tear it off with his teeth. You wouldn’t mind, right? He could always get you more to destroy.

“Not doing anything? Look at you,” he said incredulously as you turned back to the mirror and pushed your bra up. He should’ve been holding your breasts. “Why aren't you wearing a robe?”

You tilted your head. “Well, you said before I got in the shower that we were in a slight rush, so I figured putting on the robe was a waste of time. At least I have my underwear on, though I know you’d rather I be naked.”

If Bucky had his way, you’d be naked all the time. At least, when you two were at home. Logically he knew he couldn’t have that at work, functions, or anything of that nature, but the image in his head was nice. “For such a rush you seem to be taking your time.”

“I'm not taking my time. I'm finishing my makeup,” you argued, carefully applying your lipstick. “Like it?” you asked, blowing him an air kiss. It was a pretty shade. It would look even prettier smeared around his cock.

He closed his eyes with a groan. Some days he felt like a caveman with the thoughts that consumed him. “You look beautiful,” he said once he opened his eyes. Like always. “Now get your dress on so I can show you off before I put the cardigan on you.”

“Show me off?” You slowly stood from your chair and gave him a generous view of your backside. His cock twitched in his pants, and there was no reason to hide the pure lust in his eyes when you turned to face him. “You flatter me, Mr. Barnes.”

He chuckled. It always did something to him when you called him Mr. Barnes. It was something affectionate, sweet. “I think you’re the one flattering me, Mrs.-” he exhaled before he could finish, and he heard the hitch in your breath across the room.

“What was that?” you asked breathily.

He adjusted the watch on his wrist and avoided your gaze. You were his girl, yeah, and the love you had for each other spoke volumes, but you weren’t his wife. Not yet. God, how he wanted you to be- for you to take his last name, wear his ring on your finger, be his partner in all aspects of life. He wanted it to be more than just a dream.

“I didn’t say…” He cleared his throat and put on a blank face, only because he didn’t know how you’d react. “Anything.”

Your eyes raked over him before you beckoned him forward with a finger. He swore no one would ever control him again after HYDRA brainwashed him, but you could’ve commanded him to do anything. It didn’t frighten him because you would never harm him, never take advantage of him. Taking him into your care and maintaining his trust was one of the ways you showed you loved him.

Once he stood in front of you, barely an inch away, you whispered, “Were you about to call me Mrs. Barnes?”

He swallowed hard, his heart racing. It was one thing to say you loved each other, to want a future together, but what if you weren’t ready when he popped the question? “I was,” he whispered back.

You smiled, not looking the least bit put off or afraid. He should've known it wouldn't bother you, especially with you being the one to say “I love you” first. “I think that has a really nice ring to it,” you said, your hands moving to unbuckle his belt.

“You think so?” he asked, forgetting for a moment that he was capable of breathing. “You like the idea of being my wife?”

Bucky would no doubt be the kind of husband who’d brag about you. He’d find ways to insert “my wife” in conversations just to let others know that you picked him out of everyone else on the planet. Not just that, he wanted people to know how proud he was to be your man and that he’d find reasons every day to be proud of you.

“I love it,” you confirmed, sighing when he ran his fingertips along your arms. “Makes my heart race,” you admitted. He could hear it. “Makes me wet.”

Bucky arched his hips and pressed up against you. “Baby, you’re gonna kill me,” he whispered, not stopping you as you unbuttoned his pants. He was thinking of just cancelling dinner so he could throw you on the bed and stay inside you for the rest of the night. “We need to-”

“Oh. Now might be a good time to tell you that Steve pushed the reservation back by a half hour,” you cut in, mouthing over his racing pulse. “He figured he’d message me since I’m better about checking my phone, and-”

Bucky picked you up with ease and tossed you onto the bed. Your wide-eyed expression as you bounced nearly had him busting out of his pants, and he didn’t hesitate to crawl over you and pin you down. Relishing in the moan you let out when he lightly bit your neck, he did it again a little harder. “No wonder you took your time and teased me,” he smirked when you squirmed beneath him. “My future wife.”

“My future husband,” you moaned, bucking your hips up. “Need you in me. We can be quick.”

You got a hand in his hair and forced his head up to yours, your tongue impatiently pushing into his mouth. He groaned in understanding, feeling just as desperate as you. Knowing how turned on you were at the thought of being his wife turned him on, and he could barely form a coherent thought as he took his cock out and gave it a couple of quick pumps.

“Say it again,” he demanded, shoving your panties aside and rubbing the head of his cock along your slit. He took his time earlier today stretching you, and he wanted nothing more than to feel you around him again.

And the way you reached between your bodies and gripped the base of his cock, he knew you wanted the same when you said, “Fuck me, my future husband.”

He eased in gently, making you whine. He thought he’d whine, too, for a second because of how good he felt. God, how good it would feel to hold your hand one day and feel his ring against your skin. “You okay?” he asked, dragging his thumb along your lower lip once he was fully inside you. You were tight still, so wet, and oh, he was going to fuck you and make it quick, but he wasn’t going to hurt you.

“I’m okay,” you whispered, starting deep into his eyes as you clenched around him with purpose and brushed his hair back. He tried to be still, tried not to thrust like a wild animal. “Are you?”

“I’m okay,” he promised, easing his hips back. “Just hold on while I fuck you.”

Your back arched when he slammed himself back in nice and deep, your cry bouncing off the walls. Here in the comfort of your home you didn’t have to smother any noises, didn’t have to keep quiet. He wanted to tell you how much he loved you, how you were the queen of his world.

Being inside you all he got out was, “You feel so fucking good.”

And because you could read him like no one else could, you tenderly smiled. “I love you, too.”

He threw his head back as you clutched his arms, determined to make you feel good, determined to show you how much he loved you even as he fucked you. “Gonna put you on your hands and knees after dinner. Make you watch in the mirror while I fuck you,” he groaned. “Can imagine it's part of our honeymoon.”

“Please!’ you moaned, trying to meet his thrusts.

Bucky grabbed your thighs to lift you higher, uncaring if he ruined his pants for the evening. Watching you tremble beneath his, a vision of ecstasy, he was happy to stay there forever. Wrapped up in you was where he always wanted to be.

“Gonna come,” you moaned, reaching up to pull his hair again, your body quaking. “Bucky, please.”

Bucky groaned. He hadn’t rubbed your clit how he wanted to. Didn’t get to tear your bra off and tease your nipples. He did promise to fuck you later though, and he’d do all those things and more. “Then come for me,” he smirked, leaning down to say against your lips, “Future. Mrs.. Barnes.”

You got impossibly tight and the flood of wetness that gushed around him triggered his own orgasm, a rush of heat filling him as he filled you. His mouth fell open as you clung to him, and he heard you moan his name as your eyes went glossy. He wanted the image of you getting off to taking his last name etched in his brain for all time. He wanted his name to fall from your lips again and again on your wedding night.

The cloud in his mind began to lift. You, his future wife, were beneath him, still shaking, still holding him like a lifeline. He didn’t want to let you go either. “Holy… shit…” you panted.

He braced himself above you, trying not to crush you as the euphoria slowly faded. It never really went away though. Not with you. “Holy shit,” he agreed. He stayed inside you, your sweet mewl making him smile as he kissed you. “Is this a new kink?” he asked, pressing his forehead to yours.

“Yeah,” you exhaled, touching his cheek. “New kink unlocked.”

Touching your lips with his once more, he chuckled. “You ruined my pants,” he teased. It wouldn’t have been the first time. The first time you rode his thigh and got your release all over it, he nearly came, too. “Good thing I have a few minutes to change.”

He cradled you close when he shifted to the side, making you moan again. “Yeah, well, you ruined my panties. Fair is fair.”

“I did,” he smirked, running his fingers along your spine. “Hey.”

“Hey what?”

“I love you,” he whispered, wanting to say it as often as he could. They weren’t just words, but a declaration, a promise.

“I love you, too,” you whispered back, tracing one of the buttons on his wrinkled shirt.

His lips brushed your forehead. He’d never get tired of hearing you say that. “If I asked you to marry me right now, would you say yes?”

He wouldn’t propose right this second. You deserved something more romantic. But in his heart, he just wanted to hear you say that you’d say yes.

You giggled, your eyes full of love. “I would say yes in a heartbeat,” you replied, kissing him gently. Your answer relieved him. “And I’d marry you anytime, anywhere.”

He raised an eyebrow. “But?” he asked, sensing a “but” in there.

“But don’t ask me right now, okay?” you smiled, in sync with his thoughts. “I mean, I’d like to think my pussy would make you propose now-”

“And it would,” he smirked.

You giggled again. “But ask me when I’m not expecting it… Whenever it feels right to you.”

“I will,” he promised.

“Looking forward to it.” You snuggled closer and missed his look of adoration. “Hold me for one more minute before we get ready to go?”

As if he could ever deny you. “I’ll hold you as long as you want,” he whispered.

He no longer cared if Steve or Sam gave him shit should they show up late. If you wanted him to skip dinner just to hold you, he’d do it. If you wanted him to surprise you when he proposed, he would. And no matter when Bucky asked you to be his wife, he’d make sure it was perfect as it could possibly be.

AHH! I love them so much. How do you lovelies think he proposed? ❤️ Love and thanks for reading! ❤️

Masterlist ⚓ Bucky Barnes Masterlist ⚓ Ko-Fi

[aiyaiy]

𝐎𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐚𝐧 𝐈𝐬𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐀𝐰𝐚𝐲

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: Young Lady Dayne knew survival in the Red Keep required more than caution—it demanded influence. After keeping her distance from Jacaerys, she finally accepted his apology, truly forgiving him. But as he left, she realized it might be long before she saw him again. In his place, a prince in green awaited. 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠: Rumors, Blood, Fighting, Doubt, Childbirth, Abuse (from Alicent) 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

The Red Keep had grown colder with every passing day, as though the very stone absorbed the chill in the air. Each morning, you found yourself adding another layer to your attire, cloaking yourself in wool and velvet, though it did little to chase away the creeping frost.

Soon, winter would truly set in, and you wondered if snow would come to Kingslanding. You had never seen it before. The maesters described it in books as being soft and delicate, like sand, but cold—bitingly cold.

You sat perched on the windowsill, a heavy tome balanced on your knees, its worn pages brittle beneath your fingers. Outside, the sky was a dull grey, the sea of clouds casting a pale light into your chamber. The fire crackled weakly in the hearth, its warmth failing to reach the stone walls.

Isla entered quietly, her footsteps barely a whisper on the cold floor. “I’ve informed Prince Jacaerys that you were not feeling well,” Her words stirred the stillness of the room. You hadn’t spoken to Jacaerys since his eighth name day. Not out of anger, not even resentment, though there was a heaviness to it all.

Ever since that day, you had distanced yourself from him and his family—not because of Jacaerys, nor Rhaenyra, nor the persistent whispers of a potential marriage between you and the prince. It wasn’t even the fact that he had donned House Dayne’s colors at the feast, a gesture meant to honor you, but one that felt like a chain tightening around your neck.

No, what bothered you was the feeling of being maneuvered like a piece on a cyvasse board. Rhaenyra had planted Sienna, to watch over you, to report back every detail of your life. You knew it. Everyone knew it. And that knowledge gnawed at you, made your every step feel heavy, your every action scrutinized.

You had no doubt that by the next feast, both you and Merek would be dressed in purple. You were a pawn, and the nobles were watching, eyes glinting with judgment, already speculating which side you favored—Black or Green.

But you were not here to choose sides. You were an emissary of Dorne. You were here to maintain neutrality, to ensure that Dorne did not get caught in the bloody conflict to come.

The Seven Kingdoms may burn in the fires of civil war, but Dorne would not.

Peering over the edge of the book, you gave Isla a curt nod. “Thank you.” This wasn’t done out of anger, but out of necessity. You had to remain detached.

“May I get you anything else, my lady?” Isla asked, her tone laced with quiet concern. You glanced at her, noting the pity in her eyes, a softness you had once appreciated but now found suffocating. She had been in your service since your birth, but even she could see the change in you.

The Red Keep had already begun to erode the warmth of the Lady Dayne she once knew, leaving in its place someone colder, someone more guarded. You sighed. “Yes, you can start by wiping that expression off your face.” The words slipped out sharper than you intended, a bitter edge that caught you by surprise.

You hadn’t meant to be cruel, but you could not bear the pity—not from Isla, not from anyone. Isla lowered her head quickly, bowing once again. “Of course, my lady.” She moved to stand at her usual post, silent but ready, should you change your mind.

The fire cracked again, spitting sparks, but its warmth felt distant, as did everything else in this cold, foreign place.

‘Influence: the capacity to have an effect on the character, development, or behavior of someone or something, or the effect itself.’

You stared at the word, etched in bold on the worn page of the book, fingers gripping the spine tightly as if holding on to some hidden truth. The furrow in your brow deepened, teeth gnawing at your lower gum as you tried to comprehend what you had always known deep down.

It was a simple word, but in the Red Keep, it meant everything. Influence was the key to survival here. Without it, you were nothing.

Outside, the wind howled against the thick walls, rattling the iron window frames. The cold air seeped in despite the heavy drapes, reminding you of how vulnerable you truly were in this place. You pulled the book closer to your chest as if it could shield you from the political storm swirling around you.

The Red Keep was a battlefield in its own right, but not the kind fought with swords and shields. Men may dominate the courts and council chambers for now, but you knew the winds were changing. Soon, Princess Rhaenyra would ascend the throne and challenge the patriarchal grip on power. But standing in her way was Queen Alicent Hightower and her Green faction, poised and ready to strike.

The true power in the realm rested between these two women. Rhaenyra, the heir, and Alicent, the Queen Consort, both wielding influence over the men who fancied themselves rulers.

While the lords squabbled over titles and fought bloody wars, the real battle was being waged in the subtle smiles, the whispered promises, and the veiled threats exchanged between the highborn women. The weapons here weren’t made of steel but of charm and cunning.

You were young, far younger than most in this court, but you understood one thing clearly: if you were to survive, you needed influence. You couldn’t afford to be seen as a pawn to be played by either the Greens or the Blacks. Neutrality was your goal, but neutrality without power was a dangerous stance.

And so, your mind raced. How could you, a mere emissary of Dorne, so young and inexperienced, gain what these women had in abundance? You could ally yourself with another neutral house, but the reality of the Red Keep hit hard—there were no neutral houses left. Everyone had picked a side, whether openly or in whispers, and trust was a rare currency here.

No, you needed to do something bold, something that would force the hand of those in power to notice you. You needed to carve your own path in this treacherous court, and soon enough, the opportunity would come.

It was only a few days later when fate, as if hearing your silent plea, knocked at your door.

Literally.

The sound of knuckles rapping on the wood startled you from your reverie. It had been a week since you last spoke to Jacaerys or helped Lucerys with his studies, and the silence had been blissful. In that time, you and Merek had kept mostly to yourselves, enjoying quiet moments of respite amidst the storm.

This afternoon, the two of you were seated by the fire, a tray of freshly baked sweets between you. The warm scent of pastries filled the room, mingling with the faint smell of the crackling firewood. You savored the strawberry tart, its sweetness melting on your tongue, the perfect balance to the delicate white tea you sipped slowly.

Merek sat across from you, smirking as he picked at a slice of fruit pie. “Careful, sister. Should you keep at it, you’ll lose a tooth,” he teased, his blue eyes glinting with amusement.

You shot him a pointed look, wiping your mouth with a napkin. “Not before another knight plants a facer on you,” you retorted with a sly grin, recalling the last brawl he had found himself in. Your words hung between you like a challenge, but the warmth in the room softened the edge of your banter.

Before he could reply, the knock at the door came again, louder this time, and both of you turned your heads toward the sound. Merek raised an eyebrow, a question forming on his lips, but you were already rising from your seat, curiosity pulling you forward.

The door creaked open, revealing a messenger, his breath clouding in the cold air. He bowed, not meeting your gaze, as he handed you a sealed parchment.

You glanced at Merek, a silent understanding passing between you, “What brings you here?” inquired Merek, he held a scrutinizing gaze at the messenger. The man, likely intimidated by Merek's standing tensed for a brief moment, “There is a visitor for the Lady Dayne…”

Believing it to be Jacaerys or Lucerys, “If it is either one of the princes, please do tell them that I’m feeling unwell.” you instructed, but the man shook his head. He rose up, “It is neither the princes, my lady. But rather a…” he trailed off looking back at the door.

“A woman of… peculiar standing…” he finished. 

You frowned, already scrutinizing his choice of words. It couldn’t be Rhaenyra; those who might describe her as peculiar—Alicent, or perhaps Ser Criston—would have chosen sharper words, laced with venom, not this tepid uncertainty.

“Send her in,” you ordered.

Merek’s brow furrowed in disbelief. “Sister, are you certain?” he asked, his voice edged with concern. He’d seen you fooled before, seen you lower your guard, and it had cost you. The scars of that lesson were as much his burden as yours.

You met his gaze with a firm nod. “I am.” Still doubtful, he hesitated, then gave a resigned sigh. Stepping aside, he gestured to the guards. The heavy door groaned on its hinges, letting in a gust of cool air—and a figure cloaked in twilight hues.

The woman entered with a deliberate stride, her auburn hair streaked with gray and her face weathered but commanding. She paused just within the threshold, brushing the dust from her travel-worn cloak and straightening her skirts. Her hands, you noticed, bore the marks of labor—calluses and scars hidden beneath jeweled rings.

Merek’s hand hovered near Dawn’s pommel, the greatsword resting against his chair. Its polished edge caught the light, a subtle warning. The woman’s sharp eyes darted toward the blade, her lips twitching in acknowledgment.

“Lady Dayne,” she greeted, her voice a curious blend of cheer and steel. She stepped forward, only for Merek to rise, his chair scraping loudly against the stone floor. His grip on Dawn tightened.

The woman stopped, palms raised in mock surrender. “Peace, ser. I come unarmed.” Her smile, thin, turned to you. “Lady Dayne, I thank you for this audience.”

You studied her closely. The lines of her face, the way she held herself—this was a woman shaped by survival. She had the look of someone who bartered in shadows, dealing truths and lies in equal measure.

“What brings a woman of your ilk here?” you asked, your voice cool and unyielding.

The woman’s smile deepened, her eyes gleaming with something almost playful. “Ah, straight to the heart of it. I admire that.” She clasped her hands before her, the motion practiced, almost theatrical.

“I am but a humble tailor from the Westerlands,” she began, her tone light, almost flippant. “Entrusted by the Lannisters themselves to craft their finest garments.”

At the mention of Lannisters, your jaw tightened. The West’s intrigues were an unending web, and you had no desire to tangle yourself in them.

“It was at Prince Jacaerys’ nameday,” she continued, her voice gaining momentum, “amidst the grandeur and gilded halls, that I beheld your dress. Her gaze grew fervent, her words charged with reverence.

“A work of art, my lady. The fabric, the cut, the embroidery— Inspirational!”

You said nothing, letting her reveal her true aim. “Speak plainly,” you said at last. “What is it you truly want?”

She stopped short, blinking, then nodded hastily. “Of course, my lady. Forgive my ramblings. I’ve come to offer my services.” She covered her mouth to stifle a cough, then cleared her throat. “Never have I seen such silks, and I dare say none in the Seven Kingdoms could rival them.”

Her voice grew more impassioned, her gestures sweeping. “With your beauty and my craft, we could create garments to rival the stars themselves. I have a roof of girls—nimble fingers and eager minds—ready to bring our vision to life. Dornish fabrics, embroidery fit for queens. Imagine the court, my lady, whispering your name—not for your lineage, but your radiance.”

The room fell silent, her words hanging heavy in the still air. Merek’s stance stiffened beside you, his grip firm on Dawn’s hilt. His eyes spoke the warning he didn’t voice: A trap? A scheme? The woman’s fervor could be genuine, but deception often wore the mask of sincerity.

You leaned forward slightly, “And what would you ask in return?” fingers steepling beneath your chin.

“That you become my muse!”

She declared, the words bursting from her like a caged bird set free.

Both you and Merek exchanged startled glances, caught off-guard by the audacity of her proposition. She pressed on before either of you could respond.

“All I ask is that you consider my offer, my lady,” she said, taking a deep, steadying breath. “Should you agree, my greatest works—my life’s masterpiece—shall be yours and yours alone.”

Merek’s grimace deepened, his skepticism evident. “How are we to trust the word of a seamstress who serves the Lannisters?” His tone was sharp, probing for weakness.

The woman turned to face him fully, her posture unfaltering despite the blade’s looming presence. “Because,” she said, her voice cool but edged with a peculiar fire, “for all the riches the Lannisters possess, for all their gold and splendor, their hair gleaming like the veins of their mines, they fail in one regard.”

She turned back to you, her eyes bright and unyielding, her words deliberate. “They fail to inspire the greatest of flames.”

The room seemed to darken, the shadows lengthening with the weight of her statement. Her gaze locked with yours, her meaning sharp as a dagger. The challenge she posed was clear: to light a fire so brilliant it could blind even the lions of Casterly Rock.

‘Influence: the capacity to have an effect on the character, development, or behavior of someone or something, or the effect itself.’

In Kingslanding, influence was not merely a tool; it was the lifeblood of survival, the unseen force driving every whisper, every subtle nod, and every blade thrust in the dark. To endure the unrelenting tug-of-war between Green and Black, you would need it in abundance.

As an emissary of Dorne and the daughter of Lord Julius Dayne, you could not afford to openly align yourself with either faction—at least, not yet. The sands of time had to shift before that decision could be made.

Here, neutrality was an illusion. No house stood untouched by the tides of war. Yet, who was to say that influence could only flow from the highborn?

The common folk were a vast and often overlooked reservoir of power. Their whispers could build legends or tear them apart. If you accepted this woman’s offer, you could weave a web of connections that stretched far beyond the halls of the Red Keep.

You might be eight, but even a child could recognize the value of a golden goose flying within reach. Dorne’s legacy rested on your small shoulders, and if this woman could aid you in building something greater, why not seize the opportunity?

“What name shall I call my partner?” you asked, your voice calm yet commanding. She hadn’t introduced herself, skipping straight to her breathless ramblings about that fateful night and the dress your father had sent.

The woman paused, then dipped into a bow so deep her shoulder nearly met the height of your head. “Alora,” she said, her voice soft but unwavering.

“Just Alora.”

You turned the hair comb over in your hands, its delicate craftsmanship catching the light. Alora had chosen silver inlaid with small, polished stones of varying hues—amber, onyx, and a pale blue that reminded you of the Dornish skies before a storm.

Her note accompanying it had been brief, as always, but the message was clear: For the Lady Dayne, a star that outshines the rest.

Alora had returned to the Westerlands to gather her girls and materials, promising to establish her work in King’s Landing within a moon’s turn. True to her word, she sent a stream of accessories—hairpins, necklaces, even small embroidered ribbons—to expand your already burgeoning wardrobe.

To call it growth was an understatement; your collection had transformed into a display of opulence rivaling that of the Queen herself. Each piece was another string added to the web of influence you quietly wove.

The plan was simple, if ambitious: Alora would come to the capital, her girls in tow, and set up a boutique. Yet her insistence on working within the city walls puzzled you. It wasn’t as though Kingslanding held any particular charm beyond its political gravity.

The reek of unwashed bodies, rotting refuse, and stagnant water greeted all who approached long before the city gates came into view. For a seat of power, the stench was almost a warning—a reminder of what rot often festered beneath Red Keep’s facades.

You placed the comb on the polished surface of your vanity and rose, stepping to the window. The midday sun bathed the city in a harsh, revealing light. Smoke curled lazily from countless chimneys, mingling with the haze of life below.

Somewhere out there, Alora and her caravan would arrive, bringing with them not just fabrics and needles, but the means to shift your standing in a court fraught with deadly alliances and dangerous ambitions.

You didn’t fully trust her, of course. Trust was a luxury few could afford in King’s Landing. But you didn’t need trust to see the value of what she offered. Influence was sewn into every stitch of silk she brought, every jewel she set into gold.

Perhaps one day you would come to trust her fully. Alora had already proven herself a visionary in ways few could understand. She had made her own mark, and in time, she might do the same for you.

To guide you in this, you sought counsel from Rupert, who had been your mentor since your arrival in King's Landing. Though he was far away, in Starfall, the letters exchanged between you were frequent and full of wisdom.

Every word he sent was calculated, advising patience, caution, and occasionally urging you to strike when the moment felt right. And despite the distance, he was always watching, always providing direction, a guiding hand from afar.

You had also written to your father, requesting not only his advice but his support—funds for Alora and her girls to secure a place in the capital swiftly. House Dayne may not have possessed the deep coffers of the Yronwoods, but that did not mean the coffers on your island were shallow.

The Dayne wealth, though less public, ran deep, and your father, ever proud of your initiative, had sent you more gold than you had actually requested. His reply had been quick, with a note of approval tucked between the coins.

He was pleased that his daughter had taken the initiative to reach out, considering you rarely wrote to him compared to your mother and Rupert—especially after sending you and Merek off to the capital.

And then there was Merek. His silent support had been invaluable. He had kept his watch over you, allowing Alora to come and go without interference, though he or Ser Cassian had never been far.

Merek, ever the shadow to your light, understood the ways of protection. He knew, as well as anyone, that not all shields were made of steel. If this was your way of safeguarding yourself, he would stand by it.

The thought of your brother, your father, and your own careful maneuvering brought a sharp sense of pride—and yet, a deeper understanding of the politics you were now wading through. King’s Landing was a city of wolves, and you were learning to dance among them.

You handed the bejeweled hair comb to Isla, watching as her face lit up with the sight of the intricate piece. "Could you please put this in my hair?" you requested.

She nodded, her smile soft and respectful. "Of course, my lady." She guided you to the stool before her, and you sat down, feeling the cool touch of her hands as she worked over your tresses.

Isla was gentle but skilled, each movement precise as she set the comb delicately in place, arranging your hair in a way that both highlighted the beauty of the comb and kept the look dignified.

The comb gleamed against your locks, the jewels catching the light, a reminder of the alliances you were carefully nurturing. You studied your reflection in the mirror, seeing not just the girl you were, but the woman you were becoming.

You still weren’t speaking to Jace or Luke, and their attempts to reconnect with you had dwindled to near nothing. The strain between you and them felt like an aching wound you couldn't quite heal.

You missed them, truly, but after Jacaerys’ nameday—the implied marriage—it had all become too much to bear. The casual gestures of friendship from them now seemed tainted by something darker, something that made every interaction feel suffocating.

You had noticed how both Queen Alicent and Princess Rhaenyra regarded you, their eyes sharper when you danced with the former’s sons, the smiles forced or thin-lipped. It wasn’t subtle—the undercurrent of tension, the unspoken judgment in their glances.

You were aware of the game being played, and though you weren’t about to start a war, you certainly weren’t going to make it any easier for them. This was not your fight—not yet.

With your avoidance of Rhaenyra’s sons, your presence in the capital had become increasingly solitary. The walls of your chambers felt more like a prison than a place of rest, and it was growing more difficult to find solace in the same monotonous routine.

Days bled into nights, and the only thing that changed was the flicker of candlelight. You could no longer ignore the dull ache of confinement.

‘A visit to the royal library.’ you thought. There, you could lose yourself in texts, perhaps find a distraction—anything to escape the growing sense of stagnation. It was a place of knowledge, where words could silence the rest of the world, if only for a while.

Once Isla had finished pinning the comb into your hair—her fingers gentle and steady, the delicate ornament resting in place as though it had always belonged there—you stood, shaking off the lingering weariness that seemed to settle in your bones.

You had no time to waste on it. You needed a change of scenery, even if it meant facing the sprawling halls of the Red Keep once more.

With a nod to Isla, who followed dutifully behind you, you exited your chambers. The cool stone floors beneath your feet were familiar, but today they felt different—less confining, more like a path leading you away from the staleness of your isolation.

As you walked through the corridors, your mind continued to whirl with the thought of the royal library, an oasis of knowledge that might offer you a brief respite from the tension that had settled over the capital.

You needed a moment to breathe, to think outside the confines of your chambers and the invisible walls of the court's incessant drama. The library, you told yourself, would be the perfect escape—away from the watchful eyes and the heavy silence that clung to your every move.

But the world had other plans.

As you moved through the grand hall, something shifted in the air. The usual murmur of court chatter began to fade, and the people around you seemed to press themselves against the stone walls, creating a narrow path down the middle of the corridor. The movement was subtle, but unmistakable.

“My lady–.”

Isla’s hands were suddenly on your shoulders, pulling you back, snapping you out of your reverie. You stumbled, the interruption jarring as you looked up, confusion clouding your expression.

A trail of blood lay ahead, dark and stark against the pale stone. Your gaze followed it, heart quickening as you realized it led up the stairs.

Staggering with difficulty, Rhaenyra ascended, her breath coming in shallow, ragged gasps. Ser Laenor was at her side, his arm around her waist, helping her move with hesitant steps.

But it was the blood—rich, crimson—that stole your breath. It pooled at her feet and trickled down beneath her dress, the fabric stained, telling a story you didn’t yet understand. A story that made your stomach tighten with unease.

You took a step back, your instincts pulling you closer to Isla, your protector in this sea of uncertainty. “Isla… w-what’s happening?” Your voice barely rose above a whisper, a soft tremor betraying your youth.

Isla’s grip on your shoulders softened, her fingers beginning to rub small, soothing circles against the tense muscles there. Her eyes, filled with an empathy that was almost too deep for someone so young, met yours.

She didn’t offer answers, only understanding—a quiet acknowledgment of your confusion. “We women have our own battles to endure.” Her words were heavy, pregnant with meaning.

You didn’t fully understand them yet, but there was a knowing in her voice, a wisdom borne from experience. The bloodied trail that led to Rhaenyra spoke of something that you could not name, not yet, but something that every woman in the room recognized instinctively.

Childbirth, some say it is the greatest joy and the greatest loss. You were still too young to know the full depth of what Isla meant, but the reality of what you had just witnessed began to sink in.

A woman’s worth in the eyes of the world, of the court, was often determined by her ability to bear children. A working womb was a currency in the marriage market, and yet, it was also a battleground—one where victory could bring joy, but defeat could claim everything.

You took a shaky breath, the lingering tension from what you had just witnessed still prickling at the back of your mind.

Isla’s hands, gentle and reassuring, massaged the tightness from your shoulders, but it wasn’t enough to calm the storm of emotions swirling inside you. “Let us make haste.” It was time to get away, to think—to regain some semblance of control.

Turning on your heel, you decided to take the longer route. Perhaps it would give you more time to collect your thoughts, to sort through the whirlwind of guilt, confusion, and fear that had crept into your chest.

But fate, it seemed, had other plans.

As you moved through the corridor, your heart skipped a beat. Ahead of you, walking with casual ease, were the very two princes you had been avoiding for weeks: Jacaerys and Lucerys.

They were talking animatedly, one of them holding a dragon egg in hand, its delicate shell gleaming in the light. Ser Harwin, ever the vigilant protector, accompanied them.

Lucerys, the younger of the two, reached out eagerly toward the egg. “Let me hold it, Jace!” His hands made a grabbing motion, the excitement clear on his face.

Jacaerys, ever the responsible elder brother, shook his head, clutching the egg closer to his chest. “No! You’ll drop it,” he replied with a teasing but firm tone.

He had already allowed Lucerys the honor of choosing the egg for their younger brother, but the responsibility of holding it seemed to remain with him.

Then, just as you were trying to gather your composure, Jacaerys’ gaze shifted from his younger brother and landed squarely on you. His steps faltered.

The quiet stillness between you seemed to stretch for an eternity, the air thick with unspoken words. Lucerys and Ser Harwin halted behind him, both sensing the sudden shift in the atmosphere.

It had been weeks since Jacaerys had last seen you, and now, in the empty corridor, the world seemed to pause around the two of you. Ser Harwin stood motionless by their side, his gaze flicking between you and Jacaerys with a knowing look, though he said nothing.

Lucerys, always quick to react, followed his brother’s gaze. When his eyes landed on you, they lit up with recognition, and his face brightened with a childlike excitement.

“Wren!” he exclaimed, the name falling from his lips with such warmth that it made your chest tighten. His desire to hold the dragon egg seemed to vanish in an instant as he turned toward you, eager to close the distance.

You froze, panic surging through you. Your heart raced as you heard the unmistakable sound of Lucerys’ footsteps starting toward you.

‘No,’ you thought desperately, your mind screaming at you to escape, to turn away. ‘I can’t look at them.’

Not after what you had seen—after witnessing their mother in such a fragile state, bleeding and broken, a reminder of the pain that came with bearing children, with being a woman in a world that demanded so much of you.

You could not bear the thought of facing them now, of seeing their faces after your silence, after the distance you had placed between yourself and them.

You gulped audibly, your breath catching in your throat. It felt like you were suffocating in that moment, the weight of guilt pressing down on your chest.

The distance you had put between yourself and them—was it right?

You had been avoiding them, avoiding this connection, but for what?

For your own safety?

For your peace of mind?

Or had it been something more selfish?

Just as Lucerys was about to rush forward, his eyes wide with hope, you took a small, deliberate step back. Your heart ached as you looked at him, and then at Jacaerys, who stood frozen, staring at you with a mixture of longing and confusion in his gaze.

You felt torn in that instant—torn between the desire to turn toward them and the overwhelming urge to run, to escape the uncertainty and pain of reconnecting. But you could not allow yourself to be swept away by emotions now.

Not yet.

Without a word, you turned abruptly, forcing yourself to push forward. Your steps quickened as you distanced yourself from them, your mind spinning with guilt and frustration. You couldn’t bring yourself to face them—not like this. Not after what had happened.

And yet, in the silence that followed your hasty retreat, you couldn’t shake the feeling that something inside you had broken just a little more.

You turned the corner without thinking, your steps quickening into a near-run, driven by the frantic need to escape, to outrun the ghosts of what you had just left behind.

Isla’s voice called out behind you, “M-My Lady?” but you didn’t slow down. The sound of her footsteps grew fainter as you pushed forward, focusing only on putting distance between you and the princes who had been chasing you down.

But then, just as you thought you might have lost them, you heard it—the unmistakable pounding of feet from the hall behind. Jacaerys and Lucerys were running after you, their voices just audible above the noise of your pulse thundering in your ears.

They weren’t giving up. You could feel the dread crawling under your skin, making it impossible to move with any sort of calm.

What would you do if they caught up to you? What could you say? Your throat tightened, and you forced yourself to push harder.

Your thoughts became a blur, consumed by guilt, fear, and confusion, until suddenly, you collided with someone.

“Oof!”

You both stumbled, the impact shocking your body and forcing you to steady yourself. You blinked in a daze, your breath coming quick as your eyes tried to focus on the person before you. When they cleared, your gaze was met with cold violet eyes.

Prince Aemond.

Of course it had to be him.

Aemond’s posture remained stiff, his presence like a wall in the narrow corridor. His expression was unreadable, a carefully composed mask, but there was something in the way his violet eyes softened just enough to cut through the fog of your panic.

It was an odd mixture of frustration and something else—something you couldn’t quite place.

His silver hair, so much like his siblings', was neatly slicked back, his sharp features accentuated by the tension that clung to him. For a moment, his gaze held steady on you, but then it flickered briefly toward the hall from which you’d come.

His eyes narrowed ever so slightly as he took in the sight of Jacaerys, Lucerys, and Ser Harwin still standing just behind you and your maid. The princes were closing in, and Aemond noticed it—perhaps more keenly than anyone else.

The brief silence that followed was heavy, but Aemond was the first to break it, his voice cutting through the stillness with a quiet, almost bored tone. “Off to go to the library?” his gaze shifting back to you with an odd sort of intensity.

You didn’t respond with words, only offering him a small, quick nod. It was enough. He didn’t need to hear your voice, for it was clear that you were attempting to flee the very strain that had hung in the air for too long. Your movement was telling him everything he needed to know.

Aemond seemed satisfied with the silence between you both, a subtle tension in his shoulders easing as he nodded once. "Good," his words clipped but steady. "I was just heading there as well."

It was odd to hear that, coming from him. Aemond, had been visiting the library frequently—though, in truth, it was less about books and more about finding you, about catching a glimpse of you.

Since Jacaerys' nameday, you had become something of a shadow in the halls, evading both the princes and the whispers that followed you like a second skin.

His mother had mentioned something in passing, a careless remark about Rhaenyra's actions, and how your retreat was tied to that infamous day—the one where Jacaerys had dared to wear your house colors in front of the lords and ladies of Westeros, a blatant challenge to the status quo.

Rhaenyra’s brazen display of defiance hadn’t helped matters, and perhaps it had scared you off, just as his mother had suspected.

Aemond shot a smug glance over his shoulder at his nephews, his lips twitching into a barely-there smirk as he subtly asserted his presence. He had seen his mother use this particular tactic when she wanted something—a mix of charm and cold politeness that was as smooth as it was calculated.

He extended his arm toward you with a hint of courteousness, his voice carrying an air of unexpected warmth. “Let’s go together?” he offered, a polite suggestion, his manner like a polished blade, sharp but dressed in velvet.

You hesitated only a heartbeat, then accepted his offer with a stiff nod. “Thank you, Prince Aemond,” You placed your hand on his arm. You didn’t look back, not once, at Jacaerys or Lucerys, though you could feel their gazes on your back.

Aemond glanced over his shoulder, his eyes catching Jacaerys’ fiery gaze. There was a darkness in it, a simmering intensity that made it clear this was no idle glance—it was a challenge.

The storm in Jacaerys' eyes was something raw, something dangerous, and it set Aemond's lips curling in satisfaction. Jacaerys' expression revealed everything—a storm of confusion, frustration, and hurt.

Unlike a Velaryon, unlike a Targaryen, his gaze was deep and brooding, as if his heart had been cracked open and left exposed to the world. It wasn’t the look of someone who had simply been ignored; it was the look of someone whose very soul had been put to the test, and failed.

As you walked away, Aemond’s gaze lingered on the princes for a moment longer, relishing in the silent tension that had built between you and them. He could almost hear Jacaerys’ thoughts—a cacophony of silent pleas to explain, to make sense of your sudden coldness.

The boy didn't understand, and perhaps he never would.

Jacaerys, still rooted to the spot, clenched his fists at his sides. All he wanted was to talk to you, to ask why, to beg you to tell him what had happened. He wasn’t the one who had betrayed you, wasn’t the one who had caused you to shut him out.

He couldn’t understand what had changed between the two of you,  “Wren… why are you doing this?” His voice was barely a whisper, as if speaking any louder would make the entire thing too real to bear. He thought back to that night—the night of Jacaerys' nameday, when everything seemed so clear.

What had he done wrong?

Had something happened between you and Aemond when they had danced?

Was that the moment you had decided to turn away from him?

No, he told himself. This wasn't supposed to be how things ended. You two were supposed to be friends.

Lucerys, who had been watching his brother with growing concern, tugged at Jacaerys' sleeve, his small frown deepening. “Is Wren mad at us?” he asked innocently, the nickname he had given you rolling off his tongue with childlike confusion.

“No…”

Aemond sat across from you in the quiet expanse of the royal library, his long fingers wrapped around the spine of a thick tome. The silence between you was broken only by the occasional rustle of parchment as he turned a page.

His eye scanned the High Valyrian text before him with ease, a faint frown of concentration etched onto his sharp features. The brazier at the far corner of the room cast flickering shadows across the carved wooden shelves, the dim light making the spines of the books glimmer faintly.

You, on the other hand, had been painstakingly working your way through a slim Dothraki text. Your brow furrowed as you traced a finger along the lines of unfamiliar script, quietly murmuring phrases to yourself.

Though your grasp of the language was progressing, your teacher had repeatedly urged you to slow down, to let each word settle before moving on.

Aemond had dismissed Isla earlier with a curt wave, a decision that still grated on you. “She doesn’t have permission to be here,” Aemond had said, leaving no room for protest.

Isla had hesitated, glancing at you for guidance, but you could do nothing but nod, Aemond’s status dwarfed your own. Reluctantly, she had left, her concern evident in the way her steps lingered before the heavy doors closed behind her.

Now, as you adjusted your seating on the cushioned bench, you couldn’t help but glance at Aemond from time to time. He seemed entirely absorbed in his book, but you knew better.

His stillness wasn’t a sign of distraction—it was a calculated presence, deliberate and ever-watchful. His eyes often flicked to you when he thought you weren’t looking.

“Dothraki is an interesting choice,” Aemond said suddenly, breaking the silence.

He didn’t look up from his book, “A tongue of raiders and savages, some would say. What drew you to it?” his tone measured as if commenting on the weather.

You paused, setting the text aside. “It’s not just the language of savages,” meeting his gaze briefly before looking away. “The Dothraki have their own poetry, their own songs. Their way of life is different, yes, but not without meaning.”

You gestured lightly to the book in front of you. “Understanding them means understanding another part of this world.”

Aemond closed his book with a quiet thud, leaning back slightly as he studied you. “Most in Kingslanding wouldn’t bother,” he said. “They see only what they wish to see—barbarians on horseback. But you… you look beyond that.” He tilted his head, his expression inscrutable.

“Interesting.”

The compliment, if it could be called that, made you shift uncomfortably. “It’s just a language,” you muttered, returning your focus to the text.

But you couldn’t help the warmth creeping up your neck at the intensity of his regard. “Prince Aemond—”

“Aemond,” he interrupted, his eye fixed on yours.

There was no hesitation in his tone, no trace of formality. The sharpness that usually laced his words seemed softened, almost inviting.

You blinked, taken aback. “What?”

“Please,” he said, leaning slightly forward, his hand resting atop yours on the table. His grip was light, yet firm enough to keep your attention. “Just call me Aemond.”

This wasn’t the first time a prince had asked you to dispense with titles. Jacaerys had said the same, not long after your arrival at court, his boyish grin making the request seem harmless. Lucerys had followed suit shortly after.

But Aemond was different. There was no playfulness in his request, no jesting smirk. His expression was serious, almost vulnerable, as though he were pleading for you to address him just as familiarly you did with his nephews.

You hesitated, studying his face. His features were sharp, his jaw set. And yet, there was a flicker of something in his gaze—a longing, a need for connection that you hadn’t expected.

It was a look you had seen before, fleetingly. Aemond, for all his icy composure, wore that same look now.

“Aemond,” you said, testing the name.

It felt strange on your tongue, like trying on a new garment, but you saw the way his posture eased, how a small smile tugged at the corners of his lips.

He nodded, “Better.” satisfied.

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable, but rather heavy. Aemond didn’t remove his hand from yours immediately, and you didn’t pull away. The touch, fleeting as it was, seemed to seal an unspoken understanding between you.

“You must be lonely,” you said quietly, breaking the stillness. Your words caught him off guard. His grip on your hand tensed momentarily, but he didn’t pull away.

Lonely.

Aemond had no doubt you saw right through him. He was surrounded by his family yet isolated by their indifference or outright hostility.

His older brother, Aegon, was a disgrace—lacking both the discipline and the intelligence to wield power effectively. Aegon could barely string together a full sentence in High Valyrian, let alone inspire loyalty or fear.

Helaena, his sister, was sweet but distant, lost in her own world of dreams and murmured madness. And Daeron, the youngest, had been sent to Oldtown before Aemond even had the chance to know him.

He scoffed softly. “What gave me away?”

You tilted your head, meeting his gaze. “The way you watch,” you said. “You observe everything, but you rarely speak unless it’s necessary. People who are content don’t do that.”

Aemond allowed himself a bitter smile. “Contentment is a luxury in this castle.” His eye flicked down to where your hands still touched. “Especially for second sons.” You saw a flicker of something deeper in him then—a yearning not for power but for recognition.

If only he had been born first. He would’ve been the ideal heir, the perfect prince to carry the weight of the crown. Instead, he was overshadowed by a sister he barely knew and a father who looked past him as though he didn’t exist.

He didn’t even have a dragon.

He was intelligent, disciplined, and watchful, traits honed not through indulgence but through necessity. In the Red Keep, survival was a game of shadows, and Aemond had mastered the art of moving unseen, his every word and action carefully thought out.

Much like his mother and grandfather, Otto Hightower, Aemond’s quiet demeanor masked a sharp mind and an even sharper sense of purpose.

The Hightowers were a family who preferred subtlety to brute force, preferring whispered plans over open conflict. They understood that power was best wielded from the shadows, where it could be neither anticipated nor countered.

And if there was one truth about a quiet Hightower, it was this: silence did not mean weakness. It meant calculation. It meant patience.

And, above all, it meant danger.

When Aemond first saw you stumble into the library, he was struck by a curiosity that bordered on fascination. You moved with a grace unfamiliar to him, your presence like a whisper of desert winds in a castle of cold stone.

You were Dornish, a rarity in the Red Keep, and in every way different from the rigid courtiers who filled its halls. While most moved like stiff wooden boards, you and your brother flowed like swaying curtains in a gentle breeze—fluid, unguarded, and, to Aemond’s eyes, utterly captivating.

He had watched you from the shadows at first, observing the way you poured over ancient tomes with a furrowed brow, your lips moving silently as you traced unfamiliar words.

There was a hunger for knowledge in you, a spark of inspiration that reminded him of his own long nights spent mastering High Valyrian or deciphering the histories of old Valyria.

But there was also a warmth, an openness, that he found foreign and intriguing. Unlike the courtiers who flattered and schemed, your intentions seemed unclouded.

You sought neither his favor nor his downfall. You were simply… you. And that, Aemond realized, was a rarity in the Red Keep—a place where even a child could wield a dagger with a smile.

You leaned back in your chair, a soft hum escaping your lips as you turned the page. Your eyes lingered on the words, but your mind was elsewhere, on the figure seated across from you.

There was something about Aemond, something deeper than the silvery sheen of his hair or the sharpness in his gaze.

"I suppose I’m quite lucky then," you mused, your voice low as you continued to study your book, though your thoughts were elsewhere. "I got to notice you before you become something great."

You didn’t look up immediately, but you could feel Aemond’s gaze shift towards you. His silence was telling, he had not anticipated such a response—no one ever had.

People saw him for his lineage, his title, his lack of dragon. But you? You saw something else, something he was still trying to decipher.

The room around you felt suddenly small, as if the weight of his presence was growing, expanding in the space between you. He leaned forward slightly, the soft rustle of pages the only sound breaking the stillness.

His fingers twitched at the edge of the book he was reading, but he didn’t turn it back. Instead, he regarded you, as though searching for any trace of jest, any hint of irony in your words.

But you were not smiling, not mocking him. Your words were simple, almost tender, and it unsettled him. How could someone like you—so young, so full of life—see anything in him?

He, who had spent his years buried in the shadows of his siblings, in the quiet corners of this vast, cold castle. He, who had no true allies, only enemies veiled in silken smiles.

Aemond’s hand lingered on the edge of his book, his fingers curling ever so slightly, and for the briefest of moments, the distance between you and him seemed to shrink. He could almost hear the thrum of his heartbeat in his chest, heavy and steady like the distant sound of war drums.

His eyes flickered to yours, a sharpness behind them that seemed to pierce through the layers of the conversation. "You have a strange way of looking at people.” Aemond murmured, though his words were not unkind.

You finally looked up, meeting his gaze directly. There was something different in the way he watched you now—something more than the distant prince, something that might have resembled… curiosity?

"Perhaps," you said with a slight tilt of your head. "Or perhaps I just see what others refuse to." Your voice softened.

Aemond said nothing at first, his lips pressed into a thin line. He wanted to argue, to dismiss the notion with a cold retort, but something in the air—something in the way you held his gaze—made him reconsider.

For a moment, he felt as though the very air around him had thickened, and he could not find a way to breathe through it. The words that once came easily to him now seemed distant, trapped somewhere deep in his chest.

Instead, he let out a small sigh and leaned back in his chair, looking away for the first time since your conversation began. His fingers drummed lightly against the surface of the table, as if trying to find some rhythm to settle his racing thoughts.

"You have a gift," he said after a long pause.

"To see things so clearly." He wasn’t sure what prompted the admission—whether it was the anomaly that was you or something else—but it slipped out before he could stop it.

You raised an eyebrow, "A gift? I thought that’s what you were going to say," a small smile tugging at the corner of your lips. "I suppose you’ll be the one to teach me how to use it, then?"

Aemond didn’t respond immediately, but the slight shift in his posture—his body relaxing, just a touch—spoke volumes. He didn’t have the answers, but there was something in you that intrigued him, something that felt both familiar and foreign, like an old riddle begging to be solved.

The silence between you two was no longer heavy, but rather companionable, as if each of you had made some unspoken agreement to just be in that moment.

No titles. No expectations. Just two children, alone in a room, sharing a space for reasons neither fully understood.

Aemond's brow arched, a flicker of curiosity crossing his sharp features. "Are you suggesting a friendship?" His voice held a hint of amusement.

You leaned back in your chair, a light giggle escaping your lips as you looked at him with something akin to fondness. “If you are seeking for a friend,” you replied, your words teasing but not without a measure of truth. "I could certainly offer you one."

“Very well then.”

You hadn’t quite understood what had compelled you to extend that offer of friendship to Aemond, but somehow, it felt right.

Aemond, the second son, sharp-eyed and distant, had a way about him that made the walls around him feel thicker, yet at the same time, he wore an almost imperceptible loneliness.

Friendship, with him? It had been an impulse—an instinct. And, perhaps, deep down, you knew he needed it.

Days passed, and what had begun as a small, uncertain conversation in the library turned into something more. You found yourself seeking the quiet comfort of the library with greater frequency, long after your lessons had ended.

Aemond was there, as he had been before, engrossed in his books, though now he was waiting for you too. In some strange way, the days seemed to slow when he was there, the two of you quietly reading or discussing matters in the peace of the rows upon rows of dusty tomes.

And, of course, there was Dothraki. Your lessons with your mentor had progressed steadily, much to your satisfaction. Conversations with your mentor now seemed like something natural, effortless even, as though you’d been speaking Dothraki for years.

Aemond had been intrigued when you first mentioned the progress you’d made. He had, without hesitation, offered his own assistance, his interest piqued by your desire to learn languages that spanned beyond the borders of Westeros.

He insisted that once you had fully mastered Dothraki, he would teach you High Valyrian. Aemond had shown you a few words already, though they were nothing too difficult—a few basic terms, such as Muña, Kepa, Hontes.

One day your lessons had ended early, leaving you with a few hours of unexpected freedom. As you gathered your things, Aemond approached you.

He didn’t waste time with pleasantries, instead simply extending an invitation. "Would you like to watch me train with Aegon and Ser Criston?" he asked, his tone casua.

You hesitated. The idea of seeing him wield a sword was new to you. Swordsmanship, after all, was a world that belonged to others—your brothers, men of honor and skill—but not you.

And not Aemond, not like this. Yet there was something about the invitation, the way he worded it, that made you pause.

"I don’t know..." You shifted on your feet, eyes flickering towards the window. "You train with Jacaerys and Lucerys, don’t you?" You were apprehensive at first, the thought of stepping into the training yard where Aemond, Jacaerys, and Lucerys practiced was daunting.

He nodded, his expression unreadable. "They do. But today, I wanted to invite you to watch. Aegon and I are sparring, and Ser Criston is overseeing."

There was an underlying tension in his words, something you didn’t quite understand. Perhaps it was a challenge—an invitation to see something personal, something only the few close to him would witness.

The clashing swords, the gruff commands of Criston Cole, and the intensity of their movements seemed worlds apart from the more tranquil, controlled environment you were accustomed to back in Starfall.

Still, Aemond had insisted, his quiet insistence leaving little room for argument. Perhaps it was his unspoken need for your company, or perhaps it was the thought of Merek that finally convinced you.

Merek would be there, sparring with Ser Cassian. He could neve go without sharpening his skill with the sword.

Back home in Starfall, you were no stranger to the sounds of the training grounds. You had grown up with the constant clink of swords, the clash of metal against metal, and the shouts of warriors practicing their craft.

But it had always been your brother, Merek, leading the charge. He was the Sword of the Morning, and you had often visited him on the training fields, watching as he sparred with his men.

You'd bring refreshments for the weary fighters, serving them cool water or wine after their training sessions. Those moments had been a quiet comfort, a reprieve from the often tense atmosphere of the castle.

When you finally arrived at the training yard, your eyes immediately scanned the area. Aemond was already there, sword in hand, his gaze focused and intense. His brother Aegon leaning against a training dummy, clearly intoxicated.

Jacaerys and Lucerys, stood a few paces away, the younger ones already sparring under the watchful eye of Ser Criston. You took a seat on one of the balconies overlooking the yard, the height offering you a perfect view of the scene below.

A small table had been set beside you, with tea and biscuits neatly arranged, though you found little interest in them now. Isla stood behind you, her watchful eyes scanning the yard with a quiet, almost maternal air.

It didn’t take long for Aemond to notice you. His gaze flicked toward the balcony, his eyes narrowing slightly as if appraising your presence.

Jacaerys, too, seemed to notice you almost immediately. He paused mid-strike, his wooden sword hanging loosely in his grip as his eyes sought yours.

For a brief moment, you saw the soft expression that had once been so familiar between you two—a connection that, in the last few weeks, had frayed at the edges.

Lucerys, followed his brother’s gaze and found you sitting on the balcony. He smiled, the warmth of his expression breaking through the intensity of the training.

"Look," Lucerys said, nudging Jacaerys with a grin. "It’s Wren."

Jacaerys blinked, and though he didn’t smile, his eyes softened. He hadn’t seen you in weeks, not since that fateful day. The distance between you was clear, yet the connection remained.

You didn’t move, your hands folded quietly in your lap. You could have waved back, smiled, or even called out to them, but something held you in place.

A part of you longed to reach out, to break through the walls that had been built between you, but you knew it was too late for that. Too much had changed since the day you were whisked away to King’s Landing, since the day your path had diverged from theirs.

And so you watched, silent and still, as the brothers continued their sparring. Aemond was focused, his every movement calculated and precise. There was an intensity in his demeanor, a stark contrast to the brashness of Aegon or younger two.

Yet, even in his calm, there was something unsettled about him—something that you had come to understand in the time you had spent together.

The training session continued, the sound of wood striking wood filling the air. You couldn’t help but notice how the focus seemed to shift. While Criston watched over Aemond and Aegon, his attention seemed to wane as it came to Jacaerys and Lucerys.

It wasn’t that their training lacked skill—it was just that it was clear they weren’t the ones being groomed for the throne. The unspoken favoritism was hard to ignore, and though you didn’t show it, it left a sour taste in your mouth.

Jacaerys, ever the eager student, practiced diligently. You could tell he was trying harder than ever to prove himself, though it was clear that the lack of attention from Criston stung.

Lucerys, more playful than his older brother, tried to match Jacaerys’s pace, but the lightheartedness in his movements belied the strain that simmered beneath.

Aemond, on the other hand, was a study in focus. His strikes were deliberate, each one calculated and sharp, and you could see in the way he moved that he was already thinking beyond the training grounds.

There was something about him, something that made it impossible to look away. You remained seated, caught in the moment, your mind drifting between the princes.

"My lady." Isla’s voice was a soft murmur, her breath barely making a sound against the backdrop of the clashing swords below.

You blinked in surprise, shifting your gaze toward her as you adjusted the lace of your sleeve. Her eyes were wide with a mix of concern and something else—perhaps an unspoken warning.

When your eyes followed the line of her gaze, you saw the servant standing a few feet away, waiting with the silent patience of someone used to being disregarded.

“The King has requested that you sit with him as you watch the princes,” Isla relayed, her tone still hushed as if speaking too loudly would disrupt the flow of events already in motion.

You hesitated, a slight fluttering in your chest, unease pulling at you like a tightening cord. Your eyes drifted across the training yard, where the princes continued their sparring, their wooden swords ringing out in sharp, staccato beats, only to fall upon the figure of King Viserys, seated at a distance with Lord Lyonel Strong by his side.

The King’s tired, weathered face was lined with years of responsibility, and the shadows of time seemed to burden him more heavily than any of his children could comprehend.

His gaze shifted toward you. A subtle acknowledgment, a soft smile that reached his eyes as he nodded in your direction. The small gesture was enough to remind you that his words were not to be denied.

You straightened, preparing yourself to comply with his request. There was little space left for refusal, and you knew that even if you wanted to, the King’s wishes were not easily ignored. "Very well," the words feeling almost foreign in your mouth.

Isla’s presence behind you was like a tether, her hands brushing over the folds of your gown in a small, comforting motion as you rose to your feet. It was as though her touch steadied you, anchoring you to this place.

You straightened the bodice of your dress and adjusted the fabric, the gown suddenly feeling more constricting than usual, as if the very fabric was aware of the expectations that came with being near royalty.

Taking one last glance over your shoulder at the princes, their blades flashing in the air as they dueled beneath the warm sunlight, you moved toward the King’s spot.

The air felt thicker here, the distance between the lively training grounds and the King’s place of observation laden with unspoken weight. The princes’ movements seemed more labored now, less like playful training and more like carefully controlled performances—no doubt part of the unspoken spectacle for the King’s eyes.

Aemond’s focus never wavered, his strikes sharp and deliberate, while Jacaerys and Lucerys tried their best to keep pace, though there was a strange energy in the air—a shifting current that set them apart, as though some silent tension had crept in.

As for Aegon… we won’t get into much detail about him.

As you neared, the unmistakable feeling of being watched clung to you. It wasn’t just the princes now, but the eyes of the entire courtyard, flicking to you and then just as quickly returning to their business.

King Viserys remained in his seat, the air around him one of reluctant authority, tinged with the exhaustion of a man who had long carried the burden of ruling and, in his heart, and his fractured family.

His frail body seemed as though it might crumble at any moment, but the strength in his eyes—sad, weary, yet still holding onto something precious—refused to bend.

Lyonel Strong stood beside him, his sharp eyes ever watchful, scanning the courtyard with the measured calm of someone who had seen far more than most could fathom. He was a man of integrity, and his presence beside the King spoke volumes.

His gaze turned to you as you neared, softening for just a moment before a nod of respectful acknowledgment followed. The briefest flicker of something—admiration or perhaps simple courtesy—passed between you, but there was a tension in the air even here, one that you couldn't shake.

As you came to stand before the King and Lord Lyonel, your gaze briefly met Viserys’s. His eyes were tired, but they searched yours with a quiet understanding, as if he could see the storm inside you.

For a brief second, the clamor of the training yard and the heavy gaze of the princes faded into the background, and it was just you and the King, the weight of years pressing down on him and a promise of something—perhaps even something close to care—hovering between the two of you.

Dipping into a low, respectful curtsy, you greeted them, "Your Grace, Lord Hand," your words polite, the formality of them hanging in the air with a softness that felt both familiar and distant.

The King’s smile faltered, the edges of his lips twitching in an almost painful motion, a sign of the effort it took for him to form any expression at all. His hands rested on the armrests, knuckles slightly pale from their grip. The shadows beneath his eyes were deeper than you had noticed before, and his breathing seemed a little more labored, though he held himself with the poise expected of a monarch.

"Lady Dayne," he said with a voice that cracked only slightly, "I thank you for humoring this old man with your presence." His gaze lingered on you for a moment, and the warmth that touched his words seemed to almost mask the weight of his sorrow.

It was as though every simple action required a great deal of fortitude on his part, and yet, here he was, attempting to ease the burden in small ways, by offering a kind smile, by speaking with you.

Lord Lyonel Strong gave a curt nod, his manner unchanged. He rarely revealed much of what passed behind his eyes, and today was no different.

His gaze remained firmly fixed on the training yard, observing the sparring princes with the practiced neutrality of a man who had long since learned the art of not letting his emotions govern his actions.

There was no favoritism in his look, no hint of preferential treatment for any of the boys. He was a Hand, first and foremost—dutiful, stoic, unshakable.

You returned the King’s gesture, sitting up a little straighter, feeling the weight of the occasion pressing down on your shoulders. "It is an honor, Your Majesty," your words are sincere but tempered by the soft melancholy that always accompanied moments like these.

Viserys’ gaze shifted to his sons and grandsons, eyes flickering between their movements, watching the way they clashed in the training yard.

His expression softened as he observed them, the line of his mouth tightening momentarily as if battling some private thought, some aching regret.

"How do you find them?" the question carried more than just curiosity. It was as if he were speaking not only to you, but perhaps to himself as well—seeking meaning, or perhaps confirmation, in the small moments, the fleeting displays of skill or rivalry that played out before him.

He spoke with the tiredness of a father who had seen too much, yet held on to whatever small hope remained.

You looked at the princes, the graceful yet brutal choreography of their movements—sword against sword, strength against strength.

Aemond’s precision was undeniable, each strike controlled, but there was a simmering anger behind it that you couldn’t ignore. Jacaerys, in contrast, was more passionate, his strikes less refined but brimming with raw energy.

As you watched, something caught your attention—a subtle bump of shoulders between Aemond and Jacaerys as they passed each other.

Your brows furrowed, uncertainty flashing across your face. ‘Had they had a fight?’

You turned to Viserys, the weight of your thoughts pressing down on you. "They are skilled," but your gaze darted between the princes. You could feel the undercurrent of something deeper, something unsaid, between them. "You must be so proud, Your Majesty."

You spoke carefully, the words laced with respect, but also with the knowledge of the quiet rift that seemed to be growing between the brothers. The King’s eyes softened further as he watched them, though his expression remained carefully neutral.

It was clear he had seen more than you could know. "Very," he replied quietly, his voice holding a weight of its own. It was a simple response, but it carried the sorrow of a man who had seen his family, his legacy, fray at the edges.

"They are my legacy."

There was a pause Viserys shifted slightly in his chair, and his gaze turned distant, as though he were looking back through the years at moments he could never change.

Criston Cole, donned his gloves, he lifted his wooden sword, his stance firm as Aegon and Aemond charged at him.

Neither prince's strikes even seemed to faze him, his reactions swift, his blocks firm. He thwarted their attacks effortlessly, never once breaking a sweat, his eyes sharp and calculating.

The sons of Rhaenyra watched from the sidelines, a mixture of frustration and resentment coloring their expressions. Jacaerys and Lucerys exchanged a look, their brows furrowed in disappointment.

Another training session, another dismissal. They were benched, once again, pushed aside in favor of Aegon and Aemond, who basked in Criston’s praise.

But then, as if the very ground beneath their feet had shifted, a new presence entered the yard. The strong, imposing figure of Ser Harwin Strong, the might of House Strong, strode onto the training ground with purpose.

His broad shoulders were squared, and his every movement exuded a quiet strength. The moment he donned his gloves, the younger princes lit up like fires catching the wind.

There was hope in their eyes—hope that they might finally be taken seriously. “Weapons up, boys,” Harwin instructed with a smirk, his voice filled with a quiet command that the younger princes obeyed without hesitation.

They adjusted their stances, ready to face any challenge, especially when it came from the most respected warrior in the realm. “Give your enemies no quarter.” His words carried an intensity that made them eager to learn, to prove themselves.

Criston Cole, still watching from the sidelines, couldn’t hide the grimace that spread across his face as he saw the two boys come to life under Harwin's watchful eye.

There was a sneer on his lips, a disdain that couldn’t be concealed. With a few strides, he approached the group, his posture stiff and challenging.

His eyes flickered between Harwin and the young princes. “It seems the younger boys could do better with a bit of your attention... Ser Criston,” Harwin’s voice was calm but laden with an underlying challenge.

His gaze met Criston’s. “Perhaps you could share your method of instruction with all your pupils.”

Criston’s lips twitched in amusement, “You question my method of instruction, ser?” his eyes narrowing with disdain. He had no love for Rhaenyra’s children, and certainly none for Harwin.

Harwin shook his head slowly, his expression calm but firm. “Oh, I merely suggest that method be applied to all your pupils,” he said, his words direct and resolute.

There was no mistaking his intent—he was calling Criston out for his lack of professionalism, for his bias. For ignoring the boys who, by blood and birthright, deserved the same attention as their older cousins.

There was a subtle shift in the air, a thickening of the space between them. Harwin wasn’t just standing up for the boys; he was standing up for his own, and everyone knew it.

His secret was an open one—his sons, Jacaerys and Lucerys, were the product of his union with the woman who had once been his lover, and no one dared to speak ill of the Commander of the City Watch and Heir to the Throne without consequences.

Jacaerys stood a little taller, his eyes narrowing in quiet pride. He wasn’t going to let this moment pass without proving himself. He couldn’t afford to be seen as weak, not when his very future was on the line. His gaze flickered toward you, a silent exchange passing between you both.

You sat perched on the balcony, eyes focused on the sparring princes. Your expression, though calm, held a flicker of worry. Jacaerys saw it, the concern in your eyes, and it made something shift within him.

The past weeks seemed to lift, if only slightly, as he caught your gaze. You offered him a slight smile, a small gesture, but to Jacaerys, it was like a lifeline. It was the first real interaction he’d had with you in weeks, and it filled him with hope.

Aemond’s gloating about spending time with you had gnawed at his insides, but now, perhaps, he was starting to believe that you weren’t angry with him. That you might finally forgive him for what had transpired.

But before he could dwell on the thought, his attention was pulled away with a force he hadn’t anticipated. Criston Cole, with a look of impatience, seized Jacaerys by the collar, his fingers digging into the fabric of his tunic.

“Jacaerys... come here.” His voice was tight, the command heavy with authority. He dragged the young prince toward the center of the yard, where Aegon awaited.

Aegon’s grin was wide, his eyes gleaming with a mischief that matched Aemond’s. They had no love for each other, but they found great joy in tormenting their nephews, if only for the thrill of seeing their discomfort.

Aegon’s smirk grew wider, a mix of challenge and amusement on his face as he readied his wooden sword. “You’ll spar with Aegon,”

Jacaerys’ heart sank. This wasn’t the fight he had expected, not the kind that would prove his worth. But he had no choice. He couldn’t back down now, not when his pride—and his mother’s legacy—was at stake.

“Eldest son against eldest son.”

The yard fell silent for a moment as he prepared himself, hands gripping the wooden sword. This would be another test of strength, but it wasn’t just about the battle. It was about proving, once and for all, that he could hold his own among the sons of the Queen Consort.

And, perhaps, to prove something to you too.

Harwin’s grunt echoed in the yard as he watched the sparring match with a growing sense of frustration. “It’s hardly a fair match,” he muttered, his voice low but filled with clear disapproval.

He knew better than anyone the kind of fighter Aegon was, despite the prince's lack of form. Aegon fought with a savage brutality that could strip the soul of a man, and Harwin knew that kind of ferocity would not be held back.

Criston Cole, as always, had no patience for Harwin’s objections. He tilted his head with a condescending air, eyes never leaving the sparring princes.

“I know you've never seen true battle, ser,” he said, his voice dripping with disdain, “but when steel is drawn, a fair match isn’t something anyone should expect.”

His gaze remained fixed on the boys, utterly unconcerned with Harwin’s comments. It was as if the very notion of fairness in combat was beneath him. "Blades up," Criston commanded, the words clipped and firm.

The princes, fueled by their egos and the cruel teachings of their trainer, raised their wooden blades in unison. The air seemed to grow thick with the sound of their footsteps as they charged forward.

Aegon, without hesitation, launched himself at Jacaerys with all the ferocity of a wild animal, attacking with reckless abandon. There was no room for mercy in his strikes, each one a clear message: he would not allow the boy to stand in his way.

Jacaerys struggled beneath Aegon’s relentless assault. He barely managed to block each blow, his arms shaking with the strain. Aegon’s strength was overpowering, and it wasn’t long before Jacaerys was pushed to the ground, unable to defend himself.

For a moment, it seemed as if Aegon might gloat, as if he would bask in his victory. But it was in that arrogance, that moment of carelessness, that Jacaerys found his opening.

Jacaerys rose to his feet, fury and pride fueling him as he struck back. His blows were harsh and precise, a mirror of Aegon’s own savage attacks. For a moment, there was a shift—a balance, however brief, between the two.

But Aegon, never one to accept anything less than dominance, came at him again. This time, he kicked Jacaerys to the ground with an almost practiced cruelty, and Criston Cole did nothing to stop it. 

He merely stood to the side, watching, his face impassive as Aegon continued his assault. Jacaerys was pinned once again, struggling beneath Aegon’s weight as the older prince swung down at him with renewed force.

“Stay on the attack!” Criston’s voice rang out, his words dripping with contempt.

You, sitting at the edge of your seat, clenched your fists tightly, the fabric of your dress now feeling like it might tear under the pressure. The helplessness in Jacaerys’ eyes made your heart ache, and you couldn’t help but feel the bile rise in your throat.

Harwin, his patience finally breaking, stormed across the yard, his massive frame cutting through the tension like a ship through a storm. He reached Aegon in an instant, grabbing him roughly by the shoulder and pushing him aside.

Aegon yelped in surprise, stumbling back, his face contorted in indignation. “You dare put hands on me?” Aegon screeched, his voice high and petulant. He was not accustomed to being treated so.

For a moment, it seemed as though his anger might reach a boiling point, but then Viserys’ voice rang out across the yard, causing everyone to pause in their tracks.

“Aegon!” The King’s voice, though weak with age, cut through the tension like a knife.

It was a command, not a suggestion, and it immediately caused Aegon to flinch. The prince fell silent, his chest heaving with the remnants of his tantrum as he glanced up at his father in surprise. The reality of his father’s presence seemed to settle in all at once, and for a brief moment, Aegon’s arrogance faltered.

Criston, ever the defender of the royal blood, stepped forward and shielded Aegon from Harwin’s wrath, his body a barrier between the two men.

“You forget yourself, Strong,” Criston sneered, his eyes narrowing. “That is the Prince.” His words were sharp, an attempt to remind everyone of the hierarchy that had been in place since birth.

Yet, the irony of his claim—coming from the same man who had allowed Aegon to pin his nephew to the ground—was not lost on anyone watching.

Harwin stood tall, his gaze unwavering as he glared at Criston. “This is what you teach, Cole?” He motioned toward the discarded wooden swords that lay forgotten in the dirt.

His voice was like ice as he spoke, filled with a quiet, simmering fury. “Cruelty to the weaker opponent?”

Criston’s eyes flicked over the fallen swords before he rolled his eyes, brushing off Harwin’s challenge as though it were nothing. “Our interest in the princeling’s training is quite unusual, Commander,” he remarked, his tone dripping with condescension.

“Most men would only have that kind of devotion toward a cousin...” His words hung in the air, a challenge in themselves. “Or a brother...” he continued, the smirk never leaving his lips.

“Or a son,”

Harwin surged forward, his hand cracking across Criston’s face with a force that made the crowd flinch. Criston staggered back, the shock of the blow registering on his face for a brief second before the smirk returned, though this time, it was tinged with something darker.

The sound of the slap echoed through the training yard, silencing the movements of the others. Even Aegon, his mouth agape in disbelief, fell still. The crowd stood frozen, their eyes wide, unsure of what to do next.

The chaos in the training yard spun out of control, the brutal violence between Harwin and Criston unfolding in front of your eyes like a scene of madness.

Jacaerys had rushed to his brother's side, wrapping his arms around Lucerys to shield him from the violence. His younger brother’s face was pale, his eyes wide with fear and confusion. The sight of blood streaming from Criston’s face was enough to make your stomach twist in horror.

sla, quick on her feet, reached for you, but you were already rising from your chair. Your breath caught in your throat as the crimson stain of Criston’s blood spread across the stone beneath him.

You couldn’t tear your eyes away from the horrific scene, and before Isla could protest, you leaned over the stone barrier of the balcony, calling out for your brother in a panic.

“Merek!” Your voice rang out across the training yard, a mixture of panic and urgency.

Merek, who had been sparring on the other side of the yard, heard your voice break through the tension. His head snapped up, eyes searching for you before landing on your frantic gestures.

The horror in your expression was enough to make him drop Dawn, his sword, and race toward the center of the chaos.

The ground trembled under his quick steps, his focus solely on the fight. “Harwin!” Merek shouted as he reached your father’s side, grabbing hold of the furious commander.

Harwin was a force of nature, the rage inside him impossible to tame, but Merek was determined. “Say it again! Say it again!” Harwin roared, throwing himself against Merek’s grip as if he could fight his own fury.

His chest heaved with the strain of his anger, blood still dripping from the bloodied fist he had landed on Criston.

Merek, his voice firm and controlled, tried his best to reason with the man. “Calm yourself, the prick is not worth it!” he said through gritted teeth, his voice barely audible over the noise of the surrounding knights.

The look in Merek’s eyes was one of cold intensity, as though he would not hesitate to take down any who dared cross him. “Step back!” Merek barked at the White Cloaks who had begun to approach.

“If you wish to suffer the same fate as Cole, I suggest you step back!” His words carried the weight of authority, of the Sword of the Morning commanding them to stand down. It was a standoff.

You stood frozen, your hands trembling as you clutched the edge of the balcony. The sight of blood, of the brawl unfolding below, made your stomach churn. You couldn’t stand to watch any longer, yet you couldn’t tear your eyes away.

“...Enough... enough!” You turned away, desperate to escape the chaos, only to find your eyes landing on the King, Viserys, sitting hunched over on the stone bench.

His breathing was erratic, his face pale and drawn, and his hands shook with visible strain. Lyonel was beside him, attempting to calm him, but it was clear that the King’s condition was deteriorating rapidly.

Viserys attempted to rise, his body trembling as he tried to stop the madness unfolding below. But he didn’t make it far. With a weak groan, he collapsed back onto the stone.

You quickly sprang into action, rushing toward him, your knees hitting the ground as you knelt beside him. “Your Grace!” you reached for his frail body, helping him sit upright as best you could.

His hand, shaking with age, gripped your wrist desperately, his eyes wide with confusion. His breath was shallow, his words disjointed and incoherent.

Lyonel, kneeling beside him, was just as alarmed. “Your Grace, are you alright?” His voice trembled, but the King did not answer. Instead, only the soft, unintelligible murmurs of his name escaped his lips.

“...Rhaenyra...” Viserys whispered, the name of his firstborn daughter slipping from his lips like a prayer, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Lord Hand, we mustn’t let the King lie down until the Maester comes,” you instructed, your words firm despite the panic flooding your chest.

You swiftly shed your coat, draping it over Viserys’ frail shoulders in an attempt to warm him. “The cold has seemed to affect him,” you added, noting how his breathing grew even more erratic.

Lyonel didn’t argue. He simply nodded and helped you keep the King upright, though he was clearly struggling with the weight of the moment.

Viserys continued to murmur incoherently, “Rhaenyra...” over and over again, the name echoing in the air like a painful reminder of everything that had been lost.

“Isla, quickly! Get the Maesters,” you ordered, your voice sharp with urgency. You turned to the guards who had been standing idly by, still watching the scene below, their expressions blank as if none of them had the courage to step forward.

“What are you all doing?!” you shouted at them. “Help your King to his chambers! Now!” Your words were a command, a fierce plea that echoed across the yard.

How you ended up at the bedside of the sickly king was beyond you.

One moment you were watching the princes sparring, the next you found yourself seated on a worn stool beside King Viserys’ bed. His labored breaths filled the dimly lit chamber, each one a reminder of how fragile his body had become.

Now, swathed in thick blankets, he slept soundly, his pale face softened in slumber. Despite his rest, his hand remained tightly clasped around your wrist.

In his delirium, he had mistaken you for Rhaenyra and refused to let you leave. You’d tried to explain, gently whispering that you were not his daughter, but the king’s fevered mind was deaf to reason.

He wouldn’t settle until your presence eased him, and so you stayed, his frail hand never faltering from his grip, even in sleep. You were only meant to remain until the true Princess arrived.

Rhaenyra, no doubt, was occupied with matters of the realm—likely filling her father’s absence in the Small Council, or so her maid had said when she brought word of the delay. You could hardly blame her; ruling even a single kingdom seemed a daunting task, let alone seven.

The room was suffused with the faint scent of medicinal herbs and the lingering warmth of the brazier by the bedside. You glanced around, noting the intricate carvings of the oak bedposts and the faded tapestries depicting scenes of conquest and unity—ironic, given the fractured state of the Targaryen family.

In the center was a miniature hand carved model, so detailed and pristine. A life’s work, one might say. Never in your wildest imaginings had you thought you’d set foot in the chambers of the king.

You’d only seen Viserys from afar in court, his crown gleaming under power and duty. He had conversed with a handful of times, often hinting at a prospect in marriage with Jacaerys.

Now, stripped of his royal regalia, he was just a man—frail, weary, and burdened by years of ruling a kingdom constantly at odds with itself.

Your gaze softened as you watched him shift in his sleep, murmuring unintelligible words that occasionally formed fragments of names. It was impossible not to feel sympathy for the man.

The Iron Throne had withered him, forcing him to bear the impossible burden of uniting a family that seemed destined to fall apart. He was a bridge between two factions, one that seemed ready to collapse under its own strain.

You exhaled softly, your free hand brushing over the linen draped over your lap. ‘What if he dies right now?’ The morbid thought seized you, and your stomach twisted.

If Viserys drew his last breath here, alone with you, the court would surely whisper of poison or treachery. They would say a Dornish snake struck in the dead of night.

The idea was absurd, truly. You were but a child, barely past your eighth nameday. Yet in Westeros, suspicion clung to the Dornish like the desert’s heat to a sunbaked stone. The highborn loved nothing more than tearing down those who stood apart.

And here you were—foreign, far from home, and unprotected by familiar faces. You swallowed hard, glancing at Viserys’ sunken face. His chest rose and fell in shallow but steady breaths, the only sign that life still clung to him.

Surely no one would think a child capable of such a crime. Surely.

And yet, the court was a den of vipers, ever eager to weave tales of betrayal. Your mind conjured the cruel sneers of Lady Redwyne, the cutting remarks of Lord Beesbury, and the veiled disdain of Alicent Hightower.

The Queen would not hesitate to seize upon such a scandal, not when her sons’ claims might be bolstered by it. You shook your head, banishing the thought. It was foolish, paranoid even.

Your mother and father would be deeply disappointed in you for entertaining such nonsense. They had raised you to hold your head high, to carry the honor of House Dayne like a blade at your side.

Still, being a foreigner in this place—a fragile bridge between two worlds—pressed heavily on your chest. Your gaze flicked back to the door, hoping to see the Princess stride in and relieve you of this strange vigil. But the corridor beyond was empty, and the only sound was the crackle of the brazier and the faint murmurs of the sleeping king.

You tightened your grip on the linen, forcing yourself to breathe evenly. You would stay until Rhaenyra came. That was your duty, no matter how uneasy you felt in the presence of the dying dragon.

His pale eyelids fluttered, and his grip on your wrist tightened, fragile but insistent. “Rhaenyra…” Viserys groaned, his voice a rasping whisper in the stillness of the chamber.

You hesitated before placing your free hand over his, a gesture meant to soothe. His skin was cold, paper-thin, the veins beneath a pale map of his frailty. “She’ll be here soon, Your Grace,” it felt as though speaking to a restless child. “Please, you must have patience.”

The old king’s head shifted slightly on the pillow, a faint wince creasing his brow. His breathing came in shallow gasps, but he clung to consciousness, as if his very being refused to surrender to the darkness creeping ever closer. 

“Patience,” he murmured, the word barely audible. “A cruel virtue… in this house of strife.”

You frowned, unsure whether he spoke to you or to some phantom of memory. His body was here, but his mind seemed adrift, carried by tides of grief and regret. The Targaryen legacy was etched into his every breath, a heavy burden made heavier still by the fractures within his family.

You wondered if, in his haze, he saw the throne he’d spent a lifetime defending or the ghosts of those who had already been lost to its cruel game.

“She’ll come,” you repeated firmly, as much for yourself as for him. You shifted slightly on the stool, careful not to disturb the frail king. “She loves you, Your Grace. You know she won’t tarry.”

Viserys’ lips trembled with a faint, humorless smile. “Love…” he muttered, his voice trailing into a cough. “A word… bent and broken… under the crowns.”

You glanced nervously at the door again, wishing Rhaenyra would appear and take your place. The room felt suffocating, heavy with the unspoken truths that lingered between the lines of his delirious murmurings.

Yet, for all your unease, you couldn’t help but feel pity for the man before you—a king whose strength had faded long before his time, and a father whose love could not bridge the chasm that divided his blood.

“Rest now,” shifting your hand to smooth the linen over his chest. “Save your strength for her.” Viserys’ breathing slowed, and his grip on your wrist loosened ever so slightly. Though he did not respond, his frail frame seemed to lax, as if your presence offered him some fleeting measure of comfort.

Still, the shadow of death loomed ever near, and you could only hope that Rhaenyra would arrive before the Stranger made his decision.

The doors creaked open, the sound echoing in the quiet chamber. You turned sharply, relief flooding your features as you saw Rhaenyra stride in, her silver hair gleaming even in the dim light.

“Your Highness…” you murmured, voice barely above a whisper.

She crossed the room in a few quick steps, her gaze sharp as it flicked from you to her father’s gaunt form on the bed. “How is he?” One hand rested lightly atop your head, smoothing back stray strands of hair, a gesture so tender it nearly undid you.

You swallowed thickly, trying to steady yourself. “The maester says his grace is stable… The cold has taken a toll on him, and—” Your voice faltered, words choked by the sudden onrush of tears. Your vision began to cloud, and you cursed yourself for their betrayal.

Why were you crying?

You shouldn’t be crying at all.

You were a terrible girl!

Making this about yourself while Jace and Luke—sweet, eager boys—were likely still shaken. You had ignored them, failed them, and yet here you were, wallowing in your own misery.

Ungrateful.

That’s what you were. After all that Rhaenyra had done for you—offering you her hospitality, treating you like family, ensuring you were safe and cared for since your arrival at King’s Landing—you had the audacity to cry?

You didn’t get to be sad.

You clenched your jaw, willing yourself to stop, but the tears kept coming, hot and silent. The ache in your chest grew heavier with each passing second.

It wasn’t just because of guilt; it was the longing, the homesickness, the feeling of being unmoored in a place that wasn’t truly yours. You felt lost, a wayward star drifting far from its constellation.

But the tears refused to be stopped, spilling over and blurring your vision. You tried to blink them away, but they kept falling, a silent betrayal of your emotions.

Rhaenyra crouched to your level, her hands firm but gentle as they settled on your shoulders. “Shh…” she soothed, drawing you into a warm embrace.

“All is well, sweetling.” Her voice was soft, carrying a maternal warmth that felt foreign yet comforting. You clung to her, trembling, the weight of homesickness and fear pressing heavily on your chest.

You wanted to be back at Starfall, where the summers were endless and the stars felt close enough to touch. You wanted your family—your mother, your father, your brothers, Isla.

Rhaenyra held you tighter, as though she could shield you from your turmoil. Her thoughts, however, drifted. She had longed for a daughter, a child she could cherish in ways the world wouldn’t allow for sons.

You buried your head into the crook of her shoulder, clinging to her as though she could shield you from the fears swirling in your chest. “I don’t want his grace to die,” you murmured, your words muffled but heavy with grief. 

The tears spilled freely now, soaking into her gown. For all the moments you had spent with King Viserys—the way he smiled through his weariness, how his humor laced even the gravest of conversations—you could never wish such a fate upon him.

Rhaenyra’s hand moved gently over your back, her touch steady as she drew small circles meant to soothe. “Nor do I, sweet girl,” her gaze fixed on her father’s frail form as he lay in his bed, his labored breaths filling the silence between you.

For a long while, neither of you spoke. The fire crackled in its hearth, casting flickering shadows across the room, the only sound to accompany the rhythmic rise and fall of Viserys’ chest.

Rhaenyra’s thoughts, were far from calm. How many times had she watched her father cling to life by the thinnest of threads? How many nights had she braced herself for the inevitable?

You clung to her more tightly, your tears dampening her gown. “He always smiled when he saw me,” you whispered between shaky breaths. “He’s kind, even when he’s in pain.”

Rhaenyra’s lips pressed into a thin line. “That’s his way,” she said softly, brushing a strand of hair from your damp cheek. “He bears his burdens quietly, so others don’t have to. But it weighs on him, more than he’d ever admit.”

You sniffled, “He is so frail. It feels like he could break.” wiping at your face.

Rhaenyra sighed, her gaze flicking to the sleeping king, his labored breaths filling the chamber. “The years have not been kind to him,” she admitted, her tone heavy. “But he is stronger than he seems. He has endured more than most men could bear.”

You followed her gaze, the sight of him stirring a pang of guilt. “I shouldn’t be here,” you mumbled, looking down. “This is your place, not mine.”

Rhaenyra gently tilted your chin up, her violet eyes meeting yours. “You were here when he needed comfort, and for that, I am grateful.” She pressed a soft kiss to your forehead. “You have done more than most would in your place.”

Her words offered little comfort, but you nodded, “Will he get better?” swallowing the lump in your throat.

Rhaenyra pressed her lips into a thin line. “He will fare just fine,” she replied softly, her thumb brushing against your cheek, wiping away the remnants of your tears.

You sniffled, hurriedly wiping your face. “I’m sorry, your highness. I shouldn’t have acted so crass,” lowering your gaze in shame.

Rhaenyra gently cupped your face, “You’ve done something few in this court could even comprehend,” lifting your chin so your eyes met hers. “You showed compassion. In King’s Landing, that is as rare as rain in the desert.”

Her words caught you off guard. You blinked up at her, unsure of how to respond. The court was a world of sharp smiles and veiled barbs, where vulnerability was a weapon waiting to be exploited.

Yet here she was, offering not rebuke but understanding. “The capital is full of men and women who mistake cruelty for strength,” she continued, her gaze unwavering. “They see kindness as weakness, and ignorance as virtue. But not you. Never you.”

Your lip trembled, but you bit down on it to steady yourself. “I only want to do what’s right,” you whispered.

Rhaenyra smiled, a small, almost wistful curve of her lips. “Then you’re already leagues ahead of most.” She pulled you close again, holding you in a way that reminded you of your mother’s embrace—a rare moment of warmth in a city so cold.

Long after Isla had tucked you into bed, the weight of the day’s events kept you awake, tossing and turning beneath the heavy covers. The chill of the stone beneath the bed crept into your bones, but it wasn’t enough to quiet the thoughts racing through your mind.

The events from earlier felt like a fever dream, spinning out of control, and you couldn’t shake the image of Viserys’s weak, trembling form or the cruel play between the knights.

From Merek, you had heard the news—Ser Lyonel and Ser Harwin had been dismissed from their positions as Hand of the King and Commander of the City Watch, their fates sealed with a return to Harrenhal.

The news struck you like a slap. It was too sudden, too sharp to be real. But that was the nature of this court, wasn’t it? A place where the strongest thrived and the most loyal were discarded without a second thought.

You stared up at the ceiling, the flickering light of the few candles in your room casting fleeting shadows across the stone. Despite the exhaustion, sleep evaded you. Your thoughts was too heavy, too consuming.

You thought of Jacaerys—his quiet gaze, the spark of hope in his eyes when you had caught his look across the training yard. You had wanted to give him the favor, the small token you had kept for him since the tourney.

It had been his wish, despite not being a part of the competition. But now, you were unsure. Had your coldness pushed him away? Your own actions had driven a wedge, hadn’t they? You had chosen silence over reconciliation.

Isla would no doubt scold you for this—if she knew what you planned. But the thought of facing her scolding felt like a trivial concern in comparison to the knot in your chest. With a resigned sigh, you threw off the covers and swung your legs over the side of the bed.

The cold stone beneath your bare feet sent a shiver up your spine as you slowly stood, eyes immediately drawn to the small bundle resting on the edge of your mattress.

The favor—made of purple larkspurs and ribbons, a delicate thing in the dim candlelight.

Without hesitation, you bent down and scooped it up, feeling its weight in your hand, as if it carried the weight of all your unsaid words and unmade decisions.

You slipped on your slippers and grabbed your cloak, the cool fabric swirling around your form as you made your way to the door. The halls of the Red Keep loomed dark and silent around you. The occasional flicker of candlelight from sconces mounted on the walls offered little warmth.

The castle, once familiar, now felt imposing in the quiet darkness. Every sound—every thud of through the stone your feet—seemed louder in the silence of the night. There was an unsettling quality to it all, as if the walls themselves whispered secrets and threats just beyond your reach.

Your steps echoed faintly as you moved through the corridors, careful not to wake anyone. The Red Keep felt like a labyrinth in the dark, twisting and sprawling with hallways that seemed to shift when you weren’t looking.

You passed the royal guard posted at the corners of the hall, their stony expressions unmoved by your passing. No one spoke, no one stirred. It was as if you were moving through a ghostly world of your own making.

Your destination was clear, though your heart beat faster with every step. Would he even want it now? Would he accept it? The question gnawed at you. You could turn back, you could return to your chambers and pretend this was a foolish thought you’d soon forget.

But you didn’t. You couldn’t.

The sound of your knuckles against the heavy wood echoed in the quiet corridor, too loud for your liking. You glanced behind you again, heart pounding, the shadows of the Red Keep making the space feel smaller and more suffocating with each second that passed.

You could hear the faint shuffle of distant footsteps, and you held your breath, praying they wouldn’t come any closer. "Jace!" Your hand tightened around the fabric of your cloak, the cool night air prickling against your skin.

You needed to see him, to explain, to do something, anything to erase the cold distance that had settled between you two.

After a long moment of silence, the sound of movement came from within the room, followed by the soft creak of the door. You exhaled in relief, though your heart still raced.

As the door swung open, Jacaerys stood in the doorway, his expression caught somewhere between surprise and wariness. 

“Wren?”

You swallowed hard. "I... I needed to see you," the words tumbling out before you could stop them. "I couldn’t wait until morning. I couldn’t—"

You stopped yourself, realizing that you had no clear explanation for what had driven you to come to him now, in the middle of the night.

It felt impulsive, reckless, but it was too late to turn back. Jacaerys stepped aside, the door opening wider. "Come in," he muttered, though there was still something in his tone that held him back, a wariness that made your chest tighten.

You hesitated for a heartbeat before stepping over the threshold, your slippered feet quiet on the stone floor. The room felt too large, too filled with silent tension as you moved toward the bed where Jacaerys had been resting not long ago.

He closed the door softly behind you. For a moment, neither of you spoke. You stood there in the center of the room, unsure what to say or where to start. 

he favor you had carried so carefully was still hidden within your cloak, clutched tightly in your hand.

Finally, Jacaerys broke the silence, his voice softer now, though his gaze remained steady. "What’s going on, really? Why are you here?" His eyes flicked down to your hand, where the favor was still clenched tightly in your grip.

You glanced down at the favor in your hands, fingers trembling slightly as you loosened your grip. The purple larkspurs and soft ribbons unraveled before his eyes, delicate in their simplicity.

It was small, fragile, but to you, it was everything—a fragile peace offering, a wordless apology. Something to span the gulf between you, a rift that had widened without either of you fully realizing it.

"I—" You stopped again, the words thick on your tongue, reluctant to leave your mouth. "I didn’t mean to shut you out," you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper.

"I... I thought maybe you were using me." The confession hit you harder than you expected, a raw, bitter thing, but you couldn’t stop it now. "But I’ve been thinking, and I realized I was wrong. I was so wrong, Jace."

His gaze never wavered. Jacaerys stood unmoving, his eyes boring into you, trying to decipher the truth in your voice, in your every flinch.

Every flicker of your expression seemed to unravel something deep within him. His silence was a thing of its own, a quiet kind of understanding that stilled your breath.

Finally, Jacaerys exhaled, his shoulders sagging slightly, the sharp tension easing. His gaze softened, just enough to show you a sliver of something tender beneath the veneer of caution.

"I didn’t want you to shut me out," stepping forward, his arms coming around you in a tight embrace. "I just wanted... to not feel like you were slipping away."

You closed your eyes at his words, guilt rushing over you like an unforgiving tide, cold and unrelenting. "I didn’t mean to make you feel that way," you whispered into his shoulder, the words tasting like ashes. "The court, the politics, the pressure... I’m not used to this, Jace. I’m just not."

His arms tightened around you, his warmth seeping into your skin. He pulled back slightly, just enough to look at you, his gaze steady, unwavering. "I understand," But beneath the calm, there was something, a hint of something deeper in his voice. "But shutting me out only makes it worse."

You nodded, a sob rising in your chest, the lump there thick and suffocating. "I know. I’m sorry," you choked out, your voice breaking. The silence stretched between you, thick with all the things you hadn’t said—hadn’t had the courage to voice until now.

Finally, Jacaerys reached out, his hand brushing over yours as he took the favor from your palm, his fingers lingering just a moment longer than necessary.

His touch was warm, gentle, a silent apology of his own. "It’s a beautiful thing," he murmured, his voice soft as he examined the larkspurs and ribbons. "I thought you might have forgotten about it."

"I never did," you replied, your voice barely audible, as fragile as the flowers in his hands. "I just... didn’t know how to give it to you after everything that happened."

He smiled then, a soft, fleeting thing, a smile that held so much more than it seemed—comfort, reassurance, and a kind of promise. It was the smile that soothed the ache inside you, melting the last of the tension that had gripped your heart. "You don’t have to explain everything all at once," he said quietly.

His words settled over you like a balm, soothing the rawness between you, and for the first time in what felt like ages, you allowed yourself to believe it.

You could almost feel the distance between you shrinking, no longer an insurmountable wall but a gap that could be bridged. It wasn’t gone—no, not yet—but it was smaller now, more manageable.

Jacaerys turned toward the window, his gaze drifting out toward the sea. "Let’s go to the beach," The soft, endless dark of the horizon seemed to call to him, pulling at something deep within. 

You frowned, caught off guard by the suggestion. "But it’s still night," you protested, the very thought of leaving the warmth of the room for the cold, dark shore feeling absurd in the stillness of the moment.

Jacaerys’s smile widened, “The night doesn’t stop the waves, Wren," the corners of his lips tugging upward just slightly.

The castle seemed to breathe a quiet sigh as you and Jacaerys slipped through the shadows of the courtyard, the heavy wooden door closing softly behind you.

You moved swiftly, your cloaks drawn tight around you, the chill of the night still hanging in the air as you made your way down the familiar path leading toward Blackwater Bay.

The guards were oblivious, their attention elsewhere as you darted past them, feet light on the cobblestone streets. No words were exchanged between you.

The path to the beach was etched into memory—the same one you had taken when you became friends, the day that felt both like a lifetime ago and just yesterday.

The salt of the sea filled the air, the sound of distant waves crashing softly against the shore mingling with the quiet of the pre-dawn hours. The first light of morning began to creep across the sky, painting it in shades of purple and gold, the sun still just a glimmering promise on the horizon.

As you walked in step with Jacaerys, the cool sand slipping beneath your feet, the silhouettes of a few fishermen dotted the shoreline, their boats gently bobbing in the water.

They paid you no mind, as if two figures cloaked in the night were nothing unusual in these parts. The world seemed still, frozen in time, as though holding its breath in anticipation of the day to come.

"Mother has decided that we leave for Dragonstone," Jacaerys’s voice cut through the silence, soft but steady, as though he were testing the words himself.

You blinked, taken aback by his sudden revelation. The words seemed to reverberate through the quiet of the morning, “You’re leaving?” filling the empty space between you.

Jacaerys didn’t answer immediately, his gaze fixed ahead, watching the waves as they rolled in and out, each one steady and rhythmic, much like his own thoughts. His expression was guarded, the lines of his face set in a way you couldn’t read.

He nodded—you could feel the distance growing, stretching out like the horizon before you, just as unreachable, just as uncertain. The thought of him leaving, of the absence that would follow, hit you in ways you hadn’t anticipated.

Your chest tightened, and for a moment, you forgot the steady rhythm of your own steps, caught in the sudden shift of the world around you.

“You’ll go?” you asked again, as if the question might somehow change the answer. You hadn’t expected it—hadn't prepared for it, not like this. The words tasted bitter, as though asking them would unravel something inside you.

Jacaerys’s gaze flickered briefly toward you, his eyes a little softer now, though still heavy with something unspoken. “I must,” he replied, his voice firm but laced with something quieter, something more fragile.

"It is what is expected." The words were familiar, the weight of duty pressing down on him with each one. He said nothing more for a long while, the world around you both feeling larger and more distant with every passing second.

You nodded slowly, the thoughts swirling in your mind faster than you could grasp them. Each one tangled with the next, a knot of uncertainty and emotion that refused to unravel.

The shoreline stretched out before you, the vastness of the sea mirroring the distance that would soon lie between you. The cool sand beneath your feet felt oddly grounding, yet you couldn't shake the sense that it would soon slip away, leaving you adrift.

Then, without warning, Jacaerys’s hand brushed against yours, warm and steady, as he came to a halt. His fingers wrapped around your wrist, pulling you gently to a stop as well. You looked at him, his gaze meeting yours, serious but soft, as though trying to find some truth within the moment.

He didn’t need to say it, not aloud, but the weight of it hung in the air—the ache of a parting that neither of you had anticipated but both knew was inevitable.

“I’ll miss you,” Jacaerys’ other hand found yours, both of them cupping your palm with a warmth that spoke volumes, a warmth that felt like the last embers of a fire soon to be extinguished.

You swallowed, the lump in your throat growing, and for a fleeting moment, you couldn’t speak. The vulnerability in his eyes, the rawness of his words, left you struggling to find the right ones.  “I’ll miss you too,” you whispered, the words barely more than a breath, but they held everything.

Jacaerys, needing something—anything—that could tether you both to this moment. "Promise to send ravens?" The words left your lips before you could even think about it, the hope in your voice clear as you looked up at 

Jacaerys’s lips curled into a small, teasing smile, and with a quick nod, he replied, “Only if you promise not to ignore them.”

Without missing a beat, you tangled your pinky with his, the simple gesture a pact between the two of you. A way of sealing what might be forgotten in the passing of time, but something you both needed now.

“Promise,”

As if the air between you could no longer contain the tension of unspoken words, you both broke into laughter. It was a sound that felt foreign and real all at once, something pure amid the complications of everything else.

But just as quickly as the laughter came, it seemed, a spark of mischief flickered in Jacaerys’s eyes. In an instant, he was pulling at the ties of your cloak, his hands quick and determined.

Before you could protest, his fingers tugged at your cloak, and with a quick yank, it was gone, leaving you only in your nightgown, the cool night air suddenly sharper against your skin.

The sound of his laughter mixed with yours as he dragged you toward the edge of the water, your feet stumbling against the uneven sand. “Jace? No!” you gasped, caught off guard, but your words were lost in the sudden burst of giggles that followed.

You tried to pull away, but his grip was steady, and in a flash, you were both closer to the sea than you ever thought you would be in the middle of the night.

The waves crashed against the shore with relentless force, their cold touch sending a sharp chill up your spine. Your nightgown, now soaked through with saltwater, clung to your skin, heavy and uncomfortable, but the laughter that bubbled between you and Jacaerys kept you light.

The sound of the waves, the crisp air, and his playful presence filled the space around you like a song. “Come on, Wren!” Jacaerys called, as he released your hand, stepping back just enough to splash you with the frothy sea water.

You squealed, shocked by the sudden coldness, but the surprise melted into laughter as you kicked your own splash back toward him. “Take this!” you shouted, your words barely audible over the crashing waves. His wet nightshirt clung to his skin, clinging to his every movement like a second layer.

Jacaerys grinned, unbothered by the soaked fabric sticking to him, but his playful demeanor faltered just slightly when you noticed something unusual—something you hadn’t seen before. As he turned his back toward you, you caught sight of a scattering of small freckles across his shoulders and down the length of his back.

“You have freckles on your back?” you asked, your voice filled with surprise and amusement, the playful tone in your words only adding to the moment’s warmth.

The small, sun-kissed dots were scattered like stardust, almost imperceptible unless you were looking for them, but they were there, peppered across his skin in a way that made him seem a little less like the prince you knew and more like someone far more familiar, far more human.

Jacaerys stiffened for a brief moment, a flush creeping up his neck before he turned to face you, a hint of a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I’ve had them for as long as I can remember,” he said with a teasing glint in his eyes, his voice shifting to one of playful defensiveness. “I didn’t think they were something worth mentioning.”

You grinned, suddenly filled with a new kind of warmth—one that wasn’t just from the laughter, but from the realization that there were so many things about him you still hadn’t fully seen.

Things you hadn’t noticed before, like the way the sunlight caught in his hair, or the way his freckles dotted his skin like little secrets he’d never shared.

“Well,” you teased, stepping closer, “I think they’re cute.”

Jacaerys rolled his eyes dramatically, his smile never fading. It was as if the world had shifted just slightly. As if he had learned something new about himself, something that had quietly taken root within him without him even realizing it.

No matter what the future held, no matter how far away you would be from him, his heart would always yearn for you. Because no matter how long it took for him to see you again.

He was only an island away.

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