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lovelytsunoda · 2 years ago

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november rain // lance stroll

when I look into your eyes, i can see a love restrained but darlin' when I hold you, don't you know I feel the same? (..) if we could take the time to lay it on the line, i could rest my head just knowin' that you were mine, all mine so if you want to love me then darlin' don't refrain, or I'll just end up walkin' in the cold november rain

summary: after four long years and one pandemic cancellation, it's finally time for y/n and lance to return home to mount tremblant and tie the knot.

pairing: lance stroll x newlywed! reader

warnings: co*kwarming, so much implied smut and sexual innuendo and i'm not sorry, weddings, they are so painfully in love it is sickening. a dad who doesn't quite get the jewish traditions but is doing his best. also i googled a lot of the jewish wedding traditions so im not sure they're 100% completely accurate tbh

inspo: wedding dress, lance's suit, welcome sign, the arch, getaway car

ten months to the wedding.

it was a calm, quiet afternoon in the ranch house. lance was asleep, desperate for a nap after his afternoon cardio session with his trainers, and y/n was in her home office, laptop out in front of her as her manicured fingers dragged tabs around the homescreen, a pinterest board full of white dresses open on her phone. the couple's two year old golden retriever was sitting under the desk, resting his head against her lap.

"you're going to be the best ring bearer, aren't you, boy?" she giggled to herself, carding her fingers through whistler's fur as she looked back at the wedding blog open on her screen. whistler licked her fingertips, almost as if the dog was agreeing with her.

15 jewish wedding traditions you should know about.

"hey, baby." lance spoke softly, rubbing sleep out of his eyes as he ambled into the office, hair messy and shirt wrinkled from his nap. "what are you up to?"

"just some wedding stuff." she replied, getting up from her desk chair to wrap her arms around her lover, whistler padding along beside her as lance reached down to scratch the dog behind the ears.

"are you looking up jewish weddings?" lance asked, lips against the crown of her head. "baby, you don't have to go out of your way for me."

"i want to, lance. this is your ceremony too, and it means something to me that you feel as if your faith is being represented here as well. as long as i get to wear my white dress and pick the song i walk down the aisle to, i'm not picky about anything else."

"as long as you're happy." lance smiled, leaning down to kiss her, fingers lacing with hers as their lips danced gently together. "have you picked a song yet."

y/n groaned, tipping her head back. "you're going to laugh at me."

lance laughed. "no, i'm not! just tell me, darling."

"well, i wanted to walk down the aisle to 'november rain'. it just has a lot of special meaning for me. it's one of the songs that made me believe in love." she admitted, meeting lance's eyes.

"if november rain is what you want, that's what we'll play. have you picked a dress?"

y/n grinned, nuzzling further into lance's chest. "a few contenders have emerged. but it's bad luck to see the dress before the wedding!"

laughing, lance swept y/n off her feet, carrying her towards the bedroom with whistler at his heels. "come on, you really don't believe in that."

"so what if i do?" she smiled, cradling his face with the hand sporting her stunning diamond ring as she placed her on the king sized bed.

"then i guess i'm just going to have to keep fantasizing about that tight white fabric, hugging all the right places." lance teased, his lips grazing the skin on her neck.

"you do that, loverboy. because you don't get to see my dress until i'm coming down that aisle."

"and then i get to take it off you, right?" lance smirked, kissing her on the forehead. "because god, i have had thoughts about what we're going to do that night."

the bed dipped next to them, whistler's wet nose nudging at y/n's nose as she burst out into giggles, lance groaning as he flopped down on the bed, carding his fingers through whistler's fur.

"whistler, my guy, you don't need to be such a cockblock." lance laughed, patting the dog's side.

"baby, this is what you signed up for when we adopted him. you've had two years to get used to this." y/n giggled in turn, gently shooing the dog off of her bed.

"whistler, c'mere buddy." lance clapped his hands and signaled for the dog, lumbering clumsily off the bed. "i just want twenty minutes of alone time, buddy. go play with your raccoon toy."

he continued to attempt to bride the dog as he guided whistler out of the room, gently closing the door as the golden retriever left with his stuffed toy.

"twenty minutes, huh?" y/n joked, taking off her shirt. "you really think you're that good?"

"baby, please. you know that i can have you screaming my name in ten." lance's voice was husky as he leaned over her, pressing her body back against the pillows.

he kissed her deeply, running his tongue along the seam of her mouth as she moaned into his touch, bucking her hips up into his, feeling his erection grow inside his jeans.

"i love you." he said softly, his hands caressing her bare sides. "i can't wait to get married."

five months before the wedding.

"ladies, i think i've found the dress!" y/n giggled, pushing through the dressing room curtains and performing a little spin, the white satin fabric swirling around her bare legs. "this is the one."

"babes, you look stunning!" christa, her high school best friend and maid of honor cheered, raising her champagne glass. christa and her boyfriend bruce had gotten married during the pandemic, much to the disapproval of her greek family, who were expecting a large, flamboyant wedding.

as the wedding seemed to approach faster and faster, y/n and lance had both decided to go shopping for big day outfits on the same day. y/n, however, was pretty sure that lance only came up with that plan because he wanted to sneak a peak at his bride before the big day (and to grab more material of the love of his life for his spank bank while he was at it).

the dress would need a few alterations, currently pinned to her body with wooden clothespins, but when she looked at herself in the mirror, cream fabric hugging her body, the large slit up the side of the dress, she knew that this was the dress she was going to get married in.

"bestie, your phone is ringing." helena, her college roommate, shouted from the sitting room where they had all left their bags. "i think it's loverboy!"

y/n laughed, extending her hand. "bring the phone here, hell."

lancey💍would like to facetime.

chuckling to herself, y/n flicked to a regular phone call and ducked back into the changeroom. outside, helena and christa exchanged looks.

"were you trying to steal a look at me in my dress?" y/n laughed, sitting down on the fitting room's ottoman. "baby, i thought you were smarter than that."

"i hoped you wouldn't realize it was a facetime call at first. not even a peek?" lance asked hopefully.

"not a chance. i think i've found the one, though. it's cream coloured, and tight fitting, contoured to all the best spots." she said with a smile, knowing that lance would be working himself up on the other end of the line. "off the shoulder with a big slit going up the leg."

lance exhaled, and she could just picture the blush rising in his cheeks. "and i don't even get a look with a visual like that? come on now baby, that's just cruel."

"how goes the suit shopping."

"so, it turns out that pastels are on trend this year and i don't know how i feel about that. i had mick take some pictures for me, i'm sending them through now. unlike you, i actually want my spouse's opinion." lance said teasingly. "i'm leaning towards the mint green, team spirit and all, but let me know what you think."

her phone buzzed in her hand, seven pictures taken by mick schumacher sliding into her inbox. she smiled to herself as she flicked through, looking at her fiancé's dorky poses and looks of pure disgust at the mustard yellow suit esteban had insisted he try on.

"you're right, go with the mint green. it goes with the theme, too."

she could practically hear the smile on lance's face as he responded. "i thought you'd say that. right, if we've both got things picked out, i take it you'll be home soon?"

"an hour, maybe an hour and a half. i still have to buy the wedding lingerie as well, you know."

"oh, baby, don't say that when i'm out with my friends." lance groaned. "now i'm hard in a suit that's not mine."

y/n couldn't stop herself from laughing at that one as she took a sip of the champagne. "that's your own fault. so i take it you don't want me to ask what kind of lingerie you want me to buy?"

"something white, lacy and expensive. my dad is paying for half of the wedding, so money is no issue, babes. really, i want you to treat yourself. i know the wedding has been stressing you out lately."

"you try planning the happiest day of your life." y/n chuckled. "i can't wait to get home, if i'm being honest. as great as looking for dresses has been, this morning has been exhausting."

"i'll run a warm bath for you, order takeout from that place on main that you like. i think i know just how to ease those nerves of yours." lance suggested, a seductive tone in his voice that had y/n biting her lip.

"that plan wouldn't happen to involve cotton sheets and bath and body works lotion, would it?" she teased, knowing that every long, erotic night with her fiancé usually started with a massage and ended with a few orgasms.

"uh, yeah, of course it does. how else am i going to get rid of this little problem? seriously, babe, i am out in public."

"what are you going to do about it, big boy? spank me?" she joked, having fun imagining just how red her lover probably was right now.

"i haven't made up my mind yet, pretty girl." lance teased. "maybe i will, maybe i won't. you'll just have to wait and see, yeah?"

"i look forward to it. i've gotta go if i want to be done shopping by dinner. i love you, lance."

"love you more, y/n. see you when you get home."

the night before the wedding.

it was just after midnight when y/n slipped out of her hotel room, forgoing shoes as her mismatched socks padded along the hotel carpet. helena and christa were fast asleep, and y/n found herself tossing and turning as her separation anxiety kicked in.

she counted room numbers in her head before she stopped and knocked gently on the door, hands in the back pockets of her jeans as she waited for the door to open.

“you just couldn’t stay away, could you?” lance stroll joked, opening the hotel room door. he was wearing nothing on his top half, his lower body covered in nothing but a pair of montreal canadiens flannel pants.

part of him had known that y/n would find her way back to him before the wedding started. she never had been great at being on her own.

“we both know im not as tough as I pretend to be.” she quipped back, wrapping her arms around her husband-to-be. “I missed you.”

lance smiled against her skin as he placed a gentle kiss on her neck. “come inside, pretty girl. let me run a bath. the bathroom window has a great view of the city.”

y/n closed the door behind her as the couple made their way to the large bathroom, lance filling the large jacuzzi tub with warm, bubbly water as his fiancée undressed. she slipped into the bath alongside her lover, humming in contentment at the feeling of lances body against hers.

“you couldn’t sleep either?” y/n asked, sighing into his arms as lance put his arms around her torso, gently kissing her cheek.

“nah, I was watching the game. its not the same trying to fall asleep without you.”

“now who’s the cheesy one?” she giggled, splashing her lover as he moved his hands, beginning to massage her shoulders softly. “I love you.”

“love you more.” lance hummed as he kissed the back of her head. “how’d you get out of your room anyways? I thought the bridal guard would have you on lockdown. for the sake of tradition, and all that shit.”

“theyre asleep. I snuck out, used pillows to make it look like i was still in my bed. how was the bachelor party?”

lance laughed, pulling his fiancée closer. “I dont know if you could call the hockey hall of fame and whalburgers a bachelor party, but I had a good time.”

“you got a weekend in toronto and all I got was pottery painting and mocktails?” y/n joked, her hand trailing up lances thigh. “im glad you had a good time. I did too.”

with her back pressed up against his chest, y/n dragged her hand further up his thigh and upwards towards his member, wrapping her nimble fingers around his shaft.

“baby, not right now." lance whispered, concern in his tone as he unwrapped his arms from the woman in front of him "what’s bothering you, pretty girl? you get needy like this when something is getting to you and you don't know how to say it out loud.”

she sighed, retracting her hand and linking her fingers with his. “i'm just nervous about tomorrow. scared, I think.”

lance's expression softened. he shifted in the tub, trying to turn y/ns body so that they were sitting across from each other, both her hands in his.

“its not too late to elope if you dont want to do this anymore, love. I can call chloe and she can drive us down to city hall. just the two of us, no stress, no fuss. I just want you to be happy, y/n.”

"no, lance. everybody is already here and i've been dreaming of this moment since i was thirteen. i want to do this. it just scares the shit out of me. it's like when i slept with you for the first time, you have to remember that."

lance laughed, using one damp hand to rake his hair back. "if anything, i was more nervous than you were. because i knew that if i fucked that up, i could have lost you for good. i swear, i would have given up on sex if you never felt comfortable enough with me to do it, i just knew i wanted you in my life."

"and now look at us." y/n hummed, kissing lance's knuckles. "i'm just scared that something is going to go really really wrong tomorrow."

"listen to me baby, here's what's going to happen. you are going to walk down that aisle tomorrow in your gorgeous dress with your parents on either side of you, and 'november rain' playing in the background, and i promise that i will be waiting for you at the altar. i'll also probably be crying from how stunning you look and how surreal this moment is, but i will be right next to you the entire time, okay?"

"promise me you aren't going anywhere?"

"i promise." lance said, leaning over to kiss her before stepping out of the tub and wrapping his well-built frame in a plush hotel towel. he extended a hand for his lover, lifting her out of the tub bridal-style. "now, you and me are going to curl up in bed, watch the last two episodes of 'the night agent', and not think about anything wedding related."

y/n smiled, feet firmly back on the ground before she raised her arms and allowed her fiancé to wrap the towel around her body. "i like that idea."

dried off and wrapped in a silk hotel bathrobe, y/n curled up underneath the comforter. she gently swept her hand across the bed spread to flick off the crumbs, frowning at lance as he redressed in his hockey flannels and joined her in bed.

"i leave you alone for one night and your bed is filled with crumbs?"

"sorry," lance shrugged, a small blush on his cheeks. "force of habit. can't watch the game without a bag of miss vickie's."

rolling her eyes, y/n reached for his laptop, waking up the dark screen before closing the tsn app and opening netflix.

"baby, your skin is freezing." lance remarked, pressing soft kisses to the skin on her shoulders. "look, you've got goosebumps. do you want me to turn down the air con?"

with a cheeky look on her face, y/n turned to look at him. "i can think of another, much more fun way to get warmer."

"oh, you want me to warm you up with my cock, is that it?" lance hummed, gently slipping a hand underneath the hem of the white robe. "baby, if you let me have my way with you tonight, you won't be able to walk down that aisle tomorrow."

"we don't have to do anything. i just want to feel you."

and how could lance say no when she asked with those eyes, with that voice? she hummed in content as he slipped inside her glistening folds, readjusting the blankets around their conjoined bodies as she pressed play on the next episode.

"i love you, lancelot." she hummed, turning her head to press a kiss to the tip of his nose. "i can't wait to spend the rest of my life with you."

"i love you too, y/n. now, get some rest, darling. if you fall asleep, i'll stop the episode so you don't miss anything, yeah?"

the wedding.

"ladies, i'm going to be real with you, i'm scared out of my mind." y/n laughed nervously, smoothing out the front of her dress while christa fussed with her hair.

christa and helena were not fools: they knew that y/n had snuck out of her hotel room to meet up with lance, but neither of them could fault her for that. christa knew firsthand that y/n had been so scared that she would never fall in love, never have her moment in a white dress, and she wasn't going to stop y/n from being with lance, even if it was just for a night.

that being said, nerves were high on the morning of the wedding, and y/n had to be talked down more than once so that she would be ready to walk down the aisle.

and now that moment was finally here. she walked out of the dressing room to meet with her parents, who would be walking down the aisle with her, as per jewish tradition. lance had gone down the aisle moments earlier with claire-ann and lawrence beside him.

"you're going to do just great, kiddo." y/n father said, pulling her in for a hug. "but remind me what i'm supposed to do once i get up there."

"you're going to stand across from lawrence, diagonally from claire-ann in place of the bridal party. all you have to is stand there, and once the rabbi has said 'you may kiss the bride', shout 'mazel tov' with everybody else."

mr. y/l/n nodded, gripping his daughter's hand. "i'm so proud of you, honey. you picked a good man, and i love that he makes you so so happy."

the bars to 'november rain' began to play, and y/n took a deep breath before she walked into the banquet hall with her parents. her hands were shaking, and she tried not to look around and notice how many people were in the room.

she would celebrate with them all later.

she tried not to think about anything as she stepped up the small wooden stairs (not many steps, just three) to the altar. lance stood underneath the arch of roses (they'd decided against the traditional jewish canopy, but would have their parents stand at the four corners in principle), looking dashing in his mint green suit. he was restless, messing with the white rose on his lapel before wiping at his eye.

"were you crying?" y/n giggled quietly, reaching for her husband's hand

"what, no." lance laughed. "there's gotta be some pollen in here or something."

"good, because if you cry, i'll cry."

weeks, even months later, if you had asked y/n what the rabbi had said during the ceremony, she probably wouldn't have been able to tell you, even though the entire thing had been videotaped for the happy couple. the entire world narrowed down to that altar, to her and lance.

the love of her life.

"i now pronounce you husband and wife."

"mazel tov!"

"too soon, dad!"

"sorry love, carry on!"

TAGS:

@starsanova @magnummagnussen @diorleclerc @sidcrosbyspuck @daydreamingleclerc @libraryofloveletters

#lance stroll x reader #lance stroll x y/n #formula one x reader #f1 imagine #f1 x reader #aston martin f1 #lance stroll #cries in single #Spotify

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houseofhyde · 2 years ago

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Hello there amazing writer 🙋🏻‍♀️! I hope you are feeling well and are finding the fandom pleasant 🤗.

I thought I'd share an idea that's been festering in my head if you'd like to give it a try (but first allow me to commend your sharply pellucid guidelines for requesting, you have seriously inspired me to refine my own 🥂)

I was thinking of something where Daemon has been chasing a noblewoman, interest kindled by her prideful rejection to become his latest muse; then one night she goes to his chamber, dejected and teary, indignantly asking for company. Then something like the beach scene from Drfitmark where he's far gentler than he thought he would be.

Thank you for hearing me out, have a lovely day 💐

but only for tonight.

pairing. daemon targaryen x fem!reader. synopsis. to most, the rogue prince is an untamable beast, with the fury of a thousand men and mind more stubborn than a mule. to you, he's a nuisance in expensive clothing, prone to run away with his tail tucked between his legs each time you reassure him you're still not interested in entertaining his company. till disaster strikes and the only corner of the keep your legs seem to carry you is his chamber doors. warnings. young!daemon (early 20s), enemies to lovers to strangers, kinda softer than usual daemon (he's young and not completely cynical yet), smut (porn with plot, p in v, cunnilingus, fingering, daemon lowkey has a praise kink, dubcon bc daemon is high on life aka the milk of the poppy). word count. 13.1k (this was only meant to be 5k max 🧍‍♂️) hyde's input. thank you so much to @nyctophilic0vitnir for your kind words, your request, and, most importantly, your patience <3 this took me far too long to write and i hope the wait was worth it for you. it pains me to age daemon down (as, personally, i'm a toxic bitch that loves to see daemon be notably older than the reader, since i feel it adds that extra layer of questionable morality to his character and his actions) but it was the only way i felt i could stay true to my personal characterisation of him whilst sticking to the original request. since i view daemon as someone hardened by things in life that only come with age (which, in turn, affects his approach to love/courting), it only felt believable to me that he'd chase after someone in his younger days. obviously not everyone has to agree since, again, this is my personal characterisation of him! i'm rambling so i'll shut up now, enjoy! read on ao3 !

between the blinding shine of the sun and the hateful looks from the ladies seated all around you, you’re shocked to the core that you’ve yet to melt away into nothingness.

the scene is as follows: an arena surrounded by crowds filled with cheering lords and fawning ladies, dressed in their finest of robes and garbs, and with their mouths opened to yell out each time sticks collide or a rider is thrown from his horse; within the arena stand two horses- one so white it offends the eyes and the other blacker than a night’s sky- and, upon their saddles, two men. the first is a man of honour, regal of house and true of heart. he sits like royalty and smiles like a dashing knight, urging his mount towards the stands, no doubt awaiting the gift of the flowered wreath you’d kept yourself awake into the small hours to make. the other man? a fool made of over-the-top armor, a glistening of dark metals and a feathered helmet that, combined with the smug look he sports, has the same effect as simply writing cunt across his forehead.

it is, to your own displeasure, that the second man is who holds his lance out to you first.

“well,” that cocky tone of voice grates you, like the screech of a crying babe, and you fight back the urge to cover your ears, if only by reminding yourself of how his crown-bearing brother is watching from his own seat amongst the crowd. “get on with it.”

“oh, my!” the women in your vicinity swoon, as if the man has just recited a poem of utmost beauty and grace in your direction.

seemingly foolish? most definitely.

but, truly foolish? not one bit, each of them strategic in their behaviour towards the unwed prince, hopeful that someday, should they work hard enough, they’ll be on the receiving end both of his affection and wealth.

you can not mock them- wholeheartedly, at least- for you would be behaving the very same were he any other prince.

“lady cantebury, if you’ll excuse me, i suddenly feel my lunch coming back up.” though you address the woman to the left of you- who, quite frankly, you’ve been ignoring for the better half of the tournament- your words and feigned smile are directed to the man of your ire.

“yes, excuse her, lady cantebitchy,” despite the prince- purposefully, you assume- misspeaking her name, she seems a little too excited that he’s taken notice of her to care. “it takes those northerners a while to adjust to eating something other than half-frozen crops. three moons south and my lady has yet to get used to it.”

“your lady?” you scoff, and quickly scowl, cursing yourself for giving him what he wants: your attention. too late now, you challenge him and lean forward against the railings. “is she with us now, this lady of yours? i should like to pay my respects to her no-doubt deceased sanity.”

“it pains me deeply when you speak so dully of yourself, my lady.” the gaul of this man! to speak such words, to mimic affectionate sentiments and pains in his heart through the clutching of his chest!

and, to make matters worse, to put on this act before the very man you’ve been courting!

the tyrell boy is smiling when your eyes finds his own, but the grip he has on the reigns of the white horse speaks true to the anger that hides beneath the petal-covered surface. you return his smile, and ignore whatever the prince mutters under his breath (something adjacent to greeting that priss of a man, with words more foul and tone heavy on the disgust).

aiming to beckon over the man who should truly receive the gift of your favour, a faint tug on the skirts of your summer’s gown derail your line of thoughts. first, you look to your left, accusing eyes looking upon lady canteburry as if to say she was the one to call for your attention. another tug has your head darting to the right, and there you see her.

the princess is small, in age and height and all else, but she makes up for what she lacks with her overgrown personality and swollen confidence. she’s merely a girl of six, yet she stands as tall as her stature allows, head tilted up to look you in the eye.

“my uncle,” little rhaenyra’s words echo for all to hear, silencing even the most brutishly rude lords as all stand to listen to her sweet voice. “he wants your favour. i think he’s just nervous and forgot to ask for it.”

the last of her words are whispered, loud enough for several women and the prince himself to hear. you shoot him a look as you both scoff over a laugh, him with indiganance and you with disbelief.

blessed be the hearts of children, too pure to know the wrongs of man.

“is that so, princess?” the girl’s nose wrinkles, a sign of her distaste towards hearing you address her by title (“i can not call you ‘nyra in public, sweet child.” you’d told her many a times, hands brushing over her pale hair or accompanying her through strolls in the gardens or helping her escape the boring hours of needle work. “you are a princess, and as one of your ladies it is my duty to address you as such.”)

the girl nods and you spy the way her hair is slowly slipping out of its braid. the actions serves as a reminder, to not just yourself but the gathered crowd of women, of the unfair yet captivating traits of the dragon-riders. fair hair, lilac eyes, unblemished skin.

he wears them differently to the rest of his house.

“listen to the child,” he speaks as if on queue, in tune with your thoughts. “she’s wiser than most her age.”

“unlike you.” you believe yourself to mutter beneath your breath.

the stifled laughter of the queen herself, aemma targaryen, tells you otherwise.

“ao jorrāelagon naejot sagon tolī sȳz, kepus!” you need to be more kind, uncle! another part of the targaryen culture you’ve grown to envy as much as you distaste: their ancestral tongue. which the princess has been improving upon with each passing day since your arrival at the capital, adding yet another person to your list of targaryens who insist on speaking it around you, with no regard to the fact you have no clue of what words they speak. if anything, the prince seems to enjoy it when you storm off, antagonised to the point of despair by his incomprehensible ramblings in his mother tongue. “iā hembar jēda kesan daor tepagon se dohaeragon ao jaelagon naejot gain se riña’s prūmia lēda.” or next time i will not give the help you wish to gain the lady’s heart with.

whatever she says, it’s enough to irritate the prince, if the roll of his eyes are anything go by.

“lykemagon, riña, iā kesan daor nārhēdegon naejot ȳdragon hen aōha bantis zaldrīzes kipagon naejot aōha kepa.” silence, child, or i will not forget to speak of your nightly dragon rides to your father. you may not speak the language, but you’re fluent in context, and so there’s no doubt in your mind that the two are exchanging threats, each wearing that signature look of stubborn challenging you’re more than certain the king grew to despise the moment he realised he’d no longer just face it from his own brother, but his precious daughter too.

when the moment passes, the princess is facing you again, sticky hands plucking upwards to grab onto whatever part of you she can reach and guide you- shove you, if she were stronger than her age allows- closer to the knight in offensive armour.

“uncle, tell the lady what you desire.” the gods were cruel when they chose to favour men over women, tearing away the chance of this poised young girl of ever ruling upon the iron throne, for not even the strongest of men- nor the most foolish, either- would dare to speak to the rogue prince in such a demanding tone.

“to be drowning in whores and wine.” you’re too slow to cover rhaenyra’s ears from the man’s offensive wording.

you suppose she’s heard far worse.

“uncle!”

“fine, fine,” a clearing of a throat, a straightening of a spine and a lunge of a jousting stick in your direction. the horse he sits upon canters a few steps closer and releases the heavy sigh you wish you could. “my lady,” there’s a point to be made with how your eyes drift anywhere but his own as he speaks such blasphemy, a silent scream that you are most definitely, not under any circumstances nor at any point in time, his lady. you’re barely a tolerant of the man! “would you do me the honour of gifting me with your favour, so that i may wear it on the handle of my lance as i shove the other end up this pretty boy’s arse?”

there’s a cacophony of laughter, prompted only after the king himself fails to contain a burst of belly-born rumbles, and then the sweet interjection of ‘nyra once more, voice whiny in a way that reminds you you’ve been cursed with your moonsblood for longer than she’s been alive- even despite your supposed late blossoming!

“kepus! konir sagon daor skorkydoso īlon kȳvanon syt ao epagon zirȳla!” uncle! that is not how we planned for you to ask her!

the prince ignores his niece, eyes spying only upon you and your unimpressed, unmoving, unchanging facial expressions. the frowning lips, the pinched brows, the disdain in your eyes are all marks of something that would- should- send any other man running for the hills, in pursuit of some other lady.

in daemon, it is the pilar of his desire.

“are you going to make me wait all evening?” the teasing smirk and the raise of an eyebrow have become the prince’s signature look around you, from the moment you’d stumbled upon him, hands tangled up the skirts of a serving girl and lips stained in the bloodied red of southern wine. “because i must admit, while i’m not against performing in front of a crowd, i’d rather hoped our first evening together would be a little more intimate than this.”

you bite the insides of your cheek with a force you hope is strong enough to rid you of that grating feeling roused by none other than your greatest enemy: the prince.

by all means, you want to deny him, send him off to pester some other lady for her favour- of which you’re sure he’ll stumble upon an abudance of them who receive him more willingly than you. the crown of pointed thorns and decaying petals and twisted vines is one you’d intended to gift to the rose boy, not the dragon prince.

yet rhaenyra’s little hands and excited smile convinces you to go against your better judgement.

the crowd bursts back to life with cheers and applause as you drop your wreath down the expanse of his lance.

“cherish it, prince daemon,” you call over the crowd, voice drowning out in the masses yet reaching its intended, daemon’s eyes delighting with the attention you give him. “for i just forfeited my chance to be named queen of love and beauty.”

hours later, when the moon sits atop the sky and the king’s guests have had their fair share of feast and drink, you brush off yet another congratulations.

“to our queen of love and beauty!” they cheer, cups to the sky and smiles made of mockery. “our prince sure did pick a fine lady.”

to roll your eyes is your only hope to halt yourselves from chastising the garish men and their claims, a whole rant to throw at them off the cuff of how the only thing their prince has done is place a scarlet letter upon you and slice a dagger through the already fragile relationship you’ve spent your recent days crafting with the stone-faced lady tyrell, who’s spent the past hours staring you down from across the hall and whispering every so often to her husband.

the hand in your own- smaller and distinctly sticky in a way only a child’s hand ever seems to be- tugs and squeezes you along, venturing deeper into the pit of dancing bods, the tuffs of blonde and the poofs of red the only part of the princess you manage to make out as she guides you.

she stops, eventually, when she finds a spot she deems spacious enough and- unbeknownst to you- in the perfect line of view for all that sit the royal table, be they a king, or a queen, or a prince, to witness you both joining in dance, a unique pair among the many couples.

“you know,” the girl ponders alloud, a cheeky grin on her face as her small frame easily twirls beneath your raised arm. “if you married my uncle, you and i would be family.”

“is that so, huh?” she must count her blessings that she remains a child, for were she any older to know better, she’d be tasting the wrath delivered upon any other who’d dare insinuate- much less so boldly propose the idea of- the unification of yourself and the rogue prince. “are you sure you’d be able to handle me as your evil aunt?”

the young girl nods enthusiastically, a silly grin decorating her features and forcing one on to your own down-trodden face, something so infectious in her smile.

when you’d first met the princess, you’d been certain that you’d never warm to her. it wasn’t that she was spoiled or particularly difficult but, rather, you’d never had a child around back home. moving to the capital- under the guise of becoming a lady in waiting to the little princess while truly being an excuse for your father to find you a husband- you’d been unsure what to expect once you arrived. your friendship with the dragon princess was a happy accident.

an accident that’s made adjusting to the capital far easier, sure, but an accident nonetheless.

“uncle!” her recent interest in your courting life and the need to intertwine it with your arch-nemesis’, however, has you rethinking this friendship.

the princess is the one to let go first, ducking out of your hold to crash straight into the prince’s leg, attaching herself onto it like a leech sticks to the skin of a dying man. daemon, seemingly engaged in conversation- with a girl you believe to be part of the lannister house- prior to the appearance of rhaenyra, dismisses the company in favour of his niece, hand clasping itself upon the top of her head and giving several scuffs, messing her hair till it stands in all directions.

and, be it the copious drinks or the immature she-devil who harbours within the depths of your soul, you condemn yourself to approaching the prince.

“stop that!” the words are a hiss as your hands shove away his own and work at smoothing back down the strands of pale blonde. “it took me near an hour to get her to sit still for me while i done her hair, and now you’ve gone and messed my work!”

“then do better next time, perhaps tie it more securely.” never has daemon targaryen had a face so worthy of a slap.

but, as slapping the king’s brother would likely land you straight in a cellar, you settle for something far more childish.

“oh, my bad,” the stretch to reach the top of his head is lessened by the heeled shoes you wear, allowing you to retaliate the treatment he’d given to the princess’ head. “perhaps you should try tying your hair more securely next time!”

it’s a marvellous kind of satisfaction that overcomes you as you gaze upon your masterpiece, the prince now wearing a hardened expression and standing with something akin to a bird’s nest in place of his once perfectly groomed locks.

“i think you’ve been spending too much time with rhaenyra,” he grumbles, attempting to sooth down the mop on his head while trying to maintain an air of collectedness about him as the surrounding guests hide their snickers behind their hands. meanwhile, the princess radiates joy, no fear holding her back from laughing at her uncle. “you’re behaving as if you were her age.”

it’s a struggle to not stick your tongue out, but you fear that would only serve to prove his- likely true- point.

“i’m tired,” rhaenyra, ever the conniving little actress, throws in a fake yawn and stretches her little limbs out as she untangles herself from the prince, staring up at him. the two have always shared a rather queer bond, as though they were cut from the very same cloth, little needing said for them both to understand one another. being aware of this, however, does not make it any easier to accept when they speak of you as though you’re not there. “would you promise to keep my friend company? there’s a lot of strangers at this feast and i don’t want one of them to harm her.”

“i’d say the strangers are the ones who need protecting, princess,” he’s doubled over, moving down to the height of his niece but his focus is all on you and the urge to squirm under his penatrive gaze is stronger than ever. “them northerners can be savages!”

with much protest from you and a shooing motion from the rogue prince, young rhaenyra scurries off towards her septa, eventually leaving the hall intwined with the daughter of her father’s hand, alicent hightower, the pair having been near inseparable since before you’d even arrived in the capital.

you last only four denied dances, three of them which are proposed by the heartbreak prince himself, the only other man bold enough to approach you with your frowning sworn-guard for the night being a lowly lord from the southern isles, kind enough in the eyes yet sporting a few too many wrinkles and grey hairs for you to consider a suitable suitor. and, at last, it becomes time you take your leave, making one last stop before the two royals, once more congratulating the pair on the early stages of the queen’s pregnancy- the first to make it through the initial trimester since the birth of rhaenyra and the sole reason you’ve all gathered, to celebrate the future heir king viserys targaryen claims grows within his wife’s womb- before making your way out into the much quieter, more solitary and notably cooler hallways of the red keep, the noise of the continued festivities drowning out into muffled cheers as the heavy doors slam shut, locking you out.

you breathe easily for what feels like the first time in hours.

ever the fool, daemon seems either incapable of taking a hint or wilfully going to any length to aggravate you, for he matches your steps and follows you out. he’s oblivious to the stare of despair and the roll of your eyes, wishing the man would drop his literal- and figurative- pursuit of you once and for all.

“you’ve been here, what, near four moons?” his voice rising above the stillness of the night captures your attention, widened eyes blossoming with surprise shooting up from facing the ground beneath your feet. “how are you finding your stay? i should hope my brother’s fitted you with comfortable quarters.”

“i, well,” you start, and you mean to finish, you really do. but there’s a loss of connection between your mind and your mouth, one running with a thousand thoughts that fight to reach the forefront and the other parting it’s lips in a broken exhale.

“what, surprised to see i am capable of niceties?” the prince flashes what you imagine most would describe as a charming smile.

“yes. no, actually,” you correct both your words and your posture, unknowingly relaxing that tense feeling that had danced upon the tip of your back and the expanse of your shoulder from the moment you’d found yourself alone with the man walking at your side. “more surprised to see you’re capable of not turning everything into a sexual pass, i suppose.”

“well, you never let me reach the part where i request to see just how comfortable your quarters are.”

that same she-devil who convinced you to mess with his hair perks up her voice once more, seductive whispers encouraging you to cross the space that separates you from the prince and place a hand upon his leather-bound chest, shoving him with less hostility either of you had expected.

“you’re insufferable!” at the very least, you retain the ability to criticise him verbally, though with far more interruptions of failed-to-conceal laughter and less sharpness in your tone.

“i believe it’s pronounced irrefutable.”

“i’m impressed,” you nod along to your own exclamation, vaguely aware of the fact you’ve twisted your feet around till you face the man completely. “that’s a big word for someone with the vocabulary of a foul-mouthed child!”

“if big things impress you, rest assured i’m well endowed.”

“like i said, insufferable!”

when your exacerbated sighs and his teasing chortles fade away into the air of the night, a calm quiet settles over you both, like fog over mountain tops. the rare abscense of the wandering eyes and judgemental snickers and the gossiping whispers exchanged through the courtiers has made way for an unexpected tolerance of the prince’s company, one that leads you astray from your usual disgust and further towards the walking disaster-child that is daemon targaryen.

“come,” it’s a demand, not a request, the talons of your hands digging into the arm of his coat admittedly harder than necessary, a sick depravation found in the firmness of his biceps. you find he gives no protest to the way your arm locks itself around his own. “walk me to my chambers, oh mighty knight!”

“is this your way of accepting my offer to see how comfortable your ch-”

“daemon, so help the seven, if you finish that sentence, it’ll be i who shoves a lance up your arse.”

silence returns like an old friend: with open arms and the promise of a story to be told.

the pair of you traverse through the winding halls of the castle together, arms linked and feet synced- the prince puts a great effort into shortening the length of his steps. to outsiders looking in, you’d almost appear to be nothing more than another couple in the early days of courtship, smiling off to the sides and capable of looking anywhere but each other. the reality that this very man has put your true intended betrothal at risk becomes buried deep beneath the surface of your thoughts, uneager to remind yourself of how you’d last seen the tyrell boy rising from the dirt of the arena, face frowning as the prince called out your name, thanking you for you favour.

“you never answered.” he speaks carefully, voice a gentle timbre as though he’s attempting to coax a wounded fawn out of its hiding place.

“hmm?”

��my question, about your stay. how are you finding it?”

you can not seem to answer him. it isn’t that you don’t want to answer- trust there is another world out there where you easily list off every reason he’s made your time in the capital feel something comparable to torturous and arduous work- but, rather, that you do not have an answer. because not a single person, from your own father all the way to little rhaenyra herself, has dared to ask you before.

no individual has cared to know, yet here the prince stands- walks by your side, more accurately said- and inquires on it.

it jars you so severely you feel the beginnings of an ache in your head.

“oh, well, it’s been... good, i suppose.” both of you share a common disbelief towards the words you speak, yours evident in the way your grip tightens around his arm and his making itself known in a dismissive grunt. “the keep is beautiful, and my chambers are beyond any level of comfort my own house could afford, and the weather is admiteddly nicer. it’s just...”

“lonely,” the man finishes what you started, the hand on his free arm at some point raising itself to rest upon your own. it’s only reflex for your fingers to relax, untense the vice grip you’ve dug into him. “this city is somehow the busiest yet loneliest place in the whole of westeros.”

“don’t get sentimental on me, prince daemon.” to dismiss the mellowness settling in between you with a jovial tone and a pointed look is all you can think to do, far too unprepared to be confronted with the possibility of the rogue prince possessing anything beyond the sheer audacity he displays on the daily. “we would not want someone to overhear and assume you’re soft-hearted.”

the man swallows back a comment of how, while his heart may falter, another of his organs would not fail to remain hardened, and simply gives a noise of agreement. you arrive at yet another flight of stairs, this one so narrow it requires you to walk ahead of the prince, the grasp you have on him never faltering as it slides down the expanse of his arm and reanchors itself on his wrist.

you make it not even a quarter of the way up before your dress proves itself to be a nusance, catching on your feet and sending you crashing forwards, saved from bruising your skin and breaking your bones on the solid stone below by daemon, who effortletsly catches you by the waist.

“i wasn’t aware the king placed you in the highest tower of the keep,” the prince, a known hypochondriac, quips on the amount of stairs the travels to your chambers entails.

“must be to keep scoundrels like his brother from trying to reach me.” a joke it may be, given you both laugh, but there’s certainly an element of truth behind it.

pray, you will, that you’re never enquired on how often a scoundrel has taken it upon himself to lift the ends of a woman’s dress for no reasons other than aiding her to climb up steps without the fear of her feet catching on the ends of it.

he follows you up closely, closer than he’d been before, and drops the material only after you’ve reached the top. the pair of you move in sync to reform your previous positions, arms intertwining with ease.

“what,” it’s criminal, you think, that it’s taken you all this time to experience how soft the prince’s voice can be once he’s rid it of all that ego and peacoking energy he barks around the courts with. meanwhile, he’s doing everything he can think of to slow your inevitable approach towards your chambers door. “do you have planned tomorrow morning?”

“tomorrow morning?” the question prompts you to look at him. seeing his face closer than it’s ever been before, you see the little details, like the flecks of deep purple that accentuate the lilac eyes, or the small scab on his chin where a shaving knife must have sliced it, or the subtle indent of frown-lines on his forehead that you think a man of his age is far too young to possess. “usually my mornings are spent with the other maidens who reside in the keep, before rhaenyra comes searching for me after she’s broken her fast.”

you don’t mention the way the young girl never fails to bring something tucked beneath her skirts- an apple, a buttered roll, a slice of meat- and forces it upon you, demanding you eat the breakfast you so often forget to take.

“how likely is it that your absence would be noted, say, if you were to go one daybreak not with those wenches?” you wrinkle your nose at the choice of words and he chuckles, mentally notting the distaste you harbour for wenches and reminding himself to use it against you at some point in the future. “my brother says the she-beast they call vhagar laid a clutch.”

“how ominous. haven’t you dragonriders taken enough dragons beneath your wings?” it’s meant to be naught more than a silly comment, a clever play on words to rouse a tired eyeroll from prince daemon. it isn’t, however, supposed to pull a pointed look and a sigh of defeat from the dragonless targaryen. “i’m sorry... i didn’t mean to offend.”

“no, no, it’s fine. just never speak such a stupid pun again.” he juts his arm out, playfully stabbing the point of his elbow into your side and rousing a smile back onto your face, unease slipping out with your next exhale. “it’s for the queen’s babe. my brother demanded i collect the eggs and bring them to-”

“there you are, my love! i’ve been looking for you all evening.”

like a pair of children caught with their hands down a cookie jar, daemon and you jump apart with haste, eyes no longer focused on one another and, instead, on the figure stood at the very end of the hall.

he still wears the armour which he’d been defeated by the prince in.

“laurel!” while your tone may read as elated, it’s filled only with disappointed surprise. “what are- why- what brings you here, at this hour?”

the prince seems to instinctively step closer to you as the tyrell boy begins to approach, leaving his post outside your door. he’s stern, brows furrowed and nothing remains of the man who’d been making you laugh a mere ten paces back.

“i was looking, for you,”

“clearly not hard enough.” you wonder if the tyrell boy catches daemon’s muttered words and, the part of you that agrees with them wishes he did.

you’d been at the feast all evening, with just about every other person of status in the city. if he’d wanted to find you, he’d have been best to make an appearance at the event rather than camping outside your apartments.

“i thought we could take a stroll through the gardens,” the rose speaks as though his idea is not preprostous, inviting a maiden out into the darkened greenery at such a late hour.

passing by the prince, laurel tyrell spares him no attention, as though the man is not even there, and simply makes his way towards the stairway, turning back only when the notion that you stand frozen in your spot kicks in.

“come along, my lady!” my lady. those two words feel tainted from hearing them fall from between the prince’s lips, the tyrell’s voice prickling your skin with it. “i promise i shant keep you late.”

your eyes find the prince.

he nods, once and then a second time.

“go,” he urges verbally, when his actions don’t speak loud enough. “fleabottom’s been calling my name all evening, and i intend to answer it.”

with a twist in your gut and a wretch in your heart, you shuffle your way over to laurel tyrell’s open palm, letting him drag you back down into the night.

this is a decision you come to regret, no later than four sleeps.

because the man's words follow you, no matter how quickly you run through halls and creep up stairwells. they turn every corner you take and pause with every rush of breath you stop to heave into your screaming lungs. you pass doorways and sleeping guards, and they pass them with you too.

this nonsense best prove it's worth once i bed her.

there's anger in the clutches of your hands, clenched into fists of pointed knuckles and skin-digging nails, and sadness caught between the lashes of your eye, drops of liquid heartbreak threatening to stain your skin if you so much as blink.

the halfwit doesn't notice when i focus on her tits instead of her eyes.

the poetic words, the strolls through the gardens, the nights of dancing, the stolen smiles and fleeting looks across crowded rooms, all for nothing.

least she be a maiden. i've heard the feel of breaking one of them in is unmatched.

all for laurel tyrell to be another man who sees only the shape of what you hide beneath your clothing.

you want to hate him, curse him, tell all you meet of his crude words, but, instead, the thought of their reactions leaves you despising yourself, for ever thinking a man could think with more than what sat between his legs.

it is not even an option to contact your father, you lament while climbing yet another winding stairwell, for he’d merely remind you of a woman’s duty, which serves only her house until she takes a husband and, then, serves only him.

if the tyrell boy wishes to bed a maiden, your father’s voice plays in your thoughts as though he were stood before you this very instant, best it be you.

his words, the thoughts and your footsteps all come to a halt at the same time. like reentering your body, or awakening from a nap, you find yourself disorientated, gazing upon a chamber door you register not as your own. no, this door is more akin to the level of gradiose you face each day that you visit the young princess’ room, dragged away by her small hands as she works to avoid yet another one of the classes that she views as a bore.

yet, this is not her door.

sure, it carries similar markings and engraves in the wood, and sports that very same rich colour and shine to it. but something, subtle as it may be, is askew. the princess’ door has silver handles, this one has gold. the princess sleeps in the east wing of this part of the keep and you’re certain you’d marched west, away from the voice of your betrothed. a guard stands by the princess’ door, no one sits outside this one.

bile rises in tune with your hand, staining the back of your throat with anxious thoughts as you hesitantly knock.

you pause and wait.

minutes pass before you’re knocking again, this time with a little more anger behind the way your knuckles hit against the cold oak. it’ll be a wonder if you do not awake to swirls of purple and twists of blue painted across your skin come sunrise.

the tenant of these apartments still does not open their doors.

you hit a little harder, replacing knocks with a forceful, full-handed slap against the door. and then another, and another, and another, and-

your hand meets flesh that prickles with stubble and points with it’s cheekbones.

“what in the seven hells merits such behaviour at this hour?!”

the prince, for the life of him, has barely managed to open his eyes fully, rejecting the bright lights that burn in the hall. behind him is a sea of black, whatever treasures or prisoners he hides within his quarters lost into the darkness. he’s frowning, hair a mess, clothes foregone hours ago, and a distinctly red hand print slowly searing itself into the left side of his face.

the sight brings you more relief than you’d ever thought him capable of.

you’ve always been rational. it’s a badge you wear with honour, basking in the glory anytime one of your siblings met the angrier side of your father that never failed to reprimand them for being less like you, for being incapable of thinking before acting like you, for never weighing consequences until after a deed was done.

till the day you die, you will never find the words to describe what leads you astray from this level-headedness in the small hours of this evening.

you crash into the prince less gracefully than you’d prefer, lips barely meeting the bottom of his and pressing themselves half on his chin as you dive in for a kiss.

a kiss that daemon does not reciprocate.

in fact, he doesn’t even attempt to move, body frozen in place. pulling back to find the sheer unfazed, almost bored look that occupies the features of his face, floods your soul with a horrible, thick, heavy feeling, that stains every part of you it touches.

you’re ashamed.

and mortified.

and disgusted.

and embarrassed.

and reaching for his lips again.

this time your mouths collide in perfect level, no unwanted chin in the way. wanting- needing something to anchor you down, your hands shoot out to grasp at where a tunic would usually be. instead, you’re met with nothing but the solid, heaving, sweating mass that makes up the prince’s naked chest.

daemon remains stoic.

“i,” you breathe a shaky exhale, a sting nagging away at your reopened eyes as the previous tears reappear. with a nod, and a sniffle, you step back from the man. the nervous tremble in your hands forces you to grab at the fabrics of your skirt, grasping at anything to distract your mind. “that- this was a mistake.”

this entails so much. kissing him, knocking on his door, walking to his chambers, moving to king’s landing, courting with the tyrell boy, letting the prince get in your head and, all over what? a single experience where the two of your were capable of coexisting without tearing one another’s hair out?

it is all one big mistake, the kind that one can’t hope to fix if all they do is turn and run from the danger it exudes.

knowing this won’t stop you from trying, however.

you twist so quick you worry you may snap your spine or strain a muscle, body kicking into action in an attempt to get as far away from the prince as you’d once desired to be from the tyrell boy. not even a full step, do you make it, until an unmovable force clamps down on your arm.

daemon imposes on you this time, leaning down and crashing his lips against yours. his mouth is warm, with lips of honey and hands of stone that grab and pull and tug at the parts of you they blindly reach for.

the prince is not the first man you’ve kissed- nor do you imagine a life where he’ll be the last- but there’s something behind the way his tongue burrows itself into your mouth, his presence so tangible and all consuming.

you pull back, if only to catch your breath, but he follows, taking ownership over your senses.

stumbling backwards and crossing the threshold into the prince’s chambers, darkness takes ahold of you both, bathing you in nothing but the light of a distant moon. you barely register how one of you reaches for the door behind you, only the slamming of it alerting you to the fact it’s been closed. a lightheaded feeling overcomes you, forcing you to pull apart when your lungs scream for air.

“i’m starting to understand,” daemon’s voice is full of rasp, dry and cracking and far too grating on the ears for you to genuinely be finding yourself attracted to it. “why my brother swears by the milk of the poppy.”

a horrible feeling floods your soul, bile burning its way up your throat.

“oh, oh my god,” your hands are at the level of your eyes, pulling at strands of your own hair. “i completely forgot... you- you’re on bedrest, i can, i’ll just leave-”

the prince’s injury had been the talk of the town since it had occurred: a near-deadly run in with a frightened stag amidst a hunting tourney. the horned animal had spooked his horse, throwing the man off its saddle as it reared and ran off, leaving him to face the male deer. the truth of what had entailed, few would ever know, all that was said was that the prince returned to camp dragging the slaughtered animal by it’s horns with a blood staining the clothing surrounding his left shoulder.

“no, you won’t, heathen!” in rare occasions, daemon would be the only one to pull a smile from you all day. how fortunate that this is one of those occasions, the scowl on his brows contradicting the subtle upward quirk of his thin lips. “you can not dangle a piece of meat before a dragon and then refuse to feed it.”

were you in any state to think rationally, you’d dig more into the fact he’d just referred to you as a piece of meat.

but, then, if you were thinking rationally, you’d never have wound up at his door.

the second kiss is less forceful. no rush enlaced with every touch, no desperation tickling at both your senses, no desire to stray too far from one another.

you find yourself trusting the prince more than you’d like to when he starts to guide you backwards, a gentle pressure on your hips building while his mouth travels over your jaw and reaches the top of your neck. you walk, and stumble, and shuffle wherever the man directs you and, then, you fall.

any frightful scream you would have let out is quickly replaced with a squeal and a giggle of delight, back meeting what you’re confident in naming the softest bed you’ve ever laid upon.

at last, the shine of the moon allows you to see the man hell-bent on attacking you with his mouth.

“what is the meaning of this, hmm?” the condescension in his tone usually grates you. now, it excites you, arouses you, leaves you wondering of what pleasures he could speak with it. “why’re you suddenly at my door, behaving like some wanton whore?”

oh, you think, who knew such crass could prickle your skin with desire?

the shadow of the prince casts down on you, bathing you in an exagirated enlarged image of him, as if the fates wish to remind you of how big a shadow he looms over your own existence. it scares you.

his eyes scare you more.

they’re usually wider, observing every move, full of that mischievous nature the prince is known for. but, if what people say is true and the eyes are the mirror to one’s soul, then daemon’s soul must be a dark pit made up of lustful glares and hooded eyelids, resting so low his eyes almost appear shut.

you want to answer, you really do. but between the hand that circles a grip around your throat and the heat shooting straight for your core, burning up in a puddle of arousal, you can’t. all you can do is watch the man before you, silver hair a beautiful mess just begging for some fingers to be ran through it and stare promising to ruin you in the best way possible.

the silence pleases him.

“do you know how hard it is to get you alone? always got someone wanting to talk to you, stealing your attention. do you even know how many stupid feasts i had to attend to finally get some time with you?” daemon pauses, like he’s waiting for you to relay an answer, guess a number. he loosens up the grip on your neck, teasing your skin with a few soothing strokes of his slender fingers, lulling you into a state bordering insanity. “no answer, sweet girl? or are you lost in that pretty little head of yours?”

“i’m,” your voice is but a whisper, raspy with a new found thirst. “trying to figure out what you want me to say.”

if it’s the wrong or right answer, you’re soon to find out, the sharp faced man releasing a dangerously low chuckle as he takes a hold of your chin. like a pretty doll, you move any time and any way his fingers command you to, finding yourself staring right up into his eyes, a swirl of melting jasmine that reminds you of how alluring yet sultry every inch of him is. lips near touching, he refuses to break eye contact as he speaks up once more, sealing both your fates when his breath hits your face.

“then let me show you what i want.”

his mouth comes down on yours like it’s the answer to all your prayers and, yet, all your nightmares.

it excites you how easily he works his lips over your own, captivating every inch of you when he tilts his head to the right and deepens the kiss. the rhythm of your lips is a mismatch of beats, where one moment you are moving in a sensual waltz, grazing tongues and dipping heads to get rid of that inch of a space remaining between your bodies, and the next moment your tongues are tangled in a tango, the kind where his teeth send blood rushing to your lips with every bite he drags over them and his hand drags shivers down your spine as it makes its way down, down, down your body.

yet it terrifies you how willingly you’ve succumb to daemon’s touch, intoxicated by whatever witchcraft he has in his possession and currently holds over you. there’s a deadliness to the way his lips part from your own only to repeat his previous seamless descent down your jaw and the expanse of your neck, a poisonous element to the way his hand suddenly finds itself clutching the meat of your thigh.

the moment his fingertips ruck up the fabric that safeguards the last of your modesty and meet the ends of your sleep-gown, you’re wishing you’d never slipped it on in the first place, every fibre of your being growing angsty under the weight of his suddenly halted hand. it stays still for an immeasurable amount of time, grazing over your near shear dress occasionally while he continues to mouth at your neck.

like visenya and vhagar at the unstormable vale, daemon parts your legs with little to no effort, creating a pathway for his fingers to travel further up your thigh. blunt fingernails drag up your skin, a trail of goosebumps being left behind, a visible marking of where he’s touching you.

his movements halt too soon for your liking, too much distance between his lithe fingers and your body’s pulsating core.

“have you figured out what i want yet?” his voice is a stark difference to the usual smite-filed, almost spat-out-words tone you’ve grown used to hearing from the man. right now, there’s no trace of sardonic undertones in the thick rasp and there’s no time for an exchange of childish insults while he’s glaring down at you through hooded eyes.

something compels you to nod your head, even though you’re a little too lost in the thoughts concerning what you desire, rather than what the stranger incarnate looming over you wants.

“you have?” the words come out in a layer of amazement, and you have to wonder if it’s because of the lie you’ve just told or the way your legs have closed in around his hand, trapping it between them. “i want to know what you want, though.”

you want his thumb to stop stroking over the flesh of your inner thigh.

you want his eyes to stop gazing down at you like you’re the perfect prey.

you want him to stop teetering your impending pleasure on a string.

you want-

“you.” is all you manage to breath out.

it seems to do the trick, however, your point getting very much across to him. a softness flickers over his features, brows no longer furrowed and smirk curling up into a full smile for what feels like an eternity, but is actually no more than a couple of seconds before his devilish aura is back.

lips meet lips again, the desperation and force behind each stroke of his tongue against yours the same as before. the prince, much to your delight, seems to grow just as impatient as you’ve been since the moment he’d stopped you from fleeing at his door.

one hand still resting between your thighs, his other seizes the opportunity to drag your body closer, till a mere inhale is enough to have your chest pressing into him.

the prince’s descent to the floor is graceful, his figure made of solid muscle and unclothed skin lowering till his knees hit the ground and it becomes you who stare down at him, your hands clutching at the silk sheets his bed has been dressed with in an effort to replace the desire to touch him instead.

choosing to not dwell on the heavy feeling of his eyes on you, or the sheer visual strength depicted in the straining muscles of his thighs, you instead focus on the way his lips have trailed away from yours and are beginning to make their way towards the top of your chest.

his hand abandons post between your thighs and rises to the surface, where long fingers begin to pull at the straps of your flimsy night-dress, successfully manoeuvring the cotton material till it pools around your midriff and your breasts are exposed to the damp air of the night.

with no want left to play around, he dives right in to dragging his lips down the upper swell of your left breast. you imagine he can feel the beating of your racing heart beneath the goosebump littered skin. it doesn’t take long for his tongue to enter the scene, skilfully flicking over your hardened nipple a couple times before enveloping his mouth around the bud.

one, two, three sucks and he’s moving on to your right breast. there’s no lead up, this time, simply his mouth finding delight in toying with your body while he busies his hand with your left side, thumb and pointer finger rolling and tugging and spreading the remnants of his saliva over your heated skin.

the straw that breaks the camel’s back, and has you arching your own, is the faintest pressure of his teeth biting down on you. it dances on a thin line between pleasurable and painful, exhilarating enough to make you throw your head back as a moan slips past your lips. it echoes in the empty room, replaying your own sound for both of you to hear again and again before the chain is broken by a laugh.

his laughter.

“why are,” he picks the right time to trail his fingers down your body, dragging your dress with them till it sits uncomfortably tight around the top of your hipbones, fabric digging into the rapidly heating skin. “you laughing?”

“has anyone ever told you how beautiful your tits are?” it’s crude and heartwarming all at once, not unlike the man who says it and the little smile he shoots up in your direction as he rolls his tongue over your nipple once again.

“no, i can’t say they have.” one hand finds it’s way onto his shoulder- the shoulder that does not possess gauze wrapped around it, that is- and grasps it in a vice grip, the fear of melting off the bed and directly onto the concrete floor all too prevalent as you gain enough confidence to let the other hand slide around to the back of his neck and thread your fingertips in the silver locks, hair as soft as you’ve always imagined it to be. “you’re the first.”

“i’ll wear that title with honour,” he seems to delight in the way you’re carding through his hair, eyes closing while he tilts his head back further into your touch. a delighted sigh follows. “has anyone ever asked to drink from your cunt?”

you nearly choke on your own shock.

“i suppose that’s another honourable title for me to wear.” daemon is beginning to give you whiplash, with all this switching between being unusually receptive to your presence and the man that minutes before was making poetic profanities out of the beauty of your bared chest. he peaks his eyes open again, slowly, adjusting once more to make out your figure in the darkness. when he has the nerves to smile at you, all dreamy eyed and relaxed sitting before you, knees pressing into the ground in a mockery of a bow, some crevice deep within your soul sparks up a fire that burns on the belief that perhaps you’ve been wrong about the prince all along, judging only on what people say and not on how he behaves. then, he reopens his mouth and dampens the flame. “now, do i have to tear you out of your skirts or will you stand up and let me slide it off?”

this time, its your laugh that echoes in the air.

“you think i jest!” he seems to whine his way through his exclaim, bottom lip jutting out ever so slightly in a way you’re certain is both influenced by the milk of the poppy that flows through his bloodstream, and is going to drive you insane. “i can not go on another moment like this, you sitting there like something akin to the most mouthwatering summer’s peach, without spending my seed. and, while i’d much prefer to do so inches deep inside you, i’ll settle for a mouth full of cunt.”

“you’re so-” you give up on trying to find a single word to describe him, knowing there’s no word that can quite capture the prince’s essence. “okay, okay, i’ll umm... just stand up and-” the shriek of fabric tearing rips through the space between you. “hey!”

“i’d apologise but, well,” daemon’s dazed smile should not be this gentle, not when it is proceeded with his hands returning to your now bare thighs. “you were trying my patience.”

his hold on you is strong- both the grip he has on your legs and the control he harbours over your mind-, and he plays it to his advantage, laying one palm flat over your torso and forcing you backwards, till your back meets the mattress and your eyes find themselves staring up at the images carved into the roof of the wooden bedpost, details indistinguishable in the darkened room.

from the floor, the prince is grabbing and pulling and maneuvering you down the length of the mattress, finding the backs of your knees and bending them, spreading your legs to a width wide enough for his broad shoulders to sit between.

“need you closer, my tongue’s not that long.” the prince mutters, half to himself, as your arse meets the edge of the bed, all the way to where his wanton mouth awaits you. as if to give you a preview of what awaits you, the kisses from before reduced to nothing, his tongue pops out to run over the smooth of his bottom lip. your hands return to fisting at the sheets beneath you, digging and searching and reaching for a way to keep yourself grounded through the maddening thoughts of the prince and the current position you find yourself in, and ignoring the anxious ridden vipers inside your mind that spit their venom and hiss their tongues in commands that entail you gathering the remaining fabrics of your tattered clothing and running out these chambers, out the keep, out the damned capital, out the clutches of the man on his knees. though, with the way his fingers squeeze into your thigh, you doubt you’d make it as far as even a single step. “comfortable?”

“as i’ll ever be.”

“all the ladies in the seven kingdoms that would die to be in your position, and you choose to say that?” he tisks, tongue hitting off the roof of his mouth before a blow of air hits against your folds and, though it’s faint from the distance still between his mouth and where he wants it to be, it sends a jolt of excitement up your spine. “i’ll just have to make sure i over-perform, make you more eager for next time.”

neither of you choose to dwell on those words, next time.

him, too occupied with getting his first taste, tongue licking a strip up your core and coming to a stop as the tip of it bumps against your aching bud.

you, too busy having the air knocked out of your lungs, hand unconsciously finding safety in gripping his hair as you lurch upward momentarily, back arching off the bed and mouth falling open in a quiet gasp that echoes around and around.

“hmm, make sure you hold on tight.” you know he’s teasing you, with his words, and with his eyes, and with his mouth that seems to find enjoyment in trailing itself over your buzzing centre and up your pubic bone. “you smell sweet as sin, you know? enough to make any man go feral.”

the chance to reply never comes, not when the prince makes his way back down to your pearl and greets it with the stroke of his flattened tongue. every tiny nerve sparks to life under his touch and you feel yourself grow more sodden, a wave of warm arousal leaking out of your hole. his tongue dives down to welcome it, not allowing more than a single drop- which slips and slides its way down to the crack of your arse, dribbling over your puckered hole- to go to waste.

you don’t even notice the lack of his grip around your left leg until you feel it: the first few seconds of his fingertips probing around your soaked cunt, coating themselves in your liquid pleasure until it’s dripping down the back of his hand.

the first finger to enter your hole is gentle, tentative to the way your body receives him, his pointer and ring finger keeping your folds spread and allowing him the full view of the middle one slowly disappearing from sight, burying itself in the warmth of your womanhood. distracted, his mouth pulls back and his head forces itself into the grip you have in his hair while his eyes soak in the sight above him, flickering up to catch your reaction when another finger enters you, this time with a lot less care as it forces you open around it.

“so pretty,” he slurs over the words, more to himself than to you, delighting as he witnesses you struggling to bite back a pathetic moan when his digits curl within you. he repeats the action a couple times, flicking his wrist back and forth, fingers brushing over your tight walls each time and culminating in a curl that has him pressing against the spongy-like flesh inside. “so, so pretty.”

your hips begin to rut against his hand, meeting every one of his thrusts with perfect timing that has him reaching deeper, further, better places inside of you. all the while the prince is simply watching and admiring the furrow in your brow and the way the swells of your breast bounce in sync with you.

your cunt clenches tighter and his fingers fight to reach deeper before spreading themselves wider in an attempt to scissor you open. he’s giving it his all, a third finger slipping in despite the dull ache setting in his wrist while he coaxes you closer and closer to the tipping point.

the rogue prince takes just as easy as he gives, and it’s that fact alone that drives him to pull his hand back, fingers withdrawing from you and the pleasure you’re pursuing.

“why did you-” you heave through heavy breaths, brain fuzzy from the unvoiced peak you were so close to having, every nerve ready to tingle, every muscle ready to tremble, every toe ready to curl. “stop?”

“because,” the wet smack of his fingers hitting against your pearl is louder than the whimper that drops from your mouth. daemon hears both, however, and grins, quickly landing another smack against your engorged bud. “the goal is to make you cum on my tongue, not my fingers. consider them the appetiser, something to awaken your senses.”

his tongue licks in an upward motion, starting from the tip of your taint and ending at your pearl, and you get deja-vu to just minutes before, when you’d first felt his tongue on your melting skin, the saliva it leaves in a trail behind it serving to cool you down. a shiver runs up your spine as he blows air onto your cunt, the pressure of it doing wonders to stimulate your bundle of nerves.

“would you ever stop?” your whining tone is reminiscent of a spoiled babe, crying and fussing over the need to be fed milk from it’s mother’s teat.

“‘tis you who’s becoming insufferable now, my lady.” the prince, despite what he says, does as you ask and puts an end what feels like unending teasing- really, it’s hardly been a minute but the pulsing of your heat and the loss of a climax leave you no room to think about something as abstract as time.

his lips make a victorious return, wrapping themselves around your centre and sucking against the pulsing nub. every so often, he delivers a couple kitten licks- ups and downs, sides to sides, figure eights- before swiftly returning to kissing your most intimate parts.

in an attempt to make your toes curl, he dips lower and teases the tips of his tongue over your entrance, wet muscle moving over wet skin and tastebuds covering themselves in your essence, till the moans echoing off the walls are indistinguishable between daemon’s and your own.

“you can move.” he grunts into you after a few minutes of repeated alternating between kissing your pearl and tonguing at your hole. it’s muffled with the way he’s holding you down against his face and you feel his lips brush against your lower ones as he speaks. “need you to move. wanna see you use me, sweetling.”

and, really, who are you to deny a prince?

you’re hesitant at first, just like you were all those weeks ago as you watched the flowered wreath slip down his lance. you test the waters and give a single roll of your hips. it feels good, great, especially when paired with his own efforts at dragging his tongue over you.

it takes a few more attempts, and daemon’s patience wearing thin to the point he resorts to grabbing a firm hold of your arse cheeks and dropping your legs over his shoulders, mouth pressing right up against you with his tongue flat and eyes staring up at you in a demand to move, else all the old gods and the new be damned.

move you most certainly do, grinding down on his tongue like you’ve done many a time on the spare pillows that line your own bed, in the hours where the moon sits high within the sky and not a creature stirs nearby to witness your self-pleasing sins. it’s messy, sloppy in the way that his spit mingles with your wetness, a cocktail of fluids sliding down his throat, and painting his lips, and dribbling down his chin as he eats you like a man starved that’s getting a taste of the sweetest fruit.

the rhythm of your hips is thrown off when the man below you switches from having you grinding down onto his flattened tongue to slipping the muscle inside of your hole, thrusting it as far as up as the length of it allows him to. with every time your body comes crashing down on his mouth, the tip of his nose bumps against your clit, forcing you to angle yourself upwards to gain more of the friction.

hands find hair, lips part in unabashed moans, thighs shake with the oncoming of an orgasmic state of mind.

the moment builds too quickly, too unexpectedly, like the ghost of your stolen climax is back with a vengeance and set on ensuring there will be no denying it this time.

“s-shit,” your eyes squeeze shut, too scared to look down at his ecstasy filled eyes in fear of it being what finally tips you over the edge. “oh, there, right there, daemon! yes, i’m going to-.”

the prince pays no mind to your warning. if anything, he takes it as a challenge, an invisible timer beginning in his head and forcing him to see how quickly he can get you to unravel all over his mouth. he’s getting everything he’s imagined since he’d watched you first step foot into the keep, your naked body a mess before him as you fuck yourself on his tongue and your hands, with minds of their own, sliding up to grab and squeeze at your breast.

he watches how the white tips of your nails clash with the darkened colour of your abused nipples, fingers working to pinch, and twist, and pull at them as you lose yourself in the moment.

when you peak, it’s with rolled-back eyes and shaky thighs, his hands gripping at you tighter to steady you as you fidget and kick away from him, his tongue working at coaxing you through your high.

he licks up every drop of your essence he can manage, until you’re cringing in overstimulation and reaching down to push him away. he lets you move him, mouth switching to trail a couple kisses over your inner thigh, something similar to lipstick stains- yet so much dirtier in nature- being left behind on your soft flesh.

“you sound as though you enjoyed yourself.” he’s the first to speak, partly because he correctly thinks you’re incapable of forming anything coherent in the afterglow of your orgasm, mouth agape as you drag and drop the air through your lungs, but mostly because he wants- no, needs to hear you praise him.

“do you ever...” despite your efforts to sit yourself up, against his sheets you remain with limbs melted into puddles jelly and eyes staring wide at the heavens above, a tremble still present in your thighs as you subconsciously feel the patterns his hands dance over them. “shut up?”

“only when my mouth is otherwise occupied.”

silence prevails alongside the ticking of time. some part of you registers the return of your feet to the cold floor and the departure of the man from between your legs. he doesn’t stray far, hands clamping down on your hips, a gentle squeeze or two his own way of searching for your presence, urging your eyes to meet his.

they remain looking upwards.

undeterred, the prince is, bending himself at the waist and resting both hands on either side of your head, holding his own weight up as his face obstructs your view above. life enters you once more, eyes focusing at last on him and his upturned mouth and the remnants of your sexual indiscretions drying into his skin.

“for someone who hates it so much, you sure do know how to stroke my ego.” he must be on a mission, you think, to remind you of why you’ve spent your days avoiding interactions with him instead of tangling yourself within his arms. “i’ve got something much bigger for you to stroke though, once you regain your senses.”

this something bumps against your skin, solid as a rock and spluttering a spit of fluids onto you, warm and sticky. sneaking a quick glance is not enough to fully encapsulate the details that make up this fierce looking appendage, with it’s red-angered tip and its decorative bush of hair and the peak of his stones that sit just past its base, yet it’s all you allow yourself under the scrutiny of his eyes.

“perhaps it’s time you to choose your words more wisely, prince daemon,” your voice is breathy, chest heavy still. you try distract him away from noticing such a feat, hand dancing down the expanse of his bare back till it meets the globe of his arse, nail digging in so deep they’re bound to leave marks, if not draw blood too. “it would be far too easy to punch you in the cock from this position.”

he swallows back a demand for you to speak more about his cock.

clarity bestows itself upon your mind, as your memory serves you a cruel reminder of the words you’d overheard and the voice you’d been running from, dread burning its way up your throat in a sickening twist of guts. the prince must notice the shift in the air, perhaps the way your face has grown a little paler or your pupils dilate as you venture off into the hellscape of your mind, for he’s quick to return you to his hold, heavy body pressing down on you as the prince’s mouth meets yours.

there’s a tangy, sticky sweetness to his kiss, a taste of your self that he gifts you with bitten lips and languid tongue, delving deep into your mouth as if in search of some hidden treasure.

it’s clear now, to the both of you, that your reasons for being here- in his chambers, upon his bed, beneath his body- are nothing if not driven by something deeper, darker, more dangerous than simple ardent lust. months you’d been within reach. months he’d been vocal of his desires towards you. days you’d been betrothed to another man.

but the prince never asks, and so you never answer, letting yourselves indulge in the arts of pleasure and pain.

he pulls on your lip, you pull on his hair. he drags his nails down your body, you dig yours into his rear. he drives you deeper up the bed, you drive him deeper between your legs. he rolls his hips into you, you roll your eyes back into your skull.

“this is a dream. you’re a dream,” perhaps your rational thinking has devolved to naught but hedonistic intentions, for you’re almost certain the mighty rogue has something familiar to wonder intertwined with his breathless voice. the dilation of his pupils, eyes more black than targaryen-lilac, is a mystery you ponder over, wondering if it’s driven more by lust or sedative. “and tomorrow i’ll awake to an empty bed and the reality where you tolerate a rat more than me.”

it’s unclear if he speaks literal of the long-tailed rodent, or if it’s simply a new name for the ever-growing list of things he calls your betrothed.

“do you say that to all the whores you fuck?” your words carry a bite, one your own destructive nature hopes will drive him away from you.

“we don’t speak,” he does the opposite, sinking further into you. you become all too aware of the heat returning to your core when he ruts the length of his cock up your folds, coating himself in a thin layer of your lubricant. “sounding like you, they can never achieve it. they can look like you, from the back, at least.”

believing his words to be a lie feels easier than accepting them as truth. the rogue prince has been nothing if not a menace to the streets of silk since the dawn of his sexual maturity, and there is not an inch of you that can fathom him using these vices as a means to quench the desire for you, seeking out your form in faceless, nameless and, apparently, voiceless cunts.

there’s no great lead up to the breaching of your walls, simply another two rolls of his length along your soaked core and a ghost of a kiss against your forehead before the prince is lining himself up and impaling you with his cock.

you’d been warned all about the ache that would come with the breaking of your maidenhead, traumatised at the young ages of four, five, six and onwards of how, someday, your husband would tear you open and leave you a bloodied mess. and, yet, here you lay, a dull ache burning within you, the feel of a pop and the heavy slap of his stones meeting your skin.

“it hurts, i know,” he hushes you when, at last, a pained whimper breaks the surface of your silence, hips stilled and keeping him buried deep in your walls that fight and squeeze and tighten around the intruder. his face, from the little you see of it past the wall of tears building within your eyes, is scrunched up in discomfort, fighting back the instincts that tell him to pull back and fuck himself into you over and over. “but you’re good, and you’re strong, and you can take it. you know you can, just relax.”

you do as your told, far easier than either of you had expected, and find rhythm in his own heavy breathing, matching each inhale and exhale till the soothing of hands over your thighs relaxes the muscles and you manage to retract the nails that dig deep into his back.

the prince moves only once your legs tangle themselves around his waist, spreading you wider and holding him closer.

from there, a symphony ensues, except where normally one would find the melody of a guitar or the blowing of a flute or the beating of a drum, this one is made of skin slapping, mouth kissing, moan singing. the ache builds and builds till it collapses into a pit of delirious pleasure, the kind that opens your eyes as to why it’s so easy for men and women to succumb to the sins of flesh.

“look at you,” his words are rough while his touch is soft, hand gliding over your breasts once more, pinching and pulling at your aching nipples as he puts strength into gazing down at you, intoxicating himself with the way your bodies join at the hip, his cock disappearing into your walls and reemerging coated in your arousal, glimmering beneath the moonlight. “taking me so fucking well. letting me carve out a home for myself in your cunt, huh? gonna let me stay inside you forever?”

he’s manic, and crazed, and spewing out things that you know should make you cringe and roll over in disgust. but you’re just as far gone, mind no longer vacant in your body as you chase that special feeling only the repeated hammering of his tip against your womb can bring.

“let me cum inside, sweetling,” is it more plea or demand? it’s hard to tell, and hard to care, arms circling round the back of his neck and back arching to press chest to chest. the prince ceases his senseless rambling only to lay kisses down your sweat-covered face, neck, chest, each carrying the weight of his desperation to feel you real and breathing beneath him. “stake my claim over this tight little cunt, leave you dripping from how full i make you.”

waves of pleasure crash over you in tandem, unintelligible groans and gasps all that play through the air as hands clamp down and teeth bite skin. your walls spasm around his cock while it twitches within you, both of your peaks painting your bodies in liquid arousal. warmth fills your cunt and trickles out of you, catching on the dark mass of hair that sits above his appendage, the stark white of his cum sickeningly reminding you to the first time you’d seen snow as a child and arousing the same response from you: a desire to taste it.

he collapses down onto you before you get the chance, however, and the exchange of body heat and shallow breaths lulls you both through your states of ecstasy, slipping into a quiet comfort.

the prince moves slowly, as if not to disturb either of you, and shushes you with kisses when you whine at the loss of him from your cunt, softening cock slapping down against your leg. a few moments pass before he’s moving again, this time with you in tow, dragging at the sheets beneath and working them over you both just as you begin to register how cold the chill in the room is. never mind, the dragon keeps you warm against him, limbs tangling as you make a pillow out of his chest.

“my betrothed.” you take the lead this time in breaking the comfortable cloud of silence which had settled itself above your tired bods. the prince merely grunts, disliking the sound of those two words as much as you dislike the taste of them. “i overheard him conversing with an adviser of his.”

“whatever he said, i’ll cut his tongue out and feed him it.” his vulgar threat drags an airy laugh out of you as he mumbles it into the top of your head.

“my maidenhood, that’s what lead him to offering me his hand.” you laugh again, though there is no trace of humour as it devolves into something of a broken, heart-wrenching sob. “gods, i must be so stupid for thinking a man like him could fall in love with me.”

the silence is unnerving, weighs down on your chest with every breath that ebbs and flows between you both. you’re waiting on it, anxiously anticipating the moment laughter breaks out his ribs and shakes his whole body in amusement at your sheer ridiculous expectations, mocking you for giving away your maidenhood in an act so childish as simply not giving your betrothed the satisfaction of taking it.

marriage is politics, you can picture him saying, love is merely a made up tale to entertain children.

daemon never quite has been one for following expectations.

“i could fall in love with you.”

so it is you who winds up laughing, a repeat of that fractured chuckle that dissipates into something more painful and stings at the cracks in your heart.

“you’re not in love with me, daemon,” it feels obvious to say, yet you’re graced with a disagreeing look upon his face. “you’re obsessed with me, there’s a difference.”

“i beg to differ.”

“you see me as nothing but a lady who doesn’t fall at her feet for you, and it excites you. it’s okay, i understand, but i won’t let you delude yourself nor i into believing its love.”

he has no reply to give, not one that could change your mind.

and so there you lay, naked bod pressed to naked bod, sweat and spit and other bodily fluids becoming the glue that hold you together, with limbs entangled and eyes locked. you see peace in his smile and he watches as sleep slowly whisks you away into its warmth.

little does the prince know your eyes will not meet his own again for many years to come.

not days later, as he stands amongst the crowd of folk bearing witness to the exchanging of vows between the tyrell boy and you, nor several years after, as you return to the great hall of the red keep to see the announcement of prince aegon's birth, your own child stood at your side and grasping your hand, the silver-moon upon her head no match to the straw blonde of your husband.

#daemon targaryen smut #daemon targaryen oneshot #daemon targaryen fanfic #daemon targaryen x reader #house of the dragon smut

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melancholymegumi · 10 months ago

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Men who are so so so close to bending you over and fuck your ass while gagging you with his tie. He loves you , but god , sometimes he needs you to shut the fuck up and let him fuck your ass.

Lance Crown , Rayne Ames , Katsuki Bakugo , Todoroki Shoto , Mr.Compress , Rin Itoshi , Isagi Yoichi , Meguru Bachira.

taglist : @honeybunnxo @adoresizuku

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miharuki · 6 months ago

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𝕴𝖓𝖈𝖔𝖗𝖗𝖊𝖈𝖙 𝕼𝖚𝖔𝖙𝖊𝖛 #1

[NAME]:I work with language ~

RAYNE:That's cool, what languages do you know?

[NAME]:No, I spoke language, not languages, you know? Language? Tongue?

RAYNE:I understand -

[NAME]: Do not confuse things! You who are talking about languages

[NAME]:I work with tongue, tongue!

RAYNE:I know, it's just that I don't want to use you

[NAME]:BUT I WANT YOU TO USE ME!!, OH MY GOD !

#rayne ames smut #rayne ames #mashle imagines #mash x reader #mashle x reader #mashle smut #mashle anime #mashle #mashle incorrect quotev #finn ames x reader #finn x reader #lance crown #lemon irvine #mash burnedead #rayne x reader #rayne smut

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imyourbratzdoll · 2 years ago

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Imagine this: Soft!Dark!softforreader!Bucky,Steve Rogers,Ari, Mad Hatter, Andy and Lance Tucker x socially awkward! socially anxious!reader <3 No smut imagined bc I'm feeling like a sex-repulsed asexual today 🤪 So, they are eager to please the reader, they don't want to upset nor displease the reader 🦋 They are oh so soft with R 😩💘 they will go onto their knees and grovel if you so much as hint you are angry at them 💞

hi! I hope you like what I did. sorry, it took so long.

the gifs I use aren't mine, divider by @newlips

The six men were madly in love with the same woman. At first, trying to get Y/n to believe they truly loved her was complex and challenging, but the more persistent they were, the faster she started to believe and fall in love back.

They all had certain things they’d do for you that the other could not.

Bucky would comfort you when you’d wake from terrible nightmares, staying with you and making sure you’d have a warm glass of milk and some biscuits, smothering you in kisses until you’d fall into a peaceful slumber.

Steve would bake with you when your cravings would take place, covering the kitchen with pies, biscuits and anything sweet. Sometimes, it would end in a playful food fight as you two love to compete.

Ari would build a massive fort filling it with your favourite snacks while your favourite movie would be on tv. He’d cuddle with you as you stared at the screen and speak line for line, grabbing some snacks but missing because you were so focused on the movie.

Jefferson, or Mad Hatter as you’ve nicknamed him, would make you flower crowns, knowing they were your favourite hats. He’d bring you into his little section and stand behind you as he taught you how to make the perfect hat.

Andy would tell you stories and hold you tight against his chest as he’d let you in on his day and the cases that would pile up. He’d feed you fruits as you listen to him before he returns the favour when you tell him about your day.

Lance would help keep you healthy. He’d do any type of exercise with you, buy you all the workout clothes you’d need, he’d help you stretch when your body needed it or massage you when your body became too sore.

They treat her like the queen they know she is, ensuring that she knows they only have eyes for her. They’d never dream of being with anyone else, and the thought repulses them. They’d rather drink bleach than be with another woman.

They would die for you, kill for you and many more. You have never felt so loved and cherished before. They never want to upset or make you mad, and each man will beg for your forgiveness if they think you are the tiniest bit upset or angry with them.

They remember the first time they made you mad. It was hell for them. You wouldn’t speak to them for a week. No matter what they did to try and make you talk to them again, you wouldn’t budge. When you finally calmed down and collected yourself, it was a relief when they heard words leave your lips and be directed toward them.

thank you for reading!

feedback and reblogs are greatly appreciated.

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abbatoirablaze · 3 months ago

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Behind Closed Doors, Chapter 17

Word Count: 1.7k

Warnings: character sex/smut, mentions of unprotected sex.

“Push for me baby!” Sebastian cheered as he tapped your hand, “you’re almost there (Y/N). You’re almost there. I promise! Bring our baby boy into the world! You can do it!”

“I can’t do it!” you cried, shaking your head at him as the last contraction ended. You met your husbands eyes, your anxiety taking over as you entered you umpteenth hour of labor, “I-I can’t do it! Sebastian I’m scared, I-“

“Hey!’ he called, pulling your attention back to him as he imitated the breathing, “you’re strong. You’re beautiful. And you’re an amazing mother to our four beautiful babies already! Bring it home, momma bear. Bring on baby number five!”

“YOU DID THIS TO ME!” you cried, squeezing his hand even harder as you felt the pressure building once more when another contraction started, “WHY DID YOU DO THIS TO ME? WHY DID YOU WANNA GIMME THE GOLD?”

“That’s it baby!” he laughed, “I gave you the gold, now bring it home. Just like we said. Gimme our new little Stan, momma bear.”

He popped his gum as he stared at you, “you know…I think I remember you from when I was in the Olympics…were you that cute young thing that beat out Hope? I mean, you didn’t get a gold like I did, but I’m sure with a little technique and some training, I could help give you a gold.”

You rolled your eyes at your husband as he removed his sunglasses and tossed them on the dresser while he tried to remain in character. You couldn’t help but giggle as he put his hands on his hips, the horrendous track suit making him seem more like an Olympic reject as some of the quaffed hair fell out of place, “Sebastian…”

“I don’t know any Sebastians,” he shrugged. His head cocked to the side, and his fingers stroked thoughtfully at his chin, “and I know you’re not confusing me with anyone else, because I am the gold medalist himself…the god of gymnastics…”

“Lance Tucker.” you finished softly, playing along.

His smile grew and he pointed at you as he popped his gum yet again, “I knew you were playing with me…there’s not a single way in hell that someone forgets me. I brought home the gold for the US, baby. I am everything.”

“Is that so?” you teased as you made your way towards him. He nodded, but his breath caught in his throat as you unzipped the red USA track suit jacket, your hand dropping down to his crotch when the jacket opened up. His jaw ticked when your eyes flickered back up to his and you softly stroked him over his bright red track pants, “doesn’t feel like a gold medal to me…you sure you can give me the right sort of training, Tucker?”

“What I’ve got for you is so much better than a gold medal, sweet cheeks.” He hummed, “I can give you everything you’ve ever dreamed of!”

“Better than a gold medal, huh?”

“Oh yeah…” he groaned as your hand dipped down into his track pants. He licked his bottom lip as you started to stroke him, “oh, baby…I remember those hands.”

“Do you?” you asked sweetly, purring in his ear as you pushed your body against his. He gasped as your thumb swiped over the crown of his cock, “do you remember what my mouth does too? How I helped you prepare the night before you got that gold?”

“Think I could go for a refresher,” he smirked, turning your face towards his. His lips grazed over yours and you were about to get lost in the moment when you heard his gum pop again. You shook your head, backing away and his brow furrowed, “what?”

“Sebastian…no…the gum-“

“It’s too much, isn’t it?” he asked, his voice going back to his normal timbre. You nodded and he shook his head, moving to the trash can to spit it out while his ego visibly deflated. He frowned, “see…I knew it would be, but there’s something about it that just keeps me in character when I am. I just-“

“Gimme the gold, Lance…” you teased, trying to change the subject as you cut him off.

Sebastian put a hand on the wall and gave you a look, “Honey…you don’t have to do this…I know this guy’s not doing it for you…”

“What happened to the god of gymnastics,” you asked, “the man who said he could train me?”

“You still wanna do it?” he asked, surprise lacing his voice. You nodded, smiling at him, while his own smile grew, “you still wanna-“

“I know what gets you off, baby,” you smiled, shooting him a wink, “I still remember what we did the night before you won the gold…you said you wanted a refresher…right?”

“God, what you did made me win that gold, baby…I-“

“Lance Tucker, admitting someone helped him?” you asked, surprise lacing your features. You watched his shoulders relax as he fought to get back into character.

“Shit, I-“

“Hey…relax, honey!”

“I’m sorry,” Sebastian frowned, “I just-I’ve been sort of freaking out. I mean, I’m supposed to work with Melissa on this scene…and we’re supposed to hate fuck each other…but I just-I can’t get there. I can do ego and cocky and-“

“Hey…calm down,” you teased, smirking at your husband. You leaned up and pressed your lips to his, “Where’s your script?”

“It’s more so a list of bullet points,” he shrugged, going over to his night stand, “I mean, we filmed the scene where we flirt beforehand, but we’re shooting this in a day or so…and I just-“

“Can’t figure it out?”

He nodded, “yeah…I mean the cirque performers that are going to do the more intense things have their list…but for us, there’s still a lot.”

“Just go for it baby,” you encouraged as he handed you the script. You looked over it for a second and shrugged, “it doesn’t seem that hard…”

“You mean aside from all the tricks?” he smirked.

“Oh, come on…I know you probably love the thought of doing that stuff,” you giggled, “I remember before you left for here, you were going through the house learning all kinds of gymnastics. You had Shayla and Jefferson toddling after you tumbling through the house. I had to sign up for mommy and me gymnastics with Jefferson and Shayla is doing all sorts of acrobatic tricks now.”

“We still didn’t get the pommel horse or stretching down,” he frowned, “that would have been really funny.”

“Well, I know for a fact that you could still probably do most of those moves in bed…I mean, you did ask for me to try them with you a few times,” you giggled, “So let’s just start from there.”

“You really want to try this?” he chuckled.

You dropped the script on his bed and held your hand out to him, “gimme the gold, Lance.”

“Momma…what’s his name?”

You sighed, brushing the little tufts of hair around on his head, and Sebastian’s knuckles stroked your newest additions cheek, “his name is Lance, guys…and he’s your newest little brother.”

“He’s so tiny.” Johnny frowned, looking up at you and Sebastian, “momma…why’s he so tiny.”

“Cuz he’s a baby!” Five-year-old Jack giggled, “right daddy? Lance is small because he’s a baby.”

“Play with baby!” Jefferson cooed from his father’s side as he reached out to his younger sibling.

“You can’t play with Lance just yet, bub,” Sebastian said gently, holding onto his son, “but one day you can…”

“Daddy, why can’t we have another girl?” Shayla asked you curiously, “why do you and mommy keep picking boys?”

Sebastian smirked and shrugged before looking at you, “ask mommy.”

“Mommy?”

“Sebastian,” you sighed playfully, looking at the man you loved, “don’t encourage that.”

“I mean, I’m not against trying to have another little girl,” he smirked, “I’m never against trying again!”

Your eyes widened ever so slightly, and your lips parted, “Sebastian.”

“Mommy I think you and daddy need to try again,” Shayla said firmly, “I want a little sister, not another baby brother.”

“Yeah, I’ll get right on that!” you teased, shaking your head, “right after we get out of the hospital, right?”

Like I said, I’m never against creating another little life with you, honey!”

“Sebastian.”

You couldn’t help but giggle as his mother shook her head from the door.

“Mom…”

“Hi mom,” you teased, looking at your mother-in-law, “your son here was just trying to tell the kids to convince me to try for a girl…”

“You four, go see your grandfather in the hall…” The children giggled, scattering off the hospital bed, before running out of the room to greet Sebastian’s stepfather. His mother, on the other hand, walked into the room. Sebastian stood from the bed and went to hug her, but she passed him up and went towards you, “how are you feeling, sweetie? How’s my newest grandson? Healthy as an ox, just like the others?”

“What am I now, chopped liver?”

“Oh baietel,” she cooed, looking at him softly, “you will always hold a special place in my heart, and you know that…but you’ve been giving me sweeter, younger versions of yourself in your children.”

He frowned.

You giggled as you passed off your newborn son to her and you opened your arms to your husband, “come to me, my love. Let me make it better.”

He gave his mother a faux pout before slithering back into the hospital bed with you and burying his face against your side, “at least someone loves me.”

“For forever until the end of time,” you teased, “I would love you until the very last star burns out and then some.”

“So about that…how about trying for a little girl…” he smirked, leaving the question open ended.

You gave your husband a look, “Honey…I know you missed your premier for The Bronze…and I love that you prioritize the birth of your son over that…but I just gave birth a few hours ago…let’s not talk about having another child when the last one hasn’t even left the hospital yet.”

“Got it,” he teased, pressing a kiss to the corner of your lips, “hold off on baby number six until we’re at home.”

“You chose him,” his mother reminded you softly with her own little smile as she looked up from her youngest grandchild, “remember that, (Y/N.)”

“And I’ll choose him every day for the rest of our lives!” you whispered sweetly as you brushed some of the hair from his face.

Chapter 18

#behind closed doors #sebastian stan characters #the bronze #lance tucker

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landhoe-norris · 8 months ago

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i've tried my best to let go (but i don't want to) (16/?)

Explicit | Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings | 40,491 words

Relationship(s): Lando Norris/Carlos Sainz Jr, Charles Leclerc/Carlos Sainz Sr, Charles Leclerc & Carlos Sainz Jr, Charles Leclerc & Lando Norris, Charles Leclerc/Carlos Sainz Jr, Charles Leclerc/Lando Norris/Carlos Sainz Jr

Character(s): Lando Norris, Carlos Sainz Jr, Charles Leclerc, Carlos Sainz Sr, Andrea Ferrari, Rupert Manwaring, Daniel Ricciardo, Lance Stroll

Additional Tag(s): Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Angst, Mutual Pining, Mpreg, Masturbation, Insecurity, Jealousy, protective alpha being protective over the wrong omega, Smut, omegas with pussys and dicks, the duality!!!!, did i already tag this with angst? cause this is angsty

Summary: After an unexpected heat during his vacation, newly crowned champion Charles is left in a sticky situation with his teammate, his teammate's dad, and his teammate's boyfriend. Can they get out on the other side unscathed, or are they all bound to break apart?

#carlando #a/b/o #f1 fanfic #f1 fanfiction #f1 rpf

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andydrysdalerogers · 2 years ago

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Following Team Orders ~ A Steve Rogers -Formula One AU

Pairings: Steve Rogers x OFC Olivia Williams

Formula One

It's the top of the top, best of the best, most intense racing in the world. There are only 20 drivers at a time that can race. 10 teams that get sponsored. Twenty-three tracks around the world to test the skills of these drivers and crown one champion.

No woman has ever won a race.

And Liv is given a chance to prove them wrong.

After Bucky Barnes, a driver for Red Bull, is injured at Bahrain, Olivia Williams has the chance of a lifetime: be one of six female Formula One drivers in the history of the sport. Liv has been racing since she was 5 and she takes the opportunity to become one of the elite 20 drivers in the world. Bucky sees her potential. His racing partner does not.

Steve Rogers is the number 2 driver in the world behind his chief rival, Ransom Drysdale. He thought this would be his year, racing with his best friend Bucky and taking on rival Mercedes. Until Bucky is hurt during the first race of the year. They are bringing in a rookie to complete the team. And Steve is not happy. Because a woman has never succeeded in this sport, and he sure isn't going to let the beautiful and tenacious Olivia bring his year down.

Now, he has one year, 23 races, two rivals and one attraction that could make or break his chances at the championship. They just need to follow team orders. But will they be able to when they take a chance at following their own hearts?

Warnings: A-N-G-S-T!!! Smut (eventually), car crashes, death, degrading speeches, a mean Steve Rogers, an even meaner Ransom Drysdale, fluff

Chapters:

Bahrain

Saudia Arabia

Australia

Emilia Romagna

Miami

Monaco

Montreal

Silverstone

Austria

France

Series Break

Spa-Francorchamps

Netherlands

Monza

Sochi

Singapore

Austin

Mexico City

Las Vegas

Sao Paolo

Sao Paolo - Part 2

Abu Dhabi

Epilogue

One Shot: He's a Yankee Doodle Sweetheart; but She's his Yankee Doddle Girl

Cast

Olivia Williams (Gal Gadot) – rookie driver for Red Bull, youngest daughter of racing legend David Williams

Steve Rogers - veteran driver for Red Bull

James "Bucky" Barnes – veteran driver for Red Bull, injured in first race and becomes Olivia's crew chief

Andy Barber – team principal Red Bull

Ransom Drysdale – principal driver, Mercedes, Olivia's former boyfriend

Lance Tucker – second driver, Mercedes

Lloyd Hansen – owner, Mercedes

Sam Wilson – Steve's crew chief and other best friend

Frank Adler – Olivia's best friend and mechanic- team Red Bull

Johnny Storm – shameless flirt – driver – team Ferrari

I will start posting this one once a week on Wednesdays! I'm adding in my normal tag list but please let me know if you want to be added or removed

Taglist:

@patzammit @slutforchrisjamalevans @texmexdarling @jennmurawski13-writes @firephotogrl74

#andy's hea #following team orders #steve rogers fanfiction #steve rogers au #steve rogers x ofc #chris evans fanfiction #bucky barnes #andy barber #ransom drysdale #formula one au #female f1 driver #andy's shenanigans #chris evans #multifandom rp #lance tucker #lloyd hansen

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griff-us · 2 years ago

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TITLE: Can't Pretend Part: One | Word Count: 2,608 NEXT: HERE

PAIRING: Knight!Bucky/Princess!Reader (Black Reader)

WARNINGS: Violence, character death, gore, depictions of violence and death. Smut, eventually. Drama. Run-of-the-mill toxic masculinity. I will update as needed.

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

SUMMARY: A bastard knight. An heir to a throne. Both forced to abide by the rules of their station---the roles they were born into. Will they be able to maintain the flames of their love, or be burned by them?

NOTES: I love court intrigue, and drama. I also love the idea of knight Bucky. So here is a butt load of it. I intend this to be multiple parts, though I am not sure how many. But, enjoy! Let me know what you think!

The sun is brutal even from underneath ornately ornamented awnings. Women sit among the makeshift wooden stands fans in hand as they fervently gossip about the latest on-goings and affairs of court. Such drivel; devoid of imagination or spark---always the same lackluster accusations and rumors. Y/N had not come to chat about such things; the tourney always interested her far more. The fanfare, the sport, and on occasion, the bloodshed. Steeds tough as steel gallop the runway on which men with more gall than the average noble ride atop. Metal clatters, men hoop and holler, and another knight is knocked from his horse. Yes, far more interesting than who is bedding who, and for how much.

Y/N claps along, back straight as a board. Tightly coiled locks pool from the crown of her head where they remained pinned. Gold adorns her skin in necklaces, earrings, and bracelets—her favorite choice as it accents her darkened complexion so tastefully. A perfect visage of her house; proper and fine. She watches with enthusiasm as the second round of riders enters. One catches her eye as he leads his horse toward her pavilion in a flashy show. Blackened steel glimmers beneath the sweltering sun; Y/N notes the wolf’s head pressed into the metal, and her heart nearly shatters in her chest. She knows that sigil anywhere.

As he nears, the knight lifts his visor to reveal hues like that of the oceans so far off. Y/N notes the beads of sweat that adorn his brow as he lifts his lance toward the bottom row closest to her. However, before the knight can speak, another woman stands. Y/N can’t help the curl in her upper lip at the sight of Lady Mistell. A crotchety woman so desperate to be wed again.

“I presume you have come to ask for my favor, Ser James?” Lady Mistell inquires with an upturned nose, as though she may consider denying the request. Odd though, that she would assume someone of such high station would ask the favor of a widow with no coin. Silence grips the stands then, and Y/N watches with an amused sort of smirk as all unfolds. So typical of James to make a scene. A shame then, he had been absent from court all these years.

“Apologies my lady—” Ser James bows his head, but his gaze drifts to Y/N who notices immediately, as she does with all things. “My princess…” A breath catches in the back of Y/N’s throat, and her mind reels with the implications of his coming request. Is he daft? “…it would be an honor to carry your favor.” All eyes turn to Y/N; there will be talk of this no doubt. There had been rumors of their budding romance much to the disdain of her father. In fact, the king had hated it so much he all but sold the knight into a fortuitous marriage of station and coin that sent him across the seas. To approach her in such a way, and after no warning of his impending return---well Y/N is sure the rumor mill is already churning. But… she must be seen as a gracious host. This is her tourney after all.

Y/N rises as her hands work to smooth the skirts of her dress. Each step down from under her awning feels as though it adds another ten pounds to her shoulders, but they are calculated and careful. Eyes remain on Y/N as though she were the centerpiece in a show, and she often is.

“Ser James.” The Princess nods to him once close enough, and slender fingers adorned with jeweled rings toss down the yellow ribbon that had been tied to her wrist---the color of her house. “Do well not to sully it, my knight.” Her tone is soft so that only he may hear. Y/N watches as the knight maneuvers to catch the ribbon and his gaze holds hers with a wide smirk as dexterous fingers quickly tie it to the end of his lance.

“I would not dream of it, my princess.”

-----

The day wanes. The sun and her restless rays begin to dwindle, and Y/N walks the grounds. Nobles and soldiers alike make their approach, each bowing their heads and giving thanks for her hospitality or commenting on the exquisite taste of the food and drink. She responds in kind with smiles and equal thanks for their participation. This is the matter of her station she finds so---tiring. The politicking, the people pleasing when Y/N wishes for nothing more than a bath and perhaps a book.

“You look rather bored, Princess.” That familiar voice brings her from her thoughts, and Y/N turns. Ser James stands, the bulk of his armor now removed, a tower compared to her rather small self.

“There are only so many ways to give gratitude to those who would rather you dead.” Her tone is light despite the subject matter, and she does well to hold a simple smile despite the grin that threatens to break across her face at his presence.

“From what I hear, my dear princess-“ he falls in step with her then, far enough apart not to gain the attention of prying eyes. “-they adore you, the people. Your people.” James peers down at her from the corner of his eyes, and Y/N’s signature smile drops to a frown.

“If you ask my father—”

“He is a fool.”

Y/N halts her steps, neck craning to hold Ser Jame’s gaze. She does not falter, and the edge in her tone is rather commanding. “You will do well to remember he is your King, Ser James.” A pause.

“Are you upset with me, princess? I do not remember you typically taking such a tone with me.”

Y/N snorts; something far different from her typical façade. It always came so easy around him, the way her knight could break down walls and barriers meticulously crafted. Like a mason building the most exquisite of temples, only to be brought down by some greater force. It is sad really, how he still has this effect on her. “If I remember correctly you left, not soon after promising to ask for my hand. Off to marry another, or so I heard from rumors. How is your wife, Ser James?” venom drips from the tip of her tongue, and James does not falter. He deserves this. Even if she well knows the games they must take part in---no matter how much it wounds the heart.

“Dead.” A simple explanation, still, he explains. “Not a week after our wedding. Consumption.” James tilts his head to the side while he watches Y/N’s face shift through a myriad of expressions.

“I—am sorry for your loss, James.” The world is still around them for a moment, seconds really. He wants to remind her of his nickname, one bestowed upon him when they were children. To hell with titles and perpetuity and this blasted game they both have been forced to play! Yet, he reframes. Instead, James bows his head gently, hues turning soft as though that may convey how earnestly he means the following sentence. “You have nothing to apologize for, my princess.”

“James---” Y/N reaches for him, only for the mindful knight to step back, severing any connection her mind may have imagined.

“You’ve others to attend to—” another bow, this one so much stiffer. “—until later.”

Y/N stands hands held at her middle as the man she loves walks away from her for the second time in her life.

----

“You will scuff the floors if you keep pacing like that, my lady” Natasha hums from across the room her languid frame tossed over the crushed red velvet fainting couch as she thumbs through the pages a book. Y/N huffs; her mind racing and anger threatening to froth over like a pot left to boil too long.

“How dare he show his face, unannounced, to my tourney only to tell me of his dead wife and lament his apologies to me!”

“Lament is a strong word.”

Y/N heaves another sigh, what would seem to be the hundredth of that moment and throws her body down near her friend. “I wish to never see him again.” Natasha sits up just as Y/N’s head falls into her lap. The two women had become fast friends since her arrival at court as a foreign dignitary to Y/N’s father. It had not taken long for the woman’s talents in espionage to make themselves known. Within a month’s time, Natasha had cemented herself as the King’s spymaster, and the Princess’s closest of confidants due to the amount of time spent in one another’s company. Now, the two are nearly inseparable, and rarely seen without the other.

“You are being rather unfair, Y/N.” eyes rise, a firm slant set upon Y/N’s lips. But, Natasha continues. “The man was married off due to your father’s disapproval. He had no say in his marriage. And to become a widower after such a short time.” A pause. “James could have cared for that woman and still loved you. Two things can be true at once. We both know he is not a cruel man, Y/N. He is forced to play a game he has no control over. As are you.” Natasha presses a single finger against Y/N’s forehead for emphasis.

“Yes. Yes. Born to rule and tasked with the problems of the kingdom only for mine to be cast aside.” Y/N rolls her eyes.

“You are not simply a princess meant to be wed to some lord, or prince for political gain, my lady. You are heir to the throne; love has no room in your life. The throne takes precedence overall.”

“I wish you would cease reminding me, Lady Natasha.”

Both women fall into a comfortable silence. Beyond the thick walls of Y/N’s personal apartments birds sing and servants mill about their duties. Somewhere off in the distance, a lute plays a languid tune just as the sun begins her descent from the sky.

“I have missed him.” Y/N finally relents her voice barely above a whisper.

“I know, my dear. I know.”

----

The end of the week brings yet another gathering of nobles, and no sign of Ser James. Y/N sits to the right of her father at their table fingers merely toying with the now cold bread on her silver platter. A band plays a tune at the other end of the hall, the sound loud and obnoxious beneath tapestries meant to bring warmth to the room. Y/N finds it suffocating. A fact most evident by the rather sour expression painted on her face.

“Go and dance, daughter.” The King ushers her forward with both hands; fat fingers adorned in countless rings and shiny things. Spoils of war, and conquest. Y/N sighs gently but abides by her father’s wishes. His temper has been that of a wild dog as of late; content one moment and then rabid the next. She stands, golden gown of satin and lace cascading down each step toward the center of the hall. The band halts its tune in time for someone far off to announce her presence. All cease their movements for a moment to bow or courtesy in respect. Y/N nods solemnly in return, hands clasped at her front while she waits for one brave man to ask her for a dance. The others continue about their jig.

“I don’t remember these gatherings being so boring.” As if summoned by the Gods themselves, Ser James all but manifests from the crowd. Y/N smiles gently, not before correcting her features and donning her typical stoic glance.

“Perhaps because you spent all your time at court galivanting around and challenging noblemen to duels.” James beams at Y/N, happy to hear her speak what seems so fondly of his time spent at court. His lips curl just so in that way they do before he laughs.

“Yes well….” He pauses, chin upturned, and brows taught at their center. “I don’t really have an excuse for that.” Y/N chuckles softly to herself, mindful of the eyes that watch over them. “Come, dance with me, Princess.” Ser James holds out a hand to her, and it is as if the world freezes for a moment.

There are implications to this dance; implications in everything Y/N is seen to do. To dance with a man all but sent from court for the fault of asking for her hand in marriage? To dance with a man who returns to court, unannounced, so shortly after the death of his wife? Scandalous. Salacious. But he stands before her in dashing attire; the sigil of his house forged by his own hands sewn into blackened tunic. His hair half pulled back to keep from his eye’s cascades down wide shoulders and stubble has begun to sprout since their last meeting at the tourney ground. Handsome indeed, and by Gods she want nothing more than to take his hand and dance as they used to.

“You are still in mourning, Ser James.” Words tumble from her lips before any thought can really be applied to them, and James’s lips turn into something akin to a frown.

“I am rather tired of all these unspoken rules, and I know you are as well, Princes. Once dance? As we used to.”

Y/N nods absently and slips her hand into his own, so massive in comparison. She wonders briefly as he tugs her deeper into the dance floor how they may feel against her skin. The band begins another song, one she and James had waltzed to plenty of times while hidden away in the gardens. Both fall into step with one another easily; Y/Ns palms against his own, the other pressed against the broad expanse of his chest. This close he smells of leather and grass. She levels her gaze past him while James sweeps her across the floor. There is no tell how much more of her demeanor she may lose were she to become lost in his eyes.

“I see you have not lost your touch.” He speaks suddenly, rocking the princess from her thoughts. Y/N peers up, her heart hammering in the center of her chest.

“Surprising. I have little time to dance between classes and lectures.”

“How boring. No more nightly escapes into the woods?” Ser James inquires with a knowing smirk, and Y/N can not help but roll her eyes.

“I am too old for such nonsense.”

“And who told you that?” his head dips lower, the point of his nose skimming the defined line of her cheek. His breath fans past her ear; Y/N sputters, brows creasing and jaw tight. Everyone. From her ladies in waiting, to her father, to his advisors---you are too old to enjoy such things, Princess. An heir must always be seen as dignified. Heat envelopes her face; embarrassment evident. And after a moment’s silence the sudden realization of just how undignified she seems now grips her.

“Y/N….” James regards her with concern, and it is as if she is snapped back into reality. The princess pulls away suddenly, hands clasped at her front. James watches as sadness seems to overtake her.

“Thank you for the dance, Ser James.” She nods and begins her walk back to her seat by her father’s side. James bows stiffly and watches her retreat; not before the hardened gray hues of the King glues him to the spot. The king need not say a word. James can decipher enough from looks alone.

Leave.

And so, he does.

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