#fic: some like it hot

[fiona-fififi]

If I'm being honest, I actually think I would prefer to see Tommy NOT become the boyfriend. I really like the idea of the two of them dating a bit, and Tommy helping Buck to explore a little, but I think it would be much more interesting if Buck doesn't immediately jump into a more serious relationship with him. Allowing Buck to explore more casually as he starts to figure himself out just feels a little more meaningful here. He's always so quick to jump into relationships. I'd rather see him really take his time and let himself have some fun. And absolutely, Tommy can be a major part of that. But so much of the speculation around them feels like it frames him as the boyfriend, but I don't know that that's what Buck needs from him, to be honest.

[oh-katsuki]

what is your opinion on a satosugu threesome or voyeurism

I LITERALLY LOVE!!!!! i've had a thought for this FOREVERRRR that i was planning on writing so ill put it here!!!!!!!! i think about it constantly.

cw: threesome, oral (f!receiving), semi-public sex, voyeurism, sub/dom dynamics (suguru > satoru > reader)

anyway, i frequently think about satoru and suguru cornering you in a closet. some semi-public location with people bustling just on the other side of the door. n you're not supposed to be there even under normal circumstances, let alone these ones.

you're leaning back against one of the shelves, your leg propped up in the most comfortable way you can manage. your bare cunt is exposed under the fabric of your skirt and satoru kneels between your legs. suguru stands to your right, close enough that you can feel his body heat, but he's not touching you just yet. no, suguru is just watching.

satoru's hands rest on the inside of your thighs and his tongue laps eagerly at your cunt. he presses the flat of it to your clit, moving it side to side slightly as he holds your legs open. the room is dark, illuminated only by the light coming in through under the door, and it makes the sounds of your pussy feel even louder. you can hear the wet click of his mouth against you, tongue dipping in and out of you as he savors the taste.

you grip the shelf behind you with one hand and knot your fingers in his hair with the other, stifling choked gasps as he creeps you closer to the edge.

"shshshsh," suguru croons from beside you, placing his palm on your forehead and drawing your attention to him. "gotta be quiet. we wouldn't want to get caught now, would we?"

you nod your head, looking into suguru's calculating eyes. they look strangely satisfied. like he's fulfilled at seeing you and satoru be so absorbed in pleasure that he'd orchestrated. though he doesn't touch you, both you and satoru know that suguru is in charge.

suguru's hard. you can feel his bulge from where he stands, just barely touching your thigh. it sits in his pants untouched and unattended.

"touching yourself, satoru?" suguru laughs a little, tilting his head down to glance at where satoru is palming the bulge in his slacks.

satoru doesn't look up or pause, instead just nodding into your cunt. suguru lets out a quiet and somewhat condescensing laugh.

"you're such a pervert." to which satoru opens his eyes and rolls them.

you're caught between the two, grip in satoru's hair tightening as he works you up. his tongue swirls around you, fingers digging into the fleshy inside of your thighs. if you had the mind, you'd notice that the way they dip against your skin looks delightful. suguru is sure to have noticed that.

"he's good at that, isn't he?" suguru asks you.

"mhm, he's-" you choke on your words, subconsciously pulling him against you harder. your sentence is cut short.

"satoru's real good with his tongue," suguru smiles down at you, insinuating something that makes you both jealous and overwhelmingly aroused.

as if on cue, satoru applies pressure to your clit, swirling around it with the tip of his tongue. when you look down at him, his eyebrows are furrowed. it's as if he's deliberately tried to draw your attention to him and he frowns at suguru before delivering a succinct squeeze to your thighs.

you climb higher and higher, the knot in your stomach winding up like a wire gone taut. you tremble and then gasp as your whole body becomes sensitive and suguru places his hand back on your forehead, forcing you to look at him.

his palm is wide and warm and though he doesn't apply much pressure, you get the feeling that you couldn't move your head if you'd tried.

"is satoru gonna make you cum?" he asks quietly, leaning in close to your face. "you gonna let him?"

you don't have a choice. you're going to cum. you feel it welling up in your stomach and behind your eyes, where heat rushes to your face. all you can do is look at suguru while satoru's tongue buries itself in your sloppy cunt. you can feel the way slick drips down the leg supporting you, dampening already sensitive skin.

"eyes open when you do, 'kay?" suguru offers with that gentle cadence of his. playful and coolheaded, he makes you an offer you know you can't refuse.

you feel the peak as it builds, blinding you as you approach that overwhelming finish. you tug at gojo's hair and he takes it as a cue to double down. you gasp and crest over, rising up onto your toes as your legs begin to tremble.

suguru's hand still presses on your forehead and gojo takes it upon himself to attach himself to your clit and slide his hands around to support your lower back. your voice sits just behind your tongue, mouth open in a silent moan as you look into suguru's eyes.

he looks almost wicked. so satisfied that it makes you feel proud. you watch him like he asked you too, pulling satoru's head against your pussy subconsciously.

satoru works you through it, slowing the motions of his tongue as you come down with a choking gasp and heavy breathing. suguru strokes your sweat soaked forehead.

"can i have a turn?" suguru questions.

satoru stands up from between your legs, rubbing the inside of your thighs. then, he reaches up to wipe his cum-soaked mouth.

"jeez, suguru," he smiles. "give the poor thing a minute, at least."

[absoloutenonsense]

When the Trouble Comes by nonsensedarling

Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson | 90k | Explicit

The Queens Trafficking case is the biggest one of Louis’ FBI career so far; eleven reported missing girls all disappeared under a similar set of circumstances. Louis has done everything he can to try and solve this case over the last nine months… while also absolutely ruining his marriage. Harry has been co-host of Banter at Breakfast for five years, and finally has the opportunity to create his own radio show with the network. Unfortunately, it comes at a time where Harry’s thoughts are consumed with his impending divorce from his (caring, loving, infuriatingly thoughtful) husband of eight years. Harry and Louis have both been willing to lose themselves in their work… but are they willing to lose each other?

Or a story of (almost) exes-to-lovers.

✨Art by @dearlou✨

Posts on Tuesday and Friday each week.

1 📁 | 2 📻 | 3 📁 | 4 📻| 5 📁| 6 📻| 7 📁 | 8 📻 | 9 📁| 10 📻| 11 📁 | 12 📻 | 13 📁 | 14 📻 | 15 📁| 16 📻 | 17 📁 | 18 📻 | 19 📁 | 20 📻| 📁 Epilogue 📻

[hanjoj]

Would you have him as a PT? 👀

[obiwanobi]

Just saw gifs of Hayden training for rots and he looks so young in it.

Sooooo do you think that at one point during the clone wars Obi-Wan looked at Anakin doing something silly or the light hitting his face in a particular way and suddenly he saw the 9-year-old boy he took as a padawan, like "…oh Force that’s a child. I know he’s legally an adult and we knighted him, but this is the face of a boy. Look at those cheeks. He should be taking a nap right now. Why is this literal baby on a battlefield. I’m going to make him some soup right now"

[charlclerc]

i’m cooking up a landoscar stranded island fic where landoscar fell overside a cruise after nearly drunkenly booking up and ended up on a stranded island in the middle of butt-fucking-nowhere.

oscar comes to learn lando is a rich boy who grew up on a silver spoon and oscar is too in his ways to accept this. each day they’re arguing over how they’re going to survive being stranded and oscar is sure he’s the only one with survival skills up his sleeve.

until lando is actually the one who starts the fires who builds the shelters. and suddenly, maybe lando isn’t so bad.

i’m currently cooking it all up now but i’m only on day 2 and i can’t count how many times i’ve written the word coconut in the last few paragraphs BUT i’m having fun with it!! i’ve planned out the days but if you have any questions or suggestions feel free to send 🫶🏻

or even a little snippet from the first day? 😁

[laudnasratking]

as much as I love the idea of Laudna struggling with her body image and everything in regards to romance (i am trans), I LOVE the secondary option of Laudna (known Imogen obsessor) being so confident in Imogen's will and choices that she accepts instantly that if Imogen wants her then she has to be a 10/10 certified stunner, and maybe even getting a bit annoying about that

[utilitycaster]

I think three things ultimately frustrate me about the "you should care about poorly written women" argument.

First: there's well-written women. There's plenty. I'm going to find them, actually, and leave this badly written stuff behind, and maybe the writer will do a better job next time.

Second: you get people passionately defending poorly written women in old favorites in wildly regressive ways. Like just admit LOTR has like 5 named women and only two really do anything. Stop forcing a progressive label it doesn't deserve. Tolkien is dead and isn't going to become a feminist posthumously so deal with the story as it is instead of trying to justify it. They're not well written! It's fine.

Third: you get the argument that people are more accepting of poorly written men. This is almost certainly true but you can't control a fandom, so bringing this up is mostly a waste of time. What you can do is ignore poorly written men even harder than poorly written women. Mourn the women's squandered potential and pretend the poorly written men don't exist and then find works with well written women like I said in step 1.

[anistarrose]

My current version, of my ever-evolving theory, on what constitutes "aromantic stories" is that first off, there's absolutely a wide spectrum between 1, "this is explicitly undeniably about aromanticism," and 2, "there sure is a noteworthy amount of aro subtext, but representing aros clearly wasn't the author's intent." But the spectrum is best completed not as a straight line, but as a triangle, where the 3rd point is "the story probably wasn't created with aromanticism at the forefront of anyone's mind, but was created with subverting particular expectations related to romantic relationships in mind." And in my experience, a lot of juicy aromanticism-related experiences that are underrepresented in their own right can lie in that third option, regardless of whether the characters are aro-spec or allo or kind of whatever you headcanon.

So, what does make a story on this spectrum "aromantic?" IDK, I wouldn't necessarily include all or most of the firm 2s (unintentional subtext) under the aromantic story mantle. But when you get into the gray areas that inch a little closer to 1 and 3, let alone the gray area between 1 and 3 where intent is ambiguous but ultimately may not matter, it makes sense that different people will have different takes.

[leenfiend]

experimenting with new ways to get Lance to stfu

[padfootastic]

i just want to put it out there that sirius black is scary as fuck from a purely physical point of view.

he’s tall as shit, has been since fifth year when he got his growth spurt, and he has tendency to loom over most people.

there’s also the matter of his poker face—it’s impeccable, untouchable. can make anyone feel like him stuck to the bottom of his shoe. he learnt it from the best in house black and it’s his default. there’s a reason people are afraid of approaching him, and are slightly awed by james’ ability to unconditionally do so at all times.

his magic is ridiculously sentient. it swirls around him at all times, often feeling suffocating to those near him. he doesn’t even notice how it swells with his emotions, rising in his defence without him having to call it. at times, it can feel like a brick wall, that’s how powerful it is. and it’s cold. people have been known to shiver and turn into metaphorical icicles around him.

and he’s also just intimidating in a—social capital way ykno? so much money, training, and status. it shows. he could be dressed in a potato sack and he’d still reek of royalty. which is essentially what the blacks are.

and this is it u don’t take padfoot into account. this fuckoff huge Grim who’s literally an omen of death, easily twice the size of any human around him, just bounding around with sharp canines on display and malice in his eyes. it’s the easiest thing to piss ur pants when u come into contact w him.

[crybaby-bkg]

tw: mention of incest role play, mention of fear kink, mention of cum inflation????, scummy gojo, also I have no idea how to word this????

gojo who gets paired up with you for a college project, and you’re fucking reeling for a few reasons. one being; he’s extremely attractive and damn near everyone on campus knows who he is. and also, you’re intimidated by his beauty and popularity, especially since you’re only known for giving out the answers when people ask nice enough in classes.

but he’s so…friendly, when you guys meet up to start on the project. he’s all smiles and helpful answers, bites at the people who come up to him and pretend you’re not even there. he listens to you with this dumb (cute) little look on his face, with his lips slightly parted and his brows raised and his white lashes peeking over the roundness of his glasses whenever he nods.

he’s kinder than you expected him to be. funnier, too, with his shitty jokes that you find yourself snorting at in the quiet library. and when you guys are finished with the project, he still keeps in touch. moves his seat to be next to you in class, texts you and asks you out to coffee, even invites you on a date after a few weeks.

and everything is perfect—until it’s not. until he beds you one day and it’s not as special or magical as you were anticipating it to be. he’s kinda…strange, in a sense, when he fucks you. oddly quiet, like he’s holding back, his hands just a little too tight, his eyes too focused on random parts of your body.

but you sleep with him again and again, until he starts becoming real comfortable with you. almost too comfortable, let’s how weird and strange and almost scummy he really is start to shine through, let the mask he’d be unknowingly wearing this entire time slip away.

“What if we were siblings?” Gojo asks you one night when he’s fucking your brains out. he’s gotten better over these few months, gotten looser and more comfortable. too fucking comfortable.

“Satoru, what in the ever loving fuck are you on about?” you ask him in a gasp as you reach a hand back to keep your head from hitting the headboard. but he’s undeterred, his eyes wild and unseeing as he grips your hips tighter, thrusts becoming sloppier.

“No, I mean in a role play way.” He explains, as if that makes it sound any better. “You know? You’re my sweet lil sister taking big bro’s cock so I won’t tell mom and dad about you sneaking out.”

“You’re a sick fuck.” you tell him plainly, frustrated that your tone doesn’t carry the same bite because his nimble fingers started playing with you at the same time. “Fuckin’ weirdo.”

“Incest role play doesn’t turn you on?” he asks, cocking his head to the side like a confused puppy that you wanna kick in the chin. “Maybe, hmm,”

he pretends to be lost in thought, thrusts slowing down and you let out an irritated huff as you slump back onto the bed. but your back arches up when his hips pick up pace again, suddenly slamming into you as he looms over you. one hand cupping your cheek, the other returning in between your thighs as he grins madly.

“Maybe you’d like some fear play, yeah? How’s that sound?” Gojo bends over you until his nose skims yours, his pupils entirely too tiny, makes your breath hitch in your throat. “Me, chasing you around the campus with a big knife, scared that I’ll catch you. You know I would, right?”

he forces you to nod with his big hand cupping your cheeks, pouting your lips at him as you whimper. he kisses you, breathless, chuckling a little under his breath as he mutters something incomprehensible, his cock carving its way deep inside you.

“Maybe even cum inflation? That one’s not the realest thing out here, but I could figure out a way to make that work. You’d like that, right?” he sounds like he’s off the deep end, like every single twisted thought that’s been running through his mind these past few weeks have finally come to the forefront. started spilling out between you two like a cracked dam, like he’s been bottling this up ever since you met him.

you cum only a few seconds after his last inquiry, scared of the way his smile widens, as if your body told him an answer he’s already known.

[undercover-horn-blog]

As much as I adore a sick character in denial (we all do, let's be real)... I can also be so weak for a character who is just 100% open, honest, casual and unbothered by their own illness.

No whining either. They have simply accepted their fate and are not dwelling on it, you know?

"Bless you! Are you okay?" *shrug* "I have a cold."

"Jesus, you sound awful!" "Yeah, I'm coming down with something."

"You're sneezing a lot." "Oh, yeah, pretty sure I've caught a cold."

But they just... go about their day, you know? Sneezing, coughing, sniffling... Not denying it, but also not making a big deal out of it in any way. Not a hint of embarrassment about their symptoms either. Just truly... unbothered.

[thelaurenshippen]

I know we love the “you only get two” triangles, but idk that I’ve seen one that is, like, the grand theory of fandom, like, you know—

you only get two. do you see my vision?

[bidisastersanji]

In this episode of I can’t do anything without thinking of ZoSan please go listen to “Lay all your love on me” by ABBA and imagine it from Sanji’s perspective I swear. Maybe someday it can be a fic featuring:

Sanji struggling with his feelings of jealousy when women keep accosting and flirting with Zoro

He thinks he’s jealous because he wants the women to be flirting with him but as time passes he realizes he’s being possessive of the stupid marimo and his head is so far up his own ass he doesn’t clock that Zoro has never shown interest in a woman ever

What drives him even more nuts is that this means he feels some resentment towards WOMEN and that’s a big no no these feelings are wrong and bad and should be buried because he’s a gentleman and women can do no wrong and he would never think bad thoughts about a woman his only vice is smoking after all

But now it isn’t true - and he comes to turn with these new feelings- feelings of attraction towards a man, which he hasn’t had before, and it’s just completely overturning his self perception- so he’s bisexual apparently???

At every party his possessive jealousy gets progressively worse, he begs higher powers that zoro notices him, not the women flirting with him, nor the men that he sometimes sees the marimo walk off with into the night

He yearns, he yearns so much for the swordsman’s love, daydreaming about his touch, his voice- the way he calls him by stupid nicknames- completely distracted as he cooks by himself. He wants it all, he wants it so much it hurts but there’s no way Zoro would want him.

When he looks back on it, it’s truly unfair how easily the swordsman made him fall for him- a little talk and a smile and his insides were turning to mush - it’s embarrassing, really, how he as an adult man fell so easily, like shooting a sitting duck

After Thriller Bark it gets worse- sometimes he feels a sharp flash of fear run up his spine, a faint echo of the abject horror he felt when he found the bloodied swordsman on deaths door, and he, panicked and against all logic, needs to find him and make sure he’s ok, needs to have him near. Zoro looks at him quizzically as his excuses when he does find him get weirder and weirder

Back when he was at the Baratie, he’d had a few little love affairs- and Zeff would always scoff at him when he claimed he had found the one and gush about whatever woman had decided to string him along that week, chastising him about the ease at which he gave his affections away- he’d told him repeatedly that it wasn’t love- that he’d know love when it really hit him

And oh god had it hit him now. Pining from Momoiro island does nothing for his poor little heart and his mind goes crazy over not knowing where his nakama are and what they’re doing and he’s definitely not worried about the marimo possibly being off on some island with a better, stronger, more beautiful man than him

Iva and the candies notice him moping and decide to coach him to get his man

Sanji’s mindset is completely different two years later - he’s determined to get ALL of Zoro’s attention, his love, his devotion, and he’s not afraid of using every weapon the Candies of Kamabakka taught him

[writeshite]

Puppy Love

Summary:

“One would think you’ve become besotten with me, Lord Stark,” you quip, circling each other at a slow pace. “I would agree.” His arm moves up, and you meet it, wrists side by side, “dragons are a rare sight in the North; anyone would be enamored.” You chuckle, “I should say the same; wolves are equally as captivating."

Pairings:

Robb Stark x Male Reader

Tags:

Targaryen Reader | Fluff | Smitten Robb Stark

Words: 2122

Author's Note:

I have not actually watched the show or read the books fully 👉🏾👈🏾 I know things, but most of my knowledge is sporadic and random; it'll be like 60% accurate, I think....in my defense, I want dragons, and I also want Robb Stark, so like what else am I supposed to do 💀. Also, sorry if the High Valyrian in here is shit; I'm very behind in my Duolingo course.

“The dragons have taken back the Iron Throne.”

Robb didn’t quite know how to react to the news; his battle had been for the North, and the workings of the other kingdoms and their squabbles had never immensely mattered to him as much as he knew they should. The ball had been his mother’s suggestion, correction insistence, “As king, you should set an example and get ahead of the other kingdoms.” 

The Targarayens arrive on dragon back - each on a separate one - the beasts shake the ground when they land, thunderous roars echoing into the skies. Her Majesty, Daenerys Targaryen, is poised, expression calm as she descends her dragon; another figure follows behind her - the Queen's Hand Missandei - the other dragon rider, steals more of Robb’s attention. Expression perhaps more joyful, you appear rather ill-equipped for the weather, furs less than satisfactory in Robb’s opinion. Your attire appears snow-touched, with little color - a touch of red on the collar of your coat - and dragon detailing on the lapels. Your silver locks are platted back in a simplistic rider’s style, held together by an intricate golden band.

Your company trails behind, arriving just moments later. Robb is accompanied by his mother, Sansa, and Arya, the latter of the three stares in awe at the dragons. Robb picks up a bit of conversation as you approach them, dying down when you come to stand in front of them; the words are of another tongue - High Valyrian, he thinks. “Your grace,” he greets, “welcome to Winterfell.”

“Thank you, Lord Stark,” she gestured to one side, “you know of my wife and hand, Missandei,” Robb nods, and she gestures to you, “and my cousin.” 

“A pleasure,” you greet him.

Robb had yet to follow etiquette, and in the spirit of that, he responds to your greeting and awaiting handshake with a kiss - placed on the back of your hand. Your skin trembles in the cold, cool to the touch; he rubs his thumb along it in an effort to create some heat. The purple of your eyes was entrancing, deep pools that drew his gaze easily. His mother’s cough draws him back; her disapproving and mildly irritated glance is counteracted by Sansa and Arya’s amused ones. The servants lead you to your temporary quarters, and Robb’s linger on your retreating form; his mother’s lecture drifts elsewhere in his mind, barely settling before it’s tossed aside by the glee of seeing you once more at the welcoming banquet.

Winterfell was colder than you expected. 

The invitation had seen no hurried response - with the rebuilding of King’s Landing, a new Dragon’s Pit, and many other matters - coming to Winterfell had primarily been driven by the need for a break. You rode on Morghon, Daenerys, and Missandei rode on Drogon, with Rhaegal and Viserion following and a company of Dothraki followed from the ground. The cool weather had been the first thing you’d noted, the second being the admittedly attractive King in the North. He donned a thick fur cape overtop his attire, a ringlet crown surmounted by iron spikes, and three wolves at the central front.

“Dubāzma,” you shrug at Daenerys’ warning tone; you hadn’t done anything; you simply glanced at the man.

You counter such, “Eman gaomagon daorun, ivestragon zirȳla Missandei.” 

Missandei shakes her head, amusement in her tone, “Iā bughegon isse suvion iēdar kostilus,” she jests.

You shake your head, and the conversation breaks off as Lord Stark welcomes you to Winterfell. Daenerys responds with light introductions for both Missandei, then you.

“A pleasure,” you say once introduced, hand held out, ready for a handshake. Lord Stark does something far different. Taking your hand, he turns it over and lays a peck on the back of it, causing Lady Stark’s eyes to grow wide in surprise and his sisters’ expressions to morph into grins.

“The pleasure is all mine,” he replies, eyes locked on yours as he does so. His hand remains with yours for seconds longer, thumb caressing the skin, and when her ladyship breaks the brief haze with a cough, he leaves behind a phantom warmth.

The temporary chambers are cozy, readily warm, and stocked with furs; you set your luggage by the bed and don’t dwell too long on them - furs, a bed, fire, and comfort - as the welcome banquet requires far more attention. You replace your traveling coat with one more suitable for festivities - dark with gold embroidery and light fur trimming on the bottom. You exit the room to find Lord Stark’s figure leaning against the wall opposite, and a smile lights his face at the sight of you.

“Have you come to escort me, Lord Stark?” you inquire.

“If you’d allow it,” he responds with a hint of hope. You chuckle and nod, drawing out a broader smile on his face. The hall is not as far off as you’d imagined; light chatter filters through the open doors as people mill into the open-spaced hall. Far from the entrance sits a horizontally set long table - the Starks on the right, Taragrayens on the left - the other tables line the sides, leaving the middle empty. 

“Lord Robb of House Stark, King in the North, Lord of Winterfell…” the announcer declares, drawing attention to you both; he announces you next, “...of House Targaryen….” It had been your idea to drop your name of Velaryon, “...Dragonheart of Old Valyria, and Prince of The Ashes.” The latter of the titles stood more as a slight mockery, with your old life on the remnants of Old Valyria, those that had spotted you and Morghon had called you that in whispers.

You take the two remaining seats at the long table, Robb near the center, you near the edge, close to Missandei. The food is wonderful; meats, deserts, ale, and various Northern delicacies are brought to the tables - the honeyed chicken may well become one of your new favorites. People begin to mingle after the main courses as music fills the halls in steady beats; you follow suit at Lord Stark’s request to dance. 

“One would think you’ve become besotten with me, Lord Stark,” you quip, circling each other at a slow pace.

“I would agree.” His arm moves up, and you meet it, wrists side by side, “dragons are a rare sight in the North; anyone would be enamored.”

You chuckle, “I would say the same; wolves are equally as captivating,” your arms turn, both palms now against the other; he laces his fingers with yours, a cheeky grin on his face. You turn to circle in the opposite direction, the crowd around you filtering out as you remain fixated on each other. You draw back, hands still intertwined; coming back again, he places his other hand on your shoulder as yours goes to his hip. A few paces and you should separate from the other, turn to another person and carry on the dance, but you don’t, remaining in each other’s grasp as you drift across the floor. 

The music changes and a joyful beat begins; the formality is lost as the crowd of dancers switches to more upbeat and expressive movements. Lord Stark tugs at your arm, head tilting towards the doors; you turn briefly to glance at the long table - Lady Arya is immersed in conversation with Daenerys; Missandei and Lady Sansa are the same; Lady Stark herself, however, appears to have swallowed a lemon, eyes glaring daggers at his Lordship. You return your attention to said man and allow him to drag you away from the hall.

Robb hadn’t paid much attention to his mother’s lecture; her words went in one ear and out the other; she wasn’t angry, not truly, merely cautious. The interest seemed mutual to some extent, though the matter of marital affairs would be complicated - gods know the Lords of Westeros would turn their noses high in disgust - his almost engagements had all fallen through when he’d paid them little mind. 

“Robb Stark!” His mother’s voice cuts through his thoughts, “I understand your attraction circumvents what the realm would regard as suitable, but that is no excuse, do not trifle with him; we don’t need them setting our lands ablaze.” 

“You’ve outdone yourself this time,” Sansa comments after their mother leaves. 

Robb purses his lips; a wise man would take the words to heart and cease whatever he was doing - even if this interaction bore positive fruit, there was no certainty it would be in the best interest of the North. Her Majesty could have him abdicate his throne in favor of moving into the Targarayen household, or she could disapprove of him and feed him to her dragons. Robb was a man of heart, the kind that intercepted the servant at your chambers and took it upon himself to escort you personally to the dining halls.

Your previous coat has been replaced by a darker one; golden dragon heads decorate the cuffs, and it sits tighter on your person, with the fur trimming at the bottom fluttering delicately as you walk. “Have you come to escort me, Lord Stark?”

“If you’d allow it,” he responds, and gods, he hopes you would. He feels himself smile wider at your agreement, arm threaded with yours; the short walk to the dining halls leaves him ecstatic.

“Lord Robb of House Stark, King in the North, Lord of Winterfell…” the declaration echoes in the hall; brief glances become more fixated on your intertwined arms. His mother’s eyes squint, a frown on her face, “...of House Targaryen, Dragonheart of Old Valyria, and Prince of The Ashes.” 

Robb thanks the gods; his mother’s seat is further from him; if looks could kill, he’s certain he’d have died at the entrance. “You’ve taken to my cousin quite quickly, Lord Stark,” Her Majesty’s voice draws his attention.

Her gaze is steady as she regards him, “I suppose, your grace, is that a problem?” 

It’s no secret that certain parts of Westeros and their rulers disapprove of other attractions; Robb’s not quite sure where his father would have stood on the matter - he imagines him supportive - he knows his mother prefers he be less expressive on the subject. Queen Daenerys had been quite clear on her stance, disregarding the disapproval of her new laws and marriage, though that’s not to say she would like to have him as her in-law.

“Not as long as he is happy, and well,” she answers, “I have little family left; I cannot help my worry.”

There is an underlying threat to her words, and Robb nods in understanding, and it satisfies her enough to turn away from him. The food is brought in just after - honeyed chicken, venison pies, cod cakes, ale, candied bread - the music begins near the tail end of the feast. Some sway to the tune, conversations carrying in the air, as the music changes to something more befitting a dance. He stands and moves down the long table towards you, “Care for a dance?”

“One would think you’ve become besotten with me, Lord Stark,” you quip. 

“I would agree; dragons are a rare sight in the North; anyone would be enamored.” Your arms meet in the middle, level to your heads, as you circle each other; even as the other dancers switch partners, you remain together. Up until the music changes and a less formal tune carries in the air, you follow suit, hand in Robb’s as he drags you from the hall. You stroll idly through the halls, hands held together and swung lowly and sharing idle chatter.

“What do you call your dragon?”

“Morghon,” you respond, “it means death, a fitting name. Would you like to see him?” Robb pursed his lips, and you chuckled at his hesitation, “Don’t tell me you’re scared of dragons,” you teased; coming to a halt, you tugged him closer, “certainly not after flirting with one.”

He can feel the heat creep up his neck and imagines his skin pinker at the moment, “What if he bites?”

“He won’t,” your graze drifts a little lower, “but I could.”

“Is that an invitation to your bed, my prince?”

“If you’d like, you could show me how warm the North could be. I’m sure a few hours of demonstration should suffice.”

“The demonstration will have to wait for another time, your grace,” his mother’s voice cuts in. You both jump apart, hands loosely held together; she grabs Robb by the arm, “I apologize for the interruption, your grace, but we have some familial matters to attend to.” His face pinches into a frown as his mother leads him away; he remains turned enough to send you a brief wave and a smile and is thrilled to see you return it.

End Note:

Hope you enjoyed this mess. Stay hydrated.