#i think he was my first ever anime crush | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

gothgoblinbabe · 3 months ago

Text

She Wolf

A/N: I said I was gonna get this done and it took me way too long and has an absurd word count but I am incapable of holding in word vomit! Inspired by She Wolf by Shakira cause idc its GOOD and it got me thinking' so here it is. Also you don't have to listen to the song as you read but I think It's fun!

Summary: You've got a crush on your best friend and he's a bit of a dick. He regrets it and tries to apologize but you're already trying to push yourself to move on any way you can, even if it's in some shady club you'd never been to before.

Warnings: MDNI 18+, swearing, Logan's kind of an asshole for a minute, Possessive/jealous!Logan, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it), friends to lovers cause that's my fave, fem reader, mutant reader, unnamed creepy guy (?) aaaand Logan absolutely has a pain kink. I think that's it but if there's any I missed please let me know!

Word Count: 7K (im so sorry but I'm not though)

divider credit here

“Are you ever gonna tell him?”

You looked up from your desk towards Ororo’s voice, sighing and taking your glasses off your nose.

“God, I don’t know, ‘ro. I don’t think I should. It’s just going to end with me being humiliated and him never wanting to even be in the same room as me again.”

You’d had a crush on Logan Howlett since the day you first walked through the doors of the mansion six months ago. You’d probably be considered best friends by now with how much time you’d spend together, doing jack shit around the mansion on your days off. Just about everyone could tell he had a soft spot for you and that you had one for him. Logan was a classic ‘tough guy’, constantly trying to hide his kind nature with a hard exterior, but it took only a couple weeks for you to crack that barrier. You weren’t exactly a seemingly ‘soft’ type either.

You’d spent the majority of your life before you joined the X-men hoping from couch to couch and hitching rides with strangers, not really having a destination or a place to call home. You’d been dropped off at a church when you were fourteen, around the time you started to turn every full moon. Your parents couldn’t live with having to chain their mutant daughter in their basement once a month, and so they dropped you where they thought you’d find some ‘help’. You’d been passed from foster home to foster home till you were eighteen, each one passing you up the moment they realized you were not like them. It was always a slip of the mask, something setting you off to make you so enraged your eyes gleam yellow and your sharp canines make an unfortunate appearance. You took off the second you could and being on the road came with its fair share of creeps; men with terrible intentions looking for opportunities. You’d never wanted to hurt anyone - truly - but when cornered by a creep, it was hard to think anyone would miss them. A couple of local newspapers caught on, debating where the wolf that tore men to shreds had gone. You weren’t an animal. You just had teeth like one.

Knowing you couldn’t lurk in town much longer, you’d hitchhiked your way to a camp occupied with people like you; lost with no place to call home. It was there that you’d met a couple of mutants who told you about Charles Xavier and the place that seemed completely unreal until you set your eyes on it. That felt like a lifetime ago by now.

“I think you're underestimating how he feels about you,” Ororo said, bringing you back to reality. She was sat on the edge of your bed, flipping through one of your magazines as you worked at your computer to try and make a lesson plan for the coming week.

“I think you’re overestimating how he feels about me,” you let out a short laugh, shaking your head.

Just as she was about to retort, you both heard someone shout your names from the hallway. You looked at each other curiously and left the room, hearing shouting again.

“Are you guys gonna play Monopoly with us or what?”

You both giggled and made your way downstairs towards Scott’s voice. Him, Jean, Marie, Bobby and Logan were all sat in the living room, the game already set up on the coffee table. Bobby and Marie were picking out their game pieces, assigning everyone else to their own piece.

“Okay, Logan, you’re gonna be the dog,” Marie smiled, dropping the little metal piece into the palm of his hand.

He was definitely not as amused, “why do I have to be a damn dog?”

Ignoring him, she handed another piece out to Jean, “you’re the thimble.”

She then handed the boat to Scott, the top hat to you, and the iron to Ororo. You all began the game after Scott painstakingly over-explained the rules and how to play.

It was a good bit into the game that you all became distracted with conversation, eventually leaving the board game untouched. The topic of compatibility came up somehow, the conversation focused on the joy of Bobby and Marie.

“I think anyone would be lucky to have what you guys have,” Ororo smiled, shifting her gaze between the two of them.

“And what we have, obviously,” Scott joked, hanging his arm around Jean.

“Gross,” Logan chimed in, taking a sip of the beer he’d hidden in the back of the fridge.

“I think someone is jealous,” Ororo said in a singsong voice, poking his arm.

“Of having someone hang on me all the time? No, thanks,” he scoffed.

As stupid as it was, it made you a little sad to hear he had no interest in even entertaining the idea. It wasn’t a surprise, but still a disappointment nonetheless.

Ororo brought up your name and your eyes went huge, silently begging her to keep her mouth shut.

“You don’t seem to mind her hanging on you all the time. I think you’d be cute together,” she said, smiling mischievously at you. Scott and Jean agreed and you had never wanted to smash your head into a coffee table as much as you did in that moment.

“Nah, definitely not my type of girl.”

It was just seven words, out quick without a second thought, and yet it felt like you’d been punched in the gut. You couldn’t take your eyes off the monopoly board on the table, avoiding everyone’s gaze.

Definitely not my type of girl.

“I think I should head to bed, it’s getting late,” you mumbled, keeping your head down to hide your blushed face as you got up from the couch and practically ran out of the room and up the stairs.

“What the hell was that?” Scott scolded Logan the moment you were out of sight.

“That was so mean,” Ororo chimes in, backhanding him on the arm.

“I didn’t mean to be,” Logan said nervously , shrugging his shoulders, “…do you think she’s mad at me?”

“Probably more hurt than mad,” Jean said honestly.

“Shit,” he sighed, putting his beer down to rub his face with his hands, “what do I say?”

“Not that,” Marie replied, “why did you even say that anyway? You could’ve just said no.”

“I think you like her and you’re being mean so that she wont like you back because you’re afraid,” Ororo said after a moment of silence.

Logan sat quiet for a moment, his hands still over his face.

“Am I that easy to read?” His voice was muffled through his hands.

The rest of them couldn’t help exchanging knowing smiles.

“So you finally admit it,huh? You’ve got a crush,” Scott teased.

Logan moved his hands from his eyes to glare daggers at him, “you shut your fucking mouth or I’ll shove that monopoly board where the sun doesn’t shine.”

“I think that’s a yes,” Jean whispered to her boyfriend.

“Talk to her when you see her tomorrow. We’re not going to let you hurt her feelings just because you can’t accept your own,” Ororo advised, lightly patting him on the shoulder.

“Do you think she’s even gonna talk to me?”

“Only one way to find out.”

───────♡──────────────♡───────

Logan tried to catch up with you the next day, always seeing you as you were leaving a room he was entering or passing by and even then, you ignored his calls of your name.

It was a little after dinner now and because it was a weekend, a couple of kids were up playing the PlayStation in the living room. Bobby and Marie sat with them, taking turns with the controllers.

Logan entered the room after about three laps around the mansion, mentioning your name to the both of them.

“Have you guys seen her? I’ve been trying to talk to her all day, she keeps running from me.”

“Can’t really blame her,” Bobby muttered, his eyes never leaving the TV screen as he button smashed.

“She’s in her room,” Marie answered before Logan could come up with a retort, “she went up before dinner, said she wasn’t hungry.”

He groaned, running a hand through his hair, “she’s skipping dinner now too, great.”

“Go talk to her!” She insisted, shooing him away with a wave of her hand.

He made his way to the stairs and up to your bedroom, knocking lightly on your door. Hearing nothing, he knocked again, a little harder. Still, nothing.

“You can’t avoid me forever, you know. I wanna talk about yesterday, I was a dick.”

Silence. Now he was a little worried. He tentatively grabbed the doorknob and turned, cracking it open a bit.

Your bed was made, your desk was neatly organized and you were nowhere to be seen. He noticed your purse was gone from the usual spot you’d leave it in and your closet was open, a couple garments and some shoes strewn about on the floor. It looked like you’d gotten dressed and dipped. He figured maybe Ororo or Jean might know where you were, leaving your room and looking for them instead. He found them shortly after, huddled in the kitchen. Again, he asked if either of them knew where you were.

“She’s in her room, she went up before dinner,” Ororo answered.

“No, she’s not. And her purse is gone.”

Both women turned to each other with the same worried expression.

───────♡──────────────♡───────

Having tried your cellphone about thirteen times from just about everybody’s phones, they all decided they had to tell Charles. He used his ability to connect with every mutant on the planet to try and locate you, visualizing with his eyes closed. Everyone stood in his study, anxiously awaiting his conclusion. After a moment of silence, he started to silently chuckle to himself.

“What’s so funny?” Logan asked immediately, crossing his arms and furrowing his eyebrows.

“I’m afraid you all have your work cut out for you,” he replied, finally opening his eyes.

“So, where is she?” Ororo asked, worry in her voice.

“There is a club called The Nightcrawler - “ Charles began to explain, but Logan interjected impatiently.

“Club? What, like a book club?” He nearly scoffed. There was no way you were at some sleazy nightclub in the city. You were a homebody and an introvert, neither of which made clubbing enjoyable.

“Maybe we should just let her have fun,” Jean began to say, but Logan was already halfway out the door.

Uncharacteristically, you found yourself dressed to the nines in the middle of a dance floor full of people. You’d spent a while trying outfits in your room, searching for something you could actually wear out that wasn’t sweatpants and a hoodie. You’d settled on a halter top that tied at your neck and in the back and a pair of ridiculously tight pants that you’d bought forever ago and never had the guts to wear. You ended up standing in front of the mirror, choosing a pair of very cute but very uncomfortable shoes and looking over the outfit. If you weren’t Logan’s ‘type of girl’, you sure as hell were somebody’s. Trying to get yourself out there may be the best solution to forgetting the heart-crushing infatuation you had with your best friend who would never see you as anything more.

“I feel ridiculous,” you chuckled to yourself, turning in the mirror to see the back of your outfit. You did look good, just super out of your comfort zone. You grabbed your bag and ended up slipping out when everyone was eating dinner. That’s how you ended up where you were, pushing your way through the crowd of people with a drink in your hand. You passed the raised lounge area and felt a hand on your shoulder, making you turn suddenly.

“Hey, you wanna dance?”

He was tall, leaning down a little to shout over the music. He was pretty good looking but didn’t look like Logan in the slightest, which you realized was exactly the point of going out tonight. He was dressed nice and smelled like expensive cologne.

“Sure, why not?”

As you abandoned your half finished drink on a table and let him pull you a little further into him, a familiar song started to thump through the speakers.

“I love this song!” You exclaimed, letting the nameless guy rest his hands on your hips.

S.O.S., she's in disguise

There's a she wolf in disguise

Coming out, coming out, coming out

“Ironic,” you muttered under the music.

───────♡──────────────♡───────

Logan walked ahead of Ororo, Jean and Scott, his long legs taking him much further at a much faster pace.

“Logan, slow down!” Ororo called out, jogging a bit to catch up with him.

“What if she didn’t even want to be there? What if some guy dragged her there?”

“Oh,” Jean laughed, “ I see. You’re jealous.”

“No.”

“Yup.”

“Nope.”

“So you’d be fine if we walked in there and she is with a guy?”

Logan slowed his pace as they approached the entrance, “sure, whatever,” feigned disdain in his voice.

The second the door opened, the bass of the music was overwhelming. It was dim, save for a few colorful lights projecting around the room. The four of them were squished together near the door, trying to pick you out in a sea of moving people.

“This is gonna be like finding a needle in a haystack,” Scott shouted.

“Not necessarily,” Ororo replied, a smug smile on her face.

“What?” Logan furrowed his eyebrows.

She pointed across the room and he followed her gaze.

There's a she wolf in the closet

Open up and set it free

There's a she wolf in your closet

Let it out so it can breathe

You didn’t even look like you. He’d never seen you in anything that showed that much skin or any clothes that even hugged you like that, for that matter.

And you were with a guy.

Sitting across a bar, staring right at her prey

It's going well so far, she's gonna get her way

“So, what did we tell you?” Jean shouted, waving her hand in front of his glaring eyes.

“Just some kid,” he replied dismissively, turning to her, “doesn’t mean anything anyway.”

“You sure?” Scott nudged his shoulder, making Logan look towards you again.

That kid had his hands up the sides of your top with his head craned down to kiss your neck, your back to his chest. You were giggling, playfully smacking his arm. Truthfully, you thought the attention was nice for a change. After trying so hard for too long to get Logan to notice you, it felt good to have someone pay attention to you in that way.

Not looking for cute little divos or rich city guys

I just want to enjoy

By having a very good time

And behave very bad in the arms of a boy

You felt his hands squeeze your hips a little harder, enough for his nails to dig into your skin. Out of instinct, you felt your canine teeth start to poke against your lower lip. You tried in vain to tug his hands from you, only making him tighten his grip.

The switch in demeanor was obvious even from across the dark room, your smile turning into a grimace that bared your sharp teeth. You yanked the sleeves of his jacket to make him finally let go, turning around while he still had his arms ghosted around you.

S.O.S., she's in disguise

“Touch me like that again, you son of a bitch, and I will rip you to fucking shreds.”

You gathered fistfuls of his shirt, bringing him down to eye level so he could see your snarling teeth and gleaming eyes as a hint that you weren’t bluffing.

There's a she wolf in disguise

Coming out, coming out, coming out

Before anyone could even tell him to stay put, Logan had already disappeared into the crowd of people.

“God damn it,” Scott huffed, following Jean and Ororo when they went after him.

“Logan!” Jean yelled, trying to grab his jacket to slow him and only having him slip out of her grip.

There's a she wolf in the closet

Let it out so it can breathe

“Shit, I’m kinda into the fangs. What, you gonna bite me?” He was whispering in your ear, your hands still on his shirt. Before you could do something you were going to regret, you felt someone tug your upper arm and pull you away from him.

“Come on,” Logan snapped, “we’re leaving.”

“What the hell are you doing here? What do you mean we?” You yelled back. You didn’t want to stay anywhere near that guy but you weren’t ready to leave either and sure as hell not with Logan dragging you out like an angry parent.

“Hey, she doesn’t really look like she wants to leave with you, man,” the other guy interjected, keeping a grip on you by looping his fingers through one of the belt loops on your pants.

“Yeah? She doesn’t want to stay with you either, jackass,” Logan moved his hand from your arm to hold your hand instead, “she’s not interested.”

What the hell had gotten into him? You felt like you were in the middle of a tug of war with two dogs.

“No one’s gonna fucking ask what I want, right?” You tried to complain, neither of them hearing you.

“Your little doggy girlfriend here was just about to take care of me. You mad about it?” The other guy laughed and you nearly lunged at him, Logan’s hand tugging you back. He intended to pull you away so he could get to him first, but Scott, Jean and Ororo jumped in just in time.

“Alright - enough, enough, we’re leaving!” Jean yelled, pushing you all towards the door, Logan dragging you the whole way. When you finally were out in the cool evening air, you angrily yanked your hand from his.

“What are you guys doing here?” You asked, turning to Logan, “and what the fuck was that?”

“What was that? You’re welcome - “

“I didn’t ask you to come save me - from what, having a good time?”

“Oh, yeah, it looked like you were having a lot of fun,” he scoffed, “he had you by the hip so hard he probably left a bruise.”

He instinctively reached his hand out to check and you swatted it away, “Don’t - Don’t touch me!”

None of them had ever heard you sound so pissed off and you’d definitely never snapped at Logan like that before.

You took a deep breath and reached down to slip off your shoes, leaving you barefoot on the concrete.

“I’m sorry,” you apologized to the rest of them,” but why are you guys here?”

“You left without saying anything, we couldn’t find you and we wanted to be sure you were safe,” Ororo sighed, hugging you in relief, “we’re so glad you’re okay.”

You hugged her back.

“I just - I wanted to disappear for a while,” you explained apologetically, avoiding Jean and Scott’s gaze.

“Do you know how stupid it was to run off and not tell anyone where you were going?” Logan scolded you, but Jean clicked her tongue at him.

“Shut it! Enough from you! You’ve done enough damage control!”

The ride home was almost silent, your tired body slumped in the backseat between Scott and Jean, until Ororo spoke from the front passenger seat.

“Honey, I don’t mean this in a bad way, but,” she paused, thinking over her words, “what were you gonna do to that guy if we hadn’t stopped you?”

You understood what she meant immediately.

“What, you think I was going to kill him?” you asked, crossing your arms and leaning forward in your seat, “I wasn’t. I don’t do that unless I have to and you know even then I hate doing it.”

“I know…so, what were you doing with a guy like him anyway?” she asked, trying to move on from the question that had clearly made you upset, “he seemed kinda shady.”

Logan was gripping the steering wheel so hard that his knuckles were white, dreading the answer.

You shrugged your shoulders, staring at the synthetic fabric of your pants.

“Liked the attention, I guess,” you answered honestly, kind of hoping you could throw anyone off the idea of you being interested in Logan, “it’s been awhile since a guy has liked me like that.”

“He only wanted one thing from you anyway,” he scoffed from the front seat. Ororo glared at him, about to tell him to mind his business before you stopped her.

“And I can’t want it either?”

That shut everybody up and Ororo turned to him again, a look on her face that said ‘you asked, you got the answer’.

You tried to bolt to your room when you all got home but Logan was quick to follow, catching up with you to stand in your path in the hallway outside of your bedroom.

“What’s going on with you?”

“Leave me be.”

You tried to dodge around him but he stuck his arm out.

“Logan.”

He raised his eyebrows, waiting for you to continue speaking.

“Move.”

“I’m not leaving you alone until you tell me what’s going on with you. You don’t disappear like that, ever. And I wanna talk to you about last night - “

“There’s nothing to talk about. Goodnight,” you huffed, ducking under his arm and opening your door.

“I care about you, you know, I was worried,” he began to explain.

You tried to slam the door in his face but he stuck his foot out, jamming his boot between the door and the doorframe. You let go in defeat and turned away, gathering your pajamas as if he wasn’t in the room.

“Yeah? Why?,” you scoffed, trying with everything in you to bite your tongue but failing miserably, “I’m not your type of girl. What’s there to worry about?”

Logan’s face fell. He pushed the door closed behind him.

“Is that what this is about? That’s why you went out?”

“Why do you care?”

You still had your back to him, furiously shuffling through clothing in your dresser.

“Stop.”

You felt his hands on your arms as he came up behind you, paralyzing you in your spot.

You let him turn you around gently, almost chest to chest.

“I didn’t mean that.”

“You don’t have to lie to spare my feelings -“

“I’m not.”

He leaned back a little to force you to look him in the eye.

“I only said that - listen, I only said that because - “ Logan paused, biting his lip till it nearly bled, but you shook your head and slipped by him again.

“Please, don’t treat me like I’m stupid, Logan.”

You sounded so exasperated, tears forming in your eyes when you turned your back to him.

“Fuck,” he sighed, “I only said that because I didn’t want you to like me.”

You wiped the tear that rolled down your cheek and turned back to him, a confused expression on your face.

“It worked, are you happy?”

“No, I’m not - “

“Well, guess it backfired. Get out of my room.”

You were face to face again, keeping your mouth in a tight line so your lip wouldn’t quiver. It felt stupid to cry in front of him, but you couldn’t really help it once it started.

“Oh, god, please, don’t cry,” he begged, leaning down and actually bringing a hand up to your face to wipe away a tear that rolled down your cheek. You wanted to smack it away, tell him again to just get the hell out , but you couldn’t.

“Why would you do that?” You mumbled out quietly, finally letting the overwhelming feeling of sadness cancel out any rage you had for him. You couldn’t look him in the eye again, concentrating on the throw rug you were standing on.

“I’m so sorry, princess, I am. I’m really fucking stupid,” he huffed.

You were surprised by the softness of his voice and finally tore your eyes from the floor. He’d called you that before, but usually in a teasing way. This time it sounded endearing, like a plea of your name.

“And what happened there, at the club? ‘She’s not interested’, what was that about?” You continued.

He sighed, still trying to figure out what exactly it was that he wanted to say. He realized there probably wasn’t much of a way to beat around the bush and he groaned, closing his eyes as he stood in front of you to make spilling his guts a little less agonizing.

“I like you - like you a lot, and I was an asshole because I figured if you hated me, you couldn’t like me back and it would save you the trouble.”

Hearing no response, he finally opened his eyes to see you still standing in the same spot, your lips parted.

“Save me the trouble of what?”

You were confused, your eyes narrowed as if you were angry.

“I don’t know…having to deal with me, I guess. I - I’ve never felt the way I feel about you for anyone else and it scares the shit out of me.”

You could hear him swallow hard, his eyes looking everywhere around the room except at you.

“And earlier, when we picked you up,” he continued, “I acted like that because I was jealous, alright? Can’t stand to see some asshole on you like that, and you were dressed all nice and - I don’t know.”

You’d never heard him sound so nervous in all the time you’d known him.

“You are my type of girl,” he finally choked out, “only type of girl I’d ever want.”

All you could do was inhale sharply, his words echoing in your mind.

“It’s alright if you hate me, I can’t say I really blame you. Fuck, I’m sorry.”

He began to walk out, convinced he’d fucked up beyond repair.

“Logan.”

Your voice stopped his hand from turning your doorknob and he turned back to you.

No longer crying, you tentatively stepped forward a bit, nervously playing with the front hem of your top.

“You’re not something to deal with, you know,” you muttered, letting your hair fall in front of your face.

You supposed this was the point where it was your turn to explain.

“I’ve liked you for a long time, Logan, probably since the day I walked in here and I just - I think I wanted someone to distract me so I wouldn’t wallow in self pity because you didn’t want me.”

“You were trying to get over me,” he realized aloud, a small smile on his face to hide the hurt, “I deserved that.”

After a moment of tense silence, he spoke again.

“Did it work?”

His voice was low and soft, a tone you’d rarely heard him speak with.

You pursed your lips and finally lifted your head, taking a deep breath.

“No. I don’t think it was ever going to, either,” you laughed a little, “when that guy asked me to dance, the first thing I thought of was that he didn’t look anything like you.”

Your voice trailed off a little at the end, a little embarrassed to confess that even if Logan had already flat out told you he was interested in you.

Without another word, he came close enough to reach for your hands and gently intertwine your fingers with his. He cleared his throat, nervously chewing his bottom lip before he spoke.

“Can I kiss you?”

You must have had this dream a million times over, waking up night after night and feeling so empty because none of it was real. But now, with his hands in yours, it was very real.

You eagerly pressed your lips to his, not wanting to waste another second. His lips were soft and you were encompassed in the scent of his body wash and cologne, smelling of pine and cedar wood. You brought your hands up to play with his hair at the back of his head. Logan moved his arms to wrap around your waist, pulling you further into him.

When you finally pulled away from each other, you were both smiling like idiots.

“We should’ve done that much sooner,” you giggled.

“Agreed.”

His fingers traced small circles on the exposed skin of your back, making you shiver.

He kissed you again, this time with much more intensity. It wasn’t long before your tongues were in each other's mouths and you both had fumbled yourselves over to the end of your bed.

“Wanted you for so long,” he mumbled between kissing your neck and jaw, his hands still sliding up and down your back, “I was so stupid.”

“We both were,” you giggled a little, cut short into a moan when he licked your neck all the way from your collarbone to under your ear.

“L-Logan,” you gasped, unable to hide your blushing face.

He hummed into your neck, bringing his mouth to your ear, “Can I show you how sorry I am? Let me make it up to you.”

His voice made the hair on the back of your neck stand up and you let him pull you onto him to straddle his lap, lost in the feeling of his hands on you.

“Mmm, uh-huh,” you hummed, mouth hung open as he sucked light marks into your neck.

“You have to use your words, pretty girl,” he brought his head up to rest his forehead against yours. He cupped your jaw tenderly, almost as if you’d disappear if he let go.

Before you could answer, he moved his hands to drag your hips over his, grunting when he felt the pressure.

“Y-yes, yeah - please,” you choked out between moans, tugging his hair harder every time he pushed and pulled your hips.

“Please what, baby?”

“You - you can make it up to me,” you groaned into his neck.

He effortlessly lifted you by your thighs and laid you with your back to the bed. You untucked his white t-shirt from his jeans as he crawled over you, desperate to get your hands underneath it. You lightly scratched your nails along his back, making him groan into your ear. He kissed down your neck to the center of your chest, gently slipping his fingers under the hem of your top and around the back.

“Can I take this off you, baby?”

You were already sitting up before he could finish his sentence, reaching to try and untie the knot at the back of your neck.

“Eager, huh?”, he chuckled, “let me, sweetheart.”

He wrapped his arms around your lower back to tug at the knot, feeling it come loose in his hands. He snaked his hands up to the back of your neck, doing the same to the tied strings there. When it came loose, the only thing holding the piece of fabric to you was his hands at the back of your neck. He let it slip from his fingers, a smirk on his face when it fell completely.

You threw the garment somewhere to the floor and tugged on the collar of his t-shirt, bringing him down with you as laid back again and pressed your lips to his. He pulled back for a moment to yank his shirt off and immediately return his mouth to yours, making his way down to your neck. He brought both his hands to your chest and swept his thumbs over your hard nipples, eventually bringing his lips to them and sucking.

“Ah - Logan,” you whined, making him smile against your skin.

“I like it when you say my name, pretty girl,” he mumbled, dragging his fingers down your sides and hooking them into the waistband of your pants. He kissed all the way down to your hips, moving himself to lay on his stomach with his head between your thighs.

Before he could ask you if it was alright to rid you of them, you were already unbuttoning your pants and pushing them down your hips and thighs. He took them off the rest of the way for you and you kicked your panties off with them.

He hooked his arms around your thighs to pull you closer, licking his lips and resting his cheek on the inside of your thigh.

“I thought about you a lot, you know - like this,” he huffed, his warm breath fanning over your pussy.

You had your hands in his hair already, swiping fallen strands of hair out of his face.

“I thought about you like this, too,” you admitted, sighing as he started to plant kisses right above where you wanted him the most.

“Yeah?”

His teasing voice brought goosebumps to your skin and you nodded, gasping when you finally felt his lips graze your clit.

“This what you think about when you fuck yourself?” He mumbled into you, the vibration of his voice making you tighten your grip in his hair. He growled like an animal, trying to push you even further into his mouth by the grip on your thighs.

You were trying to choke out an answer, distracted by the wet sounds of him messily eating you out.

“Y - ah, yes, yeah - not as good as the real thing, though.”

He laughed with his mouth still attached to you and you tightened your thighs around his head, keeping him in place.

He could have spent hours with his mouth to your cunt, practically fucking you with his tongue while you whined his name.

A knock on your door sounded through the room, the both of you freezing in place.

“Hey, I just wanted to check on you. Are you feeling okay?”

It was Scott.

You grimaced, thankful at the very least that your door was locked, but Logan had a terribly smug smirk on his face.

“Y-yeah, I’m alright, just - just tired,” you managed to choke out, stuttering when you felt two of his fingers slip into you effortlessly.

“You sure?”

You sighed, hating and loving Logan at the same time for what he was doing.

“Yup, th-thank you, m’ jus’ gonna go to bed.”

Scott responded with a goodnight and you groaned in relief when you heard him walk away.

Logan was curling his fingers inside of you, still lapping at your pussy and letting you use your grip on his hair to angle his head however you wanted him. You felt the pressure in your lower stomach rise and you tried to warn him, tugging on the hair on the back of his head.

“Logan, I’m - “

“C’mon, pretty girl, c’mon.”

His encouragement sent you over the edge, euphoria blooming from your lower stomach and spreading through you. You had to cover your mouth to muffle your pornographic moans, but Logan reached up to tug your wrist.

“Uh-uh, wanna hear you, beautiful,” he mumbled into you, practically pushing your thighs even further around his head.

“Fuck, L-Logan, too - too sensitive,” you stuttered out, trying to pull his face away by his hair and failing miserably because of his grip around your thighs.

He eventually reluctantly detached himself and crawled back on top of you, sucking the taste of you off his fingers.

“I could do that for hours, you know, if you let me,” he groaned, pulling your hips up to him so you could feel the weight of his hard cock underneath his jeans.

Still sensitive, you reactively gripped his biceps and dug your fingernails into his skin. You were going to apologize and were quickly cut off by the guttural moan he let out into the side of your neck.

“Fuck,” he groaned, rocking his hips against yours.

“You’re into pain, huh?”

You figured it was your turn to tease him, dragging your fingernails from his shoulders all the way down his back.

“You’re gonna pay for that, pretty girl,” he grunted, moving quickly to undo his belt and strip himself of the rest of his clothing.

When his cock sprung up and hit his stomach as he took off his boxers, you swallowed hard; already feeling a wanting ache in your stomach again. You figured he was big - he was already a tall guy, after all - but he was far bigger than any guy you’d ever seen. Logan noticed the way you bit your lower lip, resting himself on top of you again and bringing his thumb up to pull your lip from under your teeth.

“What, are you nervous? It’s alright sweetheart, I’m not gonna hurt you.”

His voice was so soft and gentle, a tone you rarely ever heard from him.

You could feel the weight of his cock against your inner thigh, heavy and already leaking.

“ ‘m not nervous, I want you, please,” you begged, wrapping your legs around his waist. You reached your hand between your bodies to line him up with your entrance, trying to push him in with your legs around his waist.

“You sure?” he huffed, trying with every muscle in his body to not slam into you in one thrust.

You nodded eagerly, scratching at his lower back.

Logan couldn’t help himself and gave in, slipping himself into you.

“So tight,” he groaned into your neck, pushing himself in even further.

“You - fuck - you’re so fucking big,” you admitted truthfully, nearly drooling at the feeling of him stretching you out.

“Feels good?”

It was hard for him to speak when you were so wet that he was nearly slipping out of you as he gently rocked his hips back and forth, trying to be gentle and let you adjust to his size.

“Mm - uh-uh,” you hummed, gasping each time he pushed further.

“Use your words, sweetheart,” he huffed and you groaned, digging your nails into him.

“Y-yes, yeah - want you all the way in,” you whimpered.

That was all it took for him to be buried in you, grinding his hips into yours so that you were pinned to the mattress.

He worked up to a devastating pace, practically slamming your headboard into the wall.

“S-someone’s gonna - someone’s gonna hear us,” you managed to gasp out, out of breath every time he filled you and pulled back again.

“Don’t care, let ‘em,” he pressed his forehead to yours, bringing a hand up to your face to affectionately cup your cheek. It was so sweet and almost disgustingly hot, the caring gesture contrasting the intense feeling of him repeatedly slamming into the sensitive spot inside of you.

He really didn’t have a care in the world about who heard you both, far too lost in the feeling of finally being able to have you under him like that. You had sweat soaked strands of hair stuck to your face, your eyes squeezed shut, and he was almost sure you’d never looked more beautiful.

“So fucking pretty,” he huffed, his thumb swiping your bottom lip. He had an idea, one he’d considered many times when he thought of you under him like this.

“Bite me.”

You raised your eyebrows in surprise, threading your hand through his hair, “are you sure?”

“Please.”

You forcibly unsheathed your fangs, letting them tentatively poke at his thumb that was still to your lips.

He moved his hand to your throat, resting it there without tightening his grip.

“Please.”

His pleading had the heat in your lower stomach rising and you obliged, sinking your teeth into his shoulder. You felt guilty - you didn’t enjoy hurting people - until he was whimpering in your ear, moaning your name over and over again.

You bit his neck, his shoulders, his lip - all the small puncture wounds healing themselves within seconds.

Having him so pussy drunk and groaning praises into your ear brought the pressure in your lower stomach to a max and you cried out his name, letting him fuck you through your second orgasm.

“ ‘s good, huh, princess? Come on me, c’mon,” he was begging, feeling your muscles tense around him. That drove him over the edge, his hips rutting into you and his thrusts becoming sloppy. He finally let himself go, filling you and letting it drip from you onto the sheets. He pulled back a little to see the mess you had both made, your inner thighs painted with a mix of his release and yours. He went to pull out completely and you clamped your thighs around his hips again, keeping him still.

“Want me to stay?”

“Mhm - please.”

The sexual tension was replaced with loving comfort, Logan keeping you to his chest as he laid you both on your side. His chin rested on the top of your head and your face was against his chest with your eyes closed. You smiled at the thump of his heartbeat in your ear, nearly letting it put you to sleep.

“Hey, pretty girl,” he mumbled into your hair, planting a kiss on the top of your head, “you know I love you?”

The last three words made your eyes shoot open and you looked up at him, worried you’d misheard him or maybe he was just messing with you.

“Really?”

“Of course. You think I would’ve done that with you if I wasn’t in love?”

You thought hard for a second, realizing he was right. It wasn’t that he hadn’t had hookups before, but it had been quite a long time since he’d bothered to even get to know someone like that. He wasn’t the type to lead you on, either - always up front with you, even if he didn’t have to be.

“I love you too,” you answered, unable to hide the wide smile on your face.

“I should’ve told you much sooner,” he sighed, his eyes fluttering closed as you snuggled into him again.

Before you could both fall asleep from exhaustion, he yanked the comforter over the both of you, hearing you mumble sleepily.

“You can make it up to me some more.”

───────♡──────────────♡───────

A/N: If you made it to the end I love you <3 pls lmk what you think and reblog+like if you enjoyed!! also still navigating how to write smut without using cringe terminology so forgive me if that part sucks

#logan howlett #logan howlett x reader #logan howlett fic #logan howlett smut #logan howlett fanfiction #wolverine x reader #wolverine fic #wolverine fanfiction #wolverine smut #wolverine

5K notes · View notes

celestiamour · 4 months ago

Text

‧₊˚✧ ❛[ it's a gift (you keep those) ]❜

ft. logan howlett x f! reader — xmen, marvel

╰₊✧ giving him a plushie that reminded you of him┊1k words

setting: deadpool & wolverine (2024) worst! logan contains: fluff, crushes, probably ooc but he’s so cute & wade is hard to write for, written for dp&w logan so idk if he got gifts in xmen, i forgot about laura, they are in touch and have a wonderful father-daughter relationship, i’m so sorry, edited

➤ author's note: i have so many thoughts but too incompetent to write

logan’s never sure who will appear when he opens the door as wade’s quite the extrovert, either vanessa or one of his many other friends whom he’s now become somewhat acquainted with, but he certainly wasn’t expecting to meet the familiar eyes of the cute neighbor who lived a few doors down. he nervously scratched the back of his head, suddenly becoming aware of his shabby appearance, “uh, are you looking for wade?”

“no, i was actually looking for you!” god, your smile is so bright, it’s blinding. he normally hates perfume of any sort as it’s so overpowering to his heightened senses, but the one that you wore smelled so lovely like always. is that a new shade of lip gloss you’re wearing? it really suits you. (why on earth is he noticing all of these details out of the blue? he needs to snap out of whatever spell you put on him after being introduced when he first showed up and only interacting in passing since then).

“looking for me?” he repeated, in disbelief, trying his best not to allow his surprise to slip into his voice. considering he isn’t from this dimension and not the most agreeable person to be around, he had no friends of his own yet and hasn’t been visited by anyone since he got here. a beat of panic struck him, thinking that he was in trouble for something and you came to complain. he really couldn’t think of any other reason you were here for him even though you were so cheerful.

you were carrying some shopping bags with you, dropping them on the ground before reaching into one and pulling out a large fuzzy plushie of a gray cat hidden under layers of glittery tissue paper, “i saw this cutie when i went shopping with my friends and thought it looked like you!” you held it out for him to take, looking so proud of the stuffed animal.

he hesitated for a second before accepting it, trying to take in the fact that you were reminded of him in your day-to-day life. it made his heart flutter, and he found himself dumbfounded by the feeling. he was frequently teased by his roomate about his little “crush” on you, claiming that it was oh so obvious and that the sooner he accepted it, the better, but he never realized until now how pathetic he was when it came to you. was the wolverine really getting butterflies like a fucking schoolgirl in his old-ass age? thank god no one was home right now to bully him about it, he would never hear the end of it.

“it does not look like me,” he scoffed playfully after a quick examination.

“no, it definitely does! it’s a big, grumpy kitty—” you took a step closer to hold it with him, pointing at all the similarities you observed, although it was clear you were exaggerating for laughs. “see the little frowny face and ears? it could be your identical twin separated from birth! willy mentioned that you act like a cat most of the time, and i think it fits perfectly!”

the smile he didn’t realize was plastered on his face faltered at the last piece of information, grateful that you didn’t notice. that idiot has been talking about him to you? he might as well forget about any chance of getting with you, because knowing how he yaps without a filter and loves to play matchmaker, you probably think he’s a freak of some sort. “only good things, i hope…”

you giggled, the sweetest sound he ever heard. “of course, he’s really fond of you… well, maybe a bit too fond, but you already know about that!” you opened your mouth to continue the conversation or say something else, but your phone started ringing and you excused yourself, looking a little shy as you grabbed up your bags. “i’ll talk to you later!” you sounded so excited about the prospect of it before leaving, your voice and footsteps becoming fainter as you walked back to your place.

“wait, you didn’t take back the cat—”

“it’s a gift! you keep those!”

“oh… right…”

he lingered for a moment, unable to say much in response since you left in such a rush. when was the last time someone gave him a present? staring at this brand new item, he still couldn’t see the resemblance in any way, but knowing that it was a gift from you gave him a rare feeling of happiness which returned every time he looked at it from then on among his few possessions.

“oh my goodness, what is this adorable thing?!” wade exclaimed when he saw it sitting on the couch where logan slept, picking it up to gawk at before tossing it up in the air and catching it before it hit the floor. “ooh, let me guess, it’s a gift from her, isn’t it?”

the mutant groaned at his mocking tone. “put it down before you ruin it with your grubby hands,” he commanded, snatching it from his grasp (rough enough to make his point clear, but carefully enough not to tear it apart). his roommate didn’t even bother pretending to be offended like he usually would as he was simply overjoyed that his “ship” was coming true. “it doesn’t mean anything, don’t make it weird.”

“it doesn’t mean anything?! how can you say that when it’s going to be the first gift you give to your first child together—”

“first what??”

“nevermind, what are you gonna name it?”

“i have to name it?”

“have you never owned a stuffed animal before? you have to name it! how heartbroken is she going to be when she asks what you named it and you say that you haven’t done that?! she’s gonna think that you don’t value her gifts!” you would think the world was going to end if he didn’t do so if you heard the way he was speaking.

“fine, i’ll name it…” he looked deeply into the toy’s soulless eyes, noting how soft the outer material was against his calloused hand, “... fluffy…”

“that’s such a shitty name—”

“shut the fuck up, it’s been decided.”

#📜. her works #logan howlett #logan howlett x reader #deadpool and wolverine #wolverine #wolverine x reader #hugh jackman #x men #x men x reader #marvel #marvel x reader

3K notes · View notes

astrxq · 4 months ago

Note

I watched Damsel with Millie Bobby Brown, and I was thinking it would make a great Jace x reader story, if you're taking requests. Something like him being the prince who has to fake a wedding and then offer her as a sacrifice on the mountain to the dragon, but ends up falling in love and decides to rescue her. Or maybe he is the dragon that is cursed, and would only return to human form if he found his soulmate, in this case the sacrifices (the girls were thrown into the dragon's pit) because otherwise he would burn down the city, just like in the film. - 💜

The Dragon's Bride

jacaerys velaryon x fem!reader

words: 17k (oops?)

notes/warnings: non-canon events, description of blood/cuts (blood oath), religious guilt (jacaerys), kissing, angst??, slight ooc jacaerys and rhaenyra, mentions of death, animal death, jace's council SUCKS!!!

The weight of duty had never felt heavier on Prince Jacaerys’ shoulders as he stood before the ancient weirwood tree in the godswood of the Red Keep. The face carved into the trunk seemed to watch him with knowing eyes, judging his every thought and action.

Jacaerys ran a hand through his long-curly hair, and took a deep breath. The task before him was one he had dreaded since childhood, a burden passed down through generations of his family. As the heir to the Iron Throne, it fell to him to carry out this grim duty.

“My prince,” a voice called from behind him. Jacaerys turned to see one of the maesters approaching, his chain clinking softly with each step. The old man's face was etched with concern. “The Small Council awaits your presence. It is time to begin the selection process.”

Jacaerys nodded, his eyes clouded with resignation. “I'll be there shortly.”

As the maester retreated, Jacaerys cast one last glance at the heart tree. “Give me strength,” he whispered, though he wasn't sure if he was addressing the old gods, the new, or simply the universe itself.

The walk to the Small Council chamber felt like a march to his own execution. Each step echoed through the stone corridors, a countdown to a fate he couldn't escape. When he reached the ornate doors, he paused, steeling himself for what was to come. With a deep breath, he pushed them open and entered, two soldiers walking behind him.

The room fell silent as Jacaerys took his seat at the table.

Queen Rhaenyra spoke first, her voice steady. “My son, The dragon of Dragonstone grows restless,”

Jacaerys nodded, his throat tight. Still silent.

Ser Alfred leaned forward, his eyes sharp. “The tradition is clear, Your Grace. Prince Jacaerys must choose a lady from among the noble houses of Westeros. He will wed her in a ceremonial marriage, and then...” He trailed off, the unspoken fate hanging heavy in the air.

“And then I must take her to the dragon,” Jacaerys finished.

Lord Corlys, ever the pragmatist, spread a collection of scrolls on the table. “We have compiled a list of suitable candidates from houses loyal to the crown. Each lady comes from a family of impeccable lineage and has been deemed worthy of this... honor.”

As Jacaerys looked at the names before him, he couldn't help but feel a wave of nausea. Each name came with a charcoal drawing of the girls. These were not just names on parchment; they were living, breathing young women, each with hopes and dreams of their own. And he was to choose one to condemn to a terrible fate.

“May I have some time to consider?” he asked, his eyes meeting his mother's.

Queen Rhaenyra hesitated. She nodded, her expression softening slightly. “Of course.”

As the council members filed out of the room, Jacaerys remained seated, staring at the scrolls before him. The weight of his task pressed down on him, threatening to crush his spirit entirely.

Jacaerys stared at the scrolls spread before him, each one bearing the name and likeness of a young woman whose fate now rested in his hands. The charcoal drawings seemed to come alive under his gaze, eyes filled with hope and innocence that he would soon extinguish. His fingers trembled as he reached for the first scroll.

Jacaerys felt his breath coming faster, his heart pounding in his chest. One by one, Jacaerys examined the scrolls, each lady's face burning itself into his memory.

As the hours wore on, the faces began to blur together, a parade of innocent lives that he was tasked with judging. Who among them deserved this fate? How could he possibly make such a choice?

Jacaerys stood abruptly, pacing the length of the chamber. He ran his hands through his curly hair, tugging at the strands in frustration. The weight of his duty pressed down on him, threatening to suffocate him where he stood.

A knock at the door startled him from his thoughts. “Enter,” he called, his voice hoarse from disuse.

A servant girl entered, carrying a tray with bread, cheese, and wine. “Begging your pardon, Your Grace,” she said, bobbing a curtsy. “The Queen thought you might need sustenance.”

Jacaerys nodded absently, gesturing for her to set the tray on a side table. As she turned to leave, he caught sight of her face – young, perhaps a few years younger than himself.

“Wait,” he said, causing the girl to pause at the door, worried. “What is your name?”

She turned, surprise evident on her face. “Myra, Your Grace.”

“Myra,” he repeated, studying her. “Tell me, Myra, if you had to choose someone to... to face a great danger, how would you decide?”

The servant girl's eyes widened, clearly taken aback by the question. She fidgeted with her apron, considering her words carefully. “I... I suppose I would choose someone brave, Your Grace.”

Jacaerys nodded slowly. “And if all the choices seemed equally brave?”

Myra bit her lip, then said softly, “Then perhaps... the kindest one, Your Grace.”

With those words, she curtsied again and slipped out of the room, leaving Jacaerys alone with his thoughts once more.

He returned to the table, looking at the scrolls with fresh eyes. Brave and kind – could he discern those qualities from these brief descriptions and charcoal portraits?

As he sifted through the scrolls again, one caught his eye. He had overlooked it before, distracted by the more prominent houses. But now, something about it called to him.

Your name was written at the top in elegant script, followed by a brief description of your house and accomplishments. But it was the portrait that held his attention. The artist had captured a certain light in your eyes, a hint of a smile that spoke of warmth and courage.

Jacaerys found himself reading your description more closely. You were not from one of the great houses, but your lineage was respectable. What stood out were the small details – your love of books, your kindness to those less fortunate, the way you had once stood up to a local threat to protect a younger child.

He closed his eyes, trying to imagine you facing the dragon. In his mind's eye, he saw you standing tall, afraid but unbroken. He saw kindness in your gaze, even in the face of such terror.

Opening his eyes, Jacaerys looked at the other scrolls once more. Each lady was worthy in her own right, each life precious. But something about you called to him, a feeling he couldn't quite explain.

With a heavy heart, knowing the fate he was condemning you to, Jacaerys set your scroll aside. He had made his choice.

As dawn broke over King's Landing, painting the sky in hues of pink and gold, Jacaerys stood once more before the heart tree in the godswood. He pressed his palm against the rough bark, feeling the ancient power thrumming beneath.

“I've chosen,” he whispered to the carved face. “Gods help me, I've chosen.”

Jacaerys had never been one for prayer, nor had he put much stock in the gods, old or new. As a prince of the realm, his education had focused on matters of state, the intricacies of court politics, and the art of war. Faith had always seemed like an afterthought to him, a crutch for the weak. But as the time for this grim tradition approached, he found himself drawn to the godswood more and more frequently, seeking solace in the ancient silence of the heart tree.

The sound of a throat clearing shook him out of his thoughts, the same maester who had long-ago taught him to translate High Valyrian stood with his arms to his sides. “Emagon ao reached iā decision, ñuha dārilaros?” [Have you reached a decision, my prince?]

Jacaerys’ brows furrowed in deep contemplation.

“Eman,” [I have,] Jacaerys finally spoke, his voice carrying the weight of his decision. He glanced once more at the ancient weirwood, as if seeking guidance from the silent face carved into its trunk. “Prepare iā vōljes.” [Prepare a raven.]

The maester nodded solemnly. “To whom shall I send it, Your Grace?”

Without another word, Jacaerys reached for his pocket, pulling out the folded scroll with your name on it. He stared at it for a few seconds before, with an attempt of a steady hand, he handed it over.

The news of Prince Jacaerys' choice spread through the Red Keep like wildfire. Whispers filled the corridors, a mix of curiosity and pity for the unknown girl who had been selected for this “honor.” In the days that followed, preparations began in earnest for your arrival and the ceremonial wedding that would precede the grim journey to Dragonstone.

Jacaerys found himself both dreading and anticipating your arrival. He had made his choice, but the reality of what that meant hadn't fully sunk in yet. As he went about his daily duties, he couldn't shake the image of your portrait from his mind – the light in your eyes, the hint of a smile that had drawn him to you.

Every time he’d walk the halls, silence would follow, awkward stares from the staff and sometimes a hushed whisper that he’d pretend not to hear.

“Can you imagine? Poor thing, chosen to face the dragon,” he overheard once, making him clench his fists in frustration. “She's just a girl, freshly two tens of age.” another voice murmured sympathetically, but it offered him little comfort.

Despite the weight of duty pressing down on him, Jacaerys couldn't bring himself to discard the drawing. Instead, he kept it close, hidden away in a drawer beside his bed. Every night before he slept, he would retrieve it and stare at your likeness by the dim light of a candle. It wasn't a gesture of admiration or affection, but rather a self-imposed penance, a reminder of the destiny he had sealed for you.

In the quiet moments of the night, when the castle slept and he was alone with his thoughts, Jacaerys would silently plead to the gods. He didn't kneel before the heart tree anymore; he didn't utter formal prayers. Instead, his appeals were whispered in the darkness of his chamber, words of regret and sorrow that mingled with the flickering candlelight.

“Istin sagon punished isse ōdres syt se rest hen ñuha tubissa, syt eman ōdrikagon iā innocent.” [I must be punished in pain for the rest of my days, for i have hurt an innocent]

The court continued its whispered discussions about the impending ceremony, but Jacaerys withdrew further into himself. He attended council meetings and performed his princely duties with a stoic demeanor, hiding the turmoil that churned beneath the surface. There were moments when he almost reconsidered, when he almost resolved to defy tradition and spare you this fate. But each time, the weight of his lineage and the expectations of his people bore down upon him, forcing him back into the role he was destined to play.

The night before you were set to arrive, Jacaerys couldn't sleep. He paced his chambers, his mind racing with thoughts of what was to come. As the first light of dawn began to creep through his windows, he’d realized he hadn’t had a blink of sleep.

He stood at the window of his chambers, watching the sun rise over King's Landing. The city was already stirring, unaware of the personal turmoil of its future king. As he gazed out at the sprawling streets and towering buildings, Jacaerys couldn't help but notice the big blob of citizens, all awaiting at the stair’s entrance of the Keep,

A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts. “Enter,” he called, turning from the window.

A servant stepped into the room, bowing deeply. “Your Grace,” she said softly, “the Lady has arrived.”

Jacaerys nodded, his heart sinking at the news. The moment he had been dreading was finally here. He turned back to the window, taking one last look at the city before steeling himself for what lay ahead.

“Thank you,” he said to the servant, his voice steady despite the turmoil within. “I will be down shortly.”

As the heavy door closed behind her, echoing through the halls, Jacaerys took a deep breath, his mind racing. Finally, with a last, steadying breath, Jacaerys left his chambers and made his way down to the courtyard. The walk felt like a dream, each step echoing in the silent corridors of the Red Keep. Servants and guards stepped aside as he passed, their eyes filled with a mixture of respect and pity.

As he approached the grand entrance, he could hear the murmurs of the crowd outside. The people of King's Landing had gathered to witness the arrival of the chosen lady, their curiosity palpable in the air. Jacaerys squared his shoulders, bracing himself for the spectacle that awaited, his mother’s hand on his shoulder as a small-support for him.

As Jacaerys stepped out into the courtyard, the murmur of the crowd hushed to a reverent silence. Nobles and commoners alike pressed forward, eager to catch a glimpse of the prince and his chosen bride.

Jacaerys felt his breath catch in his throat as he laid eyes on you for the first time.

You were even more striking in person than your portrait had suggested. Your eyes, bright and intelligent, scanned the crowd before settling on Jacaerys.

Prince Jacaerys was beautiful, his long curly hair framing his face, his eyes intense as they met yours. You couldn't help but notice the dark circles under those eyes, the weariness that seemed to hang about him like a cloak.

Jacaerys descended the steps slowly, each movement deliberate and controlled. As he approached, you sank into a deep curtsy, your gaze lowering respectfully. “Your Grace,” you said, your voice steady despite the enormity of the moment. “I am honored by our betrothal.”

For a moment, Jacaerys found himself at a loss for words. He turned to look at his mother with a confused look on his face. You didn’t know? The Queen shook her head at him, so lightly that only he could notice.

He reached out, gently taking your hand and helping you to your feet.

“My lady,” he said softly, loud enough for you to hear but not for the eager crowd.

The murmurs of the crowd faded into the background as Jacaerys led you through the courtyard, his mother Queen Rhaenyra by his side and your family next to yours.

“Your Grace,” Jacaerys whispered, eyeing his mother. “I was not told that my betrothed didn’t know of the… arrangement.”

Queen Rhaenyra's gaze softened as she walked beside Jacaerys and you, the procession moving towards the Great Hall where the formalities would take place. Her voice was low, meant only for her son's ears amidst the murmurs of the courtiers and the lingering hush of the crowd.

“My son, there are matters of tradition that sometimes defy explanation,” she began, her tone tinged with empathy. “It is the way of our world, and you know as well as I do the weight of duty that rests upon us.”

Jacaerys glanced at his mother, a mixture of frustration and sorrow flickering in his eyes. “But she should have been informed,” he murmured quietly, his grip tightening subtly on your hand. You didn’t pay it any mind, as you were occupied speaking to your father, who reminded you – once again – of your duty to bring the Prince a babe to be the heir to his throne.

“I understand not telling the common folk, but, her?” He hushedly spat out, almost glaring at his mother, “She is to be fed to a dragon.”

Queen Rhaenyra sighed softly, her gaze turning ahead as they approached the Great Hall's grand entrance. “She will come to understand her role in time, Jacaerys. As will you,” she replied, her voice tinged with a hint of regret at the sight of her son’s worry.

He stole glances at you, trying to gauge your feelings, silently hoping that somehow, you might find a way to forgive the circumstances that had brought you both here. Once you sat at the Small Council table, ready to speak of the marriage that would take place in merely a few weeks, the room fell silent. You glanced around nervously, acutely aware of the attention shifting towards you and the Prince that sat straight by your side.

“My daughter knows her duty,” Your father started, making one of the maesters clear his throat in discomfort, Jacaerys glared at the old man. “She is healthy, and able to bring a babe to the world.”

You nodded, trying to hide the tremble in your hands.

Jacaerys turned his head to look at you, your furrowed brows as you listened to his mother explain how the ceremony of your wedding was going to play off. He clenched his fists on the table, trying to hide his overwhelmedness by taking a long sip out of his wine.

The meeting was a blur for Jacaerys, his mind not allowing him to pay attention to any of the preparations, all he could think about was the innocent look on your face, unknowing of your fate, and the stern look of his own Council, awaiting for the day to come.

Eventually, after having had enough of listening to your families’ planning, he stood. “Excuse me,” he voiced, offering his hand for you to take as the room fell silent. “Me and my betrothed will leave you to it, we will walk together.”

You glanced around nervously, uncertain of the proper protocol, but your father nodded in approval, prompting you to take Jacaerys' hand. His hand was cold, he rushed the two of you out of the room and out to the gardens, he didn’t speak until you stepped out of the Keep.

“You know,” he began, breaking the silence, “I used to spend a lot of time here as a child. My mother would bring me to the gardens to escape the formality of court. It was my sanctuary.”

You listened intently, intrigued. “It's beautiful,” you replied softly, glancing around at the serene landscape. “I can see why.”

“I apologize for the abruptness back there,” he began, his voice soft but tinged with a hint of urgency. “It's... overwhelming, all of this. I wanted to give us a moment away from all the... planning and discussions.”

You glanced at him, noticing the tension in his jawline, the weight that seemed to press down on his broad shoulders. His gaze was distant, as if wrestling with thoughts beyond the present moment.

“I... I wanted to ask how you are,” he continued, his tone tentative. “This must all be quite... unexpected for you.”

“It is... a lot to take in,” you admitted quietly, choosing your words with care. “But it is an honor to marry the Prince.”

Jacaerys nodded, though his expression remained troubled. He attempted to push down the burning feeling in his stomach, the guilt eating at him.

Silence fell between you for a moment, the distant sound of birdsong and the gentle rustle of leaves providing a backdrop to your conversation. Jacaerys seemed to gather his thoughts before speaking again.

“What do you enjoy doing?” he asked suddenly, his curiosity genuine. “Aside from the obvious duties and expectations... What brings you joy?”

The question caught you off guard, but you appreciated the chance to speak of something beyond the weight of your impending marriage. “I love books,” you confessed with a small smile. “I used to sneak away to a small library in our keep,” you confided, a hint of nostalgia in your voice. “It was quiet, away from the noise of daily life. I could lose myself in the pages for hours.”

He almost sighed when he saw a small smile creeping on your face as you spoke of your memories. “That sounds wonderful,” he said softly, his voice tinged with melancholy. “I... I hope you'll find some comfort in the library here, during your stay.”

You nodded, grateful for his consideration. “I look forward to exploring it. Do you have any favorite books or subjects, Your Grace?”

Jacaerys seemed to relax a bit at the change of topic. “Please, when we're alone like this, call me Jacaerys,” he said with a small smile. “And yes, I've always been fascinated by the histories of Old Valyria. The tales of dragons and ancient magic... they're quite captivating.”

“Jacaerys,” you repeated, testing the name on your lips. “I'd love to hear more about that. We don't have many books on Valyria where I'm from.”

He brightened a bit. “Really? Well, there's this one volume about the Doom that's particularly interesting. It theorizes about what might have caused it.”

As you walked, Jacaerys began to explain some of the theories, his hands moving animatedly as he spoke. He aimlessly walked you to the library, you followed his steps as he spoke. You couldn’t help but notice the looks the servants gave you, almost pitiful, as you walked past them.

Some whispered, covering their mouths with their hand so it would stay a secret. Jacaerys didn’t pay it any mind, his hand moving to lock both of your index fingers as he kept spitting out everything he’d learned about the Doom’s theories.

As you entered the grand library, your eyes widened in awe. Shelves upon shelves of books stretched as far as you could see, their spines glinting in the soft light filtering through high windows.

Jacaerys watched your reaction with a small smile. “Impressive, isn't it? I thought you might appreciate it.”

You nodded, still taking in the sight. “It's magnificent. I could spend years here and never read everything.”

Jacaerys led you deeper into the library, his fingers still lightly entwined with yours. “Let me show you some of my favorite sections,” he said, guiding you through the towering stacks.

As you walked, Jacaerys pointed out various tomes and scrolls, explaining their significance. His enthusiasm was infectious, and you found yourself relaxing, asking questions and sharing your own thoughts.

“Here,” Jacaerys said, pulling a large, leather-bound volume from a shelf. “This is the book on the Doom of Valyria I mentioned. Would you like to look at it together?”

You nodded eagerly, and Jacaerys led you to a nearby reading nook. As you sat side by side, heads bent over the ancient text, the weight of your circumstances seemed to lift momentarily. For a little while, you were just two people sharing a passion for knowledge and history.

You recognized High Valyrian words you’d learned here and there, but were grateful that Jacaerys patiently explained the meaning of each passage aloud.

“Se sīr īles foretold ondoso se scribes hen Valyria bona se vējes would māzigon bē īlva, heralded ondoso iā rōvēgrie shaking hen tegon se iā sȳndror bona would swallow se vēzos.” [And so it was foretold by the scribes of Valyria that the Doom would come upon us, heralded by a great shaking of the earth and a darkness that would swallow the sun.]

His voice resonated softly in the library's hallowed silence, you’d noticed his tense demeanor from hours earlier had eased into a more relaxed and gentle attitude.

As the families concluded their meeting in the Great Hall, the formalities of the betrothal were settled. You were to remain at the Red Keep under the watchful eye of Queen Rhaenyra and her court, preparing for the ceremonial wedding that would precede the journey to Dragonstone. Jacaerys escorted you back to your temporary chambers, a solemn air hanging between you.

Inside the quiet sanctum of your quarters, away from prying eyes, Jacaerys finally allowed his guard to drop. He paced restlessly, his fingers running through his hair in frustration. “I'm sorry,” he blurted out suddenly, his voice thick with emotion. “I don’t want you to miss your home.”

You watched Jacaerys with concern, his sudden outburst catching you off guard. “Your Gr- Jacaerys,” you corrected yourself, remembering his earlier request. “It's alright. I knew when I was chosen that I would have to leave my home behind. It's part of my duty.”

He looked like he wanted to push the conversation, to speak his mind, but he simply shut his mouth and nodded once. “Very well.”

An awkward silence fell between you. There was clearly something unsaid hanging in the air, but neither of you seemed willing or able to address it directly.

Finally, Jacaerys cleared his throat. “I should let you rest. It's been a long day, and I'm sure you'd like some time to settle in.” He moved towards the door, then paused, turning back to you. “If you need anything, anything at all, please don't hesitate to ask. I want you to feel at home here.”

That night, Jacaerys found himself staring at the canopy above his bed, unable to find solace in sleep once again. The events of the day weighed heavily on his mind, particularly the encounter with you, the chosen lady whose fate he now bore responsibility for. He tossed and turned, unable to shake the image of your face – bright, hopeful, and utterly unaware of the doom that awaited you.

He sat up abruptly, running his hands through his hair in frustration. “Gods, forgive me,” he whispered into the stillness of the night. He repeated what he did each night, the only sounds in the room being his own whispers.

As Jacaerys whispered his nightly plea for forgiveness, the weight of his decision pressed down on him more heavily than ever before. Meeting you in person, seeing your bright eyes and hearing your voice, had made the reality of his choice painfully tangible.

It was a cruel twist of fate that someone with such a love for knowledge and life should be destined for… He couldn't even bring himself to think the words.

Unable to find peace, Jacaerys rose from his bed, wrapping a cloak around his shoulders to fend off the chill of the night. He left his chambers quietly, the corridors of the Red Keep almost deserted at this late hour. Only the occasional guard patrolled the hallways, their presence a silent reminder of the ever-watchful eyes of the realm.

He found his feet leading him to the godswood once more, drawn to the ancient heart tree that had witnessed so much over the centuries. The rustling leaves seemed to whisper secrets as he approached, the carved face staring down at him with its perpetual expression of knowing.

“Why have you done this to me?” Jacaerys asked, his voice a broken whisper. “Why have you placed this burden on my shoulders?”

The tree, of course, offered no answer. It stood silent and stoic, a testament to the countless generations who had sought its guidance and solace.

“Old gods,” he whispered, his voice trembling, “I don't know if you can hear me, or if you even care. But I need your guidance. I need to find a way to fulfill my duty without losing my soul in the process.”

The face carved into the tree seemed to watch him with those same knowing eyes, offering no answers, only silent judgment.

Jacaerys sank to his knees before the heart tree, the weight of his duty pressing down on him with unbearable force. The faces of the young women whose fates he had held in his hands swirled in his mind, but it was your face that haunted him the most. The way you had looked at him with trust and curiosity, unaware of the doom he had chosen for you.

The Prince had fallen asleep at the feet of the heart tree, woken up by his Queen’s scolding gaze and her sharp voice as she shook his arm. “Wake up, Jacaerys!” Queen Rhaenyra's voice cut through the early morning stillness of the godswood. Her hand shook his arm gently but insistently until he stirred, groggy and disoriented.

Jacaerys blinked up at his mother, the reality of where he was and what awaited him crashing back with painful clarity. “Mother – Your Grace.” he murmured, rubbing his eyes as he rose to his feet, feeling the ache in his bones from sleeping on the hard ground.

“You should be resting in your chambers, not sleeping out in the godswood like some lost soul!”

He hummed, throat sore from the cold air of the night, as his Queen dragged him inside holding onto his wrist. Jacaerys followed his mother back to the Red Keep in a fog, the events of the previous night and the weight of his decisions still heavy on his mind. Queen Rhaenyra's scolding was just a distant echo to him as they walked through the quiet corridors, servants bowing respectfully as they passed.

They walked by the Grand Hall, he managed to makeout your sitting figure, all alone, with a full plate in front of you as one of the servants poured juice into the cups. At the loud, angry steps that scurried in the hall, you lifted your eyes to meet his for a split moment before he was dragged away to his own chambers to compose himself.

“Your betrothed is sat at the table, waiting, and you’re out asleep in the gardens.”

Jacaerys felt a pang of embarrassment as he remembered the fleeting glance he had exchanged with you through the grand hall. It was bad enough to be caught by his mother and scolded like a child, but to have you witness such a moment of vulnerability added another layer of discomfort.

Once safely within his chambers, the embarrassment deepened. He leaned heavily against the door, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath to steady himself. He readied himself, not bothering to call the servants, and approached the Great Hall.

It was silent, all he could hear as he walked in was the sounds of his youngest siblings playing with their food. Approaching you, he felt a knot tighten in his stomach. You looked up as he approached, your expression a mix of curiosity and apprehension. Jacaerys cleared his throat, unsure of how to begin.

“My lady,” he began softly, “I apologize for my absence.”

You looked at him, your eyes searching his face for understanding. “It's quite alright,” you replied with a small smile that didn't quite reach your eyes.

He noticed a thick book sitting next to your feast, the old worn-out cover with the carved in title he recognized from the section he’d shown you the day before. “The Doom of Valyria,” Jacaerys noted with a slight surprise, gesturing towards the book. “You found it interesting?”

You nodded, a genuine spark of enthusiasm brightening your expression. “I figured we could look at it together. I thought it might help me understand more about... well, everything,” you admitted softly, your gaze flickering briefly to the book before returning to meet his eyes.

Jacaerys nodded, feeling his mother’s eyes move to him in a warning. Don’t get attached.

He didn’t initiate another topic of conversation, casting the room in silence while you had your breakfast. The Queen stood, taking her youngest son into her arms while two other servants followed behind with the other kids, leaving you alone in the Hall.

“We can look at it now, if you wish.” he spoke, hand reaching for the book once he’d finished drinking his cup. You nodded eagerly, grateful for the opportunity to delve into something other than the weighty expectations of your impending marriage. You both moved to a quieter corner of the Great Hall, away from the prying eyes of the courtiers who lingered nearby.

Jacaerys settled onto the floor, patting the space beside him. “Come on, it's more comfortable down here,” he said with a grin.

You laughed softly, gathering your skirts as you joined him. “If anyone walks in, they'll think we've lost our minds.”

“Let them,” Jacaerys chuckled, opening the book across both your laps. “Now, where shall we start?”

Your eyes skimmed the pages, landing on an illustration of a great city. “What's this?”

“Ah, Old Valyria at its height,” Jacaerys explained, his finger tracing the intricate drawing. “See those spires? They say they were forged by dragonfire.”

“It's beautiful,” you murmured, leaning in closer. Your shoulder brushed against his, and you felt a small thrill at the contact.

Jacaerys turned his head, his face now inches from yours. He hummed before he cleared his throat, a smile playing at his lips. “Did you know they had a saying? 'Valar morghulis.'“

“What does that mean?” you asked, tilting your head curiously.

“All men must die,” Jacaerys translated, his voice low.

You raised an eyebrow. “Cheerful bunch, weren't they?”

He chuckled, fingers playing with the edge of the page before turning it. The text was dense with Valyrian history and conjecture, but Jacaerys patiently translated and explained each passage to you.

After a while, as if unable to contain his turmoil any longer, Jacaerys cleared his throat softly, breaking the companionable silence. “My lady,” he began, his voice tinged with regret, “I must apologize once more for my absence this morrow. It was... inconsiderate of me to leave you waiting.”

You looked up from the book, meeting his gaze with a mixture of surprise and understanding. “Jacaerys, it's alright,” you assured him gently, “And, please, you must call me by my name as well.”

He nodded once, turning his head to the book again, then back at you, “I wasn’t… out, I fell asleep in the gardens.”

You felt a small wave of relief wash over you and tilted your head slightly, studying his expression. “It must have been a rough night,” you said softly, empathizing with the weight he carried. “I understand.”

“I didn't mean for you to witness me like that. It was... unbecoming.”

“It is only human to seek solace,” you replied gently, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Even princes need moments of peace.”

He nodded, a faint smile touching his own lips in return. You hummed in thought at Jacaerys’ silence, a beat passed, “If I am to marry the prince, I shall better my High Valyrian.”

His face tensed, holding back a frown at the thought of you not having enough time to learn the language before… the day. “I can assist you with that, if you'd like,” he finally said.

You felt a surge of relief at his offer. You turned your head to the book, focusing on Jacaerys’ explanation once again. Before he could continue, the sound of footsteps echoed through the hall. A servant appeared, bowing low.

“Your Grace, my Lady,” he said, lying through his teeth, “The Small Council requests Prince Jacaerys' presence immediately.”

Jacaerys sighed, the weight of his responsibilities settling back onto his shoulders. He stood, offering you a hand to help you up as well. He gave you a small smile before closing the book and handing it off to you.

“I am sure there is a High Valyrian dictionary somewhere, feel free to roam the library.” he said finally before turning to follow the servant to his awaiting family.

You watched Jacaerys leave, the book heavy in your hands. His sudden departure left you feeling oddly bereft, the warmth of your shared moment fading as quickly as it had come.

With a soft sigh, you made your way back to the library. The vast room felt different now without Jacaerys' presence – larger, more intimidating. You wandered through the towering shelves, searching for the dictionary he had mentioned.

Finally locating the book, you settled into a comfortable chair near a window. Sunlight streamed in, illuminating the pages as you began to study.

Hours passed, the light shifting as the sun traversed the sky. You had made some progress with your studies, but questions continued to gnaw at you. You tapped your foot repeatedly on the ground as you stared at the closed doors of the Small Council in the distance, having seen Jacaerys walk out hours before but having been too slow to catch up to him before he left for his chambers again.

As evening approached, a servant appeared to escort you to dinner. You followed, your mind still churning with unanswered questions. The dining hall was quiet, with only a few courtiers present. Jacaerys was noticeably absent.

“Where is Prince Jacaerys?” you asked the servant as she poured your wine.

“Still in council, my lady,” she replied, her eyes darting away quickly. “They've been at it all day.”

You nodded, picking at your food without much appetite. The absence of Jacaerys only heightened your sense of unease. Something was happening, something beyond the typical preparations for a royal wedding.

You retired to your chambers, the High Valyrian dictionary tucked under your arm. As you prepared for bed, you muttered to yourself the few words you’d memorized.

“Dārilaros Jacaerys,” [Prince Jacaerys] “Iksi naejot sagon dīnagon.” [We are to be wed.] you repeated softly to yourself, the unfamiliar words echoing in the quiet of your chambers. The weight of those words, of your impending marriage to Prince Jacaerys, hung heavily in the air.

You’d figured Jacaerys had begun to ignore you, a week went by and the servant’s lie about the Small Council no longer held up. A week had passed, each day stretching out with an almost unbearable tension.

Every day, you found yourself in the grand library, delving deeper into the pages of history and language, trying to distract yourself from the growing unease. You studied diligently, but your mind often wandered back to Jacaerys, how every time you walked past him in the halls he’d turn his head, how he’d scurry away after having spent the meals in silence with his family and you sitting next to him.

The whispers and pitying glances from servants and courtiers alike only added to your discomfort.

One evening, as you sat in the library poring over your High Valyrian studies, you heard the soft sound of footsteps approaching. Looking up, you saw Jacaerys standing at the edge of the shelves, his expression a mixture of guilt and hesitation.

He called your name softly, his voice barely above a whisper. “I... I hope I'm not disturbing you.”

You shook your head, gesturing for him to join you. “Not at all, Your Grace. I've been hoping to speak with you.”

Jacaerys moved closer, taking a seat across from you. His eyes fell on the open books spread before you, and a small smile tugged at his lips. “You've been studying diligently, I see.”

“Yes,” you replied, meeting his gaze.

Jacaerys once again fell into silence. His small smile faded, replaced by a look of deep concern and inner turmoil. The warmth that had briefly appeared in his eyes dimmed, shadows of worry creeping back into his expression. You watched as he seemed to retreat into himself, his posture stiffening, his gaze growing distant.

Despite your hopes for a longer conversation, for a moment of genuine connection, Jacaerys soon excused himself. His words were polite but hurried, his tone apologetic yet firm. As he left, you felt the weight of unspoken words hanging in the air between you. Once more, you found yourself alone with your books, the silence of the library seeming to mock your growing frustration.

The pattern continued throughout the weeks, becoming a painful dance of near misses and avoided glances. During meals, Jacaerys would keep his eyes fixed on his plate, responding to questions with short, noncommittal answers. His shoulders would tense whenever you entered a room, and he would find reasons to leave shortly after.

In the corridors of the Red Keep, your paths would cross, but any hope of conversation was quickly dashed. Jacaerys would offer a hurried nod, his pace quickening as he passed by. You began to feel like a ghost in your own home, unseen and unheard by the very man you were to marry.

As evening approached and the anticipation of the upcoming wedding ceremony weighed heavily on your mind, the silence became unbearable. The thought of entering into a union shrouded in such secrecy and distance filled you with dread. Questions swirled in your mind, each unanswered inquiry adding to your growing resolve.

You decided you couldn't bear the silence any longer. The need for answers, for some semblance of understanding, outweighed your fear of confrontation. With determination setting in your jaw and courage steeling your spine, you made the decision to seek out Jacaerys and demand the truth, whatever it might be.

Just before bedtime, you spotted Jacaerys walking down the hallway towards his chambers. Gathering your courage, you called out to him.

“Issi ao dobōtēdrā nyke?” [Are you ignoring me?] Your pronunciation was still rough, but he wouldn’t tell you that.

Jacaerys froze at the sound of your voice, his hand resting on the handle of his chamber door. He turned slowly, his eyes wide with surprise at your use of High Valyrian. For a moment, he seemed to struggle with how to respond.

“No,” he said softly, his voice barely audible in the quiet hallway.

You stepped closer, your frustration evident in your posture and the set of your jaw. “What is it, then?” Your words were stilted, nerves eating at you. “The wedding is tomorrow, Jacaerys. I've been left in the dark, treated like a ghost in these halls. The servants whisper about me, everyone looks at me like they pity me. And my own betrothed ignores me.”

Your outburst seemed to startle him. He ran a hand through his hair, a gesture you'd come to recognize as a sign of his distress. “You're right,” he said finally, his shoulders sagging. “I apologize.” Jacaerys hesitated, clearly wrestling with his thoughts. “I... I'm sorry for my behavior. It's not fair to you.”

You stepped closer, your frustration bubbling over. “No, it's not. We're to be married tomorrow, and I barely know you. Everyone in this castle looks at me with pity, and you can't even bear to speak to me. What am I supposed to think?”

Jacaerys winced at your words. “It's complicated,” he said softly, avoiding your gaze.

“Then explain it to me,” you pressed, your voice rising slightly. “I've left my home, my family, everything I've ever known. The least you could do is tell me why you've been avoiding me like I'm afflicted with greyscale.”

“I cannot do that,”

You huffed, he ran a hand through his hair again, clearly agitated. “I can't... I can't tell you everything. Please, try to understand.”

“Understand what?” you pressed, your patience wearing thin. “That my future husband would rather pretend I don't exist? That everyone in this castle looks at me with pity, and I don't know why?”

Jacaerys opened his mouth as if to speak, then closed it again, shaking his head. “I'm sorry,” he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper. “I truly am. But I can't... I can't do this right now.”

With that, he turned and retreated into his chambers, leaving you standing alone in the hallway, your frustration and confusion only growing.

You stared at his closed door for a long moment, anger and hurt warring within you. Finally, with a huff of exasperation, you turned and stormed off to your own chambers.

In your chambers, you paced restlessly, the events of the evening replaying in your mind. Jacaerys' evasiveness had left you feeling isolated and uncertain, the weight of unanswered questions pressing down on you. You glanced at the High Valyrian dictionary on your bedside table, its pages now familiar but offering no solace.

You’d fallen asleep quickly, the sound of hurried footsteps woke you and only then did you realize it was already dawn. A flurry of activity surrounded you. Servants bustled about, preparing you for the ceremony. You donned the gown chosen for you, feeling more like a doll being dressed than a bride preparing for her wedding day.

Jacaerys refused to meet your eyes once you stood in front of each other, the privacy of the ceremony surprised you, only his family present and a few of the maesters. Words felt like a blur, you looked down at your hands that were wrapped in his, the priestess’ speech didn’t make you pay any more attention than you already were, too focused on hoping for this to end soon.

“May the gods bear witness to this union. As you now pledge your troth to one another, let it be known that your fates are bound by blood and by honor.”

You only snapped out of your haze when you felt Jacaerys’ warm hands leave yours, and reappear in your line of sight with a silver knife. He held one of your hands, placing it on his before drawing blood, thinning the action careful to not hurt you. Then he moved the blade to your lips, a small, simple cut to them before he handed you the tool.

You did the same, mirroring his every move, he shut his eyes when your cold blade reached his mouth, barely reacting to the cut. Then, a kiss, like the priestess called. Jacaerys cupped your cheek, his bloodied hand holding onto yours, and the taste of blood quickly filled your mouth. It was a slow kiss, just one, and he pulled away with a sigh.

His thumb ran over your cheek once more before he took a step back, offering you a handkerchief to stop the bleeding. You dabbed delicately at your lips with the handkerchief, your mind reeling from the sudden intimacy of the kiss. Jacaerys' touch lingered on your cheek, leaving a tingling sensation.

The ceremony concluded with ceremonial words and blessings, but as you stood beside Jacaerys, you couldn't shake the feeling of disconnection between you. His demeanor remained distant, his eyes often flickering away whenever you sought to meet them.

After the formalities, you found yourself in a small antechamber adjacent to the grand hall where the ceremony had taken place. Jacaerys was silent as attendants bustled around, preparing to escort you away from the ceremony.

“Jacaerys,” you began tentatively, searching for some semblance of understanding or connection, “Can we talk?”

His shoulders slumped, eyes carrying a tire and sadness heavier than the one you’d been seeing for the past weeks. He didn’t hear you, at least that’s what you told yourself as he stood and walked away from you once again, leaving you sat with the stained handkerchief in your hands.

You huffed, anger running through you as you hurried after him. You find him at the heart tree, its ancient branches looming over him like silent sentinels. Jacaerys stood before it, his hands clenched at his sides, his gaze fixed on the carved face of the tree. His expression was haunted, burdened with the weight of secrets and responsibilities. He mumbled in High Valyrian words that you had still not learned on your own.

“Jacaerys,” you called out softly, approaching him cautiously. He turned to you, his eyes weary. “I didn't mean to startle you,” you continued, your voice gentle yet tinged with the frustration that had been building within you for weeks.

He sighed heavily, “I thought you might come,” he admitted quietly, his voice barely carrying over the rustling leaves of the godswood.

“Why won't you talk to me?” you asked, your voice breaking slightly with emotion. “We're married now, Jacaerys. Avoiding your wife is far harder than avoiding your betrothed.”

Jacaerys turned to face you fully, the weight of his responsibilities etched deeply into his expression. His gaze softened as he took in your presence, the frustration in your voice not lost on him. “I didn't mean to shut you out,” he began, his voice tinged with regret. “I am sorry.”

You stepped closer, standing beside him beneath the ancient heart tree, its presence casting a tranquil yet solemn atmosphere around you. He didn’t speak, both of you staying silent while he shut his eyes, the weariness still evident on his face.

“Do you come here often?” you broke the silence once it got too quiet, too tense.

He nodded, “I do,”

“I didn’t know you were faithful to the gods.” you stated, hand moving to touch the tree, his eyes followed your movements carefully.

He hesitated, his gaze drifting from your hand on the tree back to your eyes. “I seek guidance here,” he admitted quietly, his voice carrying the weight of vulnerability. “It doesn’t always come to me, but-” he stopped talking, shrugging before he let his hand fall from the tree, yours following suit.

“Mother said it would be easier to avoid you,” he mumbled, his voice seemingly weakening. You found yourself reaching out to him, your hand brushed against his, fingers intertwining gently as you stood beneath the heart tree together.

“What would?”

“The marriage, everything, I don’t know.”

Jacaerys didn’t pull away from your touch, though his expression remained guarded. His hand felt warm in yours, the tension in his shoulders gradually easing. The quiet of the godswood enveloped you both.

“But we’re married now, Jacaerys.” you murmured softly, squeezing his hand gently.

Jacaerys' expression softened, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Can we start anew?”

“I would like that,” you said, returning his smile. A comfortable silence fell between you, the tension of the past weeks beginning to ease.

“Perhaps,” Jacaerys suggested hesitantly, “we could continue our High Valyrian lessons together? I've missed our time in the library.”

Your face brightened at the suggestion. “I'd like that very much. I have so many questions about the Doom of Valyria that I've been saving up for you.”

Jacaerys chuckled, a warm sound that you realized you'd missed hearing. “Well then, we'd better get started.”

With a tight hold on your hand, he pulled you gently towards the castle. As you walked back together, a sense of cautious optimism filled the air between you. The silence was no longer tense, but contemplative, as if you were both considering the new beginning that lay ahead.

Entering the grand library, Jacaerys guided you to the familiar corner where you had spent so many hours studying together. He selected a few books from the shelves, their leather bindings worn with age and use. As he set them down on the table, dust motes danced in the sunlight streaming through the high windows.

Jacaerys looked up at you, his expression softening as he met your gaze. “I chose a few books that might interest you,” he said, his voice gentle. “But perhaps we could talk about these past weeks. I’ve missed you, you know?”

Jacaerys' words hung in the air, the unexpected admission causing a flutter in your chest. You settled into the familiar chair beside him, the scent of old parchment and the quiet rustle of pages creating a comforting cocoon around you both. Despite the turmoil of the past weeks, this small corner of the library had become a refuge, a place where the outside world and its burdens seemed to fade away.

You looked at Jacaerys, his expression open and earnest, the guarded demeanor he had worn like armor slipping away. “I've missed you too,” you replied softly, the truth of your words resonating in the silence that followed.

He gave a small, grateful nod, his fingers absently tracing the edge of one of the books. “Have you been studying on your own?” he began, his voice tinged with regret.

You shrugged, “Hm, There was no one to teach me,”

“There are plenty of maesters, they taught me and my brothers-”

“Nobody in this castle really speaks to me, other than you, now.”

Jacaerys' eyes filled with a mixture of guilt and sorrow at your words. He opened his mouth to respond, but closed it again, seemingly at a loss. The silence between you grew heavy, the air thick with unspoken words and emotions. “It’s alright,” you interrupted his thoughts, “Have you any favorite spots in the Keep?”

Jacaerys smiled at your attempt to lighten the mood, clearly grateful for your effort. “I do, actually,” he said, a hint of enthusiasm returning to his voice. “There's a balcony overlooking Blackwater Bay. It's quiet and the view is breathtaking, especially at sunset.”

You nodded, intrigued. “I'd love to see it. Perhaps we can go there sometime?”

Jacaerys' smile widened, his eyes brightening. “I'd like that very much. How about after our lesson today?”

“That sounds perfect,” you agreed, a grin plastered on your face.

Jacaerys began explaining the text, his voice steady and patient. As he spoke, you found yourself not just listening to the words, but also watching him – the way his eyes lit up when he talked about something he was passionate about, the way his fingers moved delicately over the pages. You pretended not to pay any mind to the arm he’d draped over your chair half way through the page you were on at the moment, his fingertips moving up and down your arm and playing with your hair every now and then.

Time seemed to fly by, and before you knew it, the afternoon sun had dipped lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the library. Jacaerys glanced out the window, then back at you. “Shall we go, then?” he asked.

You nodded, feeling a flutter of excitement. Jacaerys led you through the winding corridors of the Red Keep, his hand in yours, the path becoming more familiar with each step. Finally, you arrived at the balcony he had described.

“It's beautiful,” you murmured, gazing out at the water sparkling under the setting sun.

Jacaerys nodded, his eyes on you. His hand moved to your backside, gently resting there, he drew you closer, wrapping his arms around you in a comforting embrace. You leaned into him, feeling a warmth spread through you at his touch.

“We could go on a walk after supper,” Jacaerys whispered, his voice barely audible above the soft sounds of the waves.

For the first time since arriving at the Red Keep, you felt a glimmer of what could be between you and Jacaerys.

With a soft sigh of contentment, you turned to Jacaerys and met his gaze, your heart lighter than it had been in weeks. “A walk sounds nice.” you said, your voice filled with newfound determination and a hint of excitement.

The weeks that followed were a gradual thawing of the ice that had formed between you, a slow but steady warming that began to transform your arranged marriage into something more.

True to his word, Jacaerys resumed your High Valyrian lessons in the library. What started as stilted, formal sessions soon evolved into hours of animated discussion and shared laughter between the two of you, melting away the image of duty-headed Prince Jacaerys. You found yourself looking forward to these moments, eagerly anticipating the smallest hint of time you would spend together.

“Skoros iksis aōha glaesagon uttoma raqiros?” [What is your favorite animal?]

You pondered for a moment, searching for the right words. “Ñuha glaesagon uttoma raqiros iksis... zaldrīzes? Hen se tembyr.” [My favorite animal is... dragon? From the books.]

Jacaerys' smile faltered for a brief moment, so quickly you almost missed it. But then he was grinning again, praising you. “That was really good.”

Moving on, he flipped the page, continuing the lesson as you practiced more High Valyrian together. His patience and encouragement helped you gain confidence in both the language and your interactions with him.

Outside the library, your walks with Jacaerys became a routine. He showed you hidden corners of the Red Keep, sharing stories of its history and his own childhood adventures. You, in turn, shared tales of your own homeland, finding common ground in unexpected places.

As the days passed, you began to see a different side of Jacaerys. The brooding, distant prince was replaced by a man with a quick wit and a passion for knowledge that matched your own. You discovered his love for astronomy, often finding him on the castle's highest tower, charting the movements of stars and planets.

One clear night, he invited you to join him. As you climbed the winding stairs, your heart raced with a mixture of exertion and anticipation. When you reached the top, Jacaerys was waiting, a bronze tube in his hands gleaming in the moonlight.

“I thought you might enjoy this,” he said softly, gesturing for you to look through the eyepiece.

“What is it?” you asked as he handed it to you, you inspected it, mirrored his moves and looked through it.

“To look at the stars,” he came behind you, hands covering yours. Jacaerys stood close behind you, his breath warm on your neck as he pointed out constellations and explained their mythologies that he’d read about in books. You found yourself acutely aware of his presence, a warmth spreading through you that had nothing to do with the summer night.

These moments of closeness became more frequent as the weeks went by. You would catch Jacaerys watching you with a soft expression when he thought you weren't looking. His hand would linger on yours a moment longer than necessary when passing you a book. The air between you began to crackle with an unspoken tension, a growing attraction neither of you dared to acknowledge openly, even as husband and wife.

Jacaerys kept visiting the heart tree, his begs for a punishment getting bigger and bigger as he got to know you, the weight of the fate he’d put you up to too strong for him to bear.

After a particularly tense council session, you found Jacaerys in the godswood, his head bowed before the heart tree. You approached quietly, not wanting to disturb his contemplation.

“You can join me, you know?” he said without turning, a small smile in his voice. “I always know when you're near.”

You moved to stand beside him, your shoulder brushing against his. Jacaerys was quiet for a long moment, his eyes fixed on the carved face of the weirwood. “They ignore me, I think,” he mumbled. “The gods.”

You listened quietly, feeling the weight of his words. The godswood was serene around you, the rustling leaves and the faint whisper of wind creating a backdrop to Jacaerys' contemplation. You didn't interrupt, letting him speak at his own pace.

“I've prayed for guidance, for clarity,” Jacaerys continued, his voice barely above a whisper. “But I've received nothing. No sign, no answers.”

The vulnerability in his voice tugged at something inside you. You glanced at the heart tree, its solemn face seemingly watching over both of you. “Maybe the gods speak in ways we don't always recognize,” you offered gently. “Or perhaps they're waiting for you to find your own path.”

Jacaerys sighed, his shoulders slumping slightly. “I'm not sure I know what that path is anymore.”

He trailed off, frustration evident in the set of his jaw. You reached out, cupping his face gently in your hands. “Jacaerys,” you murmured.

For a moment, it seemed as though he might tell you everything. His eyes searched for yours, filled with a longing that made your heart ache. But then, as quickly as it had appeared, the moment passed. He leaned forward, pressing his forehead against yours.

“I don’t want you to suffer,” he whispered, his breath warm on your skin. You sighed, running your palm over his chest and holding his hand. “Have you been sleeping?”

He nodded, “Yes, a little,” Jacaerys admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. His hand tightened around yours, seeking comfort in your touch. “I find it hard to rest sometimes.”

You nodded sympathetically, your thumb gently tracing circles on the back of his hand. The godswood was peaceful around you, the soft rustle of leaves and the distant song of a bird filling the air.

“Come on.” you mumbled, tightening your hold on his hand to walk him to his chambers, hoping that sleep would make his worry go away.

The atmosphere in the council chamber had been tense for days. The air was thick with anticipation, the kind that only comes when a significant decision hangs in the balance.

Jacaerys sat at the head of the table, his expression solemn. Beside him, Queen Rhaenyra watched with a mixture of maternal concern and royal composure.

“Prince Jacaerys,” one of the maesters began, his voice steady but with a note of urgency. “The time has come to finalize our preparations. The court and the realm await your decision regarding the next steps. Dragonstone must be prepared to receive its... visitor.”

Jacaerys clenched his jaw, feeling the weight of their eyes on him. He had known this moment was inevitable, but that did nothing to ease the dread that coiled in his stomach. He looked to his mother, seeking any sign of support or reprieve, but her face remained unreadable. She had taught him well about the burdens of leadership, but this was a trial he had to face alone.

“My lords,” he said finally, his voice betraying none of the turmoil within him. “I understand the importance of tradition and the necessity of the ritual. However, the lady is... not ready.”

Ser Alfred, ever the traditionalist, did not miss a beat. “Your Grace, the ritual must be completed as dictated by our customs. The dragons are restless, and we cannot afford any delay. Dragonstone awaits her arrival.”

Jacaerys's hands tightened around the armrests of his chair. He had expected resistance, but the reality of it was far more daunting than he had imagined. The council's resolve was unyielding, their eyes reflecting the hard truth that duty often demands sacrifices.

“Can’t the dragon be fed… sheep, or pigs?”

“The tradition is sacred, Prince Jacaerys. It is through these rituals that we maintain our bond with the dragon and ensure it’s calm. To suggest an alternative is to risk breaking a chain that has bound our house for centuries.”

Jacaerys felt the pressure mounting, the room closing in around him. He looked to his mother once more, her face a mask of calm. But there was a flicker in her eyes, a silent communication that only he could interpret – a plea to tread carefully.

Queen Rhaenyra finally spoke, her voice smooth and commanding. “The Prince raises a valid point. However, the choice has already been made, the preparations have already begun in Dragonstone.”

Jacaerys’s heart sank at his mother’s words. The finality of the preparations being underway in Dragonstone echoed the inevitability he had been trying to avoid. The room seemed to close in on him, the expectations of his ancestors and the weight of the realm pressing down on his shoulders. He pressed his lips tightly together, grinding his teeth in frustration.

The council resumed their discussions, the tension palpable in the air. Jacaerys listened as the members debated the logistics of the journey to Dragonstone, the protocols to be followed, and the necessary preparations for the lady. Every word felt like a dagger twisting in his gut, each mention of the ritual reinforcing the grim reality he wished to avoid.

He was being ignored by his own Council, his mother and queen quietly sipping her wine as she stole glances at him.

The same maester from before concluded, “We will proceed as planned. The bride will be escorted to Dragonstone, and the ritual will be conducted according to tradition. We cannot afford to falter.”

The meeting adjourned, and the council members rose from their seats, their conversations continuing in hushed tones as they filed out of the chamber. Jacaerys remained seated for a moment, his mind racing with the weight of their decision.

He rose from his seat and made his way to the godswood, seeking solace in the ancient silence of the heart tree once again.

The walk to the godswood was a blur, his mind consumed by a whirlwind of emotions. When he finally reached the heart tree, he pressed his palm against the rough bark, feeling the ancient power thrumming beneath his touch. The carved face seemed to gaze back at him, its expression inscrutable.

“Why do you remain silent?” Jacaerys whispered, his voice barely more than a breath carried away by the wind. “Do you not see the weight upon me? The burden of tradition threatens to consume everything I hold dear.”

The heart tree offered no answers, its carved face unmoving, its eyes seeming to gaze through him rather than at him. Jacaerys felt a pang of bitterness and betrayal at the feeling of being helpless, of being ignored by his gods and by his people.

He turned away from the heart tree, pacing restlessly amidst the tranquil setting of the godswood. The gentle rustling of leaves and the soft murmur of the wind offered no comfort. His thoughts raced, his mind replaying the council meeting and the inevitable march towards tradition that seemed to crush any hope of a different outcome.

In that moment of turmoil, his thoughts turned to you – the one person who could ease the burden of his troubled heart. He longed to see you, to escape the suffocating confines of duty and council chambers, to find solace in your presence. You were a beacon of warmth and understanding amidst the cold realities of court politics and ancient rituals.

Without hesitation, Jacaerys made his way back to the Red Keep, his steps quickening with purpose. He sought you out, driven by a need to be with someone who understood him, someone who could offer comfort without words.

Boredom had driven you to the library once again, the Red Keep not having many other activities to keep you occupied while your husband was in the Small Council. The chatter of the Small Council meeting echoed in your mind, their discussions on matters of state and tradition dulling your senses. You recalled Jacaerys' words earlier in your betrothal, his gentle encouragement to explore the library freely, to find respite from the formalities that governed court life.

As you browsed the shelves, your fingers trailing along the spines of ancient tomes, a small, leather-bound volume caught your eye. It was tucked away in a corner, almost hidden behind larger books. Curious, you pulled it out, noting the lack of a title on its worn cover.

Settling into your favorite reading nook by the window, you opened the book carefully. The pages were filled with elegant High Valyrian script, the ink faded but still legible. Your heart quickened with excitement at the challenge of translating this mysterious text.

As you began to read, deciphering the archaic language with the skills you had honed over the past months, the content of the book slowly revealed itself. It appeared to be a chronicle of Targaryen traditions, dating back to the family's origins in Old Valyria.

Your translation was slow at first, but as you progressed, certain phrases began to leap out at you. “Se zaldrīzes demands iā jorrāelagon...” [The dragon demands a sacrifice...]

Your brow furrowed in concentration as you continued, your heart beginning to race as the true nature of the text became clear. “Hen tubis naejot tubis, se dārilaros iksis naejot ōdrikagon iā riña naejot se zaldrīzes...” [From time to time, the heir is to choose a lady for the dragon...]

With trembling hands, you turned the pages, your mind reeling as you pieced together the full horror of what you were reading. The tradition, passed down through generations of Targaryen rulers, of sacrificing a young woman to appease their dragons. The ceremonial marriage, followed by a journey to Dragonstone, where the bride would meet her fate.

As the full implications of what you had discovered washed over you, a cold dread settled in the pit of your stomach. Suddenly, Jacaerys' behavior, the pitying looks from the servants, the whispers that followed you through the halls – it all made terrible sense.

You were not just a bride. You were a sacrifice.

The book slipped from your numb fingers, falling to the floor with a dull thud that echoed in the empty library. Your mind raced, trying to reconcile the Jacaerys you had come to know – kind, intelligent, affectionate – with the man who had chosen you for this grim fate.

As the shock began to give way to a mixture of fear and anger, you heard footsteps approaching. Looking up, you saw Jacaerys entering the library, his face lighting up when he saw you. His expression softened as he took in your familiar presence – a book in your hand, and a furrowed look on your face. But as he drew closer, his expression changed, noticing the pallor of your face.

“What's wrong?” he asked, concern evident in his voice. “Are you feeling ill?” He knelt beside you, reaching out tentatively, as if unsure whether to touch you.

You recoiled slightly at his approach, a surge of conflicting emotions welling up inside you. Tears continued to flow unabated down your cheeks as you struggled to find your voice, to articulate the turmoil that gripped your soul.

He reached for your hand again, this time more insistently, but you pulled away, the sting of betrayal cutting deep. “You... you chose me,” you whispered, your voice laced with accusation. “To be sacrificed.”

He recoiled as if struck, his own eyes filling with tears of remorse and helplessness.

You stood there, your body trembling with a mixture of fear and anger. The sight of Jacaerys, once a source of comfort, now filled you with an overwhelming sense of betrayal. Your eyes, brimming with tears, darted around the room, unable to settle on his face for more than a moment. The urge to flee, to put as much distance between yourself and this man who had deceived you, was almost overpowering.

“How... how could you?” you finally managed to choke out, your voice barely above a whisper. The words felt thick in your throat, as if your body was physically resisting the act of speaking to him. Your hands shook as you clutched the book to your chest, a tangible reminder of the horrifying truth you had uncovered.

Anger bubbled up inside you, mixing with the fear and hurt. It manifested in the way your jaw clenched, in the tightness of your shoulders. You wanted to scream, to rage at him for his deception, but the words wouldn't come. Instead, hot tears spilled down your cheeks, a physical manifestation of your inner turmoil.

You took a step back as Jacaerys moved towards you, your body instinctively recoiling from his presence. The man before you now seemed like a stranger, far removed from the gentle, caring husband you thought you had come to know. Your breath came in short, sharp gasps as panic began to set in.

“Stay away from me,” you managed to say, your voice cracking with emotion. The betrayal cut deep, a wound that felt almost physical in its intensity. Your mind raced, replaying every moment, every kind word and gentle touch, now tainted by the knowledge of your true purpose.

Your eyes, wide with fear and glistening with tears, finally met his. In that moment, the full weight of your situation crashed down upon you. You were trapped, bound by tradition and duty to a fate you never asked for, chosen by a man you had begun to trust and even love. The realization left you feeling hollow, your anger giving way to a deep, aching despair.

Jacaerys' face contorted with anguish. He took a hesitant step towards you, his hand outstretched, but you flinched away violently.

“Please,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “Let me explain. I never meant to-”

“To what?” you spat out, finding your voice again. The words came out in a rush, fueled by fear and rage. “To lie to me? To condemn me to death? What exactly didn't you mean to do, Jacaerys?”

“I thought I knew you,” you continued, your voice breaking. “I thought... I thought what we had was real.”

Jacaerys' face crumpled at your words. “It is real,” he insisted, taking another step closer. You backed away, your back hitting the bookshelf behind you. “Everything between us, every moment – it's all been real. I swear it.”

You shook your head violently, unable to reconcile his words with the horrifying truth you'd discovered. “How can you say that?” you demanded, your voice rising hysterically. “How can any of it be real when you've been planning my death this whole time?”

Jacaerys’s expression twisted in agony as he absorbed the impact of your words. He stood rooted to the spot, a few steps away from you, his hand still outstretched as if hoping that a simple gesture could bridge the widening chasm between you.

“I never wanted this,” Jacaerys began, his voice barely above a whisper, choked with emotion.

You shook your head vehemently, tears streaming down your face. “You chose me.” you spat out, your voice cracking.

“No, that's not what I-”

“Then what?” you demanded, your voice rising. “What exactly was your plan? To make me fall for you and then feed me to a dragon?”

Jacaerys's face contorted with pain. “I've been trying to find another way. I've been fighting the council, trying to change things-”

“And failing!” you interjected, your fear and anger boiling over. “All while lying to me every single day!”

“I wasn't lying to you!” Jacaerys protested, his voice rising to match yours. “I was trying to protect you!”

“How can I believe anything you say now?” you cried out, your body shaking with sobs.

Just as Jacaerys opened his mouth to respond, a sharp knock at the library door interrupted your heated exchange. You both froze, turning to see a servant entering hesitantly.

“Begging your pardon, Your Grace,” the servant said, bowing low. “The Small Council requests your immediate presence. They wish to begin preparations for... the journey.”

The servant's eyes flickered between you and Jacaerys, clearly sensing the tension in the room.

You sobbed at the mention of the event, even servants keeping secrecy of your fate.

Jacaerys clenched his jaw, he turned back to you, his eyes pleading. “Please, we need to talk about this. Let me explain-”

But you were already backing away, seizing the opportunity of the interruption to escape. “I wish to be left alone,” you said, your voice trembling. Without another word, you brushed past the confused servant and fled from the library.

Jacaerys stood frozen for a moment, watching as you fled, your sobs echoing through the hallways. His heart ached with the weight of his own guilt and the fear of losing you completely. Ignoring the servant’s continued bowing and murmurings, he sprinted after you, desperate to make you understand.

He reached your chamber door just as you slammed it shut, the sound reverberating down the corridor. He pressed his palms against the heavy wood, his forehead resting against it as he tried to steady his racing heart.

“Please, let me explain!” he called out, his voice thick with desperation. “I know you're hurt and angry, but you need to hear me out!”

Inside, you sank to the floor, your back against the door, tears streaming down your face. Your body shook with silent sobs, the enormity of the betrayal crushing down on you.

“Everything I've done,” Jacaerys continued, his voice muffled through the door, “I've done to protect you. I never wanted to deceive you. I never wanted any of this. But the council, the traditions... they're suffocating us both.”

His words felt like they were trying to reach you, trying to penetrate the thick wall of pain and anger that surrounded your heart. But the fear of your impending fate and the betrayal you felt were too overwhelming.

“Please, you have to believe me,” he begged, his voice breaking. “I love you. That love is real. And I will find a way to save you, I swear it. Just give me a chance to make this right.”

You hugged your knees to your chest, your mind a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. The pain, the fear, the betrayal – they were all so raw, so immediate. But beneath it all, a small part of you wanted to believe him, wanted to believe that the man you had come to care for was not the monster this situation painted him to be.

“I don’t know how to trust you again,” you whispered, knowing he couldn’t hear you through the thick door.

“I'll do whatever it takes,” Jacaerys vowed, his voice trembling with determination. “Just... don't shut me out. Please.”

The silence that followed was heavy, the air thick with the weight of his words. You stayed where you were, torn between the deep love you had started to feel for him and the horrifying reality you had uncovered. The choice to let him in or to push him away entirely seemed insurmountable in that moment.

With that, he pressed his hand against the door one last time, as if trying to offer some semblance of comfort through the barrier between you, before turning and walking away, leaving you alone with your thoughts and your heartache.

When he entered the room, the council members were already deep in discussion, their hushed voices filling the space with an air of urgency. They looked up as he entered, some with mild surprise, others with impatience.

“Your Grace,” the maester began, “we are ready to pick up from where we left off earlier. We were just finalizing the preparations for the journey to Dragonstone.”

Jacaerys clenched his fists, his frustration barely contained. “This madness must end,” he declared, his voice shaking with a mixture of rage and desperation. “We cannot continue with this barbaric tradition. There has to be another way.”

They looked at him as if he was a loose-tempered child, their expressions a mix of annoyance and dismissal. Jacaerys stood firm, his eyes burning with intensity as he faced the council that seemed so indifferent to his pleas.

“Your Grace,” the man interjected, his tone patronizing, “tradition is not something to be discarded lightly. It is what binds us to our heritage, what ensures the stability of our rule. The dragons demand their due.”

Jacaerys shook his head in disbelief. “Is that all you see her as? A 'due' to be paid?” His voice cracked with emotion, his frustration boiling over.

One of the maesters, an older man with a stern look and a long gray beard, spoke up with a dismissive tone. “Your Grace, emotions have clouded your judgment. The girl is but a vessel for the ritual, a necessary sacrifice for the greater good of our house and the realm. Your sentimental attachment to her blinds you to the realities of our traditions.”

Jacaerys's jaw clenched, his fists tightening at his sides. He could feel his anger rising like a tidal wave, threatening to overwhelm him. “You dare speak of my wife like that again and I shall have your tongue for it.”

The maester who had spoken before, undeterred by Jacaerys's threat, leaned forward with a smirk playing on his lips. “Your Grace, threats will not change the course of history. The traditions of House Targaryen are not to be trifled with, even by a king.”

“The dragon will be fed sheep, or pigs, or cows. I do not care for what it is, just not an innocent, not her.”

The council members glanced at each other again, murmuring amongst themselves in low voices. They seemed to reach an unspoken agreement, their gazes finally settling on Jacaerys with a mixture of pity and resignation.

“Your Grace,” the maester said with a sigh, Jacaerys shook his head, turning on his heel and storming out of the council chamber, leaving the members behind in a stunned silence. All heads turned to look at the empty seat of the Queen, who was absent from the meeting to be with her children.

The preparations proceeded.

Outside the chamber, he paused for a moment, leaning against the cool stone wall to catch his breath. His thoughts turned to you, his heart aching with the fear of losing you to the cruel tradition that dictated your fate. He couldn't bear the thought of what awaited you on Dragonstone, of the horror you must feel now that you knew the truth.

With a deep breath, Jacaerys pushed himself away from the wall and began to walk briskly through the corridors of the Red Keep. His steps were purposeful, driven by a desperate need to find a way to protect you, to defy the council's decree despite their authority. His mind raced with plans and strategies, each one more daring than the last.

As he passed by servants and guards, he saw the pity in their eyes, the whispers that followed him like a shadow. They knew of the impending sacrifice, of the council's decision, and of his futile attempts to defy it. Yet, despite their sympathy, Jacaerys knew he couldn't rely on anyone else to challenge the council openly. The risk was too great, the consequences too dire.

Finally, he reached the familiar door of your chambers. His hand trembled slightly as he lifted it to knock, unsure of how you would receive him after your confrontation in the library. He knew he had hurt you deeply, that his actions had shattered the trust you had begun to build between you.

Before he could knock, however, the door swung open suddenly. The sight of you standing there, eyes red from tears, took his breath away. For a moment, neither of you spoke, the weight of everything unsaid hanging heavy in the air between you.

He whispered your name, almost as if it was a secret, his hands reaching out to attempt to hold yours. You moved away, “I only wish to go to supper, the Queen is waiting.”

Jacaerys swallowed hard, his throat tight with unspoken words and unshed tears. He knew you were still hurting, still grappling with the betrayal he had inadvertently caused. The thought of losing you, of facing the council's cold and calculated decisions alone, sent a wave of despair crashing over him.

“I... I will not keep you.” he murmured finally, his voice barely above a whisper.

You nodded slightly, your gaze flickering to the side, unable to meet his eyes. The pain and confusion swirled within you, making it difficult to think clearly or to know what to say next.

Stepping back from the door, you slipped away from him, the distance between you feeling insurmountable. Jacaerys watched you go, his heart heavy with the knowledge that he was losing you, at least for now.

The walk to supper was silent and uncomfortable. Each step felt like a burden, the weight of your emotions threatening to overwhelm you. Servants passed by, casting sympathetic glances your way, their whispered conversations barely registering as you made your way to the dining hall.

“My dear,” she greeted you warmly, though her eyes held a hint of concern. “I trust everything is well?”

You managed a tight-lipped smile, nodding slightly. “Yes, Your Grace,” you replied softly, avoiding her gaze.

Sensing your need for space, she made no further inquiries, allowing the meal to proceed in an uneasy silence.

Throughout supper, you picked at your food, the taste of bitterness lingering on your tongue. The empty seat beside yours, your husbands, felt like a void, a stark reminder of the distance that had grown between you. You glanced at it occasionally, half-expecting Jacaerys to appear, to fix it all with a snap of his fingers. But he did not materialize, leaving you to wrestle with your conflicted feelings alone.

Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen, with her regal bearing and perceptive gaze, had always been keenly attuned to the emotional currents of those around her. As she observed you across the table during supper, she noticed the tension in your posture, the haunted look in your eyes, and the way you absently picked at your food.

Her own son's absence did not go unnoticed either. The empty seat beside you seemed to cast a shadow over the otherwise elegant atmosphere of the dining hall. Rhaenyra's eyes flickered towards it briefly, a fleeting moment of concern crossing her features before she schooled her expression into one of serene composure.

After a quiet and tense supper, Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen rose gracefully from her seat, her gaze lingering briefly on the empty chair beside you before she moved towards the doors of the dining hall. Her steps were measured, her presence commanding even in the subdued atmosphere.

As she exited the hall, servants darted forward to attend to her, but she waved them off with a subtle gesture. Instead, she continued down the corridor that led towards the private chambers reserved for the royal family. Her mind was focused on one thing: finding her son, Jacaerys, and offering him whatever support and counsel she could in his time of need.

Rhaenyra found Jacaerys in his private study, poring over ancient tomes and scrolls that spoke of the history of Dragonstone and the ancient rituals of House Targaryen. He looked up as she entered, his expression a mixture of determination and weariness.

“Mother,” Jacaerys greeted her, his voice subdued yet filled with a quiet resolve. Queen Rhaenyra closed the door behind her, the quiet click echoing softly in the study as she approached her son. Jacaerys stood by his desk, surrounded by the weight of ancient knowledge and the burden of his current dilemma. His eyes, weary and troubled, met hers as she drew near.

Rhaenyra took a deep breath, her mind racing with possibilities. “The dragon must be fed, as tradition dictates.”

“No-” he interrupted.

“Jacaerys, listen to me,” she began softly.

He closed his mouth, frustration still evident on his face as he glared at the floor, refusing to meet her eyes.

“Ten sheep, as a symbolic gesture to fulfill the dragon's hunger. It will appease the tradition without sacrificing an innocent life. Like you said.”

Jacaerys remained silent for a moment, his jaw clenched as he mulled over her words. The weight of the decision pressed heavily upon him; he wanted desperately to protect you, yet he also feared the council's resistance to any deviation from the established ritual.

“It's risky,” he finally admitted, his voice tinged with uncertainty. “But if there's even a chance...”

“We must take it,” Rhaenyra affirmed, her voice gentle yet firm. “I feel your heavy heart, my son. You are hurt.”

Rhaenyra's words cut through the turmoil swirling in Jacaerys's mind, her understanding of his pain offering a momentary comfort amidst the uncertainty.

“I can't bear to lose her, Mother,” Jacaerys confessed quietly, his voice thick with emotion. “She trusted me, and I... I betrayed that trust.”

Rhaenyra reached out, placing a hand on his shoulder, a gesture of maternal comfort. “Love makes us vulnerable, my son,” she murmured softly. “But it also gives us strength. You must believe in that strength now, for her sake and for yours.”

The day dawned with a heavy pall hanging over Dragonstone, the air thick with anticipation and dread. Servants moved about the castle with quiet efficiency, their expressions somber as they attended to their duties. Among them, preparing for the ritual that loomed ahead, was you.

Your mind felt numb, detached from the reality of what was to come. Every brush of the comb through your hair, every adjustment to your gown felt surreal, like you were watching someone else's life unfold. The knowledge of your impending sacrifice weighed heavily, a constant, gnawing ache in your chest that refused to abate.

Jacaerys, your husband, moved through the chambers with an air of quiet resolve. His eyes, usually warm and reassuring, now held a depth of sadness you couldn't bear to meet. He had sworn to his mother to keep the plan involving the sheep a secret, and despite the rocky state of your relationship, he ached to tell you.

As the time drew near, you found yourself seated beside Jacaerys in the carriage bound for the dragon pit. The journey was quiet, the clatter of hooves against cobblestones the only sound breaking the heavy silence between you. His presence beside you was both a source of solace and a reminder of the fractured trust between you.

You stole glances at him occasionally, noting the tension etched in his features, the way his hands clenched and unclenched in his lap. There were words unsaid, wounds still raw and unhealed, but in this moment, facing the inevitable, you craved for his comfort.

Silently, you reached to place a hand on his thigh, stopping his leg from moving up and down in anxiousness.

He turned to look at you, his eyes searching yours for understanding, for forgiveness. The weight of his secret, the burden of the deception he had carried to protect you, threatened to crush him. Yet, in that moment, your touch grounded him, reminding him of the love that still flickered between you despite everything.

You held his gaze, your own eyes reflecting a mix of sadness and longing. Words seemed inadequate in the face of what lay ahead, in the face of the unspoken turmoil between you. But your touch spoke volumes, a silent reassurance that even amidst the chaos, you were still connected.

Jacaerys covered your hand with his own, his touch gentle yet firm. His thumb traced soothing circles on the back of your hand, a gesture of comfort and apology. There were no words to express the depth of his regret, the anguish of seeing you face such a fate.

“I will fix this,” he promised in a whisper. You frowned at him and he felt his heart drop once again, your trust for him was fully gone. “I swear it.” he murmured against your hair, his voice hoarse.

You withdrew your hand from his grasp, the gesture a silent but clear indication of the distance that had grown between you. His heart ached at the loss of your touch, a physical manifestation of the emotional rift that now divided you. You remained silent, the weight of his promise echoing in the space between you.

As the carriage finally reached its destination, the stark cliffs of Dragonstone rose ominously before you. Servants hurried to prepare for the landing, their movements efficient and solemn. The dragons' presence loomed in the background, a constant reminder of the ancient forces that governed their lives.

Jacaerys helped you disembark from the carriage, his touch tentative yet filled with an unspoken plea for forgiveness. You stood side by side, facing the imposing fortress and the council that awaited your arrival.

From the distance, you could see the beast, a dragon stood tall before the castle, many men parading around it holding sticks to prevent it from causing any damage other than his feast, you.

Jacaerys’ gaze moved to his mother, her arms crossed over her chest as she gave him a stern nod, telling him that the sheep were hidden, prepared to replace you just as they’d planned.

The servants moved away, maesters following behind as the hair walked you to the dragon, just like it was written in the books of tradition. Jacaerys was supposed to leave you standing in front of the dragon, leave and hide away in a corner before shouting the known command for you to be burnt. A private tradition for only husband and wife, for heir and sacrifice to see.

Your body shook in fear as you walked behind your husband, your hand grasping onto his red cape. He reached behind his body, his hand holding yours in hopes to calm you.

The dragon loomed ahead, its scaled form bathed in sunlight that glinted off its massive wings and claws. Men with sticks stood guard around it, their wary eyes trained on the beast as well as on you and Jacaerys. They stepped away once the Prince approached.

Jacaerys's steps faltered briefly as he glanced back at you, his eyes filled with a mixture of pain and determination. He squeezed your hand reassuringly, his grip firm yet gentle, a silent promise of his unwavering resolve to protect you at any cost.

As you approached the dragon, the enormity of the moment threatened to overwhelm you. Images from the ancient books of tradition flashed through your mind—husbands and wives standing before dragons, the command to burn uttered in hushed reverence. It was a private ritual, a solemn duty passed down through generations, and now it seemed poised to consume you.

You and Jacaerys were left standing on your hand, your hand clasped tightly in his as you tried to even your breaths.

The dragon's gaze shifted, its attention momentarily drawn away as it sensed movement in the shadows. Jacaerys's breath caught in his throat, his grip on your hand tightening instinctively. For a fleeting moment, hope flared within you, a glimmer of possibility that the plan might succeed, that the ancient beast might accept the substitution.

But as the dragon turned back to you, its eyes narrowing with curiosity, the moment of truth arrived. Jacaerys turned to look at his mother, rushing with one of her maids behind her, and the promised sheep gathered. He couldn’t help the sigh of relief that washed over him, his hand letting go of yours to hold onto your waist and push you close to him as he quickly dragged the two of you away from the beast’s hungry eyes.

Together, you moved swiftly through the courtyard, away from the dragon and towards the safety of the castle's empty interior, the council already having left for their journey back to the Keep. Jacaerys's grip on your waist remained firm, his touch a reassurance of his steadfast protection in the face of danger. His mother kept pace beside you, her expression unreadable but tinged with a glimmer of pride in her son's daring defiance of tradition.

As you reached the threshold of the castle, Jacaerys finally allowed himself a moment to breathe, his gaze sweeping over you with relief and lingering concern. The weight of what had transpired hung heavy in the air, the daring gamble to spare you from the dragon's maw a testament to Jacaerys's unwavering determination and love.

Inside the safety of the castle walls, away from the dragon's menacing presence, Jacaerys pulled you into a tight embrace. His voice, thick with emotion, whispered words of gratitude and apology against your hair. You clung to him, the rush of adrenaline giving way to overwhelming relief and the beginnings of forgiveness.

From afar, you could hear the Queen voice the command, you watched in silence – as Jacaerys clung to you – the dragon spitting fire at the animals, the two women hurrying out of the way while it ate at the sheep.

You felt a sob leave your throat at the sight, turning your body to fit into Jacaerys’ as you incoherently mumbled words of gratitude, his lips brushing against your skin every time he spoke caringly at you, apologizing, thanking the gods.

“You're safe now,” Jacaerys murmured against your hair, his voice thick with emotion. “I'm so sorry you had to go through this. I never wanted any of this for you.”

“Please... Please forgive me. I know I don't deserve it, but I swear to you, I will spend every moment proving myself to you.”

You buried your face in his chest, overwhelmed by conflicting emotions. His words of remorse and desperation washed over you, mingling with the relief of surviving the ordeal.

“I'm so sorry,” Jacaerys continued, his voice choked with emotion as he whispered. “I should have told you everything from the beginning. I never meant to deceive you, to put you through this. Please, I beg you... take whatever time you need. I understand if you can't ever forgive me.”

You felt his words reverberate through your chest, each syllable heavy with remorse and love. His vulnerability touched your heart, reminding you of the man you had fallen in love with despite the secrets that had threatened to tear you apart.

“I need you to know,” Jacaerys whispered, his fingers gently caressing your back. “I love you. More than anything. And I will spend the rest of my life proving it to you.”

You leaned in, your lips brushing against his in a tentative, exploratory kiss. It began as a whisper, a soft meeting of lips that conveyed all the unspoken words – the apologies, the gratitude, the hope for a future together. The taste of salt from lingering tears mixed with the sweetness of relief, creating a bittersweet sensation that only deepened the connection between you.

Jacaerys responded with an enthusiasm that spoke volumes. His arms encircled you, pulling you closer until there was no space left between your bodies. The kiss deepened, filled with a yearning that transcended the physical, binding your souls together in a moment of deep intimacy.

His lips moved against yours with a gentle urgency, pouring out his heart in the touch of his mouth on yours. In that embrace, amidst the echoes of their shared ordeal, you found solace and strength in each other's arms.

When you finally pulled away, a soft smile graced Jacaerys' lips, his eyes shining with gratitude. He rested his forehead against yours, his hands tenderly caressing your cheeks as if trying to imprint the moment into memory. You nestled into his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart against yours.

“One step at a time,” you mumbled, catching from the corner of your eye, the hint of a smile fighting to appear on his face.

Together, you stood in the quiet sanctuary of the castle, your bodies pressed close as if seeking solace in each other's presence. The weight of what had transpired hung in the air, but so did a glimmer of hope – a hope that with time and effort, your love could mend the fractures that had threatened to break you apart.

Jacaerys seemed unconcerned with the Council's potential reaction to his and his mother's defiance of tradition, wholly absorbed in the moment. His thoughts were consumed by your scent and the significance of your first kiss since your wedding. He silently hoped it marked the beginning of a new normal, regardless of the Council's opinions upon your return to the Red Keep.

taglist: @smurfelle @earth4angels @elliaze @sillylittlepenguin181818 (taglist link is on pinned!)

#jacaerys targaryen #jacaerys targaryen x reader #jacaerys velaryon x reader #jace velaryon #prince jacaerys #hotd jacaerys #hotd #house of the dragon #harry collett #jacaerys velaryon #jacaerys x reader #Jacaerys Velaryon one shot

1K notes · View notes

broodybuck · 2 months ago

Text

Title: The Boy Next Door

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Rating: E

Tags: 18+ explicit smut, childhood friends, neighbors, pining, confessions, friends to lovers, first crush

Summary: Growing up, you always had a crush on the boy next door. Now, twelve years later, you might unexpectedly get your chance with Bucky Barnes.

[ao3 link]

Your parents just handed over the house you grew up in. It was that easy, now it's yours.

They want to be those typical, retired parents and move to Florida — boring! And since you've been renting a studio in Brooklyn for the past four years, you jumped at the chance to have a three-bedroom house in upstate New York. It's already paid off and your parents are wealthy enough, they don't need the earnings for their Florida condo.

You've only been back to your childhood home for holidays in the past few years. Everything has stayed the same, your parents were actually one of the few who didn't turn their daughter's bedroom into a home office or gym. They left the pink wallpaper, the twin bed with the floral comforter, and the tower of stuffed animals on the dresser.

When you arrive with your two suitcases and some extra cash in your pocket since you sold all your studio furniture, you stare up at the house. You smile from the warm memories before you glance over at the house next door.

An older boy named James lived there, but he always went by Bucky. Bucky Barnes is the name that lived in your diary for most of your adolescence. He was four years older than you which meant you had an embarrassing crush on him since you were twelve. He was nice, he always teased you when you saw each other, he even acknowledged your existence for the one year you were both in high school together — you as a freshman and him a senior.

That did wonders for your reputation, you became pretty popular even after he graduated. Still, you would've thrown away all the friends and parties for just one night with Bucky if that was a possibility.

You're not sure you ever got over your crush, more just accepted that it was never going to happen and moved on with your life. It was easy once he went away from college and three years later so did you. You never ran into him again even when you were visiting home for the holidays. It seems the Barnes' residence spent their holidays elsewhere as the house was always dark on those occasions.

Currently, it's two in the afternoon and the sun is beating down so strongly, you start to take off your jean jacket. You're sliding your arms out of the sleeves when a familiar voice makes you jump.

"Hey, y/n."

Your arms flap uncoordinatedly, still half in the jacket, pausing in an awkward position as you turn to see your childhood crush standing a few feet away from you. Bucky Barnes, looking sexier than ever.

"Oh, hi,” you splutter.

This man still has the ability to make you blush like a schoolgirl. You do some quick mental math and realize if you’re 27 now then he must be 31. And why do men age so spectacularly? He has somehow managed to become even more attractive in the last twelve years.

"What're you doing here?" you ask as you finally free your arms from the jacket.

"I'm house-sitting," Bucky explains. "What're you doing here?"

"Um, well, the house is sorta mine now."

"Parents gave you the whole thing?"

"Yep, the whole thing," you nod.

"Wow, congrats on the house," Bucky says.

"Thank you," you reply and you both stare at each other in a beat of silence.

"Um actually, since you're around, do you think I could pay you for some manual labor?" you ask suddenly.

"What kind?" Bucky grins fast. It truly takes your breath away, jesus this man should not be allowed to smile.

"I have a dumpster coming tomorrow morning," you explain. "I'm getting rid of my childhood bedroom furniture."

"Yeah, I can help."

"That would be so great, I'll pay you—"

"Don't sweat it. Just treat me to dinner sometime," Bucky shrugs, and your stomach drops. What in the world does he mean by that... like a dinner date?

"Oh, dinner... yeah, okay. You got it," you play it cool and awkward.

He smiles at you, amused.

"Anyway..." you mumble unsure how to retract yourself from this conversation, unsure if you even want to.

"You really grew up, huh?" Bucky says, and he scans you up and down.

"I guess so," you shrug, your face burning. "You too."

"Yeah, guess we haven't seen each other in..."

He appears to be trying to calculate the years but you unabashedly jump in with an exact answer.

"Twelve years."

"Has it been that long?" he asks.

"I... think so," you feign uncertainty.

"So, what time do you need me tomorrow?" he asks.

"Oh, anytime that works for you."

"How about noon?"

"Perfect."

Asking for Bucky's help might've been the worst idea you ever had. When he comes over, he's wearing a cotton-white t-shirt and jeans. His hair is damp and slicked back from a shower. He looks so comfy, it makes you imagine waking up with him. You yearn to know how warm his skin feels fresh from the steam.

You ignore your inappropriate desires and lead him up the stairs to your old room. It's then you realize how many years of your life you desperately wanted to show him your room. Have your crush see these walls, sit on your bed, and make out with you next to your teddy bear.

It's embarrassing but probably every teenage girl wanted the same thing. Unfortunately, the thought slips out of you with a laugh.

"I always wanted to show you my room."

You freeze in the doorway, realizing what you've just said out loud.

"What?" Bucky asks from behind you.

"When I was younger, I meant. I didn't mean... I don't know why I said that, actually."

You turn around and see the look of amused confusion on his face, a small smirk inching from the corner of his mouth.

"Oh, fuck it. I had a major crush on you," you confess.

Bucky's eyebrows lift high.

"Yeah?"

"You couldn't tell?"

"I thought you were just awkward with everyone," he shrugs.

"Great, so you thought I was a total loser," you sigh.

"No..." he says quickly but takes a second to elaborate. "If it helps, I didn't think about you that way 'cause you were too young for me."

"Of course, you never thought about me," you brush off, trying not to let your younger self die too much inside.

You step into the room to create any amount of space from this conversation. But you instantly remember the countless hours you spent in here thinking about him. Staring out the window at his family's house hoping the catch a glimpse of him.

"Hey," Bucky says. His hand gently touches your shoulder.

You turn around to meet his eyes which oddly look darker, more intense now.

"I could see myself thinking about you now," he admits low.

You blink, your mouth is suddenly too dry to respond.

"I mean... look at you," he says so fondly that your heart could burst. And he looks you over again, his pupils dilating even more.

Is this really happening, you think.

His right hand hasn't moved from your shoulder. Boldly, you place a hand on his left forearm and you're right, his skin is still warm from the shower.

You breathe in sharply because just touching him, just standing this close for this long is something you were never lucky enough to get back then.

His eyes are still locked with yours and it's honestly so intense you can't look away even as you see him dip his head, lowering slowly to your lips. He waits, an inch from them, to see if this is okay. Of course, it's fucking okay.

You surge the last inch forward and kiss him harder than you anticipate. He stumbles a step back, in consequence grabbing onto your waist, and pushing forward. He walks you back toward the twin bed up against the wall.

When you fall back onto the mattress, it creaks from old age, but you couldn't care less. Because Bucky Barnes, your childhood crush, the extremely attractive neighbor next door, is crawling over you. And it's glorious, it's enough to make you arch up into him and moan.

He lets out a breathy laugh and then kisses you, his knee slides between your legs and presses down. You moan even louder. You're completely shameless, you are, but this is Bucky Barnes. You're not staying quiet for a second of this.

His mouth moves to your ear and he's kissing down your neck while his fingers slip under your shirt, rolling it up.

Your shirt is off and then you're pants are coming off too. You want to get him out of his clothes but his mouth finds the front of your panties and he's teasing you, mouthing at the fabric.

"Please," you whine.

He grins against your underwear and then slides the thin fabric off and sucks his thumb into his mouth.

When he touches you, he's not gentle. He goes right in and rubs your clit roughly but you're so turned on that it's like a jolt of electricity to your body, you leap up from the mattress.

He licks two fingers then and sinks them right inside you. Oh god, it's so easy because you're so wet.

"Fuck," he mutters, realizing this. He stares down, watching his fingers work inside you. Your skin boils endlessly.

He doesn't need to spend much time working you open and he must know that because it's not long before he pulls his fingers out and hurriedly works the button of his jeans open. He pulls open the fly and pushes them down when you sit up to get his shirt. You're not letting this happen without seeing that gorgeous chest again.

You remember so many summer nights when you got a glimpse of Bucky shirtless. Running through the sprinkles or coming home from a neighbor's pool. He was stunning, even back then, but now... oh lord, now he's filled out. He has a firm, thick chest and a set of perfect abs lining his torso. Because of course, he has a six-pack, you always fall for the most unattainable guys.

But somehow you have him, right here, in your very old, tiny twin bed.

You want to lick a long strip from his navel up to his neck but he doesn't give you the chance. Once his clothes are off, he pulls your legs over his waist and pushes inside you so fast you barely have time to prepare. You cling to him with your whole body, legs and arms. And you moan low.

"Oh god, you're so tight," he husks.

You tighten your hold around his neck, he looks up at you and kisses you. You're basically on his lap so start rolling your hips slowly, getting used to how big he feels inside you.

You push him back until he lies down. And then you're riding him. You're riding Bucky Barnes in your childhood bedroom on top of your pink comforter with yellow flowers.

This is your teenage dream come true and that realization plows through you, making you ride him even harder, snapping your hips as fast as you can over his cock. And it's enough that you get a moan out of him, a low gravelly groan that you immediately fawn over.

His fingertips dig into your skin as you keep riding him fast and hard. You know you're nearing the edge, your head falls with a whimper, you grip his shoulders tighter.

"Fuck, y/n. Come for me," he breathes.

And you lose all control the moment you hear that. Fuck, you come so hard.

"Oohhh, fuckkk," you wail and stop moving to let the orgasm crash through you.

Then his hands lift your ass, just enough so he can raise his hips and start fucking into you.

"Jesus," you hiss and scramble to hold onto him again.

He keeps fucking you, gaining speed and making your eyes roll back from the fact that your orgasm can't wane with his cock repeatedly slamming right into you.

He groans, squeezing the flesh on your ass now and you can tell he's close.

He curses under his breath and then he's coming and still fucking you so hard your vision's blurring.

When he finally slows down, he blows out a long breath. He releases his grip on your ass and closes his eyes, basking in the aftermath of his orgasm.

You can feel his cock twitch one last time inside you. You carefully try to pull off him. He winces as you do, still sensitive. You lean down and kiss him, you can't help yourself.

He smiles when you break to let him catch his breath. Okay, he's totally allowed to smile when he's naked in your bed, you decide. You admire the sight for as long as he lets you.

"Well, fuck," he laughs.

"Yeah, fuck," you agree, smiling. "Not sure if I should thank you for your help yet."

He laughs. "I haven't done anything yet."

"Oh, you've done plenty," you tease and plant another kiss on his lips.

He smirks at you and runs his hands up your sides, gentle and light.

"I'll help you move the furniture," he says. "Just give me a few minutes."

"Yeah, I need a few too," you say. "At least this bed is going out with a bang."

And you both laugh. Then you look at him and already remember what he said to you yesterday. You remember almost every word he's ever uttered to you.

"So, about that dinner," you say.

He smiles wide and just kisses you.

#bucky x reader #bucky x reader smut #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky x y/n #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes x you

443 notes · View notes

teencopandthesourwolf · 1 month ago

Text

read on ao3 HERE

He didn't mean to do it. He meant it, with every fucked-up fibre of his being he meant it, but he didn't mean to actually do it.

Stiles had just—been so very fucking Stiles, in that stupid, irresponsible jump-head-first-into-the fray-on-everybody-else's-behalf kind of way that he has about him, and after the pack had neutralised the danger but everybody's veins still had more adrenaline than blood coursing though them, Derek felt—feels—so fucking livid, and so damn grateful, and so utterly, utterly muddled that he's grabbed Stiles by the shoulders and is pulling the kid's body into his own, hard, crashing their torsos together like a devastating highway collision, arms enveloping Stiles's shoulders as a crushed car bonnet wraps itself around a tree.

Now—here, at a clearing in the trees on what has been Hale land for generations going back centuries, with Stiles in his space, and his nostrils, and in his fucking head—Derek is terrified.

There's a fairly stilted, “Whoa, okay, alright, we're doing this, huh, big guy?” but then Stiles is relaxing into the hug. He sort of melts, actually, snaking long and wiry yet surprisingly strong arms around Derek's waist; so very warm, and alive, alive, alive.

“Stiles, you shouldn't have—why do you always have to—you could've fucking died!” he admonishes, although it doesn't come out half as harshly as he means and wants it to.

Lost, Derek shoves his nose into Stiles's neck, and breathes.

Stiles lets him, because of course he does, cocking his head to the side to accommodate Derek's needs.

“Must be a day that ends in Y, huh, Der?” he answers, ever the class clown.

Derek quietly growls his annoyance and relief in equal measure, and even though he senses the rest of the pack has now gathered around them, and hating that he has an audience for this, he squeezes Stiles into him impossibly more.

Stiles wheezes comically, then jokes more, because humour is his default in any situation. “Why don't you ease up a bit there, buddy? Kinda need this work of art that I call a body in one piece if I'm ever gonna save your wolfy-ass again, oh alpha, my alpha.”

Derek shuts him up with a slick lick to the jugular. The kid shivers beautifully, but even Derek's tongue doesn't keep him quiet for long. Only Stiles Stilinski could ramble incessantly with a werewolf at his throat.

“Okay, shit, that—ahhhhhhh, that tickles, Fido! Do I need to get the collar and chain on y—oh my fucking god!”

Derek clamps his jaws around the most exquisite throat he's ever seen, smelled, dreamed about, and growls out a warning sound that causes the betas to back off and Stiles to go weak at the knees.

Mine, he thinks loudly.

After a few moments of Derek gnawing on Stiles's throat, once they're alone in the preserve, other than the nocturnal animals and eery sound of the wind picking up from the west, Derek releases his jaws' hold on the sheriff's boy—the boy who runs with wolves; little red riding hoodie; the best human Derek's ever known—and soothes the purpling mark with a lingering press of his lips.

“Oh!” is amazingly all Stiles has got—although Derek can satisfyingly smell Stiles's arousal, his wolf now howling inside of him at the delicious scent.

“Yeah, oh,” he answers, after trying his level best to calm the feral instinct he has to pull them both down into the undergrowth and mate the boy.

He finally pulls away from Stiles, but doesn't release him from his grip entirely. Fire-red irises find big, brown doe eyes, and a smirk that Derek wants to lick right off Stiles's face and replace with a look of pure ecstasy.

“Stop doing stupid things,” he demands.

Begs.

“Yeah, no, probably never gonna—oomph!”

Derek kisses Stiles, kisses him like it's the end of the fucking world because he's realised that every time Stiles puts his own life in danger, it feels like it might be.

Stiles doesn't hesitate this time, though. He kisses Derek right back like he gets it.

Now found, Derek takes, and he takes, and he takes.

Stiles kisses like nobody else in existence, Derek is sure of it; he is earth and wind, fire and water.

Fucking elemental.

When he presumably needs to breathe, Stiles tears his lips away from Derek's—swollen and blood-red—and Derek can't help the whine that escapes his. Their foreheads bump as they both pant, attempting to settle as they shake with post-fight waning nerves and a feverish desire.

Stiles says, “How ‘bout if you keep doing that, I'll get myself a bigger bat?”

Derek both hates and loves the smile that spreads across his face like a rash, entirely of its own volition.

“How about next time, you just wait for me?”

“Deal,” Stiles grins and kisses Derek again, and Derek hopes it's the kind of deal that's forever.

for @greyhavenisback—love yew, love <3 (unedited, soz!)

now edited and on ao3 HERE

#sterek #sterek ficlet #sterek fic #stiles stilinski #derek hale #derek pov #teen wolf #teen wolf fic #fic #fanfic #fanfiction #queer #queer fic #queer writer #tcats writes #teencopandthesourwolf

454 notes · View notes

struwberrii · 4 months ago

Text

haikyuu!! boys crushing on you ₊˚⊹♡

here are some silly headcanons on how i think the shiratorizawa guys would act while they have a crush on you + eventually confess :3

characters: ushijima, tendou, semi, shirabu, goshiki

˚ 𝜗𝜚˚⋆｡☆

ushijima

its weird because he knows he likes you and everyone else THINKS he MIGHT like you but hes so blunt and deadpan that its hard to tell

he doesnt treat you differently than he treats any other person but hes very kind and generous

gives you random compliments though, like is hes thinking something he just says it to you

'you look very beautiful today' or 'are you wearing a new perfume? it smells nice'

but at the same time he accidentally insults you like hell ask you when the last time you showered was

because of this nobody can really tell exactly how he feels about you until he eventually confesses

he would probably be very deadpan and unromantic about his confession too, he would just straight up ask you to go out with him (˶˃⤙˂˶)

but TRUST once he gets you out hes bringing you flowers, hes buying you your favorite snacks, hes holding doors for you pulling your chairs out for you

u rlly gotta trust the process LMAO i feel like hes just a lil dummy

tendou

i feel like he wouldnt confess because hes rlly insecure and doesnt think anyone would ever have romantic feelings for him so you would probably have to confess

he does little things to let you know he cares about you, like hed suggest manga he thinks youd like or some songs or has movie nights with you and brings snacks

jokes around a lot with you and actually shows a vulnerable side when hes alone with you

i can see him inviting you out just randomly and casually, like bringing you to a bakery he likes or going to the park with you late at night to swing on the swing sets and chat

also compliments you very boldly but immediately gets super blushy and flustered and starts stuttering ( ˶°ㅁ°) !!

probably teases you a lot though but gets really nervy if hes too flirty about it

i feel like youd DEF have to confess but he'd probably be throwing you hints all night, complimenting you, buying you little keychains or snacks, holding your bags for you all that jazz

once you guys are officially together OH MY GOSH is he a different person, constantly flirting and teasing and now youre the one blushing and left stuttering by his words ( ꩜ ᯅ ꩜;)⁭ ⁭

semi

hes actually very sweet and chill about it

like when he first meets you hed probably just straight up say youre really pretty and ask for your phone number

hed be shocked to learn that you actually have a lot in common with him

overall is just very flirty and romantic while crushing on you, like he makes it NO secret that he has feelings for you (˶ ˘ ³˘)ˆᵕ ˆ˶)

jokes about you being his girlfriend but surprisingly take a while to actually ask you out

despite that he still is very protective over you and literally treats you like youre his girlfriend

def writes songs for you and sends voice memos of him playing them on his guitar ദ്ദി ˉ͈̀꒳ˉ͈́ )✧

i feel like he wouldnt really try to hard to impress you or anything, hed just feel comfortable being himself around you and doesnt want you to end up falling for someone who isnt him (as in him not acting like himself)

invites you out on dates often before officially asking you out

he ends up asking you out with a cute stuffed animal and candy at your doorstep

shirabu

lurks from the shadows

i feel like he would probably push you away and be kind of cold twoards you because he thinks your really pretty but doesnt want to have feelings for you

i feel like hed just watch you and like admire you from a distance

would probably be too scared to have a genuine conversation with you so he sends you annonymous notes

hes your little secret admirer ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡

his notes are so sweet though, like he writes you poems and tells you how nice you looked

i feel like hed be ok just being your secret admirer forever but he realizes he wont be your classmate forever so he ends up writing a note to meet him on the roof of the school during lunch

you end up meeting up with him and he asks you on an official date ദ്ദി(˵ •̀ ᴗ - ˵ ) ✧

goshiki

CONSTANTLLY trying to impress you (╥﹏╥)

just a big dork honestly

always invites you to his practices so he can show off his skills to you

if you compliment him hed probably be all blushy and smiley and hit you with the 'yeah it was nothin'

invites you out to play gacha machines and spends a bunch of money on you trying to win the figures you want

also brings you snacks and gives them to you during lunch (˶˃⤙˂˶)

honestly would do anything for your validation

tries to be cool and tough but you see right through that act almost immediately

probably invites you out to a movie and awkwardly tries to hold your hand but only ends up brushing hands with you

would try to ask you out after the movie ends but hed just be stuttering then ends up saying nevermind

you probably have to ask him out lol

even after all that hes STILL trying to act like a tough guy

980 notes · View notes

animementrash · 3 months ago

Text

Things that make him blush

Character: Levi Ackerman Tags: Headcannons, implied close relationship with reader, no pronouns used for reader, non proofread, just some self indulgent shit. A/N: The Levi brainrot is going strong, sometimes I wonder why I write most of my stuff about him when theorically he isn't my top #1 anime crush (theorically). I think this has to do more about the fact that I kin him a little and by imagining pampering him somehow means pampering myself. I don't know, there's just something about him that makes me feel calm and warm inside. Anyways, hope you like it! and as always, thank you for reading! ♥

Complimenting his hands and/or hair.

He rarely gets compliments about his appearance, let alone about something so trivial as his hair or hands. When you mention how he’s got the prettiest hands in the scouts or how his hair is always so neat, he’ll just look away embarrassed and mumble a “thanks” while his cheeks turn pink.

Calling him “pretty”.

Never in his life has he been called pretty. He may have heard here and there someone calling him handsome or attractive, but pretty? Not once. His brain freezes when you call him pretty for the first time because, what do you mean he’s pretty? For him something pretty is a flower or maybe a sunset, not him. But when you say that word so tenderly and full of love to describe him it makes his heart swell and his eyes teary.

Noticing small details about his appearance.

Him being so meticulous applies not only to his surroundings but also his persona, so when you mention how his cravat is always sitting so neatly on his neck or how the collar of his shirt is always so crisp and perfectly ironed, he feels seen and it makes his cheeks blush in appreciation. Not that he will ever mention it.

Talking into his ear.

Whether is a silly joke you come up with during a meeting or an important memo that no one should hear besides him, if you get close to him and whisper into his ear all his muscles will tense and a shiver will run down his spine, there’s something about being this close to you that makes his heartbeat run wild and his cheeks blush furiously.

Touching him slightly.

Nothing will melt his heart more than casual touch; the kind of mindless, unintentional touch you may do like when you’re passing by and he’s on your way so you gently place a hand on his shoulder to let him know you’re passing through; Or if he’s too busy reading a document and in order to get his attention you squeeze his bicep softly. This kind of interactions make him a blushing mess and he almost always has to excuse himself before you notice how red his face is.

Look at him without him knowing until there’s eye contact.

Something about him looking your way and noticing you’ve been looking at him for a while make his stomach feel full of butterflies and his ears turn red with embarrassment; it isn’t the kind of was-I-being-weird embarrassment but more of a they’re-looking-at-me kind of embarrassment, he feels seen and it makes him nervous.

Do a random act of service for him.

Tell him you’ve done one of his assigned tasks before he gets the chance to do it and he’ll melt right before your eyes; especially if it’s something he hates, like dealing with the new recruits or sweet-talking a visitor so they can donate to the scouts; Though his reaction is not only reserved for big actions like those, it is more about you taking some of your time to help him, that’s what make his heart flutter and his cheeks burn.

Touching him in areas that may not be too common to do so.

This isn’t related to any kind of erotic or suggestive touch, it is more about you touching his thigh while helping him with his ODM gear, holding his hand when he helps you get up or rubbing his ankle when he complains about landing wrong on his feet; This is about you touching any part of his body that isn’t usually touched by anyone else but him. There’s something about feeling someone else’s hands on those parts of his body that make him stammer a bunch of nonsense before almost running away nervously.

#levi ackerman #levi x reader #levi ackerman x you #levi ackerman headcanons #levi headcanons #aot headcanon #levi fluff #levi x you

438 notes · View notes

musicallisto · 24 days ago

Text

· · · · ♡ IF (SAINZ WIN == TRUE) (cs55)

… starring carlos sainz x f!engineer!reader ... 4.4k words ... in which carlos is an effusive, self-assured lad to every member of his team... except ferrari's head software engineer, making her wonder if he secretly hates her guts. ... based on this request ... warnings for language (minor) ... my first ever (posted) fic for carlos aaaaa (i have written A Lot More about this man because he occupies my every waking hour, but i shan't share it yet). in honor of me missing my communication networks final last week i made the reader a software engineer, but you would Never catch me willingly coding anything in c++ outside of my mandated assignments. no not even for carlos sainz jr. i have morals. this is open for part 2 if you guys enjoy it <3

He speaks the language of princes.

It's not in anything he says, no, he's much too industrious to waste time boasting, but rather in all that he doesn't. Carlos walks into the Ferrari motorhome, with that good-natured smile and that slightly disheveled hair from the morning's cycling session, and heads bow. Not out of plight, or even obligation, but mostly because it's hard not to. His warm greetings to everyone—Ciao's and even Come stai?'s to his team members strolling down the hallways before the weekend—, his keen interest in remembering little things about engineers' and photographers' lives, his nonchalant stride around the parc fermé all force camaraderie at least; reverence to most.

Wherever the red car goes, Maranello or any other corner of the world, religion follows, and though Carlos Sainz has never quite fit into the nooks they keep for their idols—their walls are carved for Monégasque shoulders—, he's at least always carried the air of a rebel leader on unforgving land.

But if Carlos is Ferrari's bastard prince, then clearly you are a subject he would not go to war for.

Or so he makes you think, once again, on that hot Singaporean afternoon.

You hadn't meant to interrupt, really, but with only one hour to go before FP1, you needed to talk to Riccardo Adami; something about the software updates, optimization of the data acquisition systems to account for Marina Bay's sweltering heat—run for half a second too long, overheat half a degree too much, and everyone's calculations would be going to hell. So of course you'd corrected it, supervised a brand new version of your code for the weekend, for that tenth of a Celsius; competition drove you. Almost just as much as those solar eyes boring into you when you walk into the room.

"Riccardo, about the softw—oh. Carlos. Hi," you timidly trail off when Carlos' eyes meet yours.

The room gets quiet, and it is only then that you notice how much space his laugh takes. Usually, you would've recognized the accent from outside the door, the boisterous voice regaling the Fifty-fives with another funny story—how could you not, when it sends shockwaves down your stomach? He seems to have been in an animated conversation with his race engineer, but as you get closer to the two men you notice the crinkles lengthening Carlos' eyes are fading with his smile. You aren't sure he's even said hi back.

"We've changed the code for acquisition, but some loops could still cause problems with overheating, particularly the engine oil temperature sensors…" you explain, though half your attention is directed to your peripheral vision, in which Carlos sways on his two feet, averting your gaze at all costs.

But you're not a college girl with a crush, you're Scuderia Ferrari's head software engineer and so you go on with your precisions to Riccardo. What to expect during free practice, how to overshoot any nonessential sensors that might fuck up the data analysis... until, mid-sentence, Carlos excuses himself awkwardly, pats Ricky on the shoulder, and walks out of the room.

You will your face into not betraying the sudden ache in your throat. How he simply acted like you weren't there... didn't even inquire about the updates. About the race. About your flight, about how much you loved Singapore's twinkling lights, about... you.

"Xavi and Charles know this already, but we really gotta test it all now before it gets cooler for FP2," you conclude with a too-hard swallow. Back firmly turned to the door Carlos just disappeared out of.

Riccardo thanks you, offers his own insight, some banalities about the risks of rain—no, you shouldn't consider them banalities. Nothing, on a Friday, is a banality anymore; yet everything is when you remember how Carlos' entire face shuts close when you're around, how his tone quietens down, how he repeatedly and stubbornly conceals all his rays of brazenness from you.

Does he hate you? Despise you? Are you not worth his effrontery?

This is ridiculous. You're not a college girl with a crush, you're a damn senior member of the team with responsibilities and he doesn't owe you anything more or less than you him—

"Riccardo," you neither ask nor plead. "Has Carlos... said anything about me?"

"About you? Like what?"

"I don't know... but you did see he just... left while I was in the middle of talking, right? And he looked annoyed as soon as I came in." And for all that's holy, try to pass this off as mere politeness and not a heartache that is eating you alive.

"Maybe he was just bored."

"So I'm boring?"

"No," Riccardo wheezes, in uncharacteristically high spirits for the conversation. "But I've worked with a ton of drivers, and you know, they're all the same. Less time discussing boring analytics is more time they spend in the sim. Or on track. What, you think he's angry at you or something?"

"I just... don't get why he's always so guarded and distant with me but so outgoing and confident with you guys. Charles isn't like that either. It makes no sense. We're a team, all of us."

The Italian looks at you for long seconds, amusement noticeable on his features, and you would shake him up and tell him to stop giving you those pity eyes if you lacked the tiniest bit of respect for the man; instead, you frown and cross your arms.

"He'll be in a good mood tonight when we top free practice," Riccardo assures you before you can ask him if he needs anything else. "and even better tomorrow after getting pole. You can talk to him then if you want."

A smile creeps its way on your lips without you conjuring it. There it is, that loyal veneration that only men and women of the Scuderia possess. Something in those southern eyes Carlos shares with legend has made you religious, too.

"I'll hold you to that... we could all use a Singapore miracle."

Singapore is a miracle.

Surely any other team would scoff at the word, bragging that a pole position has nothing to do with miracles, that it's all meticulous teamwork and endless iterations on calculators, but Ferrari is deeply supersitious at its core. You—the centenarian team, its red-hot beating heart—don't shy away from thanking divine intervention. Maybe that's the reason why it still works.

After Carlos' last pole in Monza, the whole Scuderia had dared to dream of something different, a glimmer of scarlet in the season's overwhelming orange. Of course, an uncatchable Max had put a dampen on the fervent Tifosi's mood, but the formidable hope machine had revved back to life...

and now it's roaring in Marina Bay.

Leclerc's side of the garage claps for a hard-earned P3, but it's the Spaniard's team that erupts into cheers and rushes out into the pitlane to congratulate their hero. You stare at his lap time on your monitor with a grin—1:30.984, not even a tenth faster than his teammate—as cheerful screams, in Italian and Spanish, fill the garage; they get louder when Carlos walks back inside, grinning ear to ear and not even bothering to dodge the strong-arm pats on his head and back.

"Twice in a row, cazzo!"

"And this time you won't have Verstappen underfoot!"

"Perfect lap, Carlos, that was a perfect lap..."

"Grazie a tutti," Carlos beams, fire suit down to his waist, running clammy hands through his hair—he parts the red sea as he walks deeper into the garage, close to where you are. "I think we all did a very good job today, and now we gotta finish the job tomorrow..."

He laughs with the mechanics, a sun of fire and victory casting its rays onto the tarmac, and maybe it's the euphoria of the moment, but a sudden wind of courage rushes through your blood, and you walk up to him.

"Bravo, Carlos."

Your voice hits him like the purr of an engine in the ruckus, overshadowing any other sound; he whips his head in your direction, shiny eyes colliding with yours, and for the first time you don't back off but hold them in awe, and his smile doesn't fade, but rather shifts. To surprise, or... coyness?

"You were incredible out there, we're all so so proud of you," you praise, and the more you look at him the wider your smile grows, and the quieter the rest of the world gets.

"Thank you, Y/N," he rubs the back of his neck, his free hand fiddling with the hanging sleeves of his fire suit. "We... I couldn't have done this without you. Because, you know, the overheating, or what you were saying to Ricky before? I didn't understand everything, but at least I didn't cook to death."

Coyness? In Carlos Sainz? When he's still sweaty and panting from qualifying first? What a bizarre sight, one that makes you giggle.

The way your nose scrunches up beneath sparkling eyes is so endearing, Carlos almost feels his breath hitch in his throat, almost reaches out to lightly brush your arm, hold the steady coolness of it.

"Great, that was what we were going for, pretty much," you reply, and for a second you could've sworn he wanted to touch your arm and changed his mind, but...

you bury the idea before a craving for his warmth can nestle in your chest.

"Great," he repeats. "So, I'll... see you later," and with that he leaves you there, stranded in the middle of the garage, to be lauded by the press and fans.

You'd be lying if you said his shadow disappearing out the backdoor as quickly as it had come doesn't slice a gash in your heart—always whisked away to some important obligation, and you, like everyone else, duty-bound to pick up the pieces behind him. But this time around the cut doesn't run as deep, doesn't bleed as red; because for the first time in months Carlos talked to you, joked with you, and looked the tiniest bit glad to be doing so.

If that's how good of a mood a pole puts him in... then clearly you'd better make damn sure he wins this race.

Ferrari is deeply superstitious at its core. Maybe that much is true in any sport—when victory eludes you, athletes find obscure laws to trick themselves into believing they still retain control—, but a team so old, on which glory has rained so often, does not withstand the passage of time without a few pillars of faith. And so it makes sense that Ferrari drivers, of all people, would have their pre-race traditions.

Leclerc plays the piano on Saturday nights; you hear him every time you pass by the team hotel's lounge, his melancholy tracks grounding you in a precise time and place. Now the car is out of bounds, the comfort of your object-oriented programming and optimized lines of code off-limits; now's the time for withdrawal and rest.

Typically, you like to hang out in the lounge while Charles plays, trying to distract yourself with a book or simply basking in the music. The predictable, calculated flow of Charles' arpeggios soothes you, like lines of code running one after the other. So does the Monégasque driver's easy conversation. Although it doesn't shoot butterflies in your belly like Carlos' does... but you're not supposed to play favorites.

This Grand Prix eve is just like any other, save for the unordinary trepidation that carpets the hotel. With one of their own sitting on pole, it's obvious strategists struggle more than usual to drop the words "tire management" and "pit stops". Eager to escape the nervousness, you excuse yourself from the dinner table, and make your way to the lounge.

Charles is already there, if the usual pieces echoing in the distance at dessert are any indication, and you barely even get lost in the elegant halls before you find the lounge... though there is no piano to be heard. Maybe this hotel has two music rooms—maybe Charles went to bed early—or maybe...

maybe he's sitting on the piano stool and chatting with Carlos, wet and sleepy from his evening shower.

Neither driver notices you at first, and you stop dead in your tracks, wondering if you should just leave. You wouldn't want to intrude—intrude on what, the rational part of your brain says, but with Carlos I always feel like I'm intruding on something bigger than myself, the rest of your body answers—, but you really enjoy this unspoken tradition with Charles... and, well, this is everybody's lounge, and...

"Y/N," Charles sees you eventually and beckons you over. "Sorry, I don't think there'll be a lot of music tonight, Carlos is distracting me."

"You could kick me out anytime," Carlos remarks good-naturedly, but you don't miss how he angles his body away from you ever so slightly. The sight sends a dagger through your heart. So he actually hates you then. So you didn't breach any barrier earlier at the circuit, didn't melt any ice. So he didn't look pleased and a little excited to be talking to you.

"That's okay, I'll just head to bed then—"

"Oh no no no," Charles interrupts, "come sit with us. I was trying to convince Carlos to give the piano a go, maybe you'll be more successful than me."

"Absolutely not, mate."

"Come on Carlos, it will relax you!"

"No, you're the musician, not me. One of us has to be the sportsman, no?"

Unsure, you flick between the two men, Charles' inviting face and Carlos, who's still doing everything he can to avoid looking at you in the eye. And then you decide—fuck it. You're just as much a member of the team as he is. He cannot drive you away with his... stupid cold shoulder tactics any longer.

You take a seat on the sofa opposite Carlos, and watch in half delight, half annoyance as he turns his shoulders away from you. Though his body language appears relaxed, one leg strewn across his knee and elbows hugging the backrest, he is, as usual, going to hell and beyond to not acknowledge your presence.

Charles has the merit of lightening the mood with his jokes and fan encounters of the day: some bizarre, some endearing, because he seemingly never has a boring day in the paddock. His easy laughter mixes with the distant voices down the halls when your attention drops—too fast, too soon, as always, it's irremediable—to Carlos, the soothing scent of his shampoo and the little droplets that run down his temple whenever he shakes his head in amusement... before you know it, you're staring again, eyes shining with undisclosed heartache. Something Charles sees, and recognizes very well, with a jot of curiosity.

Charles may not be the most perceptive when it comes to these things, but he is in love too, and he'd know the signs anywhere. That's why after a little while he lets silence blow his last words away like wind does the mist, and stands up from the piano stool.

"Well, I'm going to bed," he announces with an air of conniving finality, and he smiles his crooked smile at Carlos. "Gonna need all my energy to take the lead in turn 1."

This snaps you out of your reverie. Half-gone, you bid him goodnight at the same time as the Spaniard does, and you brace yourself for his own excuse... but it doesn't come. Carlos lazily watches as Charles leaves the lounge. You don't dare to move, as if your slightest sound could remind him you're there and trigger his fight.

You would've thought a tête-à-tête with you to be Carlos' worst nightmare... but he makes no sign of leaving. And sends solar flares up your chest and throat. "Whatever problem he's got with me, he'll have it sort it out with me like an adult" sounds much more intimidating when it's so plausible.

"You think he has the slightest chance of overtaking me in turn 1?" Carlos chuckles.

You look him straight in the eye and read no resentment, not even that sheepishness from before—just relaxed delight, and the slightest hint of reddened cheeks against tan, damp skin. It takes you a second, maybe even two, to realize there's no one else in the room. He's talking to you. Joking with you.

Why is the script running without error all of a sudden, even though you changed no variables?

"Maybe," you give a noncommittal shrug and a smile. "Why not? It all depends on you."

"He can lead the first lap if he wants. That will just make it more fun to cross the finish line ahead of him after."

"You better win this one, Sainz, because I..." you start, and midway through your sentence are hit by how absolutely ridiculous you're about to sound, but he's leaned in already, intrigued by your words, and his burning gaze and strong hands fiddling in his lap have you losing all notions of propriety. "I've... coded a little something for you. If you win. A surprise. It's not much, but... yeah."

Your whole face burns deep scarlet as you trail off... and the light in Carlos' eyes darkens, then goes out completely. His smile fades back to the usual professional grimace he reserves for you. Distant. Cold. He rises to his feet.

"I should get some sleep."

Terror strikes you. Incomprehension too.

"No, Carlos, wait."

He turns his head to your outstretched hand... your pleading eyes almost rip through his heart.

"Why do you dislike me so much?"

And then his shoulders slump, like crushed by an immense weariness, and he sighs, long and hard, before his gaze falls back to yours. Those big brown eyes, gentle, compassionate, and those fingers tapping against his thigh like they're waiting for an invisible cue to reach out for yours.

"... Can we talk about this after the race?" he says, shooting daggers through your stomach.

So he didn't deny it. Didn't reassure you, tell you it's all a misunderstanding, that he bears no ill will towards you, that you're imagining things as usual and that you two could be on the best of terms if you just got out of your head a little bit.

One more time, he's running away. Sweeping everything under the rug, for just one more session, one more race, hiding behind the excuse of concentration and professionalism.

But who are you to revoke him that? It's a damn good excuse. You need to win. He needs to win. Not be bothered about... interpersonal relationships while clipping walls.

"... Alright," you concede, voice and bones all broken, glistening under your frozen skin. "But if it's something I've done, then I'm sorry. I really do... enjoy your company. And you."

"It's not something you've done," he speaks quietly. Gosh, your frailty in this moment—you, so proud and unshakable on the pit wall, so dedicated and thorough on TV, so immeasurably devoted to Ferrari, to Charles, to him... "Or, well, I guess not directly..."

If he looks into your confused, imploring eyes one more second, almost brushes your arm with his one more time, then he's done for. But he thinks he knows this already.

"I don't dislike you," he starts speaking and as soon as he opens his mouth he knows there's no stopping himself now, so he blurts it all out as quickly as he can to get it over with and hopefully bury some meaning in the pits of his accent. "Not at all. In fact I really like you. I think you're gorgeous, and smart, and clever, and fun, and every day I wish I could spend more time with you outside of races and get to know you better but then I remember that can never happen and it's so frustrating and I have the hardest time concentrating. So I just avoid you. It's easier."

Silence thick as a thundercloud tethers you to one another. He runs a hand over his face, sighing deep, and you blink. Once, twice.

You've always prided yourself on your brains—not everyone gets to be in charge of all the computing for a Formula 1 car—but right now, you are all utterly lost.

"Carlos, I... I don't get it." Or maybe you do, heart thumping in your ears, but you're too scared you might be wrong.

"In any other life I would've asked you out on a date." This time he speaks more slowly, more purposefully, too. Like he's imbuing every syllable with the depth of his confession. "But it kills me that it can't be this one."

"... Why not?" you tentatively ask after an instant, feigning not to notice how his hand is now resting on the back of your sofa, right next to your ear and neck.

"Because you're a senior engineer! That would be like... like dating Ricky. Even if you're much prettier than Ricky. But you don't need to tell him that," he adds with a nervous laugh, which you mirror; though you fall silent as soon as his hand comes to rest on your shoulder, right where your collar ends, millimeters away from your skin. His body's warring with his own words... one wants to resist, the other to give in. "What if I leave Ferrari? That's a crazy conflict of interest."

"That's a silly idea, you're not leaving Ferrari anytime soon. Are you?"

"I don't know, it's... hypothetically... you know what I mean," he exhales in defeat. His hand clasps a little tighter on your shoulder, his scent dizzying, closer than ever before. Can he feel your frantic heart thumping underneath your skin? If he keeps licking his lips like this, will he sense your breathing getting more erratic?

"I do. But... the problem is I like you too, Carlos."

If embers could burn back to life, light a hearth out of nothingness... they wouldn't shine as bright as Carlos' eyes just then.

"Don't mess with me."

"I'm not messing with you. Why wouldn't I like you?"

"Because you're not supposed to have a favorite."

"I won't tell Fred if you don't."

He laughs, a brittle but adorable little thing, like a small bird taking its first flight. If you could hear the sound more often, see that bashful smile on his handsome face more every day... you wouldn't need any other prince to die in war for.

His hand runs down your arm, his thumb lightly caressing your skin through the fabric of your shirt before he grabs your shaky hand in his.

"Now's not the best time, but... I think we've got to have an important conversation after the race tomorrow," his deep, soft tone pacifying you just as much as the abstract shapes he traces on the back of your hand.

"After you win, you mean."

"Right. After I get my surprise, no?"

"After you win," you repeat with a grin, and he squeezes your hand, smiling too. Something, deep down, tells him he'll win regardless of the race result.

"Cosa diavolo sta facendo?"

Even in spite of the roaring crowd and the bellowing V8s speeding down the straight, the dumbfounded voices around the pit wall come to you clear as day.

"Russell 1.4 behind Lando," Ricky, sitting on the other side of Vasseur, speaks into his headset.

The team principal keeps quiet, eyes fixed on the cascade of numbers and brackets on your screen. He understands before the rest of the wall what his driver is doing; and as you relay all the information you get to the race engineers, you understand it too.

"Lando .8 behind, .8 behind with DRS—Russell no DRS... Copy that."

He's doing it on purpose. Keeping Norris just close enough to shield him from the Mercs while making sure he can't catch up. You'd laugh in triumph and disbelief if you weren't gritting your teeth so damn hard, heart on the verge of exploding as the last laps tick out in a blur.

Just a few more minutes. Just a few more seconds, and the night sky over Marina Bay will explode in crimson lights...

Mechanics spring to their feet and climb the wall to the track, bumping their fists in the air. Cheers, claps, exclamations, a bouquet of red roses swaying in the wind to greet its champion at the finish line. And then, the unmistakable roar of a racecar speeding past the chequered flag at three hundred kilometers an hour. Liberation.

You spring to your feet right as the fireworks go off, yelling to the sky. Carlos won. Carlos won! Your Carlos—in the middle of Red Bull's flawless season...

"¡Vamos Fred! ¡Vamos Ricky!" Flashes of red and gold pass his high spirits by, diligently braking into the first corner.

He laughs, he screams it all out, unclenching all his muscles, woozy from the G's, from the adrenaline, from the win... from you, watching him from the pit wall. From the memory of your skin against his, your adoring eyes and the formidable lightness inside his chest that has him feeling like he's the king of the world.

In a few minutes, he'll be posing with his trophy and the team in front of his P1 plaque for the group photo, and he'll drench you in champagne—your lively laughter will fill his heart with the gold of medals. And later in the evening, before the afterparty, he'll pull you aside and tell you maybe this victory has made him reckless, and he'll kiss you senselessly like a prize he fought for.

For now, though, he's nodding his head at Lando who gave him a congratulatory wave from his car when his on-board screen lights up with an unexpected message. Glowing red letters read, "Great job, smooth operator! 🌶️" Laughter escapes him as small virtual fireworks go off on his screen... and he presses the radio button on his steering wheel.

"Did she have one of these ready for Charles too?"

A few seconds of white noise, and then, your mischievous voice, dripping with joy.

"You know me, Carlos. Never play favorites."

… f1 taglist; @retvenkos @giuseppe-yuki (want to be added? send me an ask!)

#f1 #f1 x y/n #f1 x you #f1 x reader #f1 fanfic #f1 imagine #f1 fic #carlos sainz #carlos sainz x y/n #carlos sainz x you #carlos sainz x reader #cs55 imagine #cs55 fic #cs55 x reader #cs55 #mywriting #this got so much longer than i had originally planned lol <3

327 notes · View notes