#sacred realm x reader

[yourlocaltreesimp]

Somethin’ Stupid

It’s been a while since i’ve written anything for the Sacred Realm, but here’s something for my wife, @trippygalaxy. <3 Worlds content because she’s a simp

Cw: minor/light gore

☆⋆｡𖦹°‧★

The majority of the spirits within the Realm were quite similar. Equally as chivalrous and heroic as the last. They lived up to their titles, to their reputations and tales.

They were all Links.

They were all the Hero of Hyrule.

All except for Worlds.

Now, that’s not to say those labels didn’t fit him exactly— because they did. He was a hero, he was a Link, he did save Hyrule. But to the same effect, he also wasn’t purely just a hero. He wasn’t just Link and he didn’t just save Hyrule.

He was so much beyond what he was made out to be.

Which was why it was so frustrating when he still wasn’t enough.

Time and time again he’d save people, slay the bad guy, relinquish evil only to be called upon again. His hands never left his sword and his mind never left the battlefield. He was a Hero, through and through.

Even if it meant he’d never be seen for what he could be if he’d just be laid to rest.

He was tired of falling short, too.

Tired of watching people and things he loves slip past his fingertips in the name of ‘Heroism’.

Time got to fall in love, despite his sourness.

Twilight had a wife and child, a whole life outside of purging darkness from Hyrule.

Wild got to enjoy his life in somewhat solitude, wandering around his Hyrule and working on his tech.

Even the newest Link got to keep some part of himself alive and whole.

So why couldn’t he just have someone something.

Sky thought it was because he wouldn’t let himself. That despite the many times hope has been ripped from his hands, it’s not Hylia that’s made him let go. Maybe it’s just that he stopped holding on. That he let go. That he made himself move on.

He wouldn’t let Sky be right.

Not this time, at least.

Not while you lay bloodied beyond recognition.

Not while malice chews at your flesh, and leeches off your life.

You were too good. To him, To the world.

There aren’t many people who would thank him so sweetly for things he did. There are fewer then who would throw themselves under the wide arch of a sword to keep him safe, even if he can’t be harmed in this state.

He was real to you.

Living and breathing beyond just being the spirit of a hero, he was real to you.

He knew you were too good to slip past him, to leave him with that sickening feeling in his gut at what he should’ve done. What he should’ve said.

He wouldn’t let himself lose you.

He couldn’t.

☆⋆｡𖦹°‧★

And He didn’t.

Many potions and fairies later, you were stable. Drowsy as you were, your lungs drew breath and your heart limped along. You were weak, but it didn’t matter.

Awkwardly, he stood by your cot, staring down at you with a mix of thought and feeling running through his mind. Sorrow, anxiety and that odd feeling of anticipation you stirred in his gut.

He didn’t quite understand it— you. Your motives were foggy in his mind, your actions lacking any motivation he thought compelling enough to risk your own life. He didn’t understand the guilt he felt. He felt bad, of course. You were injured and he was the only one to blame. That he understood well and clear. But it was the heavy feeling, looking down at you now as your body struggles to work that he feels like he doesn’t know what he’s doing.

He’s scared.

“Enjoying the view?” You croak, sitting up and downing the glass of water set at your bedside. The amusement in your eyes has his heart running so familiarly.

“I didn’t know you could get more gross.” He rolls his eyes, shoving back the apologies as they claw in his throat. Slightly, he winces at the hostility in his tone. He never was good at letting himself be, was he? “But here you are”

“Oh that’s right, I forgot spirits can’t see their reflection” Your voice is light, as if genuinely recalling some lost fact. A light smile pulls at your lips, emphasising the teasing in your tone.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” He squinted.

“Nothing” You shrugged him off. The room is quiet. Somewhere he can make out Link shuffling about, but the Inn is still aside from that. Dust dances in the last few beams of sunlight, and he mourns how long it’s been since he’s been able to recall such detail.

You tend to do that to him though.

“Y’know” He starts, picking at his cuticles “You should really give more warning before you do something dumb like that.” He pauses to look at you as you huff.

“Look, I’m fine-“ You start, throwing your hands up defensively.

“You almost weren’t” His voice is sharp, silencing any argument you might’ve brought, “You were in a horrible state. And I’m not quite sure if you haven’t realised, but you don’t get a second chance.” His voice begins to pick up his panic, quickening as he remembers just how much he’s lost to be here.

Things he wants you to never go through.

“You do something stupid like that and don’t stop to even consider what might happen. What you might be leaving behind. And I can’t always be there to hold you back. I can’t always be there to make sure you’re safe.” He sees the doubt in your eyes. The pleading argument that you’ll be ok. That he’s worrying too much. That he can let you go.

But for the life of him, dead as it may be, He doesn’t care.

“I know you’re capable. I know you’re strong. But you won’t always be strong enough. You won’t always make it out fine. And We-“ His throat seizes, and he lets himself just be vulnerable.

“I need you alive.” His eyes search your own for any response, any answers. Your pursed lips don’t move to form words, and he’s ready to just consider it a loss.

“So maybe let’s stop with the dumb choices, o-“ He doesn’t even get to finish his sarcastic remark before you tug him by the collar to your lips. Between every journey through hell and back, there’s never been more relief than in this moment. Your lips are cracked and bloodied, but sweet nonetheless.

“Only if you stop it with the sarcasm” you mutter against his lips.

“Oh, well then we’re both at a loss” He rolls his eyes, pulling you closer again.

[trippygalaxy]

I've a SRxReader request:Reader is hurt in the leg in a dark cave.what about a group scenario where needs help?? Wild, twilight,time and sky are enough for me!! Thx!!

YES YES YES YES ABSOLUTELY!! OKAY-- so i do only do 3 characters for group headcanons so I'll leave Wild out of this one!

Reader beginning, boys under the cut!!

OKAY SO— im just posting Twilight’s part because i want this OUT of my drafts and ill work on Sky’s and Time’s part separately but ill link them here once i do actually do them!!

Relationships: Twilight x gn!reader (romantic) Warnings: Blood, mention of wounds/blood lost, Swearing

You didn't know when you got separated from the group, too busy running on survival instincts with adrenalin pounding in your ear as you desperately tried to escape the onslaught of attacks. You'd be lying if you said you weren't scared shitless.

It wasn't suppose to go like this! It was just suppose to be some stupid fetch quest for some stupid...stupid...STUPID SOMETHING! You can't be bothered to remember what you and Link were commanded to collect, not when the sound of howling beasts and snarling monsters bounced off the forests trees so closely.

Oh you were SO gonna punch that merchant if you made it back alive!

Arrows and spears whizzed past you as you fled, pulling at your already tattered cloak, weaving between trees --just like Wild taught you-- as your lungs screamed for air, screamed for a moment's of rest.

A moment you didn't have.

Lessons can only prepare you for so much until you're left to survive on your own. But damn you wished you had Wild-- or even Twilight yelling some complicated instructions in your ear! At least then you'd have the comfort of know someone was there. Someone who-

Maybe it was the blood pound in your ears or your panicked thoughts that drowned out the whistling of a flying arrow.

Before you knew it a sharp pain pierces through your thigh, shooting agony down to your heel and up to your hip. A scream rips itself from your throat as you stumble, pain locking your leg and causing you to fall to the hard forest floor.

'Please make sure you protect your head whenever you fall!' Sky's scolding echoes in your head, his worried tone as clearly as his name sake on a sunny summer day. 'Even if it's just a small trip, you could still hit your head off something hard and end up really hurt.'

Throwing your arms over your head, you brace with gritted teeth as the wind is knocked from your chest. Your shoulder burns from slamming into a jagged root, no doubly bleeding if the warmth dripping down your arm told you anything.

"Shit!" You hiss, wincing as you struggled to your feet once more. The yelp of pain was held back by your bitten lip as your leg suddenly began to burn. "What the..."

You had but a moment to find the -rusted- arrow lodge in your thigh before a horrid screeched rips through the air. They sounded a lot closer than you originally thought. Shit. Shit shit shit!

Your hand hovered over the bloodied arrow before a certain, stern voice bounces through your already light headed skull.

'Do not touch that.' Time gritted out, his stare so cold it almost rivaled the burning in your thigh. 'Leave it in. Only take it out when you have the PROPER medical supplies. Understood?'

Your hand falls to the side, steading itself against the tree you propped yourself up against. Understood, you grump. With a grunt you quickly limped your way from your bloodied fall. No doubly those monsters could sniff you out in a moment's notice, you had to get as far away as you could-- somewhere far and...and...Fuck-- Maybe you did hit your head off of something.

It didn't matter -it totally does- you had to find somewhere to hide and hunker down until the monsters stopped looking. Being out in the open won't help, too much area to watch. You needed...You needed a cave. Somewhere the others would be able to find you and where you didn't have to worry about something coming up behind you.

--

You felt yourself growing weaker with every step, it was torture as that stupid arrow jumped and jolted with every limping step. It sucked. A LOT. But it sucked a little less as a mouth of a cave came into view. It's inky darkness would of had your stomach knotting and head filled with worries, but with pain being the only thing you can focus on you didn't mind the idea of being alone in the void for some time.

The cooler air hit you as you walked past the cave's threshold. It was a soothing cool, not one that had you shivering or nose sniffling.

You slide down the uneven, rough stone walls until you roughly met the floor with a quiet hiss. The small thud and sound of pain gently echoes off the empty walls, as if they were taunting you and your weakened state. You were tempted to tell the echo to piss off, you've had enough echoes for one day..

Time passed. You didn't know how much or how little, but if your ever burning wound told you anything you'd think it was passing all too slow. You had tried to remove the rusted arrow tip, but you couldn't even brush the shaft of the arrow without tears swelling in your eyes. You take it back, this sucks so much more than walking.

You wondered where everyone was...If he was okay. I mean-- he was technically a spirit but you knew that they all weren't exactly unkillable. Which is kinda messed up now that you thought about it--

An echo of your name brings your thoughts back for a brief moment. What did you just say about the echoes? You literally just said--

"Where are you?! Please, just-- Tell me where you are!" His voice...It felt so voice, so worried and...real. But you weren't going to let some stupid echo get the better of you.

"Fuck off! You fucking...echo."

Twilight

Whilst he desperately searched the eerily quiet forest, he had heard your scream echo throughout the forest from what felt like an eternity ago. And eternity spent racing through the thick trees in his wolfish form, his nose nearly digging itself into the ground as he clings to your scent.

You had ran off sometime during the ambush by the rocky side, which he wasn't surprised by-- not that he shaming you for it! It was a dangerous terrain to fight on and he was well aware that you were MUCH newer to this whole adventuring thing. And he would be lying to himself if he said he hadn't felt a wave of relief when he saw your retreating form. He was foolish to think those beasts wouldn't go after you. Or maybe he was just a little hopeful. Hopeful you'd be alright.

That hope was quickly wrenched from his gut when he found a patchy blood trail that reeked of your smell.

The simple smell startled him from his wolfish form, his booted feet digging into the raw earth beneath him as he rapidly followed the scattered trail of blood. The only thing faster than himself in that moment was his racing thoughts. His mind was filled with worries and prayers for your safety, the image of your crumpled, bleeding form had tears prickling at the corner of his eyes as he tried to catch the breath he didn't need.

But it wasn't easily tracking a scattered blood trail with blurred eyes. Fear bubbled up his throat at the sudden lost of your blood, it felt like a wolf's claws tearing up his throat as he was suddenly spinning, whipping his head around in a desperate attempt to find it. But he couldn't. He couldn't find it. And he couldn't find you.

"Where are you?! Please, just-- Tell me where you are!" Twilight choked out, a rasp that hurt his throat more than the fear.

"Darling...please." A quiet plead. A plead for a response, for a hint of your existence, a grief and guilt ridden sound that made his voice sound so foreign. So foreign that it felt like an echo distorted by the cave walls.

....

"Fuck off! You fucking...echo."

Twilight nearly tripped over his own feet as his spinning came to a sudden halt at the sound of your voice. A crackly, dry voice that sent shivers down his spine, but your voice nonetheless. Immediately the man dug his boots into the dirt and darted to the area he heard your strained voice. His heart broke a little at the strain in your voice, like such a couple of words had taken so much energy to push out.

Darting between trees and over turned rocks, a darken cave caught the man's attention and a wave of relief and pride wash over him. Goddesses you were smart, finding shelter to keep yourself hidden and having it be a landmark for your travels? The man couldn't help the fond smile pull at his flush cheeks as he picked up his pace, a new vigor in his heavying -but naturally breathless- chest.

Coming to a skidding stop, Twilight dug his heels into the dirt once more as he stops infront of the mouth of the cave. Though he was desperate to see you, he didn't want to startle you especially when you're injured, so with careful and soft steps the man entered the dark cave with hopeful eyes.

"Darling?" Twilight whispers, "Please tell me you're in here..."

"I said fuck off--!" Your angered words are cut off by a scratchy cough, one bounces off the caverns walls but had the hero's head snapping towards you even with the disconnected sound surrounding him. "...You echo...J-just leave me alone...I don't need my last moments to be made fun of..."

Twilight simply stared, his eyes burning with tears and rage as he glared at the arrow embedded into your skin. Your blood caked around the wound and stained your clothes, making a mess out of a beauty. He was angry, angry at the beasts that dared to chase you, angry at himself for not finding you sooner, angry at the fact that you were left alone to hurt..

"I'm not leaving, not unless you're leaving with me." The hero gritted out, trying to sooth his own raging guilts as he made his way to your side. "You're stuck with me, darling."

Too distracted by his worries for your injuries as he assesses the wound and arrow, Twilight doesn't notice your rapidly blinking or reddening eyes as you watched his spirit form settle by your side. But he does notice your flinch at his touch as his finger gently grazed along your hand, in hopes of comforting you. Concerned eyes dart to yours but the concern soon melts into a sadden look as Twilight noticed your teary but relieved eyes.

"You're..." You shakily breathed with a wavering hand reaching towards his cheek, staring at him with wide eyes, as if blinking once would make him disappearing.

Twilight's hands cup yours, bringing your shaking hand to his cold cheek before he nuzzles into your warmth. It wasn't often the spirit felt warmth like yours, but his guilty mind couldn't allow him to cherish it like he normally would. But he didn't care for his mind in this moment as he heart called for your warmth, even if it was just for a moment.

"I'm real, Darling. And I'm bringing you back, alive." Twilight whispered into your skin, staring back at your tear filled eyes with a determination unlike anything you've seen before.

Twilight was totally going to hit that merchant before you could.

Taglist: @the-cucco-nuggie @baileyboo2016 @birb-boy-official @yourlocaltreesimp @zelda-the-sacred-realm

[trippygalaxy]

I LOVE HIM SO MUCH YOUR HONOR!!!!

HIS EYES ARE VERY PRETTY AND I WOULD LITERALLY STARE AT THEM FOR AN ETERNITY <33

Omfg i love this so much, thank you 🙏

I literally fell in love with @zelda-the-sacred-realm and I want to give everyone the opportunity to experience some romance with their favorite characters from the story! Enjoy the reading!

Reader x Realm

It was a clear night, so clear that you could see every single star in the sky. 

You were sitting in a great open expanse, surrounded by the sounds of nature, the flowers filling the air of their perfumes so sweet and you were sitting there next to him, yes right with him.

In front of you was the most wonderful spectacle that nature could offer you but you watched him.

His eyes, eyes of an incomparable almost unnatural color, a blue so intense that when he looked at you he could almost hypnotize you. In the moonlight they almost seemed to glow with their own light and you'd be watching them every moment.

Then you began almost enraptured to lower your eyes to observe his features. His hair so soft, his face so sweet and kind to make him irresistible and in the end you stopped on his lips, so perfect and quite plump, so much so that you imagined what you could feel kissing them. You were watching them intensely and watching them move, he was talking to you but you didn't make out the words, until he lowered his face to get your attention.

"Are you OK?" your cheeks flushed at the thought that perhaps he had noticed your gaze directed at him.

"Y-Yes! I was just...u-umh thinking but I'm totally fine" you think you've given a good answer and you turn away, but this move of yours gives a different answer to his question.

"It Didn't Look Like That" he says, and you cringe that he might have known you were thinking of him, did you really think fooling a guy like that was possible?

"W-What do you mean it doesn't look like that?" Retort hoping that his answer does not cause you more embarrassment.

"You were thinking of someone, maybe someone you care about, I recognize that look" he replies lowering his eyes to the ground, his face now wearing an embarrassed expression.

"Y-You recognize, what do you mean?" You get closer to him to try to feel a connection between you two.

He throws himself backwards falling into the flowers, sending a few petals flying. The moonlight seemed to illuminate only him, and golden reflections formed on his face, that tunic seemed to highlight him only to make you blush even more.

"My friend Syru often has the same expression when he thinks of his wife, and many others I know have it. Maybe all of a sudden I had it m-me too..."

Your stomach hurts now, you feel a twinge, what is it? Jealousy? You think he might have someone special next to him and your eyes seem to cry already.

"O-Oh do you have a crush on... anyone?" You say trying not to break the voice, but to no avail because it's already happened.

You vaguely hear the rustle of the grass, you know he has gotten up and you prefer not to look at him, you don't have the strength, and your stomach hurts.

“Y-yes I have, and that person is right here next to me” his voice sounded low and you get a shiver up your spine. You turn to his face and you can feel his breath, so hot, his lips are so close and so within kissing reach, but you don't know if you can, would he let you? Could you do it? What feeling would that have given you? You decide to let him make the first move, close your eyes to give him an inkling that you agree, that you want a kiss, right in that moment and in that magical place.

Feel his hand caressing your neck and gently rising to your face, it felt like a dream and yet it's really happening. Feel his fingers caressing your lower lip, and then you feel his breath even closer, closer, so close…and you feel them, his lips and yours are together, his kiss seems to give you a little jolt. You can't help but bring your hands behind his neck, and kiss him back with equal passion. The first passionate kiss becomes more delicate, until your lips separate and you manage to open your eyes and you see him, he is looking at you with those incredible blue eyes.

"L-Link... I-I love you!" You don't know why you yelled at him, but he blushes and approaches you again.

"I love you too" and your heart starts beating even faster when he starts kissing you again, and you wish that moment would never end!

Next romantic date with Twilight!

[zelda-the-sacred-realm]

Out of PURE curiosity, how do you feel about fanfic for your au?

Maybe specifically…x reader stuff? OUT OF PUREEEE CURIOSITY AND NO OTHER REASOB 😁

*side eyes a certain post buried in my blog—, totally not time x reader related, totally not*

Out of pure curiosity huh? 😆

Well I love fanfics, years ago I read a lot of them dedicated to my favorite video games, I find them simply fantastic!

I definitely agree with fanfic, and if you want to write something about my characters it can only make me happy, and well I remember being tagged more than once on requests Sr x Reader, so of course I agree with this too (and I would probably come and read them too 😁)

Also a Time x Reader post on your blog? I'll come look for it for sure 🤭 because now I'm too curious!

Thank you for your question! 💖

[swordgrace]

𝐖𝐎𝐋𝐅𝐒𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐃, 𝐃𝐑𝐀𝐆𝐎𝐍𝐒𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐃.

⠀ཾ༵ 𑁍┆ cregan stark x fem!targtower!reader.

SYNOPSIS: as the youngest daughter of alicent hightower, you are wed to the young wolf, cregan stark. what many believe to be a union of strife, such a notion is proven wrong very quickly.

anonymous request.

{ FORMAT: one-shot — requested by anon.

{ WORD COUNT: 6.7K.

{ WARNINGS: SMUT (mdni), arranged marriage, reader is a targtower with pale hair & lilac eyes, skin color unspecified, first time sex (for reader), loss of virginity, p in v sex (unprotected), massive breeding kink, all stark men have a breeding gene, oral sex / cunnilingus (fem!rec), face-sitting, biting/marking, making out, lots of touching, missionary position, talk of having a child, soft ending + aftercare

{ AUTHOR’S NOTE: There’s been a ton of Cregan requests, so I hope that this satisfies a lot of people until I post another! ❤️ Thank you all so much for the incredible requests and support of my work, it means the world to me and I am extremely grateful for all of it. See you guys soon!

𝐁𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧, 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐥𝐟 — 𝐭𝐨𝐠𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐬 𝐨𝐧𝐞, 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐢𝐜𝐞.

The North was often regarded as a harsh and unyielding environment, with bitter, stinging winds and snowfalls that could bury men alive beneath their might. Such tales were often told to scare children or dissuade them from leaving the roost.

It was untamed and savage, according to your mother — she who vehemently fought against your betrothal to Cregan Stark, the Warden of the North and Lord of Winterfell. A marriage steeped in wariness and discord, you had been pleasantly surprised by your husband’s kindness and warm stoicism.

Piety was a rarity in the bleak, bloodsoaked world you lived within — innocence was a quality as uncommon as a diamond in the rough. When Cregan had been offered such a sacred proposal during the last days of King Viserys I, he nearly scoffed at it.

A Targaryen, a Hightower — he almost imagined that the both of you would not do well together, and that it would become a sour union, made only to please families and uphold duty. His advisors, old men with embittered grudges against the South, cautioned him away from it, imploring him to wed a girl from the Vale or the Reach.

When Cregan Stark met you, clad in pale shades of sage and ivory, with lilac hues and a smile that could melt even the toughest of ice, perhaps it would not be a dreadful marriage after all.

Even with a dragon at your heel, there was something positively resplendent about you — Cregan could feel it within his marrow, a feeling seldom felt by any man locked in an arranged betrothal.

It was your innocuous, tenderhearted nature that beguiled him, as if you unconsciously drew him in with your honey. Your very first meeting happened to be to seal the marriage pact itself before you would be shipped away to the North, to be his wife and the new Lady Stark.

Cregan rarely found himself charmed by anyone, yet you possessed an inner beauty that flourished in his presence. You were your own flame, burning through his hardened exterior. He did not mistake your docile nature for weakness — you possessed a dragon, where he did not.

You were rather taken with him, perplexed by his outward ruggedness and gruff accent, the way in which he carried himself, massive physique clad in the thick trappings of a wolf. He was a mountain of a man, yet he handled you as if you were some precious jewel, sacred and worthy of admiration.

Alicent begrudgingly watched as you, her youngest daughter, untainted by her own fractured morality, was sent away to the North in the hands of some brute. For the good of the Realm, Viserys had told her, but it cut deeper knowing that it was you, her beloved flesh and blood.

Yet, as you found yourself beneath the crimson leaves of the Weirwood Tree in the Godswood, hands bound with Cregan’s own, you forgot about your mother’s bitterness entirely — and you were happy.

The first kiss was one that would make a permanent residence within your memory for lifetimes to come. He had cradled your face, towering over you as if he were a solemn statue, but even you could see the softening within his visage.

King’s Landing was suffocating, more often than not. The animosity that festered between your family smothered you, crushing you beneath its sharp heel. You were no longer surrounded by bitterness and resentment, and instead, cloaked by the protection and warmth of your new husband.

The feast held in honor of your blossoming union was one of merriment, the mood lighthearted and blissful. You sat beside your husband, stomach tumbling with a coil of nerves. Everyone seemed foreign to you, unfamiliar faces with their northern attitudes and odd indifference.

You could not fault anyone for having their suspicions, given your heritage. Being a Targaryen, pale-headed and violet-eyed, bringing your dragon from the South — it must’ve been jarring. Growing into your station as the Lady of Winterfell would be a long and arduous process, but you hoped that Cregan would show you the way.

Oblivious to your Lord-Husband’s smoldering stare, you politely consumed bites of the sugar-dusted fruit cobbler, admiring the vibrant aura within the room. Your wedding gowns were as pure as the driven snow, accented with silver embroidery and lined with pale fleece to keep you warm, given the cold gnaw of winter.

If it weren’t for Cregan’s steadfastness in providing you with a new wardrobe fit for winter, the icy chill would’ve consumed your extremities from the inside-out.

Leaning over within his seat, Cregan reached for your hand, stormy-gray hues churning with a kindness reserved for you. “How are you faring, wife?” He inquired, voice a low rumble; a soothing timbre that sent shivers down your spine.

“Very well,” Warmth crawled along your flesh when he referred to you as wife so openly and affectionately. You weren’t accustomed to having someone be so attentive to you, hang upon your every word, treat you with such courteousness. “This is so wonderful. I must thank you and your Keep, for your kindness.”

If you were anyone else, Cregan might’ve treated you with a stalwart cordiality found in most formalities, but you were not anyone else. You were good, sweet, and kindhearted — above all, you were quite innocent. He would’ve been telling himself a bold lie if he hadn’t thought about taking you to bed several times already.

The colors of the North suited you — his home suited you. Not many men of his position were so lucky when it came to betrothals, but he felt as if he was beyond fortunate to have married you. Cregan only hoped to be a good husband to you and to your future children, heirs to Winterfell, with the blood of the dragon and the wolf in their veins.

He had forbidden a bedding ceremony, content to guide you to your chambers once the festivities ceased, instead. Cregan enjoyed observing you and your demure mannerisms, from the way you made small talk with those around you, complimenting the choice of food and drink. It warmed his heart to know that his wife was an amiable soul.

“You needn’t worry, Princess. It is my duty as your husband to show you a bit of Northern hospitality.” Cregan mused, a ghost of a smile tugging at either corner of his mouth. He rarely showed any emotion, let alone treating his subjects with a smile given his hardiness, but he did show a sliver of it for you. He didn’t want to scare you away.

With a delighted smile, your hand shyly curled around his, your skin unblemished and soft. Cregan hadn’t touched a woman as silky as you, and it made his blood run hot — an inopportune time, given that it was in the midst of his wedding feast. “Thank you, my Lord.” You weren’t sure if you were permitted to abandon formalities just yet.

Cregan huffed, gaze twinkling with amusement as he let your smaller hand hold his own, digits tenderly caressing over your knuckles. “I would hope that you only call me ‘my Lord’ if you’re angry with me,” His chest rumbled with an affectionate sound. “You aren’t in King’s Landing anymore.”

Embarrassment rippled through you, but before you could correct yourself out of anxiousness, Cregan gingerly squeezed your hand. Instead, it evoked a smile from you, the very same tender expression you’d given him when you were proclaimed as his wife. “I will call you husband when I am pleased with you.” You mused, bright as could be, and so blissfully naive.

Often regarded as a brooding, serious man with little traces of humor, Cregan found himself letting his guard down just enough with you. Of course, to any observer, he still seemed rather stoic, but the brief, fleeting looks he gave you, the threadbare smiles — it suggested otherwise.

As the excitable buzz of the feast began to simmer, Cregan stood from the table, wood scraping across the stone floors of the Great Hall. He stepped away from you, sparing the servants and guardsmen a word before he returned to your side.

“Is there not to be a bedding ceremony?” You whispered, stomach still tight and festering with nervousness. It was something you feared since you last saw Aegon and Helaena be hauled away for such a thing. The concept of it frightened you, twisted and unusual.

With furrowed brows, Cregan shook his head, offering his thick arm out for you to take. “No,” He grunted, noticing the swell of anxiousness etched into your features. “I would never subject you to such a thing, or myself.” He murmured, feeling you take his arm as he led you from the Great Hall.

Relief flooded through you, and you finally relaxed, seemingly appreciative of Cregan’s thoughtfulness in the matter. “Thank you, husband.” You sighed, gripping onto his arm as he led you into a warm corridor and towards a massive spiral of thick, stone steps.

Though, you still had a duty to perform — consummating the marriage, creating an heir. Part of you feared what it all entailed, given that Helaena never seemed pleased with any of it. Would he hurt you? You were uncertain, but you wanted to believe that your new husband would keep you safe.

Cregan welcomed you into your marital chambers, tidied and polished for your stay. Whatever belongings you brought with you, they were situated near a set of fine, wooden chairs circled around a stone table. Everything seemed warm and comely in his quarters, the direwolf aesthetic heavy-handed, the hearth crackling and bursting with ripples of fire.

“If there is something not to your liking, inform me — I will have it rearranged,” Cregan rumbled, following in your footsteps as you neared the open hearth, warming your hands and basking in its glow. He stood close to you, towering over you with his bulk and might. “How are you?” He asked, ensuring your comfort above all else.

There was little need for the hearth when Cregan was near, radiating a natural heat that drew you in. His countenance seemed softer, not nearly as impassive as he’d been before. “I am more than fine, I promise.” You assured him, hands wringing together. “I thought that I would miss home, but I do not. Isn’t that terrible?”

Perplexed, Cregan seemed inclined to listen to your elaboration, chestnut tresses framing his face. “It isn’t a terrible thing, princess. I would imagine that it must be freeing, to be somewhere else. You’ve never left the capital.” He replied, knowing that you were quite sheltered for most of your life.

A soft sigh escaped you, and you tried not to think about it anymore. You didn’t want to sour the mood with talk of home and the past — this was now. “It is liberating,” You confessed, craning to look at him with a semblance of wonder and affection. “I am happy that I’m here with you.” You spoke with genuineness and finality.

It was pleasing to hear you say such a thing, and even better to know that you truly meant it. One thick, burly arm slowly encircled your hips, bringing you into the warm expanse of his chest. “Good,” He murmured, expression steely. “That pleases me greatly.”

To know that Cregan valued your happiness was a wonderful feeling — you felt cared for and seen, shrouded within his protectiveness. You imagined that it would be a blissful marriage. “Thank you, Cregan.” His name slipped from your perfect tongue, and he thoroughly enjoyed the sound it made.

A low rumble vibrated through Cregan’s chest as he drew you as close as he could, tracing his calloused digits along the soft curve of your jaw. “You are very beautiful,” He murmured, timbre edged with a delicious husk that made your knees buckle. You shivered, something that he took note of. “Are you cold, wife?”

You nodded, sucking in a sharp breath when his lips neared yours. “I am.” A squeak escaped you, followed by a steady exhale. You had been kissed before, but the extent of your experience abruptly stopped there. You imagined that you wouldn’t be cold for much longer.

His lips met yours, the kiss tender yet passionate, deepened by your husband. Cregan found your mouth to be most pleasant, pliant and perfectly soft, yet malleable. You reciprocated his kiss, hands moving to press against his chest.

“Will it be painful?” You whispered, likely in an attempt to soothe your gnawing nervousness. Agony was something that didn’t coexist with pleasure, in your mind. You wanted this moment to be special and sacred, binding yourself to your husband.

Cregan hesitated, gently cupping your face with his rough palm, tenderly stroking along your cheek. “I wouldn’t dare harm you, princess. You have my word.” He assured, and it confirmed his suspicions — you hadn’t been with another before. “It might be painful, but I will be gentle. We don’t have to start tonight.”

Admittedly, it was quite the opposite for you — you wanted to start tonight, but you longed for clarification first, and he gave it to you. You shook your head, hands slipping toward the front of his tunic, as if silently pleading with him to stay. “I want to.” You insisted, looking like the picture of innocence.

As much as he liked you sweet and pious, Cregan had a feeling that it would be somewhat different after this. His gray hues swirled with a heavy desire, dropping towards the delicate curve of your mouth. “May I?” It was all that he needed to ask, and as soon as you nodded, he brought you in for a heated kiss.

Despite his appearance, a stone-faced wall of muscle and Northern strength, he was incredibly gentle with you. He held you against him, never tight enough to cause you discomfort, hands softly kneading into your hips. You kissed him back as best as you could, feverishly hot, butterflies erupting within your stomach.

His beautiful wife — Cregan could not imagine another, now that he had you in his arms. The way you kissed him was innocuous and tender, as if you were also terrified of making a mistake. Your purity, a precious thing indeed, would be tarnished and dissolved after this evening.

The thought of you, round and swollen with his child, was both tantalizing and tempting — well within his grasp. Cregan wondered if they would take after you, pale-headed with lilac hues, or perhaps himself. If the Gods were good, they would be a blend of the both of you, a dragon and a wolf.

You shivered again when your burly husband curled his hand into the back of your wedding gown, fingers slipping between the gaps, feeling inklings of your bare skin beneath. “I’ll keep you warm, wife.” He rumbled, pressing a kiss against your jaw. It wasn’t from the cold, he knew this, but his honeyed words made you flustered.

He dropped his cloak, allowing the thick curtain of fur to land against the floor. He was impossibly broad, as thick as stone, tunic loose yet snug enough to accentuate his brawn. You felt your breath hitch within your throat, swallowing another barrage of nerves.

Cregan’s mouth assailed your neck, hand peeling away the collar of pale fur in order to reach you. Every kiss was passionate, wrought with need, yet maintained that air of gentleness. Roughness was in his nature, but he wouldn’t dare fall into that pit on your wedding night.

You tasted ambrosial, sweet velvet beneath his lips, which peppered themselves wherever they could. He listened to your soft gasps and needy whines, your hands having curled into the coarse material of his tunic. He wanted to show you just how perfect you really were.

Suddenly, your gown felt much too tight and constricting, as if you would drown within it. You alleviated such sensations by loosening the bodice, tugging on the ivory strings. The fur became unraveled as Cregan gently draped the garment over the back of a chair.

Left in the thin, humble trappings of your smallclothes, nothing more than a corset hugging a linen slip, he silently appraised you with the hunger of a wolf. You appeared to be shy, somewhat coy in his presence as he looked you over, large palms settling against the swell of your hips.

“Why do you shy away?” Cregan murmured, chestnut brows furrowing together, tone one of genuine concern. You were the prettiest creature he’d ever seen — most Targaryens were known for their beauty, but you possessed it both ways, inner and outer, and that only made you more incomparable in his eyes.

Swallowing your nerves, you chewed at the inside of your cheek, hands fidgeting together. “I suppose I worry about what you’ll think,” A sore insecurity, to be sure, but something most young maidens possessed. Cregan’s gray hues softened, one hand stroking along the length of your spine. “That I won’t be suitable.”

A huff escaped him, a threadbare chuckle as he shook his head, pressing a kiss against your forehead. “You worry too much, princess.” That deep, thunderous timbre of his, husky with his Northern accent, shook you right to your core. “You are my wife — and you are perfect.” He assured, kissing along your jaw.

You exhaled, hands reaching for his tunic, wanting to see him without his clothing. There was a rush of warmth that crawled across your flesh, surging through your blood as Cregan pressed endless kisses against your skin. He trailed from jaw to collarbone, hands loosening your corset.

With a brusque tug, your gruff husband tore it from you altogether, tossing the bodice aside. “I will show you how perfect you are.” He rumbled, voice a low, heavy caress near the shell of your ear. You shivered, gaze half-lidded as you tugged insistently at his tunic.

The message was unspoken, but conveyed nonetheless as your mountain of a husband let his hands drop from you, only to tug the coarse, dark linen over his head. He was burly, broad-shouldered and thick with muscle, wisps of chestnut tresses framing his face.

Amusingly enough, Cregan possessed more of a cherubic, youthful face than you expected, yet his nose was slightly crooked from having it broken, faint scars upon his face. His eyes seemed wisened, old beyond his years. He reached for your slip, gathering the material within his hands as he looked to you for consent.

With your confidence rejuvenated, you nodded, breathless and wanton as you assisted him in maneuvering out of your thin smallclothes. The brief lick of chilled air dragged across your bare flesh, causing your nipples to harden, pebbling with the chill.

Fire danced across your physique, tantalizing and gorgeous, beautiful beyond compare. Even Cregan seemed speechless for a beat, throat reverberating with a low grunt as he motioned toward your shared bed.

You half-expected him to pounce on you, grab your hips and stake his claim, but he simply resorted to watching you slide onto the bed, covered in furs of all varieties. The frame rustled slightly, and you laid down, a picture of true perfection. Your crown of pale tresses seemed to stick out amidst the darker pallor of the furs.

Anticipation churned violently within your gut, arousal slick and mounting between your thighs as Cregan stalked closer, removing clothing in the process. You watched with bated breath as he loosened the ties of his breeches, removing them altogether.

It was to be expected — a man of his indomitable stature likely had the assets to accompany it. You nearly choked at the sight of him, terrified that it really would hurt, even if he was gentle. You sucked in a sharp breath, bewildered when he had reclined beside you instead.

“I won’t bite, my Lady.” Cregan rumbled, soothingly patting his lap as you crawled closer. He effortlessly picked you up, letting you straddle his hips as he admired you from below. “Hm.” With a hum of approval, he caressed along your form, stroking from your thigh to your breasts.

It was agonizingly deliberate, made to explore and study instead of acting upon salacious impulses. Cregan observed you closely, palm gently cupping your breast, thumb swiping over your nipple. You gasped, careening into his sensual embrace.

A flurry of desire bubbled within him when you planted your smaller hand atop his, as if encouraging him to knead and grope at his leisure. He seemed pleased, and so did you, a low hum escaping you as he caressed your silky flesh.

He made sure to show that same amount of attention to your unattended breast, slowly kneading into you. Those tempestuous gray hues never tore themselves away from you, boring into you with a searing intensity.

Warm slick coalesced between your thighs, only mounting and growing when he continued to touch you, hand lifting to cup your chin. You absentmindedly leaned into his touch, eyes becoming half-lidded as you rocked forward within his lap.

The sensations you felt were new and exhilarating, goosebumps dancing across your spine, heat pooling between your legs. “May I touch you?” You asked, tone delicate and sweet, a display of your piety and innocence. He quite enjoyed your desire to explore alongside him, and he gave a nod of his head.

“You don’t need to ask, princess.” He soothed, jaw tensing as your soft palms settled against his chest. Cregan’s stormy eyes didn’t leave you, carefully tracing each plane of your curves, the downy texture of your skin, the lilac glint of your eyes.

Your fingertips dragged across his musculature, committing each scar to memory, features becoming hot beneath his incendiary stare. He was your husband now — you imagined that scenarios like these would become commonplace. “You are so handsome,” You whispered incredulously, lips curling into a gentle smile. “Perfect.”

Cregan appeared perplexed, a soft huff escaping him as he trailed his calloused palm across the small of your back. He couldn’t recall the last time someone had called him perfect and meant it — and he knew that you did. He neglected to act, allowing you to explore as much as you pleased.

Awestruck, he watched with silent hunger as you leaned down, lips pressing against his own. A soft grunt escaped Cregan as he caged you in, mouth passionate as it tangled with yours. He enjoyed the feeling of your body snug atop his, your skin resplendent, like velvet against the grating bite of stone.

Dragging a hand from the swell of your hips to the nape of your neck, he gripped the base of your skull, gingerly kneading into your pale tresses. He kissed you again, oozing with desire as he stole every wisp of air from your lungs.

He pulled one leg up into a v-shape, supporting your back to keep you upright atop his lap. You could feel the thick girth of his cock nudge against your backside, causing you to shiver at the foreign sensation. “Do you trust me?” Cregan murmured, roughened fingertips dragging over the pliant flesh of your thigh.

There was an indiscernible look within his eyes, chestnut brows drawing together slightly. Your breath hitched as you nodded, and Cregan settled against the furs, strewn on his back. Those strong hands of his continued to nudge you forward, bringing you from his warm lap to his chest, and then a touch closer.

“What are you …” Uncertain yet filled with exhilaration, you had no idea what Cregan was planning. Your slick cunt neared his mouth, and your Northern paramour did little to slow the process, bumping you forward until you hovered above him. “C—Cregan, C —” Your voice tapered off into a whine.

His tongue raked hot embers across your cunt, a sensation that immediately made your knees buckle. You used the headboard to brace yourself, mouth tearing open as a strangled gasp escaped you. Part of you feared sitting down entirely, but Cregan coaxed you down, hands digging into your haunches.

Your reaction was beyond worthwhile, body trembling and coiled, hand scrambling to brace yourself as the other fervently dug into his chestnut tresses. You never imagined that such pleasure was even possible, filling you with an excitable ecstasy that sank into your bones.

Splitting past your folds, Cregan tasted every inch of you, tongue seeking your cunt with a fervor. He was vigorous in his ministrations, not shying away from consuming every drop of your arousal. His nose brushed against your mound, hands kneading into your thighs to reassure you, let you know that he had you.

Even when he rested beneath you, he still seemed indomitable, perhaps a touch intimidating. You didn’t look down, body involuntarily trembling and rocking forward, back beginning to arch. “Gods, a—ah!” You stammered, thighs twitching and quivering as his tongue gently flicked over your clit.

Visibly flustered, you felt so strange and smitten, riding your husband’s face as you would your dragon. It filled your belly with a rousing fire, one bright enough to consume the rest of your body, licking along the length of your spine.

A low rumble emerged from Cregan’s chest, a vibration that rattled you to your core. He wanted you to have your fill, take as much as you could and drown within pleasure. Your maidenhead was still intact, a virtue that he did not treat lightly. He didn’t feel the need to breathe, lapping at your cunt with a wolfish gluttony.

You were undeniably soaked, like a fine stout upon his tongue as he devoured you. Cregan was passionate, each stroke of his tongue ensuring that you felt it all, bliss erupting throughout your stomach.

Chasing after what you imagined to be your release, you happened to peer down for a moment, finding the contented face of your husband, whose face was lodged between your legs. His brows were creased in concentration, tongue prodding against your entrance before languidly flicking back to your clit.

It was only when he pursed his lips around that sensitive clutch of nerves, that you nearly collapsed around him. Even your draconic blood could melt, tempered by the hardened ice of your Northern paramour. You gasped, hips stuttering as your thighs squeezed at either side of his head — fortunately, he didn’t seem to care.

The only thing you wanted was this, forever — your husband’s tongue between your legs, a sanctuary in the North with a potential family, a life in which you could finally find your solace. You continued to squirm and writhe, moaning his praises into the warmth of your chambers.

As you approached your peak, you grappled with Cregan’s tresses, tugging at the root as you rocked forward, again and again. “Cregan,” You moaned, countenance contorting into a look of sheer pleasure, bones crawling with an insatiable heat. “Cregan, Cregan, please!” It was a siren’s song of desire.

He did not stop, but he didn’t change course, either. Instead, he simply continued on, suckling at your clit as he intermingled it with timed laps of his tongue. Your release slammed into you, white-hot and blistering, gnawing away at your stomach as that coil of heat effectively snapped.

A whine emerged from you, one that was nearly breathless as you rocked forward again, legs shaking from ecstasy as you rode out your peak. Cregan, ever the dutiful husband, lapped at your nectar, savoring the taste, the scent of a pleasurable aftermath.

“What —” You had to catch your breath again, attempting to recuperate as you sat back on his chest instead, thick, burly muscle plentiful enough to cushion you. “Where did you learn how to do that?” It was an innocuous question, one so sweetly-spoken that it nearly caused Cregan to chuckle.

He did, however, smile — a rare, sentimental gesture reserved only for you. It was threadbare, and if it weren’t for the nature of your relationship, one might’ve thought him to be rugged and indifferent. “You need only ask, princess, and I will oblige.” His voice was a deep rumble that warmed your insides.

You thoroughly enjoyed the nickname of princess — a term of endearment given your status, but you were a princess no longer. “I am a lady of the North now, aren’t I? A princess no longer,” You proclaimed, skin shimmering with perspiration. “What will you call me, now?” You asked.

“Hm,” Cregan contemplated, pressing a kiss against your leg before he sat up enough to have a good look at you, chin still glistening with your slick. The sight was lewd, enough to make you unbelievably flustered as he grew closer, nearly chest-to-chest with you. “Lady Stark would suffice.” He murmured.

Something amorous burned within you, a smolder that soon turned to ignited sparks. “It would please me greatly.” You hummed, running your hands over his biceps before Cregan gently changed places with you, moving you beneath his bulk, comfortable upon your back.

Soft was a mere understatement — he could feel himself melt. It was not your dragon’s blood or heat that made him crumble, but your heart. He could imagine you as the mother of his children, belly round with his heirs, the Lady of Winterfell, a Hightower no longer.

He settled between your legs, and you gasped when his cock gently glided against your slick core. Cregan knew to temper himself, to be as gentle as he could with it being your wedding night, but his resolve was steadily diminished in your presence. He steeled himself, pressing a string of kisses along your body.

Without thinking, you unconsciously goaded Cregan into a point of near-frenzy. Your hands found the taut, trunk-like muscle of his biceps, visage filled with a sense of awe and adoration. “A child would please me greatly.” You confessed, having no clue what it would do to your husband.

Cregan stopped, digits curling into the thick furs on either side of your head. It took every fiber of his being not to fuck you then and there — and he wouldn’t, it wasn’t right for him to take your maidenhead with such roughness. His fantasy became reality, a visceral, beautiful vision that made him grunt, jaw unnaturally tense.

His rough palm soothingly stroked along your thigh, lust swelling within him like a blizzard, a violent storm of need that transcended all bonds of propriety. “Does Lady Stark want me to put a pup in her belly?” Cregan rumbled, tempestuous hues ignited with a fire that demanded to be extinguished, sending shockwaves right to your core.

You swallowed the growing lump within your throat, shuddering at the sound of his voice — an edged husk, like the rumbling of thunder before a deluge or the shaking of a mountain. “Yes,” You exhaled, searching his countenance, only to find desire. “I would.”

The Gods were testing him, aiming to see if he would break beneath the pressure, but he refused. Cregan lowered himself over you, lips molding themselves against yours in a hot kiss. Your hands remained poised atop his biceps, barely able to wrap themselves around the thick, corded muscle.

He wasn’t much of a talker, and it quickly dwindled into deep grunts and heavier sighs as he aligned his cock with your entrance. He made sure to part your legs, keeping them spread as he began to push inside of you. The sudden intrusion made you gasp, startled at the twinge of pain, the discomfort of it all.

Cregan despised the mere thought of causing you harm, and even he was willing to end it all then and there. “We don’t have to continue, beloved.” He rumbled, pressing a soothing string of kisses along your face. The endearing nickname made you preen, nails digging into his arms.

“No, I — I’m well enough,” You breathed, insistent on continuing. Cregan deliberated, but when you let out a low whine, he obeyed your command. “Gods, I need you, Cregan.” Pitched with a wanton resonance, you urged him to keep going.

Your neediness made his blood run hot, and he nodded, sluggishly resuming his pace. He continued to tilt his hips forward, cock feeding into you, inch by agonizing inch. Cregan felt the desperate bite of your nails clutching into muscle, leaving behind angry crescents.

You were never fully warned of the pain, the discomfort that accompanied pleasure. It was always sold as some fantasy, particularly for men — nights of heavenly passion resulting in bliss. For you, it was simply a marital duty to provide your husband with an heir, but this transcended that. Passion and affection sparked between the both of you, and it felt right.

As Cregan finally bottomed out inside of you, he allowed you time to fully adjust, rocking into you at a lackadaisical pace. He continued to shower you in kisses, wherever his lips could reach, giving particular affection to the crook of your neck.

Whatever discontent you felt, you hastily pushed it aside, tossing it into the recesses of your mind. Instead, you focused on him — on how incredible he made you feel, the warmth you experienced in his presence. One of your hands slipped to thread within his chestnut tresses, mouth agape.

You took him so well — better than expected, and it filled him with a sense of pride and ardor. Cregan pressed hungry kisses along your throat, nose buried into the hollow of it, right beneath your jugular. He continued to go slow, afraid of causing you further pain.

Cregan repositioned his hand, leaving one lodged beside your head, the other sinking into your haunch, digits tenderly kneading into your thigh. It was an offer of reassurance, and he watched your countenance shift from discontented to relaxed.

“Move,” The sharpness of your command brought him to heel, and he very nearly smiled — it was there, the ghost of it toying at his lips. Bringing his hips back and then forward, you moaned, knowing that the sting of pain would soon blossom into pleasure. “Please.”

Molten heat swirled within the pit of your stomach, arousal thick between your legs as Cregan began to find his pace, a rhythm that shook you to your core. He was so very gentle, even for a man of his herculean mass and muscle. He took care of you, soothingly caressing your thigh as he thrusted into you.

His cock filled you completely, a stretch that would take you more than just one night to adjust to. Your maidenhead was gone, your cunt tight around his length, pulling him in again and again.

Cregan’s breathing became heavier, somewhat labored as he consummated your union. Each snap of his hips held meaning, beyond the creation of an heir. It was tenuous with feelings, a burning sentiment he felt for you, ardor that had grown into a fire.

Admittedly, his mind was hazy, fueled by desire and the mere thought of you wanting a child — you had asked it of him, demanded, and he was at your mercy. Cregan couldn’t have gotten any luckier with you, the most resplendent woman he’d ever seen.

Imagining you full and round, still as lovely as the day he set his eyes upon you, a mother and a dragon — it was nothing short of true perfection. He chased after it, evident by the growing vigor and passion in each thrust of his hips, cock nearly tearing you into two.

No matter how gentle and careful Cregan was with you, it was to no avail, but you no longer cared. “Cregan,” You moaned, lifting one leg to hitch it around his waist, and that only seemed to further spur him on, allowing him to hit new depths. His throbbing length nearly kissed your womb, filling you to the brim. “Cregan!” You cried.

For a moment, you feared being split in-half by your mountain of a husband, but he slowed enough to let you recuperate, throat reverberating with carnal grunts. The rumbling of his chest, the heat that radiated from him in waves — it was all perfect.

It was driving him mad, the way your cunt constricted around his cock, the way in which your back arched from the furs, chest brushing against his. Cregan grunted, jaw set and brows furrowed in concentration as he kneaded into your thigh, something to alleviate his tension.

His thrusts deepened, became passionate and invigorated with love, and each snap of his hips made your head spin with delirium. You were drunk on desire, clinging to him as if you were a drowning maiden, hand splayed against his shoulder.

Whenever he happened to become a touch too vigorous, he felt your nails dig deep into his flesh, leaving behind the reddened marks of your consummation. Cregan was getting close, chest erupting with labored pants as he pressed his forehead against yours.

You moaned, body bending beneath his passion, malleable within his hands. His cock throbbed within you as he sought to spill his seed, face against yours, lips occasionally connecting in a series of sloppy, warm kisses. Everything felt incredible, in ways that you couldn’t comprehend.

He was so burly, a thick wall of impenetrable muscle that seemed to envelop you entirely, shield you from everything else, from all harm. Strands of chestnut stuck to his temples, flesh glittering with perspiration from the exertion of lovemaking, coupled with the heat in your chambers.

With another brusque thrust of his hips, he settled inside of you, reaching his peak with a subtle groan. His seed filled your cunt in hot ropes, more than enough to take, if the Gods were good. Cregan exhaled, feverishly hot as he began to recuperate, neglecting to remove himself from you for a few moments.

“Are you alright?” Cregan murmured, ensuring your wellbeing first, above all else. A stinging soreness settled into your thighs and your core, but you would survive. He didn’t completely obliterate you, thankfully — you wondered what he would be like, unrestrained.

“Yes,” You smiled, visibly flustered beneath the intensity of his stare. “That was incredible.” Your confession made him huff, likely one of amusement as he pressed a kiss against your forehead. Even you glittered with sweat, but that was to be expected.

You already wanted more — and you nearly asked it of him.

Lascivious fantasies took root within your mind, and the mere idea of him being rough and completely domineering made your cunt throb. You could not do it now, given how exhausted you were, but he had certainly unlocked a new side to you, a side that you were unfamiliar with.

Cregan pulled himself from you, propping your hips up beneath a feathered pillow to ensure that his seed would take. He rested beside you, drawing you into the bulk of his muscled arms, allowing you to rest your head against the expanse of his chest. “You were perfect.” He rumbled, roughened digits stroking along your spine.

It pleased you to know that your husband was satisfied with you, much to your delight. “I am glad,” Relief rippled through you as you inched closer, perfectly slotted against his frame. “So were you.” Your pleasant accolades made him smile, fracturing his stony exterior.

“There will be plenty of time for this, that I can promise you,” Cregan was more concerned with getting to know you, his beautiful lady-wife, Lady Stark. “I would like to start with you.” He murmured, savoring the sensation of your fingers tracing across his abdomen.

You blinked, seemingly surprised by Cregan’s genuine interest in you. It made you happy — perhaps you could have both. Moments of learning and moments like these, where you could indulge in pleasure.

“Would it offend you if I asked you to do both?” You questioned, warmth crawling along your body as Cregan squeezed the swell of your hip, gray hues sparkling with a semblance of mirth.

“It wouldn’t,” Cregan mused, timbre dropping to a lull, a husky octave that seemed to envelop you in its stoicism and warmth. “It pleases me to know that Lady Stark possesses the appetite of a dragon.” His teasing made you squirm, but he simply caressed you and held you closer.

With a coy smile, you lifted your head, pressing your lips against his, asserting your still-lingering desire for your husband. “Not a dragon,” Your tone softened with a sweeter resonance. “A wolf.”

copyright @ swordgrace ; please do not steal my work and claim it as your own or translate it onto other platforms.

[inknopewetrust]

𝐅𝐨𝐫𝐠𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐌𝐞, 𝐈 𝐇𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐒𝐢𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐝.

Summary: After days of uncertainty, you catch Aemond in the throne room and envision the future of what power can hold. [Aemond Targaryen x Fem!Reader] [WC: 2.8k]

Warnings: 18+, Minors DNI, smut, oral (f receiving), public sex, exhibitionism, overstimulation, enemies to lovers dynamic.

Quick Links: Masterlist | gif by @vizual-demon

“Knee deep in the [throne room] and you’re eating me out… is it casual now?”

“Do you always look so smug after killing your own blood?”

In your shadows, Aemond Targaryen stared at the Iron Throne in the storm.

Thunder eclipsed the skies over the castle. In the late evening, you could feel the shocks of lightning beneath your fingertips as they grazed the columns of marble that flanked the room. Each scream of anger echoed through the stones, you could hear it so clearly.

You could see him in the shadows of the throne.

Aemond Targaryen had returned from battle two days ago.

In those two days, the world had changed drastically compared to the one that it was before. A King incapacitated, a legend buried in the rubble of a fallen house, and two sides burning as bright as the cascading terror above.

The tide was shifting and the power in the halls was striking.

Aemond’s arms hung limp at his sides. For someone so thirsty for the power the room held, his apathetic nature would bury him. He could see the darkness of the swords; twisting and bleeding each person dry for their aspirations.

He wanted to be someone who was remembered.

Aemond Targaryen did not want to be immortalized in history as a weak member of the greatest family to ever exist in this world. In his dreams he saw a man of profound strength and terror—someone who reigned a fearsome government with unyielding standards.

In his cruelty, he wanted people to see a person who would not sacrifice his name for peace.

So yes, he was a bit smug at Rhaenys’ demise and ultimately Aegon’s injury. He would not be in this position now had he not done what was asked of him.

But he didn’t answer you—Aemond did not feel the need to acknowledge it because he knew you understood. Even if you were to be cutting and cynical, Aemond knew you rationalized his beliefs in a similar fashion.

And that enticed him.

You had always enticed him. So simple yet cunning, an outsider amongst the other ladies in your class. You were not a whore, you were not a mother, and yet he wanted to know what it felt like to be a feign of your touch.

How would your hands feel on his body? Your delicate fingers wrapped around him?

“Ah,” you ticked at him, pushing off the stone pillar and moving in his direction. “You see, My Prince, when you allow a dragon’s head to be paraded for the city to see, people are going to notice.”

“Power is power. We needn’t parade it unless it was necessary to remind them who they should bend the knee to.”

“At the ill will of a sacred creature?”

Meleys was once a beautiful dragon. It was such a shame that the second time you were able to witness her beauty it was in the butchered attempt of showing off. The grandstanding sickened the soil.

“It does not take a Targaryen to understand that.”

“What would you know of Targaryen customs?” He spoke back. His voice was thin and dry. “You will never know.”

“I apologize… for my lowly status is not on par with such a great house. I am sure my Lord Father would appreciate the sentiment.”

You have a coy, playful smile that he could feel in his bones. The kind that would chide him, never take him too seriously, and one that rarely doubted him.

It was an uneasy feeling. One he would never quite get used to.

“His ambitions are not unknown. How people without power seek it.”

“Is that not why there are whispers of what you have done?” You questioned and his hands turned to fists quickly. “Small folk talk, Aemond. Power is power but when you misuse it, the omen may come true.”

The omen hovered like the storm above. The God’s were battling in the realm in the sky; giants of proportions unfathomable in their richness of blood. They scorched and rattled in the sky as cracks of thunder rumbled throughout the Keep.

“Yet I speak nothing of it,” he eyed you solemnly. “You talk of rumors and fallacies as if they hold truth. Perhaps it is I who should ask where your loyalties preside? Does war scare you?”

Aemond approached you with long strides. His hands lingered at his sides but never held onto his hilt, threatening you with violence or harm for your disagreements.

He could see you did not fear war. Your father would have called on your return if the prospect of war scared a house with the name of your own. A prominent family in the Vale—to the Greens you were a key.

And he could play you a fiddle if you let him.

“No,” you replied, keeping your head tall. “I live in a gilded tower.”

“That has been infiltrated before. It has seen death before.”

“They do not seek me,” your eyes ran along his face as the sky illuminated his sharp features. “But you know that.”

Aemond hummed and in a moment of faulted want, his right hand reached to brush your own. The electricity of shock pulsing through your veins as though it was as important as blood itself.

You swallowed the nervousness that built in your throat at his actions. He was so sure of himself, so different from the man you had known before.

He took his sins and bathed in them. Aemond let the water dry in confidence of himself as Prince Regent. If he was going to rule in his brother’s stead, he needed the reverie of power to seep inside of him.

“Men will seek anything if they are given the chance.”

You traced the direction of his eyes to your hand, how he ghostly itched to touch you again.

“And what is it that you seek?” You questioned quietly. “Is being a ruler not enough?”

In the lull, your ears filled themselves with the sound of your heartbeat. Pumping and beating to the thrills of anticipation you sought in the sordid walls of an ugly Keep. To please a King, well… It was a dangerous thing.

Aemond’s hand touched yours loosely again. His fingers gently grazed yours with a profound intent that was something he sought.

“No,” he admitted. “It is not.”

His hand bypassed yours and rested lowly on your hip. The touch stilled you. In the darkness of the hall, the world stopped moving and your vision tunneled. His hand moved higher to rest upon the crux of your hip and stomach, thumb caressing the fabric of your dress. He stepped closer.

Without thinking, you took a step back out of the chills that erupted on your skin, not out of want. He took the space you created and closed it again but followed you as you moved backwards and backwards until your back hit one of the marble columns you had hid behind not twenty minutes earlier.

One of your hands caught yourself on the column and the other wove itself around a post. The wings of the throne room were elevated for spectators that were nonexistent now.

Aemond’s other hand mirrored the other and he held you there.

“If someone came looking for you,” he huffed, tilting his head to the side which allowed his eye to narrow. “What would you let them do to you?”

You furrowed your brows yet the feel of his hands burning through your dress allowed your mouth to run dry.

Nothing. You would let them do nothing to you. You would fight to the death to defend yourself but if it were Aemond, you would let him devour you.

“What about me, hm?” There was a faint smile on his lips. “What would you let me, your Prince Regent, do to you while the Gods watched over us?”

His hands slithered up your torso, drawing a staggered breath from you as he cupped your breasts over your dress and groped hard to feel the flesh. Aemond saw your chest stutter under his touch.

“Tell me,” he whispered, pulling his head in close to yours. His lips became a mere centimeter from yours; breath lingering in the space between you heavy and taught.

“I-I-I,” your nerves got the better of you. Stumbling over your words like a dolt, his hands moved back down and began to gather your dress in his hands. 

“Poised to stick pins where the plans now lie but a stuttering fool now.” 

“I am not a fool,” you huffed as the cool night air began to make itself known against your ankles, then your shins. “I know what I want.” 

Aemond leaned in, knocking his nose gently with yours. 

“Tell me,” he repeated. 

“I want you to touch me,” you instructed him. “I want to feel the mouth of a King on my lips and under the Gods I do sin, but I wish to feel his lips elsewhere.” 

“Oh?” Aemond hummed as his hands continued their path. “I may not hold the title of King-” 

“You are a King, Aemond,” you said assertively and his hands stopped. 

“You rule in the place of Aegon’s incapacity and by all law and rules, you are the one to carry the heavy sword. You speak the actions and see them true.” 

His Adam’s apple bobbed at the reality. 

Aemond’s power lingered. It lingered in this great hall but it was a shell. The Aemond he felt in his bones was still as scared as the one who killed Lucerys. 

“I wish to feel your lips elsewhere,” you whispered, breath fanning his face. He tilted his head upwards and for a split second, his lips touched yours. 

Intoxicating; you would have fallen to your knees had you not already wished to see him on his. 

“I want to see a King on his knees.”

Aemond could only smirk. He planted a quick, brief kiss on your lips before bunching up the skirt of your dress as he knelt down to the floor. A beckoning, ethereal call from above led him to his knees to worship. With his hands collecting the material of your dress, Aemond’s hands met yours and opened them the best he could for you to grab onto it. He used the leverage of your assistance to bring down your stockings, clear the way of his alter as the thunder roared from above.

You let your head fall back against the pillar as his hands roamed your thighs, inching higher and higher but still skimming past the now unguarded temple.

You could not help but look at the exits in view as though someone would walk through them at this hour.

This late hour when all of the good, pious Lord and Ladies, Prince and Princesses, laid in their beds asleep—sans the King he would never fault himself for burning.

“Aemond,” you spoke with a voice that shook. “What if someone were to see us?”

He stopped his hands, gazing up at you from the ground on which he knelt.

“Let them see then,” he kissed the front of your thighs. “If they see, then I will marry you.”

Fuck. It made your heart leap in your chest. A frog in your throat, the honesty in his eye was enough for your anxieties to settle but your excitement to grow.

He would marry you. What a world you wished you lived in.

If all were true, it would have happened the first time he touched you. 

“Drop your dress,” he ordered.

Without hesitation, you dropped the skirt of your dress and he vanished before your eyes.

But you could feel him.

You could feel the breath of his body releasing itself just beyond where you ached for him the most. His grip on your thighs was bruising. Aemond used his position to prop one of your legs on his shoulder, sending you off balance and into the bannister behind you.

But then his hot breath met where you wanted him and the feeling melted you from the inside. Aemond peppered kisses on your mound, waiting until the perfect moment to lick a stripe through your folds and with it, you folded yourself. 

Daydreams of his hands on yours was not enough. The feel of your hand in the solitude of night where the sins of pleasure were trapped behind heavy doors could not compare. Aemond attached himself to your flesh and sucked, hard, before lapping again in a more gentle fashion. He repeated it again and again until the wetness began to gather more audibly. 

There was no stopping the breathless pants escaping your lips. 

You gripped hard on the marbled post. If you were the strongest woman in the Seven Kingdoms, you could have crushed it beneath your fingertips. Aemond’s tongue laded the wetness and gathered it in a lewd slurping noise to your clit only to run his tongue over it in brisk movements. 

“Aemond-” you swallowed your moan. Knees threatening to buckle, you wanted to grip onto him. Your hands sought his shoulders, his head or hair, and a soft bed. 

The Iron Throne was taunting you in the background. Power so divine, so close yet a million miles away. 

Aemond wouldn’t marry you, but in the moment, you would live sinfully until the Gods caught you in truth. 

He let out a low hum that made your senses tingle. He too was enjoying the pleasure he could bring, growing his own in his trousers that begged for its own mercy. Aemond could feel you palm at his head from the fabric that fell over his head—a delicacy; the rapture of someone he could love one day if he let himself. 

Your helpless want forced you to roll your hips against his face as though his tongue was not enough. Aemond gripped your hips tightly to guide you against his mouth. 

“Shit.” The words fell from your lips freely. 

“Aemond, I don’t think I will fare much longer,” you admitted to him and felt yourself burn from the inside. His accommodations to your wants, the fluidity of his tongue against you in need was sending you barreling toward the edge. 

Your mewls became whines that rivaled the thunder. 

In an instant, he removed his mouth from yours and appeared from under your skirts. Your clit throbbed as the blood began to rush downwards and a sickening wetness that was not your finish began to trickle down your leg. 

“Wha-” 

You could not speak before his lips met yours aggressively. You could taste yourself on his lips and for a second, you wanted to recoil at the thought but his hands cupped the back of your head softly and everything melted into you. 

You wished he would marry you. 

“I am not done,” he broke the kiss and admitted. “But I could not hold that in any longer.” 

His sentiment took you aback. Your eyes searched for a lie; begging for a fallacy to come true and reveal itself in the ugly colors of night but there was nothing. There was nothing but truth and in it, it broke your heart in the slightest. 

Aemond wanted to kiss you. He wanted to please you, pleasure you, hold you tightly as a husband would do but he wouldn’t marry you. 

He couldn’t marry you. 

But he would love you in the depths of darkness as his power soared for a brief moment in time and the hands of a fair lady, opposed by his mother, warmed his bed in the evening. May the throne be his witness, Aemond Targaryen was a sinner. 

He kissed you again before falling to his knees once more. 

As promised, he worked in quick licks to ignite the spark. It lit up the room brighter than the sky as the Gods boomed in discontent but they worked to drown out the sounds of your elation the closer you became. Aemond let you gather the dress back in your hands so you could see him as his tongue circled your clit and he pierced your cunt with two fingers sliding in the wetness easily. Your legs trembled. His other hand ran soft strokes along the muscle to sooth you but it was fruitless. 

His fingers curved inside of you, massaging your walls as they clenched around him and swore to the heavens for a release. 

“Fuck, Aemond.” 

He enjoyed hearing the words no Queen would dare mutter. It dared him to move faster, to move more heavy against your walls, against your lips as he continued to lap the juices that made the ghosts in the halls look away in a blush. 

It was building to a precipice inside of you. As though a volcano was erupting, you let out sounds he had never heard. You were not trying to be quiet. You were letting the castle hear your pleasure that would send you to a horrible fate. 

And you begged him to bring you to the end. His name lost its true meaning as it became lost in the night, falling from your lips breathlessly and your eyes shut tightly as the chills in your spin sent you spiraling. 

He was no God, but Aemond Targaryen gave what he had as a God should. 

“Darling,” he murmured from below. “Let them all see what a King can do.” 

And you did. 

A/N: thanks for reading! As always comments, reblog, and likes are always appreciated. I love hearing from all of you and thanks for letting me write this little self indulgent fic.

[internet-rat]

Aemond Targaryen x wife reader

He makes you sit on his lap after a long day in the Red Keep~ No warnings~ A little Aemond fluff bc he needs love

In the seclusion of Aemond's private chambers in the Red Keep, the torches flickered against the stone walls, casting dancing shadows that played across the grand furnishings. The room was adorned with the luxuries befitting a prince of the realm — rich tapestries hung heavy and fragrant incense burned in the corner. The door was firmly closed, muffling the distant sounds of the feast celebrating Maelor's nameday.

Aemond sat sternly in a high-backed chair carved from dark wood, his one good eye reflecting the fire's light with a predatory glint. The sapphire that filled his other socket shimmered eerily, adding to his imposing presence. His long silver hair cascaded over his broad shoulders, framing his sharp Valyrian features. His expression was one of contemplation, his lips pressed into a thin line.

As you entered, his gaze fixed upon you with an intensity that caused the air to thicken. With a firm but gentle hand, he beckoned you closer. There was no need for words; his desires were clear in his silent command. His strong hands grasped your waist, guiding you to sit on his lap, facing him. The proximity to him was overwhelming; his presence enveloped you, his heat and the scent of spiced leather and metal filled your senses.

Aemond’s touch was both possessive and protective, a complex amalgamation reflective of his tumultuous nature. His fingers traced the line of your jaw gently yet with a firmness that reminded you of his undeniable strength. Leaning in, his voice was low and husky, a sound that resonated with a command yet carried an undercurrent of vulnerability that he revealed to no one but you.

“Today’s revelries matter little,” he murmured, his breath warm against your ear. “Here, with you, I find a moment’s peace amidst the storm that ever churns around me. Tell me, my love, does the heart of the Red Keep feel as oppressive to you as it does to me?”

His question hung in the air, a testament to the rare occasions he chose to voice his concerns. In these private moments, Aemond Targaryen, the fierce dragonrider and prince, sought solace in your presence, showing a side of himself kept hidden from the world. His fingers continued to explore, tracing the lines of your arms down to your hands, intertwining his fingers with yours, grounding himself with your touch. His fingers were rough and calloused, but undeniably warm and strong. He used his thumbs to caress your hands. To ease his worries you plant a soft kiss on his cheek. As the softness of your lips graced his scarred cheek, a subtle shift occurred in Aemond's demeanor. Such a tender gesture, simple yet profound, pierced the hardened exterior of the prince known for his ruthless aggression. His eye, usually so piercing and guarded, softened remarkably, reflecting a fleeting glimpse of the man buried beneath the layers of duty and battle scars.

He inhaled deeply, drawing in the scent of your hair, a mixture of lavender and the subtle hint of the sea, perhaps a memory of calmer days. His grip around you tightened momentarily, a silent acknowledgment of your comfort before he relaxed again. Each touch from you seemed to anchor him further away from the tumultuous thoughts that plagued his mind.

"Your kindness is my fortress," Aemond confessed, his voice barely above a whisper, as if admitting something sacred and secret. The intensity of his gaze locked onto yours, seeking, perhaps, a haven only you could provide. With his other hand, he carefully tucked a strand of hair behind your ear.

In a soft voice you tell him you love him and nestle closer to his chest. Reacting to your tender words and the closeness of your body nestling against his, Aemond's armored façade melted away under the warmth of your affirmation. His hand, typically prepared for war, shifted with a gentleness reserved solely for these intimate moments. He cradled the back of your head, guiding you to the security of his chest, where the steady beat of his heart played a rhythmic testament to his deep, abiding affection for you.

"I love you beyond the reach of shadows," Aemond whispered, his voice a deep, melodious rumble that resonated within the confines of his chest. The breath of his confession brushed against the crown of your head, imprinting his vow into the very air around you.

In the sanctuary of his embrace, the world's weight—that of a prince expected to be both a warrior and a ruler—seemed to dissolve into the background. Here, in the quietude of his chambers, you were his solace, and he, your unwavering protector. His arms tightened around you, a fortress built not of stone and steel, but of flesh and bone and heartfelt promises.

"Your love is the star by which I navigate the darkest nights," he continued, his hand tracing soothing patterns along your back. The intimacy of the moment grew with each shared breath, pulling him further from his usual world of strategy and strife.

"Let us forget the court, forget the intrigues," Aemond suggested, his tone a blend of longing and decisiveness. "Tonight, it is only you and I, and nothing else shall intrude upon this peace." His fingers paused at the ends of your hair, playing with the strands as though they were precious silks.

[romerona]

The Swan Princess; Westeros Version.

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

Viserys and Rickon Stark arrange for the princess and Cregan to be wed once she comes of age. To build familiarity, they reunite them every few years, however, from a young age, they absolutely despise each other.

Young fem Targ reader x young Cregan Stark.

Warnings: Reader glazing, like to the max.

You had long understood that the world bowed before beauty, that men and women alike were drawn to it as moths to a flame. The great halls of court had taught you this lesson well—whispered it into your ear before you were old enough to truly grasp its weight.

You had seen it in your sister, in the way lords and ladies alike marvelled at her Valyrian splendour, at the silver of her hair and the striking violet of her eyes. They spoke of Rhaenyra in hushed, adoring tones, weaving tales of how she would one day sit upon the throne, not merely as a ruler but as a queen of legend, a vision of Old Valyria made flesh.

And you had seen it in yourself.

At first, there had been nothing of note, nothing remarkable. You had been but a child, young and unformed, another girl in the shadow of a much-adored princess. But as the years passed and maidenhood crept upon you, your reflection began to… shift. The glances that once passed over you without care began to linger.

You had blossomed into something resplendent, something the court could no longer dismiss with fleeting glances and half-hearted courtesies. The whispers that once surrounded Rhaenyra now turned to you, their tones shifting from admiration to reverence, to awe.

They called you lovely, the fairest flower in the gardens of Westeros, the jewel of the realm. The most beautiful maiden the Seven Kingdoms had seen in an age.

Some likened you to your mother—a woman you hardly remember, yet whose beauty had been spoken of as though it were myth, a thing of legend. Others, in hushed reverence, murmured of Queen Alysanne, your grandmother, claiming you bore her grace, her quiet warmth, the effortless charm that had once soothed even the most unruly of lords and bent the hearts of the realm to her will.

The nobles adored you, vying for your favor as though your mere glance could bestow fortune. The smallfolk, too, had not been untouched by your radiance; they sang of you in the streets, wove your name into songs, whispered prayers for just a glimpse of you.

Wherever you walked, eyes followed. Some were filled with admiration, others with longing. They laid their devotion before you like an offering at a sacred altar—on silver platters and bent knees, eager, breathless, desperate to bask in your favour.

And you… well, you embraced it, even if you didn't ask for it because why wouldn’t you?

It was nice to be admired, to be adored and It was a power in its own right. Not in the brute force of a warrior, nor the sharp cunning of a schemer. No, yours was a power far more delicate, It required no steel, no whispered plots in darkened corridors. It was effortless. Natural. Expected.

And in a place like Westeros, where power was everything, you had come to understand, even at a young age, that even this—even beauty, even admiration, even the weight of lingering gazes—was a power worth holding. A power necessary to survive if it was ever to come to it.

So you gave them what they wished to see.

A princess draped in the finest silks, the blush of soft colours kissing the fabric, golden embroidery catching in the light like spun sunlight. Your silver hair fell in perfect waves, untouched by the wind, each curl arranged just so. You spoke with a voice as sweet as honeyed wine, each word measured, each tone effortless. You let your dragon blood come out just at the right moment. You laughed in melodies, a sound as light as birdsong, and you smiled—a smile that held no sharp edges, no shadows, no sorrow.

Lovely.

Good.

Perfect.

You were the ideal princess. The dream. The fantasy. A creature of spun gold and sunshine, a vision too beautiful to be touched, too radiant to be real and they loved you for it.

Well—most of them.

Queen Alicent’s gaze was always careful, always measured. Her smiles never quite reached her eyes, and her words were always polished to civility but never warmth. She did not say she disliked you—no, she was far too shrewd for such carelessness—but you knew. You could feel it in the way she watched you, in the way her hands curled just slightly too tight around the arms of her chair when your father doted on you without doing anyhting but exist.

And then there was him.

Otto Hightower, the Hand of the King. Ever the quiet spectre at her side, ever the patient strategist. He regarded you not with admiration nor disdain, but calculation, as though you were a chess piece yet to be moved, a weapon yet to be wielded. You could almost see the gears turning behind his gaze, the careful consideration of what you were—what you could be.

But the rest of the court? They worshipped the very ground you walked upon, their devotion woven into every glance, every whispered word, every offering of favour.

And why shouldn’t they?

You were beautiful. You were charming. You were everything they wanted you to be.

No one truly knew you, of course. No one tried to, no one except your sister, Rhaenyra.

With her, the mask slipped—you let yourself breathe. With her, you were not the realm’s jewel, not the golden girl the court placed upon a pedestal. You were just a girl. Just her sister.

In the quiet of her chambers, away from the ever-watchful eyes of the court, you could shed the weight of their expectations. You could lean into her warmth, rest your head against her shoulder, and let the exhaustion settle into your bones without fear of judgment or the need to meet expectations.

Rhaenyra’s chambers were warm, the heavy scent of lavender oil and burning candle wax thick in the air. The fire crackled low in the hearth, casting flickering bands of gold and amber across the stone walls. Shadows swayed with each movement of the flame, stretching and shrinking like silent spectres.

Seated before the mirror, you slowly ran a silver comb through your hair, the polished metal catching the firelight, glinting as it passed through each curl. The rhythmic strokes were soothing, an idle task as your thoughts drifted.

"The lists have been finalized," you mused, your eyes flicking to the reflection of your sister as she poured herself a goblet of deep red wine. "I heard Lord Tyrell’s oldest son is to ride this time. Apparently, he fancies himself a true knight."

Rhaenyra snorted, lounging carelessly on the chaise, one arm draped over its cushioned edge, her every movement one of effortless confidence.

"He fancies himself much," she drawled, taking a slow sip of wine before tilting her head in amusement. "But Leanor says he rides like a green boy fresh to the lists—clumsy, over-eager, more bluster than skill."

You giggled, setting down your comb, twisting to face her properly. "Poor boy. The Reach lords are always so desperate to prove themselves at court. What do you think Father will say if Ser Harwin competes?"

A knowing smirk tugged at the corner of Rhaenyra’s lips, the kind that spoke of secrets unshared.

"He won't say anything because Ser Harwin is the strongest knight in the realm," She leaned back with a sigh, swirling the wine in her goblet, watching the liquid catch the light. "Besides, he has no reason to forbid it. He is my sworn shield."

Her words were casual, but the glint in her eyes was anything but.

You rolled your eyes, amusement dancing behind them, but before you could reply, a soft knock echoed against the chamber door.

"Enter," Rhaenyra called, already setting her goblet aside, her posture shifting ever so slightly—relaxed yet expectant, as though she already knew who had come to seek her.

The door creaked open, candlelight spilling onto the figures standing beyond it. Two maids stepped in, their hands cradling the most precious of burdens.

"Prince Jacaerys and Prince Lucerys, my princess," one of them announced, her voice gentle, reverent.

Your heart soared.

Jace, a chubby little thing, toddled inside with an eager grin, his dark curls bouncing as he rushed toward his mother, his small boots tapping hurriedly against the stone floor. Behind him, one of the maids cradled Luke, still but a babe, his plump cheeks kissed with warmth, his tiny features relaxed in that drowsy way of infants just waking. His dark lashes fluttered as he squirmed in the nursemaid’s arms, little fingers flexing, reaching for something unseen.

You did not hesitate.

With a delighted gasp, you all but flew from your seat, reaching Jace before he could reach Rhaenyra, sweeping him up into your embrace. He squealed in laughter, arms wrapping around your neck as you spun him ever so slightly, the movement drawing another burst of giggles from his tiny frame.

"Oh, my sweet prince!" you cooed, pressing a flurry of kisses against his rosy cheeks. "You are growing so big, aren’t you?"

"‘M big!" Jace declared proudly, puffing his chest out as he beamed at you.

"Oh, you are," you agreed solemnly, your eyes twinkling with amusement as you gave him another affectionate squeeze before setting him gently back on his feet.

Then, without pause, your gaze shifted, softening as you turned toward the maid who held Luke.

"Come here, my darling boy," you murmured, your hands already reaching, waiting.

The nursemaid, knowing well this was a ritual repeated many times over, carefully placed the babe into your arms. The moment his small form settled against you, warmth bloomed in your chest, a fierce, unspoken devotion unfurling in your ribcage.

Luke let out a soft, contented noise, his little hand curling instinctively into the fabric of your gown, his fingers gripping tight even in his half-waking state. His tiny head lolled against you, his warmth soaking into your skin.

“Oh, sweet darlings,” you cooed, rocking him gently. “My perfect little dragons.”

Rhaenyra watched you with fond amusement, her lips curving into a knowing smile. “You act as though they are your own.”

"They are mine," you said without hesitation, your voice as certain as the rising of the sun. You continued to run a soothing hand over Lucerys’s tiny back, feeling the soft rise and fall of his breath against you. "At least half mine. My sweet nephews, the only men in this kingdom worth my love."

Jace wiggled happily in your grasp, seemingly pleased with your declaration, his little chest puffing out as if he understood the weight of your words. Against your heart, Luke let out a soft, contented noise, his fingers still curled tightly into the fabric of your gown.

Rhaenyra shook her head, though her smile did not fade. "One day, you will have babes of your own, and then we shall see how much you dote on them."

You scoffed lightly, shifting Jace in your hold with practised ease so that you had one boy in each arm, their warmth pressing into you like a shield against the chill of the stone chamber.

"Perhaps," you allowed, though your tone was airy, unconvinced. "But for now, these two will suffice."

Rhaenyra only hummed, eyes gleaming with something unreadable, something knowing. But she said nothing more, merely watching as you held her sons as if they were your own.

Jace wriggled in your arms as you settled onto a cushioned seat, his small hands reaching curiously for the delicate braids woven into your silver hair. He toyed with them absentmindedly, tiny fingers tugging at the strands as if they were ribbons to unravel, but you barely noticed. Your attention remained on Luke, rocking him gently as he nestled further into your embrace, his warm little body moulding against you, utterly at peace.

"You know," you murmured, absently smoothing a hand over Jace’s unruly curls, "I loathe that we must attend this wretched tournament."

Rhaenyra snorted, lifting her goblet to her lips, her expression one of lazy amusement. "It is for our father’s name day. You should at least pretend to enjoy it."

"I enjoy the feast," you corrected, pressing a light kiss to Luke’s downy curls. "The food, the music, the dancing—those are far more tolerable than watching grown men knock each other senseless for the sake of posturing."

Rhaenyra hummed knowingly, swirling the deep red wine in her goblet. "And yet, half the men in the realm will be there, hoping to impress you."

You groaned, throwing your head back against the cushion in an exaggerated display of suffering. "Gods spare me."

Rhaenyra only laughed, her eyes gleaming with mischief over the rim of her cup. "You say that," she teased, "but I know you will preen under all the attention."

You gasped, placing a hand over your heart in mock offense, eyes widening as if she had struck you. "You wound me, sister. Am I so vain?"

Rhaenyra said nothing. She merely looked at you, one brow arched, the corners of her lips twitching as though she were barely restraining another laugh.

You huffed, shifting Luke slightly in your arms, adjusting the soft blanket draped over him.

"I simply think," you continued airily, "that if I must be subjected to endless praise, I might as well enjoy it."

"And enjoy it you shall," Rhaenyra mused, her voice laced with amusement. "Almost the entire realm will be in attendance. The Baratheons, the Lannisters, the Velaryons, the Hightowers, the Martells, the Arryns... the Starks—"

At that, you let out an exaggerated gagging noise, rolling your eyes so hard it nearly hurt. "No. You jest."

"I do not," Rhaenyra said, her smirk widening in clear delight at your suffering. "Lord Rickon has sent word—he and his son are to attend."

You groaned again, this time with true despair, letting your head fall back against the cushions as though the weight of such a revelation had physically weakened you. "Must I suffer him again? Have I not endured enough in this life?"

Rhaenyra laughed outright at that, the rich sound filling the chamber as she stood, moving to take Jace from your arms. "Come now, sister. It has been some time since you last saw him."

"And that has been my greatest blessing," you muttered, shifting Luke carefully in your arms before placing him in his cradle. You took a moment to tuck the soft blanket around him, ensuring he was snug and warm before straightening with a huff.

"Oh, do not be so dramatic."

You turned to Rhaenyra, utterly aghast. "Dramatic? Dramatic? Rhaenyra, do you not remember what he did to me?"

She smirked, the expression infuriatingly amused. "Do you mean when you got lost in the woods after he left you there?"

Your eyes narrowed, lips pressing into a thin line. "You know, most sisters would take my side."

"I am merely pointing it out," she said airily, adjusting Jace on her hip, "After all, you did set his hair aflame and burned his eyebrow off."

You scoffed, crossing your arms tightly over your chest. "I did not do it—Drakaryon did. But nonetheless, he deserved it." Your voice grew hot with indignation. "Leaving a princess alone in the Wolfswood—he’s lucky Drakaryon didn’t burn more than just his eyebrow."

Rhaenyra chuckled, utterly unbothered. "I suppose you could have called him back before the poor boy lost half his face."

"A mercy he had a face left at all," you muttered darkly, tilting your chin up. "And yet, I am the one forced to endure his presence again. It is an injustice."

"Truly, sister," Rhaenyra teased, her smirk deepening, "your suffering knows no bounds."

You huffed dramatically, flopping into the nearest chair with all the grace of a fallen maiden in some tragic tale.“I care not for Lord Cregan Stark, nor his miserable presence. I shall simply focus on the feast.”

“Ah, yes,” Rhaenyra mused, leaning back into her chaise. “And your new gown?”

That brightened your mood considerably. “Oh! You must see it, Rhaenyra,” you gushed, your distaste for the tournament momentarily forgotten. “It is to be the softest red, with golden embroidery, delicate like the petals of a summer rose.”

Rhaenyra smirked, swirling the last remnants of wine in her goblet. "You shall outshine the Queen herself."

You grinned, tilting your chin with an air of playful vanity. "That would not be difficult."

Rhaenyra shot you a pointed look, one that might have been a scolding if not for the unmistakable glint of amusement in her violet gaze.

Days later, you found yourself—albeit reluctantly—surrounded by lords and ladies, exchanging pleasantries, smiling sweetly, and accepting compliments as though it were your very purpose in life.

And Harrenhal had never felt quite so alive.

The great fortress, with its looming, blackened towers and sprawling grounds, had become a city unto itself, thrumming with the restless energy of nobles gathered from every corner of Westeros. The tournament had drawn them all—lords and ladies, knights and squires, banners billowing in the crisp autumn air, their house colours bold against the dull grey of the ancient stones.

Tents stretched across the fields like a sea of silk, each vying for attention, for prominence. Servants bustled about, tending to their lords' demands, polishing armour, securing horses, and whispering the latest courtly gossip. The air was thick with the scent of roasting meats and fresh bread, mingling with the sharp tang of steel and the ever-present smoke curling from the distant kitchens.

They had come, of course, to honour your father, to swear their fealty, to witness the grand spectacle of knights clashing in his name.

And yet, for as much as they had come for glory, for sport, for politics—there was another reason they had come, one unspoken but well-understood.

They have come for you too.

As the second, almost of age, unwed daughter of the King, you were a prize yet unclaimed, a jewel unspoken for. The lords of Westeros—young and old, bold and timid, gallant and grasping—had gathered not just for sport, not merely for glory, but for you.

And they were eager to impress, to court favour, to steal a glance, a word, a moment in your presence.

The courtyard was alive with the hum of noble voices, the lilt of music weaving through the air, and laughter bubbling like the fountains that dotted the castle grounds. Beyond the merriment, the distant clang of steel rang out as knights prepared for the coming tourney, the rhythmic pounding of horses' hooves echoing from the lists.

"Princess, you must tell me who crafted your gown," Lady Floris Baratheon gushed, her brown eyes wide with admiration as she took in every detail, from the fine embroidery to the glistening pearls that crowned your head. "I have never seen anything so perfectly suited to a lady."

You smiled warmly, tilting your head just so, allowing the sunlight to catch upon the subtle shimmer of your lilac eyes.

"It is the work of the seamstresses in the Red Keep," you said graciously, "though I am certain they would craft something just as lovely for you, my Lady."

The young Baratheon flushed at your words, her pleasure evident, as though you had placed a crown upon her own head. "You are too kind, Princess."

"Kind and wise beyond measure," Lord Owen Fossoway added from your other side, his green-and-red doublet bright beneath the midday sun. "A Princess of grace, beauty, and wit—gods help the poor man who dares to seek your favour, for he shall find himself utterly undone."

"Oh, nonsense, Lord Fossoway," you said, your voice smooth as honey, warm and effortlessly graceful. With a delicate wave of your hand, you dismissed the flattery with modest ease, though the glint in your eyes betrayed your amusement. "I only hope my presence brings some small joy to such a grand occasion."

While some were more subtle, lingering at the edges of your sight, watching, waiting for the perfect moment to catch your eye, others came with bold declarations—sons of great houses bowing low before you, offering pretty words rehearsed in their fathers’ halls. Even older gentlemen, seasoned lords with silvering hair and knowing smiles, felt compelled to voice their admiration as if their years granted them wisdom or rather an audacity to appreciate beauty more than the young.

"Princess," Lord Lannister purred, stepping forward with effortless confidence, his golden curls gleaming under the afternoon sun. He bowed deeply before you, his crimson-and-gold doublet tailored to perfection, a lion in both bearing and name. "Your beauty shines brighter than the tourney itself."

You smiled sweetly, tilting your chin just so, letting the sunlight dance across your features as if you had been sculpted for admiration. "How kind, my lord."

Beside him, his younger brother, not to be outdone, stepped forward with eagerness, his voice laced with the ambition of youth. ""You need not win a tournament favour—every knight here would gladly fall upon his sword for you, as I would too, Your Highness.

You regarded him with gentle amusement, your expression as measured as it was warm yet inside you were rolling your eyes. “Then let us pray none are so foolish. The tourney would be quite dull if they all perished on my account.”

Laughter rippled around the noble folks around you, the lords and ladies utterly enchanted.

You did enjoy being admired.

You enjoyed the way courtiers flocked to you, their words dipped in honey, their eyes lingering upon you as though you hung the stars. You delighted in the way men stumbled over their words in their attempts to impress you, their practised lines unravelling beneath the weight of your gaze. You had long learned that a well-placed smile, a fleeting touch upon the arm, or a slight tilt of the chin could make even the most stubborn of lords melt like wax before a flame.

And yet—Gods, was it exhausting.

"Princess, your beauty outshines even the sun today," one of the young lords cooed, standing just a little too close for your liking.

You maintained your composure, offering him a smile as practised as it was charming, tilting your head ever so slightly. "How kind of you to say, my lord."

"Tell me, shall I ride in your honour, my princess?" another asked, his grin broad, his chest puffed in obvious arrogance, as though the mere suggestion of it was a gift beyond measure.

You had half a mind to tell him that if he were truly worthy of such an honour, he would not need to ask, but instead, you merely inclined your head with effortless grace.

"I would be honoured," you said sweetly, though in truth, you could not even recall his name.

As time flew by and more lords came and went, each eager to impress, their words blurring into the same predictable flattery, your thoughts began to wander.

Perhaps—just perhaps—you ought to grant your favour to one of them.

Not for love, nor duty, nor any deeper reason. Simply for the fun of it.

Let them fight over you—not for marriage, nor power, nor grand alliances, but for the mere pleasure of calling themselves your champion. Let them brandish their swords and crash upon the lists with reckless abandon, desperate for the honour of a token tied to their lance, for the whisper of your name upon the lips of the court.

The thought amused you greatly.

You had no real enjoyment for tourneys—the dust, the sweat, the men posturing like peacocks in steel—but this? This was entertainment.

To watch them scramble, to see them puff their chests and vie for your fleeting favour, all while knowing it meant nothing in the grander scheme of things.

The great hall of Harrenhal was alive with merriment, the air thick with laughter and music, the scent of roasted meats and Dornish wine curling through the space like a warm embrace. The flickering glow of torchlight caught on the polished silver goblets and golden embroidery, illuminating the lords and ladies who had gathered for the feast.

You had been seated for only a few moments, indulging in light conversation with your sulking younger brother, Aegon. He lounged beside you, slouched in his chair, silver hair tousled in careless waves, his lips twisted in that familiar pout, his violet eyes dark with something unreadable, petulant.

"You’ve barely spoken to me all evening," he muttered. "Off flitting about with your admirers, leaving your poor brother to rot in solitude."

You arched a brow, amused but unimpressed. "Oh, don’t be so dramatic, Aegon."

"Dramatic?" he scoffed, placing a hand over his chest as though you had mortally wounded him. "I am your dearest brother, your favourite brother, and yet you abandon me to suffer alone in this dreadful tourney—"

"I spent the whole of yesterday with you."

"Yes," he muttered, eyes flicking to his untouched goblet, "and now it is today."

There was something else beneath his words, something thick and bitter, but you did not care to decipher it. You had long learned that Aegon’s moods were unpredictable, shifting as the wind did. And, you thought with mild exasperation, if he had something to say, he should say it.

Instead, you sighed, turning to him with a look of tired affection. "Go play with Helaena."

"Helaena is weird-- just as the words left his lips, the first lord approached. Aegon exhaled sharply, shaking his head as he leaned back in his seat. "And so it begins."

"Princess," Lord Merryweather greeted smoothly, dipping into a low bow, his beard streaked with silver, his fine velvets hinting at wealth and experience. "Might I have the honour of a dance?"

You smiled, tilting your head in polite consideration before placing your hand in his. "It would be my pleasure, my lord."

The dance was light, effortless, and filled with easy conversation as he guided you across the floor, his steps practised, his hold gentle but assured. Around you, the great hall bustled with movement—the soft strains of the musicians, the rustle of silk skirts, the occasional murmur of courtiers watching from the edges of the dance floor, waiting for their turn to claim you.

"You must know," Lord Merryweather mused with a knowing smile, "many a man here wishes to claim your favour."

You laughed softly, allowing your lashes to flutter just enough, a practised movement that sent many lords into a flustered mess. "Then I hope they have good fortune in the lists, my lord. I would not wish to grant it to a man bested in the first tilt."

The old lord chuckled, evidently pleased with your answer, but as the song came to a close, another was already waiting to take his place.

Lord Tyrell stepped forward next, then Lord Frey, followed swiftly by Lord Bracken—one after another, young and old alike, each eager for a sliver of your attention, each with a well-practiced compliment upon his lips, wrapped in the polished charm of courtly men who had spent their lives perfecting the art of flattery.

"I daresay His Grace must be beset by betrothal offers, Princess," Lord Bracken remarked as he led you through a smooth turn, his grip firm yet respectful. "A beauty such as yours should not go unwed for long."

You met his gaze with a smile, your voice light, effortless. "It is not my father who drowns, my lord, but I. The offers come as swiftly as the tide, yet still, I stand before you—unclaimed."

His laughter was deep, knowing, the kind of sound that suggested he saw himself above the rest. "A grievous injustice, indeed. Perhaps I shall be the next to put quill to parchment and entreat His Grace for your hand."

Before you could grant him a reply, the song came to an end, sparing you the trouble. With practised grace, you curtsied, allowing him to lead you back toward your table, where the air was thick with the scent of spiced wine and roasted meats.

You had just reached for your goblet, eager for a moment’s reprieve, when another voice cut through the din of the hall.

"You have tired the poor girl, Lord Bracken," Lord Tully jested from his seat nearby, his round face flushed with wine, his voice rich with mirth. "One might think you seek to keep her for yourself."

Lord Bracken chuckled, shaking his head with feigned regret. "Ah, if only I were a younger man."

"Younger or not," Lord Wylde added with a knowing smirk, swirling the deep red wine in his goblet, "I imagine His Grace will not be so quick to part with her. A rare jewel indeed."

"Quite rare," Lord Tully agreed, his eyes twinkling with desire as he glanced in your direction. "And a jewel should be placed in the hands of one who knows its worth."

The implication was clear and yet, you merely smiled, lifting your goblet gracefully to your lips, sipping your wine as if you had not heard them at all.

Thankfully, before another lord asks for a dance, your father’s voice rang through the hall, calling your name. You schooled your features into a look of effortless grace, excusing yourself with a polite smile before making your way toward him.

And you knew.

You knew exactly who would be standing at his side before you even laid eyes upon them.

The Starks.

Lord Rickon, solemn as ever, his presence a quiet force despite the grandeur of the occasion. And beside him—your greatest annoyance, your oldest grievance, your most persistent thorn—Cregan Stark.

Your pace did not falter, nor did your expression shift as you approached, though deep within, your irritation simmered.

As you came to a stop beside your father, he turned to you with a warm smile, his hand resting gently on your back. "Look who just arrived, my sweetling."

Lord Rickon, ever the picture of Northern honour, dipped his head in a respectful bow before speaking, his voice deep and steady. "Princess, it is a pleasure to see you again. It has been some years, and I dare say time has only graced you with more beauty and charm."

It was a compliment, but one wrapped in the blunt honesty of a Northern lord. Unlike the courtiers who lavished you with flowery words, Lord Rickon spoke with simple reverence, neither seeking favor nor flattery—only truth as he saw it.

You smiled at him graciously, dipping your head in return. "You honour me with your words, my lord. The North is fortunate to have such a steadfast Warden."

Lord Rickon let out a quiet hum, something of approval, but before you could say more, another deep timbre of a familiar Northern accent reached your ears.

"Princess."

Cregan Stark bowed, and as he did, you could feel the weight of his gaze. You schooled your expression into something practiced, something sweet, but your fingers twitched at your sides, resisting the urge to cross your arms like a petulant child.

When he straightened, when your lilac eyes locked onto the sharp, storm-grey of his—your stomach twisted.

Cregan Stark had grown.

The boy you had last seen, scowling and covered in soot, was gone.

In his place stood a man.

Taller, broader, his frame lean with the strength of a swordsman, his dark hair longer than you remembered, tied back in a simple leather thong. There was no trace of the sullen youth who had once left you in the Wolfswood, no awkwardness of a boy still finding his place in the world. No—this was a Lord who stood before you now, clad in black and grey, with the dire wolf of House Stark emblazoned upon his chest.

And yet, his eyes—those damnable, piercing Stark eyes—still held that same unwavering intensity, as though he could see straight through you, as though the years had done nothing to soften the way he looked at you.

You hated that he looked good.

You hated how the courtyard was lively, filled with the hum of noble chatter and the laughter of ladies, but none of it seemed to reach him.

Cregan Stark stood before you, rigid and composed, the very image of Northern stoicism. His grey eyes—sharp as steel, cold as winter—were unreadable as they met yours, though you could see the faintest flicker of something beneath them. Something restrained.

You hated that he was so unshakable. You lifted your chin, refusing to yield even an inch.

"Lord Stark," you returned sweetly, your voice smooth as silk, your expression the perfect mask of courtly grace—despite the irritation simmering beneath your skin.

And then you saw it.

The subtle way Lord Rickon nudged his son, a barely perceptible motion, yet it spoke volumes. Even the mighty Cregan Stark was not beyond his father’s quiet commands.

Cregan’s jaw clenched, his shoulders tensing ever so slightly before he stepped forward.

"May I have the honour of a dance, Your Highness," he asked, voice steady, measured, yet laced with something tight beneath the surface.

You glanced down at the hand he held out between you, large and calloused from years of sword work, and for a moment, the very idea of placing your own within it seemed unthinkable.

But then you smiled.

Not a soft smile, nor a warm one, but something playful, something teasing, something pointed.

"Why, Lord Stark," you murmured, placing your hand in his with deliberate slowness, "I thought you Northerners did not care for such frivolities."

His fingers closed around yours—warm, firm, unyielding.

"We do not," he said simply.

He led you onto the floor, the swell of music rising around you, the murmurs of the court fading into the background. Cregan’s grip was firm as he placed his hands on you, his posture stiff, too rigid—too uncomfortable.

It was amusing.

For all his confidence, all his unshakable Stark stoicism, the art of courtly dance was clearly not within his realm of expertise.

You could have teased him for it.

You should have.

But for once, you took pity, deciding instead to let the matter rest. Still, you could not resist tilting your head ever so slightly, a knowing glint in your eyes as you let your amusement surface elsewhere.

"I must say, my lord," you mused, your voice as smooth as silk, "I am glad to see your hair has grown back. I was so very worried."

For the first time since he arrived, something flickered across his sharp features—just for a fraction of a second, just the barest hint of annoyance.

His jaw tightened slightly, his fingers flexing just a little where they held you. "I had nearly forgotten about that."

"Oh, had you?" you feigned innocence, fluttering your lashes just so, your smile deceptively sweet. "Strange, considering how livid you were when it happened. The smell of burnt hair is rather unforgettable, wouldn’t you agree?"

Cregan exhaled sharply through his nose, a poor attempt at masking his irritation as he spun you across the floor, his grip a touch tighter now.

"A bold jest, Princess," he finally said, his tone measured, controlled. But you caught it—the way his fingers flexed slightly against yours, the way his gaze lingered just a moment too long, as though he was calculating something.

Then, with a slight tilt of his head, he added, "I see you are just the same childish princess—"

You nearly stumbled at the sheer audacity.

"How dare you? I am not childish!" you shot back, indignation flaring hot in your chest.

Cregan hummed, his smirk deepening just enough to be infuriating. "

That's right, forgive me, I forgot you are the jewel of the realm," he mused, voice laced with something unreadable. "Tales of your beauty even reach the North, you know."

He looked down at you then, those grey eyes sharp, assessing, amused in a way that made your blood simmer.

"If only they knew," he murmured, the faintest trace of amusement curling his lips, "there's nothing much to you other than beauty."

The words struck like a blade, hidden beneath the guise of idle conversation, wrapped in the veneer of civility yet carrying the same weight as any insult flung in an open field of battle.

Your breath caught—just for a moment, just long enough for irritation to twist into something dangerous but you refused to let him have the satisfaction of knowing he had gotten to you.

So instead, with all the grace of a perfect courtly lady, you smiled—sweetly, delicately—and in a movement so subtle it could have been mistaken for a mere misstep, you stepped on his foot.

Firmly.

Cregan’s grip on you tightened, just briefly, as a sharp inhale passed through his nose, his jaw clenching in pain. When his storm-grey gaze flicked down at you, dark and dangerous, it sent something sharp curling in your belly.

"Careful, my lord," you murmured, your voice silken, teasing. "It would be quite tragic if the North’s greatest warrior were felled in the middle of a dance."

"Tragic, indeed," he bit out, though his voice had lost that obnoxious edge of amusement. It was lower now, rougher—strained in a way that sent a thrill up your spine. "But I expected no less from you."

"Why, Lord Stark," you mused, tilting your head just enough to let your breath ghost against the space between you, "it almost sounds as if you missed me."

His glare deepened, but you felt it—the way his fingers flexed against you, the way his breath hitched so subtly that only someone watching for it would have noticed.

"Do not flatter yourself," he said, voice lower now, rougher. "I only miss things worth missing."

"Then it is fortunate," you murmured, allowing your lips to curve into something knowing, something dangerous, "that I am not so easily forgotten."

"You test your limits, Princess," Cregan murmured, voice lower now, quieter, meant only for you.

"And you test your patience, my lord," you countered, a slow, deliberate smile curving your lips as you let the words settle between you like an unsheathed blade.

Just before the song reached its final note, before you could step away and claim victory in whatever battle you and Cregan had been waging, someone came to stand beside you—someone who made you forget all about Cregan Stark.

Prince Qyle Martell.

The golden-skinned Dornish prince had a grin in his eyes before it ever reached his lips, a kind of easy arrogance that was almost charming. You had met him once before, in passing, and you remembered his words as much as the way he had looked at you, like a man appraising something rare, something tempting.

"Princess," he greeted, his voice smooth as fine Dornish wine, dipping into a bow that was just a touch more theatrical than necessary. "Forgive me for interrupting, but I have suffered long enough watching you dance with such stiff company."

Your lips twitched, amused.

Cregan, however, stilled.

It was subtle—the way his fingers flexed slightly on your waist, the way his hold on you lingered before he very deliberately released you, stepping back. His expression was unreadable, his storm-grey eyes carefully blank, but you had spent years picking him apart, years unravelling the smallest cracks in his composure.

You knew the Prince being there bothered him.

"Prince Qyle," you greeted smoothly, offering him your hand. "A pleasure, as always."

"The pleasure is mine, sweet princess," Qyle purred, taking your hand and bringing it to his lips, letting his gaze linger on yours, dark and unreadable. "Had I known you would be so generous with your time this evening, I would have claimed my dance much, much sooner."

Cregan scoffed softly, a barely-there sound, but you caught it and apparently so did Prince Qyle.

He turned to Cregan then, amusement dancing in his dark eyes, an arrogant grin curling at his lips. Despite being a head shorter than the Northern lord, he did not seem the least bit intimidated.

"Lord… Stark, is it?" There was something deliberate in the way he said it—drawn out as if he were tasting the name on his tongue and finding it unimpressive.

Cregan’s expression remained unreadable, but there was a shift in the air, subtle, dangerous. "It is,"

"Ah, of course," Qyle hummed, giving a slow, exaggerated nod. "The Warden of the North in waiting, the Great Wolf of Winterfell. Forgive me, my lord, it is so rare that wolves crawl from their dens— I sometimes forget you exist at all."

Your lips parted slightly, caught between surprise and amusement at the sheer boldness of it.

Cregan, to his credit, did not react—not outwardly. But you saw it. The way his shoulders tensed ever so slightly, the way his fingers flexed at his sides before curling into a loose fist.

"And yet, here I am," he said, voice smooth as untouched ice. "Standing before you, plain as day. Strange, isn’t it, how even those you forget still seem to overshadow you?"

Qyle’s smirk sharpened. "Overshadow? My dear Stark, the sun casts no shadows in Dorne. Only heat." He leaned in just slightly, like a snake coiling before a strike. "Something, I imagine, you Northerners would not know even if it burned you alive."

You had to press your lips together to keep from laughing, the tension between them so thick it was nearly intoxicating.

Cregan's expression was carved from ice, his broad shoulders squared, his hands flexing at his sides as though he were resisting the urge to grip the hilt of a blade that was not there.

You had seen him angry before, felt the weight of his temper simmering beneath his quiet exterior, but this was something else.

And yet, before he could respond—before he could so much as breathe—Qyle squeezed your hand, drawing your attention back to him as though he had already dismissed Cregan entirely.

"Well then, my princess," Qyle purred, his voice warm, teasing, triumphant. "Shall we leave the Lord of Snow and Shadows to glower in peace?"

You allowed yourself the smallest, most delicate smirk, and let Qyle lead you away, though not before casting a final glance over your shoulder.

Cregan had not moved.

But his eyes—those sharp, unrelenting storm-grey eyes—were locked onto you, burning with something neither of you dared to name.

A/N:

Helloooo ya'll I'm sorry it's been a while. I have just been busy, and I still am but I couldn't get this idea off my mind...

I just saw Wicked and loved it so if you see a resemblance between you and Glinda, no you didn't. Also, I can't for the life of me ever get any timeline right, and the timeline of HOD confuses me. So, if you are confused about where this fic aligns with the show, just know I'm just as confused as you but it's obviously before ep 6 obvs, please be patient with me.

Anywyasssssss I hope you enjoyed this one chapter. It is a part I because I just can't leave it like that and FYI I'm researching the shit out of tourneys because I have no clue of how they work in HOD universe and I refuse to read the book for my own well-being, like don't get me wrong I'm 100% sure GMM is an absolute machine of an author (obvs otherwise he wouldn't have TV show after TV show based on his books) but just most of the themes in his books are... not something I would willingly like to read. I'm rambling out of my ass, sorry.

Thank you for all the support, for the reblogs, comments, and hearts. It helps a lot with motivation. <3<3<3

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[trippygalaxy]

HES SO

Ugh- im in love with this man, its like so unfair

Omg so tempted to tag the creator in this— OR AT LEAST IN A DIFF REBLOG BUT ATILL

Alsbjsbsjdjnd HAHAH

SHADE

SACRED REALM! TIME LIKES BEING OUT IN THE RAIN, RIGHT? HDKFHAJ

imagine dancing with him in the rain, his cloak heavy, dragging behind him with every turn and spin, hair sticking to his forehead and yet there is no crease in his forehead nor a furrow to his brow.

With a beauty such as yourself stood infront of him, no anger shall dare cross his softened features.

The man holds you close as you two glide across the slick forest floor, his hands never once leaving you the moment he had you in his arms. As if he was afraid to lose you to the darkened forest if he dared to loosen his grip. A strong hands cup around your waist, making sure you stand straight and tall. He'll be here to catch you, to keep you even closer to him, to keep you warm and smiling.

And smiling you were!

It was something so bright and loving, so childish and joyful he could feel it part the dark clouds of his mind like the blazing sun. A sun which could never compare to your brilliance.

How could it when your light brightened the darkest caverns of his heart? How could it when all the see it stare without any hesitancy, knowing that your light would never burn them like the sun's? How could it when...When it only grew in the dark?

No matter how much your body shivers, so matter how much you get soaked from the pouring rain, you never let it drown your ever growing smile.

Goddesses, he wished-- he yearned to dance with you forever. To hold you so close you become one. To feel the wave your hands glide over his shoulders and arms as your dance guides you to every nook of the endless forest. To have your laughter be the only warmth he'll ever feel again. To...To have you be his.

His...Forever. His perfection.

His, and to be yours.

TRIPPY🥹🥹🥹

ITS CRAZY BECAUSE I LITERALLY CAN NOT DANCE FOR MY LIFE SO SO THEN HE PROBABLY JUST STANDS BACK AND WATCHES READERS GOOFY DANCING AND HE SMILES AND SHAKES HIS HEAD BUT HE ACTUALLY LOVES WATCHING IT AND AND AND-😭😭😭

[yourlocaltreesimp]

“On the Rag”

Synopsis: Sr!Link is utterly clueless of what to do when you come down with a mysterious and sudden infliction which causes you great, unending pain… it’s just your period.

Tags: GN!Reader, no pre-established relationship, idiots in love

@trippygalaxy

☆⋆｡𖦹°‧★

Quite honestly, Link was worried. Of course, his journey was stressful, with the fate of hyrule on his shoulders and as the Dark Knight had kidnapped Zelda. But that wasn’t the current cause of his pacing. Those were all fixable, identifiable issues.

High orders for him to complete, yes, but he at least had some general idea of where to start.

Your recent sickness, however, was not something he knew how to fix.

Monsters could be fought, dungeons could be solved, quests could be completed, but there was no immediate fix-it to your health, especially when you were so insistent that you were “fine.” When that clearly wasn’t the case. Your eyes were tired and loopy, you winced even as you stood or sat still, he even found several discarded bloody rags.

Hylia help him, if the monsters didn’t kill him, you would first.

He’s beside himself, his boots making consistent thumps as he walks in loops, trying to dispel worry from his gut.

“What’s got you all wound up” Wind stood in his path, the sound and light that’d usually come from the medallion not catching his attention, too busy spiralling. He looks around to find the lobby (or at least the small side room he’d begun his breakdown in) blessedly empty with no one to see or hear him be spooked by ghosts of heroes past.

“It’s-“ He begins to talk, only to be interrupted.

“His Lover is sick.” Worlds leaned over his shoulder, countering from all the weight being in his heels. Afterall, he was still leaning back after being spooked.

“They’re not my-“ He’s now doubly mortified. Not only were you in possibly grave dangers he can’t prevent, the group had all got the wrong impression. Good goddesses themselves-

“Oh please” Time huffed, unamused with the musings of his descendants, “With their stubbornness they’ll die, sooner than recover” Link felt the blood drain from his face. Any previous blush left him. Cold. He couldn’t actually lose you, right?

“Awe stop it” Sky managed to shove the others off of him, fussing over Link as though he were a mother cucco. That is, to say, frightening to every other hero.

“Everything will be alright, you hear me?” Still, he felt as if something wasn’t quite right about the whole situation. There was something he was missing. If only you would talk to him.

“What will be alright?” Wild arrived after all his brothers, curious to see what the fuss was about if the rest of them couldn’t fix it.

“It’s just-“ Link could feel the concern and worry break him “I don’t know if they’ll be ok, and they won’t talk to me and I can’t fix it and I know they’re in pain-“ He shudders when he breathes, more than a little embarrassed.

“Hey hey, tell us exactly what the issues are. I’m sure one of us will have an answer!” A chorus of ‘Yeah!’s ensued and it felt as if maybe it will be ok.

“Well- They’ve spent a lot of time resting, still look really tired though… and they wince a lot, even if they aren’t moving. Like something sharp” The others nod along, following the symptoms as Link explains.

“And I've found a few bloodied rags. If it was any extreme wound, a red potion would work, and yet they refuse to take them. As if it wouldn’t work” He looks upon his mentors to find them equally as puzzled as him.

“And their mood- it’s as if they’ve been cursed! They wept like there’s nothing to live for when we met the stable dog when arriving. And they lash out as if i mean harm-“ That does get a few pitiful stares from Sky particularly.

Everyone oohs and aahs over the strange set of symptoms and behaviors. They murmur quietly about poisons, curses, hexes and the like.

“Are y’all jus’ that naive?” A very concerned, slightly exasperated, looking Rancher looks over all the heroes.

“What? You know what it is smart guy?” Worlds raises a single eyebrow in judgement.

“Their period?” He pauses, looking at the group who now resemble a parliament of owls.

“Y’know, ‘on the rag’ ‘shark week?’” He offered, expecting more of a response. There were mumbled ‘Oh’s and nods of acceptance. Twilight couldn’t stop himself from laughing at the absurdity of them debating whether you’d been cursed, meanwhile your body is just doing as it’s supposed to.

“Don’t worry, kiddo. That sweetheart a’ yers will be jus’ fine” The blood returns to Link’s cheeks, flushing them a healthy red.

“Naw go on, i’m sure a hot water bottle and some comfort wouldn’t do em’ any harm”

“And you’re sure that’s what this is?”

“Positive.”

Roughly a half hour later, Link found himself outside your room at the Inn. His arms were full; a hot water bottle he’d gotten from Twi, some chocolates from Wild and a cup of tea Sky said would help with healing.

“Hey, can I come in?” He called weakly, fine to leave the gifts outside if you weren’t up to socialising.

“Mhm” Your equally soft voice called from the other side of the door, drowsy and pained.

“I have some gifts… to uh- help you feel a little better” His smile was as boyish and crooked as always. He always felt a little giddy around you. Like that uninhibited joy from his childhood could worm back into his life, no matter how hellish it got. He set down the tea and the chocolates in favour of helping you sit up.

Now that he knew he had nothing to worry about and you weren’t dying imminently, he managed to find your tousled hair and sleepy smile endearing. He padded your back with pillows and made sure there was a layer or two between your skin and the bottle so there wouldn't be any burns.

“Is that any better?” In all honesty, he was at your beck and call. You could ask him to seek healing from the hottest spring in the depth of hebra and he’d set out without hesitation. He chuckles as you respond in a pleased hum, eyes closed as you’re relieved of some pain. He feels himself settle in his feet. Sure. Calm.

“I have some tea here too, and chocolates. I won’t be offended if you don’t want them. I mean I just heard that the hel-

A finger is haphazardly pressed to his lips.

“Shh.” You demand, and his protests die in his throat.

You pat the spot next to you expectantly, looking back at where he stands, frozen, as if upset he hadn’t moved yet. He sat awkwardly on the bed beside you as you silently shuffled about pillows. He was about to fuss that your back would be sore without padding before you flopped back into the bed and dragged him with you. A noise of surprise leaves him as you decide that you, indeed, wish to be horizontal. He takes a few deep breaths, letting himself settle in the moment and except cuddling with you for a little bit.

For the pain of course.

As friends.

(Bonus: From inside the Medallion, the Twili King had a decent enough understanding of what had transpired. The newest, and perhaps emotionally densest, hero has finally been able to shove it all aside in exchange for some intimacy. It’s so odd. He remembers being so scared to talk to Midna when they were courting, but it all worked out in the end. He’s sure Link will get his happy ending too)

((bonus bonus: Twi has an aneurism upon the discovery that the cuddle session was only seen as “platonic” by the clearly lovestruck idiots))

[valentine-cafe]

˖⁺. “ hell-bound ! ” :

﹙ top demon lord x bttm angel fem reader﹚. 𖹭 ݁

. . . valerius ariti x fem angel reader !! 🍓:﹙ demon ˖ hex rhytaari character ﹚

you lose a bet to a demon-lord and find yourself at the foot of his throne. what do you do when the price is to be paid in your body? an angel like yourself, corrupted by a demon

﹙ cws﹚: explicit content ˖ dubcon ˖ rough sex ˖ penetrative sex ˖ riding ˖ degradation ˖ creampie ˖ bet making ˖ corruption kink ˖ virginity loss | wc :1.0k

﹙ receipts﹚: people be sleeping on vale a bit too much like aahhhh this man is SOO

꒰other treats: guidelines ˖ m.list ˖ characters ˖ our lore ꒱

Angel!Reader !! 🍒 : Who lost a bet not only to a demon — but the most formidable Lord of the Abhorration. What a fool you were. A silly little pigeon fresh out of the divine realms. Fluttering your new pair of wings and flaunting your newborn freedom. Fly away, little bird. Fly right into the demon’s clutched. His clawed hands will welcome you greedily. With sweet smiles and sinister stares. Here you are, knelt before his throne. Quivering. Feathers flutter to the ground with your tremble. You can barely look upon him. “Poor little bird. . .” “Wh-What do you want from me?” “What I want? Or what I crave?”

Angel!Reader !! 🍒 : Who the Lord of Hex’s has taken quite an interest in. You didn’t expect the tender touch across your face. He rose from his throne to caress you like a frightened, wounded woodland creature. One of the purer critters that trotted through these vast, cursed lands. He tilts your head up so that you are met with his bronze face. The sheer magnificence of his androgynous features adorned with long rivers of gold flowing from his head. Compliments to the gilted chains dangling from all around. Why must a being of malice look so mesmerising? Was a demon or a siren? Even his voice lured you in. Poor little bird indeed, fluttering to the maw of a beast. “I have always pondered how an angel must feel . . . like zenith? Perhaps I should not judge a book by cover. Might you be dirtier than the pits from which we crawl?” His grin speaks his thoughts. Even still, you cannot bring yourself to withdraw from the claws wrapped around your jaw. If anything, you melt. Like an angel in heat. What a disgrace.

Angel!Reader !! 🍒 : Who becomes the perfect fucktoy for such a cruel being. Sprawled out on his lap as he leans back into his throne. You worship his cock with the way you bounce upon it. Even if you struggle. Even if your walls clamp and weep around his large girth. All you’ll receive is a clawed clap to the ass. A squeeze of the fat and a crooned voice in your ear. “Is this how you treat a Lord? Pitiful.” Yet still he’s rubbing at your clit with a sly thumb. In slow, tight circles that echo your sobs through his temple. You’re dripping all over him with every orgasm. Staining the base of his dick in a perfect ring of cream. Oh, how he throbs within you.

Angel!Reader !! 🍒 : Who is made to face forward while he pounds up into you. Shakes your sacred body like a covenant shattering. He cares not for his servant’s curious eyes. To the demons that stare upon you with just as much greed. But they know not to touch. Valerius does enough of that with his hands of heat trailing all over you skin. Mapping out the divine flesh that is all his. Squeezing at your bouncing breasts. Yanking you back so that your spin arches. Ass flushed into his lap as he delivers a series of fast, rough fucks up into your sweetspot.

Angel!Reader !! 🍒 : Who gets creamed full of a demon’s cum. Shouldn’t you be ashamed? Instead you’re spilling whorish moans and pleading for more. Grinding your hips down into his pathetically. Even daring to try and grip at his arms for support. He’ll let it go this time. Your fucked-out face and drooling countenance earns all of his forgiveness. “Oh? Does the pretty little bird want more?” His lower set of arms snatches your waist and slams you all the way down. So that you are forced to take his behemoth of a length. Your cries are like prayers, your squeezing, pink walls like praise. “Tell me, my dearest angel. . . have you been touched before? Or am I the first? A demon? Fucking the virginity out of this tight little cunt. . .”

Angel!Reader !! 🍒 : Who does indeed get the virginity fucked right out of her. Once he is tired of making you a ragdoll on his lap, he bends you over his throne and displays the true stamina of a demon. His first set of hands clamp around your throat. The third set clings to your hips and slams you back into his squirting cock. The second does it’s due diligence at feeling every crevice that is now his. Your perky breasts pinched between fingers. Your tummy bulged with his huge dick splitting you open. Your folds so needily taking him in. Your clit that’s all swollen and just begging for the slap of his palm.

Angel!Reader !! 🍒 : Who gets all nice an bred by Valerius, if only to be set free as though nothing happened. You’ll stumble through the divine realms still feeling his seed for weeks. Grind up against whatever you possible can and imagine its him. Haunted through the night of endless dreams where he’s fucking you out on your bed. Reminding you that you’ll never truly get away from him. Clawing, gripping, owning you for all you are worth. As if you wouldn’t offer yourself as sacrifice to him any day.

Angel!Reader !! 🍒 : Who crawls back to the Abhorration begging for his attention. And you’ll find it in the form of claws wrapped tightly in your hair. A mouth full of that same cock that stole your virginity. Choking away at his addictive, sinful cum. All while he’s crooning above you. Through slithered golden hues and sharp, sinister grins. “Suppose I have myself a pretty angelwhore now, hmm? Why not rid your wings and stay here? After all,” a rough thrust to the back of your throat. Another round of his copious amounts of demonic seed. “You are far too tainted by a demon’s hands. Not to mention his cock. That’s it precious. Keep sucking.”

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[trippygalaxy]

Can I have some Sacred Realm cuddling headcannons where the reader is taller then them?

YEP YEP!! I do only do 3 characters if its a group headcanon so Ill just randomly pick three of the boys! If you want another part to this just ask!

EDIT: SORRY THIS IS SO LATE-- WRITERS BLOCK IS A BITCH

Worlds

The hero of Worlds could not care less about your height-- he doesn't mean it in a rude way but its just something he doesn't see as a big deal!

That doesn't mean he won't use it to his advantage and be a little shit--

Worlds is definitely the type of guy who will tease you when cuddling. Like, this man will press his cold ass feet against your calves, if he decided to be the 'big spoon', and will GIGGLE as your screech (wait-- can spirits even have temperature??)

Honestly he is at the perfect height for that-- standing at 5'4'' or 1.65 m it gives him the perfect reach to DRAGGGGGGGG his bare and freezing feet down your calf/shin.

He's even goes to tickle/taser your sides, and when you go to run away from his wiggly fingers he's quick to sling to your waist with his strong arms, making himself a dead wait that you would have to drag around--

Worlds' no caring for the height difference, would still prefer to be the 'big spoon' in cuddling positions. BUT he also really likes having your head resting in his lap as he gently pokes your face <3

The hero is quite laid-back when it came to physical affection, so its not out of the ordinary for the man to randomly come up from behind you and all but ATTACH himself to your bad! What a little sloth

Realm/Link

I like to think that Link is someone who has a DEATHGRIP on you when you two cuddle together. Like, YOU AINT MOVING UNTIL HE'S AWAKE /pos

maybe that comes from his abandonment issues, who knows

Standing at 5'5 or 1.68 m, it very much isn't uncommon for many to be taller than the hero, so your height doesn't 'put off' or intimidate him. If anything he'll find it a little flustering but wont ever admit it!

He's actually rather flexible with sleeping positions! He doesn't mind being curling up in your arms as the small spoon or having his arms wrapped around you as his legs are tucked nicely against yours!

BUT, if he is feeling really upset (whether from his own self doubt or harsh words from his spirit mentors) he prefers to be held against your chest, your hands brushing through his hair as he listens to the steady heart beat in your chest.

There can be some semi awkward moments as the hero gets somewhat buried by either your hair or back as your turn in your sleep, but Link is quick to laugh it off, never wanting to make you feel insecure or upset about your height!

All that matters to him is that you're near him, that you aren't leaving him alone until the sun comes back up once more!

Wild

Another 'short king' /j is Wild who stands at 1.77 m or 5'8"! So it isn't uncommon for Wild to find others (both hyilan and otherwise) who are taller than him! But from all of his exploring and adventure, he is very much used to that.

If anything, the hero takes it in STRIDES!!! He will gladly curl up into your arms and let you pull him into your chest. Wild would kill to have a nice, cozy night in with some comfort foods on the side while he's all nice and warm in your hold <3

Would MELT if you buried your head into his hair or if you just played with his hair in general. You're one of the FEW people that are aloud to go anywhere near his hair. Normally he'll just lay his head in your lap if he wants u to play with it but when cuddling he'll just tap at your hand for a moment before you catch the hint and play with his hair.

Normally, Wild likes being the little spoon just cause he enjoys how safe he feels when you're wrapped around him- which your easily able to do with your height, but he isn't against being a jetpack if ya want!

BUT dont expect to a normal cuddle sesh with the wild hero! Nono, the hero isn't against throwing some...pranks into the little cuddle pile when you least expect them >:3

One time he put hard pasta in his mouth before cuddles, and when you pulled him close he crunched down on it to replicate the sound of cracking bones before going limp in your arms.

After a panicked yelp from you and a swat to his arm after he revealed the prank, he was promptly denied cuddle privileges for a while....Worth it.

Taglist: @the-cucco-nuggie @baileyboo2016 @skyward-shade @yourlocaltreesimp @zelda-the-sacred-realm

[trippygalaxy]

@skyward-shade i think i died omfg /pos

I literally fell in love with @zelda-the-sacred-realm and I want to give everyone the opportunity to experience some romance with their favorite characters from the story! Enjoy the reading!

Reader x Time

You're walking, the sun was warm and pleasant and you really wanted to collect those rays all for yourself. You thought a walk would distract you but your gaze is caught by him, you see him sitting on the balustrade and a cold shiver alerts you, unconsciously start running towards him and as soon as you reached him you grabbed him by the tunic.

He turns and stares at you raises an eyebrow, as if you shouldn't even touch him.

"What do you want?" He says pulling your arm away, because he's always so grumpy he doesn't understand that you were worried about him? Being able to see him seemed like a blessing but he didn't see it that way

"I-I was worried, I was afraid you'd fall" you say keeping your gaze down, you hear him come down from the railing and you try to back away, and then you see him, he lowers his head to look you in the face.

"Ohh you were afraid I fell, and maybe I might die, oh but I already am" what an asshole, why is he so an asshole with you, you don't deserve it. Can a spirit have emotions or still be alive? He seems to prove the opposite, but the others seem more alive than him!

"Fuck you, you really are an asshole, I worry about you and you treat me like this?" He backs away shocked, maybe he didn't expect you to send him to hell.

"No one asked you, I don't need you to worry about me!" He says taking you by the arm, that move makes you trip over your own feet and you put a hand on his chest to hold you up. Feel your face flare up, how can a spirit be so real, so touchable, so… warm.

Your hand seems to move on its own to follow the lines of his muscles, he was remarkably muscled, and then you look up and you see him, he's staring back at you and you blush.

"I don't think you should, this is a dangerous feeling, especially for me..." you panic, he knew about your crush and he was saying it straight to your face! You try to let go of your arm, you want to run away but he holds you tight.

"L-Let me go!" you yell at him, but he leans down and hugs you, you feel his hands so big and strong holding you by the waist, you blush and feel your heart pounding in your chest so hard it could explode.

"W-what are you doing?" You whisper to him and he rests his face on your neck.

"I wanna feel your heart, is it really beating like this for me?" He answers you still holding you close to him. You feel your legs giving way and in response he lifts you up, effortlessly brings you up to his height, it's natural for you to wrap your arms and legs around him, it makes you feel safe, you know that this way you can't fall. 

It feels romantic, sweet, more human than it was before. You turn to his face to savor that closeness, you don't think it would happen again, and you want to enjoy that moment. You wonder if by kissing him, he can prove something, if that love that you crave so much can really work, what you don't expect and that he gets closer, you feel the warmth that emanates. 

"Can I kiss you?" A shiver runs through you, did he really ask? You close your eyes softly and approach his lips, this is enough as an answer. 

"I understand..." He joins his lips to yours, his kiss is rich, passionate, so true... he kisses you again giving you a few moments to catch your breath, he feels perfectly when you are out of breath. 

You hold him with one hand, you want to continue that contact but you hear a voice approaching, you recognize it as Twilight's. He puts you down, you know he wouldn't show that soft in front of the team.

Twilight sees you next to Time, perfectly sees your embarrassment and blush in your cheeks, he smirks and turns to Time.

"It's all ready to go, but if you want another ten minutes I can come by later" he says winking at his leader.

"No, I've already done enough" he says giving you a caress on the lips, to then head towards Twilight and they waved you to go, but you was still in your dreamland.

-Next romantic date with Realm!!

[queenofheartlessdreams]

Scorned Sympathy ( Aegon II Targaryen x Reader)

Fandom: House of the Dragon, Aegon II Targaryen x Fem! Hightower! Reader

Summary: Alicent Hightower's sister has always hated the King, and transversely, he has hated her back. But, that all changes after he returns from Rook's Rest.

Word Count: 3.1k

Warnings: none? I think, I don't know, its HOTD but mostly hurt/comfort and fluff

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They say that burns are a sacred death. The death of  dragon riders, honoring them among the living, and the dead. In his history lessons, Aegon had heard it was peaceful. Yes, there was supposed to be a screaming,  agonizing pain, but as flesh burned away, it took nerve endings with it, leaving them to feel nothing, numb. 

But Aegon hadn't been so lucky, he had only wished he had died back on the battlefield, died on impact of the flames. Then he wouldn't have had to suffer through spiraling to the ground, snapping his bones, or feel his armor being peeled away after it had merged with his flesh. He wouldn't have had to sleep nearly every hour of the day, waking up only to experience excruciating pain, relearning to walk when every step made him cry out in agony. 

The once comforting walls of his bedroom had turned into a torture chamber as he was forced to his feet by the Maesters, only to hobble around the confinements of those walls, good hand gripping the cane with enough force to drive splinters in his hands and cause his knuckles to turn white.

He cried out as the Maester pushed him into another step, holding him upright as best he could. Larys Strong stood in the patch of sunlight in the room, giving him an angelic halo, ironic as it was his devilish idea to make Aegon start walking so soon, only weeks after he had returned to the Red Keep.  

"Impressive," the club-footed man says, heads turning in his direction, "But I'm afraid you must work harder."

Aegon screams as Larys reaches around his other arm, cries of pain sounding like twisted laughter as together, they move him another step. Burned tissue stretched as they did, a blinding pain seeping through his barely-healed broken leg. 

The men pause in their persistence as the large bedroom doors swing open, silver-draped guards pushing them back to reveal the figure of Y/N, the youngest Hightower daughter. Her frame was draped in a long black gown, tied around her center with a golden chain that stopped several inches above the hem of her skirts. Long copper hair draped down her back, just as her eldest sister, yet that was where the similarities stopped. 

While Alicent was looked up to, a regal Queen of the realm, her sister had all but denounced her high-blood status, working in the streets as a herbalist, giving medicine to the poor, healing wounds, and delivering children. It wasn't until Viserys had died that Alicent welcomed her into the castle, for her protection, she had explained, though no man nor woman would dare to touch the 'witch'.

"Return the King to his bed, my Lords," the woman says, striding into the room, hands folded neatly in front of her gown. 

"The King must regain his strength, my Lady, he must practice," Lord Larys calls over his shoulder, dismissing her command.

Y/N smiles curtly at his defiance, "How would you like to disfigure your other foot, Lord Layrs?"

The man stops, struggling out from underneath the King's arm, "The King-"

"The King is too busy moaning in agony to give a shit about what you think," the woman interrupts, a boldness frowned upon in the castle, "Return him to bed, and leave us. I'm sure there are whispers to attend to."

Reluctantly, the Maester carries Aegon to his bed, allowing him to fall back onto the sanction of his covers. The Maester moves to lift the King's legs, despite his protests, earning a painful cry as they hit his sheets.

Vhisrya watches as the King rolls to his untainted side, arms curled up against his chest in defeat, body trembling as whimpers escape his scarred lips. The Maester exits quickly, Lord Larys slowly following, glaring at her with every step. It is only when she hears the large doors latch shut behind the men that she makes her way over to the King's bedside. He resembled a small child more than a man, curled around himself in loosely fitted clothes, eyes squeezed shut as his body shook.

He takes a ragged breath as he senses her presence beside him, eyes opening just the slightest to glare at the black-clothed woman, "Come to finish me off, witch?"

The witch makes no remark against him, only motioning for the boy to sit upright in the bed. He does so, grunting in pain, bracing himself on his good arm as he slides up to prop his back against the headboard. 

Y/N makes note of his trembling hands, the way he still insisted on putting up a bitter front despite not being able to move even a foot without collapsing in pain. It reminded her of his father. 

Regardless, she reaches for the buttons of his nightgown, pulling them apart hastily till his chest was exposed. Blistering red wounds stretched across the expanse of his left side, charred and black in some places, while in others, the skin had been cut away in jagged marks from separating melted armor from the King's flesh. 

"What-what are you doing?" Aegon trembles, fear lacing his voice. 

The woman's eyes move from his chest, to his face. He watched as they drifted from his swollen eyelid, to the top of his head, where silvery-blonde hair parted from vibrant burns, to where his ear once was, reduced now to a small lump that opened into his eardrum. He knew it was hideous, he wouldn't lie to himself, trying to persuade his own mind that he was still the beautiful boy the kingdom worshiped. He knew that if he healed, he couldn't even be seen in a pleasure house, not even the whores wanting to be fucked by a monster such as himself.

"Your grace?"

A soft voice draws him out of his own mind, one that was nearly unrecognizable coming from the woman beside him, "I have an ointment, one that should assist in healing your burns. But, I require you to remove your sleeves."

"Can't", Aegon grunts, talking becoming an exhaustion.

"I can assist you," the woman cooes, dragging the soiled fabric down his good arm first.

Aegon whimpers as her hand moves to his burned side, gently peeling the fabric from his neck, then down his shoulder, drawing near his bicep. He could feel the fabric stick to his skin, the pus that leaked from his wounds drying, attaching itself to the coarse fabric.

"I'm going to lift your arm," the woman says, earning a series of pleading "no"'s as she does.

The prince groans in pain, feeling the blistering skin stretch, muscle burning as she peeled the fabric away from his body, letting it pool around his waist.

Y/N could see the King's murderous gaze as she finished, pulling his arm back immediately, heavy breaths filling his chest, followed by shaking exhales. 

She makes haste, placing a mortar on the nearby table, filling it with oils and herbs, grinding it till the scent fills the room, overwhelmed by lavender. The King watches as she pulls a small vial from the pocket of her dress, opening it to reveal a nearly clear, thick liquid.

"What is that?" the King asks, the filth of his mind overpowering common sense.

Y/N looks back to the burned man, unaware he was watching her, "It's dragon saliva. Something in it prevents the dragons from being burned when they breathe fire, and proves itself to assist the healing process quicker than the Maester's brew alone. It only took me so long to bring it to you as your brother won't let me near his dragon, Sunfyre has not returned from Rook's Rest, and Helaena won't speak to me as she thinks I had something to do with your son's beheading."

Her last words come out as an aggravated shout, making the boy flinch. With a deep breath, she regains herself, carrying the mortar to his bedside, black dress fanning out on the sheets beside him, "I apologize, your Grace. You all think of me as some plague here to ruin the sanction of your home, yet Alicent refuses to let me leave the castle walls."

It was strange, hearing his mother's name be used so plainly, everyone else referred to her as the Queen, even Aemond and him referred to her as  "your Grace". 

Aegon clears this throat as the woman begins to spread the paste across his chest. It burned at first, but not to the level of the Maester's concoction. Perhaps dragon saliva was the key.

"She believes you would flee to Rhaenyra, aid her conquest for the crown," he grunts, intently gazing at the greenish mixture spread across his skin.

"And she is right," Y/N states plainly, "Rhaenyra is the rightful heir to the Iron Throne, and you have usurped her crown."

"I could have your head for that," Aegon jokes, a faint smile, one of the first since he had returned, spreading across his lips. 

The woman smiles back, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear as she continues to coat his torso, " I could have already had yours."

"Why haven't you, then?"

The hand that holds the brush hesitates, as Y/N searches for an answer. In all honesty, she has had many opportunities to kill the man, yet the thought never truly crossed her mind. She takes a deep breath before continuing her strokes, "You may be a monster- the sins you have committed are so terrible that you'd burst into flames if you ever set foot in the Sept. But, I know you did not choose to be King, just as I did not choose to waste away in this castle. I do not wish to punish you for something you cannot control, you have suffered enough."

Aegon says nothing, only faint whimpers coming from his lips. His breathing stilled as the woman traced a line of ointment across his face, delicately placing it across the edge where untouched skin met charred flesh. His body jolts as she accidentally brushes over an open wound on his cheekbone, where his helmet had melted, merging itself with his flesh. Despite how careful the Maester had been when removing it, deep gashes still marred his face. 

The King yelps in pain, eyes shut as the oils burn their way through his open wound, sending a new wave of intense pain across his face. His body curls against itself, a position he found himself in more and more often these days. But rather than digging the nails of his good hand into the palm of his fist, he found a softer, more delicate hand in his , softly stroking the back of his hand with her thumb, "I'm sorry."

Aegon whimpers, the comfort of her touch calming the scarred boy. It was rare that he obtained touches like these, not even from his mother, despite how much she claimed she loved him. No, she was more focused on being Queen than being a mother.  His wife was the same way, more fascinated with her bugs than her husband, only laying with him when they were forced to produce an heir, before returning to her own quarters in solitude. He would watch Helaena with their own children, interacting with them, holding them, reading to them, only wishing that his mother had done the same. 

So Aegon welcomes the warmth of the witch, clutching her hand with the intention to never let go until his scars had healed and he could hold his head with as much dignity as a true king. "Tell me a story," Aegon whispers, distracting himself from the pain that stretched across his body with every breath.

Y/N smirks, placing the mortar between her legs so she could continue placing the ointment with his hand still clutching her own. 

"Once upon a time, there was a beautiful Princess, who was locked away in a tower guarded by a fierce dragon. Her parents, the King and Queen, missed her dearly, and declared that any knight who were to rescue her from the dragon's keep, would marry the lovely Princess.

Not far from the kingdom lived a beast, alone. He was happy that way, till a power-hungry Lord wished to take the beast's land for himself. Upset, the beast made a deal with the Lord, in exchange for his land, the beast would rescue the Princess from her dragon's keep, so the Lord may marry her. True to his word, the beast saved the girl, yet as they traveled back to the Lord's castle, the beast found himself falling in love with the Princess."

Beside her, Aegon's breath slows, muscles relaxing against her grip, yet his violet eyes stay fixated on the woman. He listens to her intently, soft voice ringing through the silent room, as airy as wind blowing his curtains in the night. 

"One night," Y/N continues, brushing the ointment across his scarred forearm, "The beast sought to confront the Princess, yet when he came to her cabin, he heard vile words coming from her mouth, ones solely describing such a monster as the beast. Furious, he gave her to the Lord, returning to his swamp alone. Yet, he couldn't forget the Princess, as even if she despised him, he loved her. So, he returned to the Lord's castle the night of the wedding.

As the sun fell that night, the beast watched as the beloved Princess transformed before his eyes, to a beast herself. Cursed by a witch many years before, the Princess turned ugly, monstrous, every night, the curse only to be broken by true love's kiss.

Together, the beast and the Princess slayed the Lord, and wed that night. Yet, when she kissed the beast, her appearance remained disfigured. The Princess then realized, that love's truest form was not based in beauty, but in happiness. She returned to the swamp with her beloved beast, and the two lived happily ever after."

Vhisrya finished her story with a smile, placing the brush back in the mortar. She looks down at the King, whose eyes were shut. For a moment, she thinks he has fallen asleep, but Aegon grunts, indicating he is still conscious, "Was there a moral to that story?"

He had only thought of the question after listening to one of Jaehaerys's lessons, one of the few times he was sober while the sun was still high in the sky. It made him feel like a child himself, curled along his tutor's side as she read him tales of past Kings.

The woman beside him rolls her eyes, placing her hand atop his own, "The moral is that even though someone may appear hideous, it does not make them a beast."

A deep flush overtakes Aegon's body, understanding her words. Still, he purses his swollen lips, "What if one's insides are as hideous- as hideous as their outsides?"

"Then that is truly a monster," Y/N replies, watching as the boy's face turns to a scowl.

A few moments of silence pass before the woman lets out a heavy sigh, "The beast was known for killing villagers set foot near his swamp, yet after he rescued his bride, he never killed again. He changed, Aegon, and you can too."

A chill is sent up Aegon's spine when she says his name. Like the rest of his court, she only addressed him "your Grace", and even when she did refer to him indirectly as "King Aegon", spite laced her words, bitter as poison. In every sober moment he had believed that she had hated him, yet her presence and aid in his time of need dismissed the notion from his mind entirely. 

Not even his mother had looked at him for this long, or made conversation so kind. Aegon had seen her, several times, hovering behind the Maester's as they tended to his wounds, yet she never dared to approach him, so close to his gnarled flesh. He couldn't blame her, he knew it was hideous, and the Queen's stomach was not meant to see such obscenities. 

In all honestly, neither should Y/N, but her previous line of work made her accustomed to such sights. The King swallows thickly, pain stretching up the left side of his neck, causing him to let out a small whimper. 

He feels the woman's hand stroke through his matted hair, hair that hasn't been brushed, or even washed in days. It shamed him, that he was incapable of keeping up his own appearance, needing the hands of servants to take the place of his own in combing his hair, washing him, dressing him, feeding him. 

"Will you stay with me tonight?" he whispers, discarding the last bit of dignity he held.

Y/N looked to the boy below her. There was a vulnerability in his eyes that she had never seen before, a glisten of sadness, despair, hopelessness. "Of course."

Aegon grunts as the weight shifts on the bed as she lays beside him, on his good side, not wanting to damage him in his slumber. The tormented King watches as she discards her jewelry on the furthest bedside table before fluffing a pillow to join him in the bed. Her long hair splays across the pillow as she grasps his hand, leaving several inches between the two of them. 

"Come closer," Aegon pleads, pulling gently on her hand, as much as his muscles would allow without excruciating pain.

"I don't want to harm you," Y/N says quickly, concerned etched in her features. 

"You won't" Aegon replies, sinking into the warmth of her body pressed against his own.

His body aches from his burns, the ointment only soothing his pain so much. It was nights like this, when Aegon couldn't sleep, when his body caused him so much trouble that he trembled and moaned until the morning sun rose. But as he curled against the woman, his pain began to subdue. He knew it wasn't literal, that her presence made his hurt go away, but he wished to believe it that simple, that she was his cure.

Y/N listened to his wheezing breaths slow as she held him, hand tight in her own. She felt the King's nose bury itself against the nape of her neck, a small grunt escaping his lips. She could feel his  chest rise and fall against her own as the King falls into a dreamless slumber. 

Darkness fills the room as the final candle burns low, the witch finally closing her eyes for her own rest, holding the broken, tortured boy in her arms, keeping him safe through the night. 

[redvexillum]

Hot damn, I can't believe it took me this long to finally get around to answering this ask. I would like to dedicate this story to @todash-darkness and Ms. 🍑. Thank you for being my friends and always cheering me on even when I get whiny and say "writing too hard!"

TAGS/WARNINGS: f!reader, p in v, rough s♡x, possessive!alastor, alastor is bad at feelings, dual pov, reader is a sweetheart, established relationship, alastor is allergic to feelings, rough ♡ral s♡x, finger♡ng, miscommunication, one sided (alastor) denial of feelings

In the vast, unfathomable uncertainties of Hell, Alastor’s mind was a sanctum guarded by his own design, his kingdom of carefully orchestrated chaos. He adored unpredictability, yes – but only when it danced to his tune, his rhythm, his control. Anything else, anything beyond his boundaries, was sacrilege.  

There was no greater agony, no venom deeper, than the sensation of his world teetering beyond his grasp. His order, his routine ...demolishing right before his eyes.  

One such certainty he held with unwavering conviction was this: your soul belonged to him, irrevocably. He had claimed you in ways that transcended mere words. Every part of you – your thoughts, your desires, your body, and even the delicate cadence of your laugh – was woven into his web, bound and stitched to his very being.  

So why, then, were you here, laughing with that cur, the very embodiment of mediocrity beside you? Why did the melodic lilt of your voice drift toward that miserable fool’s ears instead of his? The sight of you smiling at such filth was an affront to everything he held sacred, and yet you persisted. You continued to share laughter with that loser, indulging his vapid words, his feeble presence.  

From his seat on the single couch, Alastor’s grin cleaved his face, a mask of delight that undercut the roiling fury within. Around him, other souls babbled, meaningless, and insipid, but he paid them no heed. His gaze was fixed solely on you – typically nestled by his side, hanging on his every word as if he held the keys to your reality.  

You, who would meet his stories with wide-eyed fascination, as if his very words spun magic into existence. You, who would follow him, entranced, into his realm.  

But now, now...his hand dug into the flesh of the couch, claws piercing through its plush surface as he fought to restrain himself, to keep from dragging you to his side where you belonged. In his mind, he could feel the invisible chains around your neck, the ones you had so naively accepted, binding you to him to the moment you surrendered your soul – for a little of wretched Hellmutts, no less.  

You were naive. Weak. Ridiculously innocent.  

But you were his.  

His eyes tracked every move you made, his gaze darkening with each soft smile that graced your lips for someone else, each glimmer in your eye cast in that foul creature’s direction. And then – then that trash, that waste of a soul, had the audacity to touch your shoulder.  

Alastor’s heart stilled, a visceral freeze rippling through him as he watched your fingers lift, as if in slow motion, to meet that filthy hand.  

And within him, something snapped. 

An uncontrollable twitch seized his left eye, a slight tremor echoed in the clench of his jaw. Rage coursed through him, an intense, molten fury tightening every muscle until he vibrated with it. A violent energy was held back only by a grin that split his face, frozen, even as his eyes bore into you, unblinking.  

Come to me, he thought, his voice a dark whisper in his mind, willing you to hear, to obey, Come here, darling. Come... 

Yet, you didn’t hear him. Not a single glance in his direction, as if the tether binding you to him had snapped. You, with those disgustingly bright eyes, filled to the brim with such boundless, grating cheer – those eyes that never strayed from his, were now fixed on someone else. They were facing the wrong way.  

The ownership he held over you was absolute, and he was certain there was nothing of value in this world next to your name – nothing but your soul. And that? Well, that belonged to him. You were his in every sense, a fact as unshakeable as death itself.  

The thought simmered, rolling over in his mind like a storm. He’d planned to speak with you tonight, to remind you of the boundaries that came with selling your soul to him. A gentle “discussion” about your arrangement, perhaps a reminder of the dangers of your reckless naivety, especially around others’ wandering intentions. After all, what did you understand of the hunger that prowled in the depths of Hell? 

But then you laughed. That joyous sound, brimming with warmth and energy – the very light he’d basked in so possessively – spilled from you for someone else. In that instant, something dark clawed up from within him, overriding every fragment of patience he thought he’d possessed.  

The lights flickered; sinners looked up and whispered, confused, looking up as the room dipped into pitch-black darkness. And in that instant, Alastor’s hand seized you, pulling you into the shadows before anyone would notice.  

The darkness folded around him, dragging you both from their prying eyes, and when he materialized in his room, any pretense of control shattered entirely.  

You’d been talking to a gentleman about butcher shops in Cannibal Town, a respectable topic considering he was a proud consumer of sinner flesh. Though you yourself didn’t indulge, you knew Alastor had a certain...fondness for the taste. This stranger, to his credit, offered genuine recommendations – shops known for prime, fresh meat. You listened attentively, committing every word to memory, already imagining the gleam in Alastor’s eyes when you surprised him with a choice cut of fresh deer sinner’s flesh.  

The best part? Each piece came with the sinner’s full consent. Nothing could be more natural, organic, and you supposed, humane in a macabre way, than that.  

Your smile grew brighter as you pictured his reaction, and out of courtesy, you kept the conversation flowing. After all, Alastor had always instilled in you the importance of politeness, of maintaining grace, especially in the realms of Hell. When the man touched your shoulder and praised your kindness, you felt a warmth spread through you. Kindness was a rarity down here, and it was refreshing to be in the company of someone who appreciated it without ulterior motives.  

But then the lights flickered, and instantly, the room plunged into darkness. Panic flared, voices rising in confusion, and before you could fully process what was happening, a cold hand clamped around your wrist. A sensation, chilling and immediate, enveloped you, and the world melted away.  

When you blinked, you were in Alastor’s room.  

The sudden brightness left you blinking against the light, your vision adjusting. But when you finally looked up, you were met with a sight that sent a shiver down your spine.  

Alastor stood there; his eyes ablaze with a crimson fury that bordered on madness. His grin stretched wider than you’d ever seen, jagged and vicious, as if it had been carved from his very rage. His gaze cut through you like a knife, every muscle in his frame taut with anger. Twin streams of red trickled from the corners of his mouth, and in that silence, you could swear you heard the crackling of something deep within him breaking.  

Before you could even form the words to ask why he seemed so upset, Alastor summoned the soul chain. A sickly green chain flickered into existence, snaking around his wrist, and in the next, you felt a sudden, brutal tug around your neck. Your teeth gritted at the sharp pull, and he yanked you forward until you were barely an inch away from him, his nose almost brushing yours as he bent down to meet your gaze.  

The dial in his chest swung wildly, ticking back and forth like a metronome set to a frenzied beat.  

“Uhm, Alast-” you started, confusion clouding your mind. You knew he was eccentric, yes, prone to outbursts and fits of emotion, but they always carried some purpose, a hidden logic that only he could fully understand.  

“Who do you belong to?” he demanded, his voice frigid and sharp. The chain clinked as he pulled you even closer, the heat of his body blazing through the air between you.  

“Y-you,” you stammered, searching his eyes, your hand trembling as you gently touched his sleeve. “It’s you.” 

For a fleeting second, your answer seemed to calm the storm raging in his gaze, his crimson eyes softening back to their usual dark slits. “That’s right,” he whispered, his voice low and deceptively soft. “You belong to me.” His hand slid to your waist, his fingers digging in possessively. “And yet,” his voice dropped to a hiss, “you had the gall to let another sinner touch you.” 

A wave of bewilderment washed over you, leaving you scrambling to make sense of his anger. Physical contact was far from uncommon in the hotel – just yesterday, Angel Dust had clapped you on the back after you told him a joke. Surely, Alastor wouldn’t be so enraged over something so trivial? 

But Alastor pressed himself against you, his body taut and seething with an intensity that left you breathless. “My, my,” he murmured, voice pitched with a mocking chill, “thinking about that wretched sinner already? Right here, in my presence?” 

“That’s not-” you started to protest, realizing with a sinking dread that you’d indeed just thought of Angel Dust. But surely, that alone wouldn’t justify this terrifying fury, this raw possessiveness radiating from Alastor? 

He let out a bark of laughter, sharp and scathing, before pressing his forehead to yours, his lips grazing dangerously close to your own. “I own your soul, darling,” he whispered, his voice laced with a dangerous, velvety edge. You felt his claws inching up your skirt, his fingers scraping against your bare thighs, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. “I don’t share what is rightfully mine.” 

Unexpectedly, his mouth crashed onto yours, urgent and bruising, teeth grazing with a hunger so fierce it stole the breath from your lungs. You whimpered against him as his sharp tooth nicked your lower lip, the sting mingling with the taste of blood as his hot tongue lapped over the wound, a low groan reverberating from his chest.  

When he finally pulled back, his lips stained crimson with your blood, he gripped the front of your dress, his eyes blazing. “Who do you belong to?” he demanded again, his tone laced with desperation, as if even your words might not be enough to satisfy him.  

“You. It’s always you, Alastor,” you whispered, your hands gently cupping his face, placing a soft, tender kiss on his lips – a striking contrast to the bruising passion he’d unleashed moments before. “The contract says forever, remember?” You tried a slight, playful grin, but his gaze held none of his usual amusement, his eyes fixated on yours with an almost haunted intensity.  

“The contract,” he repeated slowly, his fingers loosening their grip on your dress. “Yes...that’s right.” His hands trembled for a fleeting moment before he forced them behind his back, his posture rigid. “I own your soul,” he said, voice hollow, “your servitude, I suppose.” 

It was as if he were no longer fully present with you, his gaze dark and distant, a hint of revelation in his eyes that seemed to tear him apart even as he chased it. You could see it, how this realization – this twisted revelation – pained him, even though he seemed oblivious to its source.  

You’d been here before, watched him spiral from bursts of passion to bitterness and then back to his lonely solitude. So, as always, you took that first step forward, drawing closer until your arms circled his waist. You smiled up at him, that bright, open smile he so often brushed off with sharp words, though you knew it softened him beneath the mask.  

He stiffened for a moment, then relaxed, a breath escaping as he murmured, “My, you're suddenly so clingy.” But you caught the waver in his voice, hiding behind his usual teasing edge.  

“Because it’s you,” you replied simply, hands trailing up his back until they slid into his hair, guiding him down to meet you. “Besides, you haven’t kicked me to the curb yet, Alastor.” You giggled, only for the sound to be cut off as his lips claimed yours.  

His movement slowed, each kiss lingering, his fingers finding the front of your shirt, hesitating there. “I don’t share,” he murmured against your mouth, his claws grazing the sensitive skin of your neck, sending shivers down your spine. “This chain,” he whispered, tracing it with reverence, “it binds you to me. I own you.” With each word, he deftly unbuttoned your dress, his gaze smouldering as the fabric fell open.  

“I know,” you answered softly, sinking beneath him as he lowered you to the hard floor, his arms and legs caging you in. “I haven’t forgotten,” you murmured, your fingers trailing down the front of his red-pinstriped suit, savouring the rough texture beneath your touch.  

He stiffened, a flash of raw anger crossing his features. “Then why,” he snarled, his voice dripping with possessiveness, “why let that waste of breath near you? Why laugh, why smile, why seek his company when I was right there?” His words tumbled out, unbidden, raw and unrestrained.  

At that moment, as his heated words filled the space between you, you caught a flicker of shame and horror in his eyes, as if he hadn’t meant to reveal this part of himself. But before he could pull away, you wrapped your arms around his neck, anchoring him to you.  

“No one touches me like you do,” you whispered, pressing soft kisses along his cheek, to the corner of his mouth, until you kissed him fully. And I don’t think anyone else can make me smile until my cheeks hurt.” You laughed softly, fingers combing through his hair, each touch soft and grounding.  

His response was immediate, his lips pressed against yours, his hips grinding against you with desperate fervour. His soft groans mixed with your sighs, and he gently took your wrists, guiding your hands back to the front of his pants. His lips never left yours, his hands tracing a slow, searing path as you undid his pants, feeling the heated weight of him pressing against your stomach as you freed him.  

“Darling,” he hissed as our fingers wrapped around him, stroking from his tip down the length of his hardened cock, slow and tantalizing. The fire in his eyes darkened, his pupils widening to pools of obsidian as he shuddered beneath your touch. “How should I make you remember,” he murmured, voice a low growl, “that you belong to me always?” 

His lips traced down your jaw, his breath hot against your skin as his hands slid up your thighs, pushing your skirt to your waist with a deliberate slowness that made you ache. “Perhaps,” he breathed, his fingers pressing against the damp cloth covering you, feeling your desire seeping through, “I’ll make your body remember.”  

Without hesitation, he tore your underwear away, his fingers grazing the slick curve of your inner thighs, drawing a gasp from you as his touch lingered there. “Enough times,” he muttered, his voice thick with want, “That you never forget who I am to you.” 

Two fingers slipped inside, filling you in one firm stroke. The sensation sent a sharp tremor through you, and your breath hitched as your walls clenched around him. “Alastor...” His name fell from your lips in a shiver, and his eyes darkened at the sound, a wicked grin spreading across his face.  

“Shh, darling,” he cooed, his voice a velvet command. His fingers moved slowly, plunging into you with an unhurried intensity, dragging your slice over every sensitive spot before plunging them back in. His head dropped to your shoulder, lips brushing over your skin as he pumped his fingers, his own arousal pressing hot and hard against your thigh. “Tonight, I’ll make certain you’ll never consider anyone else.” 

Pleasure flooded through you, erasing everything except the feel of him, each pump of his fingers building heat within you. You wanted to tell him he was always in your mind, to confess that you’d never once thought of leaving his side. But words tangled and dissolved into moans, as if even trying to say them would break the spell.  

Things like, I like you.

Things like, I cherish you. 

Things like... 

A gasp tore from you as his mouth latched onto your breast, tongue flicking over the sensitive peak as he hummed in satisfaction, the wet sound of his fingers moving within you intensifying with each movement. You arched against him, hips moving of their own accord, desperate for more, clinging to every sensation.  

And just as you teetered on the edge, his fingers slipped free, leaving you throbbing, gasping from the loss of him. He rose above you, his cock fully erect, tip glistening. He lifted his fingers, coated in your desire, to his face, watching with fascination as he pressed them together. A glistening thread stretching between them before he spread too far apart, breaking it with a hungry grin.  

Then, without looking away, he brought them to his lips, sucking each finger clean with slow, deliberate motions, a satisfied groan slipping from his throat as he tasted you.  

“Who do you belong to, darling?” he murmured, eyes heavy-lidded as he gazed down at you. His hands moved to pin your wrists above your head, pressing his hips forward, his cock nudging against your slick entrance, sending a shiver of pure heat coursing through you.  

Your breath caught as he began to push in, the head of him stretching you with a slow, delicious pressure. Instinctively, you tried to shift your hips, to take him deeper, but his grip tightened, keeping you firmly in place. “Say it,” he whispered, his voice edged with a fierce tenderness, his eyes locked onto yours, demanding.  

“You,” you whimpered, voice trembling, and Alastor rewarded you by sliding himself just a bit deeper, the stretch trying to accommodate him making you gasp.  

“That’s right,” he crooned, his grin sharp, eyes narrowed to slivers of wicked delight. “Tell me,” he murmured, his lips brushing hot against your ear, the words like fire igniting every nerve, “tell me how much you want me. Go on.” 

When you hesitated, struggling for breath, he drew his hips back, leaving you painfully empty. Every nerve in your body was alight, humming, craving more. Embarrassment coloured your cheeks, but the heat, the need, drove the words from you. “Please,” you whispered, voice soft and fragile, “please Alastor, I-I want you.” Your eyes closed, the vulnerability tightening in your chest, sending waves of desire flooding your veins.  

The moment the words escaped your lips, Alastor surged forward, filling you to the hilt, his hips flush against yours, a shuddering groan escaping him. His length throbbed inside, stretching and filling you perfectly, leaving you breathless as he began a steady rhythm, each thrust pulling a whimper from your lips.  

“That’s right,” he rasped, finally finding his pace as he withdrew and slammed back into you, your breasts bouncing with every relentless stroke. “Say you want me,” he breathed, his voice rough, almost breaking, with the intensity of his need.  

One hand pinned your wrists above your head, firm and unyielding, while the other squeezed your breast, his thumb brushing over your nipple, sending electric shocks of pleasure through you. His hips moved in a hypnotic rhythm, the wet, smacking sound of skin on skin mingling with the sharp cries and moans filling the air. Each one tore through you as you clung to him, helpless against the power of his thrusts.  

“I want you,” you cried, voice trembling, head tilted back, your body limp and yielding beneath his strength. Every nerve was alive with a searing stretch, his cock grinding into your most sensitive spot as he drove deeper, forcing pleasure to crest higher and higher. His name fell from your lips in broken cries, each syllable dripping with the intensity of your desire.  

With a raw groan, Alastor shifted, grasping your hips firmly as he rose onto his knees, lifting you with him. Your body arched upward, shoulders and head the only parts still anchored to the floor as he drove into you harder, faster, every thrust meeting no resistance. He slammed his hips against yours, the force of it stealing your breath, pushing you to the brink, an overwhelming spike of pleasure building with every powerful relentless motion.  

Your lips parted, gasping, as his grunts filled your ears, his low, primal sounds mixing with the wet, sinful noises of your bodies colliding. The world around you faded to nothing but the feeling of him, the ecstasy of his touch, and the unstoppable climb toward a blinding, shattering release.  

His eyes locked on the place where your bodies joined, a hunger darkening his gaze as he thrust into you, each movement hitting that perfect spot, dragging every pulse of pleasure from deep within you. Your stomach tightened, thighs shaking, and as he drove in again, the pressure burst.  

You came with a shattering cry, your fingers scraping at the wooden floor, desperate for anything to hold as your walls clenched around him, wave after wave of ecstasy crashing through you.  

He pulled out suddenly, letting your body drop as he rose to his knees, his cock slick and throbbing against your parted lips. His hand wrapped around his length, pumping himself with frenzied strokes as he looked down, his gaze fierce and covetous.  

“I should mark you,” he rasped, his voice thick with need, his cock grazing your lips as he leaned forward. “Make sure my colour stains that smile.” His grin was wild as his hand moved faster, his muscles tense, his breaths shallow and ragged.  

You lifted your head, mouth open to take him in, your lips wrapping around the tip as your tongue swirled, savouring the mingling taste of him and your own desire. A moan tore from him, and he let his head drop back, his hands cradling the sides of your head, guiding himself deeper as his hips moved in slow, deliberate thrusts. His length stretched your lips as he pressed to the back of your throat, the guttural sound of his groans and the slick noises filling the air.  

Your own moans vibrated around him, spurring him on. His hips moved faster, his hands clinging tighter as his moans grew sharper, each thrust sending him closer. With one last hard thrust, he shuddered, and the first hot pulse of his release spilled down your throat. He withdrew, letting the rest spill over your lips, dripping down your chin in thick streams as he marked you. His eyes locked on your face, a wild satisfaction softening his gaze as he watched.  

The warmth of his release lingered on your skin, drying as your breaths filled the space between you. Your tongue darted out, tasting the lingering saltiness on your lips, and he groaned, his cock twitching in his hand as he watched, his chest rising and falling in rhythm with yours.  

As if coming back to himself, he gently cupped your face, wiping his release from your skin with his sleeve, his expression caught between wonder and something deeper. His touch was unexpectedly soft, eyes holding a vulnerability he rarely let surface, the unspoken question hanging between you as his gaze searched yours.  

“We could be more,” you whispered, heart pounding as his fingers tilled on your skin, “if you want, Alastor.” 

His movements halted, his gaze slowly focusing on yours, a flicker of confusion slipping beneath his usual veneer of confidence. “I already own your soul,” he murmured, his voice edged with something darker, guarded. “There is nothing more you could give me.” His words were resolute, as if trying to cling onto their simplicity, yet the way his brows furrowed, and his head tilted betrayed a hesitation – a lack of understanding for the weight of what you meant.  

For all his power, Alastor had taken your heart without ever offering his own in return. The notion of “more” was something he danced around, something he coveted without daring to hold. He wanted you fiercely, hungrily even, but in ways he could still control – never in ways that would strip him bare and vulnerable.  

You placed a gentle hand on his thigh, feeling the tension coiled beneath his skin. With a soft sigh, you felt the truth of it settle heavy between you; until he could meet you on level ground, until he was ready to open himself as wholly as he demanded of you, this fragile back-and-forth was all you’d have. This quiet ache, this unspoken ache, would remain hidden, cloaked in omissions and denials.  

It wasn’t entirely his fault, either, this painful standoff. After all, there were things you held back too – things that lingered on the edge of every kiss, every touch, words that clung desperately to the walls of your heart, refusing to release themselves. The word that waited to change everything.  

Things like, I like you. 

Things like, I cherish you. 

Things like... 

I love you.  

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[idkyetxoxo]

Aegon Targaryen - Stolen Moments

Summary - In stolen glances and brief, desperate encounters, they grapple with their longing for each other while the realm demands their attention. Their connection, though strained, burns with passion and a desperate need to reclaim the love they once knew.

Pairing - Aegon Targaryen x reader

Warnings - Sexual content (smut!)

Word count - 2260

Masterlist for Aegon • House of the Dragon General Masterlist.

Ever since Aegon was crowned King of the Seven Kingdoms, finding even a fleeting moment of peace together has felt like chasing a mirage. 

It seemed as though the weight of the realm's crown came with chains—binding not just him, but us both. 

Our love, once free to breathe in laughter and stolen glances, was now suffocated by duty's unyielding grip.

Being queen was a role I never sought, never imagined for myself. Yet here I was, donning the mask and bearing the title, playing a part I barely recognized.

I felt a familiar warmth as Aegon brushed his fingers against my cheek. 

"My beautiful wife," he murmured, his voice soft but tinged with weariness. I blinked, trying to savour the rare and fragile moments of quiet that often slipped through our fingers like sand.

"Aegon," I groaned, swatting at his hand with mock annoyance. His deep laugh rumbled through the air as I buried my head beneath the pillow. 

I knew that laughter—it was one of the few pieces of him I still had unfettered by the crown.

"My love," he said, tugging the pillow away and leaving me exposed to the early light and his piercing gaze. "We haven't had a moment of peace in weeks. I want this time with you. I need it."

I opened my eyes fully, turning to meet his face. His expression was unguarded, and in it, I saw the man who had once been mine alone—not the king he was forced to become. 

"That's true," I whispered, stretching, only to be caught in his arms as he pulled me closer. His touch was gentle, reverent, as if trying to capture every second that might be stolen from us.

"It is, isn't it?" he breathed, his fingertip tracing a soft line down my cheek. I closed my eyes, leaning into his touch, wishing for the world to dissolve around us, leaving just this moment.

But the world refused to yield.

The heavy doors to our chambers slammed open, a Kingsguard stumbling inside, words tumbling from his lips in a rush. The sacred illusion of peace shattered like glass.

Aegon groaned, his face contorted with frustration, while I rolled my eyes skyward, the cold reality settling in once more. 

"So much for peace," I muttered bitterly, dragging the sheets over my head in a feeble attempt to block out everything that was not us. 

I felt him shift, his weight leaving the bed—off to tend to matters that never ceased, off to be the king everyone demanded.

And I was left alone, clinging to the echoes of what little time we'd had, wondering how much longer it would be before duty tore even those moments away.

Days blurred together like ink bleeding through parchment, staining every hour with endless demands and the heavy burden of duty. 

Every fleeting moment Aegon and I found together seemed to be stolen by the realm's constant demands, and with each passing day, it became harder to remember what it was like to simply be us.

The first time we managed a brief moment alone, it was in the dimly lit hallway of the Keep. 

I caught sight of him turning a corner, his face drawn and weary. He paused, as if sensing my presence, and our eyes met. Without a word, he reached for my hand, pulling me into a hidden alcove away from prying eyes.

"Just one moment," he breathed, his forehead pressing gently against mine. "Just one."

"Is this what our lives have become?" I whispered, hating how my voice trembled. "Stolen moments in shadows?"

He didn't answer. Instead, his hands tightened around mine as if he could anchor us both. 

A distant shout called his name, echoing through the halls. The moment shattered. He stepped back reluctantly, a flash of pain crossing his face before the mask of the king slipped back into place. 

I watched him walk away, feeling the emptiness that followed in his wake.

Another time, late in the evening, I found him in the council chamber, head bowed over maps and parchments. His crown sat askew, forgotten in his frustration. 

I entered quietly, not wanting to disturb him, but he heard me and looked up. The exhaustion in his eyes cut deeper than any sword.

"Come here," he said, his voice rough, pleading. I walked to him, and he pulled me close, resting his head against my chest. 

"I miss you," he murmured, the admission raw and unguarded. "I hate that I miss you, because you're right here, and yet... you're not."

"We're both prisoners of the crown," I said softly, running my fingers through his hair. "Every day, I feel it tightening around us."

Before I could say more, the door creaked open, and a steward stepped in with urgent news. 

Aegon stiffened, releasing me reluctantly. "Another time," he whispered, a bitter smile playing at his lips. "Always another time."

One afternoon, we managed a few stolen minutes in the gardens. It felt almost normal—almost. We walked side by side, the warmth of his hand in mine a comforting reminder of what we once had. But even here, peace was a fragile thing.

He picked a flower, tucking it behind my ear. "Do you remember when we used to run here, hiding from our lessons?"

I smiled, though it hurt. "I remember you always got caught."

"Because you were faster," he said with a laugh, but the mirth didn't reach his eyes. "And smarter."

I wanted to savour the moment, but a guard approached, urgent footsteps disrupting our fragile peace. Aegon's jaw clenched. "Not now," he growled.

"I'm sorry, Your Grace," the guard said, eyes downcast. "It's urgent."

Aegon turned to me, his expression a mix of apology and simmering rage. "I will come back," he said, as if trying to will it into truth.

"I know," I replied, even as I doubted it. He pressed a quick kiss to my forehead before being pulled away once more.

It continued like this—glimpses of each other through corridors, shared looks across crowded rooms, and brief, desperate touches that ended all too quickly. 

Each moment left us more frustrated, more bitter. I could see it gnawing at him, just as it was gnawing at me.

Finally, one stormy evening, Aegon burst into our chambers, his face pale and drawn with exhaustion. He crossed the room with an urgency I hadn't seen before, and before I could speak, he grabbed my hand, pulling me to my feet.

"I can't do this anymore," he said, voice low but fierce. "I can't keep pretending that these scraps of time are enough."

"Aegon—" I began, but he silenced me with a look that burned with desperation.

"No." He dragged me to the doors, bolting them shut with a heavy thud. "No more interruptions. No more duties. I am the King," he declared, his voice cracking under the weight of it all. 

"And I will have a moment's peace with my queen."

He turned back to me, eyes blazing with determination, pain, and longing. "Just one night. No one else. No crowns, no thrones—just us."

I nodded, feeling the truth of his words deep in my bones. He reached for me, pulling me close, and for the first time in what felt like forever, the world outside faded away. 

There were no knocks, no calls, no endless summons. Just us—finally.

"I've missed you," he whispered against my hair, his voice raw. "I've missed you so much."

"And I you," I replied, my voice breaking. "Always."

The silence stretched, not awkward but heavy with unspoken yearning. I pulled back, just enough to lift my gaze to his. His eyes, deep and stormy, held mine as if afraid I'd vanish. 

I let myself smile, small but real, the playfulness creeping in like the first light of dawn. "Does our night's peace involve any other activities?"

His lips curved a hint of mischief sparking in his eyes. He slowly removed his crown, setting it down carelessly on the settee. 

"That depends on what the Queen desires," he murmured, the gravel in his voice sending a shiver down my spine.

I let my fingers trace the line of his jaw, trailing down his chest. 

"What does the King want?" I teased, batting my lashes as my hands moved lower, slipping beneath the hem of his tunic. 

I felt the heat of his skin against my fingertips, each inch another reminder of what I'd missed.

His hands covered mine, stilling their movement just long enough for him to whisper, "To please his Queen." And then his lips captured mine, hungry and soft all at once. 

His fingers found the laces of my dress, working deftly, as if each knot and loop were a barrier to be conquered. 

We moved in rhythm, clothes shedding between kisses and breathless laughter until there was nothing left between us.

Aegon lifted me as if I weighed nothing, cradling me against his chest before laying me gently onto the bed. We shared a smile, wide and unrestrained, the kind that made the world fall away. 

He leaned in, his lips trailing along my shoulder, his breath sending waves of heat over my skin. "I have missed the feel of you," he murmured, each kiss a promise of more.

I arched into him, my fingers tangling in his hair, relishing the silky strands slipping through. His hands explored me, reverent and hungry, every touch igniting a fire beneath my skin. 

"As have I," I breathed, my words a soft confession wrapped in desire. I tugged him closer, my legs wrapping around him, the need thrumming between us.

"I need you," I whispered, the words raw and urgent, a plea that left no room for denial. I guided him, shifting so our bodies fit together, an intimacy so long denied finally restored.

He exhaled shakily, his gaze locking with mine, and in that moment, everything fell into place. "Then let me amend that absence," he replied, his voice deep, a promise made flesh.

The first press of him stole the air from my lungs. We gasped together, rediscovering the familiarity of it all—an ache and a joy in equal measure. He moved slowly, reverently, each motion a gift shared. 

"If I were to perish right now," he murmured, a hint of laughter threading through his heavy breath, "I would be content."

"Stop it, you fool," I managed, my words a half-laugh, half-moan as he thrust deeper, teasingly insistent. 

And then words fell away, replaced by sensation and the knowledge that nothing—duty, distance, or time—could keep us from finding each other again.

Our words gave way to silence as the world outside ceased to exist, leaving only us, tangled in the sheets, wrapped around each other as if we could bridge the space of every lonely moment spent apart. 

The rhythm of his movements became everything—steady, deep, each thrust a reminder of what we'd missed, each touch a rediscovery of familiar terrain made sacred by absence.

I clung to him, my hands roaming across the muscles of his back, tracing paths I'd memorized long ago but still felt new beneath my touch. 

He buried his face in the crook of my neck, his breath hot and ragged against my skin, each exhale a wordless vow. 

Our bodies met and parted, a dance of need and love, the quiet murmurs and soft moans filling the space between us like music only we could hear.

"I've needed this," he whispered, the words spilling out unbidden, roughened by desire and longing. "I've needed you."

His confession was raw and open, leaving me exposed in its wake. 

"I know," I breathed, pressing myself closer as if to absorb the truth of it into my very bones. "I know." 

The edges of pleasure crept in, curling through me like a rising tide, unstoppable and inevitable. 

I felt his grip tighten, his hands slipping down my sides, holding me as if he could keep me there forever. And in that moment, I wanted nothing else.

The tension coiled within us, building with each shared breath, each deep thrust. My name was a whisper on his lips, a prayer, a plea. 

I met his gaze, lost in the depths of his eyes, and in that connection, we both shattered—together. The release was intense, a wave that left me gasping, my body trembling beneath him. 

I felt him follow, his muscles tensing, his movements slowing, until he stilled, a soft groan of fulfilment breaking the silence.

We lay there, wrapped around each other, hearts pounding in unison, every breath a testament to what we'd reclaimed. 

Aegon pressed his forehead to mine, his sweat-damp hair brushing my skin. He kissed me, gentle and lingering, as if savouring the taste of this stolen time.

The world seeped back in slowly—the soft rustle of fabric, the faint flicker of candlelight casting golden shadows around the room. His hands found mine, fingers intertwining as he pulled me closer, settling me against his chest. 

The silence was no longer heavy but comfortable, our contentment palpable.

"I missed this," he said quietly, his voice soft now, a murmur of truth against my hair. "Just being here. With you."

I smiled, nestling deeper into his embrace. "And I," I replied, my own exhaustion mingling with blissful satisfaction. "Even if it is fleeting, it's ours."

He nodded, his arms tightening around me protectively. 

"Let's make the most of every heartbeat," he whispered, his tone a mix of solemnity and lightness, the playful edge still there. "Even if we must steal moments."

We stayed like that, wrapped up in each other, no need for words as our breathing evened out. 

The weight of our responsibilities would come crashing back soon enough, but for now, we had this. 

We had each other, skin to skin, heart to heart, and for once, the world could wait.

A/n - Love me a little they constantly get interrupted until one of them breaks moment <3