#they are wives now your honor

[prlatin]

They gay. Now kiss and practice Bochu jutsu.

[kellyvsevildead]

Carina + Worshipping Maya's body

( + BONUS : one time Maya worshipped Carina )

[fuckyeah-dragrace]

@sweetestberryofthebunch manifestation really does work

[apolohgy]

if someone says “we have our ups and downs” about their relationship or marriage, that couple hates each other

[tequiilasunriise]

In honor of this hellsite gaining new mecha wielding facism overthrowing space lesbian overloads via that one shipping poll, I wanna bring back this post bc MANNN do I miss ripping my hair out in excitement in anticipation whenever a new episode was aboutta drop, featuring past dani’s tags:

babe wake up they’re soulmates 

(Original post here.)

[stylesispunk]

'Hands in the hair of somebody named Marcus'

Marcus Acacius x f!reader

next part

summary: the cursed blood of Geta and Caracalla runs through your veins sealing your fate. However, the General Acacius is willing to fight for you.

w.c: 5k>

warnings: angst, violence, power imbalance,and fluff.

a/n: I had this one in my drafts but after watching gladiator ii twice. I had to finish it and write about my beloved General Acacius because he deserves it. I hope you like it. This may have a part ii depending on its performance. PLEASE DON'T BE MEAN. Reblogs and comments are always. appreciated 💌

| dividers by @/saradika-graphics |

Inhale.

Exhale.

Breathe in, breath out.

There was it, the rattle breathing inside Marcus Acacius lungs. The way life has turned out for him felt like cuts all over his skin.

Sometimes he felt he could even breath from how bloody his hands were. How dirty his name felt to his own honor. How salty his tears felt down his cheeks every night. Every time he closed his eyes at night, the screams pierced through his ears.

Mothers mourning their children.

Men mourning their wives.

Families destroyed.

All because of him.

All because he must have served those two spoiled kids so called emperors of Rome.

And he still couldn't wrap his mind around the idea of you, someone so pure and kind was cursed to share the same blood as them.

Every time he came back to the city. He witnessed on first hand, how badly you were treated by them.  The laughs, the humiliation, the segregation, and how your voice had been silenced just for you to be unwillingly part of a legacy that felt like your back being split in two.

Marcus was aware of the adoration people felt for you, how your kindness had reached to every single person in the empire. People loved you, but you were nothing more than a puppet under their fingers.

And he felt pity for you.

He could see the way your eyes seemed lost in the arena, in the way your hands trembled where Geta or Caracalla looked at you with disgust when you didn't approve of the madness they had arisen under their control.

You were the opposite of them.

You were Kind.

Kind as no one had been on here for so many years. You shared the same dream of Marcus Aurelio.

An empire for the world and a refuge for those in need.

and Marcus looked at you with tenderness in his heart from afar.

Most of the time you didn't acknowledge him. He knew you weren't really fond of him or the idea of him leading armies to claim cities under the glory of Rome.

For you, he was just a general repeating the same cycle of madness.

And you didn't acknowledge him until Geta slapped you on front of him for not showing your gratitude towards him after his returning from battle.

The sting lingered on your cheek after his slap, not from the force but from the humiliation of it. The room fell silent, the tension arose like flames to the fire. Geta and Caracalla, with their arrogant disdain, seemed to punish your perceived disobedience.

But Marcus? His expression shifted, subtle, yet profound. His sharp gaze, so often unreadable, burned with an intensity that wasn’t anger but something close to defiance. He stepped forward, his towering presence demanding the attention of everyone in the room.

“Enough,” Marcus said, his voice calm and gentle, the command laced with quiet fury. The word carried weight, a warning not to be ignored. Your brothers exchanged a glance, clearly displeased but unwilling to challenge the general directly. They turned and left, leaving muttered curses in the air.

The room fell silent once again, and you found yourself standing alone with General Acacius. Your hand hovering your cheek, the skin still warm from Geta’s punishment. You didn’t look up at first, embarrassed not just by the slap but by the realization that Marcus had witnessed it. You had worked so hard to ignore him, to keep him at a distance, but now, there was no avoiding him.

“You didn’t deserve that,” he said softly, his voice a startling contrast to the authority he had wielded moments ago.

You finally raised your eyes to meet his, expecting pity but finding something else entirely different, something softer. “It doesn’t matter,” you murmured, attempting to dismiss it, but he shook his head.

“It does,” Marcus said, taking a step closer. “You shouldn’t have to endure this, least of all from them. They’re your blood”

His words hung in the air, and for the first time, you saw him not as the general who commanded armies in your brothers’ name but as a man standing apart from their cruelty. He wasn’t like them, not entirely.

And perhaps, you thought, he never had been.

Your gaze lingered on Marcus for a moment longer, his eyes searching yours as if waiting for you to say something—anything. But you couldn’t. Your throat tightened, and you turned away, moving to the window to avoid the weight of his attention.

“I don’t need your protection,” you said, though the words came out softer than you intended. “You’ve done enough by speaking against them. They will get under your skin for it.”

Marcus hesitated, his heavy footsteps echoing as he approached you. “You shouldn’t have to thank me for doing what’s right.”

His words made your chest ache. When was the last time anyone had done what was “right” for you? You stared out at the gardens beyond the window, their beauty feeling distant, unreachable. Your brothers had never cared about right or wrong, only power.

“I don’t understand you,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. “You fight for them. You serve them. And yet…”

“And yet I see who they truly are,” Marcus interrupted gently. “I serve Rome, not their cruelty. There’s a difference.”

You turned to face him, his nearness almost startling. For the first time, his presence didn’t feel overwhelming. Instead, it felt… grounding. Safe. He stood tall, but his expression was open, waiting for you to respond.

“They’ll hate you for standing up for me,” you said, your tone cautious. “They don’t forgive things like that.”

“Let them hate me,” Marcus replied without hesitation. “I won’t stand by and let them treat you as they do.”

The conviction in his voice sent a shiver through you. You wanted to argue, to remind him that opposing your brothers would bring nothing but trouble, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, you found yourself studying him. His broad shoulders, the sharp lines of his face, and the way his eyes softened when they rested on you.

“I don’t need anyone fighting my battles,” you said, though even you weren’t sure if you believed it. “I’ve survived this long on my own.”

“You shouldn’t have to,” he replied, stepping closer, his voice low but steady. “You deserve better than survival.”

Your breath hitched, the weight of his words pressing against you. Before you could respond, Marcus straightened, his demeanor shifting as if sensing he had said too much. He nodded once, a gesture of respect, before stepping back.

“I should leave you to rest,” he said. “You’ve been through enough today”

Your breath caught at the sound of his voice, so steady and sincere, the words lingering in the air like a balm to your frayed nerves. You wanted to reach out, to say something and stop him, but you hesitated, unsure of what held you back.

Marcus took another step away, his broad shoulders tense, as though leaving you was harder for him than he let on. His words, though respectful, carried a tone of finality that made your heart twist.

“I’ll see you soon,” he murmured, his voice softer now, almost reluctant. He bowed slightly, taking your hand in his, and kissing it as his dark eyes met yours, “My lady.”

As if his words had worked as a kind of manifesto, the “soon” came no long after.

There you were in the gardens, barefoot, with your wild hair looking at the moon shining over the town you had been forced to call it home.

Marcus could see from your posture to your void eyes when you were there in the middle of your brothers, faking enthusiasm, while inside your bones you hate with passion this torturous show.

You didn't wish to be cruel to the world but kind.

You didn't wish to see blood coming out from innocent men who had fallen prey under the hands of the cruelty of the roman empire.

And you were exhausted of seeing and hearing the cheering of people celebrating death as a spectacle.

You didn't want this to be your life but just a nightmare you were going to wake from too soon.

And now, as Marcus could see the moon reflecting on your face. He was able to see through the golden jewelry and the soft material of your dress, he could see a soul pleading to the moon to set her free.

Something must have alerted you. You turned around facing him hiding under his cloak.

"General Acacius?" You whispered, closing your eyes a bit to take his form under the soft light of the moon.

"My lady" he replied softly, with respect to his tone.

“What are you doing here?” you breathed, your voice trembled under his gaze.

He hesitated for mere seconds, his gaze intense as it locked onto yours. “I could ask you the same, my lady,” he replied, a trace of sweetness in his tone. “It seems even those closest to the emperors need to escape from time to time.”

A silence fell between you, charged with a tension that both thrilled and unsettled you. The few stolen glances you’d shared over the past days had spoken volumes, but you had never dared to hope his heart could be beating as fast as yours in your presence.

You turned around again, your back to him. "I love coming here to look at the moon. " You spoke, breaking the silence "This seems to be the only place my brothers haven't tainted yet."

"How they don't know about this place?"

"My father sent this place to be built for his only daughter." You replied, and Marcus could notice how the corners of your lips graced with a smirk, even from behind. "A place for her to be a girl."

"What do you mean?"

"You know, General. Women seem to be useless for having a voice, less for ruling an Empire. Everything I can do is stay here and feel like I own something." You hold your voice for a minute, “I’m just a statue waiting to crumble.”

Marcus didn't reply to your words and if it wasn't for the sound of his steps getting closer you would have thought he left.

You could see his outline from the corner of your eyes, the way his face had been marked by cruel events you despise. A red mark on his cheek, a few scars on his neck and for brown eyes that contrasted from his hard exterior, shinning under the same moon as yours.

"How did you find this place, General?" You asked, bow fully looking at him. You were wondering how your brothers never knew about this place but him had been the first man to find it, just after his return.

He took a brief look at you from the corners of his eyes. "I would say that something brought me here," he paused for a moment, "but it seems like it was you, my lady."

You had to hold your breath for a moment. You didn't expect such words from Marcus. He was the beloved general of Rome. But to your eyes he was still a man who had built his honor from cruelty or that was what you thought.

"I don't believe so." You replied, despite the rapid beating of your heart, you didn't want to be fooled by a man with soft brown eyes and a heart that seems to be kind. "I do not desire a man to follow me, not less one who is the puppet of the cruelty of all this cold nonsense."

"My lady…"

"Please, you may go now." you said, turning your gaze back to the moon.

Marcus didn’t leave immediately. Instead, he lingered in the doorway, his silhouette framed by the faint torchlight flickering in the hall. His hand rested on the edge of the door, his knuckles tight and pale as if he were restraining himself from saying something he would later regret.

For a moment, the only sound in the room was the crackling of the embers in the hearth. The tension between you felt almost unbearable, a quiet battle waged in silence.

“I know what you think of me,” he finally said, his voice softer now, like the hush of a secret shared in the dark. “You see a man of blood and iron, one who serves an empire that devours cities for the Glory of Rome.” He exhaled slowly, almost as if gathering the strength to continue. “You’re not wrong to think that. There are nights when I wonder if all of this is worth it, if I am worth anything beyond my sword.”

His admission struck something deep within you, though you kept your face turned toward the moon. You refused to let him see the small crack forming in your carefully constructed armor.

“Then why stay?” you asked quietly, your voice carrying an edge of challenge. “Why continue to serve a cause you doubt?”

“I stay because I must,” Marcus said without hesitation. “It is all I have known, and it is all that has been asked of me. But you…” His voice faltered, and you felt the weight of his gaze, though you didn’t dare meet it. “You are different. You are everything this empire is not, kind, unyielding. Someone like you should be the one ruling Rome, the princess.”

You chuckled at the statement “My brothers would send me to death before I’ll have the chance to sit on that throne.”

Your fingers tightened around the fabric of your dress. His words shouldn’t have this effect on you, yet they lingered, stirring something unfamiliar.

“And that is why you should go,” you said, more firmly now. “You’re talking nonsense”

Marcus took a step closer, his steps echoing faintly against the cobblestones “Perhaps I do not belong here,” he said, his tone unwavering, “but that does not mean I will walk away so easily and let this empire fall under your brother’s madness.”

You turned to him then, unable to ignore the quiet determination in his voice. His eyes, those soft brown eyes that had once seemed so dangerous, now held a sincerity you hadn’t expected. For the first time, you saw not a general, but a man, a man who carried the weight of his choices and the burden of his doubts.

“You think you can change my mind?” you asked, your tone sharp despite the unease stirring in your chest.

“No,” Marcus admitted, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “But I hope, one day, I can show you what I am talking about.”

Before you could reply, he bowed his head slightly, as a gesture of respect rather than submission, and turned to leave.

As the door closed behind him, you stood in the quiet of the garden, your heart beating fast while his words played over in your head.

The arena buzzed with the deafening roar of the crowd, their excitement spilling into the air as dust kicked up from the floor below. You sat stiffly behind Geta and Caracalla, their laughter and sharp whispers grating against your ears. This was how it always was, trapped in their own world, watching their cruelty unfold.

Today, the games were bloodier than usual, the violence more drawn out, as if they relished every clash of blades and every cry of pain. You tried to ignore the chaos, your gaze drifting to the far horizon, where freedom felt like a distant dream in the blue sky.

But then, a movement to your right drew your attention. You turned your head just slightly, your breath catching when you saw Marcus approaching. His expression was calm, unreadable, though his eyes softened ever so slightly when they met yours. Without a word, he settled into the seat next to you.

“General,” you greeted, your voice low.

“My lady,” he replied, his tone equally soft, though there was a subtle warmth in it.

For a while, neither of your spoke. The sounds of the crowd and the clash of weapons filled the silence between you, but it wasn’t an uncomfortable one.

“They love this,” Marcus finally said, his voice barely audible over the noise.

You didn’t reply, too focused on fidgeting with the material of your dress, your fingers twisting the fabric in small, anxious movements. The tension in your shoulders was noticeable, your gaze fixed on the arena below, though it was clear your mind was far from the bloodshed.

Marcus noticed. He always noticed. After a moment of hesitation, his hand moved, gentle, placing it over yours. His touch was warm, steady, and it stopped the restless motion of your fingers.

Startled, you glanced at him, your breath catching as you saw the softness in his expression. There was no judgment, no pity, only quiet reassurance. For a moment, you forgot where you were, the chaos of the arena fading into the background.

But the moment didn’t last.

“Ah, what’s this?” Geta’s voice cut through the din, sharp and mocking.

You flinched, quickly pulling your hand away as Geta turned in his seat, his eyes narrowing as he looked between you and Marcus. His lips curled into a sly grin, the kind that sent a chill down your spine.

“Well, well,” he drawled, leaning closer as if sharing a secret. “Our dear sister has caught the attention of the great general. How… intriguing.”

Marcus’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing, his gaze unwavering as he stared ahead.

Geta leaned back in his seat, his grin widening as an idea seemed to spark in his mind. He turned to Caracalla, nudging him with an elbow. “Brother, I think we haven’t been too generous with our sister, have we?”

Caracalla raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Oh? What do you suggest we could do for her?”

Geta’s grin turned wicked, his eyes gleaming with malice. “A little incentive for the games. Let the gods decide her fate.”

Your blood ran cold as you realized what he was suggesting. “Geta, don’t—”

He ignored you, standing abruptly and raising his arms to address the crowd.

“Citizens of Rome!” Geta’s voice boomed over the noise, silencing the arena. “Today, we have a special reward for our brave gladiators. A prize worthy of their strength and valor.”

Caracalla caught on quickly, his laughter echoing through the stands. “Indeed, a prize unlike any other,” he added, his voice dripping with amusement.

You shot to your feet, panic rising in your chest. “Geta, stop this!”

He turned to you, his smile cruel. “Sit down, sister. This is for the glory of Rome.”

You didn’t move, but your voice faltered, your protests drowned out by the cheers of the crowd as Geta announced his decree.

“The victor of this fight,” he declared, “shall win not only their freedom but also the hand of our beloved sister.”

The crowd erupted in applause and cheers, their excitement deafening.

Beside you, Marcus remained seated, his expression unreadable. But you could see the storm brewing in his eyes, the muscles in his jaw clenching as he processed what had just happened.

And for the first time, you saw something in him that you hadn’t before, a quiet, burning fury, one that made you wonder just how far he would go to defy your brothers.

"They offered me as a price." You whispered to Marcus who was offering his arm for you to hold, as you tried to keep your composure.

You felt humiliated.

You felt that men owned you and despised the feeling.

Marcus didn’t respond right away. His arm remained steady, extended for you to hold, a silent offer of support. His face, though unreadable, betrayed hints of a restrained anger—anger that wasn’t directed at you, but at the cruelty of your brothers, the twisted spectacle they had made of your dignity.

“They did,” he finally murmured, his voice low but firm, so only you could hear. “And they will answer for it.”

You hesitated, your hand trembling slightly before resting on his arm. The gesture was subtle, almost imperceptible to anyone else, but between the two of you, it felt like a silent pact. Marcus guided you to sit back down, his movements deliberate, as if shielding you from the prying eyes of the crowd.

“Hold your head high,” he said quietly, leaning just close enough for his words to reach you. “You are not a prize. You are a queen in all but name.”

His words, though softly spoken, struck a chord deep within you. They carried a weight that steadied the storm of emotions threatening to overwhelm you—humiliation, anger, and a raw, aching vulnerability you despised feeling. You clenched your jaw, forcing yourself to sit straighter, your gaze fixed on the arena even as your chest burned with resentment.

The fight began, the clash of swords and the roar of the crowd filling the air. The gladiators fought with a ferocity that was almost unbearable to watch, knowing that your fate hung in the balance of their blades. You despised every second of it, despised the men in the arena who saw you as a reward to be claimed, despised the crowd who cheered for your subjugation, and most of all, despised your brothers for orchestrating this humiliation.

And yet, as the fight dragged on, your attention kept flickering to Marcus. He hadn’t moved, his posture rigid, his gaze fixed on the arena with an intensity that made your heart race. His hand rested on the hilt of his sword, fingers tightening with every blow exchanged below.

“They cannot do this,” you whispered, your voice trembling with barely contained anger. “They cannot decide my life like this.”

“They can try,” Marcus replied, his tone like steel. “But they will not succeed.”

His words were cryptic, but there was something in his voice, a quiet, unshakable resolve that made you glance at him. For a moment, you wondered if he already had a plan, if his mind was racing with strategies to undo the cruelty your brothers had unleashed.

The fight ended abruptly, the crowd roaring as the victor emerged, bloodied but triumphant. Your stomach churned as the man was announced, his grin wide as he looked up to the podium where you sat. You felt Marcus tense beside you, his hand gripping his sword so tightly you feared it might snap.

“Don’t,” you whispered urgently, sensing the storm about to break within him. “Please, Marcus.”

But he didn’t respond, his gaze locked on the victor below. And for the first time, you wondered just how far Marcus would go, not just to defy your brothers, but to protect you from their cruelty.

The victor's triumphant roar echoed through the arena, and the crowd erupted into wild cheers. You couldn’t bear to look at the man below, his eyes alight with the promise of his prize—you. Your stomach churned with revulsion, and your breathing quickened, panic clawing at your chest.

“Come,” Marcus said quietly, his voice cutting through the noise. His hand found yours again, firm but not forceful, and this time, you didn’t hesitate to take it. The heat of his palm against yours grounded you, gave you a tether to hold onto as you stood on unsteady legs.

You didn’t wait for your brothers’ gloating remarks or the smug expressions on their faces. Without a word, you let Marcus guide you away, his presence shielding you from the leering eyes of the crowd. The noise of the arena began to fade as you descended the steps, replaced by the rapid beating of your heart.

The corridors beneath the stands were dimly lit, the cool air a welcome reprieve from the suffocating heat of the arena. You kept your gaze forward, refusing to look back, refusing to give your brothers or the victor the satisfaction of seeing your fear. But inside, you were trembling.

“Marcus,” you finally whispered, your voice breaking. “Where are we going?”

“Somewhere they can’t touch you,” he replied, his tone low and steady. His hand tightened around yours, a silent vow that he wouldn’t let you face this alone.

The two of you emerged into the open courtyard behind the arena, the setting sun casting long shadows across the stone walls. The sounds of the crowd were distant now, muffled by the heavy doors that closed behind you. You stopped walking, pulling your hand from his and turning to face him.

“They’ll come for me,” you said, your voice laced with frustration and fear. “They won’t let this stand. Geta and Caracalla—”

“They’ll have to go through me first,” Marcus interrupted, his tone sharp, his brown eyes fierce. “And I promise you, my lady, they won’t succeed.”

You stared at him, his words sinking in. He looked every bit the general now, strong, resolute, and unyielding. And yet, there was something else in his gaze, something softer that made your chest tighten. He wasn’t just protecting you out of duty or honor. There was something personal in the way he looked at you, in the way he stood so close, as though shielding you from the world.

"I can fight in the arena" he said, "for you."

You stared blankly at him, shocked at your core.

"What would you win from that? Do you want to own me like those men?" You asked.

"I do not wish to own you, my lady. You're not property. You're a free woman, and If I win, I'll become your husband and you would never have to endure those humiliations ever again."

"Just because I would be yours." You whispered, still broken at the thought of not being enough.

"You would be my wife, not my property." He clarified, "I will live and fight to keep your honor just as you deserve"

You looked away, heart pounding, his words washing over you like laurels over your skin. A part of you longed to believe him, to let his offer pull you from the grip of your family’s ambitions. But fear clung tightly, rooted in years of being nothing more than a pawn in your brothers' power games.

"General…" you murmured, voice wavering. "If you fight for me, you put yourself in danger. And if you fall, my life will only become darker, lonelier. I don’t want your blood on my hands."

He stepped closer, his eyes steady, fierce. "I would rather risk everything than stand by while you suffer. You deserve a life where you choose, where you're loved, not used."

Your throat tightened, emotions swelling. "But if you fight and lose, you’d be at their mercy. They’d make you a symbol. A warning to anyone else who dares to defy them."

He lifted your hand, pressing it to his heart. "Then let them try," he said, his voice unyielding. "For you, my lady, I would face even the wrath of the empire."

His touch was gentle, but his resolve was unbreakable. In that moment, you realized he wasn’t just a man willing to fight for you, he was someone who saw you as more than a title, more than a sister to emperors. He saw you, truly.

“Why?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper. “Why would you risk this for me?”

For a moment, he hesitated, the stoic mask slipping just enough for you to catch a glimpse of the man beneath. “Because you deserve more than to be treated as a pawn in their games,” he said finally. “And because I…” He stopped himself, shaking his head as if the words were too much to say aloud. “You don’t deserve this.”

You swallowed hard, your throat tight with emotion.

"Acacius… if you truly wish to do this," you whispered, your fingers trembling in his, "then I will stand by your side, come what may."

He smiled, a rare softness breaking through his stoic exterior. "Then we’ll face them together, my lady. And if they stand in our way…" His eyes darkened, a spark of defiance glinting within them. "They’ll learn that love is a force they cannot control"

"Do you believe you could come close to loving me?" You asked, heart pounding.

His reply didn’t come from words. Instead, he squeezed your hand over his heart.

His words lingered in the air, hanging between you like the delicate balance of a fragile moment. You searched his face, his steady eyes holding yours as if daring you to see the sincerity in them. For all his strength, for all his might as a general, Marcus stood before you as something else entirely. A man laying his heart bare.

Your breath hitched as his hand moved from yours to gently cradle your cheek, his touch warm and careful, as if he feared you might pull away. You didn’t. You couldn’t. Instead, you leaned into his palm, your heart pounding so loudly you thought he must hear it.

“May I?” he murmured, his voice soft and hesitant, as though you were something precious, he was afraid to break.

You nodded, unable to speak, your eyes fluttering closed as he leaned in. His lips brushed against yours, tentative and light, testing the waters of your comfort. It was not the kiss of a conqueror or a man accustomed to taking what he wanted. It was the kiss of someone who had been waiting, who had held back his own desires out of respect for you.

The first touch was fleeting, but when he felt you relax into him, he deepened the kiss, his other hand settling on your waist to anchor you against him. The world around you faded. The distant noise of the Coliseum, the threat of your brothers, even the weight of your own fear. All that remained was the warmth of his lips, the steady beat of his heart beneath your other hand.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested gently against yours, his breath mingling with yours in the quiet that followed. “Loving you,” he whispered again, his voice thick with emotion, “would be the easiest battle I’ve ever fought.”

[arabellasleopardcoat]

Winter (Cregan Stark x Reader)

Summary: As a Princess, you aren’t used to rejection. But Cregan, your husband, has vowed to only ever love one woman, and it isn't you. Right?

Warnings: Mature language. Grief. Toddlers. Unreliable narrators. Miscommunication.

A/N: I was so excited about this chapter! These scenes are the ones I wrote first. Also, the biggest hug to anyone who is reading this. I had not expected the amount of love my first chapter got, and I am so grateful!

THERE WAS AN old northern superstition —more like an old wives’ tale, really— that said if there was snow on the wedding day, the marriage was doomed to be a cold one.

It hadn’t been snowing the day Cregan had married you, but his marriage was proving to be icier than the lands beyond the wall. You weren’t interested in spending time with him at all, and you actively tried to avoid him. He had tried to convince you to share rooms, trying to foster some intimacy, to no avail.

Cregan had hoped that if not a loving wife, he would get a caring mother to Rickon. The boy was too small to grow without one, not yet having reached his third nameday. But you hadn’t shown interest in that either. Instead, you pretended the two of them didn’t exist.

He would like to say that the days went on the same way they did before he wed you, but it would be a lie. Winterfell ran much better now there was a lady present. Cregan had been wrong about you. It seemed like you could run a keep, and you did so with ruthless efficiency.

The castle had never been warmer, the meals so well planned. Even the servants seemed happy, now that they didn’t have to follow Cregan’s too broad instructions. It seemed that asking them to clean and cook was a little too vague for their tastes.

As for you, grief still followed you around, like a too long shadow that refused to budge even in the face of Winterfell’s brightest light. Sara had befriended you, with little success. While you had been far more welcoming to her, you still looked constantly tired and sad.

The lack of sunlight had made you lose your southron tan, leaving you with a look of quiet frailty that made Cregan want to wrap you in a thousand blankets and keep you safe. He just was unsure of the execution.

You scared him. He was man enough to admit it. People were often afraid of things they didn’t understand, and Cregan was no exception. You were made of absolute ice. There was no better description. Cold, but as fragile as glass.

He was running out of ideas on how to bond with you. Invitations to tea were denied, nor did you want to ride with him to see his tenants. You seemed at ease enough around Sara, and some other northern ladies, so social interaction wasn’t what you disliked. It was him.

Never had Winterfell’s corridors been filled with so many women. The northern lords already called you Queen Alysanne’s second coming, with your all female court. The only thing missing was your husband. You didn’t have Cregan’s ear, simply because you didn’t wish to. He would support your endeavors if you asked him to. He had offered his help with your attempts to establish a charity, since the North didn’t have Septas to take care of it, but you had proudly rebuffed him.

There was no pleasing you. He was at his wits’ end. Hence, the awful choice he had made that day.

To try to force you to be in his company.

“Why are you ordering my servants around?” You complain, barging into his chambers. While usually the kitchens were the domain of the Lady of the household, Cregan didn’t know you took it so seriously. “Do you not think me capable enough?”

“I do!” Cregan sits up in his bed, bewildered. He had given the orders around lunchtime, hoping you would not find out, yet here you were, less than half a day later. Far more soon than he had expected. “I just want to throw a feast to honor you.”

“You intend to honor me by giving me more work?” You place your hands on your hips, highlighting your figure, and Cregan is but a man. He cannot help himself, his eyes lingering for a second too long, and his brain coming with no response to your statement.

You seem to take his silence for affirmation.

“Seriously? Do you at least have a guest list?”

And your tone is so haughty, your words betraying you believe Cregan to be an absolute imbecile, he cannot help but give a heated retort.

“Of course I have. Truly, I am more than capable of organizing it on my own. Arra let me do it a few times, and I was unmarried for quite a while. I am experienced enough to…”

It is the wrong thing to say. You bare your fangs then, and Cregan has a moment of absolute and utter clarity. You are not a seahorse. Such a puny creature could never hope to deliver the utter destruction that you cause with your next words.

“Yes, and your precious Arra is dead! She is gone! Why can’t you understand it?” You turn on your heel, face absolutely thunderous, and go to rush out of his chambers.

Cregan loses his head fully, then. He grabs you by the arm, hard enough to hurt, and forces you to face him. For a frightening moment, he fears himself. Fears the wolf, the one screaming for him to strike you and remind you of your place.

How dare you come in his chambers, uninvited, after rejecting all his offers of companionship, to lecture him on grief? As if he could forget Arra was dead. It wasn’t so long ago that Rickon cried for his mother still, unable to understand why he didn’t have one. It wasn’t so long ago that Sara had to take over the role of Lady of the House, and suffered mockery from it. And it wasn’t so long ago, Cregan woke with a scream choked in his throat, reliving that awful morning in every dream he had.

He still did, sometimes. Less, now that he had more urgent matters to occupy himself with. Cregan was ashamed to admit it, but before Jacaerys and your arrival here, Winterfell had been far too empty to keep the ghosts away.

Now, with the war, and the flurry of activities that seemed to follow you, Cregan had little time to dwell much in his dark thoughts. Throwing himself into his work had allowed him to begin healing a wound he wasn’t even aware existed.

And wasn’t that a terrible thought? That Cregan was a man who thrived on war and hunger? Winter was coming, after all. It wouldn’t catch him unprepared.

He had sworn a vow to protect you. As long as Jacaerys had no children, you were third in line to the Iron Throne. To think of hurting you was not only to think of staining his honor, but to think of treason.

Cregan holds you there for a second longer, curious about your reaction. His grip must be bruising on your arm, he can feel the delicate bones under your flesh shift with how hard he is holding you. Yet, you show no fear. Your hands are balled into fists.

Were he to strike, you would strike back. Your face is the very picture of anger, your body coiled and ready to tear him apart.

He throws the feast. You sit next to him in icy silence and somehow manage to speak and dance with all the guests but him.

Cregan does no longer dream of trying to hunt a seahorse. Instead, he sees the world at a much lower angle than usual, and runs for his life. Somehow, in the dream, he knows a dragon is hunting him.

OF COURSE IT is today. The only day you actually wish your Lord Husband to be in the castle, and he is not.

You had spent many of your days fervently praying for him to leave on an errand, and yet, the day he does, you cannot even enjoy it.

Because the boy has gotten sick. And look, you have visited the nursery before, it is a part of your duties. You also cannot deny that you had been curious about the tiny version of your husband that will inherit everything.

The boy is cute, you suppose. In the manner all babes are. He is well-behaved, and quiet, and takes well to his teachings, even if they involve only naming things aloud.

Had you not hardened your heart to it already, you would want one of your own. You know, though, that their only inheritance will be tears and petty squabbles over land, so it’s best they are not born at all. It had been so between your husband’s father and uncle, and it was being so between your mother and your uncle Aegon.

The only assurance a woman has in a life spent as little more than property is her children. They are to inherit their father’s lands, and that is supposed to be enough. But for the second sons, said promise is always broken.

You had never, not once, thought you would come to understand Alicent, yet here you were.

You reflect on this as you hurry to the nursery, worried the damn boy will die before you reach it. When you get there, you feel the urge to scream. There is not one, but three serving girls hovering by the door, and the Maester is mixing some herbs in a chalice.

The child sleeps peacefully, unaware the surrounding turmoil. He looks impossibly small in his bed of furs, shirt open and chest covered in strange poultices. The boy… No, Rickon, had taken ill after the first snow. Perhaps he had been spending too much time playing outside, or he lingered too much in his wet clothes. You wouldn't know. You tried to avoid him as much as you could.

After this was over, you would have a stern talk with his maids. They shouldn’t be this careless. This was your husband’s heir. Someone had to care about him.

Not you. Never you.

“Will he be alright?” You ask, as the Maester places a wet cloth on his forehead. You have never liked children, never having had the chance to be one yourself. Your mother’s constant quest for the Iron Throne and her love for Daemon had often left you in the hands of the help. And when you were old enough, you had to take the role of the mature sibling alongside Jacaerys, helping raise your brothers.

Jacaerys. You hoped that wherever he was, he was suffering. You despised this place, and he had dared plot with your mother behind your back to get you here. With your beast of a husband, and this child of a previous marriage, whose existence would forever ensure your future children would inherit nothing.

You weren’t going to have children. Despite loving children, you despise your husband too much to ever lay with him. But most of all, you are beginning to fear you will become a damn Hightower. You feared that if you had children and faced the prospect of them only being second sons, you might be tempted to start a war too.

“He will, Princess.” The Maester, unaware of your inner turmoil, places a reassuring hand on your arm. He surely believes in the gentle hearts of women, or some nonsense like that. “The fever will lower with the tea we gave him, and the cool cloth on his forehead. His lungs are strong. He will breathe normally soon.”

The boy’s chest flutters oddly. His ribs show with each inhale, depicting his trouble breathing. You cast a dubious look at the cool cloth. If this was all they could do, it was no wonder your grandfather had been rotting alive.

“Is that all you have to say? Why do his ribs show?” You do your best to channel your mother, tone imperious. “If this is truly…” Before you can insult him by calling him the worst the Citadel has to offer, a boy comes in. You let out a sigh of relief, your desire to berate the Maester subsiding. It’s the same boy you had sent to Castle Cerwyn to retrieve your husband.

“Princess!” He says, extending a hand to you. Much to your astonishment, he hands back the message you had sent to Lord Cregan. “I have grievous news. The road to Castle Cerwyn is fully blocked. I couldn’t get past the river. I cannot go over it either and avoid the forest, for it is not fully frozen.”

“This cannot be!” You say, crossing your arms over your chest. Cursed your husband, and his plans to visit the Cerwyns’ tenants today, of all days. “You have to get Lord Cregan. Send a more experienced rider.”

“My lady, I would advise not to.” The Maester says, meekly. “Even if the rider does manage to get past, it is very likely Lord Stark is in the village, snowed in.”

“Well, then send a damn search party!” You yell, uncaring your language is unbecoming of a Princess. You cannot be here while the child… While Rickon dies. The child has a parent, and it is your husband, you do not even care for him!

“It is not as simple.” The Maester cringes when you turn on him.

“Of course it isn’t. The only simple thing is the cure for the child’s malady, isn’t it?” You growl. “Do something useful, if you think a rider cannot reach my husband. Get me someone who can, and fix the boy.”

It would be easier for you if the boy died. You could have the children you so craved. The obstacle would have removed itself. Relationships between half brothers are never as strong as between full ones. At the very least, this child could cast out you and any children you birth when Lord Cregan passes. At the very worst, he might have them killed, as your mother intended with her usurper brother.

But you are not so craven as to let an innocent die. He is still a boy, no older than three namedays. He is vulnerable, and his father is not here.

You sit next to the bed, eyes fixed on his chest. Rickon will not die on your watch.

THE SOUND OF a door opening jerks you awake. Disoriented, you sit up on your chair, and check that Rickon still breathes.

He does. He has awakened with the sound of the door opening, just as you did. But unlike you, he has begun wailing. You get him. You would like to cry too.

“What is it?” You snarl at the serving girl who dared enter in such a manner. The sound of Rickon’s cries grate in your ears, shrill and loud, awakening you fully. You try to coax him into laying back down to no avail.

“Milady…” She stammers, holding a breakfast tray. The reason for her interruption becomes clear. Had it been so long already? You remembered standing vigil over Rickon until sundown, and changing the cool compress a few times after, but no further. By the Seven, you were a terrible caretaker. “I… There are…”

Rickon wails harder.

“Father! Father, want father!” He cries. He then attempts to remove the cool cloth from his forehead, and get up, escaping the furs laid over him.

The serving girl stares at the boy. You stare at her. Rickon continues to squirm. When it is clear she is expecting you to soothe him, you sigh and turn to the child.

“Rickon, you have to lay down again.”

“Father! Father!” He wails, face beginning to turn red, his breathing labored. You are unsure if it is his distress or the sickness, but it worries you nonetheless. The child cannot die. You are not prepared to deal with it.

“Shh, Rickon, I know you are hurting.” You tell him, as you pick him up. “Father is not here. He is trapped by the snow.”

At this, he cries harder. You can hear him gasping for air as he squirms in your arms and kicks at you. His snot is getting everywhere. Good Gods, what if he dies? Would your husband actually force you consummate the marriage if he loses his heir? The thought alone is enough to force you into action.

“He is not trapped. He is snowed in, just as when you cannot go out and play. Happens all the time.” You reassure him, rubbing his back. You know your words to be a lie, but the boy doesn’t. The weather has been especially rough this season. The snow storm is unusual in its fierceness. “He will be back soon.”

Rickon perks up at that.

“He will?”

“As soon as he can.” You promise, hoping it is the case. In truth, you do not know. Your husband is unaware Rickon is ill, and holds no fondness for you. You doubt he will be rushing once the road clears. In fact, you think he might be celebrating the weather and praising his northern gods for the excuse to get a respite from you.

Well, too bad. You would send men each hour to check if the storm waned and the road was accessible once more. He would have to come and tend to his child.

“Where is father?” Rickon asks you, a suspicious look in his little face. He is eerily similar to your husband. His sobs have turned more subdued.

“With Lord Cerwyn.”

“Why? Hurts! Father!” The boy demands, petulantly. He is clearly feeling better if his lungs allow him to shriek like that. You are no healer, but his agitation is worrying you. What if he has a fit because he overexerted himself and then dies?

“I want your father too.” You mutter under your breath. “You do not see me wailing.”

“I love father.” He sobs. “Want him.”

And you are not made of stone. You have never been, no matter how hard you pretend. He is still a babe, hands chubby, face round. He still smells like one, a mix of the nursery, and sweet innocence.

Without even realizing it, you have cradled him into your arms and begun rocking the two of you. He keeps wailing, so you begin singing.

“I loved a maid…” There is no need to be a good singer to soothe babies. You are unsure of what they like about it, but you know it works. It had worked for Aegon and Viserys, why not for Rickon? “As fair as summer, who had sunlight in her hair….”

You begin to rock him as you pace through the room. As his tears begin to subside, and he begins to grow curious about the soft song, you realize he is not the threat to your future children you had envisioned. Rickon is beautiful in the manner all babes are, soft and sweet. His little fists cling to your wool cloak, gray eyes meeting yours with fascination.

Charmed by him, you keep singing. Seasons of my love is enlarged and repeated ten times over, and now includes verses about northern babies who look exactly like their father.

“I loved a boy…” You hum, softly. It feels like hours have passed when Rickon’s eyes finally begin to drop. Of course he would enjoy the verses about winter the most. “As white as winter, with moonglow in his hair.”

The door opens, slowly. You hear the wood groan as it does, but Rickon takes no notice. He burrows his head next to your heart, yawning.

You turn to look at the newcomer, pleased that having put the fear of the gods into the maid who had dared enter before had proven fruitful. The pleased smile drops from your face when you realize it is your husband.

Lord Stark is drenched to the bone. His hair is stuck to his head and shoulders, dripping water onto his furs. The cloak he had worn is wet, and he is quick to remove it, leaving him in simple breeches and a jerkin. His face is the picture of worry.

“I rode as hard as I dared.” His voice is low, pleasantly so. You had never considered the northern accent he sported attractive, but when his voice is gruff, and pitched low, you might see the appeal. “How is he?”

He shouldn’t have bothered with the low tone. Rickon would recognize his voice everywhere because he perks up considerably.

“Father! Father!” Rickon claps. He attempts turning in your grip to look at your husband, which makes you fear he might fall, so you perch him on your hip so he can do so.

“The fever has broken.” You hand Rickon back to him, feeling a hint of embarrassment when his eyes linger on the way you had been holding him. “He’ll live.”

“Thank you.” And his voice is earnest and soft, and it makes you wonder what he sees when he looks at you. Is it her still? Does Arra Norrey stand in this room with you, too?

The embarrassment from earlier, and the anger at the thought of your husband being soft because you remind him of her make you snap at him.

“It’s fine. I missed my siblings.” You cross your arms over your chest, awkward. Why does he keep staring at you? Is he… Oh, by the Seven, he is smiling at you? So softly? You cannot stand it. “I will send for a bath for you and Rickon, after washing myself. Less I catch a cold too.”

Look, princesses do not flee. They simply walk hurriedly. Very hurriedly.

[cryptidcasanova]

Lover Boy

Mob!Bucky Barnes x F!Reader

Summary: It's the Bridgerton carriage scene, but make it mob!Bucky.

Warnings: Angst, light Smut, Language, Possessive Bucky.

3.5k

The poll results are in, and I couldn't help but think this might be a good way to remedy both sides.

You were mortified.

One hand fisted against quivering lips, and the other gripped at your clutch. As if anything else could go wrong tonight. Shaky steps guided you down the carpeted stairs.

There was another gala, another meeting of the power players in town. And it was another night wasted at the hands of James Barnes.

You hated how much you cared for him. You still cared for him even after all the stunts he pulled to pull you away from the Maximoff heir. Always had.

Ever since you were kids, you remembered having that love-sick look in your eyes. You grew up with inner-circle families and were friends with Rebecca, Sarah, and their brothers. And Bucky? Well, shit, he was always there with his dark hair and curious eyes. It was hard not to fall for him.

Even as you grew up, numbing yourself to the reality of the business and the choices that came with it, you couldn't ignore him forever. You knew that Bucky was raised to be powerful, honorable, and frightening. You knew the stories – of all the beautiful women who couldn't tie him down longer than a night or two. You knew how he flaunted some new girl at every event. It was hard not to overhear them whispering among the men.

'What about her?' and the laugh on his hips saying, 'She's just a family friend. Don't worry about her; I'd never be with her like that.'

You knew he would break your heart, and still. You loved him.

Again, mortified.

He was your first kiss on some lonely night when you couldn't help but ask him. But that had been ages ago. He was grown now, the head of the family and the king of his empire.

But there was something different about tonight, something predestined that started long before you stepped outside your door. It started out as Sam's idea weeks before, in the same bar where you ended up every weekend.

He wanted to try and get you to mingle among the local 'rabble-rousers' as if he pretended not to be one of them. Your laugh at his suggestion pulled Steve and Bucky's attention from across the bar.

"You want me to do what, exactly?" You teased. "Throw myself in the way of wealthy investors and scout out the competition? That's much more up Nat's alley; there's a reason why they call her the Black Widow, you know –"

"No, nothing like that," he shook his head, that charming grin on his lips. Once Sam got an idea, it took a lot of work to dissuade him. "Look, there's more to this life than watching shipments and making small talk with the hens in town." He paused, knowing all the time you spent logging backorders and saving face with the mercs' wives. "I want you to be happy. We all do."

You leaned against the bar, pressing your palms against the hardwood.

"So you think it's time for me to settle down?" You challenged with a smirk. "Get married to some silver-spoon jerk upstate?" Sam's smile turned close-lipped as he noticed the other's approach.

"We could help you find a good one." At least he sounded hopeful.

"In this town?" Steve overheard, tapping his beer on the hardtop. "You're gonna need all the help you can get."

Your sneaking suspicion grew as they hounded like vultures. You looked from Sam to Steve with weary eyes. The only one with less enthusiasm was Bucky. Bucky, who usually was primmed with pressed shirts, was tired. His hair fell into his face, his shirt wrinkled, and his tie long discarded at one of the tables.

"You want to help me find a man?"

Bucky looked to his friends with a hooded expression, letting his hand reach out before him. With the click of his tongue, he softly smirked.

"We'll help you find a man. Have we got a deal, doll?"

It was a business handshake, one full of promise. And as soon as you grasped Bucky's hand, one you'd come to regret.

You didn't expect their advice to work so well…or so quickly.  

At the gala, Bucky strolled over with that sly walk and pressed navy suit, conveniently carrying your favorite drink in hand after Pietro ordered you both dirty martinis. You never cared for the drink, but you weren't about to tell him that. But trouble started when Bucky slid between you with that close-lipped smirk.

"They must have made a mistake at the bar," He explained with a shrug. "I remember you liked these. Here, doll." Bucky said, swapping out the drink in your hand before sliding away. No one could fault you for your eyes lingering on him as he walked back to Sam and Steve.

Later in the night, when you were dancing along and finally falling into a rhythm with Pietro, Bucky interrupted again. It was the turn of the tides, the slow pace of the music building, until it felt like one of the underground clubs.

All the weeks spent flirting and learning more about the Maximoff family were crumbling before you. You were a fool to think it would last.

The music built to the familiar strum of old songs you used to listen to, and before you knew it, Sam, Natasha, and half the crew surrounded you on the dancefloor, pulling you away from your date. And it was all orchestrated by Bucky, leading them like a pack of wolves. You knew that look, the suave pull of his hand through slicked-back hair. And then, before you knew it, you were dragged away from the dancefloor.

"Hey," Pietro called over the music, pulling you to the side. "I like you. I do, but this isn't working."

"Wait –" You tried, reaching for his arm. But he was quick to deflect, and embarrassment warmed your cheeks.

"Whatever you're looking for," his eyes moved from Bucky and dropped when you noticed. He looked down with a sad smile. "Whoever you're looking for, I hope you find it."

It felt like a knife twisting in your chest.

"Please don't go."

But it was too late. Your plea was lost as he pushed himself away. Everyone saw it. All your friends' efforts and your attempts to find the one were wasted. Your feet carried you away too fast to notice the somber look Steve gave Bucky.

"You're running out of time, punk."

The city lights passed in a blur as a taxi drove you farther from the gala. The searing ache in your chest left you confused.

For years, you dreamed of Bucky Barnes, hope a dangerous feeling companion of yours. But you knew how he felt. You were nothing more than a friend; he had made that abundantly clear. But you couldn't cut the tether, even while someone else caught your interest. Pietro Maximoff was handsome and kind and loved his sister more than the world. But with Bucky's interruptions, it was no wonder why he didn't want to get involved.

But it still hurt.

A sob was swallowed back, but you couldn't stop the tears from rising. You were pitiful. It was the last time you'd ever ask the guys for help.

But the thought was gone with the sudden screeching of brakes. It made you hold on to the headrest in front of you. Trying to peer around at the commotion, you didn't expect to be cut off by two black SUVs. A moment later, a ringed hand banged on the taxi's hood.

"Get out of the car."

You knew that voice. And as you looked through the windshield, you could see Bucky Barnes peering back.

He was as poised as he was at the party, and the sharp look had you bracing the seat. The bitter spark of rejection caught the light, burning into brutal frustration. You didn't want to talk to him. You didn't want to see him. Not now.

"No."

He tilted his head to the side at the challenge.

"Get out of the fucking car." Bucky gritted. "I need to talk to you."

His voice was teetering dangerously into territory you had only heard about. It was his back rooms, no nonsense voice that snapped you back into the moment. Like hell it would work on you. So it was to be a standoff, one that that you weren't ready to back down from.

Once Bucky realized your position, he took a new approach. You could hear his intentional steps against the pavement as he reached the driver. He didn't say anything but dug into his pants pocket, his fingers flicking through his wallet smoothly.

"Unlock the car," Bucky ordered, pressing cash bills against the window.

The immediate click of the locks didn't help your bellyache, nor did the split second of peace you had before Bucky forced the door open and pulled you out of the cab.

"Are you crazy?" You barked, forcing him to release you as the cab sped off in the other direction.

But you were left in the middle of the road in Barnes territory, the sweep of their dark SUVs cutting off any chance to get out of this conversation.

"What's gotten into you?"

"I didn't want you to leave the party." He explained, his words softer now. "Not like that."

You couldn't believe him. You followed their advice to try and bag a good guy, but to what end?

"What?" You dared to challenge. "I don't know what you want from me. I'm not in the mood, James."

The curl of his name lingered, making your intentions clear. You never called him by his first name. And Bucky didn't like it one bit.

"Let me take you home."

As if you had a choice.

You choked on a frustrated snarl, wanting to hide and cry away your worries and wanting to claw at him like a villain. You hated it. You hated the pressure of his eyes, blue and dark against the night, to get in the car.

So you lifted your head high, took a steeling breath, and walked ahead of him. You were separated from the rest of the world in the backseat of his company car. The divider was a saving grace. You didn't want one of the drivers to see you like this.

But Bucky followed behind so quickly, getting in and closing the door before you could protest for space. You chose to stare out the window instead of looking back at him. The car lurched forward, and you took a moment to find balance.

"You're unhappy."

"No shit."

"Please," He started, turning his shoulders in toward you. Even out of the corner of your eye, you knew he wouldn't let this go. "Please talk to me. Don't close me out. I hated seeing you leave like that. Whatever Maximoff did, I'll fix it."

"You can't fix it!" You finally said, turning to him and gripping his shoulder in frustration. "You say you want me to be happy, to find someone, and then manage to scare off anyone that has the potential to do it." As your voice raised, heat radiated from your cheeks down your neck. His eyes were wide, listening to your grief. "He left because of you. It's not like you have feelings for me. What's the matter with you?"

You couldn't stand to look at him, not when he was so close. His cologne burned your nose, and you desperately needed him to get out of your system.

"Doll," Bucky breathed. He inched his way closer, not letting the anger of your words settle over him. "What if I did have feelings for you?" You would almost call his stare desperate. And then you confirmed it as his shoulders dropped, turning toward you. "It's all that I've wanted to tell you. And I can't see you with him." He admitted.

He moved with purpose all night, not intending to ruin your time with Pietro but to show you that he was the one who needed you. He should have been the one to hold you between dances and order you fine drinks. He should have picked you up so that you would never dare to get in a yellow cab.

But you weren't some wilting flower. You knew the risks of your following words.

"We're friends, Buck."

You held yourself together. You were strong and brave and gripping your heartstrings.

"Yes," He agreed. "But we…"

And for once, he was at a loss of words. The years wasted pining after him would finally be out in the open. You could finally be free of his torment. His eye contact was overwhelming; if he looked away, you would disappear.

"Look, We've been friends for a long time." And with an ounce more of bravery, you sighed. "But I'd like to be more than friends." You admitted. "I want to be so much more than that."

You were waiting for the other shoe to drop. But Bucky leaned closer in earnest, over the seat and bringing his face close. There was no teasing, no torment in his expression.

And with the tip of his chin, you were lost, pulled tight into a kiss and letting it blossom as cold metal snaked around your waist. You dreamed of his touch, and it burned down your throat like honey whiskey.

When you opened your eyes, Bucky had moved. He was no longer in the seat, now chest to chest with you. He was kneeling in the cramped space, the divider shielding you from the driver and the outside world.

"Do you know why Sam offered to help in the first place?" His words were slow as he pulled away, loud enough to hear. "Do you know why Steve jumped on board and corralled us to join? It's because he is tired of me dragging my fucking feet."  

"Bucky-"

But he closed the space for another set of slow kisses, deep and intentional.

"I've been an idiot." He admitted. "The guys know how I feel about you. I think they've always known." Another kiss as you pulled back, gripping the shoulders of his jacket. Expensive fabric under your fingertips, hot breath against yours. You were dizzy.

"And you agreed to help with this idea." You noted.

It wasn't a question, no challenge in your words. He agreed to help find you a man. Bucky took a hefty exhale.

"You know the business. It's not safe –" but you raised your hand with a groan, not buying his excuse.

Your fingers brushed over the curve of his chin, the sharp line of his beard a welcome sensation. God, you only ever dreamed of this. You savored the feel of him, your hand moving up his ear and combing your fingers through his air. Buck's eyes were darker than you've ever seen, his open mouth curving up in awe.

"'s not safe." He whispered. "I'm not gonna put you through that."

It was a weak defense. You knew the coterie of mercs, the warehouses, the shipments. You knew all of it and were aware of the danger. But it wasn't like you could cut ties and leave your life behind. You weren't sure you even wanted to.

"You wanted me to find someone else?" You dared to ask. The whisper died as he shook his head.

"All this deal did was make me jealous." He affirmed. "And tonight," His eyes raked down your frame. He never did finish his thought as lust washed over him. A breath passed between you two. "I never meant for you to hurt over it."

The limited space lets you mimic his actions, noting his heaving chest, blue eyes, and the pout of his kissed lips. How he kneeled down in front of you, crowding your space, made you dizzy. While your mouth curved up into a wanton grin, you couldn't help but chase another kiss.

Each touch melted the last of your anguish. The night was long forgotten as soon as he pressed forward, flattening you against the back of the seat. While you pulled up for air, his other hand moved to cup your chin. And then, with your eyes locked on his, he tilted your chin, eyes staring into the roof of the sedan as you felt lips against your jaw.

Hot, languid kisses burned against your pulse. The scrape of his teeth and burn of his beard drove you wild. And as he pulled back, his hand released your chin, following a mesmerized pattern down your skin.

The palm of his hand cupped your neck, down your shoulder, pulling down the thin strap of your dress. Your soft skin was on display, and Bucky's expression was wonderous. But his hand continued mapping, cupping the curve of your breast. A tactful squeeze left your head falling against the seat, a soft gasp on your lips, and your hand blindly reaching up to cover his. With a sharp breath, you found his eyes again. His pink lips were parted, eyes pleading with you.

You knew Bucky was a man of action, but this was uncharted territory. Your nod and an affectionate squeeze of his hand pulled him from his reverie.

He needed more, craving your skin. And as his hand fell from your chest to a solid grip on your ankle, you craved his exploration.

Shallow breaths were traded for deep, hungry kisses. Years of longing, of yearning for his touch and affection, finally were coming to a head. The brush of his tongue left your mind reeling, and regardless of the heat, a trail of goosebumps followed the path of his hand. Under your dress, he lingered over the smooth skin of your calf, over your knee, up your thigh, and to the meat of your hip. Rough, dexterous fingers carved prints into your skin hot enough to burn.

You refuse to miss a moment, eyes fixed on Bucky's as his palm covers the top of your thigh, the intention sitting heavy in your stomach. A live wire of nerves, you can feel him from the heat of your cheeks buzzing down to your toes.

And then, palming where you needed him most, your mouth dropped open with the softest of moans.

Bucky's eyes are wide, but it doesn't last as he finally lets himself get lost. As his eyes close, you admire the curve of his nose and his soft, dark eyelashes. But Buck is greedy, and as he peels his way under the cloth of your panties, you, too, close your eyes. Fingers are nimble, caressing your dripping seam under the dress.

You're a vision.

Convulsing under his touch, rogue pulls off his fingers drip honey down your thighs. Your breath is heaving, and your chest is dangerously close to falling out of the dress. Bucky finds refuge by rubbing slow, devastating circles against your clit. Every hitch of your breath and moan spur him on until you are staring at him with such reverence he thinks he'll collapse.

There's a magnetism, the long-lasting chemistry drawing you nearer to him. He swallows your moan as he slides a finger inside. You're in a desperate frenzy, pulling him close and arching into his body. He spurs on a need you've never had, demanding his smoldering kiss as you shake in his arms.

He's all you've ever wanted. You're crazy to think it could have ever been anyone else.

And then the car jerked to a stop.

There's a breathless laugh as he pulls away, Bucky's forehead resting on yours. You kept a hand on his cheek, thumb brushing his chin. Maybe, if you just ignored it, the outside world would go away.

That is, until you see a porch light turn on from your periphery. You try not to let embarrassment flood your system as you realize your situation, with one of your closest friends knuckle deep in the back seat.

Bucky doesn't share your distress.

He pressed a kiss to your cheek, finally pulling his head back. Bucky smiled. His fingers lingered longer before pulling away, leaving you empty and wanting.

You must have looked as desperate as him, finally looking down at the brutal strain in his pants. But you had no time to overthink as his fingers carefully plucked at your dress strap. He was putting you back together, smoothing out the burn of his touch as he sat up.

If you begged, you were sure that he'd ravage you right there in the seat. But you tilted your head to look outside. You needed a distraction, anything to regain your good sense.

As you focused on the brownstone, you knew where he took you. You were in front of his house – the Barnes family house. He said he was taking you home.

"This isn't my place."

His smirk reached his eyes, and as he pulled open the door and jumped out, his gaze was fixed on you.

"For fucks sake, doll," Bucky's eyes were soft, still blown out. He held a hand out. "We've known each other our whole lives. I'm crazy about you. Are you gonna come up with me or not?"

And with an ardent stare, as if he hung the stars himself, you reached for his hand.

[harunayuuka2060]

Bael: *paid a personal visit to MC because Beelzebub was curious about Asmodeus's "wife" and wanted to see if she truly lived up to the hype*

Bael: Most of His Majesty Asmodeus's wives were undeniably beautiful, but their beauty was only skin deep. Even so, meeting her could be advantageous, as she might persuade him to stop visiting Abyssos.

Bael: ...

Bael: *straightens his posture and knocks on the door*

MC: *opens it*

Bael: !!!

MC: ...What's your business?

Bael: Ah, um, my name is Bael. It’s an honor to meet you, the wife of His Majesty Asmodeus.

MC: I'm not his wife.

Bael: Oh, but-

MC: I.am.not.his.wife.

Bael: I'm sorry...

Ezrin: ...

Bael: ...

Ezrin: *smiles* Your crown is pretty.

Bael: ...

Bael: *smiles back* Thank you.

MC: Here. We’ve run out of coffee, but I’m sure you wouldn’t mind a fruit smoothie.

Bael: Oh, of course.

Ezrin: Mom?

MC: Yes?

Ezrin: Can I help you with the talismans today?

MC: You can do the finishing touches.

Ezrin: *giggles* Okay! *runs to his mom's workstation*

Bael: You're making talismans?

MC: Yes, they’re specifically designed to ward off that lustful demon and his minions.

Bael: ...

Bael: Do you hate His Majesty Asmodeus?

MC: ...

MC: Let's just say I'm not fond of him—let's leave it at that.

Bael: ...

WHB Asmodeus: *smiling* How was it?

WHB Beelzebub: Don't tell me she kicked you out too?

Bael: No. She welcomed me into her home.

WHB Asmodeus: ...

WHB Beelzebub: Ooh~

Bael: She also made no effort to hide the fact that she was creating talismans specifically to ward off His Majesty Asmodeus and any demons from Abaddon.

WHB Beelzebub: Awww... She doesn't really want you. *to Asmodeus*

WHB Asmodeus: ...

WHB Asmodeus: *smiles confidently* That can’t be true. She was with me not out of lust, but because she truly loved me. Just look at the way she cares for our child, Ezrin—it's clear how deep her love runs.

Bael: ...

WHB Beelzebub: *chuckles* Well, looks like that's not the case now.

WHB Asmodeus: ...

Bael: ...

Bael: Bel is triggering him.

[everytimewetouch-dot-mp3]

i don’t want to work tomorrow i want to stay up until 5am thinking about gray ace luo bingge who receives shen yuan as a peace offering from cqms (meaning sy ran away himself in order to beg for his piece of shit ge’s life).

sy was binghe’s shifu, but after sqq threw lbh into the abyss sy (nearly died of grief-induced qi deviations again and again for almost a year) struggled to keep up with his responsibilities as a master of qjp. he wound up spending most of his time in the bamboo house or at the sword mound he’d built for zheng yang. sqq destroyed it once in a fit of rage and his didi didn’t speak to him for weeks.

when lbh arrives back on the scene and puts sqq on trial, sy seems to come back to life and rushes to meet him at huan hua. but it’s too late; sqq is in the water prison and the hhp disciples won’t let sy in since they see him as party to qjp’s abuse of lbh.

eventually one of the disciples gets so fed up with sy that they’re like ‘fucking fine, we’ll let you in and lbh will kill you and we’ll all be better for it.’ and instead lbh is terrified and elated at once. he treats sy as a guest of honor and bluntly deflects any inquiry after sqq.

eventually sy comes to the conclusion that his ge is dead and he’s like. he understands bc sqq was a piece of shit. but he’s also devastated bc sqq was the only family he had in the world. he transmigrated as a child shortly after the two of them were taken into the qius’ household, and he saw how the cruelty broke his brother down and hardened him. and he saw how his brother always had softness for him, even after that.

so he’s grieving his brother and lbh realizes that sy isn’t just giving him the silent treatment but is actually devastated, and he’s like ‘fine your shit brother is still alive in the water prison, now stop looking so miserable.’

sy begs binghe to send sqq to a regular prison or just to banish him or something —the water prison is just too cruel. and binghe decides that he’ll only let sqq go if sy stays. sy agrees at once (oh no i have to stick with the cool and interesting and handsome protag how horrible) and a few weeks later yqy is tearfully hauling a weak, hissing, snarling sqq back to cqms and leaving sy behind.

to get married.

he didn’t realize staying by lbh’s side meant marrying into the harem—he didn’t even know there was a harem yet??? but well. there are a few wives (maybe 20-35-ish) and now sy is among them.

[hischokehold]

does konig fuck bunny in those skirts???

Love your writing 💮😖🎀

like a 90s movie.

König's favorite pastime is to bend bunny over his desk and pound her pussy raw. It's therapeutic to him, having a soft fluffy thing on one's lap should be on the list or essentials for every colonel— soldier, if they can afford one. Hybrid wives are a luxury, after all.

Lately, you've developed a bit of a habit. Running along his office in the afternoon with hastily made sandwiches and orange juice in your tiny hands, acting like a proper woman all while pampering him with kisses and lathering your scent on his neck.

You've become territorial, leaving violet and blue hickeys in your wake. Bunny bites, as he liked to call it. Your little fangs were sweet, though useless, barely doing the damage you thought you were inflicting. Instead, he wore them as a badge of honor. A symbol of his woman's love.

"Naughty thing." He tuts, cupping your ass through your adorable pastel blue miniskirt that you begged him to buy last week, along with a myriad of things. You were teasing him, he was sure. You knew how much he loved how your legs looked in those slutty skirts, a stark contrast to your innocent eyes.

He suspects those movies you've been watching on the TV have influenced your recent behavior. You had a thing for those old school 90s DVD's that he kept on his shelves.

Carefully, you weasel your way out of his arms, beaming as he takes a bite of the sandwich. It made your heart feel prideful. You weren't so useless now, you could help him, help your savior!

Gently, he pats your twitching ears, paperwork all forgotten. "You made this all for me, hase?" To which you answer with a satisfied hum as his rough hands travel to the small of your back.

"Oh," you squeal, instinctively raising your perky ass into the air, little knees bending in pleasure, bunny tail twitching directly on his face. You lift your head from the desk, soft hair a little disheveled, cheeks flushed from his intimate touch. "D-Do you like it?"

König found it funny how you were trying to maintain your composure, as if you weren't flashing him, chubby bunny cunt soaking those flimsy panties. "Hm? I'm not sure as to what you're implying, bunny." He slyly licks his lips, teasingly swiping his index finger against your clit, making you jolt. "The sandwich? Or the delectable view?"

In typical bunny fashion, your brain completely blanks in the face of pleasure, pretty eyes almost going cross-eyed. It takes a little while before your cheeks heat up with embarrassment, processing the situation. You came here to help your owner, to show him that you were a big girl, but now you were just moaning like a common whore from a single touch.

"Sandwich, daddy. Sandwich." You manage to blurt out.

"Oh that," he responds rather nonchalantly. "We can get to that later. I see something far more enticing in front of me right now." He easily yanks your panties to the side, raw, dripping pussy in full view, earning a deep guttural growl from the man.

It's not long before he's slurping on your poor cunt like a madman, long tongue darting in and out of your fuckhole. "Scheiße, moaning like a bitch in heat." A heavy slap lands on your ass cheeks when you begin to fight back, kicking his torso, overwhelmed from his assault. "You forgetting who's in charge here, huh? You should be thankful," Slap! Slap!

"I bought this pussy, little girl. I own it." A harsh slap to your pussy makes you jolt in fear, tears streaming down your eyes. "If not for me, you would've been underground in the auction, whored out and kept a breeding mare for every man out there." You brace yourself for the next smack, only for König to place a gentle kiss on your forehead, as if sensing your fear.

His fat cock flung out of his trousers, the sheer weight causing it to hang down. You stuck your tongue out greedily, manly musky scent slowly filling your lungs, making you revert to your primal instincts. Gotta breed!

"Please," you hiccup, pleading for a sliver of his attention. "Please, daddy!"

His darkened baby blues engulf your very being as he turns his gaze towards you, inching his middle and index finger down your throat, using your spit as lube. "What, pet?"

"Please," you sob. "Please kiss me while you put it in!" The naiveness and the desperation in your voice makes the man laugh at your face, condescendingly patting your wet cheeks.

His rough hands cup the sides of your cheeks, forcing your mouth open. "Open up." He takes a good look at that slutty face before letting his saliva drip in your mouth. There's this fucked out look in your face as he forcibly shuts your mouth. "Swallow." He licks a messy, messy stripe from your cheeks to your pliant lips, coercing you to take his tongue.

You barely have any time to react as his bulbous cock prods your tight hole open, the stretch so painful yet so, so, so delicious. What was originally supposed to be a short office visit quickly turned into a pound fest; your pretty face locked between your daddy's biceps, bunny ears pulled back as his right hand played with your tongue, broad hips pounding against your ass while he brutalizes your raw pussy.

"Why're you crying, baby, huh?" He mocks your weepy face, and you swore you could feel his laugh vibrating in your tummy. "I know you like this." Slap! "Don't you love being used by daddy, huh?"

"I like it! I like it!" A tiny girl like you couldn't even dream of escaping, with a man like your owner holding her down. All you could do was lay there and take it. You were a big girl, after all, right?

"Then you better suck up those tears and smile, Hase. After all, you're the one who decided to wear such a slutty skirt. If you didn't wanna be treated like a slut, then you shouldn't have dressed like one. Mark these words in that tiny head, bun. Daddy knows best."

authors note:

A quick little story for you sweethearts 💓hope you enjoyed because I had a hellish time writing this😭 my first draft got completely scrapped by Tumblr. Thank you for the sweet messages and to my anons who told me to prioritize my health, I greatly appreciate it 🌷 this request has been rotting away in my inbox for about two months now. So excited to finally be getting back at it again.

[dipperscavern]

reading the father cregan most has made me feel things ?? my womb is empty ?? and waiting for cregan ??

ALSO KISSES i will always read your tags. they are the favorite parts of my day, in addition to when you post. notifications stay ON.

climbing up the walls with more thoughts of father cregan 🤠 (gods be fucking good, this does sound like a convent. hi sisters!) 🛐

i digress. as we have well established, cregan is a lovely father. he's patient. he's a leader. and he's got that stark loyalty and determination to protect what he loves. which is you and your little pups. (ur so right. he only refers to them as pups.)

i imagine that when your water breaks, you are squeezing this man's hand to the point of bone breakage. pleading with him not to leave. so when the maesters come in and settle you, they look at cregan, expecting him to leave the room - per tradition. one of them, maybe the youngest, starts speaking. "lord stark-" and cregan shuts that shit DOWN ☝️ "your lady stark does not wish it." and everyone knows to shut up and listen when it comes to lord and lady stark.

he is absolutely the type of lad to pick your kids pups up as they climb all over him. once in a post, you described his back as burly enough to sled on and your kids are determined to test that. HELP CAN we actually picture cregan's velocity sliding down a hill like 😐 while his kids are giggling, sliding on his back. hi! hello!

he tells your kids stories of the north in that rugged god-sent accent as he tucks them in for bed. will probably sneak out with them in the night to go get lemoncakes from the kitchen. he gives them cute little fur cloaks to wear, with the house stark embroidery. THIS IS SO CUTE I AM GOING TO SOB

holds them during his meetings. could literally be planning to go to battle or smth, and one of his kids comes in. he just puts them on his lap before continuing with battle strategy. he was just meant to be a dad. he's so giddy about it. so in love with you, and grateful that you gave him this. you gave him chubby little pups running around the castle, hands up in the air reaching for you both. he just wants more :((( crawling at your feet, in your arms, and more in your belly.

i fear i'm going to crash out if i continue. (will definitely be continuing with more asks later. ✊️)

-🔄❄️

REVERSE ELSA ANON HERE TO GRACE US ALL AGAIN !!! yes pls continue later arF ARF ARR ARF

u read my tags….. stop ily. notifications on too i am truly honored. ANYWAYS… SISTERS SISTERS GATHER ROUND. GATHER ROUND FOR FATHER CREGAN

you are so right btw. because when your water breaks, that’s when it all becomes real to you. yes, you want this babe out, but birth is a scary, painful thing. hearing the stories of men choosing to save the babe instead of the mother (i glance to viserys), or of men being done with their wives after they do their duty has only heightened your worry in having to go through it. cregan would never do that to you, you know this, but the thought is a scary one, and it lingers nonetheless. it doesn’t help that the rational side of your brain isn’t in charge right now. you’re afraid.

so when cregan goes to leave and fetch the maesters, you, not usually one to make demands — find yourself almost yelling one.

you both stand rooted to your spots, looking at the fluid on the floor. he was trying to help you into bed, but apparently your pup had other plans. you’re momentarily paused, cregans arm around your waist, hand enclosed in yours while facing the bed. shock hangs in the air as both you realize what this implies. he moves to remove himself from you.

“I will fetch the—“

“No!”

your tone of voice stops cregan in his tracks. has his brows pinching not in their usual hardness, but concern. he had hardly begun to turn away before you reached for him. he tilts his head to look at you, your own dropped down, gaze fixed on the floor. you look at him, a mix of so many emotions on your face cregan could not begin to name them all. you have a hand over your stomach, the other firmly clasped over his arm.

“Do not go. Please, Cregan. I’m afraid.” he’s never heard you like this before. fearful. you mistake his worry for refusal.

“Please— I ask this of you—“

“You need only ask once.” he reassures.

you sigh, relief flooding your veins at cregan heeding your request. it’s tradition for the husband to remain outside of the birth room, but you’re not sure you can do it without him. cregan only pulls you closer, shouting the name of your sworn sword that has been made to accompany you everywhere since the late terms of your pregnancy. the knights response is instant, opening the door with a hand on the hilt of his sword.

“My Lord.”

“Fetch the maesters, Ser. The babe is coming.”

the knight only hesitates with shock, before bowing with the ghost of a smile on his face and running to do as commanded. the entire castle has been waiting on your pups arrival, you both included.

eventually, the maesters arrive — and in tow with them, an army of midwives and your usual ladies in waiting. cregan stands at the foot of the bed, far enough to be out of the way, but close enough to be at your beck and call. they’re attentive, maesters setting up their various herbs & medicines as your ladies in waiting prepare the room itself, your midwives attuned to your every move.

one of the youngest maesters, new in his craft, looks at cregans unwavering form with hesitation. he swallows, and begins to speak before one of the elder maesters can stop him.

“My Lord, it is tradition—“

“Your Lady Stark does not wish it,” he says, looking at the young maester. “So it shall not be.”

the man only nods, returning to his work with his head low. the other people in the room, who have served under cregan for years, know when lord & lady stark come out to quiet themselves & get to work.

the labor is long, and the birth difficult, but cregan is there every step of the way. eventually, hours upon hours later, your pup enters the world — kicking and screaming.

“A boy, Lord Stark!”

cregans heart skips a beat. a boy. an heir.

before you know it you have three. two boys, and one girl. cregan melts into the father role like he was made for it, and every time you get the gift of watching him interact with your kids, you get more and more convinced it is so.

watching them hang off his back, giggles falling from their lips, stretched in a wide smile as his much larger arms come to support under their legs. the view of it from behind makes you laugh, each & every time. cregans back almost swallows your kids whole, their tiny frames dwarfed in comparison. even so, he handles them with a gentleness most wouldn’t expect from the wolf of the north. alike to how you might handle a butterfly landing on your fingertip, or the delicacy used to handle newborn foals.

cregan verses them in the culture of the north, along with its stories. tales of vampire direwolves, the old gods & weirwood trees, and the stories cregan himself was told as a child. he’s careful to not scare them too much, but sometimes, other people can get carried away. a guard or one of the men on his council letting a frightening tale about the others slip, resulting in them asking to sleep with you and cregan for the night. of course, you oblige every time, generous in your reassurances that the others are no match for Ice — or for their father.

your daughter has him wrapped around her finger. pleas of staying up just a little longer, or riding just down that trail are almost always obliged. he can’t help it, when she looks up at him with those big pleading eyes of hers — the ones that are akin to yours. asking him sweetly if they could please check for any leftover lemon cakes. it’s late, she should be asleep, but cregan can’t help himself. opening the door in a way so it won’t creak, hushing her giggles and buying the cooks silence as they get a late night snack.

and yeah, when one of his pups stumble into the council meeting, he doesn’t turn them away. he picks them up to slot them on his lap, and the stern look on his face is all they need to see to know to be quiet if they want to stay. he could be planning anything — from a hunt, to going to the winter town himself to take care of a group of men intent on causing havoc. it could lead to bloodshed, but your kids don’t seem to hear that part, just content being with their father.

cregan wouldn’t trade this life for anything. he loves his pups, and he’s so in love with you. passing by each other during the day, and cregan always stops you, pulling you to him to slot his lips against yours — no matter how busy he is. he can’t help it, you’re just so lovely, and you’ve given him so much. he thinks of you every time he looks at your pups, and he feels his heart skip a beat in his chest. seeing your pups throw snowballs at each other, and he can’t resist, pulling you close & bending to connect your lips with his. you melt into him every time.

[bones4thecats]

Adopting Their Fallen Enemy's Child (PT.1) ~ RoR/SnV x Child! Reader

Type of Writing: Poll Result Characters: Thor, Shiva, & Child! Reader Name: Adopting Their Fallen Enemy's Child (PT.1) Original Poll Link: Here Other Parts: (PT.2)

A/N: I actually really liked this idea on the poll I made, and I hope it turned out as good as I imagined it! Enjoy!!

●・○・●・○・●・○・●・○・●・○・●・○・●・○・●・○・●・○・●・

●・○・●・○・●・○・●・○・●・○・●・○・●・○・●・○・●・○・●・

🌩️ Your father was the Lü Bu, the Flying General himself, and when you heard from the Valkyrie named Brunhilde that he was set to fight in the first match of Ragnarok, you gave him the best support he could’ve asked for

🌩️ You sat alongside his army, with his strategist, Chen Gong, sitting next to you, trying to keep you from jumping down and attacking the God of Thunder yourself

🌩️ When Chen Gong and the others sacrificed themselves, stating their loyalty to you father, you stood there in shock and tear-filled eyes as Thor looked at you, seeing a child without anyone left

🌩️ He felt guilty, but this was what they wanted, they wanted to join their lord, and while he initially wanted to just leave the area, he walked up to you and shocked the Gods and Humans as he kneeled down and hugged you

🌩️ After that day, you stayed by Thor’s side, he reminded you so much of your father it would make you cry

🌩️ Thor may not be the best person when it comes to comforting, but he tries his best when it comes to you, Lü Bu was the one person who could stand a fight against him, and because of this, he would try training you to be just as strong as your father and him

🌩️ He honors your father with you. Every day on his birthday, and on the days of each of his soldiers, including Chen Gong, you would walk into a field in the forest located in the Chinese section of Valhalla, you would both hand off flowers and lay them on the graves you and him had made

🌩️ The words he said to you when he comforted you that day are words that you will never forget

“ Your father was an honorable man, I hope you know that. And because of the honor he possessed, I will take you in as my own. I believe it is something that your father would’ve wanted. “

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●・○・●・○・●・○・●・○・●・○・●・○・●・○・●・○・●・○・●・

🪩 He believed that Raiden was the one opponent he would remember the rest of his life, and when he saw the now-deceased rikishi stare at a young child with the two Valkyries, he froze

🪩 The man was a father, just like him

🪩 But while his child could handle loss of someone easily, you appeared to be around a young teen, this must’ve been one of the hardest things you ever had to witness

🪩 Shiva looked at you and back at the crumbling Raiden Tameemon, guilt filled his heart, which was something he hadn’t felt for such a long time, why did he feel guilty? He just won and brought honor to his pantheon!

🪩 Watching as you ran down and tried hugging the remaining pieces of your father just got him staring back at his wives and son, and when he saw how saddened their eyes were then they looked at you

🪩 The God of Destruction walked up to you and you jumped back when his one arm reached out to you, and that action made the Humans cry out for him to not hurt you

🪩 He kneeled down and since he was just on fire, the heat that radiated off of him made you hold your head away from him

“ Look at me, young one. “

🪩 You looked up at him and saw how his eyes shimmered with guilt, making you look at where your father once stood and back at the man who caused his demise

🪩 Shiva held is one arm back as you tried helping him stay standing when he slumped over in pain, after all, losing three arms doesn't exactly make anyone, including Gods, feel very good

🪩 Once you came to visit him with his wives and son, he saw how you carried yourself around him, not with resentment or fear, but with care and gentleness, making him smile

🪩 Whenever he rested, you laid next to him, you were like another child of his, and when he offered to take care of you in the Hindu Pantheon, it made you jump up and down and hug him and his wives as they agreed to taking you in as their own

“ Your father was one of the best fighters I have ever met in my thousands of years of life. And… seeing you look so painfully at where your father once stood, I just, I knew you had to have someone there for you. Would you do me, and my wives, the honor of joining our family? ”

[aprilcolours]

blackheart: part two

part one - part three - part four

—

Two days after the Battle at Lydden, the campground was abuzz with news. ‘The Northmen are here.’ ‘The Stark has arrived.’ ‘Did you hear? The greybeards have joined camp.’ The whispers were unavoidable as Visenya broke her morning fast. She thought it rather funny that men at war gossiped all the same as their wives at home. 

As she began to braid her hair (a wartime style like her mother’s), she thought of a certain young lord who had taken up a pressing residence in her mind. 

She worried that the kiss had been rash, impulsive, and ill-conceived. Perhaps I have let the fire in my blood get the better of me, she fretted.

Visenya carried a great weight on her shoulders. Her mother was relying on her to be successful on campaign, while her father was off gallivanting heedlessly. It was of the utmost importance that these Riverlanders respect her authority as commander and be brought to heel. Not an easy feat as a woman. I cannot afford to give even a single reason for doubt in my capability. 

It was these worries that had caused her to rebuff all attempts Benjicot Blackwood had made at flirtation since the kiss. He had tried to tease her, or goad her, or even on one fateful attempt last night: find her alone again. Like the day at Lydden, he had approached as she landed after scouting on Vermithor. She had said immediately, before she could change her mind, ‘After one does battle, they can retain a sort of thrill-seeking madness to expend the remainder of their blood-letting energy. It is common enough, but regrettable. My sole focus at this time is on securing my mother’s throne. I can consider nothing else.’ She did not meet his eyes as she spoke, looking instead over his shoulder before forcing herself to walk steadfastly away, and ignoring the flash of hurt writ across his face. 

It pained her, as she recalled the morning after, her braid now finished. She could still feel the ghost of him on her lips. Warm and yearning. 

We must all make sacrifices in war, she assured herself. Visenya II took a deep breath, steeled her shoulders, and stepped out of her tent to find her place among the war council. 

As the morning’s gossip foretold, a new broad figure stood at the table. Cregan Stark was a large man, an impression made only larger by the cloak of furs clasped round his shoulders. The familiar lords bowed, but surprisingly, the Northerner chose instead to drop to a knee before her. Lord Stark took her hand and kissed the back of it, declaring in a low voice “It is an honor, your highness.”

Visenya did her best to mask her amusement, though her eyes did widen at the display. 

“Lord Stark, so glad you could join us,” she responded, to some chuckles from the other council members. She looked around the table and caught Ben’s eye. His expression was dark, his usual grin now morphed into something more like a sneer. She looked away quickly and began the day’s deliberations. 

—

Near midday, the council adjourned momentarily to see to matters within their banners. Visenya used the time to discern the state of the troops, observing carefully to ensure standards were being met. 

Since the victory, certain soldiers had taken it upon themselves to establish a training field. Knights from differing regions clashed steel against steel, trying their skills against one another. She observed the sparring, face impassive. It seemed silly to waste such energy, the war is only beginning, she thought. 

“Does the fighting not please you my lady?” Ben’s taunting voice rang out nearby. 

His face held the promise of mischief. She was immediately wary, raising her signature unimpressed brow. He took a moment, almost seeming to check that all the gathered were listening, before he stook a step out into the yard and said,

“Well of course, a princess is not trained in such matters, not when you have a dragon to fight in your stead.” He gestured jauntily about like he had made a great joke. 

The whole camp stuttered to a standstill. Utter silence across the plain.

How. Dare. You. 

Visenya’s blood turned to ice in her veins, cold hard rage bottoming out her senses. Her face must’ve done something terrifying because every man in the near vicinity took a few steps back. 

And the scoundrel still just grinned his lopsided grin. 

You’ll pay for that Blackwood, she swore in her mind. 

“Is that so?” she asked, voice sharp and quiet like a shard of glass. She stalked slowly to the other edge of the training yard across from him, her steps measured and predatory. The knights gathered there scrambled back, dragging their equipment hastily. 

Back still turned to him, Visenya looked out upon the troops but did not see them. Only red. With nought a thought for the propriety of the situation, he seems to have that effect quite often doesn’t he, she reached to her back and unsheathed the two blades holstered there. 

Then finally, with a Valyrian shortsword in each hand, she turned and looked the Blackwood in the eye.

“To first blood then?” she asked, tone as mild as if she was asking about the weather. 

“To first blood,” he confirmed, eyes gleaming. And he attacked.

He was an explosion given form. A savage whirl of motion and violence, seemingly without end and tireless. It was a hacking, slashing, sort of style— unpredictable, but not so crass as to be reckless. The movements had a deceptive sort of tightness to them: where it appeared at a glance that such rabid fervor might leave his flanks open; he was guarded and compact. 

All this, Visenya gleaned as she danced circles round his brutal strikes. She parried and sidestepped, studying his every movement like a cat might watch a bird. He was a force, made for chaos and to mow down men in great swathes. But she was finely tuned, a crafted blade made for precision. 

He was good, that much was sure. But Father is better. 

She waited until his left foot turned out slightly, as she had noticed it did when he lunged two handedly, and with a swift precise kick she knocked him flat on his back. Between one blink and the next, she had a boot on his chest and her two blades crossed at his throat. 

There was a moment of utter silence again. Before the camp began their raucous applause. The men were shouting her name, her house words, roaring their approval, but she had eyes only for one. 

Ben, his head in the dirt, smiled. A real, genuine, one, not a sneer or smirk. She did her best to remain stoic even as she felt her own smugness tug at her lips. She picked her boot off his chest and pulled her swords from their position, transferring them into one hand so she might offer the other to him. 

He took it, and did not let go as he stood up. Instead, he raised it to his lips and bowed, his dark searing gaze never leaving hers as he, slowly, imploringly, kissed the back of her hand. 

Seven hells. Visenya suppressed a shiver. She could not tell whether she was still angry or wanted to laugh. She forced herself to recover quickly.

“You have a boot-print on your shirt, my lord,” she teased. Then she promptly turned around and looked at the gathered spectators to call,

“Since the situation has arisen, is there any other who would challenge a duel?” She turned in a circle, watching some soldiers jostle each other forward and others shy away. 

“Good Ser Tully,” she addressed, “perhaps a knight can make a better showing on behalf of the Riverlands.” 

The knight laughed humbly and stepped forward, “I can certainly try my lady.”

—

Visenya sparred with four men, challengers each from different houses. She remained for the better part of the day, offering advice, comparing strategy, and watching other matches. As the sun fell low in the sky, the group finally dispersed. As she made her way back to her tent, she felt a familiar presence step into stride with her. She did not look at Ben as she asked,

“Are you so troubled that you must resort to insulting me the moment another man dares to exist in my presence?”

“No, my lady” he protested, trying to make light of the situation, though he did appear slightly chastened. “Twas simply a ruse so that I might kiss you. I thought you might find it amusing.”

“Amusing? Amusing that you have so loudly begun a pissing contest with the Warden of the North?” she questioned incredulously, temper rising again. She stopped walking and turned to face him. 

Men, she thought angrily, never consider the consequences of their impulses. She felt all her worries about being respected arise within her like a great wave.

“I—” he began, but was swiftly cut off. 

“I will remind you Lord Blackwood, that my mother the Queen has final jurisdiction in the matter of my hand. And she has not yet even heard word of your proposal let alone deigned to consider it,” Visenya bit out, anger giving way to something more like distress. 

She heaved a shaky breath and took a moment to collect herself. He looked thoroughly chastened now. Squaring her shoulders, she pulled her stoicism about her again, declaring,

“Should you presume to mock me publicly again, Raventree Hall will find it has urgent need for its liege Lord to return from his time abroad.”

With that, she turned to stomp away but was halted by a firm hand at her wrist. Turning viciously, she began, “You dare—” 

“Did you speak truly?” Ben asked, voice uncharacteristically timid. “That you regret it?”

She was stricken into silence. He has a habit of surprising me, doesn’t he? Emotions warred within her, crashing against one another like the Narrow Sea. But thinking about his smile today, with her blade to his throat, she could not find it within herself to lie. So she simply shook her head no. 

The Blackwood let a breath out through his nose, like he had been holding it, and pressed a quick hand to her face. His thumb flitted over her cheek once, an echo of his roaming pulling hands. For the briefest of moments, Visenya allowed herself to close her eyes and press her face into his palm. 

“My mother is depending on me,” she whispered, a confession she did not intend to let escape. “I cannot fail her.” 

“I understand,” he replied simply, voice also hushed. 

He pressed a kiss to her forehead. A long tender beat. Two. 

When he pulled away, the look in Benjicot Blackwood’s eyes was something close to grim determination. He backed away and strode into the night, cloaked in purpose.

—

A/N: okay so turns out that was just some random blackwood but we are going to ignore that and continue in the delusion bc its fun

[lonely-lost-soul]

Day 2: Tengen and Rengoku

Day 2: Threesome

Tengen licked his lips, staring intently at the young lady in the entertainment district's kiosk before him. By his side was his most trusted friend, Rengoku, who seemed to be intently staring at the same woman, the way her hips moved as she walked, her shyness evident as the lady of the house seemed to fix up her hair. Almost scolding her as if she wasn't presentable enough as a lady. Uzui thought the hag couldn't be more wrong, “Are you positive your wives won’t mind that we are here?” The man asked, adjusting his leg slowly, one of his permanent injuries from the battle of Akaza. In his own opinion, he was much better off than Tengen; his friend had lost one of his eyes. But both men were forced into an early retirement from the Demon Slayers due to their injuries. Tengen only laughed, turning to face the man, 

“I already told them I’m scoping out another wife, either for me or you." He winked, causing Kyojuro to laugh from his chest, "The main thing they’re not happy about is me returning to this district.” Tengen snorted, hair falling prettily in front of his face, and Rengoku looked at him with a smile, 

“If it’s alright with them, then it’s alright with me! So long as everyone is treated with proper respect!” He shouted, pounding a fist to the palm of his hand before reaching forward to tuck a strand of hair behind Tengen’s ear like a good friend would. Tengen snorted, wrapping an arm around his companion, 

“If you were a girl. You’d be my fourth wife without a doubt.” Rengokou beamed with pride, 

“I’d be honored! And accept without hesitation!”

“Flashy!” 

“Excuse me, the lady of the house said you requested me,” Your soft voice spoke, causing them both to turn to look at you. You were even prettier up close than you were from afar, hair elegantly styled, red and gold kimono covering you just as elegantly, makeup placed flawlessly on your cheeks and eyes, “I’m at your service.”

Tengen hummed, better with words than Kyojuro, “Please sit and enjoy a cup of sake with us for now. We paid for the night, relax.” Rengoku shot Tengen a questioning look, knowing they’d spent a lot of money on you. They'd free you from this wretched district if all went well tonight. You looked slightly surprised at the offer and moved to sit down, “Pretty thing, not there in between us.” Rengoku saw your cheeks burn as you sat beside the two men; Tengen leaned back with a grin, bringing sake to his lips, “What’s your name?” 

You told them your first name, fluttering your pretty eyelashes at the both of them. “I’m Rengoku Kyojuro; if we are going by first names, feel free to call me Kyojuro!” He chipped, grinning fondly at the woman, “This is Uzui.” The silver-haired man winked, “We’re here to make love to you!”

“H-huh?” You sputtered, and Tengen spat out his drink, choking on it, “I-I mean…” You smile shyly, “That’s quite the demand.” 

“Kyo-” Tengen hissed, pressing his fingers to his nose, “Do you even know subtly? So unflashy?”

“No!” He hummed proudly, “The best way to communicate your point is directly and honestly! This also gives our little spark room to decline if she needed to.” Tengen couldn’t deny that point; they weren’t monsters. After all, you’d always have a choice. “Will you spend the night with us?” 

You eyed the two men before you; they were former demon slayers. Even in casual clothes, word spread about the silver-haired man who solely saved this district from two demons and the man with hair of fire who saved all the innocents on the Mugen Train. Honestly, you couldn’t say no to them, not that you wanted to; these men were probably the two most attractive men you’ve ever encountered. “Yes,” you nodded, “it would be my pleasure.” 

“Not your pleasure, little one,” Tengen hummed, kissing your hand softly, “It’s truly our pleasure to be accepted by a beauty such as you.” He delighted in how your face turned a beautiful color as you were flustered. “Come, let's go somewhere a little more private,” He purred, helping you to your feet before turning to his friend and helping him stumble. 

“Ah, my apologies.” Rengoku smiled nervously, “My legs aren’t what they used to be, I'm afraid. But I assure you my performance regarding intimacy is not hindered.” 

“Kyojuro.” Uzui groaned, “She did not need to know that. I’m sure she wasn’t questioning your sexual prowess.” Both men stopped as you giggled, opening the door to the private room, the kimono falling off your shoulders seductively. Exposing your shoulder blades and the swell of your breasts, Tengen shut up almost immediately, eyes training down your body. 

“Beautiful!” Kyojuro praised, hobbling into the room, hands finding your waist, and you helped to balance him as he stumbled into you. “You’re beautiful!” His eyes burned like fire; staring into your own, he captured your lips in a quick kiss, and your cheeks flushed. 

“I’m sure you could find prettier girls here, but thank you-” You squeaked, feeling the other man’s arms wrapped around your waist from behind. His hair tickled your cheeks as his chin rested on your head, 

“Is that self-depreciation I hear?” Uzui mused from behind you, his hands slowly moving up to slide up to cup your breasts tenderly, “because you’re the only one here who caught our eye.” His large hands palmed your breasts, massaging them and causing you to lean against his body. “This is perfect, you are perfect, right Kyo?” 

“Absolutely!” Kyojiro hummed as Tengen slid your kimono down, exposing yourself to the men before you. The room's cold air made your nipples perk up as Kyojiro buried his face between them; his warm lips against your skin made you shiver. “I never wanna leave,” He purred, squishing his head between your chest and pressing kitten kisses to the sensitive area, causing you to mewl. 

“Look at you. Enjoying yourself?” Tengen snickered as you looked up at him through wet lashes, 

“Y-yes-” You breathed, stretching your neck up, “kiss me?” 

“You don’t need to ask twice.” Uzui leaned down to capture your lips with his own, and his lips were skilled as his tongue slipped inside your mouth. You groaned against him as your tongues battled for dominance; yours was easily overpowered. Your fingers tangled themselves in Rengoku’s hair, and the embodiment of sunshine purred, biting the skin on your breasts. You moaned hotly as he trailed marks across your chest, allowing your kimono to open fully as he continued his way downward toward your core. You pulled away from Tengen’s lips to choke out a moan, feeling Rengoku’s tongue prod at your entrance. He hissed a little, trying to settle on his bad knee, and Tengen clicked his tongue, “Don’t hurt yourself.” 

“I’m not; this is worth it.” Kyo grinned and attacked your center like a man starved; you tossed your head back and moaned with delight. Uzui had to catch you as your legs melted against Rengoku’s mouth and tongue. 

“He has no self-preservation truly,” Tengen mused, watching you squeeze your legs around his comrade's head, which only egged him further, his fingers coming up to massage your clit. “You’re just that intoxicating, lovely,” His mouth latched itself onto your neck, nipping and kissing at the sensitive spots there, which only fueled your moans louder. Kyojiro pulled away, lips glistening with your arousal, 

“Umai!” You giggle, hands gently threading through his flame-colored hair, “Uzui!’ He shouted, “She’s close may I make her cum on my tongue?” 

“Don’t ask me; ask the lady you’re eating out.” Kyo looked at you with the most enormous puppy dog eyes you’ve ever seen, 

“Yes. Please let me cum, Kyo.” Kyojiro grinned before looking at Tengen, who rolled his eyes. He knew what that look meant. You won’t be able to continue after Rengoku had his way with you, but it was fine you were coming back with them after all; you can cum on his cock another time. With a nod from Uzui, he dove back in between your legs; you moaned hotly as you felt his fingers begin to pump in and out of your pussy working in tandem with his tongue. You felt warm pressure as you yelped a little, standing up straighter, riding Kyojiro’s mouth. His fingers started heating up inside you, and your legs trembled in ecstasy. 

“That’s what he does,” Tenegn purred, “use his breathing technique to last a while, heating his fingers for maximum pleasure.” Uzui continued to play with your breasts, pinching your nipples between his fingers and enjoying the loud sounds you made against his shoulder. “You feel it, don’t you? His tongue works wonders inside your throbbing pussy, the heat as you clench on Kyo’s face.” You could only nod as Rengoku’s fingers found the spongy spot inside you and began to pound into it repeatedly with his fingers. Wet sounds of pleasure filled the room as you shuddered, coming around the man’s face with a cry, suffocating the man between your thighs. This time when Rengoku pulled away, he looked horny and dizzy, with a red face, 

“Holy. Shit.” a shit-eating grin spread across his lips, “You almost killed me between your thighs. What a way that would’ve been, aye Uzui?”

“Lucky bastard.” Tengen scoffed as you lay limp against his muscular body, shuddering in the aftershocks of your orgasm. “Let’s rest now, little one; we can continue in the morning.”

[ficsilike-reblogged]

Beware Calm Waters

Summary: Aegon isn't favored by anyone in his life. And then you came along. Or the five times you picked Aegon, the one time you couldn't, and the one time he picked you. Pairing: Aegon II Targaryen/F!Reader (No Y/N) Warnings: Canon typical violence, canon typical misoginy Word Count: 10.1k A/N: No Civil War AU! This is Aegon's side story from my recent(ish) Aemond Series, As High As Honour. I don't think you need to read that to understand this. My hate of several Ironborn Houses came out in this. Sorry. Reader is slightly unhinged. My bad. Aegon is different from his show and book counterpart, ie not a rapist or a drunk, etc. Enjoy!

You loved the sea. You did. The way it smelt, the way it unceasingly battered against the shore, the way it held its secrets in the dark. All of it. Except the way it turned your stomach whenever you were aboard a ship.

And that was truly a pity because you were Ironborn.

It was laughable that you could trace your father’s bloodline back to the original Farwynd who first landed on this island and dubbed it Lonely Light and you couldn’t stomach the simple rocking of a ship for more than a few moments. But perhaps you took after your mother in that regard. She was not Ironborn—and that was something those who dwelt on Great Wyk often reminded you of. Another reason why the other Ironborn thought House Farwynd queer.

But to you it was just…your family. Your father, Sylas, was stoic in a way only Ironborn men are known to be but he delighted in his children and loved his wife, never straying. Your younger brother, Roryn, dreamed of finally taking the ship he and your father built by hand out into the Sunset Sea to add to House Farwynd’s fortune in an adventure of his own—but he had no will to pillage or take salt wives. Roryn was also the proud wielder of House Farwynd’s Valyrian Steel weapon, a falx named Dark Water. Your father had gifted it to him for his one-and-ten nameday while he had taken the Valyrian steel tipped spears your mother had given him as a wedding day present as his own weapon. And your mother, the Lady Senerra, was never fond of the harsh clothing and cruelty the Iron Islands often mistook for strength.

“Your father promised that when he brought me here I would suffer no longer the whims of lesser men,” she would say to you whenever you asked of their courtship. “And he has kept his promise. And I shall promise you the same.”

So, no. House Farwynd of Lonely Point did not keep every custom of the Iron Islands and you all were ostracized for it. The eight days’ sail from Great Wyk to Lonely Light probably kept most other houses from trying to take your lands, but House Farwynd was wealthy and that gained your family at least a small bit of favor, you supposed. That was probably why Dalton Greyjoy, Lord of the Iron Islands, had summoned House Farwynd to Pyke under the thinly made guise of duty.

“The old king Viserys is demanding closer ties to our fair isles.” Dalton’s dark eyes were alight with something you did not want to name. The young lord of the Iron Islands had always unnerved you; smile too sharp, eyes too hard. You did not trust him and you knew your father did not either. “I have no sons or daughters of my own and my other men have need of their children. From what I can tell, your children do nothing of importance on your tiny island.”

Your mother set a hand on your father’s arm, stopping his fist from curling. “House Farwynd has our own honor and duty.”

Dalton’s smirk widened. “I’m sure. But I still want one of your spawn sent before I have to deal with another raven from them.”

Your father was quiet but you saw the rhythmic clenching of his jaw, he was chewing over what he wanted to say. This was dangerous. The only time your father had nearly took up arms was when one of Dalton’s brothers had smacked your mother’s ass. His family was his life, even the sea came second. And now his liege lord was demanding one of his children be pulled from under his protection.

You stepped forward, mind made up. “I’ll go.”

Your mother hissed your name as your father set his rough hand on your shoulder. “My girl-”

“Roryn cannot set sail from the Red Keep. He is meant for the sea. I will go.” If you didn’t, you knew your family’s blood would be washed into the sea before the sun rose. Dalton had killed people for defying him and you would not see your family slaughtered for something you could do.

The Greyjoy clapped as he barked a laugh. “Presumptuous little thing. If you were my daughter, I’d have your tongue-”

“She isn’t your daughter,” your father spoke, low and dark. “And it seems you leave me no choice. My daughter will go.”

As the moon rose over the sea and you tried to stave off another bout of seasickness, your mother swept into your rooms aboard your father’s ship, dark eyes shining with tears. “What have you done, my sweet?”

You dared to look at her, opening your eyes for just a moment. “I will be fine.”

The small featherbed fell beneath her weight as she sat at your side. Her warm hands framed your face and the rolling of your stomach subsided. She leaned forward to press her forehead to yours and you pulled in a lungful of her mint and rose perfume. “Many paths are before you. I cannot see…” She paused. “You are my little girl.”

“I will always be your little girl, mama,” you whispered in return, but her words had your mind whorling.

She pressed a hard kiss to your forehead and whispered something in her mother tongue.

“I love you, too.”

You readied for your adventure in a bit of a haze, saying goodbye to your family and friends with tears in your eyes and your heart in your throat. Had you made the right decision? Would this truly be the best course of action for your family?

“Don’t be afraid. You are a Farwynd. We are adventurers. We are Ironborn. We are of Shadow. We are not afraid.”

You tried to repeat your brother’s encouraging words as you settled into your fine apartments within the Red Keep. There had been a bit of pageantry with your arrival, your family’s smaller ship bracketed by two larger ones with Greyjoy sigils blazoned on their sails. You met King Viserys and Queen Alicent first—the King seemed pleased that the someone from the Iron Islands was sent but his Hand, whom you immediately respected, Princess Rhaenys Targaryen, was not impressed when she read the missive Dalton had sent with your arrival, explaining that you would be the Iron Islands’ envoy, ward to the Iron Throne, with his blessing.

“He thinks quite highly of himself, does he not?” She said with a perfectly arched brow.

You tried not to giggle, but a few might have escaped anyway. Either way, both Viserys and Rhaenys seemed pleased with the large trunk of gold and jewels House Farwynd had sent alongside you, as payment for your care while as a ward to the Crown.

But you did not like how the maids in the Red Keep wrinkled their noses when they opened the trunk your mother had packed with things she had wanted to take with you, for protection, my sweet. The only thing keeping you from screaming at them was the stark reminder that you would soon be alone here. Lashing out would not gain you any favor. So, you swallowed your anger and soon realized that it was easier to be angry than to be scared…which is what you were. Alone. For the first time in your life, you were truly alone. In a land foreign to you despite supposedly being ruled by the man sitting on the ridiculous, pointed chair.

Your mother once accompanied you on a tour on what she called the mainland and what the Ironborn called the Green lands. You visited Banefort, Crag, and Castamere in the Westerlands. While it took some time for the houses and villagers to warm to you (and after your stomach settled from the voyage), you enjoyed seeing the sights, learning how different the Westerlands were from your small isle, and the highlight of your trip had been when you stopped on Fair Isle and had been wrapped up in the celebrations of one of Lord Farman’s son’s namedays.

So you weren’t entirely green when it came to the culture of the rest of Westeros. But this was King’s Landing. This was the Red Keep. Even when your father’s guards and mother’s handmaidens stayed for a fortnight to help you settle, you felt like little more than a mummer, playing the part of a lady. But you knew they wanted and needed to return to Lonely Light. This was not their home either and you had a duty to fulfill, adventure to have…a life to live.

But still, you stood on dock and watched their longboat disappear on the horizon with tears stinging your eyes.

“My lady,” one of the handmaidens assigned to you started in a soft voice, “we should return to the keep.”

You pushed out a slow breath and nodded, pressing a hand to your stomach as if that would settle your emotions. “Yes, of course. Please lead the way.”

Yes, you were scared even if this had been your decision. You twisted and pulled at the emotion, trying to temper it as you slowly settled into a routine. Trying to see if anyone else was scared gave you an odd bit of comfort. You would even wager that while the Greyjoy had selected your family out of opportunity to spite your wealthy but unliked House, he answered House Targaryen’s raven because he was scared.

Scared of their dragons.

That fear would not last forever, not with his ego and growing savagery. But for now, you could delight in his exposed fear instead of your own. And you were largely alone as the royal children had taken a tour of the Reach, spending time with their mother’s (or step-grandmother’s…honestly the family tree was confusing) family in Oldtown. Princess Rhaenyra and Queen Alicent were busy with Small Council duties or continuously going out into the city to slowly sway the smallfolk into adoring the Crown Princess with gifts of charity and an open ear to hear their troubles. They were kind to you, but you knew not to bother them unless absolutely necessary. By the end of your first moon in the Red Keep, you were little more than yet another tapestry to be hung on a wall. Something to be collected. A way for King Viserys to believe he had a united kingdom.

Ridiculous.

Being ignored for most of the day left you privy to some whispers. Alicent and Rhaenyra’s friendship and its demise after the former’s marriage to King Viserys had been the topic of quite a few. The following reconciliation had been the topic of even more. What mattered most to you was that they seemed at peace now. You would want to keep it that way.

Eventually, you were called to the Red Keep’s front steps with the older royals, and told to greet the royal children as they arrived. You resisted the urge to wipe your sweaty palms against your gown and stood straight as your mother taught you as the carriage slowly ambled its way closer. These would be the people you spent most of your time with, hopefully. You wanted to make a good impression. You wanted to make friends. You…didn’t want to be so alone anymore.

The carriage stopped and you tried to memorize which name went with which face as they were announced.

Prince Jacaerys with the perfect bow.

Prince Lucerys with the rounded cheek blush.

Prince Aegon with the sneer.

Prince Daeron with the open smile.

Princess Helaena with the worried brow.

Prince Aemond with the stern look.

And Princess Jeyne, Rhaenyra’s youngest, with the musical giggle.

You curtsied as you were introduced to each of them and you pretended not to hear Aegon as he muttered, “we shall have to hide the gold with her here, won’t we?” into his cup of wine as he walked by you. It was then, always liking a challenge, that you swore you would get Aegon to be your friend.

As you turned to follow them inside, Helaena appeared at your side, bright purple eyes wide as she stared at you. “You need not worry about the golden one. He shall be a rock and wave.”

And then she smiled and turned away again.

Despite not knowing what she had meant, you found yourself smiling.

1

A new routine was established and you were more or less grouped together with the royal children for most of the day. While you did little more than observe their lessons, you did learn more about the history of Valyria at their side. It was an interesting way to spend your time but it was at least better than your solitude.

Little Daeron was sweet. Jacaerys and Lucerys were kind to you, too.

Helaena was by far your favorite. You didn’t mind going with her to the gardens or the woods to help her catch bugs, readily ruining the hems of your fine gowns in muck and grass if it made her smile. She hadn’t spoken any other strange words as she did that first day, but you doubted she had much control of it.

Your mother had told you about people like Helaena. She called them Oracles. The Valyrians called them Dreamers, like Daenys. You thought that it suited Helaena. Dreamer. It didn’t seem that any of her family knew what to make of her and her quiet truths. You weren’t sure if they even knew what she was saying. And, to be fair, you hadn’t quite pieced together what she had told you, but you were sure it would make sense soon. Things like that always did. Helaena seemed a little removed from court, too, so you made sure to spend time with her, as much as she wanted.

Aemond was full of sullen silences and studious glances. He took his lessons seriously—all of them. From the histories of Westeros and Valyria to his time in the training grounds with Ser Criston; all of it was handled with a single determination to learn everything and excel at it. He even asked you questions about the Iron Islands outside of the lessons. You answered, always happy to talk about your home. Targaryens were truly a different breed.

You surmised you could slip away from the lessons you did not need, taking time for you to pull that hidden satchel your mother packed for you from the bottom of your wardrobe and just…breathe for a moment. But it was for naught. The third time you escaped the Valyrian lessons, you received a sharp knock at your chamber doors.

A stern looking handmaiden was waiting on the other side, fingers pressed together so tightly the pads were turning white. “My lady, the queen has requested you take your Valyrian lessons with the children.”

You rolled your lips into your mouth for a moment, trying to find a tactful way of proceeding before deciding on, “I’m fluent.”

While you hoped that would be the end of it and you’d be able to return to your own endeavors, you were all but hauled in front of the Queen and King and forced to prove your fluency. “My mother is from Essos, Your Grace,”, you said, trying to keep the boredom out of your voice, “I learned High Valyrian alongside the Common Tongue. I would be happy to teach your children the Bastard Valyrian of Qohor if-”

“That won’t be necessary,” King Viserys said, sounding like he was trying not to laugh as his young wife blushed beside him. “You are free to spend that hour as you please.”

And it was with that small rebellion, did you finally draw Aegon to your side.

“How did you get out of our lessons?” He groused.

You smiled. “I’m fluent in Valyrian. It is my mother’s tongue.”

Aegon grumbled something into his wine before plopping down into the seat beside you. “What else do you know?”

And you couldn’t help the smile pushing at your mouth now. “My preference is for the Bastard Valyrian of Qohor.”

“My grandsire says the Qohorik are blood-soaked heretics.” His periwinkle eyes stared at you over the edge of his chalice as if daring you to refute him.

But you had heard worse and while it hurt you to hear the popular misconception of your mother’s homeland, you knew to bite your tongue. “Would you like to learn it?”

“I’m sure you’ve already had your fill of teaching my brother. Aemond seems to tug at your skirts every time he has the chance.”

A laugh escaped your lips before you could even think of quashing it. “Your brother sees no need to learn anything aside from High Valyrian and I assure you he is never tugging at my skirts.” To be true, you had spied him sketching a woman’s face on the edge of his history work when the tutor was answering questions poised by one of the other children. You finally recognized the woman as Lady Arryn when she had come to the Red Keep to meet with Princess Rhaenyra. He was besotted. The way the younger prince stared at her…it was unadulterated devotion. And Lady Arryn seemed completely unaware of it.

Aegon stared at you for another stretched moment. “I have been told I am a terrible student.”

Your smile came again. “Well, I suppose I will be the judge of that, my prince.”

And the prince smiled at you.

2

Despite your best efforts, Aegon did not take to Bastard Valyrian either. But, to be fair, it seemed his dragon preferred the Common Tongue anyway. And while your lessons with Prince Aegon didn’t prove fruitful in the way you had at first intended, you found the friendship you had cultivated with him much more rewarding anyway.

He was the one person in the whole of the capital that you never felt like you were burdening with your presence. He laughed at your ridiculous jokes, he stopped sulking when you told him he’d had enough to drink, and sought you out more than the desperate hangerson that seemed to shadow his every move. To be true, you felt like you were at least friends with the other royal children, but Aegon was your favorite. Helaena was a close second.

And it was because of this that you were standing in the Dragon Pit, staring at two dragons while Helaena and Aegon bickered. “I asked her first!”

���Dreamfyre has been accustomed to having two people on her back. She will be safer with me.”

“I am not going to endanger her,” Aegon pouted. “I would never.”

A soft touch at your elbow had you turning to see Aemond at your side. He was still without a dragon so he had been spared the argument but he did present you with a carefully wrapped present. “Happy nameday,” he murmured, cheeks pink. You unwrapped it quickly and smiled at the new quills and inkwells filled with dark ink swirled with pearl dust. “I know you have been sending ravens to Lonely Light twice a moon. I thought you should have finer supplies.”

“This is an exceptionally kind gift, my prince. I truly thank you for it.” The pink grew darker when you pressed a quick kiss to his cheek in thanks before turning and handing the gift to one of the handmaidens to make sure they were deposited into your chambers without issue. Aemond eventually excused himself from the Pit, not that you could blame him. His lack of dragon was still a sore spot.

“Who would you prefer to ride with?” Helaena asked, pulling you back to their squabble.

You resisted the urge to curl your hands into your skirts, a girlish impulse betraying your nerves. You didn’t want to hurt either of them. But you knew your answer. “Perhaps it would be good to also have Sunfyre become accustomed to having two riders. I would not want to always burden you and Dreamfyre.”

Aegon crowed in victory but Helaena only smiled. With a gentle squeeze to your hand, she let the dragon keepers lead her down toward Dreamfyre’s roost so they could take to the skies.

“Your victory celebrations are unbecoming of someone in your station,” you said, trying to keep a straight face as you turned to Aegon who was still basking in your decision. But you eventually fell into matching giggles.

He babbled about how he would take you around the city twice and then over the Bay and didn’t stop talking even as he reached down to help you climb up into Sunfyre’s fine saddle. The dragon was glorious and golden—you had ‘met’ the dragon a few times but this would be the first time you had ridden one. And it felt right to go with Aegon.

He had become your best friend.

“Hold tight to me,” he said, urging his dragon toward the Pit’s entrance. “I wouldn’t have you falling off and dirtying the streets.”

You cackled and dug your hands into his sides, earning a yelp and shake from him. He hated being tickled. And then…you were flying. The air whipped by your face and you heard Aegon yell out a command to go higher, higher, higher and he turned to smile at you, the sun making his periwinkle eyes shine.

You chanced a look down at the quickly shrinking city and let out another laugh. Surely this was magic. This was…

“I have something for you!” He yelled over the scream of the wind. Aegon let go of one of the reins—only laughing when you screeched about holding onto it—and dug something out of his doublet. He pried one of your hands from around his waist and slipped a delicate bracelet around your wrist. Dark red rubies and vibrant topaz were embedded in blackened steel, the colors of your house, making them look like tiny waves but the clasp was two interlocked dragon claws.

“It is beautiful!” You yelled, quickly grabbing hold of Aegon again.

“Happy Nameday!”

Before you could say anything else, he ordered Sunfyre to fly through the nearest cloud and his laughter overtook your squealing as tried to press yourself further into his back.

3

Your mother once said that all the rage and ruin that your father lacked had found its way to you.

For a long time, you thought it was a curse she had given you. But now, as you stared at the newest envoy from the Iron Islands, you understood that it was a blessing.

A group of men from House Harlaw had arrived only a fortnight ago and you felt something growing and bubbling beneath your skin like an eel every time one of them opened their mouth. They were vile. While King Viserys simply seemed proud of himself for having another Ironborn envoy, you saw how the Harlaw’s sneered at the royal children, taunting them, being cruel.

Every time they called Helaena queer, called Aemond a “half-man,” or said Aegon was “cowing to a trollop” (you assumed they were referencing Rhaenyra but you were not about to waste energy asking for clarification), you felt it grow.

It came to a head when everyone was called to the training grounds. Viserys had the stupid idea that boys knocking each other into the dirt repeatedly would forge a bond. You knew it meant he didn’t truly see you as enough, but surely he couldn’t be that ridiculous to not see how House Harlaw had only accepted his invitation to gorge themselves on his food and take their pick of the royal jewels and gold before making their way through the Narrow Sea to greater ventures. But no one would listen to you, even if you did have the sneaking suspicion that Princess Rhaenys had the same reservations as you did.

“You are not dragons!” Meldred sneered. “You’re sheep!”

The taunts continued and you bit your tongue so hard it bled when Meldred, the heir, said he would make Helaena one of his salt wives. The situation worsened when Aemond was maimed, defending his family’s honor. Aemond then went on to claim a dragon, Vhagar, but of course, Viserys cared little for that fact.

Meldred and his family were raucous in their celebration, filling the halls with their jeers. You knew better than to try to see Aemond. He had shut himself into his rooms after landing his massive dragon atop the Holdfast, blood streaked and cracked his face and neck. He would talk to you when he was ready. You didn’t mind waiting.

But it was Aegon whom you sought out. You knew he had felt each insult Meldred had hurled at him—no matter his sneer and princely bravado, you knew him. You knew he hurt. And you also knew the hidden passageways of the Red Keep and slipped through the dark shadows until you were walking into Aegon’s chambers, as you had done dozens of times before, knowing that courtly propriety would demand otherwise.

“I knew you’d come,” he murmured without turning to face you. Aegon was sitting in one of the overstuffed chaises that he had pulled toward the balcony that overlooked Blackwater Bay.

“I always do.” You settled beside him and stared out toward the horizon, too.

Aegon was quiet for a moment and you waited, as you always did, for him to find what he wanted to say. You never did mind. But your heart clenched when you saw him start to turn one of his rings in circles around his knuckles. It was a habit he had inadvertently started after you had (none too gently) steered him away from wine and ale whenever he had a glimmer of upsetting emotion.

“Is Aemond…” The words trailed off.

“Your mother says she’s having the finest maesters look after him. And I’ve heard murmurs she’s sent a raven to Lady Arryn, too.” You were not sure why Lady Arryn would be needed but perhaps the whispers of her being a witch did hold some water if Alicent sought her out for this.

The prince nodded and continued to turn his ring but the movement stopped quickly as his periwinkle eyes once again settled on you. “You have not gone to see him?”

“I will see him when he calls for me. I’ll not force my way to his side until he is ready. And I wanted to see you, too.”

“I’m not the one who lost an eye,” Aegon muttered, lips pulling tight over his teeth.

Your blood boiled at the reminder, and stayed heated as you saw the broken rage in your dearest friend’s eyes. “What they said, about you, your brothers, and nephews, none of it was true.”

“What?”

“You are not sheep, Aegon. And I’ll not have you believing any vile falsehood that he spewed today.” You needed him to know that it wasn’t true. He was a dragon. Your dragon. “Allowing him and his ilk to have such a hold on you is beneath you.”

Aegon was quiet again before nodding. “You always know what to say.”

“And when do you listen to me, hm?” Knocking your shoulder into his, you were delighted with the smile you coaxed from him. “Aemond will be fine, I am sure of it. And we will be free of the Harlaws soon.”

“Have they said they are leaving soon?”

You reached out and brushed one of his silver curls behind his ear. As you always did, you ignored how your entire chest tightened when he leaned into your palm. “I will make sure they leave with haste.” You knew what you had to do. Just like your mother knew how to stem the blood from a wound and speak to clouds, you knew how to do this.

You slunk back out of Aegon’s chambers and into your own, pulling the blade your brother had given you from beneath your featherbed and sliding it up your sleeve. It fit. Of course it did. This who you were. You set back out into the halls, head held high and steel in your spine. And it only took a handful of steps before another jeer came from the Harlaw’s. “And there is the little Farwynd!”

You turned and saw Meldred saunter into the hall, a few of his cousins on his heels. They blathered something about their spectacle at the training grounds but you didn’t care to listen, only waiting patiently as he moved closer and closer, that same wretched smirk on his face. And, when he was close enough, you moved. The blade glistened as you held it below his belt.

“I’m only going to say this once, so I need you to listen closely. Understand?”

“You wen-”

You pressed the blade closer, feeling as it cut through the leather of his trousers and you delighted in the sharp inhale he took. Yes, he could feel the sharp point of it. He waved a hand at his cousins, keeping them from approaching. “I said, listen to me. You and your family are to leave King’s Landing tonight. Not tomorrow, not a week from now. Tonight. If you do not, I’ll geld you. Do you understand?”

Meldred’s sharp breath smelt of ale and meat and you tried not to recoil as it washed over you. “You cannot command-”

“I am not commanding anything. I’m threatening you. There is a difference, Meldred. I know your family does not do more than kill and fuck, but I am sure you can understand the difference. Leave. Now.” The man’s dark eyes were ablaze with fury and you sank the knife further, feeling more than a little satisfaction when his snarl faded. “If you try to make a move toward me or anyone else in this castle, I will do far more than gelding you. Nod if you understand.”

You watched the tendons grow tight in his jaw before he nodded. Just once.

“Good. Good. You are not as stupid as you look. Now, go. Leave. I’ll be watching.”

And when Aegon asked about the sudden departure of the other Ironborn, you could only smile.

4

Living in the Red Keep had somewhat numbed you to the absurdity of living amongst House Targaryen. Just a few moons ago, a hooded man had asked if you had anything with House Harlaw’s sigil on it and you handed over the small dagger you had taken from their vacated apartments. It was no bother. You would have needed to destroy the seal and it was the least valuable thing you had pilfered anyway. And then when news came a few weeks later that House Harlaw had apparently been entirely eradicated after a certain dagger’s sheath was found beside a murdered Dalton Greyjoy…well, you could only smile. It was not anything of consequence to you. Even as the Iron Islands descended into a bloody civil war, you knew your family and House Farwynd was safe. They were too far away to be targeted and your father had no plans to sail toward danger anyway.

“Your smile is unnerving.”

Your gaze dragged over to Aegon but your smile did not falter. “You like my smile.”

“I do,” he said, cheeks just a touch pink, “but you look mad.”

“That is not a recent development,” Daeron said with a laugh from beside him—Aegon quickly knocked his elbow into his arm with a scowl. He never did like it when anyone else teased you.

“How fares your family?” Alicent said, ignoring her sons’ bickering. “Any news from Lonely Light?”

“My father has told me that most of the violence has settled but he would wager against any long lasting peace for now.”

The corners of Alicent’s mouth pulled down and she quickly turned to discuss that revelation with Rhaenyra and Rhaenys. They would handle it as they saw fit (and Viserys would do little more than hum and haw, as he always did).

The conversation eventually turned to the upcoming festivities for Helaena’s nameday. You suspected Jacaerys and Helaena’s wedding date would be set soon, too. And every word about the upcoming feast and dancing had Helaena shifting more in her seat. You reached across the table and set your hand beside hers, knowing she had to reach out to you, not the other way around.

“I will be at your side for anything you need.”

Helaena’s long fingers moved to settle over yours, tapping a soft beat against your skin. “You will save me then?”

“Of course I will.” Helaena beamed at you for a moment before being pulled away into a conversation with Jeyne and you were happy to focus back on Aegon who set a hand on your leg, a pout pulling at his mouth when you didn’t laugh at a joke you hadn’t heard.

And soon the festivities were in full swing and you were fitted into an outfit the poor seamstress had fretted over for a fortnight. She had been so used to the styles of the capital and House Targaryen that she struggled with your requests. But you, once again longing for your home despite the friendships you had formed here and the years that had passed, missed Lonely Light. You wanted something that would be at home in the familiar shadows of your childhood home. It was a little strange, a little more…you. And it served a dual purpose, despite the seamstress’ confusion.

The music was lively and the crowd more so, probably bolstered by the Arbor Gold and Dornish Reds. That would be your only excuse as to why the princess they had gathered to celebrate was being actively ignored at her own party. You knew her betrothed, Jacaerys, would have been at her side but he had taken ill a few days ago and was currently asleep with a fever. The other royals were doing their best to keep the worst of the courtiers away from Helaena but they could be relentless.

The latest song faded and you hurried your trek through the crowd as you heard one of the jesters call for Helaena to take a turn about the floor.

Before anyone else could step forward, you did. You held out a hand to Helaena and watched as her elusive smile split her mouth. Her soft giggle made you smile, too, as her hand settled into yours.

“You have saved me.”

“I swore to you that I would,” you whispered as you took your position. The crowds behind you started to whisper but you paid no heed to them.

“Is that Lady Farwynd? Wearing trousers?” Someone whispered.

“Yes, I believe so!”

You and Aegon had spent hours in his chambers, learning the steps traditionally taken by men in these dances. He had been a patient if not teasing teacher, but he never gave up when you stepped on his toes or twirled when you were supposed to spin him.

Helaena was a beautiful dancer, light and airy as she moved through the steps and you hoped you hadn’t embarrassed her. Thanking all of your mother’s gods, you didn’t miss a single step and bowed to her as the song finished. She reached out and grabbed your hands, pressing a kiss against your knuckles, before she moved back toward the head table where Alicent waited. She caught your eye over her daughter’s shoulder and smiled at you with a dip of her head.

“That was quite the performance.”

You turned abruptly to see a comely man at your side, a charming smile on his face. Wracking your brain for his name or anything that might help you place him, you were relieved to recognize the sigil, a white weasel. “Lord Varner. Good evening.”

The conversation that followed was pleasant if not a little stilted as he seemed to know more about you than you did about him. But he was amiable, you supposed.

“Would you do me the honor of the next dance, my lady?”

“Apologies, but I did promise Prince Aegon my next dance, my lord.” During your dance lessons, Aegon had made you promise that you would dance with him for the rest of the night after your turn with Helaena. It had been the easiest promise you had ever made.

The man hummed, dark eyes narrowing for just a moment. “I have heard whispers that you are quite close with the prince, no?”

The smile that pushed at your mouth could not be stopped as you nodded. “He is a dear friend.”

And while you hoped that would be the end of it, Varner stepped closer. “A friend. A tricky sort of term, is it not? I must say, my lady, you have played the long game. You are from a wealthy house, but with nothing else to offer the crown.”

By now, your smile had faded and you had begun to unbutton the sides of your trousers and pulled the hidden skirt of your dress free, it was the only thing you could think of to do. Screaming at him and making a fool of yourself was not an option at present. Not when it was Helaena’s nameday. And you did not know why his words hurt you.

“He will never choose you, my lady. You must know that.”

“I will never ask him to choose me, my lord. He is my friend. And I chose him.”

“And when your family says it is time for you to marry? Should you not think of yourself instead of him?”

“What would-”

“Your beauty has been secreted away in the halls of this castle for ages, my lady. But I still heard whispers of it. Of you.”

“And apparently my House’s wealth, my lord. You seem to know that as well,” you added with a sneer.

A blush stained his cheeks and he glanced away for a moment. “We could be a formidable match. I had hoped-”

“Ah, there you are.” Aegon stepped in front of you, looking every bit the prince you knew him to be in fine clothes with silver and gold jewelry across his neck and fingers. “You owe me a dance, my lady.”

“I also asked her for a dance, my prince.”

And then, to your horror and belated amusement, both men held out a hand for you to take. You looked between Lord Varner and Aegon and easily slipped your hand into Aegon’s without a look back as the prince pulled you further onto the dance floor.

He led you through the steps of the dance and did not part from your side even as one song turned into two, then three, then four.

The fourth was slower, mostly meant for couples or lovers, but you did not mind still spending it in Aegon’s arms.

“You chose me, do you?” Aegon murmured and he held fast when you tried to pull away from him and continued to lead you through the dance. His periwinkle eyes held something you could not name, but it was gone with his next blink and he smiled at you.

“You know I do,” you said, confused at how and why your voice shook.

This was Aegon. This was your truest, dearest friend. Why did he suddenly stir something in your chest with just his smile?

-1

With the decree that the eldest child could inherit titles, regardless of their sex, you still expected your brother to become Lord of Lonely Light after your father passed. After all, you were still Ironborn and the laws of the Crown had little sway on the Iron Islands. But you received not one but three ravens from Lonely Light, each stamped with House Farwynd’s sigil. The first was from your mother, telling you that you could hold the title if you wanted it.

The second was from your father, asking if you wanted to be named heir. It was an honest question with no ill-intent behind it as he reminded you of how much he loved and missed you.

The third was from your brother, relief tilting his handwriting. You knew I never wanted it, dear sister. I cannot sail the world if I must be counting coin on Lonely Light.

Well. That settled that, then. You would be Lady Farwynd when the time came.

The revelation didn’t give you more than a moment’s pause. You hadn’t really given your future a thought other than eventually returning to Lonely Light. And where did that leave you with Aegon? He was your dearest, truest friend and Lonely Light was so far from King’s Landing. But still, Rhaenyra had invited you to stay in the capital for as long as you wanted and soon your presence would have been required anyway. Jacaerys wed Helaena in a lavish ceremony and soon after that, with the pull to go home and the push to stay still gnawing at your mind, Viserys finally died and it would have been rude for you without paying your respects.

You owed that man nothing.

The only good he had done was half heartedly helping create his children but you thought they were more like their mothers anyway. You sat behind Aegon during the prayers and let him tangle his fingers with yours when he reached back for you. If Aegon needed you in this moment, no matter his own conflicting emotions regarding his father, you would not falter. And you would never shun his company. If he sought you out more during Rhaenyra’s coronation celebrations, you would never complain.

He was your Aegon.

He danced with you until your feet hurt and they you sipped wine at his side, hiding away on one of the Red Keep’s many balconies until the sun came up. And as the celebrations continued on, you were one of the very few Ironborn Houses that came to swear fealty to the new queen in person. All others sent ravens with their oaths but you doubted many of them meant them, truthfully. And you doubted that Rhaenyra cared much either.

But with each day that slipped through your fingers, you felt the pull to go back to Lonely Light…and it was strange that you hesitated to call it home. It was only for a moment, but it was a hesitation regardless. You needed to learn how to truly care for your charges and responsibilities.

“You’re leaving, aren’t you?” Aegon asked.

Hot tears stung at your eyes without warning as you turned to look at Aegon, standing in the shadows of the hidden passage. “I don’t want to leave.”

“But you will.” He moved further into your rooms and grasped at your hands with shaking fingers. Without another word, he kissed each of your knuckles and your heart twisted with every brush of his lips. Why? Why now must you feel this? Or was it always waiting, patient for you to understand?

“And I will fly Sunfyre to your island if you are gone too long.” The prince tried to smile as he said it but it did not reach his beautiful eyes and it furthered the ache in your chest.

“I expect nothing less, my prince.” Your smile was no doubt stilted, too.

Aegon’s next breath stuttered against your hands as he still held them up to his mouth. “I’m just Aegon to you. Your Aegon.”

The words were a bell toll in your mind as you sailed away from the Red Keep and you tried to keep your eyes on Aegon as he stood on the shore, watching watching watching until he disappeared entirely. Your stomach still lurched all the way back to Lonely Light and your mother’s perfume and gentle touch still settled it. Your family threw a feast to mark the occasion of your homecoming and you slipped into a routine of shadowing your parents to make sure your island continued to prosper. It was good, fulfilling work.

But still, your heart ached and your dreams never ceased to bring you periwinkle eyes that haunted you when you woke.

“Part of your heart has been left behind in that wretched city,” your mother said, brooking no argument as she claimed the chair beside you as you learned the intricacies of collecting “taxes” from your men.

More tears came; you had tried to hide them since you had come back to Lonely Light. After all, were you not supposed to be here? Your home? “I… I do not know how to heal this wound, mama.”

She simply shook her head and pressed a gentle kiss to your temple. “I have lost so many years of your life to that crown and that iron chair. But you are still my little girl. I know your heart and it brings me the smallest bit of joy to still see you capable of such love.”

And the bell tolled again.

5

When Rhaenyra called on House Farwynd to help defend the Realm against the threat of the renewed Triarchy, you knew you must answer. Your family supported you and your men were all too eager to oblige. While your father might not have been as hungry for bloodshed and violence after marrying your mother, that did not mean the urges of the Ironborn beneath your care were the same. And you must lead them. You knew it. Your father knew it.

To truly be seen as the heir to Lonely Light, you had to do this.

The tears in your mother’s eyes were the only indication of her fear for you. “My girl. My beautiful girl,” she whispered. Deft fingers pulled at the straps of your light armor, tightening it a little more. “I only just had you home again. And now we must be parted again?”

“I will return to you again, Mother. I promise you.”

She nodded and pressed a kiss to your temple, wet cheek pressing against yours. “I know you will. But I…” Her thumb pressed against your cheek and her eyes held secrets she couldn’t divulge. It was something you always expected from her—her gods still burdened and blessed her. “I do not know how you will return.” She then murmured a prayer in her native tongue, asking for blessings, safety, and, strangely enough, happiness for you.

And you repeated the prayer to yourself as you stood beside your father on the bow of your ship, knowing your mother stood on the shores of Lonely Light, doing the same. Your brother was captaining a ship behind you and nearly a hundred more filled the sea beside you. When this was over, your brother asked for leave to take his ship and men east, wanting to explore Qarth and perhaps visit Asshai. He still wanted his adventures and you and your father were happy to oblige him.

But when you arrived at King’s Landing, almost all those thoughts vanished from your mind as Aegon shoved his way through the crowds at the dock to get to you. Ignoring propriety and courtly rules, he wrapped you in a tight hug that had strange tears stinging your eyes as his familiar scent engulfed your senses.

“Aegon,” you whispered. There was nothing else you could think to say.

“You have returned. To me.”

“I-”

“Yes, yes, and to help defend the Crown, that as well. But to me.”

A watery laugh punched out of you as you pulled back, fingers still gripping his shoulders. “Yes, to you.”

And it seemed the gods (or just Rhaenyra) were smiling down on you when you and your fleet were assigned to protect the shores of the Riverlands and Stormlands with Aegon and Daeron flying their dragons overhead. He would be at your side and you at his. For now, you would not be separated again. And while you knew this time together would be different, you still treasured it. Even when the Triarchy came and battered themselves against your ships and dragonfire, you knew you were with Aegon.

Your brother and father were not blind, Any time your men and the dragon riders made camp together, Aegon sought you out.

“You have a dragon shadow,” Roryn said with a smile.

“She has a dragon’s heart,” your father corrected, eyes finding your face over the chipped edge of his tankard.

The seas were calm tonight and you heard your men wondering if that meant the Drowned God was giving you a reprieve from your enemies or if it was a warning of what was to come. But still, you found yourself turning to see Aegon and Sunfyre at the edge of camp, both content with just each other for the moment.

“When you were taken from us, we thought you had been lost to us forever,” your father murmured. The ale sloshed over the side of his tankard as he set it down on the uneven table. “But you are still my daughter, but I think you have changed others.” His roughened fingers slid against your cheek before he stood. “You are salt, sea, and shadow, my girl. Every light needs its shadow.” And then he was standing and dragging your brother up from his seat, too. A question was on the tip of your tongue but it quickly left when Aegon approached the table. He and your father and brother dipped their heads at each other, the smallest bit of respect shown, before he sat beside you. Your stomach twisted pleasantly as you noticed how the firelight made his periwinkle eyes sparkle as the prince smiled at you.

It had taken you nearly a year of being parted for you to understand what you had with Aegon. It wasn’t loud or fiery. It was quiet and slow growing. And you wouldn’t have it any other way. “Is it selfish of me to be thankful for the Triarchy to attack? If I had to wait another moon to see you again, I would have flown Sunfyre to Lonely Light.”

You smiled and it grew when his hand nudged against yours on the table and you took the chance to link your fingers together, roughened palm against roughened palm. “Well, we can be selfish together.”

You and Aegon spoke until the last of your men started to turn toward the tents or their ships to sleep for the night. And it was still not enough time with him. You didn’t think you would ever have enough time with him. And you hope he felt the same way.

But you didn’t have time to seek an answer to your question when a horn blared and ripped you from your dreams of periwinkle eyes. You rushed out of your tent as you tightened the chestplate over your body, feet sinking into the sand. The horn blared again and you saw the foreign boats rushing ashore and shadowed figures hurdling out of them. They had come just before dawn. The bodies of the lookouts were half-submerged in the dying embers of the fires and you barely had time to recognize them before you were taken from your feet, tackled and spitting sand. It scratched your skin and blurred your vision for just a moment before you rolled again and grabbed one of the blades from your boot and thrust it down into the neck of the man who had taken you down. He gurgled in his own blood but you hardly heard it as you sprung to your feet.

Your men were yelling, hurrying to their longboats to take to the seas, culling the stem of invaders. They were yelling for anyone and everyone to follow them. And you knew you should. You were the heir to Lonely Light. You were Ironborn. And-

Daeron’s dragon Tessarion screeched and belched cobalt flames across a horde of men intent on hurting her and her rider before she took to the skies and then you saw Sunfyre struggling against the overwhelming numbers of Triarchy rushing toward him. And Aegon was there.

Your Aegon.

And your decision was made. You could hear Aegon’s screams and your mind cruelly conjured every time he laughed with you, the touch of his hand in yours, the whispered secrets you had given each other.

And it was about to be ripped away from you.

You sprinted toward Aegon, grabbing another weapon from around your waist and threw yourself into the fray with a scream that shredded your throat. Sunfyre’s golden fire rained down on the group but still more came, piling onto the beautiful dragon with glinting knives and screams of their own. Again and again you stabbed and swung and killed, pushing your way through the crowd to get to them. To get to Aegon. And then you were standing in front of him, a blood-covered blade in each hand and your heart roaring in your ears. And Aegon was warm at your back for just a moment before collapsing and you saw red and then gold as Sunfyre roared again. You could taste the other men’s blood on your tongue as it mixed with the greasy ash that swept by you, but still…you could not stop. Not until Aegon was safe.

You knocked away a knife as it aimed for your stomach and then took the man’s head from his shoulders with a roar of your own and then sank into the sand. Blood had soaked you to the bone…but it was done. Turning on your knees, you threw down your weapons and scrambled to drag Aegon into your arms. Sunfyre hissed, his own blood steaming into the purple light of dawn from where the attackers had managed to wound him, and curled his golden tail around you.

“Aegon? Aegon, can you look at me? Open your eyes!” Your bloodied hands patted at his face, his chest, anywhere you could think to touch him that wasn’t wounded. A crimson stain had spread across his stomach, a matching one down his left thigh. And he was…

“You…magnificent woman…” Slowly, ever so slowly, his eyes opened and he smiled at you, blood on his teeth.

Tears quickly blurred your vision but you hurried to blink them away as you stared down at him. “Do not worry. I…I will get a maester. You are going to be…” The tears came again. “We are going to be just fine. You and me.” He had to be. He had to. You just got him back.

Aegon reached up and brushed his fingers against the drying blood on your cheek. “I knew you’d come. My bloody savior. My vicious lady.”

“Did I not tell you?” You asked, almost laughing. “I would always come to you.”

The battle might be won, your men cheering and Tessarion roaring overhead, but you knew, as Aegon looked at you and found the strength to wrap his hand around the back of your neck and gently pull you down so your forehead pressed against his, sticky and warm, something else had changed.

+1

Aegon loved you. He loved you. He had loved you a few moments after you had offered to teach him Bastard Valyrian, picking him above all others. You had wanted him, over and over again. And he wanted you. Loved you.

And you were leaving him again.

The war was over. His family was safe. His sister’s reign was at peace, again. His siblings, niece, and nephews were settling into happy and mostly politically advantageous marriages. (He would still never understand why it took Aemond so long to get married to Lady Arryn but that was a story he could be told later, he assumed.)

But why not him? And why not with you?

You had run to him when the Triarchy had nearly overwhelmed him and Sunfyre. You had killed for him. So why were you leaving again?

Now, Aegon could have a silver tongue when the situation called for it, and often when it didn’t. But why could he not form the words to keep you from leaving again? He could not bear it a second time. Not again. Not when he just had you back. And why did this affliction now of all times? He’d never had trouble speaking with you before.

But still, he wordlessly watched as you and your men milled about the Great Hall, esteemed guests at the festivities celebrating the obliteration of the Triarchy. Aegon’s wounds were still tender but would heal, several maesters had checked and then checked again at the behest of his mother and eldest sister. And you were set to leave at first light tomorrow, back to Lonely Light. Away from him.

You caught his eye over your father’s shoulder and smiled at him, radiant and beautiful. You had been beautiful covered in blood and gore. You had been beautiful when you were in your finest gowns and your oldest sailing leathers. You were beautiful.

And then Aegon was standing and moving through the crowd, ignoring how his side protested and his leg burned with the sudden movement. He had to see you, touch you, let you know that he loved you. He bit back a snarl as someone collided with him but still carried on until he was standing beside you.

Brief but formal introductions had been made ages ago but Aegon was not entirely sure what the older man thought of him. Lord Farwynd was stern and Aegon was only momentarily stunned silent when he turned his gaze toward him. “It took you some time to make your way over here, princeling.”

Aegon’s smile felt a little crooked but it settled when you laughed and knocked your arm into your father’s side. “Father, please.”

He simply nodded his head, the very edges of his lips curling in a ghost of a smile. “I doubt I am the one you came to speak to.” Lord Farwynd pressed a soft kiss to her temple before walking away without really giving Aegon any sort farewell.

You looked like you were about to say something but Aegon couldn’t wait and wrapped both of his hands around one of yours and started to tug you toward one of the balconies. “I must speak with you.”

And you followed without a word but he could feel your gaze pressing into the back of his head and as he hurried to drag you behind the curtain and stone pillar of the nearest one.

“Aegon? What-”

He kissed you.

To be true, that was not what he had intended to do but he could not stop himself when the moonlight hit your eyes and your mouth looked so…perfect.

But you kissed him back.

Your arms wrapped around his shoulders and pulled him tight. It was a little uncoordinated, but Aegon didn’t care. He could teach you, and he could learn what you liked. You could learn together. And when you smiled against his mouth, Aegon’s entire chest felt like it was near to bursting. His hands framed your face and he pulled you closer, barely letting either of your lungs fill with your next breath, and kissed you kissed you kissed you.

He could kiss you forever.

And he wanted to.

“Marry me,” he murmured against your mouth. “Please, please, marry me. Be my wife and let me be your husband.”

You paused and your fingers moved to brush through the curls at the nape of his neck. He watched with rapt attention as you bit at your lip. “Aegon, Lonely light is so far from the Red Keep. I would-”

“The distance is nothing to a dragon. And I want to be with you. It was always you. It will always be you.” His thumbs smoothed soft circles into your cheeks and your eyes shuttered as you leaned a little into the touch. He should have been doing this for years. Why had he wasted so much time? “I will happily go where you lead. I will follow you everywhere.” He paused. “I love you. Do you hear me? I love you. I want to be your husband. Please, tell me if your heart is the same as mine.”

Your thumb pressed against his bottom lip as your next breath stuttered against his. And then you kissed him, just enough for Aegon to chase your lips, eyes closed, when you pulled back after a few too-short moments. “I love you, too.”

Aegon’s eyes opened and his answering smile almost hurt but he did not care when he pulled you closer, hands bracketing your hips. Just for a moment, he let him think of all the things he would learn about you soon enough…if you accepted his proposal.

The tears in your eyes gave him hope as they sparkled in the low light. “Will you tell your sister and mother or shall I?”

A/N: Thank you for reading! Please let me know what you think!