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theonottsbxtch · 13 days ago

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SUMMER OF LOVE | CS55

an: i can’t remember how this idea came to me but me and rhi ( @iimplicitt ) were losing our minds at this concept eheheh

wc: 4,2k

"Have I ever told you about the summer I fell in love?"

Her voice was soft, her words carrying the weight of a memory so vivid, it might have been yesterday. Her grandchildren, sprawled on the living room floor with curious, wide eyes, shook their heads.

"Nonna had a romance?" one of them teased, the youngest, her freckles scrunched with disbelief.

She smiled, the kind of smile that knew things, and reached for the delicate chain around her neck. Dangling from it was a small, sea-glass pendant, its edges smoothed by the tides of time.

"It was on the Amalfi Coast," she began, her voice faraway now, as though the waves themselves had come to pull her back. "I was young, too young to know better. And his name was Carlos."

The room seemed to fall silent, except for the soft clink of rain against the window.

"Was he handsome?" one of the older grandchildren asked, leaning in.

She chuckled, low and warm. "Handsome doesn’t quite cover it. He was... larger than life. Carlos had this way about him—like the sun rose just to warm his skin, like every room he entered belonged to him." She paused, her gaze slipping past them, beyond the room. "But that was the summer I learned something important. The things that seem too perfect are usually hiding something."

For a moment, no one said anything. Then she leaned back in her chair, and the spell broke, just enough to let her voice return. "But it was still the most beautiful summer of my life. Let me tell you how it began..."

The summer of straight out of university unfurled like a dream. She had just turned twenty-one, brimming with the kind of naive hope that made her believe anything was possible. She and her best friend, Emilia, had spent months scraping together every spare coin, renting a modest villa just outside Positano. The place was small, with paint flaking from its whitewashed walls and shutters that groaned in the evening wind, but the terrace was draped in bougainvillea, and the view—a vast, shimmering stretch of the Tyrrhenian Sea—was worth every sacrifice.

That was where she first saw him.

The morning had been spent on the beach, lying on striped towels under the relentless Italian sun. By early afternoon, their shoulders were warm and pink, their hair damp with sea salt, and they’d wandered into a small harbor café for spritzes and shade.

She wore a yellow sundress Emilia had insisted she pack. “It’s perfect for you,” Emilia had said that morning, tying the straps just right. The dress clung to her lightly tanned skin, and for the first time in a while, she felt... beautiful.

And then he walked in.

He wasn’t just handsome—he was magnetic. He had the kind of presence that made strangers turn their heads, as if sensing something larger than life in their midst. Carlos wore an unbuttoned white linen shirt and tan trousers that looked effortless, but the real allure was in the way he carried himself. As though the summer sun and the breeze off the water were his alone.

“Who is that?” Emilia whispered, wide-eyed.

She didn’t answer. She couldn’t. Her heart was thudding in her chest, her eyes fixed on him as he strolled to the counter.

Carlos ordered a coffee in fluent, easy Italian, exchanged a few words with the waiter, and smiled—a slow, devastating smile that seemed to brighten the whole café. He didn’t look at her until he turned to leave, but when he did, their eyes met briefly. Just a glance, quick and electric.

That evening, the village square came alive with music and laughter. String lights twinkled above the cobblestones, and the air smelled of grilled seafood and wine. She spun under the lights, her sandals kicking up dust as Emilia urged her to dance. The world felt infinite, golden, and free.

She didn’t notice Carlos at first. But then, in the middle of a spin, she felt a hand catch hers.

She turned, and there he was.

“Carlos,” he said simply, as if introducing himself was the most natural thing in the world.

“May have to wait for that,” she replied, her voice quieter than she intended.

He smiled again, and in that moment, it felt like nothing could go wrong. She couldn’t have known what lay ahead, couldn’t have guessed that something so dazzling could carry the weight of a secret. All she knew was that, for the first time in her life, she felt utterly alive.

Carlos didn’t let go of her hand right away. Instead, he led her toward the edge of the square, where the noise of the festa softened into a hum and the scent of lemons hung heavy in the night air.

“Are you visiting Positano?” he asked, his what seemed to be a Spanish accent lacing his words, smooth and melodic.

She nodded, trying to steady her voice. “Yes. Just for the summer.”

His dark eyes lingered on her, studying her as if committing every detail to memory. “Then I’m lucky to have met you. Summers go by so quickly.”

She smiled, feeling both shy and bold under his gaze. “What about you? Do you live here?”

“No,” he said with a shake of his head, his curls catching the light. “I’m only passing through. A few weeks, maybe less. Work, mostly.”

She tilted her head. “Work? On the Amalfi Coast?”

Carlos laughed, a low, rich sound that made her pulse quicken. “Not a bad place for it, is it? I’m… well, it’s complicated. But let’s not talk about work.”

“Alright,” she said, her smile widening. “What should we talk about, then?”

Carlos stepped closer, his voice soft. “Tell me about you. Why did you come to Positano?”

She hesitated, not sure what he wanted to hear. The truth felt almost too simple. “It’s beautiful here,” she said after a moment. “And I wanted—no, I needed—to feel something different. To get away, to see more of the world before...”

“Before what?”

She laughed nervously. “Before real life starts, I suppose.”

Carlos nodded, his expression turning thoughtful. “I understand that. Sometimes it feels like we only have a little time to be free, doesn’t it?”

The words settled between them, heavier than the moment called for, but she didn’t mind. She felt as if he saw right through her—past the yellow sundress, past the carefree dances under string lights, straight into the part of her that had always craved something more.

He offered her his hand again. “Dance with me.”

She hesitated, glancing back at the crowd in the square. “There’s no music here.”

Carlos smiled. “Do we need it?”

Before she could answer, he spun her gently into his arms. The world seemed to narrow around them, until it was only the sound of her breath and the quiet rustle of leaves in the warm breeze. He moved with an ease that matched the confidence in his smile, leading her as if they’d done this a hundred times before.

She laughed, the sound light and unguarded, and for the first time in a long while, she stopped thinking. She stopped wondering what came next, or what was expected, and let herself fall into the moment.

For the rest of the night, Carlos stayed by her side. They wandered through the winding streets of the village, talking about nothing and everything, until the festa died down and the moon hung high over the cliffs.

At her villa, just as the horizon began to blush with the first hints of dawn, he paused at the gate.

“I’d like to see you again,” he said, his voice low.

She hesitated. She wanted to say yes, but the intensity of his gaze unnerved her, as though she were stepping into something she didn’t fully understand. Still, she found herself nodding.

“Tomorrow?”

Carlos smiled, and for a moment, he looked almost relieved. “Tomorrow,” he said. Then, with one last lingering glance, he turned and disappeared into the pale light of morning.

She stood there for a long time, the stone of the villa cool beneath her palms, wondering how it was possible to meet someone who made the rest of the world feel small.

Over the next week, Carlos became a constant presence in her life. He seemed to know exactly where to find her, whether she was perched on the terrace with a book or wandering through the narrow streets of Positano. Every day, he’d appear with that same easy confidence, carrying two gelatos, or a bundle of lemons he’d picked from a nearby grove, or a suggestion for some new adventure.

They swam in hidden coves where the water was impossibly blue. They hiked to quiet hilltops, where the sea stretched endlessly beneath them. They danced again in the village square when another festa lit up the night, and Carlos spun her so wildly that she laughed until her ribs ached.

Emilia noticed, of course. She watched with a smirk as Carlos whisked her away each day, teasing her endlessly when they returned.

“I like this for you,” Emilia said one night as they lounged on the villa’s terrace. A bottle of wine sat between them, the remains of dinner scattered on their plates. “You deserve a little romance.”

She smiled, swirling her glass. “It’s more than a little, isn’t it?”

Emilia raised an eyebrow. “Is it?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted, her cheeks warming. “It feels… big. Like I’m living in someone else’s story.”

Emilia grinned. “That’s how you know it’s good.”

As the week went on, she found herself looking forward to Carlos’ visits more and more. She didn’t just enjoy his company—she craved it. The way he made her laugh, the way he seemed to really see her, the way his stories always hinted at some grander, more mysterious life just beyond her reach.

And then, on the last evening of the week, as they stood on the terrace overlooking the sea, Carlos said something that caught her completely off guard.

“Stay,” he said simply.

She turned to him, startled. “Stay?”

“For another week,” he clarified, leaning against the railing. “Don’t leave tomorrow. Stay here, in my villa. Let me show you more. One more week—it’s nothing.”

Her heart fluttered at the way he said it, so casually, as if the world would bend to make it happen.

“I can’t just… stay,” she said, though her voice lacked conviction.

“Why not?” Carlos smiled, leaning closer. “Your life will still be waiting for you when you leave. But this—” he gestured to the view, to the stars scattered over the sea—“this won’t wait.”

When Carlos finally left that night, she found herself pacing the villa, unsure what to do. She turned to Emilia, who was stretched out on the couch, flipping through a guidebook.

“So,” Emilia said, not even looking up, “what did he want?”

She hesitated. “He asked me to stay.”

Emilia sat up, her eyes lighting up. “And what did you say?”

“I didn’t say anything.” She chewed her lip, pacing again. “I don’t know what to say. I mean, I like him—”

“You like him?” Emilia interrupted with a laugh. “Chica, you’re practically glowing every time he walks into a room. Let’s not downplay it.”

She sank onto the couch beside her, covering her face with her hands. “I think I’m catching feelings for him,” she admitted, her voice muffled.

Emilia’s grin softened into something kinder. “Good,” she said. “You should. Isn’t that the whole point of a summer like this?”

She peeked through her fingers. “But what if it’s a bad idea?”

Emilia shrugged, pouring the last of the wine into her glass. “Then it’s a bad idea you’ll never forget. But if you don’t stay, you’ll spend the rest of your life wondering what might’ve happened.”

She stayed quiet for a long moment, staring out at the night. The stars felt closer here, the world smaller and brighter. She could already imagine what one more week with Carlos might feel like—the laughter, the late nights, the way her chest tightened every time he looked at her.

Emilia nudged her. “So? What are you going to do?”

She smiled softly, her decision already forming.

“I’m going to stay.”

Her extra week in Positano felt like stepping into another world, one that existed just for the two of them. With each passing day, Carlos became more ingrained in her life—guiding her to places tourists never found, introducing her to the quiet beauty of sunrises on the cliffs and the music of waves crashing against hidden coves.

They spent hours talking, laughing, and sharing pieces of themselves. He told her about his childhood, how he’d grown up by the sea but had spent most of his adult life in cities that never seemed to sleep. She told him about her love of art, her dreams of finding a life that felt as vibrant as the colors on her canvas.

The days blurred into golden afternoons and soft evenings, and each moment with Carlos felt lighter than air.

But it was the night before her second departure when everything changed.

They were sitting on the terrace of the villa, the stars bright and close overhead. The wine they’d been sipping was nearly gone, and the air was thick with the scent of salt and bougainvillea. Carlos had been quiet, uncharacteristically so, leaning back in his chair as if lost in thought.

She reached over, brushing her fingers against his hand. “What are you thinking about?” she asked softly.

He glanced at her, his expression unreadable. “Nothing worth troubling you with.”

She laughed, light and soft. “You think too much.”

“And you don’t think enough,” he countered with a faint smile, his eyes meeting hers.

She hesitated, her heart beating faster. She felt as though the night were holding its breath, the world tilting slightly. The words came before she could stop them.

“I think I’m falling in love with you.”

For a moment, the only sound was the distant crash of the waves below.

Carlos didn’t move, didn’t speak. His eyes darkened, his expression tightening just enough for her to notice.

Panic shot through her chest. She pulled her hand back quickly. “I’m sorry,” she said, her voice trembling. “I didn’t mean to— I don’t know why I—”

“Amore, stop,” he interrupted gently, but she couldn’t meet his eyes.

“I shouldn’t have said that,” she muttered, rising from her chair. “I’ve ruined everything, haven’t I? I knew this wasn’t—”

“Amore,” he said again, more firmly this time, standing and catching her wrist. “Don’t. You haven’t ruined anything.”

She turned to him then, her eyes glistening, searching his face for something—anything—that would make her feel less foolish. But what she saw only confused her more.

“Then why do you look like that?” she whispered.

Carlos closed his eyes for a moment, his grip on her wrist loosening. When he opened them again, there was something pained in his expression, something she couldn’t place.

“I didn’t want this to happen,” he said softly.

Her stomach sank. “Didn’t want what to happen?”

He let out a breath, running a hand through his hair. “Amore, I—” He paused, as if searching for the right words. “I wasn’t honest with you. From the beginning.”

“What do you mean?” she asked, her voice barely audible.

“I have someone waiting for me,” he said finally, his voice heavy. “Back in Monaco. A fiancée.”

The word hung in the air, sharp and cutting. She froze, her mind racing, trying to make sense of what he’d just said.

“A… fiancée?” she repeated, her voice hollow.

“Yes.” He looked at her, his expression pleading now. “I never meant to hurt you, amore. I didn’t expect to meet someone like you.”

She stepped back, shaking her head. “So what was this, then? A game? A way to pass the time before you went back to her?”

“No, it wasn’t like that,” Carlos said quickly, his voice breaking. “It was real. Every moment with you was real.”

She stared at him, her heart splitting in two. “But it doesn’t matter, does it? You’re going back to her.”

Carlos didn’t answer right away. His silence was all the confirmation she needed.

Tears welled in her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. She turned away, gripping the edge of the terrace railing as the wind whipped her hair around her face. “You should leave,” she said finally, her voice trembling.

“Amore—”

“Stop calling me that!” she shouted, cutting him off. “You have a fiancée?” she repeated, her voice trembling with both disbelief and fury.

“Yes,” Carlos said quietly, his shoulders slumping. “But it’s not… it’s complicated.”

Her laugh was sharp and bitter. “What could possibly be complicated about being engaged and then spending two weeks seducing someone else?”

He took a step closer, his hands open, pleading. “She made me marry her.”

She froze, her brow furrowing in confusion. “What?”

Carlos looked at her, desperation etched in his features. “She made me. Or she’d leave me.”

Her mouth fell open, and for a moment, she couldn’t find the words. When they finally came, they were laced with disbelief. “Made you? What do you mean, made you? Are you some kind of dog, Carlos?”

His jaw tightened, and he looked away, ashamed. “It’s… it’s more complicated than you think. In my line of work. There are a type of people I should be seen with. If I didn’t agree—”

“Then she’d leave you,” she finished coldly. “And you couldn’t stand that, could you?”

Carlos’s eyes darted back to her. “It’s not like that.”

“Then tell me what it’s like,” she snapped, her voice breaking.

“I don’t love her,” he said quickly, his voice rising. “I love you.”

Her heart wavered for a moment, but her anger flared again, overpowering the fragile flicker of hope. “Then why don’t you break up with her? I don’t understand.”

Carlos ran a hand through his hair, his frustration mounting. “That’s the problem.”

Her laugh was sharp, cutting through the night. “The problem? Carlos, what does that even mean? Do you love her or not?”

“No!” he said, stepping closer. “I told you, I don’t love her. I’ve never loved anyone the way I love you.”

She stared at him, her chest heaving with the weight of his words. She wanted to believe him—wanted to believe that the past week hadn’t been a lie. But something inside her cracked, a voice of reason cutting through the chaos.

“And who’s to say you won’t find another young thing in another sunny place and do the same thing to me?” she asked, her voice quiet but firm.

Carlos recoiled as if she’d slapped him, his face falling. “Amore… it’s not like that. I swear, it’s not.”

“Isn’t it?” she shot back, her eyes narrowing. “You’re standing here, telling me you love me, but you’re also telling me you’re tied to someone else. What am I supposed to do with that, Carlos? What kind of future could we even have?”

He opened his mouth to respond, but no words came out. For the first time, Carlos seemed uncertain, his usual confidence faltering.

She shook her head, stepping back toward the railing. “You don’t even know what you want, do you? You want me, but you won’t let go of her. You want both, and that’s not love, Carlos. That’s selfish.”

“Amore,” he said softly, reaching for her, but she pulled away.

“No,” she said, her voice firm. “I think you should leave. I can’t… I can’t do this anymore.”

For a long moment, he stood there, as if trying to find the right words to stop her from slipping away. But there was nothing he could say, and he knew it.

Without another word, he turned and walked into the darkness, leaving her alone on the terrace, her tears finally falling as she gripped the cool stone railing.

She’d come to Positano searching for freedom, for something bigger than the life she’d left behind. But now, she felt more trapped than ever, chained to a memory she’d never quite escape.

“And so,” she continued, her voice soft, tinged with a wistful smile, “I left Positano. I packed my things, kissed the sea goodbye, and never looked back.”

The youngest leaned forward, her dark curls bouncing. “But what happened, Nonna?”

She tilted her head, her gaze distant, as though she were looking out at the cliffs of Positano again, the sea shimmering beneath her memory.

“He loved another woman,” she said simply, her voice steady despite the weight of the words.

“And what happened to her?” asked the eldest, his voice filled with curiosity.

She smiled faintly, leaning back in her chair. “He fell out of love.” She let the silence linger for a moment before adding, “And I didn’t wait for him. Instead, I met your abuelo.”

The children exchanged glances, the story lingering between them. Finally, the youngest spoke again, her voice cautious. “Nonna, did you ever… stay in touch with him?”

Her smile faltered, just slightly. She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she stood, smoothing her skirt with her hands. “Wait here,” she said, her voice quieter now.

She crossed the room, her steps deliberate, and opened the door to her bedroom. The grandchildren exchanged curious looks but didn’t follow, their gazes tracking her as she disappeared into the wardrobe.

Moments later, she returned, a small wooden box in her hands. The edges were worn with age, but it was polished and cared for, as though it had been opened and closed countless times. She placed it gently on the coffee table and sat back down, her hands folded in her lap.

“What’s in there?” asked the middle child, her voice barely above a whisper.

She hesitated for a moment before opening the lid. Inside were dozens of letters, all neatly tied with faded ribbons. The envelopes were yellowed with time, but the handwriting on each one was unmistakably bold, slanted, and familiar.

The eldest leaned closer, picking up one of the letters. On the front, her name was written in Carlos’ elegant script. When he turned it over, he froze.

“Abuela,” he said, his eyes wide, “es el piloto de Ferrari?”

Her lips pressed into a thin smile, her eyes softening with a mix of emotions. She reached over and took the letter from him, her fingers lingering on the edges of the paper.

“To me,” she said softly, “he was just Carlos.”

The room fell silent, the letters resting on the table like echoes of a life she hadn’t shared before. Her grandchildren didn’t speak, sensing that this part of the story didn’t need more words. She glanced at the letters one last time before carefully closing the lid of the box.

“So what you’re saying is… our abuelo could have been Carlos Sainz?” The only boy said.

His sister gasped, her hands flying to her cheeks, while the youngest giggled, nudging her brother.

Her stern look didn’t last long before her lips curved into a small smile. “Mira,” she said, leaning forward slightly, her tone serious but warm, “if your heart tells you something, believe it.”

The grandchildren quieted, their attention snapping back to her.

She gestured to the box on the table. “There was a time when my heart told me to stay. To hold on to a dream. But it also told me to walk away, even when it hurt.” Her voice softened, her gaze drifting again to a place only she could see. “And because I listened, I found your abuelo. I found a love that was steady and strong, one that didn’t ask me to sacrifice myself.”

The children were quiet, absorbing her words.

The eldest broke the silence, her voice small but curious. “But… do you think you made the right choice, Nonna?”

She smiled gently. “I know I did,” she said. “Because if I hadn’t, I wouldn’t have the three of you sitting here, making a mess of my living room.”

The children laughed, the heaviness of the moment lifting just a little.

The boy grinned again, though his voice was softer this time. “Still, it’s kind of crazy. We could’ve been the grandchildren of a Ferrari legend.”

She chuckled, shaking her head. “Ay, chico. Legends don’t make families. Your abuelo gave me something far greater than any title or fame ever could.”

She reached out, pulling him close and pressing a kiss to his hair. Then she looked at each of them in turn, her voice steady but full of warmth. “Remember this, mi amor. Listen to your heart. But make sure it leads you somewhere worth staying.”

For a moment, the grandchildren were silent, watching their grandmother as though seeing her for the first time. Then the eldest crawled onto the armrest of her chair, curling against her side.

“Te quiero, Nonna,” she murmured.

She smiled, brushing a strand of hair from Sofia’s face. “I love you too, mi cielo.”

As the sun began to set outside, casting the room in a golden glow, the box of letters sat on the table, unopened but not forgotten. A quiet reminder of a life lived boldly, with a heart that never stopped listening.

the end.

#f1 #f1 imagine #f1 fanfic #formula one x reader #f1 x reader #formula 1 #formula one #carlos sainz fic #carlos sainz fluff #carlos sainz imagine #carlos sainz fanfic #carlos sainz #cs55 imagine #cs55 x reader #cs55 fic #cs55 #ferrari formula one #ferrari formula 1 #ferrari

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bumblebeesfromvenus · 1 year ago

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My precious Jewel ♧

Bale!Bruce Wayne x soon-to-be wife!reader

A/N: I got carried away. I'm very passionate about Bale!Bruce and just lost control at one point. I'm not sorry, hehe! This is for all my Bale!Bruce girlies. Can be read for any Bruce, though! Enjoy!

~Fi 🪻

Prompt: Bruce spoiling you to the high heavens and only wanting your love in return.

Requested by: my lovely mutual @vampkennedy

Warnings: NFSW CONTENT. proceed with caution. PiV, creampie, very very fluffy, kinda possessive Bruce

Word count: 3.6k

PART 2 ♡

Please don't copy my work. I put a lot of effort and heart into the things I write.

❤️◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇💍◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇❤️

There was not a morning where you didn't wake up like this. You were alone, yes, but you knew he wasn't far. He never was. This had turned into a game of sorts. A spiel where he would shower you in lavish gifts every single morning. It was his way of showing you just how much you meant to him and that you held his heart in your hands.

You sat up in your shared bed and stretched your arms, letting out a yawn. Your gaze fell to the sliver of light that your curtains couldn't keep out. Getting up, you followed it carefully, knowing that he wanted you to. He was Bruce Wayne, nothing was a coincidence. Everything was intenional. A small, red box sat on your vanity, a note right next to it. It was being perfectly illuminated by the slice of sunshine cutting through the darkness of the room. A smile crept onto your face as you read the note your lover had left you.

My beloved,

May this bring a sparkle to your life, just as you have brought to mine.

Love,

Bruce ♡

You rolled your eyes at how corny this was, but it still tugged at your heart strings in the best way possible. Every day there would be a new box and note for you to discover. Placing the gifts in just the right spot and, like today, draping the curtain just at the perfect angle to guide the way to his love. He was always awake before you were but that didn't stop him. He'd never missed a day and you doubt he ever would.

You looked forward to this as well, but not because of the jewelry or whatever other expensive gifts he had prepared. No. It was the notes. It were the cruelly scribbled down words that made your heart beat out of your chest.

You loved the gifts as well, but the notes held a special place in your heart. Putting down the piece of paper, you carefully picked up the tiny box and opened the lid. Your mouth fell slightly agape at the sight before you. In the smooth, white pillows sat a delicate necklace. It was glistening in the morning glow ever so nicely.

A beautifully crafted rose pendant hung from it, the intricate petals were cold to the touch as you gently grazed the tips of your fingers over them. This had been one of most extravagant presents he'd ever given you. Bruce did always call you his flower. You brought so much to his once dull and gray life; his heart and soul bloomed like the delicate daffodils did in early spring everytime he thought of you. You brought color and joy. Just like flowers did.

"Oh, Bruce..." you sniffled, the smile on your face hurting your cheeks. Carefully picking it up, you placed it around your neck and fastened the clasp. It fit perfectly, sitting ever so delicately on your skin. You admired yourself in your vanity mirror, your fingers slightly grazing the skin just around the necklace.

You couldn't wait to show Bruce. Yes, he'd picked it out but it looked so different on you than it did on the silken interior of the small box.

Throwing on one of your many, many silk robes that Bruce insisted on getting in every single color, you quickly made your way down the grand staircase. The cold marble tiles sending a delightfully cool feeling up your spine each time you took a step. You rushed down the stairs, a steady grasp on the railing. The sunlight streaming in through the many windows fell right onto your ring.

Slowing your pace, you held your hand up to the light and examined the shimmering band. A reminder of his love. He had proposed to you just a few days ago. It was incredibly special, just the two of you under the stars. He popped the question in the stunning garden of Wayne manor that Alfred worked so hard on.

Speaking of Alfred, he was more excited than either of you. He had to sit down and went through an entire box of tissues when you broke the news. What a kind soul. You had the dumbest smile on your face recalling the events from a couple of days ago. Letting out a squeal, you pressed your hands to your heart. You were getting married. Not only that, but to him. The love of your life.

You couldn't wait any longer, you had to see him. Hurrying the rest of the way to the dinning hall, you composed yourself before entering. And the sight. Dear God. Bruce was sat at the head of the table in his boxers and a white T-shirt, coffee cup in one hand, newspaper in the other. He looked so domestic, so peaceful. Not like previous nights where he'd limp in, all battered and bruised.

Slightly looking up, his furrowed brows were immediately replaced with a wide grin when he spotted you. Putting down the mug and the paper he got out of his chair, walking your way. You met him halfway, your arms thrown loosely around his neck as his snaked around your waist.

"If it isn't my beautiful wife." He grinned, tracing circles on your waist with his thumb. "Ah, soon-to-be wife." You corrected him, the smile on your cheeks never leaving. He chuckled lowly and shook his head. "What took you so long, Honey?" He questioned softly. You laughed at his eagerness to see you. "I was held up by your generosity, Mr. Wayne." You teased, taking one of his hands and placing it on your collarbone, right next to the stunning piece of jewelry.

His gaze fell to your neck and his smile faded, leaving him wide-eyed and with his mouth slightly agape. He tenderly caressed your soft skin with his thumb, tracing the shape of the necklace. "I knew it'd be perfect," He breathed out, followed by a breathy chuckle. Your cheeks flushed and you brought his hand up to your lips, placing a kiss on his knuckles.

"Thank you, Sweetheart. For all these precious gifts. For always making me wake up with a smile on my face. You've made me the happiest girl in the world." You confessed, the softest smile on your face. Bruce swear his heart just melted inside his chest. He made you the happiest girl in the world? You have no idea how happy you made him. He felt invincible, like the king of the world. He was convinced he only needed your love to accomplish whatever he set his mind to. You were his oxygen, the blood in his veins, the very spirit of his soul.

Bruce was determined to show you just how much you meant to him, if that was possible. "Anything for you, my love." He said, having the most adoring look in his eyes. You'd placed your hand on his cheek in the meantime, the golden engagement band cold against his skin. "I love you, Bruce." You whispered, gently leaning in for a tender kiss. He didn't hesitate, pulling you closer to him by your waist. You relaxed against his lips, tightening the grip you had on the back of his neck.

You needed more, you needed him. He chuckled against your lips but complied, deepening the kiss. Pulling away for air, you were breathless and your lips were puffy. He would kiss you breathless forever if he could. And God knows you would let him. His playboy days paid off for something because this man could kiss. And you loved how you were the only one to feel those kisses.

"Look at you. My eager, little wife." A sly smirk was on his face and he made sure to emphasize the last word. You opened your mouth to correct him again, but he quickly interrupted you with another breathtaking yet soft kiss. You didn't now why you were so easily flustered by his kisses, you'd been together for years. There just something so electric and new about being his. Truly being his. Him being yours.

"I know we're not married yet, but I can call you whatever I want. You're mine." He said lowly, pupils dilated. His grip on your waist tightend. He's never done that. Never called you his. Told you you were his. It was implied, of course, but he'd never said the actual words. You just stood there, face flushed to the high heavens with the biggest lovesick smile on your face. His tone softened again when he spoke.

"I want you to wear the necklace to the Gala tonight." Your brows furrowed and you slightly tilted your head in confusion. "What Gala?" You asked, no idea what he was talking about. "Oh, it's a... spontaneous thing. There's a new dress in the closet." He answered. You squinted your eyes in suspicion. "Spontaneous, huh? Also, we talked about this, Sweetheart. I don't need a new dress for every event! I've barely worn the other hundreds." You laughed.

He just grinned in response. You knew he loved to see you in something new each time, he loved spoiling you. Only the best for his love. "That's where we disagree. Would you wrap a diamond ring in used wrapping paper?" He teased. You playfully rolled your eyes at him. "No, I wouldn't." You sighed.

"All the other dress just can't keep up with your inner beauty." He breathed, a soft look in his eyes. You folded. You could never be upset with him for long, you loved him too much. "Fine, I'll wear it. You're lucky I love you," you pouted. He wanted you to never stop saying that. That you loved him. Something he'd longed for, for so long. To be loved, truly loved. Not for his money, his status, his looks. But because of who he was. And you did just that. From the odd noises he made when he slept, to the extremely bad jokes he made. You were always there, tending to his wounds, whether they affected his body or his soul. Holding him so softly after a hard night, he feared you'd crumble under his calloused hands.

"Well, I'll get ready for the day. I'll see you later, okay?" You said, pressing a quick peck to his lips. He hummed in response as you slipped from his grasp.

"Honey?" you turned around, already halfway up the stairs.

"There will be a lot more press and paparazzi there today," he said. "Why?" You asked curiously, fully turning around on the stairs. "They're expecting Mrs. Wayne." He shot you a wink and gave you one of those signature smiles as he walked away.

He was right. There were a lot more people. The streets leading up to the location were lined completely with camera wielding, and very nosy paparazzi and news anchors. Everyone was hoping to catch a glimpse. This was huge for the press. They probably thought that this day would never come. Bruce Wayne, Gothams millionaire playboy was settling down? Impossible. The moment you stepped out of the car they were all over you. Invading your personal space, shoving cameras and microphones in your face. This was sensational. They wanted to know more about the woman who tightly held Bruce Wayne's heart in her delicate hands.

They had written some pretty bad stuff about Bruce in the past, not that he cared. But when one peticular news article labeled you as just a trophy wife, all hell broke loose. He sued them until bankruptcy. How dare they. How dare they lable his wife, his world, his precious jewel, as just a trophy. You were the light of his life, you loved him and he loved you. He loved you more than they would ever know and he would burn them to the ground if they ever suggested otherwise again. No press had the guts to call you names again, or they would feel the wrath of a very in love Bruce Wayne.

He came to your rescue pretty quickly. Positioning himself between you and the paparazzi, acting as human shield. Bruce gently placed a hand on the small of your back and pushed you through the doors. You let out a breath you didn't know you held.

"Jesus, do they not have better things to do.." you mumbled, hooking your arm with his. "This is their job, so no, Honey." He grinned. You rolled your eyes at him. You knew that, but did they have to be so obnoxious? If they asked nicely maybe you would actually answer some of their absurd questions. You made your way into the center of the room where the upper class of Gotham was already mingling with a glass of very expensive champagne in hand.

Bruce couldn't stop glancing over at you. The floor length, satin gown was tailored to perfection, showing of your body in the best way. The rose necklace sat nicely around your neck, sparkling under the bright light of the many chandeliers. Your hair was in an updo, showing off your earrings perfectly as they lightly swaying as you walked. Your soft hands were decorated with the many rings he had showered you with, the extravagant engagement band catching everyone's eye.

God, you looked so elegant on his arm, almost floating along the granite floor. The bright smile on your lips melted his heart as you greeted people. Unimportant people, if you ask him. "You look absolutely beautiful, my love," he whispered in your ear, his breath fanning over your neck, sending a chill down your spine.

"You flatter me, Darling. I'm glad you wore this suit, it's my favorite," you gently ran your hand down his chest. It too, was tailored just right. His heart beat faster. He didn't know you had a favorite suit. One that you longed to see him wear because it just made him look that good. "What's this Gala for anyway?" You asked, toying with the lapel of his jacket.

"Oh, you know, just some... charity," he responded with a breathy laugh. You raised your eyebrows at him. Your eyes widened in realization and a knowing smirk made its way on your pretty face. "Did you plan this whole thing just to show me off?" You questioned amused. He stumbled over his words, a very rare occurrence.

"What? Of course not, Honey, that-that'd be absurd-" you interrupted him by pressing a finger over his lips. "Fine. Let them see. Let them see how much I love you." You whispered, smashing your lips to his in a hungry kiss. One hand was on the back of his neck, keeping him close to you, the other was steadied on his chest. His hands instinctively snaked around your middle, holding you tightly.

All eyes were on you, hushed whispers and gasps filling the room. You pulled away, chest heaving. Bruce's pupils were dilated. "God, you're perfect..." he whispered breathlessly. He couldn't wait to leave this stupid event and shower you in his affection.

The Gala was a success and you were finally back at the manor. You were standing in front of the mirror in your bedroom and admired yourself one last time before you'd take it all off. Bruce came up behind you, the jacket of his suit discarded and the sleeves of his shirt rolled up. He wrapped his strong arms around your waist and dropped his head into the crook of your neck, trailing kisses along your exposed skin. You let out a breathy laugh. "Look who's eager now," you teased.

Bruce chuckled against your neck. "Can you blame me when you look like that?" He said lowly. He dragged his hands up your back and slowly pulled the zipper to your dress down. With a gentle brush of his hand, he let the dress slip off your shoulders and onto the floor. You were left in nothing but your panties, which quickly joined your gown and the floor as he pushed them down your plush hips.

"You're a little overdressed, don't you think?" You said softly, yet seductively as he continued placing wet kisses along your bare shoulder and neck. "You tell me, Honey," he answered. The taste of your skin was intoxicating. You turned around, putting your hands on his chest and slowly pushing him towards the bed. When the back of his thighs hit the bed, he sat down, pulling you into his lap.

"I think you are," you mumbled hazily, unbuttoning his shirt and throwing it on the ground. You moved your hips over his hard cock, straining against his pants. A low groan erupted from his throat at your actions. You could feel your wetness dripping from you, leaving a wet patch on his crotch. He pulled you in for a desperate kiss as you reached down to unbuckle his belt and slip off his pants.

Bruce was left in his boxers, which were quickly taken care of. His throbbing cock sprung free, hitting his stomach. You took his dick into your ring clad hand and pumped up and down a few times, making his head fall back. "Fuck, Baby..." he groaned, squeezing your hips. Lifting your hips, you lined his length up with your pussy and sank down onto it, a long moan falling from your lips. "G-God.. you fit so well. It's like you were made for me.." you mumbled out, your hands finding their place on his shoulders. He was made for you, he was sure of it. He was yours, until the end.

He moaned out your name when you started moving your hips, which he guided with his hands. You tangled your fingers in his soft hair, occasionally tugging and pulling at it. Bruce looked up at you as you bounced on his cock. Your beautiful face was contorted in pleasure, and the jewelry he had bought you still adorned you so nicely. There was a layer of sweat covering your skin, making you shine. Just like your necklace glistened in the dimly lit room. You looked like a Goddess above him, decorated with delicate pieces of jewelry. Jewelry he bought for you.

God, he wasn't sure he wanted to fuck you another way ever again. Your ring was cold against his skin, reminding him that you were his. For him to take, however he pleased. He would buy every diamond in Gotham if it meant having a sight like this before him. Your hips started moving faster, as you moaned. "Shit...M'getting c-close," you breathed out, letting your head fall against his shoulder.

He was almost upset at you for taking away his privilege of admiring you, but he never got the chance once he heard your cute little moans and whines right beside his ear. "Me too, Honey, keep going.." he panted. You pressed your body to his, your tits sitting beautifully against his chest. Bruce glanced down and saw the curves of your soft tits adorned with the stunning necklace.

It molded to their curve so perfectly, making him tighten the grip on your hips, frantically moving you up and down his cock. He chased his release, your warm, wet walls feeling too good. You gasped as his dick hit that one that that made your head spin. "Oh fuck, I can't wait to call you my husband.." you rambled out, barely registering what you'd confessed.

That pushed him over the edge as he shot his load inside you with a guttural groan, filling you up. Your husband. That was music to his ears. That's all he wants, to be yours, to be loved by you. You clenched around him and came with a cry of his name. Panting, you pressed a tender kiss to his lips. "Did you mean that?" He asked quietly, kneading the flesh of your hips.

"Did I mean what?" You asked, breathing heavily. Bruce hestitated, letting out a nervous chuckle. "That you can't wait to call me your husband."

"Oh.. I did. I love you so much, Sweetheart. More than you'll ever know. My heart is yours, Bruce," you said softly, stroking his cheek. "I love you too, Honey." He responded, kissing you passionately.

"I'll draw us a bath," you breathed, raking your fingers through his locks. He hummed in response, reluctantly letting go of you. You slipped off his cock. He watched his cum trickling down your thigh as you walked towards the bathroom. He groaned at the sight, falling back onto the bed with a smile.

Bruce was laying with his head against your chest, surrounded by bubbles and soap. His back was pressed to your front and your hands were wrapped around him. You could feel him relax against you, the tension in his shoulders fading. "I keep them, you know," you said softly from behind him. The water rippled as he turned his head to look at you.

"Keep what?" He asked. "The notes. The ones you always place next to my gifts? I keep all of them," you spoke, tracing patterns on his pecs. "You do?" He smiled. "Yeah, I read them when you're gone and I'm feeling sad. They're in a box in my nightstand." You mumbled, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. "I love you so much, Honey," he said quietly. "I love you more, Bruce."

From that moment on, he put more effort into his notes. They keep getting longer and longer, almost turning into letters as he confessed his love to you every single day. You would still read them when you're old and gray, because his love for you would never fade. Just like how your love for him would never be lost to time, you would love him until the end, continuing in your next life. Your souls and hearts were bound, and they would never stop searching until they found eachother once again.

❤️◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇💍◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇❤️

#bumblebeesfromvenus #bale!bruce x reader #bale!bruce wayne #bale!batman x reader #the dark knight #batman begins #the dark knigth rises #christian bale #bruce wayne x reader #batman #bruce wayne smut #bale!bruce wayne smut

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damneddamsy · 1 month ago

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second sight | cregan stark x oc (bonus i)

a/n: on this sweet episode of Stark-fluff, Cregan and Co. visit King's Landing. And boy, does he fucking hate it. Meanwhile, Bran's eager to connect with his Targaryen kin.

The heat pressed against Cregan Stark’s skin like a second tunic, heavy and cloying. The air in King’s Landing was thick, and damp with the scents of sweat, perfume, and the shit stench of the streets below. The Red Keep loomed above, gleaming red stone under a sun far too bright for his liking. He glanced at the bustling courtyards, the laughter and chatter of nobles weaving past him, their brightly dyed garments flaring like banners. The yellows, greens, and silks of every hue were so garish compared to the quiet greys and dark furs of Winterfell. Everything here screamed of excess, even how people spoke—words spilling out like wine, too much, too sweet, too fast.

The so-called wine he’d been served during the midday meal still churned in his stomach. It was red, but not like the rich Dornish vintages he’d had once at White Harbor. This was sharp and sour, cloying at the back of his throat. The food hadn’t fared much better: dry bread, over-salted meat, and sauces thick with spices he couldn’t name. Cregan clenched his fists. How did Claere stomach this place? She’d lived here once, grown up here. And now they were back, summoned to the capital for some political matter too tedious to justify enduring this heat.

The worst of it, though, wasn’t the heat or the food or even the absurdity of the southern finery—it was sleeping without her. Some ancient southern tradition dictated they take separate chambers while they were guests of the crown. He hadn’t asked why. He didn’t care to know. All he knew was that the empty bed in his room felt colder than any winter night, and the fact that she wasn’t beside him had gnawed at his nerves all day.

It didn’t take him long to track her down.

He found her in her chambers, standing on a dais, surrounded by an army of handmaidens. It was different from Winterfell, where her attendants numbered only two or three, and they worked in quiet efficiency, more like sisters than servants. These women buzzed like a hive, fixing the smallest fold of fabric, pinning her hair with jeweled combs.

And there she was—Claere.

He froze in the doorway, his breath caught in his chest. The sight of her stole every thought from his head. She stood tall and graceful, her hair woven into an intricate crown of braids, strands gleaming in the candlelight. The gown she wore was like nothing he’d ever seen: deep blue silk that shimmered with silver undertones, its sleeves draping like pendants to reveal her arms, pale and smooth. The neckline framed her collarbones, dipping just enough to tease. The bodice cinched her waist so perfectly that it might have been poured onto her, and the slit down the front laced delicately, offering a whisper of the skin beneath.

She turned slightly, catching his reflection in the mirror. For a moment, her expression was still, unreadable, her violet eyes flicking to meet his. Then, she smiled, soft and shy, and lifted her fingers in a small wave.

Cregan chest went tight. His heart pounded so loud he thought the handmaidens might hear it. For a moment, he forgot the heat, the food, the city he despised. He forgot to hate it all because there was only her in that instant.

One of the handmaidens giggled. He blinked, realizing he’d been staring. Claere’s smile deepened, faintly amused, though she said nothing. A woman pressed the last pin into her hair and curtsied before filing out. Claere remained where she was, poised on the dais like she belonged on top of the world entirely.

Cregan shut the door behind them with a deliberate click, the bolt sliding into place with a satisfying thud. The warmth of the chamber surrounded them, faintly scented with the oils and perfumes of the South. His eyes were on her, drinking her in as she stood before the tall mirror, her figure framed by the golden light of a dozen flickering candles.

“C’mere,” he said, his voice low and rough, thick with hunger.

She didn’t move, her posture as calm and composed as ever. But her lips parted slightly, the barest quirk of curiosity in her brow.

Cregan crossed the room in three strides, his boots heavy against the ornate tiled floor. When he reached her, his hands found her waist, the fine silk of her gown slipping easily beneath his calloused fingers. He pulled her close, the warmth of her body anchoring him, the air suddenly still around them.

His head dipped low, pressing a firm, deliberate kiss against the slit of fabric that curved down toward her belly.

“Look at you,” he murmured, his breath warm against her skin, his voice a soft rumble. “All this skin. Why can’t you dress like this at home?”

Claere tilted her head, her violet eyes meeting his in the reflection of the mirror. A faint, knowing smile touched her lips. “I’d freeze in moments.”

He laughed, a deep, wolfish sound that rolled out of him unbidden. “Then I’d keep you warm.”

Her hand brushed over his damp hair, her fingers grazing the sweat gathered at his temple. “Not while you reek of sweat.”

He leaned into her touch, undeterred by her observation. “I’m not wearing those ridiculous coats they want me in,” he grumbled, his Northern pride rising.

“But you are sweating,” she repeated, a ghost of amusement flickering across her otherwise serene expression.

Cregan groaned, wrapping his fingers around hers and guiding her carefully down from the dais.

“It’s just a bit of water, love.”

Her gown whispered against the floor as she stepped down. She cast a glance at him, the faintest quirk of mischief in her eyes. “You would look rather noble in an overcoat,” she murmured, brushing her thumb over his knuckles.

He snorted, shaking his head with a mockery of disbelief. “Would. Will never.”

Her lips curved into something soft and understanding, the expression only she could manage. “It's alright,” she said simply. Her fingers tightened in his, her voice a quiet promise. “We can leave first thing tomorrow.”

He laughed, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly as he lowered her forehead to hers. “We got here yesterday,” he said, his tone light with affection.

Her eyes fluttered closed momentarily, her breath soft against his cheek. “I know,” she whispered.

His chest tightened at the words, an ache blooming there that wasn’t unfamiliar, but tonight, it felt sharper. He lingered in the warmth of her presence, the silk of her gown brushing against the coarse leather of his tunic. The scent of her was maddening—some southern concoction that mingled with the subtle lavender she always carried. He hated how it suited her, hated how this place seemed to mould itself around her. But Gods, how she looked here, how she belonged.

“I suppose some fresh air should help with the heat,” she drawled thoughtfully.

Her steps were deliberate, and graceful, as if she had walked these halls all her life. For a moment, Cregan’s eyes softened, and the corner of his mouth twitched into something between awe and defiance.

"Arm?" she asked, glancing at him.

“Aye, my lady, always,” he replied, his voice gruff.

His hand found the crook of her elbow. They stepped out of the chambers together, her delicate hand on his forearm.

The corridor of Maegor’s Holdfast stretched before them, its vaulted ceilings casting long shadows that flickered with torchlight. Claere’s gaze wandered from door to door, deep in recollections, her violet eyes tracing the intricate carvings and golden inlays that adorned every arch.

Cregan, meanwhile, scowled away his frustration. "All this gold and they can’t even serve a proper roast. That pheasant at supper—dry as bone. And what’s that sauce they drown everything in?"

"Spiced honey," Claere replied, though she kept her eyes forward, lips curving faintly.

He snorted. “Spiced, indeed. Tasted like it came straight out of a septon’s tight arse.”

Claere stifled a laugh, her lips pressing together as they walked.

“You’re quite the guest,” Claere murmured, her voice as smooth as silk.

“Guest,” he echoed bitterly, his jaw tightening. “A guest in a city that couldn’t be farther from the North. Look at this place—all gilded stone and false smiles. Give me the cold and honest halls of Winterfell any day.”

His words came rough, unfiltered, the kind he rarely let slip outside the privacy of their chambers. But the South clawed at his patience, and his discomfort had no place to hide.

Claere didn’t answer at once. Her gaze drifted upward, catching the way the golden sunlight angled through an open archway, illuminating the intricacies of the tapestries along the walls. She lingered in the quiet, as she often did, before finally glancing at him, her expression soft and thoughtful.

“Would you like to walk by the sea?” she asked, her voice carrying the faintest lilting warmth, as though the memory of it lived in her words. “I used to love watching the ships when I was small. Perhaps you'd feel more at ease there.”

Cregan paused mid-step, her words surprising him. He opened his mouth, but the immediate retort died on his tongue. He realized, too late, how his words had landed—disdain aimed not only at the South but at the place where she had once lived, once laughed, once grown into the woman who now stood beside him. A pang of shame gripped him. She had never uttered a word against Winterfell, though the North had been slow to accept her. Yet here he was, spitting curses at her childhood home like a petulant boy.

“I’d like that very much,” he said finally, his tone softening, almost contrite.

She gave a slight nod, her lips twitching faintly—not quite a smile, but something close. She said nothing more, but he could feel her watching him as they moved through the Red Keep’s curving corridors, his silence now more reflective.

The air shifted as they descended through the castle gardens, the sharp floral perfume of the South mingling with the faint salt tang carried on the breeze. They passed fountains of carved marble and hedges trimmed into unnatural shapes, the paths too clean and the sunlight too bright for Cregan to feel at ease. Yet as they rounded a final corner, the horizon opened up to them.

The lush gardens gave way to a stone balcony overlooking Blackwater Bay, the fountain at its centre singing softly in the breeze. Beyond, the water stretched endlessly, its surface shimmering like molten gold under the afternoon sun. The wind picked up, cool and bracing against the heat, carrying with it the scent of salt and something untamed.

Cregan stopped at the edge, his hands resting on the warm stone railing. For the first time since their arrival, his shoulders eased, the weight of the city loosening its grip. As he drew a long breath, letting the salty air fill his lungs, he thought, for the first time, that perhaps the South wasn’t entirely without its charms. Not when she was here.

“It’s not so bad,” he admitted grudgingly, his voice quieter now, more grounded.

Claere stood beside him, her violet eyes fixed on the horizon, the endless expanse of Blackwater Bay glimmering under the sun. The breeze toyed with the loose tendrils of her silver hair, brushing them against her cheek, and she seemed lost in thought, her silence as soft and vast as the sea itself. When she finally spoke, her voice was peaceful, a quiet anchor in the weight of the day.

“Forgive me. I didn’t think you had to come all this way.” She turned to him, her gaze meeting his, sincere and unyielding. “It’s only Jace’s coronation. It’d be improper for me not to show my support.”

Cregan held her gaze for a long moment, the words settling between them like stones dropped into deep water. He reached for her hand, his calloused fingers brushing against hers, and for a moment, the warmth of her touch quieted the turmoil inside him.

“Wherever you go, I follow,” he said simply, his voice softer now, more certain.

Her eyes flickered a subtle acknowledgment of his loyalty, before narrowing slightly, playful yet questioning. “Do you truly hate this place that much?”

He let out a low, sardonic laugh, leaning his elbows against the stone railing. “Hate might be too soft a word. It’s too hot, too bright, and the food’s about as satisfying as eating sawdust.” He turned his head, meeting her gaze. “And don’t even get me started on that tart red piss they call wine.”

A small smile curved her lips, faint but unmistakable. “You’ve been drinking it.”

“Because Lucerys poured it himself,” Cregan shot back. “And if I’d refused, I’m certain it would’ve become some grave insult to the Targaryen name.” He smirked, the corners of his mouth twitching. “Can’t have Lord Stark burned to a crisp, can we?”

Her smile lingered, and she tilted her head, considering him with quiet amusement. “You’re still sweating.”

“It’s the heat,” he grumbled, wiping his brow with his sleeve. “And this gods-forsaken leather. What would you have me do? Strip down and sit bare-chested in the middle of court?”

Her eyes glimmered with something close to mischief. “I’m sure that would make an impression.”

Cregan turned to face her fully, his brow arching. “And what impression would that be?”

“That the Northmen are as wild as they’re rumoured to be,” she said lightly, a faint tease threading her tone. “They might start calling you the Bear of Winterfell.”

He let out a short bark of laughter, the sound startling even himself. “The Bear? Better than most things they’ve called me today.” He leaned closer, his voice dropping. “Though I’d wager they’re far more interested in you.”

Her gaze softened, but she said nothing. She simply looked at him, her quiet demeanour grounding him in a way the chaos of the Red Keep never could. Slowly, she lifted their joined hands and pressed her fingers to his wrist, her touch light yet deliberate.

“I don’t care what they think,” she said at last, her voice almost a whisper.

The warmth in her words tugged at his guilt, a pang sharp enough to silence his earlier complaints. He turned his hand to cradle hers properly, rough fingers grazing the fine lines of her palm.

“You grew up here,” he said after a moment, his tone quieter now, tinged with regret. “And I’ve done nothing but condemn it since we arrived. That wasn’t fair of me.”

Her lips parted to speak, but she didn’t rush to fill the silence. Instead, she gave his hand the faintest squeeze, grounding him.

“The North is your home. You don’t have to love it here,” she said, her tone as steady as ever. “But it’s part of me, just as Winterfell is a part of you.”

He sighed, dipping his head closer to hers. “You’re too forgiving,” he murmured.

“And you’re too hard on yourself,” she countered softly.

The tension between them broke like ice under spring sunlight. She leaned closer, resting her head against his shoulder, her movements so natural it was as though they were alone on some frozen expanse instead of standing in the open gardens of the Red Keep. Cregan stiffened briefly, the ever-present sense of propriety tugging at his instincts, but her warmth quickly dispelled it. Let them look, he thought.

“I don’t like this place,” he admitted after a moment, his voice low. “But I like you in it.”

Her head tilted slightly, her breath ghosting against his neck as she spoke, barely above a murmur. “I only like that you're here.”

His chest tightened at the simplicity of her words, their truth unadorned and cutting. He turned his head, pressing a kiss to her temple, uncaring of who might be watching. His hand slid to her lower back as he eased her against the balustrade, the coarse material of his leather brushing against her softer silks. The faintest smirk tugged at his lips as his gaze dropped to hers, his large hands bracketing either side of her, blocking any escape. A flicker of surprise crossed her face, but she didn’t retreat—she never did.

“I’ve made my peace with it now.”

Claere arched a delicate brow, amusement dancing in her eyes. “Have you?”

Before she could say another word, he leaned in, his intent clear.

“Aye. I should think,” he said, his voice low and wanting, “that I’m owed a proper kiss for enduring this place without setting half of it ablaze.”

She arched a brow, raising her palm to his lips, halting his advance any further.

“Might I remind you,” she said, her tone lilting with amusement, “that we share four children? If I want to make another child in the Red Keep, I should think I’m owed the courtesy of seclusion.”

Cregan barked a laugh, the sound rolling through the gardens like a wolf’s howl. “The courtesy, is it?” He grinned, unrepentant. “Perhaps I like the idea of giving the South a show.”

Her laughter bubbled again, only to turn into a surprised gasp as he suddenly swept her off her feet, hoisting her into his arms with ease.

“Cregan!” she squeaked, her hands clutching his shoulders as he carried her toward the ornate fountain.

With a mischievous gleam in his eyes, he perched her precariously on the edge of the stone basin, her balance wobbling as she grasped at his shoulder for support. The water behind her sparkled in the sunlight, a picturesque backdrop for her indignant glare.

“Get me down this instant!” she protested.

He grinned up at her, the glint in his eyes sharp and mischievous. “I thought you didn’t care what they think,” he drawled, tilting his head toward the guards, who were now openly staring at them.

Claere’s frown deepened, though it was betrayed by the twitch of a smile. “Cregan,” she warned, her tone sharp but losing its edge.

“Will you let me kiss you?” he asked, voice full of mock gravity.

She cocked a brow, folding her arms even as her dangerous perch forced her to lean on him. “After this? Not likely.”

He clicked his tongue and then, with a sharp whistle, called out to the guards. “Oy, lads!” His voice boomed with bravado, loud enough to echo off the garden walls. “Lady Stark’s making an effort to get in my breeches, and you’re just going to stand around and watch? You sick fucks.”

The guards, flustered and wide-eyed, shuffled and stammered before hastily retreating around the nearest corner.

“Cregan!” Claere’s voice was sharp, but the laughter bubbling beneath it betrayed her outrage.

“There we go,” he said, turning back to her with a smug grin, utterly satisfied. “No one’s watching us. Where's that kiss?”

“You’re insufferable,” she muttered, though she couldn’t keep the laughter from spilling out.

“And you’re beautiful,” he shot back, leaning in again.

She sighed, letting him haul her down from the fountain and into his arms. Her fingers curled into the thickness of his jacket, her lips brushing his ear as she whispered, “Kiss me then.”

The kiss was brief but searing, noses stroking, smiles wide, a moment of stolen fire in the gardens of a place neither of them belonged. Claere pulled back first, her cheeks tinged with colour, though whether it was from the kiss or the embarrassment of being manhandled in full view of fleeing guards, Cregan couldn’t say.

“Do you have to make a spectacle of us every time?” she asked, her voice laced with exasperated fondness as she stepped back to smooth the fabric of her gown.

“Only when it’s worth watching,” Cregan replied, his grin unapologetic. He reached out to tug a strand of silver hair that had come loose from her braid. “And you, my love, are always worth watching.”

Her lips quirked in a reluctant smile, her eyes flicking toward the open path where the guards had retreated moments before. “You’re lucky they didn’t faint from sheer humiliation. I thought Northerners valued their dignity.”

“If there’s no fun to be had, I cannot refuse,” he quipped, his hands settling on his hips as he glanced around the gardens. The wind carried the brine of the sea, and the faint murmur of distant voices reached them, though the path remained deserted.

Claere shook her head, turning toward the fountain, her fingers idly brushing along the stone’s intricate carvings. “You’ll make the septas gossip for months. ‘The Wolf and his wild displays.’”

“Good,” he said, stepping up behind her and wrapping his arms loosely around her waist. She felt cold, from the chilly satin. “Maybe they’ll finally stop whispering about the Valyrian witch.”

Her posture stiffened briefly before she relaxed, leaning back into him. She tilted her head slightly, her voice quiet but edged. “They’ve never mattered to me.”

He frowned, his chin resting atop her head. “They’d matter to me if they ever dared say it to your face.”

“And what would you do?” she asked, her tone lighter now, teasing. “Bash a septa’s head in with your precious Northern honour?”

He smirked. “If I have to.”

Her laugh broke through the tension like sunlight through clouds, soft and sudden. She turned in his arms, her hands resting against his chest. “There are days I don’t know what to do with you, Lord Stark.”

“Love me,” he said simply, the grin slipping from his face as he met her gaze with earnest warmth.

“I already do,” she murmured, her thumb brushing absently against his cheek. “'Tis a nuisance.”

For a moment, they stood there, the world beyond the gardens blurring into nothing. It was only them, as it always seemed to be, no matter the distance or the trials they endured.

Then, of course, Cregan broke the moment.

“Shall we give them something else to talk about?” Cregan’s grin widened, a boyish gleam of mischief lighting his features.

Claere narrowed her eyes suspiciously, her lips parting to question him, but before she could speak, he swept her off her feet again. A gasp escaped her, followed by half-hearted protests muffled by her laughter as he spun her around in a wide arc.

“Put me down!” she cried, clutching his shoulders as the world tilted around her.

Her protests only seemed to encourage him. “Put you down?” he mused, his tone teasing as he held her aloft. He glanced at the fountain ahead, where the sunlight danced on the water’s surface. “Down in the fountain? Or perhaps in the sea?”

Her skirts brushed against the cool spray of the fountain, making her squirm in his hold. “Cregan Stark, don’t you dare!” she warned, though her laughter betrayed her delight.

He laughed along with her, the sound deep and rich. “Promise me something first,” he said, his voice mock-serious, though his eyes danced with amusement.

“And what is that?” she asked, tilting her head, her silver hair catching the light like spun moonlight.

“That you’ll drink the red piss wine with me the next time we’re here.”

Claere groaned dramatically, her head falling against his shoulder as she dissolved into laughter. “I’d rather face a dragon.”

Cregan chuckled, lowering her just enough that her feet skimmed the ground but keeping her firmly in his hold. “Lucky for you,” he said with a playful smirk, “you’ve already got the White Dread on your side.”

“And you,” she murmured, her laughter softening into a smile as her hand settled on his chest.

“Always me,” he promised, finally setting her down, though his hand lingered at her waist. The moment her feet touched the ground, she slipped her hand into his, their fingers lacing together as naturally as the tide meeting the shore.

They walked toward the garden’s edge, where the sound of waves whispered promises of freedom and escape. The sea breeze played at their hair, carrying their laughter over the walls of the keep.

Guards stationed nearby exchanged knowing glances, smirking behind their helms. Their love was a subject of quiet admiration, a rare warmth in Winterfell’s stoic halls. And though the couple walked on, seemingly alone, their bond was never unnoticed.

As the waves beckoned them onward, Claere glanced up at him, her violet eyes alight with mirth. “Even in this wretched place,” she said softly.

Cregan’s thumb brushed over her knuckles, grounding her in his steady presence. “Especially in this place,” he corrected with a gentle smile. "Where else would I want to be but at your side?"

The Great Hall of the Red Keep had been transformed into a grand stage for celebration, though the ever-present shadow of the Iron Throne loomed at the far end of the room, casting jagged shapes across the banners of red and black, each adorned with the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen. Long tables stretched beneath the vaulted ceiling, groaning under the weight of golden platters, roasted meats, and goblets brimming with Dornish wine. Laughter and music filled the air, but the undercurrent of tension was as thick as the scent of spiced lamb and honeyed ham. This was King’s Landing—where alliances and betrayals were decided with a glance, and no gaze lingered without meaning.

The great doors creaked open, a low groan that silenced the hum of conversation in the hall. Heads turned, drawn as much by the sound as by the imposing figure that entered. Lord Cregan Stark strode into the chamber, his presence commanding in its stark simplicity. Draped in heavy northern velvet, the deep grey of his cloak was clasped at the shoulders with snarling wolf-heads wrought in polished iron. Against the opulence of the Crownlands’ finery—silks that shimmered like water, gold heavy as ambition—he stood out like the first shadow before a storm.

At his side, Lady Claere moved with an ethereal calm, a quiet dignity that seemed to still the air around her. Her expression, serene but distant, gave away nothing, and yet it drew every gaze like a whispered challenge. She was not garbed in the colours of flame and pageantry that adorned the court but in a pale gown that shimmered faintly, its simplicity outshining the artifice around her.

They were the North embodied: stark, unyielding, and undeniably present. The southern courtiers shifted uneasily, some bowing, others murmuring among themselves, as the Lord of Winterfell and the silver-haired first daughter of House Targaryen walked past them.

Brandon Stark, only eleven but every bit his father’s son in spirit, too tall for his age, perched at Cregan’s side. His silver hair caught the torchlight like polished steel, strikingly contrasting the dusky, layered northern doublet he wore. Brimming with youthful excitement, the boy’s wolfish grey eyes flitted around the hall as if trying to absorb every detail. From the golden chandeliers to the opulent silks draped over the high table, it was a world far removed from the rugged stone of Winterfell.

The feast was meant to honour Jacaerys Velaryon’s coronation on the morrow, yet as the Starks passed, the hall rippled with murmurs. All eyes seemed drawn not to Cregan or even young Brandon who bore the close hallmarks of Old Valyria but to Claere—the woman who, by birthright, could claim the Iron Throne if she so chose.

The Targaryen banners overhead seemed to shift uneasily, the dancing flames making the three-headed dragon appear alive. Whispers chased the Starks down the aisle, tugging at the edges of the great hall's jubilant façade.

“Princess Claere Velaryon...”

“The Queen Who Never Was.”

“Nay, her blood holds more fire than Jacaerys’s...”

“If she had wanted the throne—”

“But she married the Wolf.”

“She's the Winter's Queen now.”

The low hum of speculation reached even the dais, where Rhaenyra and Daemon sat flanking Jacaerys. Rhaenyra’s lips pressed into a thin line, her violet gaze narrowing ever so slightly as it followed her daughter’s steady progress. Daemon’s smirk widened, his hand idly spinning the stem of his goblet, watching as though the feast had taken an unexpected and delightful turn.

But Claere moved with an ethereal calm, her head held high, her hands folded before her. The train of her pale blue gown, embroidered with white-gold leaves and stitched dragons, trailed behind her like freshly fallen snow. She did not look left or right, though she was acutely aware of the eyes fixed on her.

They reached the dais, where the heart of the family sat like the sun at the centre of its orbit. At its centre sat Jacaerys Velaryon, his crown a fiery band of gold wrought into dragon wings. He exuded easy authority, his smile warm yet edged with caution like a blade sheathed but not forgotten. Beside him was Baela, her silver hair catching the light like a polished jets, her sharp gaze sweeping the hall with a quiet pride that spoke of a warrior's vigilance. Their children flanked them: Laena and Daeron, poised and princely, speaking in hushed tones between delicate bites.

To their left, Lucerys and Rhaena whispered and laughed like co-conspirators, their bond evident in every stolen glance and shared smirk, while Joffrey charmed his betrothed with exaggerated gestures, his joviality a balm to the tension that lingered in the air. At the table's edge sat Rhaenyra and Daemon, aged but undiminished. Rhaenyra’s presence commanded respect, her violet eyes sharp as steel. Beside her, Daemon lounged like a coiled dragon, his pale hair falling loose over one shoulder, his sharp gaze roving the hall as though he were cataloguing its players.

Jacaerys rose first, unbefitting his position, the movement subtle yet commanding. Silence fell over the hall like the turning of a tide, his authority palpable. His gaze swept over the trio approaching him, pausing briefly on Brandon before settling firmly on Claere.

“Sweet sister,” he said, his voice carrying enough warmth to veil the undertone of command. “It pleases me to see you here after so long. You look well.”

Claere curtseyed, her movement graceful, her voice soft but steady. “Brother,” she greeted, the single word weighted with a thousand unspoken meanings.

It was Joffrey who broke the formality, rounding the table to embrace his sister as if no years had passed since their last meeting. Where he had once been a mere boy of ten, burying his face in her waist, now he held her tightly, the man he had become pressing a familial kiss to her cheek.

“Lord Stark,” Jacaerys continued, his tone shifting as his gaze turned to Cregan. Joffrey lingered beside his sister, still holding her hand as if reluctant to let her go.

“The North honors us with your presence,” Jacaerys said.

Cregan inclined his head, his words measured, his tone neutral. “The honor is ours, my king.”

Jacaerys’s gaze shifted again, his smile breaking into something warmer, easier. “And you must be Brandon Stark,” he said, leaning forward slightly. “It’s good to finally meet you, nephew. The blood of the dragon burns bright in you.”

Cregan’s hand fisted briefly at his side, but his expression remained impassive.

Before the moment could stretch into tension, Rhaenyra’s voice carried over the hum of the feast. Though time had etched its mark upon her, her presence was no less commanding. Her tone, measured and regal, filled the space between them.

“Lord Stark,” she began, her violet eyes resting on Cregan, “you’ve brought your eldest, but what of my other grandchildren? I hear you have a fine brood at Winterfell.”

Cregan’s jaw tightened slightly, his discomfort evident in the subtle shift of his posture. “They are too young to travel the Kingsroad,” he replied curtly, his voice a low rumble.

The stark simplicity of his response brought a ripple of quiet across the table. Rhaenyra’s expression wavered, the faintest edge of offence flickering like a shadow.

Before the unease could settle, Claere stepped forward, her voice calm and steady as a winter wind. “They are quite well, Mother,” she said, her serene smile meeting Rhaenyra’s gaze. “Rickon already dreams of commanding the vanguard like his father. Edric”—her lips quirked slightly—“has taken to sneaking pastries from the kitchen. And little Luce…” Her tone softened, and warmth crept into her expression. “She’s discovered archery from her brothers. A proper little warrior, though she insists on naming every sparrow she meets.”

The tension broke as faint laughter rippled among those listening, and even Rhaenyra’s gaze softened. “It seems they thrive under your care,” she said warmly. “Winterfell is fortunate to have such a lady.”

“You flatter me, Mother,” Claere replied, bowing her head with a grace that seemed instinctual.

Cregan exhaled quietly, his shoulders loosening as the moment passed. The interlude was interrupted by Jacaerys, his voice warm yet commanding as it carried over the table.

“The White Wolf, is it?” he called, leaning forward from his gilded seat. His dark hair framed his sharp smile, confidence radiating like the glow of a dragon’s flame.

Brandon straightened instinctively, his cheeks reddening as all eyes turned to him. “The North heralds me too much too soon, Your Grace,” he said quickly, his voice clear and earnest.

Jacaerys chuckled, raising his goblet in a mock salute. “A Stark with humility? A rare breed indeed.” The jest drew a ripple of laughter. “But no need for titles, nephew. Call me uncle.”

The boy’s face lit up, his youthful nervousness melting into a smile. “Uncle,” he repeated, the word sitting comfortably on his tongue.

“And tell me, Brandon,” Jacaerys continued, leaning slightly closer, “is it true you’ve been training with a sword? Daemon tells me you’ve a good arm for your age.”

Brandon brightened, his excitement spilling over. “I have! Father says I’m stronger than most boys my age. I practice every day in the yard with the master-at-arms.”

“Oh, has he now?” Jacaerys grinned, casting a glance at Cregan. “Sounds like you’ll make a fine squire soon enough. What do you say, White Wolf? Would you squire for me, come winter?”

Brandon’s breath hitched, his grey eyes wide with awe. “Aye, my king. I would, absolutely!”

The table erupted in laughter and good-natured cheers from the Velaryon and Targaryen kin. Rhaena, seated beside Lucerys, smiled warmly at the boy, and even Joffrey offered a nod of approval. The boy’s enthusiasm was infectious, and soon Brandon found himself swept into the fold, his questions and stories met with encouragement and kindness.

From further down the table, Daemon’s sharp, cutting voice reached them, unmistakable even amidst the lively din of the feast.

“So, lad,” he began, leaning forward with his goblet in hand, his pale hair falling loose over one shoulder. His gaze rested on Brandon with a predator's curiosity. “What’s your dragon called? I imagine it's speed and size akin to your mother's White Dread.”

The question froze the boy in place. His youthful confidence faltered, replaced by hesitation. He looked to his mother, then to his father, but neither answered for him. Claere’s serene expression didn’t shift, though her brows lifted subtly, a small gesture of encouragement.

Brandon swallowed. “I don’t have a dragon, Your Grace. Neither do my brothers and sister.” His voice was steady, though the words were clearly an effort to say.

The silence that followed wasn’t oppressive, but it lingered long enough for Cregan to bristle. His jaw tightened, and his hand flexed once before he leaned a step closer, his steely gaze fixed on Daemon.

Daemon’s smirk widened, his goblet tilting lazily in his hand. “No dragon, eh?” he drawled, eyeing his silver hair and features. “That’s unusual for one with so much Targaryen blood.” His gaze flicked to Claere, then back to the boy. “Surely your mother would have gifted you an egg.”

Brandon’s face reddened, and he opened his mouth to speak, but Cregan cut in, his voice low and firm. “The Starks have no need for dragons and wyverns,” he said, each word deliberate. “We are wolves.”

Daemon raised a brow, his smirk undiminished. “Wolves may run well in snow, but they don’t fly. Am I right, Claere?”

Claere managed a shaky smile.

“The North stands without wings,” Cregan retorted, his tone growing colder. “We always have. We always will.”

Claere’s hand on his forearm stilled him. Her touch was light, but the look she gave him—calm, steady, and unreadable—silenced the retort building in his throat. She turned her attention to Daemon, her expression serene.

“Dragons are not all that are a measure of man,” she said softly. Her violet eyes settled on Brandon, a quiet pride shining in them. “And wolves do not need to fly to command respect.”

Brandon straightened, emboldened by her words. “I shall squire for the King,” he said suddenly, his voice firm and sure. “Dragon or no dragon, I’ll serve with honour. My sword is yours.”

The table chuckled, the tension breaking like a wave receding from the shore. Daemon gave a low laugh, tilting his goblet toward Brandon. “We’ll see if the little wolf can keep up,” he said, though the words lacked the earlier bite.

Brandon grinned, his earlier unease gone. He turned back to his grandfather, his grey eyes bright with excitement. “You will see, Your Grace.”

A moment of pride swelled within Cregan. His eldest son, holding himself up before the family he had driven to keep at arm's length. Soon, the Stark trio were ushered away from the dais, away from the chaos.

Cregan and Claere were seated farthest away, though their most immediate family, their presence a clear demarcation of their difference from the Targaryens’ inner circle. The distance may have been political, a subtle reminder that while Cregan was a king in his own right, the North was far removed from the intrigues of the South. Or perhaps it was a kindness—to keep them from the full extent of Southern eyes and whispers.

Cregan, sitting as still as the mountains he ruled, seemed carved from the same stone. The velvet black overcoat he wore—tailored in the southern style—sat awkwardly on his broad frame, but he bore it with stoic determination. He tugged once at the stiff collar, a prison of its own, his discomfort as plain as the wine in his untouched goblet, but when Claere’s hand brushed his under the table, he relented.

He glanced her way, catching the soft curve of her lips, and sighed. She had asked him to wear it, after all. And for her, he would.

“Da,” Brandon’s voice broke the lull, soft but curious. The boy leaned closer, his grey eyes darting toward the high table. “Why aren’t we sitting up there?”

Cregan followed his son’s gaze to the gleaming dais, where the Targaryens sat cloaked in splendour and formidable grace.

“That’s my uncle, the king. And my grandmother, the queen mother?” Brandon pressed, his young face shadowed with confusion.

Cregan’s gaze flicked back to his son, sharp as the frost beyond the Wall. “Aye,” he said after a pause. “They’re your kin.”

“Then why are we here?” Brandon gestured at the low table, where the Starks had been placed, as though set apart by invisible walls. “At home, Luce and all of us sit together at the table. So why not here? We’re family, aren’t we?”

Cregan let out a low, humourless chuckle. “Family by blood, maybe. But blood means little in this hall. The North is our seat, not this nest of vipers.”

Brandon frowned, unsatisfied. “But you are a king too,” he pointed out. “The King in the North.”

“King,” Cregan admitted, his voice gruff. “But here? Dragonblood casts a longer shadow.” His tone softened as he leaned closer, his words meant only for Brandon. “Did you know, little wolf? Your mother could sit on the Iron Throne if she willed it. She could walk up there and claim the throne as her own, not a tongue would raise against her. Not even her own brother.”

Brandon blinked, stunned. “Ma?” His voice dropped to a whisper. “She could rule the Seven Kingdoms?”

“And you,” Cregan said, his expression thoughtful, “would be her heir. A prince of the realm.” He reached out, ruffling his son’s unruly curls. “But it was not in your mother's interest.”

The boy’s gaze flickered to his mother, who sat serene and unyielding, as timeless as winter itself. Her quiet smile, so untouched by the pomp and grandeur around her. She seemed apart from it all—rooted in some deeper, colder truth that made the gilded splendour of the hall feel hollow.

Brandon’s attention followed his line of sight, drawn inevitably to the Iron Throne. That jagged, monstrous seat of swords loomed above the hall, its sharp edges whispering of blood spilt and secrets kept. It was no mere throne—it was a warning, a legacy forged in fire and fear.

“It doesn’t suit her,” Brandon murmured, as if speaking a truth he’d only just realized.

“No,” Cregan agreed, his voice low and steady. “It does not.”

Brandon tilted his head, his youthful curiosity breaking through the moment. “But why? Why did she refuse?”

Cregan’s eyes lingered on Claere beside him, silently playing with her spoon, a soft murmur under her breath, her soft profile catching the flicker of firelight. There was a reverence in his voice as he answered, low and intended.

“Because she does not rule with swords and fear. The Iron Throne demands both—and she would not let it make her cruel.”

Brandon furrowed his brow, his gaze flicking between his father and the twisted enormity at the heart of the hall. “So... she chose you instead?”

Cregan turned to his son, a rare softness in his expression. “She chose herself—and the family we built together.”

The words hung in the air, wrapping around the three of them like a protective shield. Claere paused her quiet humming, her violet eyes flicking up to meet Cregan’s for a brief moment. There was no need for words between them.

Brandon, however, found his attention drifting elsewhere. His gaze wandered to a cluster of figures seated at a smaller table on the far side of the hall, shadowed but unmistakable. There was something about them—an air of detachment, of belonging to a different story entirely. One of them caught his eye, a tall, lean figure with long silver hair and an eyepatch glinting in the candlelight.

Brandon’s breath hitched, his chest tightening with something he couldn’t quite name. He knew the man, though he’d never met him. Knew him from tales that Maester had painted of him, of his mount, Vhagar. Of how he'd claimed such a dragon, so young. Aemond One-Eye. The rogue prince whose name carried both dread and fascination.

He turned back to his father, keeping his voice low. “Da,” he asked cautiously, his words edged with unease. “How come they’re here?”

Cregan followed his son’s gaze, his posture stiffening as his eyes landed on the table. Aemond sat with a languid confidence, his single eye gleaming with sharp amusement as though he could sense the Stark lord’s scrutiny. Nearby sat Alicent, her posture rigid, her hands folded neatly in her lap. Helaena sat, twisting a strand of her hair and shot Brandon a small smile, while Aegon, glassy-eyed and dishevelled, picked at his plate without interest.

“They, too, are your mother’s kin,” Cregan said after a moment, his voice clipped. “Her uncles and aunt. They’re not well-loved here, even now.”

Brandon’s brow furrowed again, but his eyes remained fixed on Aemond. “Aemond One-Eye is a skilled swordsman,” he said in a hushed voice, almost in awe. “Father, you must let me—”

“Bran.” Cregan’s tone was sharp, cutting his son off before he could finish. “That is where we draw the line.”

The boy flinched slightly at the firmness in his father’s voice. He glanced at Claere, hoping for some reprieve, but she didn’t look at him. Her gaze was steady, locked on the silver-haired prince across the hall.

Aemond, as if sensing their attention, smirked. It was a cruel, knowing expression, one that seemed to challenge the very air between them. His single eye glinted as it flicked from Claere to Cregan, lingering just long enough to feel like a deliberate taunt.

Cregan’s hand tightened into a fist, though he didn’t rise or speak. His jaw worked as he stared back, his wolf’s eyes cold and unyielding.

The tension in the hall crackled like frost underfoot. Brandon, though young, could feel it as he watched his father’s jaw tighten and his gaze narrow at the far table. Aemond’s smirk had only deepened as he leaned back lazily, his long fingers curling around the stem of his goblet. It was the posture of a man who feared no consequence, and it made Brandon’s stomach twist.

Cregan’s voice, when it came, was low but carried the weight of ice. “You’re a bold man, Prince Aemond,” he said, the title clipped, bitter on his tongue. “To sit there smirking like a cat in a coop, after the damage your house has done.”

Aemond tilted his head slightly, the firelight glinting off the edge of his eyepatch. His smirk widened, sharper now, more deliberate. “Damage?” he echoed, the word soft but dripping with mockery. “Surely you’ve seen your share of bloodshed, Stark. Or do Northerners keep their hands so clean they can point fingers without guilt?”

Cregan rose slowly, his chair scraping against the stone floor, the sound grating enough to make Claere glance up from her quiet contemplation. “If my hands were unclean, prince,” Cregan said, his voice a low growl, “you’d feel it across your jaw.”

“Father, don't,” Brandon whispered, alarmed, tugging at his sleeve.

Aemond leaned forward slightly, as though entertained by the rising tension. “Yes, listen to your pup, Stark. Threats have a way of turning into invitations. And I accept such things readily.”

“Aemond,” Alicent interjected, her voice sharp, though it wavered at the edges. “Enough. You shame yourself—and us.” She placed a hand on his arm, as though to stay him, but he brushed it off gently without looking at her.

Brandon, encouraged by his father’s stance, couldn’t hold back his question. “Why do you act like this?” he asked, his young voice cutting through the room like an unexpected breeze. His words were unpolished, direct. “You’re supposed to be our kin.”

Aemond turned his head sharply, his single eye locking onto the boy. The smirk faded, replaced by something colder, though not entirely without amusement.

“And what would a boy like you know of kinship?” he asked, his voice soft and biting. “The White Wolf—even the name leaves my tongue feeling sour. When a direwolf lays with a bastard dragon, do you call that kinship? Or depravity?”

Cregan’s fist slammed onto the table, the sound reverberating through the hall. “Speak those words before my family again, and I’ll make sure your other eye matches the first.”

“Enough. Both of you,” Claere said, her voice cutting through the room like a whip crack. She stood, her hands calm, but her eyes burned with a quiet fury as they fixed on Aemond. “Aemond, you’ve proven your wit. Cregan, your son has his eyes on you.”

Cregan hesitated, his grey eyes lingering on Aemond for a moment longer before he exhaled sharply and sat back down. Brandon clung to his father's shoulder as if restraining him.

Aemond met her gaze for a moment, his smirk threatening to return, but when he saw the set of her jaw and the icy stillness of her expression, he gave a slight incline of his head.

“As you wish, sweet niece,” he murmured, though the mockery lingered in his tone.

Alicent, looking harried, finally pulled at Aemond’s sleeve with more force. “Come,” she said firmly. “We’ve lingered long enough.”

With a shrug, Aemond rose, draining the last of his wine before setting the goblet down with deliberate care. He glanced at Cregan one last time, the faintest glimmer of amusement in his eye. Then, with a flick of his violet eye, he turned and strode out, Alicent following close behind.

The doors groaned shut behind them, leaving a silence that was more deafening than the clamor of conversation earlier.

Brandon sat stiffly, his small hands clutching the edge of the table. His gaze darted to his father, wide-eyed, searching for answers he could not yet articulate. “Da,” he began, his voice unsure.

Cregan’s sharp look silenced him. “The world doesn’t fight fair, Bran,” he said, his voice low, like the growl of a wolf. “Men like him thrive on your weakness. Remember that.”

Brandon nodded but said nothing, his lips pressed into a firm line.

Claere’s hand brushed against Cregan’s arm, the touch light but insistent. He turned his head slightly, his storm-grey eyes softening only for her. She leaned closer, her voice a whisper barely louder than the crackle of the torches.

“Nothing about this place feels right. I feel sick,” she murmured, her gaze flicking past Cregan’s shoulder to where Helaena sat at her table. The Targaryen princess’s pale eyes were fixed on Claere, her expression unreadable but laced with a quiet sorrow.

Cregan followed her gaze briefly before nodding. His hand closed over hers, rough and grounding, before he rose. “Let's have you rested, my love.”

Bran watched his parents, deploring.

“We’re leaving,” Cregan said firmly, his voice cutting through the lingering unease in the hall. He placed a hand on Brandon’s shoulder, urging the boy to his feet. Claere stood as well, taking Bran into the arch of her side.

As they moved toward the exit, the sound of their steps echoed in the cavernous room, every eye tracking their departure. The doors closed behind them with a dull thud, the sound resonating like the closing of some unseen door in fate’s design.

Cregan paced the chambers, the soft candlelight casting flickering shadows over his bare chest. There was a sheen to him, like he'd returned from a swim out at sea when really the heat was too warm by half. His tunic and coat lay strewn across the floor, casualties of his brooding temper. His hair was mussed from the constant drag of his hand through it, his jaw set like stone, holding back the sharper edge of his fury.

Claere lay on her stomach, nestled in the grand canopy bed, the silk covers draped loosely over her shoulders, her chin resting lightly on her folded hands. Her violet eyes followed him in silence, tracking his every movement. She said nothing, but the flicker of golden light over his broad shoulders, the fire in his grey eyes, and the tension in his frame—it pleased her more than she cared to admit.

“I will not allow it,” Cregan growled, his voice low and rough, vibrating with barely restrained anger. “My son, raised in the shadow of Targaryens? Bowing to them, serving their whims?” He stopped mid-step, turning on his heel to glare into the distance. His hand raked through his hair again, tugging at the strands. “What kind of Northerner bends the knee to fire?”

“A bold one,” Claere said, her voice soft, like a blade sheathed in velvet.

Cregan’s head snapped to her, his storm-grey eyes narrowing. Her calm demeanour seemed only to fuel the fire in him. “Bold?” he spat, incredulous. “No. Foolish. He’s too young to know what they’ll demand of him, what they’ll strip away. They’ll keep him here, chain him with loyalty, make him their sword—and he’s meant to rule the North, not waste his blood in service to their crown.”

Claere tilted her head slightly, the soft silver of her hair catching the faint breeze from the window. “They are his blood as much as they are mine,” she said evenly. “Is it so wrong for him to want to know them?”

Cregan let out a sharp breath, his hands bracing on his hips. “He doesn't need their approval. We're Starks,” he said, his voice cold and final as if the truth of the North was enough to silence any argument.

“And he's a Targaryen,” Claere countered, her voice quiet but unyielding. “You knew that the moment he was born.”

“That doesn’t mean I have to like it,” Cregan muttered, resuming his restless pacing.

With every step, his frustration deepened, and with every sharp motion, another layer fell away, another furious mutter about the heat. His belt hit the floor first, then his boots. By the time he reached the hearth, he was stripped down to his breeches, his chest heaving with the effort of holding his temper.

“You’ll wear a trench into the stone,” Claere remarked, her tone edged with amusement.

Cregan turned, his lips twitching despite himself. “You find this amusing?”

“Not at all,” she said, though a faint smile tugged at her lips. “But you’re very… lively when you’re infuriated.”

He froze, staring at her, his expression torn between irritation and something warmer. “Lively?”

“Passionate,” she corrected, her gaze holding his.

The word struck him harder than he cared to admit, and for a moment, his temper wavered and a small smile bloomed. She reclined against the pillows, the golden light painting her features in soft relief. Her hair, loose and unbound, spilt across her shoulders like molten silver. There was a knowing look in her violet eyes that stilled him more effectively than any word could.

He crossed the room in a few strides, looming over the edge of the bed.

“You’re enjoying this,” he accused, though the fire in his voice had dimmed to an ember, flickering weakly beneath his frustration.

Claere blinked up at him, her lips curving into a faint smile. “Enjoying you sulking? Fuming? Growling at shadows? Jealous that your son looks up to someone who isn't you?” Her voice was soft, laced with mirth. “Perhaps.”

Cregan huffed, leaning closer until their faces were inches apart. His voice dropped, low and rough. “Impossible woman.”

“Stubborn man,” she replied, her tone calm, her gaze steady.

For a moment, her words hung in the air, heavy as snow on ancient pine boughs. Cregan exhaled deeply, his shoulders sinking under her quiet truth. He sat heavily on the edge of the bed, scrubbing a hand over his jaw and face. It almost felt like the world's tonnage was hanging off his neck.

“Come,” Claere murmured, shifting to make space. She reached for him, her touch gentle as she guided his head to rest in her lap.

He barely hesitated before letting himself fall into her care, his weight sinking heavily onto her thighs, as though he carried the weight of every storm in Winterfell. Her fingers slipped into his dark hair, cool and soft, brushing through the strands with ease that unravelled the knot of tension coiled at the base of his neck. The quiet rhythm of her touch was soothing, a balm for the raw edges of his frustration.

“Let him be,” Claere whispered, her voice a gentle command, soft yet unyielding. “Let him find himself, make mistakes, learn. This is what he wants.”

Cregan closed his eyes, drawing in a shuddering breath. He lifted a hand, weary and slow, to rub at his face as though trying to scrub away the ache in his chest.

“He’s our son,” he said. “I can’t simply let him go. He’s but a boy.”

“Nearly eleven. A man grown,” Claere chuckled softly. It wasn’t dismissive, but tender, carrying an affection that could pierce through his storm-clouded thoughts.

His lips twitched faintly at her laughter, the corner of his mouth lifting as if to meet her warmth, but the heaviness remained, pressing against him like an unrelenting tide. He swallowed hard, his throat working against the swell of words lodged there.

“Ever since…” His voice wavered, the syllables slipping from his mouth like broken shards. “Her.”

Her hand stilled, her fingers resting gently against his temple. A shared silence fell between them, heavy with the unspoken. She didn’t need to ask who. The memory of their firstborn, the one they lost before they even knew her face, lingered between them like a shadow cast by a distant flame.

“I’ve felt this unquenching need,” Cregan said at last, his voice rough and low, as if every word cost him. “To shield everyone. I'm the one who stands between my family and the rest of the world.” His breath hitched, and his fingers clenched briefly against the fabric of her skirts. “I can’t… I cannot lose another. Cannot afford to now. Not when grief is so far behind us I dare to believe we’ve escaped it.”

The vulnerability in his voice was a rare thing, raw and unguarded, and it made Claere’s heart ache for him. She bent her head toward his, her silver hair spilling down to mingle with his dark locks. The contrast was striking, a tangle of moonlight and shadow, wolf and dragon bound together by shared pain and quiet resilience.

“You won’t lose him, Cregan,” she whispered, her lips brushing the shell of his ear, her voice threading softly through the cracks in his armour. “But you have to trust him and let him grow. No matter how far he roams, he’ll always find his way back to the pack.”

His breath shuddered against her lap, the words sinking deep into the ache in his chest. Slowly, as though the weight of her assurance began to ease the crushing guilt he carried, he nodded. His head pressed against her, seeking the solace only she could offer, a stillness he could find nowhere else.

The garden of the Red Keep was alive with the gentle hum of crickets and the muted rustle of leaves stirred by the evening breeze. The scent of jasmine hung in the air, mingling with the faint tang of salt from Blackwater Bay. The sun had begun its slow descent, painting the sky in shades of gold and crimson that reflected off the polished stone of the courtyard fountain.

Seated at a table draped in white linen, amidst the sprawling garden, Rhaenyra Targaryen watched her grandson with a quiet awe she had not felt in years. The boy was a Stark through and through, with his storm-grey eyes and the faintest dusting of freckles across his pale cheeks, but there was something unmistakable about him that spoke of his mother. His hair, pale as Luna's wing, caught the light with the faintest sheen of white, a gift from the dragonblood running through his veins.

Brandon tore a piece of warm bread from the loaf between them, his fingers deft and sure.

“You should have seen Rickon last week,” he said, his voice animated. “He was trying to teach Eddric to shoot. They’re both useless, of course. I keep telling Rickon to stop puffing his chest and aim properly, but he’s as stubborn as a mule.”

Rhaenyra chuckled softly, her eyes crinkling at the corners as she reached for a cup of spiced wine. “And you, darling? Were you the one to show them how it’s done?”

Brandon grinned, a flash of teeth that was all wolf. “Of course I was. Someone has to keep them in line.” His face softened as he leaned back, folding his arms behind his head. “Though Luce is worse than both of them combined. Did you know she refuses to sleep anywhere but on my shoulder these days? If I so much as move, she howls loud enough to wake the gods.”

The mention of her granddaughter brought a rare, genuine smile to Rhaenyra’s lips. “She sounds as demanding as her namesake,” she said, her voice touched with both fondness and melancholy.

“She’s a little terror,” Brandon agreed with a dramatic sigh, though his tone betrayed nothing but affection. “But I love her the most.”

Rhaenyra’s gaze lingered on him, her mind slipping into memories of Claere as a child—how her daughter would sit by the fire, pouring over flowers in a soft mumble, her silver hair glowing in the firelight. Brandon had that same intensity, that same spark of life. Yet where Claere had always carried an air of distant melancholy, Brandon seemed unburdened, his laughter bright and unguarded.

“You’re a breath of fresh air, Brandon,” Rhaenyra said softly, her words catching the boy’s attention. “I don’t know that I’ve laughed this much in years.”

Brandon tilted his head, his sharp features softening. “You should come North more often, Grandmother. You’d find plenty to laugh at with my brothers around. And Luce. She’s probably tormenting her septa as we speak.”

Rhaenyra laughed again, a sound that surprised even herself. Her hands reached for the bread, breaking off a piece and toying with it absentmindedly.

“Perhaps I will,” she murmured, though her heart clenched at the thought. The North was Claere’s world now, a place she had only touched briefly, where Rhaenyra’s legacy seemed small against the towering walls of Winterfell.

Brandon, as if sensing the shift in her mood, leaned forward, his tone light. “Tell me about Syrax,” he said, his grey eyes gleaming with curiosity. “Mother told me she was a golden dragon. Is she as fierce as she sounds?”

Rhaenyra’s expression softened further, her thoughts turning to the dragon she had not ridden in years. “Syrax is a queen in her own right,” she said, her voice reverent. “Golden as the sun, proud as the first flame. She was my companion through the best and worst of times.”

Brandon’s eyes lit up. “Do you still ride her?”

A shadow passed over her face, though her smile remained. “No, sweetling. My time as her rider has passed. But she’s still mine, and she would not turn away the blood of my blood.”

Brandon tilted his head, curious. “What do you mean?”

Rhaenyra reached out, her hand cupping his cheek, her thumb brushing over his hair. “You should try and claim her,” she said softly, her words carried beyond their simplicity. “You’re of her blood, of her fire. She would accept you. I know it.”

Brandon blinked, startled. “Me?” he breathed, his voice tinged with awe.

“You, my brave boy,” Rhaenyra said, her tone firm. “You’ve got the blood of kings and queens in you, just as much as the wolves. You’re meant for something greater.”

For a moment, he seemed speechless, his grey eyes searching hers. Then, with a grin that was as wild and free as the North, he leaned back and said, “Maybe I will.”

The midday sun poured through the windows of the Red Keep’s solar, gilding the stone floor in rippling light. Outside, the distant din of King’s Landing played like a faraway melody: the clang of market bells, the chatter of traders, the call of gulls drifting from Blackwater Bay.

Inside, Claere lounged on a cushioned bench, her legs stretched out lazily across Cregan’s lap. One foot was bare, her silken slipper dangling precariously from her other toes as she shifted, wriggling to catch the light. Her fingers danced in the air, casting fleeting shadows against the high, arched walls. A butterfly flapped its wings, morphing into a crocodile that snapped its jaws before melting into a sparrow.

Cregan sat at ease, a knife in one hand, an orange in the other. He peeled it with the care of a man sharpening a blade, the rind coming away in one long spiral. His head was bowed slightly, but his eyes flicked up to her now and then, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.

“You’ve gotten better at that,” he muttered, gesturing toward her shadow play. “Not as dreadful as the last butterfly you tried.”

Claere scoffed, her toes pressing lightly into his thigh. “I had two children hanging off my arms when I made that butterfly. I should like to see you do better with little Luce clawing at your hair.”

“I’d make a proper direwolf,” he said, leaning back as he flicked the orange peel onto the table. His grey eyes glinted with quiet challenge.

She raised an eyebrow, her hands pausing midair. “A direwolf, you say? Go on, show me.”

He set the orange down, wiped his hands on a cloth, and raised them. The shadows twisted into something vaguely lupine—more of a blob with pointed ears.

Claere giggled, her laughter soft but unrestrained. “Is that supposed to frighten me? It looks more like a sheep with horns.”

The golden light softened the sharp edges of his face, his Northern ruggedness somehow at odds with the languid peace of the moment. Claere traced his profile with her eyes—the set of his jaw, the faint curve of his smirk—and felt a pang of gratitude for this rare interlude.

“What's going on in your head?” he asked, not looking at her, his hands now occupied with dividing the orange into sections.

“How much you remind me of a bear every now and then,” she said with mock seriousness. “Big, grumpy, growling at anyone who comes too close.”

He chuckled, low and rumbling. “I’ll remember that the next time you call me wolf.”

She smiled, her hand reaching out to take a slice of the orange he offered her. The sweetness burst on her tongue, and she closed her eyes briefly, savouring it. The Red Keep, for all its burdens and shadows, had afforded them a rare reprieve, a pocket of time carved from the relentless press of duty.

But the peace shattered like glass underfoot when the door to the solar burst open. Two guards stumbled in, dragging a soot-covered figure between them. The acrid scent of smoke and singed hair preceded them, and Claere and Cregan froze, their shared moment breaking apart as reality surged in.

The boy's tunic was torn, his face smeared with soot and ash. A gash marred his cheek, sluggishly oozing blood. The acrid stench of smoke clung to him, mingling with the scent of charred leather. Beneath the grime, his sharp grey eyes were unmistakable.

“Brandon.”

It was Cregan who moved first, surging from his chair, the knife and orange clattering to the ground. His heavy boots echoed against the stone floor as he closed the distance, his towering frame lowering to kneel before the boy. His hands, rough and calloused, reached out instinctively, gripping Brandon’s shoulders, scanning his son for injuries.

“Who did this?” His voice was low, cold, edged with barely contained fury.

The guards, though hardened men of the Keep, faltered under the Warden of the North’s glare. One cleared his throat nervously. “He—he snuck into the Dragonpit, my lord.”

A tense silence followed as the words sank in.

“He tried to claim the Queen’s mount, Syrax.”

“Bran,” Claere sighed, her voice tinged with exasperation as she rubbed her temple, though the faint tremor in her hand betrayed her fear.

“Out,” Cregan growled, cutting her off. His voice was thunderous, and the guards didn’t wait for a second command. They dropped their hold on the boy and backed out of the room with hurried bows, the door slamming shut behind them.

Cregan rose to his full height, looming over his son. His face, lined with the weight of leadership and fatherhood, was dark with anger.

“Did you fall on your head one too many times, boy?” His voice was sharp with the ferocity of a father's fear, his Northern accent biting. “Do you want death so much you have to go find it? You thought to claim a dragon—dragon! Alone! Do you think yourself fireproof, huh?”

Brandon stood his ground, his chin lifting defiantly, shoulders squared, the faintest hint of his father’s stubbornness mirrored in his young face. He said nothing, his jaw tight, and with a deliberate step, he brushed past Cregan and toward his mother.

“I’m talking to you, Bran!” Cregan’s voice thundered again, but the boy didn’t falter. “You’re scrubbing the stables when we get back, do you hear me? The filthiest ones. I don't care how long. Every day until your arms give out!”

Brandon didn’t so much as flinch. He quietly moved to Claere’s side, his head bowing as he settled beside her.

“Sit,” Claere commanded softly, her tone holding none of Cregan’s fury but all of its authority. She reached to dampen a cloth from a jug, her movements calm and deliberate as she began to dab at the soot and grime streaking her son’s face.

“Hold still,” she murmured, her voice softer now, almost a whisper.

Brandon obeyed, though his eyes flicked to his father’s looming form across the table.

“Don’t coddle him, Claere,” Cregan growled, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. “He needs discipline, not mothering. Look at him; there's no remorse in his eyes. Ungrateful little... He could have—” He cut himself off, the words sticking in his throat.

“He did not. It's alright, Cregan,” Claere said quietly, her tone cutting through the tension like a blade.

Her husband’s jaw tightened, but when she glanced up at him, her steady gaze held him in place. It wasn’t reproachful, but neither was it yielding. Slowly, his shoulders eased, though the storm still lingered in his grey eyes.

“What happened, Bran?” Claere asked again, her focus returning to Brandon. Her voice was soft, coaxing.

“They were all going to the dragonpit,” Brandon mumbled, his voice barely audible. “Laena, Daeron. All of them left me behind, Ma.” He sniffled, his small chest hitching with restrained tears. “I wanted to go, too.”

Claere sighed, her hand pausing as she rubbed at the soot on his neck. She leaned forward slightly, her silver hair cascading like a curtain around them, creating a small, private world.

“And you thought claiming a dragon would make them see you differently?” she asked, her tone free of judgment.

Brandon hesitated, then nodded, his gaze flicking up to meet hers. “I just wanted to be... like them. Like you.”

Claere’s breath caught at his words, but she schooled her expression, her thumb brushing his cheek as she cupped his face. “Oh, my sweet boy,” she whispered. “You don’t need to prove yourself to anyone—not to them, not to me. You’re already enough.”

Cregan shifted behind her, the sound of his boots against the stone floor filling the quiet. His anger had ebbed now, replaced by something deeper—guilt, perhaps, or worry.

“Bran,” Cregan said, his voice quieter but no less firm. “We don’t need dragons to make us strong. What makes you a man isn’t fire or glory—it’s honour, and knowing how to protect those you love.”

Brandon glanced at his father, his small face torn between shame and defiance. “But they think I’m weak because I don't have a dragon.”

“They don’t know you,” Cregan said sharply, stepping closer. “Not like me or your mother does. Not like your people do. You’ve got more fire in you than you know, son. You don’t need to risk your life to prove it.”

Claere glanced back at Cregan, her eyes softening at the rough edge in his tone. She reached out, resting her free hand on his arm.

“He’s young,” she said gently, reminding them of the earlier conversation they shared. “He’s learning.”

Cregan nodded, though he didn’t look at her. His focus remained on Brandon, the lines of his face softening at last. “A month in the stables,” he said, his tone brooking no argument. “You’ll think twice next time before putting yourself in danger.”

Brandon’s shoulders slumped, but he nodded. “Fine.”

Claere smiled faintly, dabbing at one last streak of soot. “There,” she said, brushing her hand over his hair. She placed a deep, long kiss on his cheek. “Clean enough to sit at the table again.”

The boy managed a small smile, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. He slid off the bench and stood uncertainly between them, looking from his mother to his father.

Cregan let out a long breath and crouched to his son’s level, resting a broad hand on his shoulder. “Next time you feel left out,” he said quietly, “talk to me. We’ll find something worth your bravery—but not this. Not dragons.”

Brandon’s lips parted, his defiance flickering for a moment as if he might argue. But then, seeing the unyielding lines of his father’s face, he relented. His shoulders sagged, and his voice was smaller than before.

“Yes, Da.”

Cregan’s hand squeezed his shoulder once, a silent acknowledgement of the promise before he released him. He smacked the back of his head lightly, ushering him away.

“Get out of here and get cleaned,” Cregan told him. “You look like pigshit.”

Brandon lingered for a moment longer, then turned and padded toward the doorway.

Claere’s gaze followed her son as he disappeared into the corridor beyond. Her hand, resting on the table, tightened briefly into a fist before she relaxed her fingers.

“You were harder on him than usual,” she said softly, her voice carrying none of the reproach it might have.

Cregan didn’t answer immediately. He straightened with a groan, his exhaustion evident in the slump of his broad shoulders. Dragging a hand through his dark hair, he looked at her, his jaw tight.

“One of us had to be,” he replied, his voice low and heavy with something unspoken. “Taming dragons. Tsk. Foolish fuckin' lad.”

The air was crisp with the bite of late autumn, the scent of hay and manure thick in the stables back in Winterfell as Brandon Stark worked the rake over the uneven floor. His arms ached, his back stung from leaning too long, and his frustration simmered just beneath his skin. Scrubbing the stables wasn’t the worst punishment his father had ever doled out, but the indignity of it gnawed at him.

His brothers, as always, were more hindrance than help. Eight-year-old Rickon had armed himself with a brush and was vigorously sweeping, though his efforts did little more than stir the hay into scattered piles. Five-year-old Ed trailed behind him, copying his every move, while Luce, the youngest and the most spirited, darted about the stalls, her voice rising in an off-key rendition of "Foxy’s Hole." She seemed utterly oblivious to the tension simmering in her elder brother.

“What’s the capital like?” Ed asked suddenly, his small hands smudged with dirt as he crouched to pick through the straw. “Are there dragons everywhere?”

“And the Kingsguard,” Rickon added, pausing his dramatic sweeps to look up. “Is King Daemon as strong as they say? Did you see Caraxes?”

Bran froze for a moment, the rake still in his hands. The images came unbidden: the Red Keep with its high walls and colder shadows, the whispers in court that hissed behind every smile, the weight of Targaryen eyes on him. The songs had lied, just like the stories of dragons made for little boys’ dreams.

“It’s not what you’d think,” he muttered, his voice low as he looked away.

Ed wrinkled his nose, his face scrunching with confusion. “But it’s the Red Keep!” he insisted. “Mummy grew up there. It must be grand.”

Rickon elbowed him and leaned closer, lowering his voice. “Bran’s just mad because Da made him clean out horse dung.”

Bran’s jaw tightened, his fingers gripping the rake handle until his knuckles whitened. He wanted to snap back but forced himself to take a breath instead. Straightening, he raked his fingers through his hair and spoke before he could think better of it.

“I’m going back next winter,” he said flatly. “To squire for the king. For Uncle Jace.”

The words dropped into the stillness like a stone into a frozen lake, shattering the moment. Rickon stilled mid-sweep, and Ed’s mouth fell open in stunned disbelief. Even Luce, who had been twirling in circles, stopped and turned her wide violet eyes on him, her expression unreadable.

“You’re leaving Winterfell?” Rickon blurted, aghast.

A sharp whistle sliced through the crisp air, cutting through the chatter and the rustling of hay. All four siblings froze, their heads snapping toward the gates where Cregan Stark stood, his broad frame outlined against the slate-grey sky. His weathered face carried a familiar authority and warmth, and with two fingers, he beckoned them forward. Rickon and Ed bolted instantly, eager to obey, their boots thudding against the frozen earth.

Bran lingered, his hands tightening around the rake. He cast a sidelong glance at Luce, who clutched his hand, her small fingers curling tightly around his. She wasn’t moving.

“Go on, then,” he muttered, sighing. “Don’t make him wait.”

Luce shook her head stubbornly, her violet eyes wide with mischief. “I don’t want to.”

Bran rolled his eyes, kicking the rake aside with frustration. “Fine. Let’s go.” He extended his finger to her, and with her tiny hand wrapped around his, he trudged toward their father, his steps heavy with reluctance.

When they reached the gates, Rickon and Ed were already beaming under Cregan’s rough hands as he tousled their hair. His gaze shifted, landing on Luce as she hovered behind Bran, half-hidden. He arched a brow, a knowing smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

“Snuck away from your septa again, have you?” His voice was a low rumble, laced with gentle reproach.

Luce’s grip on Bran’s leg tightened as she tried to disappear behind him entirely. Cregan’s brow lifted higher.

“Rickon, Ed,” he said, his tone turning firm, though there was still warmth beneath it. “Take your sister back to her lessons. She’s not to be running loose.”

“But—” Luce began, her protest dying on her lips as Rickon swooped in, his grin wolfish. With a quick motion, he wrapped his arms around her waist and hoisted her over his shoulder.

“No use arguing, Luce,” Rickon teased, cackling as she squirmed and kicked her little legs. “You’re outmatched.”

“Bran!” she wailed, reaching for him as Rickon carried her off. Ed trailed after them, giggling at her indignation.

Bran watched them go, his arms crossing over his chest, his jaw tightening as he turned his gaze to the ground. The heat of his frustration simmered again, bubbling up beneath the surface. The stables were punishment enough; he didn’t need another lecture.

“You’re sulking,” Cregan observed, his deep voice cutting through Bran’s thoughts. There was a faint teasing edge to his tone, but it was undercut by quiet understanding.

“I’m not,” Bran snapped, though the words sounded half-hearted even to his own ears.

Cregan stepped closer, towering over his son with that familiar weight of presence. He reached out and nudged Bran’s shoulder lightly, forcing him a step forward. “Come on, lad,” he said, his voice softer now. “I’ve something to show you.”

Bran frowned, his arms tightening across his chest. “If this is another punishment—”

“Far from it,” Cregan interrupted, his lips quirking into a faint smile. “But keep dragging your feet, and I might change my mind.”

Bran sighed heavily but relented, falling into step behind his father. Together, they crossed the courtyard toward the kennels, the air alive with the low growls and soft whines of the direwolves housed within. The sharp scent of pine and frost hung thick around them, mingling with the earthy musk of the animals.

At the edge of the enclosure, Cregan stopped before a small pen. The low growls and soft whines of the wolves fell away as Bran followed his gaze. Inside, a lone wolf paced nervously, its coat a deep, glossy black that seemed to drink in the pale light. Its sharp yellow eyes darted toward them, wary and unblinking, its every movement tense with distrust.

Cregan crouched by the pen, his hands steady as he unlatched it. “Come closer,” he said, his voice low but gentle.

Bran hesitated, his eyes fixed on the wolf. Its wiry frame was all sharp angles, a creature of feral instincts and quiet resilience. Yet something in its gaze—something untamed and fierce—stirred something deep in Bran, a strange pull he didn’t quite understand.

Cregan slipped inside first, his movements deliberate as he reached for the wolf.

“Found him in the woods,” he said, his tone soft but resonant. “All alone. Half-starved, snarling at shadows.” He chuckled quietly, scratching behind the wolf’s ears. The creature flinched at first but gradually stilled under his touch. “Sniveling little fighter,” Cregan added, glancing back at Bran with a small, knowing smile. “Reminded me of someone.”

Bran bristled, though he stepped closer, his curiosity outweighing his indignation.

Cregan cradled the wolf with surprising gentleness, lifting it from the pen and holding it against his broad chest. The wolf let out a low, hesitant growl, but Cregan’s steady hands quieted it. “Go on,” he said, extending the wolf toward Bran.

Bran’s breath caught as the creature’s sharp gaze locked onto his. For a moment, he froze, unsure. Then, carefully, he reached out, taking the wolf into his arms. Its warmth was startling, a living, breathing contrast to the biting cold of the air. It wriggled slightly, testing his grip, but Bran held firm.

Cregan watched him, his expression softening. “What would you have named your dragon?” he asked suddenly, his tone light but pointed.

The question hit harder than Bran expected, and his grip on the wolf tightened. He frowned, his shoulders tensing.

“You don’t have to rub salt in the wound, Da,” he muttered. “I know what I don’t have.”

“Humor me,” Cregan pressed, his voice steady, his eyes holding Bran’s. There was no teasing now, just quiet patience.

Bran hesitated, his face heating with embarrassment. “Frostbane,” he mumbled, barely above a whisper.

Cregan’s laugh rang out, a warm, rich sound that echoed through the kennel. Bran scowled, turning away, but his father’s hand was quick to catch his shoulder, holding him in place.

“Don’t turn your back on me, boy,” Cregan said, his voice softening. He reached out, his large hand brushing the wolf’s sleek black fur. “Frostbane’s a damn fine name. Look at him—sharp, fierce, a survivor. Just like you.”

Bran blinked, startled by the words. He glanced down at the wolf in his arms, its yellow eyes watching him with an intensity that mirrored his own.

“He’s yours,” Cregan said, his tone leaving no room for doubt. “Not just any wolf, Bran. A direwolf for a Stark who’s more than he thinks he is. Who doesn’t need dragons to be great.”

Bran’s throat tightened. The weight of his father’s words settled over him, heavy and warm, easing the sting of the day’s frustrations. “Mine?” he asked, his voice quiet, almost disbelieving.

Cregan nodded, ruffling the pup’s ears. “Yours. He’ll grow to match you—strong, proud. A king of the wilds, like his friend.”

Bran’s chest swelled with a mixture of pride and relief. For the first time in what felt like weeks, he grinned, the corners of his mouth lifting as the wolf squirmed in his arms.

“Frostbane,” he said again, testing the name aloud.

“A Stark name,” Cregan said, watching his son with a faint smile. “And one that’ll make the whole of Winterfell remember who you are.”

it's humbling when your inbox is as empty as your soul :') This feature was just something off the top of my head lmao I don't even know if it's that good but worth a shot!

[ taglist: @pearldaisy , @thatkindofgurl , @theadharablack , @cherryheairt , @beingalive1 , @oxymakestheworldgoround , @tigolebittiez , @cosmosnkaz , @lv7867 , @piper570 , @danikasthings , @acsc8 , @justdazzling ] -> thank you for your endless support everyone!

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rodolfoparras · 9 months ago

Text

The chain around your neck

Synopsis: In which Price finds himself enamored by a piece of jewelry

Pairing: John Price x Male reader

Cw: 18+, top male reader, dom male reader,

A/N: self indulgent sooo self indulgent, and inspired by the chain Nikolai wears.

It was while basking in the afterglow of your recent endeavors that Price had decide to ask you about your necklace: sitting at the side of the bed, white sheet draped over his waist as shaky hands reached for the jewelry you always tend to wear. “Why do you wear it?”

The jewelry in question was a chunky gold chain, the same length as his forearm and lacking any pendants whatsoever.

There was nothing eye catching about it except for its size yet Price always seemed to have it on his mind.

It was so different to the dog tags he wore around his neck that served to identify his body amidst other fallen soldiers. The gold chain around your neck wasn’t a way to ensure you’d have a grave stone if you were to be put into the ground but rather a sentimental piece you carried with so much pride.

Each night you’d take it off before you went to bed and each time Price found himself glancing at the piece of jewelry glimmering on the nightstand, gaze trailing across each and every chain link until he faded away into dream land.

During long missions you’d have it tucked away somewhere in your shared closet, fearing it’ll get lost or stolen and Price couldn’t help but think how bare your neck looked without it, even with the dog tags still on you.

And whenever you’d have him pinned to the bed, he’d have the jewelry dangling over his face, brushing over his lips as you thrusted into him, clutching onto it as he inched closer to release or yanking on it to pull you in for a kiss, chilly metal pressing against his searing hot skin as he lay in your arms basking in the afterglow of his release.

Soon enough that very same piece of jewelry would be hanging from his very own neck as he works himself up and down your cock, chain links flailing wildly as he increases the pace of his hips, the weight of it serving to ground his body when his mind starts to feel afloat, cool metal laying flush between your bodies as he succumbs to slumber.

“No special reason,” you say, giving him a smile through the reflection of the mirror.

#call of duty #this is just a loooooose Drabble #john price x reader #john price x male reader #john price #captain john price #captain john price x male reader #captain john price x reader #top male reader #dom male reader #sub male character #bottom male character #x male reader #male reader

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allisluv · 10 days ago

Note

for totally appropriate and pg reasons....I imagine finnick having reader suck on his fingers when she's too loud..so pg..

flattery will get you nowhere.

pairing: finnick o'dair x wife!reader

content warnings: pre-established relationship, brief mentions of the war, found family trope, nsfw, finnick is such a tease, praise kink, risk of being caught but not really at the same time, petnames, use of the phrase "good girl", finnick has reader suck on his fingers to stay quiet, soft!dom finnick.

word count: 1k

To commemorate the first year since the war ended, Peeta and Katniss invite you, Finnick and the rest of your friend group over for dinner at their new house on the coast.

Finnick comes out of the bathroom with the sleeves of his white shirt rolled up to his elbows. The smell of cologne wafts into the bedroom as he runs a hand through his golden curls. “I’m ready to go if you—” He cuts himself off when he sees you.

You’re wearing a white dress that stops right above your knees. A golden pendant with Finnick’s initials is draped around your neck. Youre slipping a pair of matching dangly earrings into your lobes when your husband’s voice cuts through the air. You make eye contact with him through the reflection in the mirror and smile. “Hey.”

Finnick grins and two dimples carve their way into the spot above his lips. He steps up behind you and wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you close to him. “Jesus Christ, woman, I swear you’re trying to kill me before we even leave the house.”

You laugh as he presses feather-light kisses along the slender column of your throat. “Oi. We can’t be late. Effie will have my head on a platter if I’m not there on time.”

Finnick groans and buries his face into the crook of your neck. His fingers trail down the length of your arms. “Do we have to go, angel? Can’t we just stay here?”

You roll your eyes upwards, but you can feel a hot heat pooling between your thighs. Your voice holds a warning tone as you say, “Finn.”

He drops his voice an octave, lips brushing against the shell of your ear. “You know that I would make it worth your while, hm?”

You weigh up the options in your head. On the one hand, you want nothing more than to stay here and have him take care of you like you desperately need but you know you can’t. “We can’t let them down.”

“Why not?” He kisses the sweet spot behind your ear and grins when you melt into him.

Fucking smug bastard.

“Because Katniss and Peeta are expecting us. And it is rude to let them down.” You argue. “I know we’re staying the night but surely you can have some self- control for less than twenty-four hours.”

Finnick pouts. “But you look so pretty in that dress, baby.”

You roll your eyes, but can’t help the small smile that tugs at the corners of your lips. “Flattery will get you nowhere.”

Finnick grins. “That’s not what you said the other night when—”

“Oi!”

He laughs. “Alright, I’ll keep my hands to myself… for now.” He presses a quick kiss to your cheek and pulls away before taking you by the hand and interlacing your fingers together. “C’mon. Let’s get going.”

Finnick keeps his hand on your thigh all the way from your house to Katniss and Peeta’s. His fingers every so often trail higher, tracing the lining of your underwear innocently before his hand goes back to your thigh and his eyes back to the road.

It’s warm inside of Katniss and Peeta’s house. Annie, Johanna, Beetee, Haymitch and Effie are already at the dinner table as Finnick leads you over to an empty seat, where he sits you down and settles down beside you. His hand falls back to your thigh.

Dinner passes smoothly. Everyone talks and drinks wine or water and by the time dessert is served, your stomachs are fit to burst. The conversations pass well into the early evening, and eventually, when the tiredness sets in, every one starts to retreat to the guest bedrooms.

You’re on edge by the time you and Finnick head back to the bedroom. Once the door is locked behind you, you spin on your heel to face him.

Finnick grins. “What’s wrong, angel? You look flushed.” His voice holds mock sympathy and you can tell that he is holding back a laugh.

“You’re such a dick.” You hiss out, folding your arms over your chest.

Finnick does laugh this time. “Huh? What’re you talking about, angel?”

“Don’t play dumb with me, mister. What was that, hm? Sliding your hand up my thigh when we were eating our dinner, whispering dirty things in my ear, sitting me in your lap when we were on the sofa?”

Finnick grins like the cocky bastard he is.

You glare at him, cheeks burning. “Well?”

“Well, what, baby?”

“You gonna fuck me or what?”

Finnick tsks his tongue but obliges by crossing the room in a few quick strides and guiding you to sit down on the edge of the bed. “So needy,” he chastises.

“Don’t test me, Finn,” You huff.

He cuts you off by slotting his lips over your own and swallowing your moans. His hands slip up the hem of your dress, bunching the fabric up over your hips as he makes quick work of ridding yourself of your underwear. He groans into your mouth and his fingers slip under the thin material. “You’re soaked, angel. Can I take these off?”

You nod but he cocks his head to one side with an arched brow, silently telling you that he wants to hear you say it. You roll your eyes. “Yeah. Take them off.”

Usually, he would make you beg for it or give out to you for being bratty, but if the bulge in his pants is anything to go by, he’s just as needy as you are, if not more.

He pulls your panties down your legs and tosses them to one side carelessly. Slipping his tongue into your mouth once more, he runs his fingers through your folds and he groans. “You really are trying to kill me.”

You moan. “Please.”

Finnick shushes you gently. “Need you to be quiet, f’me, angel. Think you can do that?” His thumb finds your clit and you whimper. Clicking his tongue disapprovingly, he lifts the same hand and coaxes your lips apart so that you are taking his thumb. He smiles as you suck on his thumb, using his other hand to gather your wetness and increase the pressure and pace of his fingers. “There you are. There’s my good girl. I’m gonna fuck you soon, but you have to show me you’re gonna stay quiet, got it?”

#grace talks🐚🌷#the hunger games #thgs #thg #finnick odair x reader #finnick odair #finnick odair x you #finnick odair smut #smut #blurb #drabble #oneshot #fem!reader #afab reader #sam claflin #catching fire #mockingjay

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is-the-sky-blue · 5 months ago

Text

WHY DIDN'T YOU NOTICE: GOJO SATORU & GETO SUGURU

Warnings: 18+, NSFW, satosugu x reader, public sex (no one gets caught), handjob, oral (m receiving), praise, penetration (only during the bonus)

You didn't notice it at first.

You sat perched in a little oak chair, the plump cushion comfortable as you leaned back, listening to your friends chatter, the long tablecloth draped over the wooden table spilling to the floor in front of your legs and you slipped your toes beneath it, the fabric cold against your exposed ankles, feet dressed in pretty pink heels as your manicured nails, a present from your obnoxiously wealthy boyfriend, toyed with the sparkling silverware.

Today was a day of fun.

The pendant lights hanging above you casted a warm glow over your group of friends as the atmosphere was alight with laughter, the consistent hum of conversation never ending as it continued to flow languidly, shifting from one topic to another as you all cracked joke after joke.

You honed in on the many different snippets of talk happening around you, listening as Shoko whined, leisurely sipping on wine, that stained her already lipstick painted lips, red as she complained about all the nuisances coming in with what she claimed to be minor injuries, "They can just slap a band aid on it and call it a day," she complained, holding the stem of her glass tight between her fingers as she went for yet another swig.

"I don't think putting a band aid on a broken arm will just magically heal it," Utahime laughed incredulously, and you had to stifle a giggle as Ieiri furrowed her brows, drunken lips pulling into a pout.

"You are supposed to be on my side!"

You didn't notice it as you watched Haibara elbow Nanami, watching as the blond man sighed as the dark haired man merely laughed.

"Come on lighten up a little," he grinned, "it's not every day we can all hang out!"

"Yeah Nanami," you tease, the said man merely closing his eyes, pinching the corners with his fingers, he really didn't get paid enough to hang around with fools like you.

Your table was roaring with laughter and idle chatter but quickly what you did notice was how the overeager voice of your most endearingly obnoxious partner, Satoru, was yet to be heard. It was strange, he was always one to butt in on any and all conversations with his unasked for opinion.

You turn your attention to in front of you where both your boyfriends sit contently, backs against the wall as they sat on the side of the booth with the couch, much to your dismay. As you faced them Suguru only offered you a loving smile, his hair framing his face delicately and you had to admire your handiwork as before you left the house you finally managed to convince Suguru to fix the bun he half-assedly threw his hair in. Despite wanting to admire your lover your real concern lied with Satoru.

You cocked a confused brow at him, "You okay Toru?" you ask, trying to figure out what's wrong as despite his lips being curled in a grin it didn't hold as much shit eating coyness as usual, it was as though he was trying to paint an image on his face to show that he was fine, but you've stared at his teasing smiles enough throughout the years to know when he was faking one.

"I-" he chokes out before biting his tongue and you began to grow more concerned, "m' fine," he slurred together, was he drunk? He couldn't be... could he, he doesn't even like alcohol.

"Are you sure love?" you question, reaching for his hand that was pressed in a tight fist, causing his knuckles to turn white but as you lay a comforting touch he jerked away. "Satoru?" you say again, growing slightly anxious as he began to now reach for you, gripping your offered hand, fingers digging into your palm as he grit his teeth. His face was oddly flushed. He has to be drunk, but that didn't make sense, he doesn't even have a wine glass on him, was he drinking Suguru's?

"He's alright baby," the black haired man finally spoke up, you weren't worried about his lack of remarks in the group chatter, he was always one who liked to listen and offer up a random snappy quip that usually sent the table howling, but the glint in his eyes had got you feeling suspicious.

"Uhuh," you bite your lip, tasting the cherry lip gloss that your sweets loving boyfriend always begged you to wear, trying to see through the man afore you who had his glasses beginning to slip down the bridge of his nose but made no move to adjust them. "Are you feeling overwhelmed Satoru," you question, the clammy skin of him palms pressing against yours as he tightly interlocked your fingers, but instead of an answer your query only seemed to spark a certain smugness to alight in Suguru.

"Mmm are you feeling overwhelmed Sa, to, ru" he sang mockingly, leaning into the snowy haired boy's ear as he broke apart the syllables of his name and you could only feel the man clutch your hand tighter, his facial expressions not betraying him but the bead of sweat that formed on his forehead, and the quiet curse he mumbled had the dots connecting in your brain.

"Seriously," you gape, running a soothing hand over the man's knuckles as you stared utterly shocked at Suguru.

"What?" he mused, shit eating grin that usually planted on Satoru's lips now mirrored on his, and you could finally see all the signs.

Satoru being awfully quiet, the lacking coyness in his demeanor, his slurred words, his blushed cheeks, his tight grip on your hands and the out of pocket teasing cockiness exuding from Suguru.

"Here," you hissed in disbelief and you extended your foot under the table, knocking Satoru's spread ones and while he was one to man spread like a lunatic you could feel the muscles in his legs spasm.

"Whatever do you mean," the dark haired man grinned.

"I think you know."

"I don't think I do."

You rubbed a comforting foot over Satoru's calf as you brought a gentle kiss to his knuckles, trying to ease his suffering inflicted by the lunatic sitting next to him. "Where's my kiss," Suguru smiles and you only send him a glare, taking note of how only one of his hands were present atop the table, the hand furthest from Satoru.

You watched as a muscle pinched in your white haired partner's forehead, his lips pursing tightly together to keep any sound from escaping his mouth. "You don't get one," you spit, watching as his lips fall into a half-hearted pout.

"So cruel."

"Says you," and you are careful to keep your voice low, despite everyone being borderline drunk and tipsy, you didn't really want to deal with anyone figuring out that your boyfriend was giving your other boyfriend a hand job under the table, your bonds may be close with your friends but they weren't that strong.

"I-" a quiet whisper of a sob, "mm," he hums instead, his voice weak and shaky as Suguru continues his relentless motions, "gonna-" he whimpers and you hear the perpetrator tut at him, tsking as though Satoru was the one misbehaving.

"If you do it now everyone is gonna notice," you can hear Suguru chide, chuckling at how Satoru visibly deflates, muscles straining and behind his glasses you spot a wet sheen threatening to break over his eyes.

"You need to stop," you whisper and the black haired man only coos.

"You can't really be asking me to leave him like this," he feigns a pitying gasp, leg lifting yours and you could feel yourself brush against Satoru's rigidly hard weeping member, a slick sheen of pre-cum staining your skin and you see Satoru bite back a moan, leaning closer into Suguru's shoulder, his head shaking.

To anyone else it'd look like Satoru was being his normal clingy self, shoving himself into Suguru's space and whining about something mundane as usual. The look on Satoru's face, while you would call it desperate, others wouldn't be able to tell otherwise and you had to commend the man on having such good control over his facial reactions.

"Pl-please I can't, I need to, need to," he started to beg.

"I want to but our little princess won't let me," and he passes the mean role onto you as he stares at you as though you were the one putting your submissive lover into such a sorry state.

His pretty pink lips jutted into a pout, nose crinkling as his hands pawed at yours, clinging to you tighter. "Please," he whined, desperate and pathetic and you swore you could see the tears begin to form, "P-please, please, please," he recited like a mantra, voice high pitched and shaky as he forced himself to remain quiet. "I-I'll d-do whatever ya want, please baby," he dug his nails into your hand and your captive leg brushing against him could feel as tiny blobs slipped down his shaft, wetting your flesh, you could feel Suguru's knuckles as he stroked at a menacing pace and you found yourself squeezing your thighs together, your mouth suddenly dry as you stared into his despair filled eyes, pleading for relief.

"I- Satoru," you tried to chastise but you felt too sorry for him to really hold any anger, "take him to the bathroom," you try, conflicted eyes shifting to your dark haired partner and you could hear Suguru tsk.

"You think nobody is going to see our little baby boy's problem," he says condescendingly and you can tell from where you sat Suguru placed a taunting squeeze on your writhing angel.

"P-Please," he hiccupped quietly into his partner's shoulder, staring at you wide eyed, those big blue irises shaking with need and you left out a sigh of exasperation. These two were going to be the death of you.

Carefully you pulled your leg away and the look on Satoru's face had your heart melting with pity as you slipped your hand from his grasp, ignoring his sobbing plea as you reached for a piece of cutlery, carefully toying with it, the prongs of the fork pricking the tip of your finger before you set it down dangerously close to the edge of the table.

You could hear Suguru coo sweet nothings into his white hair as you 'accidentally' bonked your elbow into the edge of the fork, causing it to clatter to the floor.

"Shit," you murmur as though you had inconvenienced yourself, heel sliding against the tile as you tried to pull the fork closer to you so you could lean down and pick it up, only for you to once again, 'accidentally' kick it further under the table. "Oops," you laugh so fakely that if your friends weren't nearly 5 bottles deep in alcohol they'd surely call you out on your bluff. You could only hear Shoko murmur a slight, "oh no," before returning to her glass.

You turn to face the two boys once more and the smug grin on Suguru's face had you sticking your tongue out at him before you slipped from your chair and kneeled to the floor, pulling yourself beneath the table cloth as you ducked your head underneath the table, carefully crawling forward as you patted around, pretending to search for your abandoned fork as you eyed the sinful sight in front of you.

Merely a breath away he stood throbbing, beads drooling from his tip in tiny rivulets, catching at his tense balls that strained in pain. His crying head red and needy, the sheen coating his length shimmering beneath the light that ever so slightly crept in from where Suguru slipped in his hand, thick fingers fisting tightly, sliding up and down as Satoru's dick jumped in his grasp. Satoru's long legs, fidgeting and tensing, were spread wide enough to let you slip between them, and carefully you blew a gentle gust over his hanging balls, listening to the schlick, schlick, schlick, of his pre-cum dragging across his cock from Suguru's unrelenting strokes, listening to the very quiet whine that had Satoru's hips squirming.

Leaning forward you press a tender kiss to his sticky tip, feeling your lip gloss smear with his essence as you extend your tongue, kitten licking the small droplets that formed on the end incessantly, the salty liquid coating the inside of your mouth. Suguru held him steady, angling his springing dick, that wanted to jut up and hug his chiseled torso, forward so you could easily capture him in your mouth, carefully letting him slip between your lips.

You watched as one of the hands he had gripping the booth couch snaked forward, aiming for your hair to pull you further down his length and you harshly swat it away, you still had to come out from under this table looking like you were searching for your fork, not sucking off your boyfriend's throbbing cock. Instead you grabbed his hand and laced your fingers, resting it atop his knee as you used your other hand to smack his inner thigh as punishment and you could feel him jump in your mouth as you captured him further.

If you truly wanted to be mean, and if this was happening in any other place that wasn't public, you would've pulled off his dick and wait until he begged you with apologies, but you were feeling quite nice and Suguru was already tormenting him enough.

Loosening your throat you let yourself slip down, bracing yourself on his thighs as you pushed your weight onto your knees, that would bruise in the morning, circling him with your tongue as Suguru moved his fist, groping his balls as he let your mouth squeeze the final pumps out of him.

The cherry lip gloss you wore coated his skin as you bobbed your head, squeezing his hand in yours as you carefully swatted at Suguru's knee, 'let him cum already'.

There was a heavy breath of silence as you continued your suckling, chest thumping in anticipation until you could barely hear the words, "cum," echo down from above you. Not even a beat later thick white streams poured down your throat in salty, bitter, but somehow slightly sweet spurts. Carefully you drank it all up, focusing on not spilling even a drop, not wanting to leave a single spec of evidence of your little adventure beneath this table for anyone to find. As you licked it up, tasting the very last squirms trickle into your mouth, you swallowed, feeling him grow limp as you pulled off with a satisfying pop.

Licking your lips, you carefully lapped up the final juices that clung to the underside of his softening dick, watching as he squirmed from overstimulation as Suguru let go of his balls. Soon salty fingers found their way shoving into your mouth and you grimaced before obliging, suckling his fingertips regardless of the fact that you were still mad at him for doing this in a public place, and around your friends no less.

Let's just say you bit down on him before pulling away.

Taking a breather you waited a moment, using this time to pat around the floor before finally exclaiming a phony, "aha!" as you grabbed the fork that had ended up laying next to Satoru's foot the entire time. Clutching the fork in your grasp you collected yourself before clambering out from under the table, returning to your seat, looking the same, only a tad bit breathless as you placed the utensil onto the tablecloth that had hid your sinful excursion.

"Oh you found it," Suguru chimed, grinning, tapping his spit soaked and bite mark fingertips atop the cloth as Satoru leaned into him, resting his eyes, and you began to wonder what type of faces he made as he came.

Damnit Suguru!

If he did this at home you could've at least watched the erotic show, now your lip gloss was gone, smudged all over Satoru's dick, and you were all hot and bothered and you had to sit here until the night was over.

With a fuming huff you stared at the spent Satoru and smug Suguru.

Today was supposed to be fun, but you weren't supposed to be having this type of fun

You furrowed your brows, letting out a sigh as you moved to reach for your glass only for Suguru to place his only clean hand on your cheek. You send him a glare but your face flushes as he runs a finger over the corner of your mouth, collecting the little gift Satoru had given you before licking it off his thumb.

Damnit Suguru, if only you had noticed it earlier

Bonus:

Your thighs began to burn as you felt deft fingertips run over your clit, your head, burrowed in the crook of Satoru's neck as he pounded up into you, Suguru taking you from the back as your sweat soaked bodies tangled together. Satoru's lithe fingers cascading through your hair as he pulled your bleary eyed face into his view.

"Shoulda let me put my hands into your hair earlier," he sinfully sang, pressing a kiss to your moaning lips and you could only let out a whimpering laugh as he pulled away.

"Hell no," you smirk, feeling him thrust up in retaliation at your little snicker at his expense, "shouldn't have done it in public then," you whisper between breathy whines, feeling the knot in your stomach grow.

"Mmm but wasn't it so much fun," Suguru rumbled over into your back as he thrusted quickly, trying to chase his high.

"Mhm" is all you could snarkily murmur as you leaned into Satoru, this time his back was pressed up against the plush pillows of your bed, "I think this is more fun," you huff out, feeling your orgasm creep.

"Think yer just greedy," Satoru taunts, watching as you come undone from all the attention they gave to your ravenous little hole.

"Says you!" you swat at his chest weakly, feeling the cord snap and you began to start spilling, hips grinding for more friction as they pampered your writhing body with kisses.

Maybe it was a good thing you didn't notice it at first.

#satosugu x reader #satosugu x you #satosugu x y/n #satoru x reader x suguru #gojo x reader x geto #jjk smut #smut #polyamory #jjk x reader #jjk #jujutsu kaisen #jujustsu kaisen x reader

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usetheeauthor · 3 months ago

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Kinktober Day 3: Brainwashing/Reprograming

Pre-War!Ghoul-ish!Cooper Howard x Reader

Summary: Cooper sure loves you; his little vaultie wife. Too bad you have no clue that you’re actually not the only two people left in the world.

Warnings: 18+ , non con mind control, implied age gap, gaslighting, manipulation, dub con kissing

A/N: I imagine Cooper in this in between his ghoul form and human form and the ghoul form is slowly corrupting his mind.

You don’t remember what life was like before “the blank” or the period in which your vault had been attacked. But by the time you came to, everyone in your vault was long gone. Dead? Alive? You aren’t sure. Not a single corpse or evidence of their existence has been recovered. All you remember was a bright flash of light and suddenly you were alone in the arms of a man you hardly knew.

He says he’s your husband who’s been searching for you for years. He says he loves you. That he’ll protect you. And you surely do believe those things but…something about him just feels like he’s hiding something. But all he’s gotta do is say a couple magic words and suddenly you don’t care to question him. Maybe you just love him all that much that nothing he’s hiding matters.

It is much better when you aren’t questioning things anyway. He’s much more affectionate when you don’t resist.

“Little wifey,” Cooper calls out as he comes through the doorway of the little pod home you shared. You rush into his arms, beautiful blue and white sundress flowing behind you. “There ya are, sugar. Missed me?”

“Of course, I did.” You say, holding him tight. “I was so lonely. Every time you walk out that door, I worry you’ll never come back and that I’ll be alone again.”

“Not a chance,” He says kissing you on the forehead. “I’ve searched all this way for ya darlin’. Nothing can keep me away from you. It’s just you and me against the world.”

“What’d you get this time?” You beam.

“I got you this purdy little necklace you can wear.” He holds up the chain with a small ruby pendant on it.

The souvenir looks familiar and the moment you touch it, flooding memories of a woman in authority washes over. You clutch your head in pain.

“You alright, darlin’?” Cooper asks. He touches your forehead with the back of his hand, checking the temperature.

“W-where’d you get this?” You ask fearfully while cowering away. “Why does it look so familiar? Like it belonged to someone I—ow!”

You hold your head once again, squatting as you buckle under the weight of your rapid thoughts. Cooper snaps his fingers and you instantly tense, looking up at him as your mind suddenly goes empty.

“Evergreen,” He says and your body loosens. It’s that magic word. The one that makes you feel at ease and then everything goes back to normal. But little did he know there’s a resistance within you this time, one that fights for you to seek the truth in your situation. “I’ll be putting this necklace around you, sugar. You’ll behave, won’t you?”

You nod mindlessly.

“Good girl,” He coos. “Up on ya feet.”

You obey, waiting on his next command. He does a spin gesture with his pointer finger and you oblige, back facing him. He pushes your hair out of the way, draping the necklace around your throat then clasping it closed.

“When I count to three and yours eyes are on mine again,” Cooper begins, whispering in your ear. “You’ll be my sweet little wifey again. 3…2…1.”

He snaps again. You blink rapidly looking around the room in confusion then down at your necklace with a smile. You spin on your heels to face him. “It’s beautiful, Coop!”

You kiss him and he cradles your face so gently in his large hands. “I love you so much.”

“Love you too, sweet pea.” He smiles.

He’d been a little risky offering you something that could have easily reminded you of your overseer. That would have been two years of properly training you as his good girl down the drain, if he hadn’t thought quickly on his feet.

But he can tell you’re succumbing to his love slowly but surely . Soon there would be no remembering the past and no more questioning things. Just you and him as it should be.

You pull away from kissing his full lips, caressing a hand over the ghoulish half of his face. It looks as if it’s spreading more and more as the days go by. Cooper doesn’t show it much but he’s insecure about his fading human form and in the back of his mind he fears you’ll find him repulsive and leave. And sure he could just make you fall in love with just the snap of his fingers. But if there’s a chance you could love him naturally without all the extra steps, he’d be more than overjoyed.

His breath hitches when your lips delicately graze web-like textured skin, showering him in soft kisses.

“Could I go to the storage area for some cake? I’d like to have some before bed.” You say, fingers interlocked behind the back of his neck.

“Too much sugar ain’t enough for mine, I guess,” He chuckles. “Long as you come back to me, you can eat all the cake ya want.”

“Yes, my husband.” You say as the dutiful, doting wife you are. Satisfied with your answer, he releases you.

Once you’re out of his grasp, you quickly scurry out and try to locate your nearest exits. You’ve been planning this escape for a long time: training yourself to resist his words, drawing and mapping out the facility’s square footage whenever you could, and finally waiting for him to come home so you could sneak the key fob from his pockets.

There were just too many clues. The blood on his shirt despite not having any wounds and the items he gifted you from time to time; you two weren’t actually the only ones on earth and you needed to get away from this man or who knows what he plans to do to you.

You stumble upon a locked room somewhere down a dark corridor, darting your eyes around to ensure Cooper isn’t around. Breaking the handle with a nearby fire extinguisher, you enter what looks to be an office.

From the information you’ve gathered based on the scattered paperwork, you were one of the scientists of this specific vault. A vault specialized with retaining war information from former war veterans. You gasp once you stumble upon Cooper’s file and the missing pieces of your memory slowly assemble accordingly. Your vault has conducted inhumane experiments on him and the other veterans from injecting them with radiation to test the effects on them to brainwashing.

Things came to a head when Cooper Howard set out of a pressurized blast within the vault that knocked you out as you were the only one furthest away from the site while the remaining of your crew got completely vaporized. The vault opening allowed for the traumatized veterans to eventually escape though Cooper stayed behind.

“I-I was the monster,” You whisper to yourself, tears streaming from your eyes. “No…I am a monster.”

“You’re nothing of the sort, sweet pea.” Cooper says from behind you. “You couldn’t help what you’d done. You were only doing your job. I never wanted revenge when it came to you. I just wanted to show you real love.”

“Is that why you’ve been hiding this from me? You wanted to protect my feelings?” You cry into his arms.

“I can make it stop hurting, ya know. We can go back to being just you and me. Forget the world out there.” He whispers.

“I’d like that. Please make me forget.” You plead.

“Of course, darlin’. Anything for you.”

Cooper cups the back of your head, his biggest ring digging into your scalp as he plants a passionate kiss on your lips. He lowers you on your back against the desk behind you. You surrender happily, smiling into the kiss and feeling safe.

You’ll never again part from him and Cooper’s, oh so, glad that you finally understand this. Maybe he hadn’t told you the exact truth you were searching for but he’d set things up just nicely for you to feel as if it were that way. The room was staged. Everything was staged, in fact, and there were no such things as the veteran experiments. But you don’t need to know any of that. He wouldn’t even begin to tell you the crazy things he’d done just to have you. All you needed to know was that Cooper would do anything to ensure that you remain by his side.

And, well, if you didn’t stay beside him, luckily he’ll always have a way to track you down.

#the ghoul x reader #the ghoul #cooper howard #cooper howard x reader #cooper howard x reader smut #cooper howard x you #fallout au #fallout prime #fallout fanfiction #the ghoul x you #the ghoul x reader smut #cooper howard/the ghoul x reader #walton goggins #walton ghoulgins #tw: brainwashing #tw: dubcon #kinktober #kinktober 2024

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1800titz · 1 year ago

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Hi friends! I’ve been sitting on this for about 3 months now and had the spontaneous urge to share. More lengthy authors note is over on wattpad. ٩(◕‿◕)۶

This one is going to be a long, chaptered fic, and here's the first chapter!

Also, big thank you to Miss @freedomfireflies for her help brainstorming <3

WC: 6.5K

Harry thinks that prissy, pretty little princesses stowed away in his cabin, tied up with ropes like haphazard, shibari interpretations, outweigh all chests, upon chests, of dainty sapphire emblems and chunky pendants of gold. This particular …treasure, in fact, is worth far beyond her weight in pure gold. A sight for sore eyes, too. Still sopping from the sea, her low-cut neckline clinging to her flesh and her skirt sheerly draped over her parted thighs.

It’s a nice view.

Seren doesn’t know how she’s ended up strapped to some horribly uncomfortable stool in a rocking room that’s wood, ceiling to floor.

Well.

She knows that the boat she was on was a victim of piracy. She knows that the ship, aimed for Holland, met an unsightly demise at some point, in open ocean, between Rotterdam and Harwich. She knows she’d been in a cabin of the Mary when the first strike landed, when flames erupted over the forecastle, when the deck turned to screams and a beautiful morning of calm skies, wisps of white she’d admired minutes prior, meant virtually nothing to the tightening in her chest.

The pirate leans back against the wall. His eyes, like emeralds, wind over her shape. She grits at the balled fabric between her teeth, chest heaving. He’s a man — a man’s man, unlike in appearance to the men she’s used to spending her pastime around, back home. The kinds who wither at the sight of the wrong fork at the dinner table or something, and turn their noses up at the thought of carrying something heavier than forty pounds. The kind whose hair coils pristinely, seemingly solidified rock in place. The kind who carry umbrellas to ward off the glaring rays of the sunlight as they stroll through the courtyard of shrubbery in their fancy shoes and fancy garments. This man is not that type of man.

He’s different, she can see it just in the way he carries himself. He’s not scared to get his hands dirty, he’s not scared to do the work. The crest of his left cheekbone wears a scar, a nick, so small she wouldn’t see it had he not stepped into the buttery beam of the daylight cast through the little window on the precipice of wall and ceiling, particles of dust dancing in the makeshift spotlight. His fingers, adorned with chunky rings, his hands — they’re calloused, like a laborer. She can see it from her view. His garb is simple, clad over his skin for purpose and comfort, solely.

But simple isn’t the term she’d deem best to describe him, not with his myriad of accessories, from the trinkets glinting from his holster, to his plethora of rings, to the mysterious, rusted key that dangled in the glen between his pecs. That one’s highlighted against bare skin in the vale of his haphazardly unbuttoned shirt. From there, she can see ink over his torso, carved in shapes over swarthy flesh. All sorts of pictures; beaks, and wings, lines of careful shading and others of jet emphasis; thicker, deeper sketches in contrast.

He’s clean shaven, which is unlike any pirate Seren’s ever heard tall tales of. His mouth is pink, cushiony in shape, and when the corners of his mouth turn up, dimples wink awake beside the curl. An even slope of a nose, and jade irises that brew with mischief. Seren can almost see the way that the flinty shade would brew with a storm, like the sea. If he wasn't a pirate of the boat that’d throttled her own, sent it spiraling into the ocean as nothing but husks of chipped wood and dying ember, maybe she’d find an alluring quality to him. But it’s not food for thought.

“Should we try again?” he prompts, in his tantalizing cadence.

When she’d heard him speak, for the first time, she was floored. An Englishman. An Englishman, youthful and spry, sailing a pirate ship, and pillaging when so much more could be in the books for such a man. So much potential, wasted. What a crying shame. She’d heard of pirates, of brutish criminals from her homeland, but they were always, for some reason or another, older, unprepossessing, scarred and crude with unkempt beards and a lack of morals, too far gone to redeem. They had eyes much too hungry for riches, and lewd, groping hands that were much too focused on flesh. Seren eyes his hands. They’re colossal. He hasn’t touched her in that way, not like that, but the lazy smirk over his plush mouth, the way his irises rake over her neckline, down the meshified front of her dress — that practically urges her not to count her blessings too soon.

When he squats just ahead of her, watching her in pause, his eyes glinting with this sort of condescension, because she’s indisposed and at his whim, Seren wishes her legs weren’t bound to the legs of the chair. She’d kick him, if she could. She’d scream, and kick, and claw, and—

“Are you going to start shouting again? Is that what you’re thinking about?” he murmurs, the corners of his mouth buckling. When she’s unable to respond, for obvious reasons, the man cups his palm over the shell of his right ear and twists his head a tad, leaning towards her a smidge.

“M’gonna need an answer, if you’d like to me to un-gag you. M’specifically gonna need a no,” the pirate prompts, a jesting air to his tone that Seren would love to crush. Her chest is still heaving from the last screaming fit, from the first time he’d tugged at the rope pressing to her cheeks and pulled the smushed fabric off of her tongue. His mouth twitches wryly.

He plants his forearms onto his thighs, casting his gaze to her as he weighs out the options, lips crooked, but eyes narrowed, just a bit, in a way that wordlessly suggests she comply.

“Let’s give this another go.”

When the man digs his forefinger under the abrasive rope and yanks it down, over her chin, and then plucks at the outside of the makeshift gag, Seren doesn’t nip at his fingertips. She’d tried that, the first time, but he’d retracted before her teeth could come into contact, his mouth jolting at the fire within her he’d underestimated. She expected a smack, she’d expected her neck to twist as her cheek bruised in response to the attempt, but he’d just stuck his tongue against his cheek, all mirthy, until she’d started to scream. Then he’d gagged her again.

So.

That was a failure.

The second the back of her throat meets the air, rather than the garbling cloth, the young woman starts screaming. Again. He’d kind of expected it. It’s a very lovely attempt, she’s quite loud, and all, but unfortunately, her efforts are sort of moot. That kind of thing tends to happen when you’re miles, and miles, and miles out in the open sea aboard a ship of men who work for the opposing team. Harry would clap if he wasn’t putting on a show of tucking a finger into his ear at her shrill cries. Eventually, he just watches her, letting her scream for a bit, and she holds seething eye contact as her help rises in pitch.

“Okay— alright,” Harry shakes his head, balling the cloth, daubed with her saliva, and shoving it past her lips haphazardly. She attempts to spit, but can only wriggle as he presses the rope back over her mouth like the task is effortless.

For a moment, neither of them say anything. The princess can’t. Harry tuts.

His tone carries notes of amusement when he tells her, “You’re quite pitchy. D’you know that?”

Seren stares him down.

“Have you got rocks in your head?” his lips nearly jolt up at the blunt nature of his own inquiry. They don’t. “I tell you not to scream,” he waves with an arm, “you scream anyways. I say, let’s try one more time, because— you know. Maybe you didn’t get the memo, the first time.”

The princess watches him talk, bemused. He gestures with his arm like a tired parent, stressed and lecturing a menacing, little child.

“And you yell again. So I’m wondering, have you got rocks in your head?”

Seren says nothing. She does wriggle in the restraints, like his question has insulted her enough to launch at him. But she stills when he squats ahead of her, once more, her heart hammering behind her ribcage.

“Who’s going to rescue you?” the pirate asks. It’s obviously rhetorical, and he knows she can comprehend that much. When the roll of her chest slows and she settles back, he can see it in her eyes that his point has left her crestfallen. His mouth quirks, and Harry presses again. “Who?”

When he knows that the message has sunk in, when she stares at the wall behind him, blankly, the only evidence of her consciousness being her glazed over gaze and the flare of her nostrils on every inhale, Harry sighs down at his palms and shakes his head.

“I’d just like a chat.”

Seren twists her head away. As much as the binding over her neck and face allows for, anyways. Harry tuts.

“So glum. You’re alive, aren’t you?” he cocks his head, voice low, “You’re not at the bottom of the sea. Not like your little boat.”

Those words hit a nerve, he can see it in the way she side-eyes him, the flame reignited, kindling in her scorching gaze. The pirate nods down at his hands, twisting a ring with a ruby red gem, like a shitty mockery of a moment of silence.

“It can’t possibly be comfortable, sitting with your mouth full, like that. And you must be thirsty, what with all that saltwater you were gargling,” he raises a shoulder, a coy reasoning to his speech.

Seren doesn’t want his stupid water. He’d probably poison her, have his way, and roll her off the ship, back into the raging waters he’d pulled her from. Harry blinks. She doesn’t offer an inkling to show that she’s willing to comply, but he stands and reaches for the rope, digging the pads of his fingers under the binding, over her cheek. His forefinger brushes the corner of her parted lips.

“Third time’s the charm.”

Though, he doesn’t sound the least bit convincing, not even to his own ears. He cradles the square of cloth between his fingertips and listens to her screams for a moment.

And then he startles her when he starts to harmonize with her screeching pleas. The first one is enough for her vocal chords to stutter, for her to jolt back in her seat, alarmed.

“HELP!” Harry calls, stretching the vowel outweighing her own scream in volume as the young woman’s own dies off, and the princess balks, startling in the ropes at the sound. He takes a pause for a deep breath, and screams again, “HELP!” banging on the wooden beams over the ceiling, bumping with his palm loudly, in an outrageous display that’s clearly meant to taunt. The sound of him striking it, alone, causes her to jump in her restraints.

He’s unhinged. Seren is convinced. Her spine straightens out like an arrow, and her shoulders square as she ogles the bizarre display, watching him strike over the ceiling, the walls, stamp the soles of his boots against the floorboards. After a second, he settles down. His hand is crooked against one of the beams overhead, and his gaze roves over her slowly. Purposefully. The corners of his mouth curl up sardonically.

“It’s not a very nice sound, is it?”

He’s deranged. His screws are loose, Seren decides, her eyes still wide as the racing pace of her heart settles in her chest — but any man who sinks ships for fun, in the open sea, who sails and pillages, and murders innocents with a hunger for riches, has screws loose. These aren’t insightful revelations. Maybe she’d just expected him to be less …bizarre, in their interrogation. He was going to get his answers out of her — they were his, they were going to be, and there’s no kidding about it — but the young woman is unsure of what answers he’s looking for or why. Why, why, why. Why did these pirates sink her boat? It was nothing but a small ferry in comparison to the opposing monster of a galleon. It wasn’t even a merchant ship, there were no riches to be stolen. Ironically, the pirate reaches a hand out, and Seren fidgets until his fingers clasp over her ruby pendant. He lifts it from her skin with prodding fingertips and a gaze of scrutiny.

She won’t give him answers, the princess decides. Whatever dialogue he may want from her, she won’t comply. She doesn’t know what he has in store for her lack of subservience, but she doesn’t care. She will not bend her will for this mangy brute.

“This is a pretty piece.”

Loose tendrils, clumped wetly, sway as she jerks her neck to tug the pendant from his grasp. She fails. His digits twitch and flex over the pendant, and the chain digs into the skin at the back of her neck with the faulty motion. The corners of his mouth quirk up as the princess makes an mmph.

That’s a pretty sound.

“M’not going to steal it. What kind of a man do you take me for? We’re good men here, on this ship,” the pirate declares, a sort of vehement passion to his statement, but the crook of his mouth says it’s an unlikely story.

So do the remnants of her boat, somewhere at the bottom of the sea, Seren thinks dryly. Maintaining eye contact, he lets the pendant settle back between her collarbones. It is a pretty piece, Harry wasn’t lying. Real gold, too — no princess would wear something less. But he’s got no need to pilfer it from her. Every molecule of her being, every cell, will pay out tenfold the cost of the necklace. It’s with that thought that he fixes the gag back into place and leaves her, trussed to that chair in the cabin.

“Ta,” the pirate bids in his slow roam towards the door, a glance aimed over his as he tucks his fingertips into the belt holstering his array of daggers, one handle bejeweled. The look he fixes her is sure, the kind that’s relaxed, but showcases that his word is final and will be the outcome. “Chat soon.”

Fun fact; being tied to a shoddy, little wooden chair for hours on end fucking blows. Especially when your hands are bound, in such a way where the rope weaves through the pegs of the back of the chair, keeping your joints wrung together tightly. It’s really aggravating to have a coarse rope, its weaving splintered with pinprick-y tufts, stuck up over your cheeks to hold some sordid rag in place between your teeth.

It’s safe to say that the experience is not one of Seren’s most favorite past-times. She’s not sure how much time has passed before that heavy wooden door creaks open on its hinges, again. Only a few hours, it must be. The crack of a window behind her hasn’t broken with nightfall, though the light cast through its opening has dimmed, if only a little.

It’s the same pirate as before. All glimmery jade and the bare vale of tanned skin from the unbuttoned sector of his shirt, where she makes out a faint dusting of chest hair, between his pecs.

The princess is still a gorgeous view, in Harry’s opinion. Her thighs are still splayed, but her cream dress has dried some, now, and so has her hair. It’s wild, mussed and frizzy. A half-soaked clump rests over one of her eyes.

“Hello to you, too, darling,” he says in response to the glare she fastens him with through the one that’s visible, like instant daggers. The corners of his mouth crook. He ambles toward her with a steel cup of …something. Something mysterious, something unknown, something she eyes warily up until the point where he’s towering over her. The young woman tears her gaze away, casting it up to his handsome face, instead.

He pries and tucks his digits up under the rope that’s settled over her cheeks and drawn ruddy hues, but he pauses before he pulls it down.

“Y’gonna get loud?”

Seren doesn’t say anything. In fact, she sort of can’t, which is quite nice, Harry thinks, but she doesn’t even make a garbled sound to appease or amuse him. The captain is thankful for what little fragments of peace he’s been granted before he’s forced to endure her ludicrously grating screeching. He weighs his options for a moment, but ultimately, tugs.

Of course, the second he’s pulled the cloth out, the young woman is screaming, of-fucking-course she’s screaming. And at this point, it’s so obviously a ploy to irritate him, and Harry would laugh if the whole display wasn’t so vexing. There’s a tick in his jaw when he sets the lip of the tin cup to her parted, strawberry mouth, roughly — and he wouldn’t be so rough if she wasn’t so fucking loud — and tips. Instantly, that shout is garbled by liquid. It morphs into a cough and a much more tolerable string of sputters, as water leaks over and drenches down her chin, her chest, the front of her dress.

“There we go,” the pirate says, the smooth baritone of his cadence louder over the fit of her coughing, “Attagirl. That’s much better.”

He doesn’t tip more of the beverage into her mouth — a ransom on a princess who’s drowned in her own lungs is worth virtually nothing — and lets her cough and sputter a little longer. She strings together a sequence of breaths he deems good enough, before he smushes the rim of the metal cup back against her bottom lip.

“Drink,” Harry advises and nudges the tin back in a way, again, so that the liquid sloshes and spills out into her open mouth.

This time, she doesn’t cough. She expects it, the water. The princess affixes her top lip lower to siphon the beverage and takes a few swallows. Harry watches her throat bob, and he watches a little rivulet escape, too, dribbling down the corner of her mouth in a little streak. It drips down her chin, down her neck. His pupils follow the trail. He gives her a little break part-way, once the tin is close to empty and her neck is craned back with the swallows. He draws it away. Good. That was good, nice and easy. As easy as it could be, given the circumstances.

Except she fixes him with this horrible glare, again, as he pulls the cup away. This glare that speaks volumes, this glower that should warn him of his error before he lets it happen. Harry doesn’t catch the drift. Only a glimpse of her cheeks puffing before she puckers her lips and spits the remnants at him, coating the bottom-most half of his linen with a mist of the water. His belt too, and a bit of his trousers.

And then her mouth is empty and she’s just scowling at him, head tipped down in a way so that the chunk of her frizzy tendrils settles back over an eye. Harry doesn’t waste a second before angling the cup, miffed, and flinging what little water is left in the cup right back in her face.

And the way her eyes screw shut, the way her lips fall open in silent appall the second he returns the energy, (except, he’s far more polite, in his humble opinion. He doesn’t spit at her like an improper animal), when she’s doused in the chilled liquid, and it coats the face-framing layers of her hair, her lashes, and drips down her chin — that’s the highlight of his day.

He doesn’t instantly fix the gag back into her mouth, or slip the rope back over her irritated skin. He watches her, his jaw set, and when the young woman opens her eyes, she sees that storm brewing, manifesting — the kind she’d only imagined prior, in the flinty green of his irises. Like he’s harnessing his own composure. But then he takes a step back, and just. Leans against the closed door. Like he’s scoping her with his gaze. Like she’s just this shiny thing for his sight to pore over.

And Seren thinks that feels worse than if she were to face the bite of his skin against her own, the swat of his palm against her cheek. She’d rather that, honestly.

Her skin is cold from the water. She’s still sort of reeling that he’d done that, to begin with. He’s drumming the pads of his fingers against his bicep, over the nearly-sheer, cream sleeve of his shirt when he asks, a serious note of authority to the molasses of his speech, “Do you know who I am?”

Seren curbs parroting the question wryly. As much as she’d love to tell him her father will torch the ship he rides upon and hang every member of his crew, him and his stupid fucking dimples included, she’s sure that all she’ll receive in response is a grating twitch of his pink mouth.

“Hm?” he prods, making a show of cupping a palm behind his ear and steering his torso forward a smidge, half-expecting her response to be a series of shrill cries, for the hell of it.

Her answer is not one he expects. Frankly, the man doesn’t expect an intelligible response, the history of her opting for incoherent shouts, considered. But she speaks, afterall. It’s soft in decibel, feminine, and pleasant — her voice, unlike the aimless yelling he’d become accustomed to. Even still, it carries that undeniable note of derision.

Seren tells him, “Someone …terribly disturbed.”

Harry almost can’t help the way his cushiony mouth quirks.

Almost.

“Disturbed?” he scoffs, sardonically mirthy, “She spits at me like a fucking …filthy animal, and I’m disturbed. Aye, I’m disturbed.”

The princess makes daggers with the gaze she sends in his direction. He lets her simmer in the wake of the light insult, for a moment, just drumming over his bicep, his mouth twitching in a kind of way that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“I’m the captain of this ship,” Harry supplies softly, jade narrowed.

There’s a twitch to her face then, something that slots by and withers in the blink of an eye. Something like recognition. And, fucking finally, Harry thinks — he can practically hear the angels croon at the crumbs of reception, from her, to his authority.

“That means,” he motions out with the cup, his other arm still crossed, fingers wrapped about his waist now, “I’m in charge.”

His voice is soft-spoken, a croon that spells it out for her, if she hasn’t already caught the drift.

“I’m in charge of this ship. This crew,” he takes a step forward, ducking his chin as his eyebrows tip up a bit, “And you. And that means I’m in charge of what happens to you. So don’t you think it’s in your best interest to behave?”

If he expects her to bow down and kiss the toes of his scuffed boots, the young woman doesn’t bite the bait.

“You’re nothing but a mangy sea brute,” Seren declares, then, her chin held audaciously high, despite the ropes binding over her breasts and the foreboding ocean that sways beyond, with ravenous threat. He could lug her off onto the deck and chuck her off the plank, tied just like this.

He doesn’t.

He just stays leant against the wall, arms crossed over his bare chest.

“Mangy sea brutes,” the pirate weighs her words, nodding slowly as he purses his lips in deliberation. And then his brows pinch together, “that’s quite insulting, actually. I take pride in my appearance, I’ll have you know.”

“Mangy,” the young woman confirms, venom in her tone.

The pirate props himself up and off, taking a languid step, each syllable of his cadence laced with condescension, “Now, rugged—“ and open mouthed smirk, a nudge with his chin, “I’ll accept. You don’t think I spend time in front of the mirror, darling? Mangy. What a rude word. I wasn’t aware that Siren, Princess of Essex was so abrasive.”

There’s a flicker of something in her eyes when they flash to him — something like sharp surprise, mottled with pique. Like she didn’t expect him to know who exactly he was harboring upon his ship. The corners of his mouth crook. She’s seemingly appalled that he’s done his research. The glint of shock is gone, as soon as it shows itself.

“Oh,” the captain takes a slow step forward in this sort of way, as if his body language is entirely meant to taunt her, hand in hand with his tongue, “I see. You thought I didn’t know who you were. Just some nameless, pretty little thing on my ship.”

It’s a purposeful dig — the mispronunciation of her name. It’s only a vowel off, it could be chalked up to simple error, but it’s blatantly to mock her. Really, it’s a funny little dub since she enjoys spending so much screeching like the nuisance of a blaring alarm that just won’t shut off. It’s meant to demean her, to belittle her, because not even her name, blue-blooded and all, is worth correct pronunciation. That’s what she seems to hone on from the whole revelation, Harry finds.

“Seren,” she corrects with bite, that same glower she’d worn prior reincarnated.

The man takes another step. He cups behind his ear, and Seren promises herself that the moment she’s freed, she’ll personally chop off his stupid fucking ear for all the times he’d cupped behind that shell of it that way, so condescending. “What was that?”

“Seren,” the young woman scowls, “Seren, Princess of Essex.”

He pauses, a cinch in his brows with this patronizing nod, like he’s weighing her correction, and then he tells her, motioning with an arm as the cinch relaxes, “Siren, Seren. Tomato, tomato.”

He motions with his palm nonchalantly. She wants to bite at his fingers. She doesn’t.

“How dare you?” the young woman says instead.

Harry’s mouth quirks. How dare he? What a pompous inquiry, molded by prissy lips.

“How dare I?” the pirate repeats, and then just lifts his shoulder in a casually apathetic shrug. He takes a third step forward, raspberry lips smug and curled, “I just… dare.”

And before the princess can voice her obnoxious protest, he shoves the cloth into her mouth and tugs up the rope, plucking a garbled sound of anger from her in the process.

The silence is wonderful.

By the time Harry returns to her for the third time, it’s well past nightfall. Light stops leaking from the crack of the window. Seren watches the shift, the way it rolls as the hours tick by, in the room. It morphs from behind her, its bright gold slipping into a darker orange, mottled with pink, and then dimmer, and dimmer, and dimmer, as minutes leak away, until all that’s left is dusk and the glow of the moonlight.

The door creaks. She almost doesn’t see it, but she hears the pad of his boots over the wood and twists her neck to catch the sight of his legs as he steps through the threshold.

“Honey, I’m home,” the pirate calls.

Her eyes strain their sockets to catch the moonlight cresting off his cheekbones as his head dips, the dimpling that rises awake beside the corners of his mouth as they turn up at his own jest. He’s holding something. The captain winds around her, through the coat of darkness, and settles somewhere she can’t see. A thump, like something being set onto a table. Then, soft breaths fill the void of the silence. A strike of a match. Her eyes are forced to adjust to a warm, buttery glow as the little beam of fire, merged to a lantern, and then another, sends gold bouncing wall to wall.

That’s when Harry sees that she's managed to make a home for herself on the floor, the chair she’s been restrained to tipped on its side. He almost doesn’t think anything of it, for a split second, but then, as the pads of his digits work buttons through their slits to disrobe, the pirate casts his gaze up for a double take. A twisted coil of satisfaction blooms in his chest as he observes her, the thought that whatever faulty maneuver she’d made to escape had resulted in this, and, well. That makes something joyful and mean bud.

Seren listens to his boots, the step of them slow against the floorboards, until she sees him towering over her, in her peripherals. Her pupils shift.

“Comfortable?” his brows climb with emphasis. The work of his fingertips over the buttons on his shirt are sluggish. Tired. She notes that motion, too — that fact that he’s actively shedding clothes. Nonchalantly. And it must show in her eyes, then. Something vulnerable, something uncomfortable, something raw, and petrified, because, yeah, she’s a petulant, little princess strapped to a chair in his cabin, against her will, and she fights him tooth and nail in every instance that he comes to visit her. But she’s a princess strapped to a chair, against her will, and it’s nightfall, and his skin is growing more bare, square inch by square inch, as the seconds pass.

He must note that — whatever that shows, because the quirk of his priorly mirthy, strawberry mouth slips a tad. And then his features shape something relaxed. Something tired, again. Like he’s too worn.

The sarky comment has those same traces of exhaustion seeping into it as his dismissive gaze disengages, honing on the work of his digits as he loops the final button through, “Don’t flatter yourself, sweetheart. You’re not my type.”

The cloth slips apart, showcasing more skin. A line of hair from below his belly button, in soft, dark wisps that melts off behind his belt. Sturdy muscles of his abdomen that ripple as he moves, chin ducked—

His palms cup over the belt of holsters, and that clinks as he discards it, too, winding around to, she assumes, set it somewhere. And then, more skin to pore over when he returns, the sharp cut of a V, decorated with laurels, emphasized by the low hang of his trousers. He cocks his head down at her, like he’s contemplating. Contemplating what, Seren’s unsure. He moves out of her line of sight again.

Her arm aches. She’d tipped over onto it what felt like hours ago, and it’d taken the brunt of the fall, lodged against the side of the chair with the situation of her joints being married in the bindings, behind her. She’d managed to roll forward on her shoulder, just a tad, so that the press against it wasn’t constant, but it still fucking hurt. Her palms, down to the tips of her digits, were numb, she had this heinous crick in her neck, and she’s sure that the moment she’s able to stand her tailbone will hurt like hell. If she’s ever allowed to stand again. Maybe he’ll hurl her into the open ocean, strapped to this godforsaken chair, afterall.

For now, he just hauls her up. His touch — warm — skims the opposite arm before his palm wraps over the beam over the back of the chair and tugs, leveling her with ease. The young woman squeaks against the gag as she hovers, terrified to drop straight onto the limb again. She doesn’t. The pirate sets her straight with a tired grunt. His sight scales her arm, the one she’d toppled onto, and Seren can’t see, but she assumes it’s not in the most pristine condition. And then his touch smooths over the ache, a crease over his brow bone as his eyes pry, and she bristles.

His mouth twitches, but it’s tired. Tired after having to deal with her, tired from whatever he’d spent his time doing beyond the cabin. Tired after sinking her ship and taking her hostage, Seren thinks bitterly. How exhausting. And Harry takes his hand away.

From her new, upright view, she can see that little metal cup — the same one he’d brought her hours earlier. He’s set it onto the table, and she knows it wasn’t there before, which means he’s brought it with new water. Seren turns her head to face it. It’s the most she can manage given that she can’t tell him what she wants, what with the gag and all.

“Thirsty?” he notes, chin over his shoulder in her direction as he shimmies the sleeves of his shirt off. Seren eyes the expanse of naked skin as it expands, from cuts of muscle to ink sunk into the flesh of his arm. Certainly, if she wasn’t before.

The princess doesn’t answer. She can’t, and she’s not going to resort to a string of pathetic hums to get his attention. The captain sets his shirt onto the table in a pile of disarray, beside his belt, and takes the cup. When he makes his way over to her, Seren’s eyes don’t follow his figure. And for a moment, there’s only a deliberative sort of silence. She doesn’t look until he talks, until his tone is far more serious than she’s heard thus far.

“If you spit it at me again, I will personally make sure you lick it back up, off the floorboards.”

And wisely, she doesn’t spit the liquid back up at him when he tugs the gag free and tips the rim of the cup against her mouth. Seren doesn’t doubt he’s the type of man to follow through on his words. But that’s not why she drinks — she drinks because she’s fucking thirsty. Her tongue’s gone dry, and the back of her throat pinpricks with an uncomfortable soreness, and because the lukewarm liquid feels good spilling down her throat. She cranes her neck back, throat bobbing, and doesn’t stop until he’s pulled the cup away himself, and a little rivulet of water dribbles down the corner of her mouth. She takes a big gulp of air and expels it.

And then, with angry sorts of eyes, the princess declares, “I’m hungry.”

“You’re hungry,” the pirate mirrors, but it’s only wryly amused — his tired, sardonic smile doesn’t reach his eyes, and he sets the cup back onto the table with little urgency to get her food. “We don’t offer room service.”

“You haven’t fed me once today,” Seren declares indignantly when he winds behind her, out of sight. And then there’s a sigh and a creak, the kind that seeps from mattress springs compressing. “This is— this is cruel, I’ll have you know. This is torture, this is—“

“Thank you for your honest review, we’ll make sure to take your feedback into account,” Harry chimes at her in true, facetious fashion, scrubbing over his eyes with a palm as he knees his way onto the bed. And then the pirate tells her, with a more serious note to his drawl, before she has a chance to interject with another complaint, “If you’re going to talk all night, I’m going to put your gag back in until the morning.”

Seren doesn’t say anything. Finally, she doesn’t say anything at all, and it’s splendid. It’s peace and quiet, and all he hears, for a perfect moment, is the creak of the wood and the subdued roar of the waves.

“I don’t want to stare at the wall,” the princess speaks, eventually, like a petulant child. “Why am I staring at the wall?”

“Because …that’s the way the chair’s facing,” Harry responds, matter-of-factly and almost instantly, sure that a note of irritation has managed to teem into the words despite his best efforts. He will not let her know that her efforts of poking are chipping at his composure, he won’t.

And for another moment, Seren doesn’t say anything. He lets his eyes drift shut.

“I want to face you,” the princess says, eventually, and her tone implies she’s taken the bridge of silence to build the phrase up into something more demanding, something royal and authoritative. If he wasn’t so fucking tired he’d laugh.

“You want to watch me sleeping?” she hears the pirate from behind her, his honey-smooth drawl grown raspy and lower from, seemingly, exhaustion, “That’s an odd request.”

Her brows furrow as a scowl paints her mouth. The bed creaks in the gap of quiet. Every hair stands on end when, suddenly, he’s inches from her, his presence looming and warm from behind, with calloused fingertips brushing the side of her neck in their venture towards that godforsaken gag.

“Just turn me!” Seren shrieks, “Just turn me, and I’ll be quiet!”

He doesn’t put the gag in. He winds around her, hand still on the rope, his features shaped with apathetic seriousness, “If I turn you because you want me to turn you, what good am I at putting my foot down? Hm?”

Seren blinks up at him.

“Please,” the princess tells him, hushed and earnest, “I don’t feel …safe.”

His brows twitch. There’s something that blooms in the jade at her admission, but it flits by, gone as quickly as it’d appeared. And then his brows furrow, and he looks absolutely exasperated, the subtle downturn at the edges of his mouth emphasized with the roll of that same jade. The pirate scoffs, and his boots stomp over the wood, each step an inclination that his frustration has leaked into his body language.

“I told you—“ the legs of the chair screech against the floorboards — he doesn’t even grunt as he maneuvers her with ease, the motion rough like it’s a chore, “—that you’re not my type. Not everybody wants to fuck you, your highness.”

Seren blinks, pupils poring over the priorly unseen sight of the opposite end of the room. A slit of a window, brushing the edge of the wall that merges into the ceiling. A bookshelf of literature and knickknacks. A dresser, a queen-sized mattress on the floor. The pirate still looks absolutely miffed when he walks toward the table with the lantern, bare shoulders squared and the muscles in his back rippling. He sets the light out, kicks off his boots, and falls into the bed unceremoniously.

It’s a victory.

And for a moment, Seren thinks he’s just going to wordlessly roll over to avoid her prying gaze. He doesn’t do that. They bask in the crash of the waves outside, the darkness, and their quiet breaths. He’s got this knack — Seren’s learned. This skill of morphing from sarcastic and teasing to broodingly serious, and it’s mercurial, sort of. She wonders if this brooding side’s what’s brought him to lead an entire ship.

“Be quiet now,” the pirate drawls from the sheets, in that broodingly serious cadence, “If I hear another word, I’ll personally carry you out onto the deck, and you can sleep in the chair out there.”

The man rolls over to face the wall. Seren doesn’t say another word for the rest of the night.

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