swordgracerecs

[swordgracerecs]

this fic had my jaw on the floor like holy fucking shit ??? the writing is absolutely superb and the way everything was all set up had me gnawing my hand off JNsksksk — one of THE BEST bucky fics I’ve read everrrrr 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️

you, unblurred.

Pairing: Post-Thunderbolts!Bucky x NewAvenger!Reader

Summary: You hated him. You swore you did. Until the dick pics you’d been seeing for months turned out to belong to your mission partner—the man who barely looked at you in daylight.

Disclaimer: 18+ (mdni!), explicit smut content, mutual masturbation (via FaceTime), p in v sex (unprotected), first time sex (reader), dirty talk, breastplay (nipple sucking), wet grinding (clothed and bare), edging (reader), orgasm denial (brief), praise kink, possessive!soft!Bucky vibes, intense intimacy, post-orgasm shaking, soft aftercare cuddling

Word Count: 8.7k

You hadn’t even made it halfway through your first week and you were already public enemy number one in the eyes of Bucky Barnes.

Valentina hadn’t given you much warning. One curt message, no fanfare. Just a quick relocation order and the kind of tone that made it clear you weren’t allowed to say no. You were to report to the newly restructured Watchtower—what used to be the old Avengers Tower, now stripped of its former glory and repurposed for the next wave of heroes. Or, as the media loved to call it: The New Avengers.

But the title never sat well with you.

“New Avengers” sounded like cheap branding. A desperate repackage. Like you were standing in the shadow of gods and legends, trying on their hand-me-downs and pretending they still fit. You didn’t see yourself in that lineup. You didn’t want to. So you clung to something else.

You were Thunderbolts. Raw, messy, cobbled together by circumstance and grief, yes—but still sharp around the edges. Thunderbolts sounded tougher. Grittier. Real. You liked that.

Your first day was already a disaster.

You’d overslept after flying in from a red-eye, scrambled into your navy leggings and cropped black tank, hair still damp from a rushed shower and barely twisted into a low bun. One hand juggled your phone, the other a hot, nearly-overflowing paper cup of coffee. Wedged awkwardly under your arm? A grease-stained paper bag with a very loaded chili dog inside. Extra chili. Always extra chili.

You were running toward the elevator when the doors slid open—and you didn’t realize someone was standing inside until your boot clipped the edge of the hallway runner and you were airborne.

You collided full force with a solid chest, and everything you were holding—coffee, chili, dignity—exploded across the poor bastard who’d been unlucky enough to stand in your path.

Bucky Barnes.

Your coffee soaked the front of his dark red henley. Chili smeared across his chest. A fat drop of sauce slid down the side of his neck, and by some miracle, a single black bean clung to his collarbone like a badge of shame.

His eyes snapped to you—ice-blue and narrowing fast.

You froze. “Oh shit—I’m so sorry, I didn’t see—I’ll clean it, I swear—like, personally. Or I’ll run your errands for the week. Seven days. No questions—”

He didn’t say a word.

Just a hard exhale. A glare sharp enough to slice bone. Then he turned, dripping and silent, and walked off the elevator like he hadn’t just been assaulted by caffeine and chili grease.

You stood there in stunned horror, the doors sliding closed behind him.

By the time you finally made it up to the Watchtower’s main lounge—jittery, sweating, and still slightly smelling like cumin—most of the team had already gathered.

Yelena had taken one look at your half-spilled coffee and chili-smeared shirt and declared, “You look like chaos. I like it.”

John Walker gave you a nod and a raised brow, then returned to sulking over a protein shake.

Alexei had tried to pitch you on his “secret endurance routine” within the first five minutes.

You laughed. Politely declined.

It was messy. Loud. Barely functional. But comforting in a strange way—like finding out the group project you were forced into was at least full of people who didn’t take themselves too seriously.

Then you saw him again.

Bucky entered the lounge a few minutes later, now dressed in his black compression shirt and tactical pants—his training gear. His hair was damp, brushed back behind his ears, and his jaw looked freshly clenched. You straightened up instinctively, wiping your palms on your leggings, then took a breath and stepped toward him.

You opened your mouth to greet him, maybe even introduce yourself properly this time.

He walked past you.

Didn’t look. Didn’t stop. Just kept moving like you weren’t even there.

You heard him grunt—low, sharp, and unmistakably annoyed.

You knew it was meant for you.

A warning shot.

A sign of war.

—

It didn’t end there.

Over the next few days, Bucky made it very clear you were on his shit list. Every time he assigned training rotations, you got the worst of it. Your combat drills were brutal—sparring reps that left your ribs aching and your pride in pieces. While others got to rotate partners, you were stuck running simulations against one of the Widow bots that seemed permanently set to maximum aggression.

The gym sessions? A damn death sentence. Weighted vests. Endurance drills until your lungs felt like they were trying to claw their way out of your chest. No water breaks. No mercy.

He didn’t speak to you. Barely looked at you.

Except when he did, and it was always across the room—like he could smell your failure before he saw it. Like your presence alone was a personal offense.

You tried. You really did. But by week two, your patience ran out.

One late afternoon, you were in the pantry with Yelena, peeling open a protein bar and venting under your breath.

“He’s just—ugh, he’s a grumpy old bastard,” you muttered. “Looks like he hasn’t slept since the Cold War and acts like he’s allergic to joy. Like, take a goddamn nap in a grave already.”

Yelena snorted into her coffee, half-choking.

Unfortunately, you didn’t notice John Walker stepping in through the hallway behind you.

“You know Bucky’s just next door, yeah?” he said casually, leaning against the counter with that smirk he always wore when he was about to stir up some trouble.

You rolled your eyes. “Yeah, so?”

John arched a brow. “And you do know he’s enhanced.”

“So what?”

“So…” He gestured vaguely toward the ceiling. “He can hear all that shit you’re talking. Loud and clear. Pretty sure he’s listening right now.”

You froze mid-bite, mouth still half-open, stomach dropping like a stone.

Yelena widened her eyes in faux horror and whispered, “You’re so dead.”

You considered apologizing. Maybe retreating. Maybe fleeing the country.

But the truth?

You were tired of walking on eggshells. You’d tripped once. It was an accident. You hadn’t meant to spill anything on him. And if the great Sergeant Barnes wanted to crucify you over one clumsy mistake and make your life hell over a chili dog and a coffee?

Then let him.

You swallowed the bite, turned back to your protein bar, and said with zero remorse—

“Good.”

—

You didn’t stop shit-talking Bucky Barnes after that first day.

If anything, you escalated.

Not publicly—well, not all the time. But every night, without fail, you’d unload your frustrations somewhere far safer. Somewhere faceless. Somewhere private.

You had a fling.

Not a lover. Not even a real person, as far as you could prove. You’d met him long before this whole Thunderbolts mess started, back when your life was quieter, lonelier, when everything still felt like it was just slightly out of reach. You were still moving between safe houses and temp assignments then, with no anchor point but your own reflection—and a damn dating app that promised distraction if not affection.

He caught your eye immediately. Not because of the photos—there weren’t many—but the bio. Dry. Hilarious. And oddly sad in a way that curled around your ribs and settled there.

Been cold for a while. Warming up slowly. Thought maybe someone out there had the defrost button.

It made you pause. Laugh. Swipe right.

He matched with you in less than a minute.

The first message was a joke. Obscure, borderline ridiculous, laced in some cryptic code about how hard it was to feel human again in a world that never really waited for you. You responded in kind—half sarcasm, half curiosity. It spiraled from there. Inside jokes layered like bricks. Memes, strange hypotheticals, long nights of talking in half-truths and wry honesty.

And then, somewhere along the line… things turned filthy.

It wasn’t planned. It just happened. Like a switch flipped. One voice note became two. Then came the late-night confessions. The breathy admissions. The images. Not full nudes—he never sent anything that showed his face. But the way he described things? The way he talked? It made your stomach twist and your thighs squeeze together under the sheets.

His voice was low, rough in the corners, always a little tired like he’d recorded it with his head resting on a pillow. But the words were razor-sharp. Soft growls of praise. Dirty commands. Compliments that didn’t sound like he was bluffing, like he actually meant it when he called you his “good girl” or said he’d drop to his knees for you if you just asked.

And then there were the pics.

Oh, the pics.

Awkward angles, yes. But unmistakable. He was filthy thick. Curved slightly to the right. Veiny in a way that made your mouth water. Every photo was captioned with some deadpan comment that made you laugh and ache.

This angle is 90% countertop and 10% cock. Not sorry.

Too cold for dick pics but I suffer for art.

If I die of embarrassment, bury me face down so you can sit on my shame.

You’d called him the King of Come-dick (get it? Comedic Dick?), and he told you that was going in his will.

And even without a name or a face, you felt more seen in those chats than you ever had in real life. He made you laugh. He made you beg. He made you feel good.

But lately, those voice notes had taken on a different flavor.

Because now you were venting.

Every night.

After a day of getting your lungs torched by combat drills and your pride mangled by James freaking Barnes, you’d crawl into bed, roll onto your side, and let it all pour out.

Your messages to the fling started as innocent rants.

You ever met someone who just hates you on sight? Like your existence is their 13th reason?

He’s the human version of stepping barefoot on a plug. Like I’m convinced he’s been possessed by an ancient war ghost who hates fun.

I tripped once. ONCE. Now I’m stuck doing training reps that make my organs feel like they’re auditioning for Cirque du Soleil.

And your online fling—bless him—never once dismissed you. He didn’t ask too many questions. Didn’t push for context. He just listened.

Told you you were strong. That your instincts were good. That whoever was tearing you down probably didn’t deserve to know the real you. That maybe this guy—this “grumpy dickhead on permanent PMS”—just didn’t know how to handle someone like you. Someone bright. Loud. Capable. Free.

And God, those messages always left you warm. Floating. Like he saw you, even without seeing your face.

You never told him you were a Thunderbolt. Never mentioned the Watchtower. You kept it vague—just some asshole colleague with authority issues.

And he never told you where he was either.

You didn’t need names. Didn’t need faces.

It was better this way. Safer. More honest, somehow.

Besides, it wasn’t like you were in love with the guy.

It was just sex.

Just comfort.

Just a voice in the dark whispering that you were worth more than how Bucky Barnes made you feel.

And if, sometimes, that same voice made your breath hitch and your toes curl under the covers, whispering filth that left you gasping into your pillow?

Well.

That was nobody’s business but yours.

—

By now, the tension between you and Bucky Barnes had evolved into something legendary.

It wasn’t subtle. It wasn’t dignified. It was a living, breathing force that stalked every shared hallway, every joint training session, every goddamn mission briefing. You didn’t speak. He didn’t speak. But somehow, every grunt, eye-roll, sigh, and clipped command felt like it echoed through the whole goddamn Watchtower.

The others noticed.

They definitely noticed.

So much so that one morning in the lounge room—barely ten minutes into your coffee—Yelena snapped.

“For fuck’s sake,” she groaned, slamming her mug down a little too hard. “Can someone ask Bob to summon the Void again? I’m serious. Trap them in it. Lock it. Throw away the key.”

Across from her, Bob nearly choked on his protein shake.

He looked up, blinking. “You want me to… what? No. Absolutely not. Do you know how hard I’ve worked to keep that thing buried?”

She narrowed her eyes. “So don’t be the Void. Be Sentry. Throw Bucky somewhere far. Like Antarctica. That should fix it.”

You were already suppressing a laugh, staring into your bowl of cereal like it had the answers to your spiritual collapse.

Bucky, of course, was seated at the end of the long couch—tablet in hand, thumbing through mission briefs with a scowl that seemed surgically attached to his face.

“I heard that, Lena,” he muttered dryly without looking up.

Then he did look up.

Right at you.

The kind of look that scraped across your skin like ice on bare flesh. Not even anger anymore. Just a quiet, simmering disdain. A full-body ugh.

He dragged his finger across the tablet, ignoring everyone else, scrolling like you weren’t worth more than a line item in his day.

You bit the inside of your cheek, hard.

It had been days since you last messaged your fling—missions had kept you busy, bruised, mentally wiped. But today? You needed a lifeline. You needed him.

You reached for your phone under the table and typed, thumbs moving fast, tension bubbling under your skin.

Shitty day at work. Missed you a little more than usual today. Hope you’re alive and not plotting your escape from Earth.

A second later, a ding echoed across the room.

You didn’t look.

But from the corner of your eye… you saw Bucky smile.

Just the ghost of it, but it was there. Quick. Sharp. Subtle enough to vanish in a blink—but unmistakable. The corners of his mouth curved, softening his jaw, lighting up something that should’ve made him look kinder.

Instead, it pissed you off.

How could someone with a smile that beautiful act like such a piece of shit?

Your phone buzzed.

Hey babe. How bad are we talking? On a scale from paper cut to arson?

You nearly melted at the sight of the message. The nickname. The teasing tone. Like your body had been waiting to exhale.

Your fingers flew, fire in your blood as you rose from your seat and power-walked out of the lounge, phone still in hand.

You headed straight for one of the smaller mission debrief rooms—locked the door behind you and threw yourself into the nearest chair like it was a confessional booth.

Same old dickhead being a dickhead again. Just needed your voice or your cock. Either one will do.

It didn’t take long for the response to ping through.

Rough day too. Holding the world together with duct tape and a smile. My shoulders might collapse from all this weight.

You snorted softly, your anger already softening into something warmer, darker, messier. Your thighs pressed together.

Your fingers danced across the screen again.

Maybe a dick pic would help redistribute the emotional labor? 😌

You hit send.

Hot tension unfurled low in your stomach. That fuzzy, heavy pulse building behind your navel. You leaned back in your chair, the silence making your heart beat louder.

A beat passed.

Then the reply:

Not now. Mid-meeting. Bad time.

You pouted, eyes narrowing slightly.

Then your screen lit up.

Image received.

You tapped it open.

It was… tight. Somewhat zoomed in, framed awkwardly from waist down—but unmistakable. The outline of his cock straining against dark, snug tactical pants. Like it was furious to be caged. The bulge was obscene. Rude. Practically throbbing through the screen.

You blinked. Sucked in a breath.

Your pulse jumped.

Mmm, excuse me, bold and nasty? In a meeting?? Someone’s got issues 🫦

No reply.

You waited, but you weren’t upset. He disappeared like this sometimes—usually when work pulled him back under. You understood it. You respected it.

So you looked at the photo again.

Zoomed in a little.

God, it looked so good.

But then… something tugged at your brain. A weird, annoying sense of déjà vu.

The pants.

The texture of the fabric. The way they clung. The slight reinforcement at the side seams. They looked… familiar.

Too familiar.

You frowned.

Hadn’t you seen these somewhere?

But no—no, that was stupid. There were probably ten thousand pairs of pants like that in the world. You were just horny and paranoid.

And horny.

Mostly horny.

You shook the thought away, closed the image, and leaned back with a dreamy sigh.

Whoever your mystery man was… he was your safe space. Your escape.

And there was no way the guy sending you filthy bulge pics from some secret meeting was the same one currently glaring at you every day like you were a plague.

Right?

—

As if things couldn’t get any worse, Valentina had to stick her designer heel right into the wound.

She called it a “strategic adjustment.”

You called it cruel and unusual punishment.

From now on, until further notice—her favorite three words—you were to be partnered with Bucky Barnes. For missions. For sparring. For everything.

Her exact phrasing?

“For God’s sake, Barnes. You’re over a hundred years old. You’ve survived wars, Hydra, cryo, and three near-apocalypses. Fix this shenanigan already. Or I swear, I’ll fix it for you—and neither of you will like my method.”

You wanted to protest.

Bucky didn’t even blink.

Just gave her that flat, dead-eyed look that said he’d rather be in a Siberian prison than listening to this briefing.

So it began.

The first few sparring sessions were nothing short of apocalyptic. Poor coordination, missed cues, accidental hits that didn’t feel that accidental. Zero trust. Zero chemistry. Just bruises, swearing, and thick silence that felt louder than gunfire.

And finally, you snapped.

You threw your gloves across the mat, stormed toward him as he stood there like a statue, and spat the words out like venom.

“What the fuck is your problem, Barnes? Can you say something for once instead of treating me like I’m radioactive?”

His gaze lifted to meet yours. Calm. Unreadable. Stormy blue with something you couldn’t quite name hiding underneath.

He let out a breath.

“This is why,” he muttered, shaking his head slightly.

You blinked. “What the hell does that mean?”

“You’re still a kid.”

The words landed like a slap—sharp and low.

“What the fuck was that supposed to mean?” you shot back, voice rising.

He exhaled sharply, looked away like he was already done with the conversation.

“You’re not in the right headspace for this. Neither am I. Let’s call it for today. I’ll reschedule the gym session.”

He picked up his towel, unbothered, collected his things like your fury was a passing breeze. Then walked out.

Left you standing there. Burning.

You kicked the mat. “Fuck!”

It echoed. Pointless. No one heard.

Except the part of yourself you were trying desperately to ignore.

The part that kept noticing things. Soft, human things about him.

You’d been avoiding him for so long that you accidentally started watching him. Observing. Catching details you didn’t mean to.

Like the way he always knew what the team needed. Quietly. No fuss.

He gifted Bob a stack of niche self-improvement books—nothing preachy, nothing corny. Just thoughtful reads that let Bob’s mind wander somewhere better. Gave him a way out of his own head.

He remembered Yelena’s favorite protein bars. Replaced them in the kitchen when they ran out, even though no one asked.

And the chili dogs.

You didn’t eat lunch one day—too many back-to-back briefings. You hadn’t even said anything.

But there it was, sitting on your desk an hour later: a warm paper bag with a chili dog inside. Extra extra chili. No mustard.

Exactly the way you liked it.

You never told him how you liked it.

And he hated you. Didn’t he?

You laid flat on the training mat, arms spread out, chest rising and falling fast. Not from the sparring. From the confusion. The ache. The messy swirl of wanting and not wanting and wishing he’d just say what the hell he was thinking for once.

It made you miss your other one even more.

Your secret.

Your escape.

Your not-a-lover, not-a-boyfriend—your ghost between the sheets.

And it made you horny as hell.

Maybe it was the adrenaline. The sweat. The anger. Maybe it was the sound of Bucky’s voice still echoing in your ears. Maybe it was the impossible urge to burn everything down and touch yourself through the flames.

You grabbed your phone.

Your thumbs hovered for a second.

Then you typed.

Throbbing for you today. Thinking of trying something new. Facetime tonight? I want to see you. It’s time.

You stared at the message.

Then hit send.

Your heart fluttered like you just disarmed a bomb.

You’d never done it before—not live. Always voice notes. Pictures. Heavy breathing and whispered praise in the dark. But you wanted more. You needed to see him. To watch his mouth when he groaned. To show him your face when you broke.

Your phone buzzed.

One line.

Been waiting for that, babe. Can’t wait for tonight.

You closed your eyes. Smiled.

Something bloomed deep in your chest.

But then…

Bucky’s face flickered in your mind. That last glance he gave you before walking out—not cruel. Not angry.

Not… disgusted.

For the briefest second, it looked like he wanted to say something. Like he was holding back.

And that scared you more than anything.

Because what if?

What if all this time, he wasn’t just avoiding you?

What if he knew exactly what he was doing?

—

Night fell like it had been waiting all day just to wrap around you. Heavy, quiet, almost expectant. Like even the shadows knew what was about to happen.

You’d made the room exactly the way you wanted it—dim, intimate, anonymous. One small lamp by the bed, screen brightness lowered. Location off. Door locked. Twice.

He had your Apple ID now. You’d never given him your number. That felt too personal. Too dangerous. But your old burner email from when you were eight—the one that made you cringe now?

pwinceszz_n0body@yahoo.com.

Yeah. That one.

It made you feel hidden. Untouchable. Like no one could ever guess who you really were behind a name that dumb.

At exactly 9:15 p.m., your phone buzzed in your palm.

Incoming FaceTime call. From an email you’d never seen before—cryptic, strange: wolfhowling3333333333@icloud.com.

Your stomach flipped.

That was new.

You inhaled deeply, thumb hovering. Then tapped accept.

The call connected.

No faces. No hellos. Just dark screens and careful camera angles.

He had his camera angled low—blanket pooled around his hips, the lens tilted toward the rise under thin dark fabric. Boxers. Nothing else.

Yours was already aimed at your chest—lace crop top, black and barely-there, your nipples visible through the sheer. That was the rule. No real names. No faces. Just bodies and breath. Just touch without touching.

“Hey, babe.” His voice was soft tonight. Lower. Warmer. “Your room’s so dark. I can barely see anything.”

You smiled, voice light. “Same here. What are we—covert ops?”

He laughed quietly. “Wouldn’t be the weirdest thing I’ve done.”

There was a pause.

Heavy with something unsaid.

You reached over and adjusted your lamp just enough to cast a golden wash over your skin. Still cropped. Still framed. Just enough for him to see the swell of your chest.

On the screen, his hips shifted. The blanket moved slightly.

He let out a groan. “Fuck… you’re starting with that?”

You tilted your head, teasing. “What? You think I dressed like this for me?”

He chuckled. It sounded a little strangled.

You flipped the camera to the rear, aimed it lower—down your thighs, where the blanket still clung. Slowly, deliberately, you peeled it back. The cool air hit your bare cunt and made you flinch.

You didn’t need to look to know he was watching.

His voice thickened. “Jesus, baby… you’re unreal.”

You stayed quiet. Let him drink it in.

He shifted again. His hand slid down, over the bulge pressing hard against his boxers. You could see it straining—long, thick, clearly aching to be freed.

“You see that?” he murmured. “Already hard for you. Always.”

You moaned softly in response, your fingers teasing between your folds. Dipping slow. Making a mess of yourself just for him.

“God, yes,” you whispered. “You see this? So fucking wet. For you.”

His hand stroked himself through the fabric, slow at first. Measured. Like he was pacing it just for you.

Then—he dropped the phone.

Just for a moment. The screen tilted to black.

You heard a muffled shuffle of fabric. Movement. A grunt. The sound of him exhaling hard.

Then—

He picked the phone back up.

And there it was.

The cock you’d seen in pictures, now in motion. Hard. Heavy. Curved slightly to the right. Veins running along the shaft like paths you wanted to trace with your tongue.

You whimpered, breath catching. “God… your cock looks so fucking good.”

He wrapped his hand around it and stroked slowly, deliberately.

“Stroke it for me,” you begged, eyes fixed on the screen as your own fingers worked faster. “Let me hear you, baby.”

You turned off your camera for a second—adjusted your angle—then turned it back on. Still cropped. Still hidden. But now angled perfectly between your thighs. Slick. Open. Needy.

“See this?” you whispered. “See what you do to me?”

He moaned—deep, rough, just a little breathless.

The call dissolved into heat. Sound. Wetness. Praise. You whispered filth to him like prayer. He groaned your name like he was falling apart just for you. You were close. So close—

Until—

WEE-OO-WEE-OO. WEE-OO-WEE-OO.

The emergency siren shrieked through your phone like a gunshot.

You gasped and jolted upright—until you realized…

It wasn’t just coming from your phone.

It was echoing.

From his side too.

Same pitch. Same frequency.

Watchtower protocol.

Your heart seized.

You stared at the screen—just as he cursed under his breath.

“Shit.”

Then the screen went black.

Call ended. Gone.

Your breath caught in your throat. Your hands still between your legs. Your body raw with need.

But your brain?

Your brain was moving in slow, precise horror.

That siren wasn’t public. It wasn’t general Watchtower protocol.

It was specific.

Each mission pair had their own unique alert—encrypted, untraceable outside their shared comms. And that tone… that exact pitch sequence…

It was yours.

Yours and your assigned partner’s.

And your partner?

Was Bucky Barnes.

Your stomach clenched.

You stared down at your phone, pulse pounding. Your body was still humming from the aftershocks, but the rest of you was unraveling.

You blinked at the dark screen. Tried to breathe.

And then your mind began to pull—thread by thread—backward.

The voice. That low rasp that lived somewhere in his throat. Always a little tired. Always a little rough. You’d heard it in the sparring room. You’d heard it moaning your name in the dark.

The timing. The discipline. The almost militant sharpness of his replies. Always exactly on time. Always controlled.

And then—

The way he touched himself.

One hand.

Always the right.

Every picture. Every clip. Every motion you’d ever seen. Cock in his right hand. Phone in his left. You’d never seen anything else. Never thought to question it.

Until now.

Until you remembered exactly what his left hand was made of.

The vibranium.

Always gloved in daylight. Always held behind his back, or casually resting on his hip like it wasn’t worth using. Always there, but never used—not unless it had to be.

Your breath caught.

The pieces stopped falling.

They just… clicked.

The voice. The siren. The silence. The lack of left hand. The way he moved. The refusal to show his face. The email so purposefully anonymous. The instinct to keep himself hidden—just like you had.

You stared at your reflection in the black screen.

Still damp. Still trembling.

“…no fucking way.”

But there was no more room for doubt.

Because if your gut was right—and every part of you said it was—then the man who had just come for you in the dark…

…was the same man who couldn’t even stand to look at you in the light.

You weren’t just turned on.

You were completely, utterly fucked.

—

“Shit,” Bucky muttered, breath still ragged as he ended the call with a swipe of his thumb.

He was seconds from coming—already flushed, tense, his hand wrapped tight around his cock—when the emergency siren blasted through his phone.

His specific alert. High-pitched, short burst, then a long one.

And then… the echo.

The same damn siren, faint but unmistakable, bleeding through the other end of the call. His caller’s phone.

Your phone.

He froze.

Chest still rising and falling. Sweat on his neck. Mind racing.

It took him three full seconds to understand what it meant.

And when it hit—it hit hard.

You.

You.

The woman he was supposed to protect. Train. Lead. The one who spent every meeting glaring at him like he’d kicked your dog in a past life.

You were the one he’d been jerking off to for the last six months.

The one sending him voice notes at midnight. The one calling him baby and making him laugh without even trying. The one who knew exactly how to pull pleasure out of his body with just the sound of your breath.

He dragged a hand over his face. His heart was still pounding, but now it had nothing to do with arousal.

He leaned back in the chair, stared up at the ceiling, and cursed again under his breath.

He hadn’t known.

He swore he hadn’t known.

—Bucky’s POV—

The memory came back uninvited. That first day.

The elevator.

The hot splash of coffee—steaming, not just warm. It scalded straight through his henley, soaked the skin over his chest and shoulder. He bit the inside of his cheek so hard he tasted blood, just to keep from reacting.

He could’ve cursed. Could’ve snapped. But you were already panicking, mumbling rapid apologies, trying to wipe it off with your sleeve. He’d seen the horror in your eyes—wide and sincere and a little ridiculous, considering the chili dog now sliding down his shirt like it was trying to escape judgment.

So he said nothing.

Just clenched his jaw and stepped out the second those elevator doors opened, beelining to the men’s room. Cold water. Fast scrubbing. Quiet pain.

By the time he’d changed and returned to the lounge, he barely had time to scan the room before John Walker waved him over.

“Bucky,” John had said, holding out a tablet. “Priority situation in the Balkans. You’ll want eyes on this.”

Bucky was halfway across the room before he noticed you were there—standing off to the side, a coffee-stained shirt clinging to your frame, looking small but composed, like you were trying not to exist too loudly.

He hadn’t even realized he’d brushed past you until later.

To be fair, you were… small. He towered over you by nearly three and a half heads. And when his mind was in mission-mode, everything else blurred.

But from that moment on—you were cold. Icy. Guarded. Like he’d somehow declared war just by existing.

—

It wasn’t hate.

Not from his side.

Far from it.

Your file had flagged you as physically promising but slightly under-trained in stamina and real-combat conditioning. So he’d structured your simulations to push you—to meet you at the edge of your capacity.

He wasn’t trying to break you.

He was trying to build you.

And goddamn, you’d risen fast. Quicker than most.

You were smart. Sharp. Focused in a way that made him take notice. Your recovery rate improved. Your reflexes tightened. Your rhythm in combat sparring became beautiful to watch.

And yet, you never gave him anything back but sarcasm, glares, and whispered insults when you thought he wasn’t around.

He had heard you in the pantry that day—grumbling to Yelena.

“Grumpy old bastard,” you’d muttered.

He almost laughed.

Because… yeah.

He was grumpy. He was old.

He didn’t take it personally.

But it confused him.

He’d never insulted you. Never shut you down. Never raised his voice.

Even the damn chili dog—he ordered it because you skipped lunch. And because, after weeks of listening, he knew how you liked it. Extra extra chili. No mustard.

It wasn’t a peace offering. Not exactly.

He just… wanted to talk to you. Properly. Without you frowning at him like he was the plague.

But when he dropped it off at your desk, you didn’t even look up.

—

And now?

Now he couldn’t breathe.

Because the woman who shut down every attempt at conversation—the one who rolled her eyes during briefings, who sparred like she was trying to draw blood—

Was the same woman who sent him a voice note last week whispering “I wish I could ride you until we both black out.”

The same woman who tonight had parted her legs on camera, fingers working between her folds, moaning for him like it was a prayer.

And the worst part?

He liked you.

He already liked you.

Even before tonight’s accidental reveal, there was something about you that got under his skin. Your fire. Your mouth. The way you never let him off the hook.

It drove him crazy.

And now?

Now you were burned into his hands. His sheets. His bloodstream.

He groaned, dragging both hands down his face.

You were going to hate him.

You were going to find out. If you hadn’t already.

And when you did—

He wasn’t sure what would destroy him faster.

Your disgust.

Or your silence.

—POV end—

—

You got dressed fast.

That siren could’ve meant anything—civilian threat, global emergency, interdimensional chaos. You’d heard stories. One time they scrambled a team for a goose that got too close to a Stark satellite. Another time, someone joked it might be Galactus. No one laughed.

Whatever it was, you weren’t risking being the last one to show up.

You tugged on your gear, tied your hair up, and bolted for the elevator.

And then—ding.

The doors slid open.

And there he was.

Bucky.

Fully dressed in tactical gear, all buttoned up and brooding like usual. Black compression shirt, black pants, boots laced with military precision. His eyes flicked to you once—just a glance—and then back to the elevator panel. But the tension? Instant. Thick.

It had only been a few minutes since you were both naked, panting, whispering filth into your screens. You could still feel the echo of his voice in your bones. Still hear the ragged way he said “fuck, baby” like he was breaking.

You kept your eyes forward.

You meant to keep them forward.

But your gaze dipped anyway. Just for a second. A glance.

Black tactical pants.

The same ones.

The exact same fit, the same cut. The same pants from that picture. From when he said he was “in a meeting.”

Your stomach dropped.

Your eyes flicked back up—and met his.

Caught.

He saw it.

He saw you seeing it.

Your head snapped to the side, heat crawling up your neck, burning into your ears.

Shit.

The silence pressed in on all sides, humming with everything neither of you were saying.

Then you forced yourself to speak.

“Can we talk… after this? After whatever this whole thing turns out to be?”

Bucky didn’t move much. Just a slight nod, his voice low and steady.

“Sure thing.”

—

The siren turned out to be a false alarm.

A rat.

A rat had chewed through a critical cable cluster near the ops wing. Short-circuited a core and triggered multiple alerts. It was now extra crispy and mostly unrecognizable.

The debrief was short. Everyone dispersed.

You didn’t even breathe until the elevator doors closed again.

Then, his voice beside you.

“Talk in my room? Or do you want the common area?”

You looked up at him, fingers fidgeting at your side.

“Somewhere private. Your room sounds… nice.”

He nodded once. Wordless again.

You followed him down the hall. Past mission boards and storage units.

When he opened his door and let you in, you were hit with the quiet scent of aftershave and clean cotton. Dim lighting. Neat, except—

Your eyes caught it.

The bed.

Blanket slightly skewed. Pillow dented. The indent of where he’d been sitting when the call came in. Like you could trace the shape of him from the air still hanging around it.

He didn’t say anything about it. Just walked to the small kitchen island and poured a glass of water. One for you. One for him.

You sat down on the stool beside him, fingers wrapping around the glass like it could anchor you.

Silence stretched.

And then he spoke.

“So…”

You looked up. His eyes were on the counter. Then on you.

“I know you probably hate me right now. Or want to kill me. Or both. And I get it,” he said, voice low, careful. “But… I’m not gonna pretend I regret any of it. The voice notes. The pictures. That call.”

That call. The way he said it sent heat crawling up your spine.

“I never hated you,” he added, softer now. “Honestly, I never understood why you hated me.”

You blinked.

Your voice came out quieter than you expected. “What are you talking about?”

He looked at you fully now. Not like a soldier. Not like a leader. Just… Bucky.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” you said, the words coming quicker now. “You assigned me harsher drills than Yelena or Ava. You didn’t look at me. You didn’t talk to me. You treated me like I was on your shit list from day one.”

It wasn’t accusation this time. Just confusion. Honest and aching.

Bucky’s lips twitched—not in amusement. Just… exasperation. At himself.

“I never meant to make you feel that way,” he said. “I thought I was doing my job. Training you based on your stats. You’re… more capable than most, and I didn’t want to hold you back. That was it. And yeah, I’m not great at small talk, but I swear—I wasn’t ignoring you.”

You stared at him. Processing.

“Even the chili dog?” you asked, a faint smile threatening.

He cracked the smallest smirk. “Extra extra chili, no mustard. You looked like you were gonna pass out from hunger. Seemed like the least I could do.”

You looked down at the counter, your fingers inching closer to his. Slowly, purposefully, you touched your fingertips to the edge of his vibranium hand.

He didn’t move.

You swallowed.

“You know, Bucky,” you said, voice quieter now. “I liked what we had. That connection, when we didn’t know who we were. When it was just… voice and breath and instinct. Felt honest in a way nothing else has.”

You met his eyes again.

“I don’t want that to be ruined because I misread you. Because I let my anger get in the way. That’s on me. And I’m sorry.”

Bucky exhaled through his nose. Not annoyed—just like he’d been holding that breath for days.

“I don’t want it to be ruined either.”

There was a pause.

You felt it first.

The shift in the air.

The hum.

Your thighs clenched, your body already remembering the sound of his voice, the weight of his moan, the way he said babe like it was a promise.

You leaned in slightly, just enough.

“In all honesty,” you murmured, “I don’t want it to stop. I don’t want us to stop. I mean, if you’re done with it, I’ll get it. But…”

You tilted your head, your voice a little more playful now.

“I’ve never liked a cock this much in my life. And that cock happened to be yours.”

That did it.

Bucky froze. Blinked. Then his ears went red—just a little. His jaw tightened, but not with anger.

The tension snapped.

And the room started heating up again.

Fast.

—

Your mind could barely register what had happened.

One second, you were sitting on a stool at his kitchen island—nervous fingers tracing your water glass, heart beating louder than the silence.

The next?

You were in his arms.

Your legs wrapped around his waist. Your back against the wall. His mouth on yours—crashing, pulling, devouring.

It was messy. A little rushed. Reverent in its desperation.

Like something ancient had finally been set into motion.

Like this wasn’t just inevitable—it was fated.

You clung to him, hands clutching the collar of his shirt, your mouth parting under his as he kissed you harder, deeper. Tongue slipping past your lips like he already knew what you tasted like.

He walked you backward, blindly, the metal plates of his vibranium arm pressed firm against your thigh. You barely noticed the shift until he sat down at the edge of his bed, dragging you down with him, your thighs straddling his lap like you’d always belonged there.

The kiss never broke.

Only deepened.

Your fingers dove into his hair, tugging hard at the roots, and he groaned into your mouth. His hands were everywhere—the metal one gripping your thigh tight, anchoring you to him, while the warm flesh one came up to cradle your jaw.

His thumb stroked slow, soothing circles into your cheek, a contrast to the way his mouth devoured you.

Then his hand slid lower.

Over your neck.

Down to your chest.

And then—he cupped your breast.

You gasped into the kiss. His thumb brushed over the peak through your shirt. He pulled back just slightly, breath ragged, eyes blown black with need.

“Fuck, doll…” he rasped. “You’re so soft.”

His palm squeezed gently, reverently, like he couldn’t quite believe you were real.

“No bra?” he asked, voice hoarse, lips still grazing yours.

“Non-padded,” you whispered, your fingers finding his vibranium wrist and guiding it higher, sliding it over your other breast.

“Jesus,” he muttered, gripping it with care, the cool metal pressing through your shirt as he kneaded both like they were a goddamn miracle.

You reached down, starting to unbutton your shirt from the bottom.

But he stopped you.

His hand caught yours gently. “Lemme,” he breathed, already slipping the buttons open with a surprising ease, one by one, baring more of your skin with each.

When he pushed the fabric aside and saw the bra—thin, delicate, your nipples barely hidden—he groaned.

“Goddamn,” he whispered. “Been dreaming about this… for way too long.”

He reached around you, unhooking your bra with a flick of his fingers.

And when they spilled free?

He froze for half a second. Jaw tight. Throat flexing.

“Fuck me…” he muttered, his hands sliding back up to cup you properly now—skin to skin.

You were already grinding against him. Slow, controlled, your clothed pussy pressing against the thick ridge in his pants.

He let out a low sound. A growl.

Then dipped his head.

And devoured you.

His mouth latched onto one nipple, tongue swirling, lips sucking hard enough to make you arch into him. His metal hand squeezed the other breast, thumb flicking the peak in lazy circles.

You moaned, loud, fingers gripping his shoulders, nails dragging along the fabric of his shirt.

Every flick of his tongue sent electricity down your spine. Your panties were already soaked. The pressure in your core was unbearable. The need clawing at you from the inside out.

“Bucky—fuck—” you gasped, as he moved to your other nipple, worshipping it with the same urgency, same hunger.

He moaned in response, mouth full, pulling back only to whisper, “You sound even better like this. In real life. On top of me. Falling apart.”

You whimpered.

Because it was too good.

Too perfect.

You’d never had sex—not really. The only thing that ever “took” your virginity was a purple dildo named Tomdildody that lived in a shoebox under your bed.

But this?

This was everything Tomdildody could never be.

This was hot breath and strong hands and the delicious stretch of a man who wanted all of you. Not just your body—but the sounds you made. The way you shivered. The way you whispered his name like it was your final prayer.

Your thighs clenched tighter around him, your hips rolling now, slow but shameless, as his tongue dragged one last, greedy circle around your nipple before he looked up at you.

He was wrecked. Eyes dark. Lips slick. His hands still full of you.

You were already shaking.

And it was only the beginning.

—

You slid off his lap without a word.

Your body moved on instinct now—too hot, too full, too overwhelmed to think. You stood at the edge of the bed and peeled off your pants, one leg at a time, your soaked panties clinging to your folds before you yanked them down and tossed them aside.

Bucky followed your lead, rising from the bed like a force of gravity had pulled him up behind you. He undid his belt with one sharp pull, shoved his tactical pants down, and yanked off his boxers.

You froze for a beat.

They were the exact same ones from the FaceTime. Black. Faintly stretched at the waistband. Familiar in a way that made your stomach twist and your pussy clench with anticipation.

He sat back down—legs spread, cock heavy and flushed between them. Thick. Glistening. Leaking at the tip like he’d been waiting hours for this.

You climbed into his lap again, bare skin on bare skin now, your knees pressing into the mattress as you straddled him. You sank down just enough for your soaked cunt to drag along the length of him, slow and hungry.

Wet, filthy squelches echoed in the quiet room. You both moaned—loud, ragged, desperate.

Your forehead dropped to his shoulder.

“Let me feel you, Bucky,” you begged, your voice shaking. “I need it. I need you. My pussy wants you so fucking bad…”

You rolled your hips against him again, your slick coating him, teasing him. Your walls clenched at nothing—frantic for him, aching to be filled.

His breath stuttered. Then he growled.

“Fuck, baby…”

He gripped your thighs—metal on one side, warm skin on the other—and lifted you just slightly like you weighed nothing. Then with one hand, he angled his cock and pressed the tip against your entrance.

And when he lowered you down?

Plop.

His cock slid in with ease—your body parting like it had been made to take him. Welcoming. Greedy. The stretch made your mouth fall open. He was thick, curved just right, sliding into you like a prayer answered.

Both of you moaned—loud.

Your hands flew to his shoulders, clutching him. His hands stayed firm on your hips, anchoring you, grounding you.

“Jesus,” Bucky whispered, voice wrecked. “This feels so… unreal.”

He pulled out slightly, then slid back in with a guttural groan. “You feel like heaven, sweetheart. Fuck.”

You barely managed a sound—just a gasp, eyes fluttering shut as your walls clenched around him involuntarily.

“God, your pussy feels so good. So fucking good,” he murmured, his forehead dropping to your chest as he rolled his hips into you. “I wanna live here.”

You let out a sob of pleasure.

Because this—this was bliss. The kind of sex that made you forget time, space, rules. The kind that made your thighs shake and your stomach tighten and your soul hum.

You bounced on his lap in slow, messy thrusts. He met every movement with a snap of his hips, driving deeper each time. His cock rubbed every right place inside you, that slight curve hitting your sweetest spot again and again, forcing sounds out of you that you didn’t know you were capable of.

“Fuckfuckfuck—Bucky—oh my god—” you cried out, hands gripping the back of his neck, pulling him close like he could stop your body from combusting.

He moaned your name.

Over and over.

Like he was tasting it. Claiming it. Like it lived in his blood.

“Say it again,” you breathed, dizzy from the rhythm. “Say my name.”

He thrust up into you with purpose—sharp, needy—and whispered it like it was holy.

“Baby…” he gasped, voice shattering at the edges. “God, you feel so fucking good—fuck, I’m not gonna last.”

And then he said it—your name.

Low. Rough. Worshipful.

Like it wasn’t just something to call you, but something etched into him. Something his. He kept saying it, over and over, like it grounded him. Like it was the only thing he could hold onto as he drowned in the feel of you.

You were unraveling.

Clit grinding into the base of his cock with every drop of your hips. Slick running down his thighs. Your body clenching tighter around him with every thrust.

You didn’t care who heard.

You didn’t care who knew.

Because this was the best thing you’d ever done.

The most right thing you’d ever felt.

You were full of him. Wrapped around him. Buried in him. And as your orgasm started to crash through your belly in pulsing, blinding waves—

You knew this was more than just sex.

This was the beginning of everything.

—

You moaned into Bucky’s ear, breath hitching, hands clawing into his back.

“Baby, I’m so fucking close—harder, baby—don’t stop.”

He didn’t.

God, he didn’t.

His grip tightened on your hips, the vibranium fingers splayed with reverent strength, anchoring you to him as he bucked up harder, faster, deeper. The sound of skin meeting skin filled the room—slaps, gasps, choked curses. Heat built between your bodies like friction could burn through time.

And then—

It hit.

Your orgasm shattered through you like something sacred. A wave that cracked your spine and left your mouth falling open in a silent scream. Your body trembled, clenching around him, pulling him deeper even as your climax dragged you under.

Bucky groaned into your shoulder, one final thrust before he pulled out, gasping through his teeth as he spilled across your belly, thick ropes hitting your skin, streaking your thighs. You could feel his chest rising and falling under you, faster than usual. Ragged.

And still—you collapsed against him. Boneless. Wrecked.

He caught you instantly. Wrapped both arms around your waist and held you close like you were something he’d been fighting to protect this whole time. His breathing slowed quickly—thanks to that goddamn serum—but you could feel something different in him. Something deeper than just release.

It wasn’t just sex for him.

It hadn’t been for you either.

You stayed like that for a long while—just breathing, just tangled. Your face buried in his neck, skin warm and slick with sweat and something else you didn’t have the language for yet. Something like peace.

Eventually, your arms slid up to hook around his shoulders, and you lifted your head—only just—to find his eyes. Those steel-blue eyes that always looked like they’d seen too much. But now?

Now they were soft. Glowing. Staring at you like you were some kind of beginning.

“That was…” you started, voice raw, shaky with the aftermath.

You paused.

Then you smiled, just a little.

“That was my first time.”

Bucky blinked. Like he hadn’t heard you right. Like the Earth had tilted sideways under him.

You touched his cheek, thumbing at the stubble there.

“And it was the best,” you whispered.

His throat bobbed. He didn’t say anything right away. Just looked at you, as if the words would never be enough. But you could feel it in his hands—the way he held you tighter. How he kissed your forehead, slow and reverent. Like you’d given him more than just your body.

You let him pull you under the blanket with him. Still bare. Still warm.

You curled into his chest, his arm wrapped snug around your back, your leg draped over his. One of his fingers traced circles into your spine, and he whispered things into your hair you couldn’t quite make out—murmured words like baby and you feel like heaven and can’t believe it was you.

And for once, there were no missions. No sirens. No grudge hanging heavy in the air.

Just the quiet weight of new beginnings.

You closed your eyes against his collarbone, and for the first time since joining this chaotic team, you let yourself rest.

Where it was safe.

Where it was warm.

Where he was.

[swordgracerecs]

this actually put me into a coma good LORRRRRRD THIS WAS SO SPECTACULAR AND SEXY 🧎‍♀️

i need to jerk bucky off so badly

oh lawd yes please

imagine him sitting on the couch, just like doing some man shit idk maybe he's watching tv or reading a paper idk what do 110 year old men with the brains of 40 year olds do

okay sorry rant over

imagine him sitting on the couch, watching tv, manspreading so sexily and draping an arm over the armrest

he doesn't even know how hot he looks right now

so maybe you get the idea in your head and you walk to the couch and proceed to straddle him while he's sitting there. you smirk, putting a hand on his shoulder and run another through his hair

"hi, pretty girl," he smiles at you, seeing the smirk on your face. he knows you have ulterior motives, and he's more than fine with it. "whatcha doin?"

"just... admiring the view," you smile, pushing his hair back, feeling the softness of his hair on your hand as you continue to draw your fingers through it

he chuckles. "oh, really?"

you give him a look as your hand on his shoulder traces down his chest, his stomach, to the button of his jeans

"yeah, really," you tease, sarcastic asf

and then you're easing the zipper of his jeans down, down, down...

you give a pretend little gasp at finding that he's gone commando

you stare into each other's eyes, both with that knowing look in your eyes. you both know you're both deviants and you're happy to be, together.

his eyes shut, though, once you get your hand around him.

"that's what I like to see..." you whisper, and his hands dig deeper into the skin at your hips, trying to keep his composure

"stop holding your breath, Bucky," you tell him. you know he is, trying to do so to hold it together, to not let go of every ounce of self-control in his body

"don't you love me?" you whisper in his ear, smiling, being a fucking tease

and that makes him crack, letting go of his breath, a weird mix of a laugh and moan coming from his throat. his head falls to your shoulder as he chuckles a bit more

you pull on his hair, tugging his head away from your shoulder so he's forced to look up at you

"you wanna help me out?" you tease, pulling your hand away from his cock and making him watch as you spit into your hand

you're sure it's probably an ugly sight, but for Bucky, anything you do goes straight to his heart or his cock. and the action makes his eyes practically roll back in is head as he moans

after a second, he does as you've asked and follows your lead, spitting into your hand

and then, fuck, your hand comes back to his cock and he's fuckin gone

you bring your mouth to his neck, biting gently into his skin to leave a mark on him like he always fucking does on you. he belongs to you too, you know

your hand in his hair brings his head to lean against yours as you suck a hickey on his skin and keep stroking him between your bodies

his hips jut up away from the couch awkwardly, and you can just feel it, and god it's hot

"you wanna come for me, baby?" you ask him teasingly

"yeah, yes..." he whines

you would love to tease him. edge him. make him wait.

but you've got plenty of time. you can give in, just this once

"give it to me," you whisper, and he comes apart for you, softly, and god it's so hot the way it takes him so gently, his body relaxing under yours.

you pull back once more, tugging his hair back to make eye contact once more. you make him watch as you bring your hand to your lips, watching you lick his release off your fingers

and he's nothing more than absolutely willing to do as you please when you bring your fingers to his mouth and make him do the same

and god it's so hot to make him bow to your will

[swordgracerecs]

I need to be fucking sedated GOOD LORD — this was soooooooo good 🫦 the cute bit at the end had me giggling !!! wonderful work! ❤️

skin on skin

pairing — john walker x thunderbolts!fem!reader

summary — cold night. one bed. and a way to keep you warm with more than just layers and layers of clothes.

warnings — smut. nipple play. teasing. tension. name calling. slight dom/sub. pussy slapping with his dick. unprotected p in v. rough sex. clit rubbing. belly bulge. creampie.

wordcount — 3.590 words.

authors note — @starktonyx kicked my ass enough to write it! thanks for your amazing support!

Being a hero might not be as cool as everyone thinks. Especially not when you end up in a motel room. One bed. Stinky. And disgusting.

It's even better when you have to share that one bedroom with your enemy.

You might be on the same team. And you might fight the same villains on the street. But you still can’t stand him, and lying next to him is just annoying and maddening.

At least he doesn’t snore.

Or you hope so. Because you’re pretty sure he isn’t even sleeping yet.

Neither are you.

The room is freezing. The thin blanket is wrapped around the two of you while you're still wearing most of your clothes.

“I’m sorry,” John mutters behind you, shifting slightly but still trying to stay on the tiny space of the bed he has.

You narrow your eyes, frowning slightly as you turn your head to look at the ceiling. Your body turned away from him, just like his is from yours.

Taking in a deep breath, you turn to lie on your back.

It isn’t his fault that you ended up in the motel. It isn’t even its fault that you only have one bed. Even if you would like to blame him for all that, you can’t.

“It’s not on you,” you say, quietly.

Your body is shaking underneath the blanket, the cool creeping through the layers of clothing and wrapping around you like a blanket.

Your body is aching, your muscles tense from the mission.

It’s not a hard mission. But the enemies found a way to turn off all the electricity. Miles and miles don’t have any light or any phone connection.

“You didn’t know they would break down the networks,” you say, turning your head to look at him.

John shrugs, turning as well. His eyes are focused on the ceiling, and for a moment you wonder what’s going through his mind.

John shifts underneath the blanket, his fingers fidgeting before he swallows thickly.

“I know,” he whispers after a while.

Heavy silence settles between the two of you. There is tension you never talked about. A tension the two of you tried to ignore as best as you could, and now it's coming after you.

It’s wrapping itself around the two of you like a shadow. Pulling you into your darkest, filthiest thoughts. Thoughts you didn't dare to say out loud, not allowing yourself to think them unless you were lying wide awake in the middle of the dark nights.

“You hate me, and I’m sorry,” he whispers again before he turns his body toward yours and scoots closer. One of his muscular arms wraps around your waist as he pulls you tightly against his warm chest. “I’m sorry. But I don’t want you to freeze all night.”

“You don’t want to freeze,” you bite back, but there is no sharpness.

You’re right. He doesn’t want to freeze. But neither do you want to freeze.

And even when you hate to admit it, you’re glad to feel at least a bit of his body warmth. Through layers and layers of clothes, but at least it’s a bit warmer than before.

It feels good to be held so tightly. Not because it warms you up. But because it's soft. Safe.

“I don’t,” he chuckles, his breath fanning against your forehead, and you shiver in his hold.

This time it’s not coldness. It’s a heat he causes with not even doing much.

“Still freezing,” you mumble.

A huff escapes your lips when you remember something you heard once. You shake your head slightly, trying to get the thought out of your mind.

You can’t ask him to do such a thing. And you don't want to do it either, do you?

“I once heard that skin-on-skin contact is helpful. I’m not so sure, but you know,” you mumble, trying to fill the silence with thoughts that are running through your mind.

John laughs, his fingers running up and down your back. His thick fingers curl around the hem of your hoodie and t-shirt, pulling it upward.

His calloused hands find their way just a moment after on the small of your back. Warm and soft.

Surprisingly soft for someone who’s working a lot with his hands. You can still feel the slight roughness of his digits, but his palm is soft as cotton candy. His touch and warmth make you want to curl into his couch even more.

“Does it help?” He asks, his voice rougher than before.

You frown, unsure what he's talking about. You blink. Once. Twice.

“Yes, I think so,” you mutter, cheeks heating up when you notice the smirk that’s curling his lips upward.

He knows what he's doing. And unfortunately, it’s cute. Or hot. Or both.

“Idiot.”

“It’s not my fault my touch is so mind-blowing for you, sweetheart,” he says with a grin.

You study his face for a moment. His clean blue eyes, the usual sharp look in them replaced by an unfamiliar and yet welcoming softness. A few of his blond strands hung loosely in his face, framing it perfectly.

All in all, it makes him seem boyish.

Wouldn’t it be his beard that’s giving his face that perfect frame and adding a touch that makes him look attractive?

And in that moment you see him in a different way.

Less arrogant. Less maddening.

He's more handsome, softer and sweeter than you thought he could be.

“You’re staring,” he hums. The smile on his face is genuine instead of annoying.

“Can you blame me?” You mutter in frustration.

He doesn’t have to look so damn good. Be so sweet behind his hard shell.

He could just be the idiotic guy you know. But no. He has to show himself off in a way he never did before.

And while you want to hate him even more for it, you find yourself leaning more into his comforting touch. Craving more of him, of that side of him.

“No,” he mutters; the smug grin on his face makes you want to punch it off his face.

Or kiss it off his face. You're not so sure about it; his lips look soft, too soft. And so damn kissable.

“You’re staring again, sweetheart,” John teases, his warm breath fanning over your skin. His lips not even an inch away from your forehead. “I like when you look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like there’s more between us than the hate, the tension and the teasing,” John mumbles, curling himself more around you.

One of his legs slots itself between yours in the process, pressing firmly against your covered cunt. Your hips buck immediately, causing a satisfying friction between your legs.

A whimper, quiet but needy, slips past your lips.

“Fuck, do that again,” John groans, his fingers digging into your back, pulling you even closer toward him.

“Don’t tell me what to d— oh! Fuck,” you moan, when he moves his leg between yours, causing another whimper to escape you. “Idiot!”

John chuckles. He adores that side of you. Feisty. Like you’re going to bite him when you can.

“You’re damn beautiful, and you make me so fucking hard,” he mutters, more to himself than to you.

You're sounding so damn good. Fucking amazing. And he just can’t get enough of that whimper he can force out of you.

John’s cock hardens in his pants, pressing tightly against the fabric and your stomach. He groans, rutting his hips forward.

“Do you wanna make compliments or get to work?” You growl, unsure what to say to all these compliments he makes.

Your heart flutters. Butterflies erupt in your stomach. And you can feel your cheeks heating up.

Another growl leaves your lips, ready to fight him until he’s lying underneath you so you can take control. So you can take what you need and just sink down on his cock.

“Don’t you growl at me,” John mutters, narrowing his eyes with a firm expression. His hands move underneath the blanket, working his belt open. “You’re such a fucking menace.”

He pushes his pants down, kicking them off his legs, leaving himself in only his boxer briefs and his hoodie.

His fingers slide to the hem of his hoodie, working it over his head. Drool forms in your mouth when you notice the defined muscles of his stomach and chest.

Fuck, he's not. And so handsome.

“You’re drooling, again. Now push down your pants, or do you want me to help you out of them?” John asks, impatiently. “Or do you want to get off on my thigh?”

That damn shit-eating grin. And somehow it makes him attractive, the beard framing his smile, his blue eyes shining brightly and so unnaturally beautiful.

“So romantic,” you growl, still in need of him. You need him to take control, need him to fill you to the brim.

If he wants it dry and dirty. He will get it. No romantic. No foreplay. Just a quick fuck.

“I really wanna stuff that pretty mouth of yours,” he hums, grinning when he notices the flash of want rushing over your expression. “That’s what you like? Choking on my cock?”

“Mhm,” you mutter, doing as you’re told. Getting rid of your pants and hoodie, you’re left in nothing but panties and your bra.

John's eyes inch over your body, taking in the sight of you. And for a brief second, you notice the admiring expression, the softness that's flashing over his face.

“Don’t—” you mutter, knowing he wants to make more compliments. You bring your arms behind your back, unclasping your bra.

He laughs, darkly. Rough. And fuck, it sends a shiver through you, straight to your pussy.

You can feel your arousal dripping out of you, soaking the thin fabric.

“Can fucking smell you,” John mutters, rolling over to hover on top of you. His arms resting on both sides of your face when he rolls his hips against yours. “So wet, for me.”

You roll your eyes, arching your back when his thick length rubs against your clit. Only the layers of underwear between the two of you.

His head lowers to your collarbone, kissing and biting down his way to your chest.

Your hands fly instinctively into his hair, pushing him further into your chest. A low moan slips past your lips, your hips bucking up against his.

“John, please, I need you. And if you—” you get interrupted when he sucks at the skin just above your right nipple.

“You what, huh?” He chuckles, pressing some wet kisses all over your tit before he suckles at his nipple and moves to your other chest. “Cat got your tongue, sweetheart?”

“Shut up,” you growl, tugging at his hair. Tightly. Almost painfully until he’s biting into the sensitive skin above your nipple. You push him away, not much but enough to let the skin slip through his teeth. “Biting, now? Kinky!”

“You don't know how kinky I can be,” John teases, making you roll your eyes.

And even that makes his cock jump in his boxer briefs. The tip is leaking pre-cum, and he’s pretty sure he’s ruining his underwear just as much as you ruin your own.

“Do you wanna watch me all night, or do you wanna use that little thing between your legs?” You smirk, knowing you hit a nerve with the description of his dick.

It's not small at all. You can feel the impressive bulge pressing against your cunt. Hard. Thick. Long. And so fucking ready to just push into you.

“Little?” He asks, glaring at you. There’s no sharpness. But he's still going to prove that his cock is anything but small. “I wanted to be nice. But you lost that right, right fucking now with that, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart.

It’s as sweet as a candy. And so teasing, like he loves to play with you. And you’re pretty sure he does. Because you do, too.

With a groan he sits up on his knees, pushing your legs apart with his while his eyes trail down your body to your covered cunt.

It’s still freezing in the room, and when he doesn’t just remove his body from yours, both also remove the blanket. You're shivering immediately.

“Idiot! It’s fucking freezing,” you mutter, but you don’t move to get the blanket back. You only look at him expectantly.

“And yet, you’re letting me admire your body. Preferring to turn into a popsicle so I can suck on yours, huh?” John laughs, his calloused hands moving down your sides toward the waistband of your panties.

He pulls them up, then lets them snap back into place. And again. Only to remove his hands completely and push them into his hips.

Such a dad pose. And yet, it makes him fucking hot. And it makes you go crazy for him.

He would be an amazing dad. He only has to pump you full of his cum, breeding you like you’re some bitch in heat.

“You’re such a—” your eyes widen when he pushes his boxer briefer down. All words you wanted to say leave your mind, replaced by way too filthy thoughts about his cock.

And shit. He's huge. Thick. Veiny. And the tip looks angry when it slaps against his abs. Glistening with pre-cum, so ready to get sucked.

Plus, his balls. They are just as huge. Filled with all he can give. So much cum, ready to be filled into your cunt.

“Not so small, huh?” John grins playfully. “Gonna have so much fun splitting you open, since you chose to be a little brat instead of a good girl.”

“Shut up,” you groan.

He’s right. He’s not small. And you can feel your pussy clenching around nothing.

Though knowing he won’t go easy on you makes you want to clamp your legs close. He will break you; you know it. His cock will break you. And you fear it. But you’re even more excited about it.

John grins, hooking his fingers into your panties and ripping them apart.

“YOU—” you start but get interrupted when he shoves the fabric into your mouth, sitting back to admire the masterpiece he created with your panties.

“Now you can scream all you want. Moan as loud as you want,” he chuckles, gripping the base of his cock before he gives himself a few slow, long strokes.

Moan all you want. And scream all you want. You’re in for it. You really are in for it now.

John places your legs over his thick thighs, inching closer until he’s able to slap the fat tip of his cock against your pussy, making you whine in protest.

Your hands shoot out to get the fabric out of your mouth, but he's faster, gripping your wrists tightly and pinning them above your head with one of his.

“Don't you fucking dare,” he says, his eyes narrowing as he slaps his cock against your folds once more. The sound of his length hitting your wet cunt makes him smirk. “She’s begging me, so wet for me.”

He smirks when you’re squirming underneath him. John places his cock on your cunt, sliding forward until his balls are against your cunt.

His cock is almost reaching your belly button. Or at least it looks like that for you. Pre-cum drips down onto your skin and leaves a trail as he moves backward again.

“Pweawe,” you try to speak behind the makeshift gag, but it only comes out as a muffled, incoherent word.

“Can’t hear you, sweetheart,” John chuckles, lining his cock up with your entrance. He doesn’t push in, only keeps the thick, leaking tip pressed against your hole. “You had to run your mouth; too bad I can’t hear you begging, probably.”

You growl, though it sounds more like a whine.

Before you can try to tell him how annoying he is, he's pushing in. Hard. Fast. Bottoming out immediately, his cock sliding through your tight walls, splitting you open on his thick length.

And you scream. More surprise than pain. But you do. And he loves it. Every single second. Every single inch until his balls are flush against your ass.

Your fingers curl around his hand, digging painfully into his skin, trying to ground yourself.

He's thick. Long. You can feel every vein on his cock, your pussy squeezing him tightly, keeping him where he is, locked deep into your pussy.

John pants slightly, his smile turning softer when he remains where he is. Giving you a moment to get used to his size and giving himself a moment to not come on the spot.

“Fuck, sweetheart. You're squeezing me, but you’re so fucking warm. Tight,” he mutters, letting go of your wrists and letting his fingers wander down your sides to your thighs.

John massages your thighs softly, allowing you to spit out the fabric and throw it somewhere in the room.

He waits for a snarky comment. For an insult. But it doesn’t come.

“You're thick and so huge,” you mutter, letting your head fall back into the pillows.

The pain subsides slowly, and you’re aching for more. More friction. More of him.

“Though it’s so small, sweetheart,” John teases, leaning forward until his chest is pressed against yours. His mouth hovering above yours while he strokes some of your strands behind your ear. “Can I move?”

You nod, slow. Soft, but you nod.

John pulls his hips back, letting you feel every inch of his cock. You moan. John groans.

Then he pushes his hips forward again, hitting your sweet spot with the tip of his cock. You squirm, fingers finding their way up his arms to his biceps. Curling them tightly around his muscle, grounding yourself as best as you can.

“P-please, faster. Harder,” you moan, arching your back, and John obeys.

His hips snapping into yours, pace speeding up with every thrust into your tight cunt. Your walls clenching tightly around him, making it almost impossible for him to move inside of you.

The sound of skin slapping against skin and your ragged breath fills the room. Low moans and loud groans cut through the tension like knives.

“You’re so fucking tight; I need you to come, sweetheart,” he grumbles, each word punctuated with a thrust. His balls slapping against your ass, over and over again, adding to the sensation.

His pubic hair scratches perfectly against your folds, his hair tickling your clit and bringing you closer to the edge.

He’s good with his cock. Way too good to admit.

The squelching sound of your cunt makes him groan even louder. His pace speeds up, faster and faster, until he's thrusting almost brutally into you.

“Fuck, sweetheart, come. Right. Fucking. Now,” he growls, bringing one of his hands between your sweaty bodies.

The coil in your stomach tightens, further and further. John's fingers find their way between your folds, collecting some wetness. He then exposes your sensitive bundle of nerves, pushing the hood back to press his thumb onto your clit.

“OH JOHN! PLEASE,” you scream, fingers scratching red stripes over his biceps as you meet his brutal trust.

The pressure of his thumb and the feeling of his cock hitting all the right places make you see stars. You're so close. Almost on the edge of your orgasm.

“Shit, sweetheart, look at that,” John grunts, nodding toward your belly where a bulge is forming with every one of his thrusts. “Fuck, you’re fitting so perfectly around me. Made for me.”

You nod, frantically, a bubbling and whining mess underneath John.

“Come for me,” he mutters, pulling almost completely out of you before he sinks into you with a hard thrust. His hips snapping against yours, throwing you over the edge.

You whine, scream, and moan. Your lips parting when you throw your head back, feeling his cock twitching when he stays buried deep inside of you.

John grunts, hips rutting only slightly as he spills his cum deep into you. His forehead drops against yours, his breath heavy, just like yours.

“You warm now?” He asks, a grin plastered over his lips again.

You nod. Your body is covered in sweat. Heat radiating off your bodies.

“Hot,” you mutter, closing your eyes when you let your fingers run over his arms toward his shoulders, massaging his tense muscles softly.

“Mhm,” he mumbles, pulling the blanket over the two of you. “Gonna clean you up later, but right now it’s too fucking cosy.”

You laugh. Wholeheartedly. Real. Opening your eyes to look at the man above you.

And John’s blue eyes light up as his eyes meet yours. “You're beautiful when you laugh. When you really laugh.”

Heat creeps into your cheeks. Not many guys made you such compliments.

John lowers his head, his chest pressing against yours as he brings his lips toward yours.

His lips warm and soft against yours, moving slow and delicate against yours.

“Do you think it’s an adrenaline thing when I tell you I love you?” He asks, chuckling low in his throat. His chest vibrating against yours.

You smirk, your fingers curling around the strands in his neck, tugging softly at them. “Could be. Unless you still think about it in the morning.”

John laughs. Of course he will. You got him wrapped around your finger.

“You're mine, sweetheart,” he mutters.

“Definitely marked me as yours,” you chuckle, kissing the corner of his mouth. Then his mouth, soft and passionate.

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[swordgracerecs]

this was so, SO cute :’) I absolutely love how you write Bucky, too! ❤️🥹

daddy’s girl

pairing — congressman!bucky barnes x fem!reader

summary — past assassin. nowadays congressman. and yet, his most important business is home with his girls.

warnings — lots of fluff, sexual tension

wordcount — 1.373 words

authors note — bucky as girl dad, just has my heart.

The moment the keys land on the small shelf in your hallway, you count backwards with a smile plastered on your face.

Three.

Silence. For a moment, but you know it only needs a few more seconds before your house is filled with noises like you're taking care of a whole football team.

Two.

You get off the couch, making your way over to the door of the living room to see the scene unfolding.

One.

Your husband stands with his arms wide open in the hallway. His shoes and jacket still on, waiting. Just like you, with a wide grin on his face.

Zero.

“Papa!” The high-pitched, excited voice of your daughter comes from her room. He shouts, echoing through the hallway as she runs with heavy, thundering steps toward the stairs.

“Slow, trouble,” Bucky says, loud enough for her to hear. But she doesn’t care, her feet carrying her down the stairs as fast as possible while she giggles loudly. “Hi, trouble, we don’t want ya to get hurt.”

She huffs.

She got that from her daddy. And he knows.

Whenever you scold him for anything — playfully — he’s huffing. Just like your little daughter. A troublemaker through and through.

“Papa! I draws,” she tells him, her small arms stretched out as she jumps down the last few steps to land safely in his strong arms.

Every day when he comes home after work, you get to see the same sweet scene.

Since your little girl can walk, she runs to her daddy the moment she notices he’s home. And by now, she doesn’t even need long to find out if it was you doing dishes or him coming home.

“You were drawing, baby?” He mutters, kneeling down to put her down but still staying at one height with her.

She nods proudly while her small hands tangle into some of his long strands that fall into his hands and face.

You lean in the doorframe, your heart fluttering in your chest. Seeing your husband so happy, so carefree and full of love causes that tingling feeling in your stomach every single time.

A few years back, when you met Bucky, you wouldn't have thought he could look that happy and full of light. But there he is.

You never tried to fix him. You never will because you can't. But you also don’t want to fix him.

He's not some device that's broken and needs a repair. Bucky is a human being, with his past, with his scars — on body and soul. And though some nights his past is still haunting him and some nights he’s panting and shaking next to you, you never tried to do anything else but just be there for him.

To hold him in his darkest moments. To kiss away the tears. To let him listen to your breathing and your steady heartbeat.

Bucky never wanted someone to fix him. He just wanted someone to stay. And that someone is you, his beautiful and sweet wife and mother of the energy bungle that’s keeping him grounded.

“Draws mama ‘n you, papa,” she says proudly, wiggling out of his arms to run upstairs so she can get her drawings and show them to her dad.

Bucky chuckles softly, his ocean blue eyes trained on the girl before he looks around. His eyes catching you still standing in the doorframe with the beautiful smile all over your lips.

A smile he falls for. Every single day.

“Hi, mama,” he mutters, slipping out of his shoes before he takes a step closer and reaches out to bring his calloused hands to your waist.

A sigh escapes his lips when he pulls you close again to his firm chest. Your arms curling around his neck, playing with the long strands that curl slightly in his neck.

“Hey, handsome,” you chuckle, pecking his plump lips.

His sandalwood scent surrounds you just like his warmth.

“How was your day?” He asks, pecking your lips once more before he looks deep into your eyes.

His gaze is soft and loving, and you can’t help but smile even more. He really is the most beautiful man — gentleman. And he’s all yours.

“Good, little trouble kept re-watching your interviews until I got her to draw something for you,” you chuckle.

Your daughter was sitting excitedly in front of the television, following every one of her dad's movements. She even started to do some moves he always does, repeating his words even if she doesn’t really understand all of them.

“Just like her daddy,” Bucky mutters, turning his head to the stairs when he hears your daughter running through the floor once more. “I love you, pretty mama.”

With that he kisses your forehead and pulls back slightly. Just a moment after, your daughter jumps right back into his arms, showing him proudly the pictures she drew.

One of her running away with Bucky’s metal arm. One of them is standing in front of people and talking about ponies — at least that's what she tells him.

Bucky praises her for every drawing she shows him. The light in her eyes and the happiness written all over her face that her daddy loves her drawings so much make your heart flutter in your chest.

“Now, c’mon, let’s make dinner, trouble,” Bucky says, stroking her hair back before he gets up from where he was kneeling. “Hear your little tummy growling at me already.”

Trouble giggles, hugging his legs to step onto his feet. Bucky smirks, his strong arms wrapping around her shoulders as he walks with her toward the kitchen.

He doesn’t bother to change into a t-shirt, no, he stands with his suit pants and shirt in the kitchen. Making dinner with your daughter, not caring about some stains on his shirt.

Unfortunately, it makes him look even more sexy. Handsome. Beautiful. And all yours.

Bucky lifts your little girl up and sits her down on the counter, standing next to her while he looks over her shoulder at you.

You know you will get all the attention from him after dinner. Once the little girl is in bed, he’s all yours.

“What’s your tummy demanding, baby?” Bucky asks, his calloused fingers tickling over her small belly until she’s wiggling and trying to get away from his moving fingers. “Mhm, maybe some pizza. Or pasta. Or does that little belly of yours want veggies?”

“Nooooo, no veggies, papa,” she shakes her head. “I no like veggies. And mama likes no veggies.”

What a lie. You love vegetables. But your daughter just loves to pull you into everything she doesn’t like, so she’s not alone. Just like her daddy.

“Mama doesn’t like veggies?” Bucky grins, looking at you with a knowing smirk on his lips.

He's making you vegetable plates in the evenings because you prefer them over some sweets when you’re watching movies together. You adore vegetables, so you’re definitely the last one who would say no to them.

“Mhm, pizza it is then?” Bucky suggests, even if you already planned on having pizza anyway. But to see the bright smile on her face because you're making her favourite food makes his day.

She squeals when Bucky gets everything ready to make the pizza with her. Or put all the ingredients on top of it, even if it’s a whole mess of every food she likes.

Chicken. Salami. Surprisingly, some pepper.

“What about some cucumber?” Bucky suggests playfully as he cuts a slice and holds it in front of her mouth. Sneaking some pieces of food into her mouth is the most important part of making food together.

“Nu! I no like veggies, papa,” she shakes her head, pushing his hand away.

Bucky chuckles, offering you the little cucumber heart he cut. He knows she doesn’t like it. But he knows you do.

You smile, taking it and putting it between your lips, suckling softly at it until Bucky is groaning under his breath. His eyes darken for a moment before he tries to focus on making the food again.

“You’re in for trouble, mama,” he whispers, leaning toward you to bite into your earlobe. “Gonna have so much fun with my sweet and mighty wife.

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[swordgracerecs]

MY BESTIEEEEEE 🫶 literally SO good, I cannot wait to see what else you cook up!

-𝙙𝙧𝙪𝙜 𝙤𝙛 𝙘𝙝𝙤𝙞𝙘𝙚-

pairing: pre-thunderbolts!bob x f!reader

𝙨𝙮𝙣𝙤𝙥𝙨𝙞𝙨: bob meets the person he can’t lose when you find him in his chicken costume

𝙬𝙤𝙧𝙙 𝙘𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙩: 5.1k.

𝙬𝙖𝙧𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙨: drug use (mdni), bob & reader are both addicts, angst, mental illness, bob lowkey tweaks tf out, mentions of multiple drugs (meth, cocaine, marijuana), fear of judgement; mentions of anxiety, fluff-ish/platonic interactions, happy ending

𝙖/𝙣: wow it’s been a while huh 🧍‍♀️ the thunderbolts launched me right back into writing fanfics, IT’S A REVIVAL. however, when I watched the movie, I wanted to write about about chicken bob. this is not thunderbolts bob, this is him when he was basically at his lowest. please be advised this is a darker story, with themes that are on the sad/depressing side. I’m planning on making this a series, so stay tuned if you like it! please enjoy, I really liked writing this! 🥰

10:50 pm.

Your phone screen flashed the time in your face when the flickering neon sign of the chicken restaurant came into view. Made it just before closing.

The place was worn down, could’ve used a fresh coat of paint, at the very least. It was on a small little corner in a less than savory part of New York City. Coincidentally, that wasn’t far from where you resided. You’d eaten there before, it was something quick and easy— something to ease your late-night, weed-induced cravings. The smell of the grease wafted from the entrance, intensifying the craving of chicken that you could practically taste.

You were making a beeline for the open double doors when you saw him. Sitting on the curb, head of the yellow chicken costume flopped next like a deflated balloon is a guy with wild eyes and a sheen of sweat that glistens even under the grimy streetlight. His mouth is slack, but he’s breathing like he just ran a mile. The feathers on the suit are stained in places you don’t want to think too hard about.

“Rough night?” you ask, mostly because it looks like that is the case, but also because— well, someone should.

He flinches like your voice came out of nowhere. Blinks hard. He looks up at you, squinting through the haze. “You talkin’ to me?” he asks, pointing a shaky hand at his chest like there might be another chicken guy nearby.

You nod. “Yeah. You look like you lost a fight. With a fryer.”

A wheezing laugh slips out of him, half cough, half genuine. “Most people just cross the street,” he says. “Or pretend I’m part of the sidewalk.”

“Well you’re kind of hard to ignore,” you say, nudging the deflated chicken head with the toe of your shoe. “Was it bad in there?”

He leans back against the wall, eyes closing for a second like he’s chasing a memory he left too long in the sun. “Man, I don’t even work there anymore,” he mutters. “But I still show up. Habit, I guess.”

You glance at the door, still propped open, still buzzing under a fluorescent hum. “You hungry?”

He opens one eye. “You offering to buy a sad chicken a drumstick?”

You smile. “Only if you promise not to have an existential crisis when it gets to the table.”

He chuckles again—something lighter this time. “Deal.”

The headless chicken man watched you head into the restaurant, putting him right back to the alone state he was in previously. Unbeknownst to you, amphetamines coursed through his veins, altering his mind in more ways than any normal person could imagine. He didn’t intend for it to get this bad— he swore it would only be one time. That was months ago. It was something he felt he needed by this point. He knew it was pathetic, having an addiction, only made him hate himself more when he was sober. But the high kept the anguish away, the darkness was no more, he could actually feel some semblance of normality.

The high began to fade but his focus stayed planted on the entrance of the building that you’d just entered. He sees you mouth your order to the guy behind the counter, holding up two fingers, indicating how many you wanted. Your gaze follows where you’d just walked in, going right back to the man sitting patiently on the sidewalk. From the distance, your eyes met with his briefly, which made you flash a momentary smile at him. His shaky hand came up to give you a wave in return. What you couldn’t see was his face paling when he saw your smile, unwanted thoughts suddenly entering his drug-altered brain.

“What the hell,” he muttered, rubbing his face with both hands, hard enough to leave streaks of sweat in the feathers. “Why’d she talk to me? Why’d she see me?”

He looks down at the chicken head lying on the sidewalk like it betrayed him. His leg starts bouncing, his fingers twitch. The meth coiled tight in his brain, owning every thought that came to his head at the speed of light.

“She’s probably a cop,” he whispers to himself. “No wait. No badge.” He squints at the entrance, seeing how dressed down you were for a cop. “Too casual. Shit, Bob, pull it together.”

His breathing grew fast. Too fast. He clutched his chest and began to shake his head. Like it was a force of habit, Bob found himself burying his head between his knees, arms covering his head to calm himself down.

“No, no, no—she offered to get you food, she was standing here by you, you watched her walk in the door, you heard her footsteps,” he smacked the side of his own head. “God, what if she’s not even real? Damn it, Bob, you’re doing it again.”

Bob hugs his knees and lifts his head, eyes darting between the open restaurant door and the street. In the darkened haze that surrounded the corner he dwelled at, a figure emerged in the entryway of the chicken place.

He didn’t blink as the figure approached him. His internal panic grew as he was unable to see the face of the figure in the gray haze that surrounded his corner. You were oblivious to what was going on with him, as you wore an admiring smile the whole way back to him.

“Hey I’m back, sorry that took so long,” you apologized, carelessly looking into the bag you carried to admire the food you both desired.

When Bob heard your voice it was as if the substances in his body relinquished control of him. His panic suddenly went terrifyingly quiet as everything around began to calm.

“Oh, you came back,” was all Bob could muster— he really didn’t know what to say. “You really didn’t have to—“

“‘Course I did,” you butted in, not really wanting to hear about how you didn’t have to buy him food. You folded up the bag with vigor, gripped the crumbled up top of the bag with one hand, and held out the other to the helpless man you’d met 15 minutes prior. “Come on, my place isn’t far from here. I’m starving.”

Though the sounds of the city were present, Bob didn’t hear them. There was nothing else in the world except him and you. Even with you and him being the only ones in his world, Bob still found himself shaking his head at your gesture.

“I-I shouldn’t, you wouldn’t uh,” Bob began to panic again. “You, you wouldn’t want me to-“

You tilted your head to the side in confusion. It was clear that this man was having a rough time, but you sensed by his reaction that there was something more going on. You weren’t going to pry, and you were certainly not going to walk away.

“Sure I would, who wouldn’t want to have chicken with a guy in a chicken costume? Can’t think of a better way to spend my night,” you tried lightening the mood. “Come on, you didn’t think we were gonna sit here on the sidewalk and eat, did you?”

From the way he slowly looked around him, you immediately knew he did think that.

“You don’t have to stay long,” you added, hoping to make the situation better for him. You genuinely felt bad for him, you hoped maybe this would cheer him up, even if it was only temporary.

The bag you held smelled heavenly. Bob felt like he hadn’t eaten in days. He wasn’t exactly sure when he ate last, but he knew it wasn’t recently.

“Okay,” was all he could come with.

Sheepishly, he grasped your hand. Yellow feathers fell to the sidewalk as you pulled him up. Bob looked down at himself, still wearing the costume that brought you to him.

“I should probably change, I can just-“

You were still holding his hand. “I have clothes at my place, don’t worry about it. Just come with me.”

With the chicken man being face to face with you, you were able to see just how handsome he was. He possessed a soft smile that brought flutters to your stomach, one that you secretly hoped you’d see more often.

However, being face to face with him allowed you to see how dilated his pupils were. A slight redness circled his eyes while tears pooled along his bottom eyelids. You chose to look past that, opting to not judge, as you weren’t much better than him.

“O-Okay…” he said. “But I won’t stay long.”

——

He was your next door neighbor.

All these months you lived in that apartment complex you’d never known who lived next door. The thin walls gave you clues as to what kind of life he lived, most nights. When you first moved in, the muffled loud noises next door was just something you told yourself to get used to. You could barely afford rent, so you didn’t want to stir up any kind of conflict if you could help it.

You could tell most nights that the tv was up at a high volume. Sometimes, you’d hear him talking to himself, or even talking to another female voice that occasionally showed up. You grew used to it by your third week of living there.

“You didn’t know you lived next door to a chicken, huh?” Bob sheepishly chuckled, twitching in his costume as he was beyond nervous standing in front of apartments three and four.

Both of you fumbled with your keys, as you held a bag of food and Bob had feathers on his hands.

“I guess not,” you unlocked door three, letting it fall open as you remained standing outside of it. “I thought I lived next door to someone who couldn't hear very well.”

Embarrassment washed over the chicken man, face reddening at the impression of him that you held.

“Oh, I uh, that’s my uh, music. I didn’t mean for it to bother you, it helps me, uh, think,” he couldn’t think of a better word without revealing the real reason, one that would have you regretting even talking to him.

You raised an eyebrow, along with a side smile at him. “Think, huh?” Judging by how his features were tomato red, you knew not to press for the reason he was hiding.

Bob nodded, letting out a weak laugh. “Y-Yeah. Maybe I could’ve turned it down.”

“I don’t mind it, especially now that I know you use it to ‘think’,” you said, teasing him with your last words. “I’m joking…” Your eyes met his, pausing before saying a name. “I’m sorry, I never got your name.”

The man next to you finally got his apartment door unlocked, his boyish, anxious laugh coming to light again.

“Oh, I’m Bob,” that handsome smile flashed before your eyes again, your core fluttered this time and you became effete standing there.

Bob’s heart skipped a beat underneath the yellow feathered costume when he heard his own name roll off your tongue with ease. He liked the way it sounded, your voice was sweet and pleasant to listen to. You told him your name, quietly, as you toyed with the top of the brown bag of food.

“Well, Y/N, I finally got my door open,” he gestured to the dark doorway of his apartment. There was a stark difference between your apartment and his.

Bob’s eyes were drawn to the golden, soft-hued lights in your living room, as compared to the gray, darkness that overtook his.

“Give me five minutes,” Bob continued, waving his feathered hands to his dark apartment. Your eyes fell to his yellow costume that you almost forgot he needed to change out of.

“Oh, right,” you retorted. “I’ll leave the door unlocked, Bob. Don’t be too long.”

Bob’s smile never faded as you two stood there in the hallway, something that hadn’t happened in a long time. He couldn’t remember the last time anything besides the crystal on his coffee table made him smile like this.

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

——

When Bob made his way to your apartment, he was waving away a cloud of smoke that followed him out into the hallway. He’d done away with the chicken costume and put on one of his dark green sweaters and a pair of black sweatpants.

“I’m sure she won’t mind this,” he had said to himself when he picked out his clothes.

You jumped from your bent over position over your own coffee table when you heard the knock on your door. You sniffed loudly through your nose, hoping no evidence of the white dust was showing before you got up to answer the door.

“It’s open,” you called, standing between your couch and the coffee table, giving your burning nose one last swipe of your finger before the door opened.

“Oh, hi,” Bob greeted you, blue sleeve half covering the hand that waved at you. “Sorry I’m late.”

The bag of chicken sat in the middle of the coffee table, the whole reason you both were there. Bob closed your apartment door behind him and made his way to where you were. You sniffed a couple more times as you brought your hands to your side, watching the timid man approach your little space.

Your eyes wandered back to the coffee table when Bob reached you. Even though you’d put it all in your system, you could still see white flecks on the wooden table that you were positive Bob would catch on to.

“Oh, no, you’re fine, I was just freshening up,” you smiled in return, gesturing to the couch for you both to sit down on.

Your throat burned for a moment as you sat down next to Bob, your world became heightened. Bob’s dark eyebrows raised in unison when you turned to him, eyes dilated to the high heavens like he’d never seen before.

“Whoa,” Bob gasped, nonpanically, a grin tugging on his lips. “Are you okay? Are you…”

Bob didn’t want to assume anything about you, considering what he had waiting for him on the other side of the wall. Your eyes widened with fear as your worst fear was coming true before your eyes. He was asking about it. Bob gulped and instantly knew he shouldn’t have asked that question. Your face was reddening and he could see tears forming at the bottom of your eyes.

“N-Never mind,” Bob barely choked out, his fingertips tugging on the sleeve of his sweater.

The smell of the chicken from the drooping, greasy brown bag was more potent now than prior. Both of you were starving, but something weighed on your mind at that moment. When Bob turned to the bag of chicken, you reached your hand out and grasped his arm.

“What do you mean ‘never mind’?” You asked, softly, non threatening, not wanting to put him on the spot. This wasn’t an interrogation. “Am I… what? What were you about to ask me?”

The tears in your eyes grew heavier, fear making its way into your body. Were you already scaring him away? Was he going to get up and walk out the door when he found out what you were doing before he came over?

Bob’s eyes were wide as his fear was unfolding before his eyes— conflict. He didn’t mean to cause a problem with you, that was the last thing he wanted. His fingertips toyed with the sleeve of his sweater, unable to sit still from both the amphetamines coursing through his body and the anxiety that came from you questioning him.

“Your eyes…” Bob muttered. “I thought maybe you were high like me.” The laugh that followed was nothing short of awkward and it soon turned into an apologetic expression. “Sorry.”

And now you knew.

Bob didn’t know what came over him, telling you what he was most ashamed of. He wasn’t proud of himself by any means. Addiction had a chokehold on his life and he found it to be the easiest way to cope with the life he’d only made worse for himself.

The way your shoulders dropped upon his confession made him tense with anxiety. Thanks to months of self isolation, Bob found it arduous to read people, and you were no different.

When you remained silent, Bob was rubbing his hands together, out of habit. Without even thinking about it, he began mumbling incoherent things to himself.

“Listen, I’m not here to be your judge,” You murmur, the corner of your mouth turning with a placating smile. “I’ve got stuff I need to work on, too.”

Bob gawks, nodding along as his whispering dies down, giving way to a soft hush. He didn’t want you to feel cornered, or pressed to tell him about your own struggles.

If anything, he just wanted someone to understand him — really understand him.

“Y—Yeah, yeah,” His throat jostles as he swallows, attempting to calm his constant twitching. “No judgment here, either.” Bob turns one palm up, meaning no harm.

You pursed your lips, feeling a wave of comfort wash over the entire room. It had been so long since you’d had anyone over, your love of solitude was growing tremendously. Plus, the apartment complex was shit, you were almost embarrassed to have someone over.

Bob was different, however. Sitting there with him, you weren’t even a little embarrassed. He was in the same situation as you, worse, actually.

“I guess life hasn’t been kind to either one of us, huh?” You let go of his arm and reached out to grab the chicken bag, beating Bob to the punch.

Bob’s laugh was genuine, but still held an uneasiness that was still audible to you. His hands found his knees, palms clammy along with the rest of his body. When you opened up the bag of food, you weren’t slow about reaching into it.

“Fuck, that smells great. Best thing a ten dollar bill can buy,” you giggled as you pulled the first box of some three piece combo the restaurant had as the special for the week. “Here you go,” you handed Bob the white, grease-stained box.

“Thanks,” he took the box with one hand and brought it to his own lap. “You really didn’t have to do this.”

The box crinkled as you opened it, revealing what you’d been craving for the last hour. Bob opened his up at a slower pace, unsure if he even wanted to eat it. He knew you felt sorry for him, it was evident since the minute he’d met you.

She sees what everyone else sees— that you’re nothing, that’s why she feels sorry for you.

“I wanted to, though,” you proceeded to take a bite of the fried chicken from the box you held. “We both clearly could use the company.”

You took another bite, unphased by Bob’s stunned gawking. The meat was already half gone from the bone when you pointed at the box in his lap.

“Your food is gonna get cold,” you pointed out lightheartedly.

Bob turned his head down at the chicken again, heat wafting in his face. Although you weren’t this way, he found your gaze intimidating, as if you were waiting on his next move. You weren’t offended in the slightest that he wasn’t eating. Your focus was on your own meal and satisfying your own hunger.

“Eat the chicken, Bob,” he mumbled to himself, one hand twitching to grasp a sweater sleeve.

He reached a hand into the warm box and pulled out a drumstick. You watched him take a bite as you started on your next piece. Your living room became quiet again, all except for the sounds of you and him eating. Bob’s eyes never wavered from you, his normal paranoia was present, even though he knew you’d never harm him.

“So what do you like to do?” Bob questioned, stuttering over almost every letter of his inquiry. “Besides hanging out with washed up chicken mascots?”

You threw the meatless chicken bones into the empty bag, third piece ready to be consumed. You sat back on the couch, feeling yourself become more relaxed and focused, thanks to the drugs. You shrugged at his question.

“I don’t do much. I go to work, come home, sleep, repeat,” you told him, with a somewhat disheartened sigh at the end. “My life’s nothing special.”

You felt your life was boring, not really one to write home about. Everyday was the same, a repeat of the last, with no end in sight. However, you were content. The life you lived was far from glamorous— some would go as far as to call it undesirable. You lived alone in New York City, working the front desk of a high end hotel. Ten to twelve hour shifts followed by a couple lines of cocaine and countless blunts after work was life for you.

Bob showed you a sympathetic smile, nodding with understanding as his softened gaze caught yours. He placed his half eaten drumstick in the box and set it on the coffee table in front of him. Bob placed his hands in his lap, attentive to you and the conversation he felt coming.

“S—Same,” Bob muttered. “My life’s not anything either. Probably w—worse than yours, honestly.”

You wadded up your napkin and sat up and crossed your legs, making yourself comfortable.

“Worse?” You repeated, brows creasing with concern. Bob’s statement seemed laced with many implications of a tumultuous past — of what, you couldn’t fully understand.

Bob swallowed, throat thick as he shook his head, dismissive of your concern. His fingers twisted into the material of his pants, fidgeting. “Shouldn’t have said anything.” He mumbles, gaze cast toward his lap.

Quiet, you leaned over, straightening within your seat. “You can tell me,” Hushed, your tone seems to placate him, even if it were only a little. “Unless you’re uncomfortable with it.”

A gap of silence hung between you, wrought with tension; there were many things left unsaid, pasts riddled with trauma.

You hadn’t given him a reason not to trust you — you showed him more kindness today than most had in his lifetime. Bob stirs, brows pinched, wearing a pained expression that seems to twitch with remembrance.

“It’s just …” He exhales, pushing the air out sharply through his nose. “M—Maybe we can talk about it another time.” Bob nods, lips curling into a brief smile. It wavers, and you decide to leave it alone.

“Sure, Bob,” With a nod, you smile to reassure him, hands folding within your lap.

You shifted closer to him, leaving plenty of space between your bodies. You settled into the couch and pulled your blanket that was used everyday off the armrest. Though it was your own personal routine you were following, you hoped Bob would follow suit and he’d know it was okay to relax.

“There’s a blanket next to you,” you pointed to the one draped on the other couch armrest that was behind Bob.

Bob whipped his head around and found what you had talked about. The blanket next to him was a lot less worn than yours, almost brand new. He pulled it over himself but didn’t follow the rest of your routine. The door to your apartment stayed planted in the back of his mind. Something inside him was telling him to leave; walk out that door and leave you alone.

The faint smile you offered him in the dim light was enough to make him stay.

“Do you want to watch a movie?” Your voice was quieter than before. Bob nodded his head up and down in response.

You flicked the tv on with the remote that was on the couch from the previous night. Bob’s attention was drawn to the glow of the tv as you navigated to some streaming service.

“I won’t stay long,” Bob stated as you chose some old 90s horror movie you both had seen a million times.

“Stay as long as you want, chicken man,” you tiredly yet sincerely told him.

Though you two hadn’t said much, Bob couldn’t deny that he needed this visit with you. It was funny how time worked. Just an hour ago, he knew nothing about his apartment neighbor. Bob wasn’t a social person, he’d never even acknowledged that someone lived next door.

“This part always used to scare me,” you told him when a particularly violent part of the beginning of the movie. “When I was a kid, of course.”

Bob watched the masked killer on the screen stab its first victim, unphased by the scene he’d viewed countless times. His gaze followed the glowing hues of tv that led right to you snuggled under the blanket next to him.

Seeing you there watching the tv comfortably next to him, brought to Bob a feeling he wasn’t familiar with. Bob had grown used to people of his past leaving him, especially after they’d gotten to know him. It was the way things went— and he expected it to be the same with you.

“You seem uncomfortable,” you inserted in the silence, pausing the movie. You stayed in your curled up position, but brought the blanket down past your arms. “You’re not obligated to stay, it’s okay.”

Bob began shaking his head, turning his head away from you. You sat up, letting the blanket fall to your lap, almost bundled into a ball. You heard him mutter a breathy “fuck”, to himself, one that he was sure you wouldn’t hear. He brought a tight, half sweater-covered fist to his mouth, holding back the sobbing that threatened to escape his lips.

“I—I-I’m not,” Bob choked out, trying desperately to not let you see him in that state. “I’m not used to this.” A few tears fell from his eyes and he was lightning fast to wipe them away, sniffling pathetically as he kept his gaze away from yours.

The teary eyed man winced when he felt a gentle hand on his forearm, a touch that only sent more tears falling down his face. It was at that moment you realized there was a lot more going on below the surface than what he let on.

He heard your softened “what”, that was full of concern. Bob had waited this whole time for you to kick him out, realize you made a mistake in even talking to him, but that never came. For the first time, ever, he felt like he maybe belonged somewhere. He swore it was too good to be true.

“Someone acting like I matter,” Bob’s voice oozed of melancholy when he turned to you again.

You didn’t take your hand away from his arm as the two of you sat in the calming silence. Bob felt as if he’d hit you with a ton of bricks, and he was waiting for you to say something about how you couldn’t handle him, how he was being too emotional. But that never happened. Your gaze remained on him, even if he wouldn’t make eye contact with you.

You didn’t pressure him to say anything more. You knew the feeling he possessed—one of unworthiness, like you were better off missing from other people’s lives. All you could do was sit there with him. Your calming presence kept Bob from spiraling to all worst-case scenarios.

Bob’s eyes widened when you brought your hand from his forearm and reached out to take both of his hands. Even if he wouldn’t fully look at you, all of your attention went to him. He was broken, it was evident now, and that didn’t scare you in the slightest.

“You matter,” you squeezed his hands with yours very gently, assuring him that you weren’t like everyone else, you weren’t going anywhere.

Bob’s shoulders dropped upon hearing your words. You watched tears trail down his face. His hands stayed locked with yours, never wanting to let go.

He’d only known you for an hour or two and Bob realized he couldn’t let you leave his life like everyone else had.

“I—I’m sorry,” Bob sniffled again, wiping his eyes with his sweater sleeve.

“Don’t be sorry, Bob. You have nothing to be sorry for,” your thumb stroked the back of his hand, soothing the man before you. “You’re safe here, with me.”

He gave you a more relaxed nod of his head. For a moment, Bob’s gaze caught the intertwined hands that rested on his lap. Without really thinking about it, he was mumbling to himself, incoherent things which didn’t bother you at all.

“You’re safe,” Bob repeated your words under his breath. He breathed in heavily, allowing himself to embrace this moment the best he could in his high state.

With a relieved sigh, you let go of one of his hands to grab the remote. “Shall we continue?”

Bob looked over at the paused tv screen and nodded his head. “Y—Yeah, let’s finish this movie.”

——

The movie was over, but you couldn’t move. About halfway through the movie, Bob innocently rested his head on your shoulder. You didn’t mind at all, in fact you were kind of giddy about it internally but Bob didn’t need to know that. He found some sort of peace with you, and that was all that mattered to you.

“Bob?” You whispered, and then turned your head to where you found him asleep. Your eyes widened with surprise.

You didn’t want to wake him, but you needed to go to bed yourself. Bob had kept the blanket you offered him on himself the whole time, but you went ahead and added yours too as you strategically moved to get up.

You froze when he breathed in heavily, rustling himself awake for a brief moment. He sleepily brought himself off of your shoulder and onto the couch cushion below. You stayed put for a moment, gazing at the man who slept on your couch.

It was no problem for him to sleep there. You figured if he woke up, he’d head back to his own place. You rose from the couch and made your way to your own room, not without taking one last look at Bob. He was curled up with two blankets, still fast asleep, safe from the voices and noises of the outside world.

Before you closed your bedroom door, you paused again, thinking about the evening you just had with Bob.

Even though you didn’t get into deep conversation, you knew Bob wasn’t leaving your life.

Thank you for reading! Please like, comment, & reblog! I appreciate your feedback and support!

[swordgracerecs]

this is how I looked reading this good LORRRDDDDD — you’ve done it again !! this was so unbelievably hot, I’m wrecked 🙂‍↕️

Come right on me … I mean camaraderie - John Walker x reader

━━━━━━━━━━━ ⋆⋅ ♡ ⋅⋆ ━━━━━━━━━━━

Word count: 3.5k

Description: You can't help the inappropriate thoughts that come out of your mouth during a mission, and John has to teach you a lesson, or multiple, about it.

“Holy shit, come right on me” You mumbled under your breath. His head snapped at you. No. There’s no way his hearing caught that.

Tags/warnings: smut, fem!reader is a horny menace, dominant John, long buildup, sex, overstimulation.

Note: This has Sabrina Carpenter levels of bluntness about being horny that's how I feel about this man. Kicked my feet while writing this. Enjoy 🫶🏼

Masterlist

It wasn’t your fault, really.

It wasn’t your fault that John Walker was a goddamn idiot. Or that he was also so painfully hot you’d been waking up to drenched panties after dreams where he made you his in the most filthy ways you could imagine.

It wasn’t your fault your brain crafted entire scenarios while you slept, where he was all over you, handsy, desperate, soaked in sweat.

And it really wasn’t your fault that Bucky kept pairing you up with him for missions. You were sure Yelena had something to do with that targeted sabotage.

You were down so bad for him, all the man had to do was exist. The way he lead in front of you, the way he threw around orders under pressure, the particular way he had to shove targets against walls … your mind didn’t even try to behave anymore.

This morning, you’d woken up panting, sheets damp in a sweaty mess, mind adjusting to the fact that his head was between your legs only in your dream and not in reality.

How sad.

And now here you were, paired with him again in some random warehouse lab, Yelena and Bucky waiting back on the jet while you did your part of the mission.

“Did you get it?” His voice came in a growl through your comm, you could hear his grunts as he cleared your extraction route, and holy shit, why did that do things to you?

It. Wasn’t. Your. Fault.

You tucked the vial into your pocket, trying to focus. You cleared your throat before speaking.

“Package secured. I’m on my way to you.”

But before you could turn, a yelp went through the comm when a rough hand grabbed your shoulder and slammed you to the floor. You barely had time to gasp before a body pinned you down, heavy and aggressive, and a cold blade pressed against your throat.

You barely caught the attacker’s fist mid air, fighting the strength he was pushing down with, when a gloved hand stopped him. The man cried in pain when John twisted his arm away from your face. The next thing you knew, he went flying across room.

John had yanked him off you, throwing him away with a snarl that made your blood burn. He let his shield fall to the ground, before he stomped towards the guy, grabbed him by the collar, and smashed his fist into his face.

“So you like hitting pretty girls, huh?” He barked, punching again.

You watched from your spot on the floor, thoughts detailing from the moment he spoke. You bit your lip as he lifted the man to shove him into the wall. Those arms, those grunts … god.

Why on earth was that so hot?

"Holy shit, come right on me." You mumbled under your breath, weren’t even thinking as the words came out of your mouth.

His head snapped at you, dropping the body of the man.

Your eyes go wide. No. There's no fucking way his hearing caught that.

He started at you with furrowed brows and a hint of disbelief. Sweat clung to his hairline, making disheveled strands stick to his forehead, chest rising and falling under the weight of adrenaline.

That image wasn't helping at all.

"What?” He asked, voice coming out rougher than he intended.

Shit.

“I mean ... camaraderie! Y-yeah. Thanks for that" You blurted, pointing awkwardly at the half conscious guy on the floor like that explained anything.

He nodded hesitantly, squinting at you like he was trying to decide whether you were insane or he was.

In three long strides he walked over, standing over you offering his gloved hand. You took it, and in one swift motion he pulled you up, straight into him. His other hand landed firmly on the curve of your back, pressing you tightly against him.

Your uneven breathing hit his neck, barely reaching his jawline.

"That can be arranged" He mumbled, eyes dropping, just for a second, to your lips.

You were sure your brain just short circuited. Of course he heard your horny ass.

"John–"

Before you could say anything to defend whatever was left of your dignity, voices echoed from the hallway, and in a second, he spun you both behind a column, pressing you harshly against the wall. His palm instinctively covered your mouth, eyes locked on the entrance.

“Shh” he whispered, breath warm against your forehead. “Be quiet.”

The agents continued their way down the hall without noticing you were in the room, and John's posture relaxed slightly.

Yours didn't.

Being pinned against a wall, trapped by his larger frame of broad shoulders, feeling the ridges of his suit on your chest and something very solid pressing against your belt.

This. This is what dreams are made of.

You instinctively raised your knee, just enough to rub softly against the bulge in his suit. He sucked in a sharp breath, head jerking in your direction, hand still covering your mouth.

You notice the way his entire body tensed up again.

You brought your knee back down, slowly, and he looked like it physically pained him not to grab it back and rub against him one more time. His hand dropped from your mouth, and the smirk on your lips said everything.

You rose up on your toes, drawing your lips close to his ear.

"I bet it's even better than in my head." You teased, barely nibbling the edge of his ear.

You gasped when he pushed you tighter into the wall, jaw clenching with his fingers digging deeper onto your waist.

He was so so done for.

"Walker? Walker, come in." The comms static pierced through the tension, Yelena's voice breaking the silence. "Did you get it? We need to go. Now."

He hesitated for a second, hands twitching like he wasn’t ready to let your body go yet.

He wasn’t sure if he could trust his voice, and to be honest neither did you. He took a shaky breath, cleared his throat, and backed up a step.

"Y-yeah" He said, turning from you. His voice cracked slightly, so he cleared his throat again, and you bit your lip to keep from laughing."We got it. We’re heading to the jet now."

By the time he turned back around, you were already walking out, casually ahead of him like you hadn’t just driven him to the edge of self control.

The ride back to the watchtower was tense. You took the seat farthest from John, clearly not because you wanted to. No, you wanted to crawl into his lap and beg him to continue what you’d started, but self preservation said maybe don’t ride him in front of coworkers.

Considering Yelena and Bucky had been throwing knowing glances at you the whole time.

This was your fault after all.

Not being able to control your dirty thoughts, showing up all flustered and justifying it on almost getting sliced, pretending you could fool two polygraph detectors.

Whatever.

All you needed was a warm shower and to give yourself a little love to drown those inappropriate thoughts of yours about John.

Respectfully, of course.

You made your way across the hallway towards your room, thinking about getting that shower head as soon as you could between your thighs, when a door openned and hand grabbed you, shoving you inside that room.

The door to John's room slammed shut behind you with a solid thud. Before you could even turn around, he had you pressed up against it, hands holding his weight on the door, each placed next to your head.

"You don't get to do that shit, sweetheart" He groaned, standing close to your face. "You don't say those things to me in the middle of a mission and pretend I’ll just forget about it."

You breathe loudly, chest rising up and down, trying to wrap your head aground the fact that he had you caged in his room. You tilt your head to the side, might as well enjoy it.

"God forbid I have fantasies." You tease, without missing a bit.

Your knee went up to do the same thing you did earlier, but he took one hand off the door to stop it before it could reach his crotch, and let out a bitter laugh.

"You think you’re the only one who fantasizes? You think I don’t dream with that dirty pretty mouth of yours?"

Your breath hitched. His hands traveled to your waist, rough and possessive, thumbs digging into your hips like he was grounding himself, like the last part of him was barely holding back.

His lips brushed your neck, not kissing, just hovering. Teasingly . He pulled back, just enough to make you chase the contact, and that smug little smirk flickered on his lips.

He began guiding you away from the door, never splitting your bodies apart.

"You've been distracting me since day one" he muttered, backing you up until your legs hit the bed. "Wearing that tight suit and those damn lips. Always mouthing shit off, making me want to shut you up."

You whimpered, eyes dropping to the floor.

He tilted your chin up, forcing you to look at him.

"Oh, so now you're shy?" He teased, making a tsk tsk sound. "I want you to look at me now, when you talk like that."

His hands found the zipper of your suit, with a darkened look he stares at you for a moment, waiting for approval.

And fuck your heart was pounding. You needed someone to pinch you to make sure this wasn't a dream.

You nodded immediately, maybe a little too eager.

He chuckled at your desperation, taking his sweet time to take your one piece suit off, making sure he enjoyed every time your breath hitched when he grazed your skin. He dragged the fabric down, leaving you only in underwear.

As soon as the suit hit the floor, he pressed you down onto the mattress with one hand on your chest.

"You wanna tease me? Say filthy shit in the middle of a fight? Rub your knee against me like that?" His hand slid up your thigh, slowly claiming what’s always been his in your wildest dreams. "You don't get to walk away to find relief on your own."

Your breath stuttered, your hands instinctively went to the zipper of his suit, but he caught your wrists.

"John, come on–"

"No, you have to be patient like I’ve been" he said, dipping his head down to brush his lips across your collarbone. "I tried to be good. Tried to respect the mission."

He lifted his head, eyes locked on yours. "But you decided to be a brat and got me all worked up. Now I get to take my time with you."

He pulled himself back from your body, finally reaching for the top of his suit, messily dismantling it away to throw it off the bed.

You barely had time to breathe before he was on you again, kissing you hard, devouring you. His hands held your jaw, fingers rough and urgent, like he needed to keep you under him forever.

You gasped against his mouth, and that's when it slipped out.

"Been so wet all day since I woke up–“

He froze, immediately pulling back, eyes narrowed at you. "What was that?"

"N-nothing." You stuttered, too quick to be believable. He chuckled.

"No, go ahead sweetheart" he said, thumb dragging across your bottom lip. "Keep talking. You got so much to say, right?"

You opened your mouth but nothing more than a gasp came out when he pushed his hand between your thighs, grinding up against the wet spot on your panties.

"God dammit" he muttered, his fingers painfully grazing the fabric, barely touching it. "This all for me?"

You moaned, nodding. "Been saving it since the morning."

His cock twitched inside his pants at your confession. He softly slapped over your wet panties, making you jolt. "Always have something to say, don't you?" He slapped again when you nodded, harder this time, his fingers getting wet through the fabric.

He brought his fingers to his lips, and without hesitation, teased. "Tastes better than in my head."

"Fuck" you whined, head dropping to the bed. "This is so much worse now."

You were doomed. You were never coming back from this, from his touch.

From all of him.

He bitterly laughed. "You think this is hard for you?"

His hands found your hips, gripping tight. He rolled them up against his own, letting you feel how hard he was.

"I've had to walk around with this for weeks because of you. Every time you stretch, every time you bend over, every time you moan in your room–"

Your head snapped up to look at him, and his smirk deepened.

"Yeah, my room is next to yours. You think I don't hear you? Late at night, thinking you're being quiet?" He was so arrogantly casual about it, like it was something he'd wanted to confess for a long time.

That he heard you every time. A nasty little secret of yours he's kept locked for too long.

"You touch yourself thinking about me, sweetheart?" he asked, voice full of cockiness. "Bet you taste your own fingers after you're done, pretending it's me."

You wanted to yell at him and tell him he was so full of himself. But damn, he was right, all you wanted was to be full of him too.

Your hips jerked against him, your patience was running short. He hissed at your move, like the contact short circuited something in his brain.

"No shame either, didn't even try to deny it." He continued.

"That’s nothing" You shake your head teasingly. "You should hear the things that go through my head. You'd never look at me the same again."

He shook his head amused. "Poor thing, can't even shut up about how she wants it."

You whined, the pool between your thighs starting to ache by the lack of his touch.

You tugged at his tactical pants. "Take them off, right now."

"Impatient" he scolded.

"I've been patient for months" you snapped, squirming under him. "You just never listened."

"Oh, I’m listening now" he growled. "I just have to be sure you can take it."

You reached up to run your hands across his chest, fingers tracing down his abdomen.

“I'll take it" you blurted, fingers dipping low enough to make him groan. "All of it."

He grinned, before fumbling with his pants, cursing when they got slightly stuck, ripping them down fast enough to make you laugh, until your eyes landed on him.

"Oh my god." you breathed.

Shit. It was better than in your head.

Absolutely perfect.

He grinned. This is a sight he had only seen in dreams before. You laying on his bed, mouth parted open at the sight of his dick, ready to let him ruin you.

His mouth was on yours again, rough and needy this time hands everywhere, yanking off the last pieces of fabric from your body like he'd earned it.

And boy, he has.

He lined himself up, dragging the hard tip through your slick entrance, teasing. But you saw it in his face, the way his jaw was clenched, like he was barely holding on.

"You sure, baby?" he asked. "I need you to say it."

You prompted yourself up by your shoulders, grabbing his face, beard tickling your fingers. "Make my fantasies come true, John."

That was all it took for him to push himself in, teasingly slow, beautifully thick, stretching you in the most delicious, overwhelming way. You moaned his name, head falling back on the mattress.

"Shit, so tight" he groaned, barely moving as your walls got used to him. "You're perfect. Fuck, you're perfect"

He couldn’t wait any longer. With no warning he was pounding into you like he meant it. Like a man who’d been dreaming about it for too long and finally got permission to ruin you.

He caged you against his body, his large hands gripped your hips so tight you'd definitely have marks.

You couldn't stop moaning, couldn't even form words. You were just a string of gasps, whimpers, and his name over and over like it was the only thing left in your brain.

"Fucking hell," he groaned, watching your face contort with every thrust. "Such a pretty little mess aren’t you?."

Your nails dragged down his back, trying to keep yourself grounded. But he was hitting that sweet spot with every thrust.

"Harder" you begged in the haze. "Please –fuck, please don't stop."

He growled. Like full on growled. He increased his speed, abusing a little of his enhanced strength. Your mouth dropped open in a cry, so perfectly wrecked he couldn't help the grin on his face.

"You gonna come for me, baby?" He grunted, feeling that familiar clench around his cock.

You just nodded, biting your lip. But he wasn't having that, he wanted to hear you. He leaned down, teeth grazing your ear.

"Then say it. Say what you say when you think I'm not listening"

Your brain scrambled. "W-what?"

"You know what, say it" he demanded. "Come right on me, wasn't it?"

You gasped, eyes wide as he continued to rearrange your entire system.

"Say it, sweetheart. Or I stop." He threatened, but you shook your head immediately.

You whined, thighs shaking around his waist. "Come ...fuck ... come right on you–"

You got the words mixed up, your brain completely fogged by the pleasure.

"There she is" he groaned, dragging your hips up for a better angle. "There's my filthy girl."

His praise sent your body over the edge, coming so hard it punched the air out of your lungs. And hell, he felt it. Every spasm. Every clench. He swore loud and shoved in deeper, chasing his own high.

"Where did you say you want it, baby? Say it again for me.” He panted, losing his rhythm, hips jerking erratically.

"Cum right on m-me" you blurted the right words this time, even while still trembling under him.

He slammed into you once, twice, before pulling out to spill all over your stomach you with a ragged growl, his forehead dropping to your shoulder, hips twitching as he emptied himself on your skin.

For a moment there was just your ragged breathing, and that slick, milky warmth dripping down your abdomen. Half his body weight rested on you, as he breathed on your neck.

"Holy shit" You mumbled, gasping, when he placed a kiss on your shoulder.

You barely had time to catch your breath before he was moving up again, feeling his hard dick against your stomach like he didn't just fill you up.

Your eyes fluttered open, confusion clouding your post orgasm haze.

"Wait, John" you panted, "you're still...?"

"Oh, baby" he chucked, flipping you over to press your chest to the mattress. He dragged your ass back to him, slow and possessive. "We're not done yet."

You gasped as he slid back in with one deep thrust, your body was too sensitive, walls fluttering around him as he groaned, gripping your hips tight to steady himself.

"You don't get to talk like that" he said, something darker in his voice now. "Say that filthy shit. Look at me the way you do, like you're ready to drop to your knees in the middle of a mission–"

"J-John" you whimpered, he felt even better than before.

"–and expect me to stop after one round?"

He started to move. Long, slow strokes that made your toes curl. Your face pressed to the sheets, moaning like you didn't care if your teammates heard.

"John, it's too good, too much..."

By this point you weren’t thinking clearly anymore, words coming out slurred.

"You can take it" He pushed himself harder. "You told me you could, sweetheart."

You whimpered into the pillow, your body trembling. Every thrust hit deeper, harder, somehow better than before. Pleasure curling up your spine, threatening to drag you over the edge again.

“You have no idea what you’ve been doing to me” he muttered, leaning in closer, his voice brushing the back of your neck. “Or maybe you do. Maybe that’s the whole fucking point.”

You were so close. The overstimulation was making you see stars, enough to make you cry out his name again and again.

"So good for me. Could stay inside you all night." He praised, his hands roaming your back.

Your body crashed out again, louder this time, absolutely zero control over it, your orgasm ripping through you so hard your vision went white.

He lost it.

You cried out his name one last time as you felt him come again, body twitching while this time he filled you up, muttering curses into your back like he was trying to bury them in your skin.

He stayed like that for a moment, buried deep with uneven breathing, chest on your back. You don’t know how long passed, until he pulled out slowly, a hiss catching in his throat as you whimpered softly under him.

"Sorry, sweetheart" he mumbled, his hand softly rubbing your back, "You okay?"

You nodded, completely blissed out. Couldn’t trust yourself to speak properly at this point.

He kissed the back of your neck, so soft, completely opposite to the way he just wrecked you. You couldn't hold your body up any longer, so he helped you flip around to rest your back on the mattress.

"Still breathing, baby?" he whispered, brushing your hair from your damp face.

You let out faint laugh, your vision finally coming back to normal. "Barely."

"Good, we were just getting started."

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comments and reblogs save author’s lives, thank you so much for reading <3

[swordgracerecs]

you do NOT understand how much I loved this ,,, john walker worm lore nerd I LOVE YOU SO MUCH

also your writing is SUPERB !! 🫶

Would you still love me if I was a worm? - John Walker x reader

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Word count: 1.1k

Description: You hit John with a stupid question, he takes it too seriously.

Note: I swear this man is so intense he’s so fun to write, enjoy🫶🏼

Masterlist / Bucky’s version

"Would you still love me if I was a worm?"

The question caught him off guard.

He was piloting the team's jet to mission site, big hands gripping the controls steadily. You were in the copilot seat, feet relaxing on the dashboard, enjoying a little too much the way he looked controlling the aircraft.

His eyes were locked on the sky ahead, with a tense jaw and those furrowed brows of his... lord, concentration looked good on him.

Almost too good.

So, naturally, you had to stop it before you jumped on top of your man and gave a free show to everyone on the jet.

John just blinked twice. What on earth was that question?

He didn’t glance your way, or even bother to give it a second thought before he replied.

"No."

You opened your mouth offended, and straightened up in your seat.

"John! You didn't even think about it" You whined, a soft laugh followed.

"Please tell me I didn’t hear you right, did you say a worm?" He asked, not even trying to hide the most bewildered expression you'd ever seen on him.

"You heard me, John" You squint your eyes at him, and insist, “would you still love me if I turned into a little worm?"

He sighed this time, taking his hand off the dashboard to rub his face like he just lost multiple brain cells.

"Honey, why would you ever be a worm?" He said, softer now, like he needed to understand the root cause before proceeding.

You roll your eyes, here we go again. Of course he needed it to make sense, his brain didn’t function right if there wasn’t a logical reason behind everything.

"I really don't now, babe. Some sort of mutation?… maybe witchcraft? … a gone wrong experiment Val does on me?”

“I would never let Val experiment on you” He denied, shrugging like why would you ever consider that as a possibility.

You pause for a second and tilt your head to the side, feeling a sudden warmth in your chest from his comment.

No, no, focus. You can kiss him breathless later, after he answers the worm question.

“Alright Walker that’s fair, love that, nice move” You nodded, squinting playfully at him.

He just smirked and shrugged, smug bastard.

“Not the point, though. Do you really think it would be so crazy that I could be a worm when we have at least two superheroes named after bugs?”

He looked back to the sky, considering it for a second, but quickly turned to you again with his eyebrows raised.

“Well, actually, spiderman is technically an arachnid so ... not a bug honey" He corrected, not even trying to hide his maddening little mansplaining smirk.

"Oh shut up, John" You rolled your eyes, slapping his arm, he chuckled. "Uh huh, whatever smartass, you still have to answer. What if I was a worm, then?"

He groaned, placing his thumb and index fingers in the dent of his closed eyes, shaking his head in defeat.

He could at least try to make some sense of it.

“Okay, we’re doing this” He muttered, and you nodded enthusiastically. “Is it still you, but worm shaped? As in … do you still have consciousness? Can you communicate with me? Would you have powers, or is it just …”

He just went rambling on.

You leaned back in your seat, chuckling as you watched the gears turning behind those handsome, stressed out eyes. He was running through scenarios, possibilities, variables.

At least he looked cute while losing his mind over it.

But then, he stopped rambling, like an idea just popped in his head.

"Wait … what kind of worm?" He tilts his head to the side.

I’ll be dammed, you thought, this man didn’t know how to go halfway about anything in his life, ever.

He was fully invested by now.

"What? what do you mean?”

Now it was your turn to furrow your brows.

"What kind of worm, honey? an earthworm? marine? are you symbiotic? regenerative?… This is crucial information to know" He said, listing types like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

How did he even care this much about worm lore?

“You are the most intense person I know” You groaned, staring at him in disbelief.

“And you are the most unserious one I know, honey, don’t get me started”

You just huffed. How did your stupid question get this far?

"God I don't know John, just like a basic worm… in the dirt"

He thinks for moment, like he wasn’t exactly pleased with the answer.

"So then, biologically, you’d lose everything. You would have no brain, no higher reasoning or communication. Technically, you wouldn't even know I exist anymore"

You glared at him.

"But you would know it’s me" You quickly justified, but it didn’t seem to convince him much. "Oh my god John ... just answer the question babe. Would you still love me?"

He tapped his chin a few times, eyes darting around the jet’s cabin, still trying to find a somewhat logical answer in his head. Making you wait for it.

You knew that little asshole was just having fun mocking you.

"Uhm, I guess I could keep you safe … yeah” He nodded. “Build you a little enclosure with some nice quality dirt. It would have to be temperature controlled, for sure. Maybe even ask Val to build you a reinforced travel case? something I can clip to my gear.”

You blinked a few times, before nodding. A win is a win.

"...Thanks?"

But he was quick to shake his head.

"Although honestly, sounds like a lot of emotional labor. Don’t you think our relationship is complicated enough already?" He protested, like it'd be too much fuss.

"Hey!" You laughed, smacking his shoulder.

You both fall into a chuckle. He shakes his head again, but there's a grin in his face now.

From the back of the jet, you heard the unmistakable sound of suppressed laughter.

"Even if she was a brainless worm, she’d still be more emotionally mature than Walker" Bucky whispered to the group.

Muffled laughter followed, like a group of schoolgirls gossiping.

"They are the weirdest, I swear to god" Ava muttered, watching the way you giggled at something John said like he was the most charming idiot on earth.

"Ah captain romance … don’t you see it? he’s worm nerd and she’s worm he takes care of" Alexei chimed in.

“Shh!” Yelena hushed him, snorting. “Honestly, it tracks guys. He gives off strong ‘I talk to my houseplants’ vibes”

“Yeah, watch him hang a ‘Worm Boyfriend of the Year’ plaque next to his service medals” Bucky sneered.

More giggles. At this point they weren’t even trying to be quiet.

John turned halfway in his seat. “You guys know I can hear you, right?”

“That’s the point” Ava said, flipping him off.

“Oh no” Yelena deadpanned. “What are you gonna do, worm boy?”

“Shh! He’s gonna clip us to his belt too.”

That set them off again.

John just rolled his eyes, turning back to the controls. But you noticed the faint hint of a smile on his face.

And then almost under his breath, only for you to hear.

“I’d still love you” He muttered.

You looked over at him.

“What?”

“Nothing. Eyes on the sky.”

You smirked.

This time you did jump on his lap to kiss him breathlessly, while your teammates threw disgusted grunts and gagged sounds at you.

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comments and reblogs save author’s lives, thank you so much for reading <3

[swordgracerecs]

This is SO GOOD! Wonderfully written, and the dynamic Cregan has with the reader is so sweet. Love the way you characterize Cregan as well, it’s so true to his character! I love this so much and will definitely be back to reread it! 🫶

SCIAMACHY

Fandom: House of the Dragon Pairing: Cregan Stark x DragonDreamer!Reader Settings: Season 2 and post season 2 Summary: As the second child of King Viserys Targaryen and Queen Aemma Arryn, your father arranged your marriage to the young Lord of Winterfell, Cregan Stark, in the guise of an arranged marriage that would strengthen the bond between your Houses. But you are haunted by visions of a bloody war shaking the Seven Kingdoms, and the seeds of your doubt are sown when your sister's claim to the throne is challenged. Word Count: 4,4 K Warnings: Angst, mention of death, mention of grief, mention of character(s) death(s), mention of child loss, mention of sibling loss, major spoilers from the book "Fire and Blood" (if you're only following the show please do not read this fic). A/N: I'm back! (sadly for you) This is my very first fic I've written for the HOTD fandom and the very first fic of Cregan. I'm nervous, maybe even more than when I posted my first Sihtric fic, probably because the fandom is vast. It came out different of what I've planned in my head and I lowkey hate the last part, but I hope you still could enjoy it! A special thanks to @foxyanon and @zaldritzosrose for helping me with clearing my outline and for the title, and for her and @legitalicat for the quick beta reading.

Dedicated to my beautiful Cregan wife @sylasthegrim

ENGLISH IS NOT MY FIRST LANGUAGE. I APOLOGISE IN ADVANCE FOR MY GRAMMAR AND VOCABULARY MISTAKES.

Header & dividers by @zaldritzosrose

READ IT ON AO3

Sciamachy: (n), a battle against imaginary enemies; fighting your shadows.

An unfamiliar chill ran down your spine as you walked through the dark corridors of the Red Keep, the place you were born but never called home. The soft crunching of the snow under your boots was the only sound you could hear as you juggled in the darkness, the faintest light in the form of rays filtering through the cracks in the walls and allowing you to see a little. 

The sight was vivid, far too vivid, and all you could do was rub your eyes vigorously, hoping that when your vision cleared you would find yourself surrounded by the crackling fire and warmth of your room in Winterfell, the place you were sent against your will but would be forced to call home once you became its new lady. 

But no matter how hard you tried to clear your vision: you would still recognise the long, oppressive corridors you had walked as a child, emptied of the countless soldiers of the Kingsguard that guarded it. Each step became an echo of the memories you thought you had buried with time, but which rose to the surface like a breath of fire from the dragon's jaws. 

You could still hear the voice of King Viserys, the father who despised you from the moment you took your first breath, guilty of stealing your twin brother's life and living in his name. A father that neglected you for not being born as a man.

You could still hear the voice of your sister Rhaenyra, sweet as honey and warm as a mother's embrace you had never known. You were the little sister she always wanted, the glimpse of freedom amidst her duties to the Crown and the relief from the pain of losing a childhood friend. And it mattered not that you were the quietest of her family, avoiding banquets and receptions in the throne room and sneaking out whenever you could, collecting the brightest bugs and muttering meaningless words, flinching when someone touched your hand: you were still her perfect little sister in her eyes. 

And her love was all you wanted right now. 

Your bittersweet thoughts were interrupted by a loud roar from outside, the sound so loud it made your head spin and your stomach churn. You quickened your pace, hoping to find a larger crack in the wall to see what was happening outside. And there you found a vision that made you freeze.

You saw two dragons, an older one and a younger one, chasing each other across a stormy sky, their dragon scales glowing under the lightning and thunder as their bodies pursued each other in a majestic yet macabre dance. It seemed an innocent game between them, but the claws and talons of the older dragon prevailed over the younger, and you watched helplessly as he fell to the ground like a comet from the sky, swallowed by the sea.

You walked on, your eyes never leaving the scene outside, wanting to help the little dragon disappear into the water. But the more you crossed the corridor, the heavier the air you breathed became, and roars of pain, of burning lands and clashing swords filled your ears like a cursed chant. 

You covered your ears and closed your eyes, stopping your journey towards the throne room. When you opened your eyes again, you saw a room far different from the one you were accustomed to: the vibrant and noisy ambience turned into a ghostly one, the faint rays of moonlight illuminating the Iron Throne. A bloody crown, Jaehaerys' crown, lay abandoned on the throne, rivulets of blood running down to your feet, two dragons lying restlessly behind it. Two children stood before it, their backs to each other, holding each other's hands; you could feel their tortured gaze as they watched the bloody chair, and your heart broke at the sight. 

As you approached, trying to touch the crown, soft footsteps made you turn and you heard a wolf howling in the distance.

And then you woke up. 

Duty is sacrifice. It eclipses all things, even blood. All men of honour must pay its price. 

These were the words that came out from Cregan Stark's mouth as he escorted Jacaerys to the Wall. They were a testament to how the men of the North were bound by his rigid code of values and honour, and how none of them had ever forgotten or wavered from an oath. 

And when the Stark were called upon to renew their allegiance to House Targaryen, nothing would make them waver.

His father Rickon had already done so when he was summoned to King's Landing and bent the knee to Rhaenyra Targaryen, and a few years later it was Cregan's turn to renew the oath by accepting King Viserys' offer of marriage to the new lord of Winterfell. The young wolf had recently been freed from the regency of his zealous uncle Bennard, and an arranged marriage to a Targaryen princess would strengthen the bond between the two houses since the times of Aegon the Conqueror and Tohrren Stark. 

But when he saw the melancholy in your lilac eyes, Cregan realised that politics was nothing more than a sweet lie masking a more sinister purpose: you were no longer welcome at the court of King Viserys, no matter how much your sister begged to keep you under her protection, or how much Alicent Hightower dared to show a glimmer of mercy. You would have been a young dragon raised by a pack of wolves, and as his future wife it would have been his responsibility to look after you.

And now he was called to be sworn to House Targaryen again, on the brink of a civil war that could involve the North in Southern affairs. 

“The realm will soon tear itself apart if men do not remember the oath sworn to King Viserys and to his rightful heir,” Jacaerys announced solemnly, walking through the narrow corridors of the Walls, Cregan at his side. The Lord of Winterfell was holding Ice over one shoulder, the sword as heavy as the title inherited from his father. 

“Starks do not forget their oaths, my prince,” Cregan retorted, occasionally bowing his head to some members of the Night’s Watch, “But you must know that my gaze is forever torn between North and South,” he added, a hint of heavy responsibility in his voice. The threats in winter were much greater than in summer, with the Night's Watch and the men of Winterfell stepping up their activities on the Wall, ready to turn back any outside threats. Furthermore, it was rare to see the intervention of the North in matters concerning the South, but Cregan could not ignore that oaths were broken. And traitors had to pay for it.

“War is coming to the whole realm, my lord,” it was the Prince of Dragonstone’s turn to retort back, “Whilst your men plan to raise guards against wildlings, the Hightowers plan to usurp the throne. My mother’s claim has been compromised, and little I believe your lady wife could turn her gaze away,”

The words that escaped Jace's mouth left Cregan in a state of astonishment, his brows furrowing and hardening his already stern face. He had never expected the prince to use his wife so cleverly, even though she was a trusted member of his house whom he had sadly never met in peaceful circumstances.

“The Queen has not forgotten the love she has for her sister, and King’s Landing will welcome her again once my mother succeeds in keeping the realm united,”

“My lady wife has her sister's fate very much at heart,” Cregan continued, his gaze softening a bit at the thought of you, “and you arrival put her in a state of worry, my prince,”

The two young men then stood on the Wall, looking out over the untamed land, now covered in white snow. A biting wind whipped around them as Cregan explained how such powerful creatures as the dragons refused to cross the spaces beyond the Wall, highlighting the dangers of the unknown that folded these lands, while he and Jacaerys negotiated the number of men willing to aid Queen Rhaenyra's cause. Cregan himself knew the importance of keeping an oath to a man's moral integrity, and while his duties were tied to the Wall and the threat of the wildlings, he could not ignore the dispute over the king's word. 

“My lord,” one of Cregan’s men arrived, forcing the two young men to interrupt their conversation, “Urgent news from Dragonstone,” 

The Wolf of Winterfell took the parchment in his hands, and from the brief glance he shared with one of his men, he knew the contents were far from frivolous. He let the paper slip from his hands to read the message, and a sense of astonishment struck him like the chill of the North: his lips curled into a grimace, his eyebrows furled slightly as his grey eyes scanned the words printed on the paper. He could have thought it was an unfortunate joke, but the seal of House Targaryen only confirmed what he had read: 

"Prince Lucerys Velaryon has met his death at Storm's End, slain by Prince Aemond Targaryen.”

Cregan lifted his gaze to rest on Jacaerys' brown eyes and watched as the young prince's face contorted in confusion, then grief as he glanced at the parchment in Cregan's hands, and hot tears watered his eyes, streaming down his sharp face until two small rivers crossed their path on his chin. The young lord watched helplessly as the Prince of Dragonstone staggered backwards, clutching his chest in a tight fist as if trying to hold it together; it was a sight familiar to Cregan, for he had also lost his younger brother and remembered the same sense of helplessness creeping through his veins. 

But as Jacaerys collapsed in grief, a new weight hit Cregan's chest, a sense of dread blossoming in the centre of his stomach as he steeled himself for what was to come. 

He would have to inform you and to bring the news of Lucery’s death. And it wouldn’t be easy.

The bright orange sun hid behind the imposing mountains of the North, its last rays illuminating the tops of the peaks and tinting the snow a soft pink. As the light faded, a few amber rays filtered through the windows of your chambers, illuminating them with a soft glow - the gentle warmth of the sun blending with the heat of the great fire in the centre of the room, accompanied by the soft crackle of the wood.

You sat quietly at the foot of your bed, embroidery hoop in hand, watching your son Rickon play with his wooden toys beside you. A few handmaids moved about your chambers, preparing the large table for the dinner you and Cregan would share that evening. Your lilac eyes rested on the small figure of your son, who returned them with a broad smile. But as you raised a hand and gently rubbed his swollen cheeks, you were seized by a sense of unease. 

It had been a long time since you and Cregan had been married, and from the first night you spent in Winterfell your mind had been haunted by dark omens hovering over your family name. Glimpses of what had happened in the past and what would happen in the future passed before your eyes like dancing shadows, sometimes appearing even when you were fully awake. You could still hear cries for help filling your ears, dragons fighting in the sky with claws and breath of fire, and sinister whispers plotting an overthrow of power, the image of your father's bloody crown on the throne still vivid in your mind. 

The people of Winterfell had always regarded you with suspicion, for you were far from the Targaryen princess they had always imagined. But Cregan had never dared to question your tastes, however strange they might sound, and whenever the duties of lordship allowed him a moment's respite, he would gladly accompany you to the far reaches of the North and catch whatever bugs you wanted. In winter, when the temperatures were too harsh and the bugs were nowhere to be found, he would wrap his great arms around your form and listen to your strange rhymes as he gazed into the fire. 

Your prophetic dreams ceased after you gave birth to Rickon, but they returned when a raven came from Dragonstone with grim news: the death of your father the King, the usurpation of your sister's claim by the Hightowers, and the loss of Rhaenyra's only daughter. Fear settled in your heart as you remembered the figure of the young dragon swallowed by the waves of the ocean, and you wondered if even innocent children would fall victim to this dangerous game of power. 

The doors of your chambers swung open and Cregan appeared. The handmaids greeted him with a nod of respect, and you gave him a small smile as you watched Rickon rise and reach his father, who scooped him up with his free hand and kissed his little forehead.

But it was when he looked at you that you realised something was wrong. His eyes, softened by the sight of you, held a pain that seemed to be fighting him. It was as if he were carrying a burden too heavy for him to bear, heavier even than his duties as Lord of Winterfell, and the sight surprised you: you had never seen Cregan so troubled by anything.

"Leave us alone," your husband's voice echoed in the room, once again wearing his mask of severity, "I need to have a few words with my wife in private,” 

The handmaids bowed their heads and quickly left the room, one of them holding Rickon in her arms. There was an unspoken tension in the air as Cregan cautiously approached you and sat in front of you. He had always been an attentive and protective husband, showing a side that differed from the stern image he gave his men.

“You seem quite troubled, husband,” you spoke softly, your voice faltering slightly. Cregan replied with a heavy sigh, covering your hands with his larger ones and rubbing them with his calloused thumbs.

“Dreadful news came from Dragonstone, my love,” Cregan said in a hoarse voice, choosing his words carefully, as if talking to a wounded puppy, “Your sister, the Queen, lost a child again,”

You felt the ground beneath your feet, surroundings had become as muffled as your husband's voice as he recited the contents of the parchment:

"Prince Lucerys Velaryon has met his death at Storm's End, slain by Prince Aemond Targaryen.”

Feeling like you were about to pass out, you rolled over onto your side and gripped the wooden footboard in a tight vice. You immediately covered your mouth and looked down at your feet as your mind slowly processed the news, but the shock was so strong that no tears came. Your mind raced back to the dream you'd had weeks before Jacaerys' arrival, seeing pieces of a puzzle you couldn't quite understand until now: Lucerys was the dragon that fell from the sky, and Aemond was the other one who sank his jaws into his flesh.

You felt Cregan's worried gaze on you as one of his hands moved to your arm, rubbing it gently in a soothing way. “It pains me to see you so devastated, my sweet wife,” he spoke quietly, breaking the wall of silence between you, “but you must know that House Stark will stand against-“

“I need a moment, please,” your trembling voice interrupted him as you found the strength to stand at your feet, your thick robes swooning with every step you took in the room. You paced back and forth, one hand rubbing the bridge of your nose while the other supported your lower back, grief and confusion mixing in your head as you felt like you were about to succumb to madness: for a moment you wondered if Rickon would fall victim to the Dance as well, but no bad omen was attached to him and that brought you a moment of peace.

Your restless walk ended as you approached the large window of your chambers and saw Vermax flying restlessly outside. It pained you to see such a magnificent creature as a dragon so distraught over the loss of his kin, and it pained you even more when a flash of his fate crossed your eyes as you saw the dragon dancing among hundreds of arrows.

“It is said that dragons can feel their masters’ emotions,” a rough voice came from behind, and you saw Cregan looking outside like you, “They feel their pain, their turmoil, and they share the same grief.” 

“He is preparing for his last flight,” you murmured quietly, turning your head slightly and locking your lilac gaze into his grey one. You felt Cregan’s hand resting on your waist, allowing him to pull you closer and join your foreheads together. 

"Winter is coming, my love, and I need my men here to defend the Wall," he spoke softly, closing his eyes for a moment as he felt the warmth of your skin against his, "but House Stark will pledge its support to Queen Rhaenyra by sending her thousands of Greybeards to fight in her name. Your sister's claim will be upheld and your nephew will succeed her," 

"Jacaerys will never be King of the Seven Kingdoms," you confessed defeatedly, looking down at your feet, "the only kingdom he will see is of sea and salt. He will never see his mother sitting on the Iron Throne. I have seen it,"

Your words brought a heavy silence to the room and you both withdrew into your thoughts. You saw how quickly Cregan and Jacaerys had bonded, how they spent their days hunting and drinking together while they negotiated the terms of war. Luke's death would not be an accident, and you hoped your words would reach your husband, that he would understand the destructive force dragons could be once they went into battle.

Instead, Cregan's only words were his arms wrapped around you, sealing your body in a protective embrace. He whispered words of comfort, kissed your temple and promised victory over the usurpers.

But deep in his heart, he knew it would not be easy.

Grief and anger were the emotions Cregan felt as he rolled the parchment in his hands, his eyes darting over the words written in pitch-black ink. He cursed himself for not believing the signs of your dreams, for thinking that fear had created them for you. But even this time you were right.

The Battle of the Gullet had been costly for the Blacks, and the death of Jacaerys Velaryon was a low blow the queen would not forgive her usurpers. It was Cregan again who had the task of bringing you the unfortunate news, and his eyes would forever be haunted by the sight of your grief: he saw you holding Rickon as the news of blood and cheese reached Winterfell's ears, and those same dull eyes came back to you as you leaned against the wall at your nephew's death.

Not even the news that King's Landing had fallen into the hands of Rhaenyra and Daemon could ease the paranoia you lived with, but it only served to fuel your dark prophecies. Few letters were exchanged between Cregan and Rhaenyra, with the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms constantly asking for her beloved sister and inviting her to return to court and serve if she wished. But Cregan always refused her invitation. 

For the truth was that you were safe in the great lands of the North, surrounded by nothing but the love of Cregan and Rickon, far from that viper's nest that was the Red Keep. It took time for you to adjust to the harsh cold of Winterfell and the coldness of its people, but your calm and gentle nature opened a breach in the heart of his hardened lord, and with it, the people began to love you. 

The night was cold, and the heat of the fire was not enough to protect them from the blizzard raging outside. Cregan could not sleep, tossing and turning, hoping that the Old Gods would grant him some much needed rest. It was only after tossing and turning on his side for the umpteenth time that he saw you awake too, your platinum curls falling gently to your shoulders and your lilac eyes gazing absently at the small bed where Rickon rested. 

The young wolf wrapped his naked arms around your waist and pulled you close, his chest pressed against your back, the layer of your nightgown the only thing separating your bodies. "Sleep seems to have left you too," he said in a harsh voice, his lips brushing against your neck. You closed your eyes and let out a shuddering breath. 

"I have no reason to be asleep, dear husband," you replied absently, the softness of your voice melting his heart. Cregan knew that your mind was far from him, and he feared that your prophetic dreams had imprisoned it again. He let out a long sigh before speaking again.

"A raven came from King's Landing in the morrow," he spoke quietly, keeping his voice low so as not to wake Rickon, "your sister will be pleased to welcome you to the capital and give you all the honours of a Targaryen princess,”

He felt a small chuckle escape your mouth and lowered his head, resting his newly bearded chin on your collarbone, "If it is your wish to reach her, I will order some of my men to arrange a safe journey south for you." Cregan went on, his voice faltering at the thought of leaving you alone while Rhaenyra dealt with her opponents. But you were his wife and the light of his eyes, and if you wished to regain your lost time with your sister, he would accept it without objection.

But the slight shake of your head surprised him, "It wouldn't change anything. Rhaenyra would be dead the moment I reached King's Landing, and the gods know what horrors await there.”

Cregan's brow furrowed, and for the first time he seriously considered the words of your prophetic dreams: if the Dragon Queen was indeed about to die, what would happen if he left his wife alone in the grasp of the Greens? A shiver ran down his spine, anger boiling in his chest at the thought of you being taken prisoner by Aegon the Usurper. 

"That will probably not happen," the Lord of Winterfell scoffed, tightening his grip as if he secretly feared you would disappear in his arms, "You have nothing to fear, my dear woman. Your sister is Queen now. Once the usurpers and the breakers of the oath have paid for what they have done, there will be a reign of peace and prosperity. 

"It will not be her," you murmured, rolling to the other side to face Cregan. You leaned your hand against his cheek as you looked at him with your melancholy eyes, "Rhaenyra is the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, but a crown of ashes will adorn her head and a cloak of fire will wrap her body.”

Cregan leaned into your touch, but he could not quite relax at the grim revelation you gave him: he wanted to find comfort in your presence, but your words were as hard as boulders, carrying a heavy weight he wanted to lift from your shoulders.

"I can hardly see it," he murmured, his voice tinged with doubt, "Rhaenyra is a strong woman, gathering as many noble men as she can for her cause. The kingdom will be stable under her leadership."

You shook your head slowly again, your eyes filled with sorrow, "But the Dragonfire is stronger than she is, and what she has built will crumble with her," you paused for a moment before continuing, "A throne of iron swords will give way to a wooden one, and only when the cripple breathes his last will a child step in, wearing Rhaenyra's crown like a burden.”

Cregan closed his eyes and tightened his grip, a mixture of emotions flickering across his face as he slowly digested what you had told him. He had learned over time that your dreams were not mere hallucinations of a daydreaming mind, but a prophecy destined to come true, no matter how hard you tried to alter the course of events. The deaths of Jacaerys and Lucerys were living proof. 

“I swear on my honour that I will keep raising my banners for the rightful queen, no matter how gruesome our fates will be,” Cregan retorted, lowering his head more until your foreheads met again, “What will be of us?”

"You are bound by your honour and will fight for Rhaenyra until your last breath, my love," you murmured, absently tracing circles on his cheek with your thumbs, "The wolf will cry in the dragon's nest, and his wolf will be heard in the darkest hour. And only when order is restored will the wolf return to his pack."

Cregan stood in silence, his chest rising slowly as he held his breath, the realisation dawned on him: the intense activity on the Wall and the organisation of the harvest had always prevented him and his men from making a proper march on King's Landing, hoping that the Greybeards he had sent would be enough to fight for Rhaenyra's cause. But your words have confirmed that his men will march on King's Landing, and he hopes to find a less devastated city than the one his wife has described.

“Cregan,” your gentle call awakened him from his thoughts, his head resting on your hands, “promise me you will come back to me and Rickon. Swear it,”

The young wolf stood silent for a moment, his eyes drinking in your beauty: it would be painful to leave you behind, but if your prophecy came true, he would be forced to honour his oath and fight for his queen. And so he took your head in his hands, closing the distance and sealing the promise with a long, bittersweet kiss, tasting of farewell but full of hope.

“I swear it.”

If you've come this far, thank you so much for reading my fic! Hope you enjoyed it! Please, leave a comment if you want to be added in the taglist or be removed.

Cregan Stark Taglist: @sylasthegrim @legitalicat @zaldritzosrose

[swordgracerecs]

I’m literally on-duty right now reading this in the agency car but OHHHHHH MY GOOD GOD YOUR MIND IS INCREDIBLE

okay first off the plot ?? the dialogue? chemistry ?? OFF THE FUCKING CHARTS IM EATING IT UP — also just the characterization of cregan is fucking top notch like 🫦

this is SO SO SO GOOD I LOVE IT SO MUCH 🫶

I Might Hold You With My Hands Tied (Show You I'm the Right Guy to Figure You Out)

Cregan Stark x Bolton!Reader

Tags: angst with a happy ending, friends to lovers and enemies to lovers, smut, oral sex and fingering (fem. receiving), p. in v. sex

When your brother, the Lord of the Dreadfort and House Bolton, betrays Lord Cregan Stark and the North, there must be consequences. Your fate hangs in the balance - a fate tied to Cregan himself.

You stare out of a window of the Dreadfort: the ancestral seat of your family, House Bolton. The earth surrounding the fortress is covered in a muddy blanket of snow, smeared into a slippery mess by the boots of men and the hooves of horses. But an unmistakable red blotch catches your eye, just along the eastern bank of the Weeping Waters, for it’s still bright against the dirty snow. It’s the blood of your brother, Wilhem, Lord of the Dreadfort and House Bolton, from when Lord Cregan Stark, his liege lord and the Warden of the North, took his head. You watched the whole proceeding from this very window. Watched, as a man you’ve known your whole life beheaded the only son of your late-father for inciting a rebellion against House Stark and the North.

You had tried to convince Wilhem not to rebel, no matter his grievances against Cregan Stark. House Stark, you had implored, is too powerful with too much of the North fiercely loyal to it, as was demonstrated by the amount of men who stood behind the Stark banners, bearing the head of a snarling direwolf. And you tried to remind Wilhem of the love he and Cregan shared as brothers in arms for so long. Wilhem had shrugged you off, and you’re sure now that he had been betrayed by his own men, but you suppose that will be confirmed soon enough. You know that the two uneven sides understood that a battle would have been over quickly, and so your brother and five other men were rounded up and thrown at Lord Stark’s feet. Those five men were ordered to take the black and would be sent to the Wall, but your brother was beheaded with Cregan’s Valyrian steel blade, Ice. You’re sure that Cregan knew what you did too: that the rebellion was Wilhem’s idea, and his alone. 

And now here you stand, the last Bolton in the North, your family destroyed, and the honor of your house deeply tarnished. You watch melting snow drip down the window pane, and you feel nothing other than exhaustion and emptiness, for not even the death of your foolish brother seems to bring you to tears. Because of Wilhem’s recklessness, your life is now in the hands of a man you’ve known and cared for all of your life, but have no clue of his intentions for you now: to be killed, tortured for more information, to be sold off, who knows. You’re nothing more than a prisoner in your own home, to be easily discarded or made a pawn for some other use. You swallow thickly, and your eyes focus once more on the gash of red, willing even just one tear to fall and slip down your cheek – like the melting snow on the window – for the state of your misfortunes.

But before you can even manage to blink, you hear a key rattle in the door, unlocking it. You don’t bother to turn around. You know who has come.

“Lord Cregan Stark for you, my lady,” Jonas says quietly – an elderly servant who has served your family for your entire life. You don’t acknowledge his announcement, nor turn to face Cregan. You simply stare at the crimson snow, and the rushing river beyond it.

Your quiet is further disturbed by the sound of heavy footsteps carrying Cregan further into the room, no doubt weighed down by his leather-coated armor. The door shuts behind him with a soft click, and you wait to hear your sentence. 

He clears his throat, likely hoping you’ll turn to face him and make this easier for him. You will not.

“I’m sorry to be here under such circumstances, my lady,” he says softly, his deep voice cutting through the silence of the room. Such formality carried by his familiar voice twists in you like a knife. He’s never been this guarded with you. “It’s my understanding that you had nothing to do with this.”

You take a deep breath before speaking, still keeping your back to him. So this is how it’s going to be then? “I’m your prisoner, my lord. What does that matter?”

He’s silent for a moment. He must be choosing his next words with care, you think with rancor, as a man of his ilk ought to. If he wishes to be the Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North with you, and not the man you’ve always known, so be it.

“It matters a great deal to me that you were not a part of your brother’s rebellion,” he states gently, and you can hear him shift his weight, leaning from one foot to the other, his armor creaking as he does. He and Wilhem had been so close, assuming their lordships at the same time. But none of that matters any more. “And you’re not my prisoner.”

Your jaw clenches sharply, and you finally spin around. “Then what am I?” You snarl. He visibly recoils from your sudden harshness, strands of his brown tresses sweeping along his cheeks as he jerks his head back, but then he quickly tries to smooth his expression. You feel your insides twist even more with anger, and perhaps a hint of grief, to see his fur cloak and armor still faintly splattered with red. He must have hastily wiped away Wilhem’s blood before coming to your chambers, but he did a poor job of it.

“That’s up to you,” he replies calmly, steeling his expression and folding his hands over the pommel of the secondary sword at his hip. Despite Cregan’s towering height, the longsword that killed your brother is strung across his back, too long to carry at his waist.

You clasp your hands at your front, wringing them together in irritation. “Up to me?” You ask, trying to keep your voice steadier this time. 

Cregan nods, his familiar gray eyes – two storms swirling around pools of black – never leaving yours. “You’re a noblewoman, and one who has done nothing wrong. I wouldn’t judge a sister by the sins of her brother,” he explains, taking a hesitant step closer to you. You automatically tense up and shrink back, pressing against the window. He watches you do this, his jaw flexing as he clenches his teeth, but doesn’t make an attempt to move any closer. “And so I offer you a choice: work with me to repair the reputation of House Bolton and bring peace to our realm, or leave the North and all of this all behind forever.”

You breathe hard, and cross your arms at your front, as you take in his words. But you want clarification. You want him to say what he means. “Work with you? What does that mean?”

He swallows thickly and tilts his head to the side as his eyes search your face. “I’m offering you my hand in marriage so that we might heal the North together,” he says quietly. He glances at his feet then, almost as if he’s nervous. It’s then that you remember that he’s only four and twenty, just three years older than you – his youth and inexperience are showing; his ignorance to what he’s just done to you. And it infuriates you.

“Marry you?” You ask, your tone thick with incredulity. You take your own step closer to him now, having regained a shred of confidence through your anger. “I just watched you behead my brother from this window, my house and family are destroyed, and you think, my lord, that I would want to marry you?”

His eyes find yours once more and you watch his lips part slowly, for he appears even more unsure of himself now, but he also finds his nerve to speak again. “I can’t undo what I’ve done, just like I can’t undo what Wilhem tried to do to me and the North. But I can ask for your forgiveness, and the chance to prove–”

“I want to leave,” you cut him off sharply, taking another step towards him. “I want to leave, and I hope to never see your face again.” In contrast to your lack of emotions earlier, your voice breaks on the last bit.

You can tell your words sting him, for though he’s a lord seasoned in masking his emotions and nerves, you know it’s not always an easy thing to do. His shoulders sag a bit, now doubt under the weight of his armor and his decisions. His jaw clenches again and he swallows slowly, his gaze holding yours. A tense moment passes between you before he speaks again.

“I shall have four of my guards escort you south to White Harbor at first light, and I will send you with coin to board a ship. To where is up to you,” he explains quietly, his thumb rubbing over the pommel of his sword, clearly for something to do in his moment of discomfort. “I wish you good fortune, my lady.” He inclines his head before looking up to meet your eyes once more. You can see what looks like sadness in them – undoubtedly from what he’s had to face and do today.  Though you’ve known him a long time, he appears like a stranger before you now, and his plight can’t get through your own rage and grief. You feel no pity for him. Your life is the one that’s destroyed, not his. You lift your chin in defiance.

His sadness seems to intensify as he takes one last sweeping look over you, and then turns to leave, rolling his broad shoulders a bit under his thick armor, and exits the room without another word.

The icy wind whips fiercely, biting your cheeks more harshly than you’ve ever felt as a daughter of the North. You and your escorts of House Stark are caught in a violent winter storm – one you had sensed was coming from the change in the air pressure last night, but had ignored due to your overwhelming desire to leave the Dreadfort. You didn’t care what you faced, so long as you could put all of this behind you.

But the head guard stops his horse abruptly, interrupting your thoughts and making your own mount nearly bump into his before it halts too. He turns to look at you.

“My lady, we must turn back,” he shouts over the wind.

“We can’t go back to the Dreadfort,” you yell back, panic rising in your chest. You can’t go back. You absolutely can’t.

“We’ll go to Winterfell,” he explains, raising an arm to shield his face from some of the wind and snow. “Our orders were to bring you safely to White Harbor, or to Winterfell if we can’t do that. We have no other choice, my lady. This storm is coming from the South. We can’t continue on.”

Your stomach drops and you can feel your heart ice over even more. Going to Winterfell seems worse than returning to the Dreadfort, but you know you really have no choice now. These men are loyal to Cregan, and they will heed his commands only, not yours. 

You nod your head, the battle lost, and you turn your horse to follow the guards. Even through the swirling, blinding snow, you know they’re leading you up the Sheepshead Hills, then down towards a stone bridge that crosses the White Knife, and into the territory of Winterfell and House Stark. 

Despite your heavy cloak, your limbs are frozen as they cling to your horse. You’re hungry too, and exhausted, having slept very little the night before. Sleep evaded you as your mind was plagued with a sense of guilt for abandoning the North and the chance to redeem your house, which has stood faithfully with House Stark for generations. But how could you ever sleep at night knowing you’ve given yourself to the man who executed your brother and left House Bolton without a lord or heir? What would your parents have thought? Your grandparents? And on, and on, back in your family line? Would they see you as a traitor to your own kin, unworthy of the Bolton name? The thought makes your empty stomach churn painfully as you steer your horse over the rocky terrain of the hills, desperate now for some reprieve of the wind the downslope might offer. Your hope is all for naught, for the storm whips fiercely on the western side of the hills too. But the White Knife is now in sight, as well as the bridge you’re meant to cross. 

Eventually, you and the four guards make it to the bridge, the horses treading cautiously. The water rushes swiftly beneath the stone, for the current is strong here as the river narrows before its two branches collide further south. 

Safely over the water, you urge your horse on and follow the men along a path to Winterfell. You try to quiet your mind and fight back the tears that threaten to leak from your eyes. They’ll only freeze on your raw cheeks.

After what seems like an eternity, the castle comes into view – sprawling and made out of gray granite stone, as formidable as you remember. But the only thing welcome about the sight before you is the thought of sitting by a warm fire to thaw out your weary bones. You resign that you must wait out the storm, but you will bid the men to take you south once more to White Harbor as soon as possible, for you’re determined not to stay at Winterfell a moment longer than necessary.

Upon approaching the East Gate, you find your sense of dread snaking even tighter around your throat, for servants hurrying around the courtyard slow their steps and then stop to stare as you enter Winterfell, surrounded by four guards. You know they know who you are.

You try not to look at them, and slowly dismount your horse, your frozen toes prickling painfully as you land on the ground.

“Lady Bolton,” calls a weathered voice. You look up and see an old man approaching, a heavy set of chains bumping against his torso. Oryn, the maester of House Stark. “Welcome back to Winterfell, my lady.”

You don’t respond, for your teeth are chattering violently from the cold, though some of the wind is blocked by the high stone walls of the castle. You simply look at the old man, letting him decide your fate. 

He seems to understand. “If you’ll follow me, my lady.”

You wrap your cloak tighter around your body, and follow him down a stone path and then through a passageway of the castle, before coming out of the other side. You have been to Winterfell many times, and you know the way to the Guest House well, but follow the old many anyway. Despite having always found your accommodations at this castle to be welcoming and comfortable, you’re sure you won’t feel the same on this occasion.

Grateful to finally be out of the wind, you follow the maester up a set of stairs and into a spacious guestroom. A fire is already burning in the hearth, as if he knew you were coming. He slowly stoops down to set another log on the grate, as if giving you a moment to collect yourself too.

He finally straightens up, his chains rattling as he moves. “If there is anything I can do for you while you’re here, please call upon me, my lady. I will have food brought to your rooms and a maid will draw you a bath.”

You nod your head again and then find the nerve to meet his eye. “Is he here?” You hate how your voice quivers, but you’re still chilled to the bone, and upset to be in this castle.

The maester gives you a sad smile. “No, my lady. Lord Stark has traveled to the Wall,” he explains gently, and you understand what he’s trying to tell you. That Cregan has accompanied the men that are traitors, like your brother, to the Wall to see their sentences through. “He shall return within the week.”

You nod again, worrying your teeth over your lower lip, and look down at your chest to unbuckle your cloak with stiff fingers.

“I will leave you now. Please know that, by the orders of Lord Stark, you’re welcome here, my lady. No one will treat you as anything other than an honored guest.” The maester takes a step towards the door.

“Did he really say that?” You ask quietly. The old man pauses his wrinkled hand on the doorknob before his green eyes find yours again. 

“He did,” he replies with a nod. “I expect that he had a hunch that you would find yourself here.” He gives you another sad smile, and then turns once more, leaving you alone with your thoughts and despair.

The days turn from one to the next at Winterfell, each much the same as the last. The storm subsided the night before, but left snow in thick, windswept banks, which only get deeper the further south one travels. You know it would be foolish to try to go to White Harbor now, meaning you’ll have to wait an indefinite amount of time before leaving. You take a steadying breath as you look around the library, neat shelves of leather-bound books tucked snugly against the curved stone walls. You’ve learned that it’s a place you’re unlikely to be disturbed, for it seems that you and Maester Oryn are the only ones who seek out books at Winterfell. You find you really don’t have an interest in reading any of them too closely today, but it’s a small comfort to change your scenery from the guest chambers you’ve been staying in. You absentmindedly flip to the next page of the book in your lap – one you’ve been reading for a few days now – letting your thoughts wander instead to where you might head once you depart White Harbor. Volantis, perhaps? Or Lys? You might be able to find work as a healer or midwife, for you’ve always favored the art of medicine.

You’re pulled from your thoughts as the oak door on the far side of the room opens gently, and you expect to see Maester Oryn walk through, his heavy chains clinking with his stiff movements. 

He does not.

Instead, it’s the one person you were hoping not to see while you’re here. The person you told you hoped you’d never lay eyes on again. 

He’s wearing a different cloak now than the last time you saw him, gray fur sweeping over his broad shoulders. He looks weary from the road, half of his brown, shoulder-length hair pulled back loosely, with strands having come free to frame his face. His cheeks are red too, as if he got off his horse and came in from the cold, straight here. Perhaps he did.

You eye him from where you sit, feeling sheepish. You’ve no idea what to say to him, having spoken so harshly to him the last time he stood before you. Still, that doesn’t change the fact that you remain bitter with him, and with your situation.

He clears his throat gently. “Maester Oryn said I’d find you up here. I wanted to see that you’re alright,” he explains, his voice carrying softly through the stillness of the library. “That you have everything you need while you’re here.”

“I do,” you say, just as quietly. “Thank you,” you add as well before you can stop yourself, for years of learned-politeness for a noblewoman don’t fade overnight.

He nods, and looks at the ground for a moment, and then back up at you, as if he’s trying to decide something. He takes a deep breath.

“I also came to say that I made a grievous error the last time we spoke,” he states, a little more loudly, as if he wants to make sure that both of you hear his words. “You’re your father’s trueborn daughter, and nothing but tradition says a woman can’t rule in her own right in the North. Should you wish, I would name you the Lady of the Dreadfort and of House Bolton, and escort you back across the Sheepshead Hills as soon as the roads are passable.”

You breathe slowly, taking in his words and offer, and simply look at him for a moment. For years, you’ve stolen lingering glances at his face, which turned from the softness of youth to the hardness of manhood. It’s odd for you, now, to look at him and have his full attention. As you stare, his throat bobs as he swallows thickly, likely unsure with how to proceed. Waiting for your reply. He’s never been shy with you, but perhaps he thinks he might have offended you once again. Perhaps the two of you don’t really know each other anymore.

“Have you ever read this book?” You ask softly, looking down at the open pages in your lap, and then back up at him.

His expression shifts from one of discomfort to one of confusion by your change in subject, and lack of acknowledgment of his revised offer. He shifts on his feet. 

“Which book is it?” He asks, clasping his hands together at his front. He’s always done that when he’s trying to keep his composure.

“The Great Northern Houses by Maester Elwic Bryson,” you state, gently shutting the book and showing him the cover.

He nods slowly. “I have.” You can see questions in his eyes now.

“I didn’t know that House Bolton had rebelled against House Stark so many times in the past,” you explain, your fingers curling gently against the book’s worn leather binding.

A faint sadness comes back to his expression – the one you saw briefly the last time. “Aye.”

You nod slowly. “And each time, the Stark’s forgave the Bolton’s.”

He nods, taking a deep breath as he does. “We have.”

You suck in a shaky inhale too. “Why?” 

He takes a hesitant step closer to you, his eyes holding yours. “Because stability and peace among the northern houses means more than the pride of one king, or one lord.” His words are careful, but they acknowledge how far back your family’s treason stretches – back to the days when the Starks ruled as Kings in the North.

You let out the breath you’ve been holding, and look down at the book, feeling the emotions you’ve tamped down suddenly bubble up to the surface.

“I won’t force my presence on you any further, my lady, as you made your preferences clear the last time we spoke. But should you need anything, or if you would like to discuss my offer, please don’t hesitate to call upon me,” he says quietly, and you can hear the faint pain in his voice. My lady, again, not your name. You’ve truly hurt him, you think, as he’s hurt you. He turns to leave.

“Cregan,” you call softly, your chest rattling as you try to hold back the tears that threaten to flow.

He turns in the doorway, and seems to find the courage to meet your gaze once more.

So do you. “Thank you,” you whisper.

He looks at you for a moment, a faint softness falling across his features. He dips his head in acknowledgement and then vanishes through the doorway, the deafening silence left behind him echoing around the library.

You stare into the fireplace, watching the flames dance around the blistering wood. 

“Cassandra,” you murmur, getting the attention of the lady’s maid that has been assigned to you. You’ve found that she’s a kind woman, and just a few years younger than you.

“My lady?” She asks, finishing folding one of your shifts and placing it in the wardrobe on the other side of your chambers, before walking over to where you sit by the hearth.

You take a steading breath. “Will Lord Stark be dining alone tonight?”

Cassandra pauses for a moment before answering. “Aye, he will.”

You nod, catching her eye. You force yourself to be confident. You’ll never get what you want if you aren’t. “Do you think he would prefer it that way?”

Cassandra smooths the folds of her dress before looking back up at you. “It’s hard to know the mind of Lord Stark, my lady, but I think he might welcome some company.”

You nod once more. “I think I’ll put my best dress on then,” you say quietly. She nods too, a faint smile tugging at her lips, and goes to retrieve a fur-lined dress from the wardrobe. It’s a deep blue, lined with simmering gray fur. She brings over a matching shawl too – made from the same gray fur – which will drape over your shoulders for warmth, and elegance.

You stand, and she helps you dress, lacing you up comfortably and smoothing the fur over your shoulders. Only the front strands of your long hair are pulled and tied behind your head, leaving the rest of your tresses to cascade down your back.

Cassandra finishes fussing with your hair and outfit, and then steps back to admire you with a gentle smile. “You look lovely, my lady.”

You feel the ice that has had a firm grip around your heart thaw just a little bit more from her kindness. “Thank you, Cassandra.”

She gives you a small curtsy, and then opens the door and ushers you through.

You steadily walk the long, winding corridors through Winterfell, past the armory and the Great Keep, to find your way to the Great Hall, grateful for your familiarity with these areas of the castle. It gives you some time to think about how you’d like to approach your thoughts with Cregan, and how to make him understand your perspective.

You take a deep breath as you approach the massive doors of the Great Hall. The guards nod to you in deference, and then one announces your presence. “Lady Bolton, my lord.”

As you enter the hall, your eyes land on the long dining table in the center, polished wood gleaming in the light of the flickering torches and the roaring hearth behind the lord’s chair at the head of the table. Your gaze comes to rest on him as he pauses the bite he was about to take, seemingly shocked for a moment that you’re here, in the Great Hall, standing before him. He lowers his fork before standing, his chair scraping against the stone floor.

“Are you alright, my lady?” You can hear the concern in his voice, and his eyes sweep over your body, as if searching for something wrong.

“My lord,” you greet him with a small curtsy. “Aye, I’m fine… I just wished to speak with you.” You’re pleased that your voice has remained steady despite your nerves. You’re just as unsure about standing before him as he’s clearly surprised that you’re suddenly in his Great Hall.

He nods, swallowing slowly. “Would you like to join me?” He asks quietly, gesturing a hand to the seat to his right.

“That would be welcome, thank you,” you reply softly, walking over to the seat, your dress swishing around your legs. A servant beats you to the chair though, tugging it out to assist you with sitting. You give the servant a polite smile, but he doesn’t catch it before he hurries away, likely to get another place setting for you, since Cregan was, as Cassandra predicted, dining alone.

Cregan settles back down into his chair, glancing at you from the corner of his eye. You know you should speak first, and put him at ease. You’ve both done enough to make the other uncomfortable every time you’ve been in each other’s presence.

“I wished to discuss with you the offer you made to me earlier.” You fold your hands in your lap, and find the nerve to meet his gaze fully. There is a softness in his gray eyes, but the rest of his expression is unreadable as he takes in your words. It reminds you of your father. “Of your offer to support my role as the Lady of the Dreadfort.”

He nods once, but then his eyes flick to the servant returning with a place setting for you. The servant pours wine into your glass as well, and then disappears once more into the shadows.

“Please help yourself,” Cregan says, gesturing to platters in front of you, filled with steaming meat, vegetables, and bread.

You do, filling your plate, and then look up at him once more. 

“I take it you’d like to accept my offer, and become the Lady of the Dreadfort?” His tone is calm as he glances at you before resuming eating his own dinner. 

You take a bite yourself, savoring the comforting taste of roast duck. It’s a common dish in the North, one both of you have grown up eating. 

“I would not,” you say after finishing your bite, and reaching for your wine glass.

He takes a sip of ale, his brows tugging together. “Why not?” There is an edge to his voice, one you’ve rarely heard in the past.

You take another sip of your wine before answering. “Because I’m a woman, my lord. It’s unlikely that the men who were loyal to my house would respect me as their liege lord… Especially not after what happened,” you finish quietly, holding his gaze.

He inhales roughly as he processes your words, as if he’s bothered by them. “I would order them to respect you as they would any other lord. I promise you that.”

You shake your head. “As honorable as your intentions are, I don’t know if that would be enough. Northmen might forgive, but they never forget.”

He lets out a low laugh that has nothing to do with amusement. “You’d still like to leave then?”

“Aye,” you confirm, skewering a roasted potato with your fork. “But I would ask you for something else.”

He eyes you for a moment, the muscle in his jaw feathering, but then nods for you to continue.

“Should I marry, I would ask that one of my sons be granted the Dreadfort, its lands, and the title of Lord Bolton, when he comes of age.” You hope it came out more confident than you feel.

You watch Cregan slow in cutting his meat before he meets your gaze once more. “I will agree to your request, so long as you agree that he’s raised here, as my ward, to learn the ways of the North.” He takes a slow sip of his ale, watching you take in his words now.

You feel your blood begin to simmer as you stare at him. “You’d ask me to give up my son, from a young age, to be raised by you?” You try hard to keep your voice steady – to mask your rising anger – but you’re not sure you succeed. You remember that he too knows you well.

He lifts his chin a bit and shifts slightly in his chair, making the black wolf fur on his cloak ripple in the firelight – a not so subtle reminder of who he is. “You plan to leave the North, and I would need to guarantee that your son would be prepared to lead in the North. He won’t be able to do that from wherever you plan to go.” His tone is a little sharper now, though you can see he’s trying to keep his frustration in check, just like you.

But he’s better at it then you are. “You’re impossible,” you hiss, standing quickly, your chair scraping harshly against the stone floor.

He does the same, following you as you march from the hall. “What would you have me do?”

You don’t look at him as you hurry down the hall, not having any idea of where you’re heading to in this part of the castle, but wanting desperately to get away from him. “You would let me raise my son as I see fit because I’m a Bolton, and you’re not.” You seethe, attempting to length your strides, but his long legs allow him to keep pace with you.

You turn a corner, following a more narrow corridor, your breath coming hard.

“I’m the Warden of the North, and I could teach him the ways of all northern houses,” he grits out, trying to catch your eye as you refuse to look at him.

“You know nothing about being a Bolton–”

But before you can take one more step, he shoves open a door, grabs your wrist and tugs you through. What little strength you have is no match for his, and you find yourself being pulled into some kind of study. You can’t take it all in quick enough before he slams the door shut and backs you up against it, caging you in with his bulk. You look up at his face, both of you breathing hard. His nostrils flare as he stares down at you, his familiar gray eyes boring into yours. You’ve clearly struck a nerve with him.

But so has he with you. “You don’t know anything about being a Bolton, and I do. He should be raised by me,” you snap, tilting your chin up in defiance now. “Or do you wish to make me suffer more?”

“I’m trying to help you. Why must you refuse me at every turn?” He growls, baring his teeth as he leans in closer, like the wolves of his house.

But you won’t back down, snarling back at him. “You’re not trying to help me–”

“I am–”

But his words are cut off and replaced by the loud sound of your palm colliding with his cheek, ringing clearly through the quiet room. You breathe hard, watching his skin redden from where you’ve just slapped him. He breathes hard too, his exhales fanning across your own reddening cheeks. He looks furious.

Something twists inside you – hatred morphing into something different – as you hold his incensed gaze. He’s so warm against you from where he’s caged you in against the door, his body pressed up against yours. His scent fills the air around you too, and you breath him in with every shuddering breath that you take: pine, woodsmoke, and leather. 

“You don’t understand what it’s like–” you start, your voice wobbling with emotion.

“I don’t understand what it’s like to be ripped from my home because of another’s mistake?” He cuts you off harshly, leaning even closer to you; so close your noses could brush. You can hear the disbelief in his voice. As if you could forget how his uncle tried to thwart his inheritance and titles, seizing them for his own.

“And have you forgotten that mine own father fought beside you? And died so that you might rule these lands?” You demand, eyes frantically searching his face. How could he forget?

He exhales roughly. “I could never forget the sacrifice your father made for me and for this realm.”

“Then why are you torturing his only daughter like this?” You ask, your voice breaking. You feel the hot tears you’ve been trying so hard to hold back finally begin to slip.

You watch his face crumble a bit, and he tilts his head. “Because I don’t want you to leave,” he breathes.

Tears roll swiftly down your cheeks as you take in his words, momentarily stunned into silence.

“You’re your father’s daughter, and you belong in the North. You should raise your son in the North,” he continues, and you can hear the pain in his voice. Pain both of you have caused.

But you push your hands roughly against his chest, which surprises him enough to step back, allowing you to slip from his grasp and walk into the middle of the room, hugging your arms around yourself. You try to steady your breaths and blink your tears away.

You hear him slowly follow you, and then sit in a chair near the desk you’re now bracing your hands against.

“What does that mean, Cregan?” Your arms shake as your tears drip onto the wood surface.

You wait, but he’s silent behind you. It’s only until you turn to face him once more, that you see it in his expression – something you’ve forbidden yourself from ever hoping for, even after he voiced his original offer to you. At the time, you had assumed he was only offering what was right, not what he truly wanted.

“Do you really not know? After all this time?” His voice is ragged, his eyes flickering over your face with disbelief.

You shake your head, leaning your weight back against the desk. 

His head tilts to the side as he swallows painfully. “I love you. I’ve always loved you,” he breathes.

Your own breath catches in your throat.

“I had planned to offer you my hand, but my plans were cut short when Wilhem rebelled. It’s why I was able to get to the Dreadfort so quickly – I was preparing to go there anyway. To you.” His words come out shakily, making your body shake as well as you process his words. He was going to come to propose. He loves you.

Your lower lip trembles. “Cregan–”

“I should have told you. But you were so angry with me, with what happened. I didn’t think you’d believe me.” He leans back in his chair, looking up at you. You can truly see the weight now of everything he carries – all of the hard choices, all of the things he must keep to himself no matter how much it pains him.

You finally find your voice. “But you let me go – let me try leave the North, forever.”

His expression softens even more, his sadness rippling over his body in waves. “I thought you’d never forgive me, and I so I wouldn’t yolk you to me, no matter how much I love you. I wanted you to have a choice.”

You push off the table and cross the few steps separating you from where he sits, his eyes tracking your movements. His left knee brushes against your dress when you stop before him.

“And what about now?” You whisper, holding his gaze as your fingers curl into the velvet fabric of your dress to stop them from shaking.

He takes a shuddering breath before slowly lifting his own hands to lightly curl around the backs of your thighs. You feel the warmth of his massive hands through your clothes, his thumbs gently caressing you, before slowly tugging you forward so you straddle his thigh. Your dress bunches up against his leg, and despite your frustration with him, your body heats with the desire to have your dress, and his clothes, removed entirely.

You slowly settle on his thigh as his hands slide up the sides of your thighs and hips to lightly encircle your waist. Your own hands come up to rest against his chest. You can feel his rapid heartbeat beneath your palm, matching the force of your own thumbing against your ribcage. His ragged breath fans across the exposed skin of your face, neck, and chest, making you shiver in his hold. 

“Your second child – boy or girl – would be named the ruler of the Dreadfort…” He takes a steading breath. “And your first would be the heir to Winterfell, if you’ll have me.”

Your heart leaps at his words, his honesty – what he’s always wanted is laid before you, and what he wants now is reflected with what you want. Your hands slip up the planes of his chest, bumping over the quilted fabric of his gambeson, and up the sides of his neck before framing his stubbled cheeks. He’s so warm beneath your palms, especially the cheek that you slapped mere minutes ago. Shame sweeps through you at how vicious you’ve been with him, at how you’ve assumed the worst of him. In your anger and grief, you’d forgotten about who he is, how deeply he cares, and how sometimes he’s forced to make impossible decisions.

You lean forward and press your lips gently against his. His lips are soft and plush despite the rough exterior of him as a hardened, rugged warrior. His lips move tentatively against yours at first, as if he still can’t believe you’re kissing him, but then his hands pull you closer, your core sliding against his thigh.

You gasp softly against his lips from the delicious friction of slipping against his sturdy leg, and he sighs against you too. You know deep in your bones that he understands how you feel. Years worth of desire, affection, and familiarity between the two of you comes rushing to the surface.

His tongue gently swipes against your bottom lip, as if he can’t help but taste you. You part for him with a sigh of your own as his tongue sweeps in to taste you fully, and you follow his lead.

Your fingers curl against his cheeks as you taste him, a shiver rushing up and down your spine. It’s better than you’ve ever imagined, ever dreamed. A sweetness like nothing you’ve ever experienced, an essence that is his alone. His hands sweep gently along the lines of your hips and back, clearly marveling at having you in his lap, in his arms. And you know he’s holding back as he licks into you and touches you.

You break the kiss. “I accept,” you breathe against his lips. “I want you. And I want our children to be raised here, to rule the North.”

A shudder rattles through his chest as he opens his eyes, his gaze meeting yours. The warmth you have always known in him fills his features.

“I’ve always loved you too,” you add, your nose brushing gently against his.

A noise escapes his throat that sounds like a mix of relief and desire, and it shoots right through you, turning your core molten as affection swirls through your veins too. 

He crushes his lips to yours again, licking deeply and you do the same. No longer just to taste, but to savor.

His hands slip down your back to cup your ass, hauling you even closer to his chest. Your hands move too, sliding down to curl against his chest, fingers toying at the laces of his gambeson. You’re so close to him now that you feel the outline of him pressed against your thigh that is wedged between his legs. He lets out a soft groan as you roll your hips slowly, chasing the feeling of his muscular thigh rubbing against your core, and wanting him to feel a similar pleasure as your thigh brushes against his manhood.

His fingers dig deliciously into your ass, gripping you tighter as he helps guide your hips against him, both of you lost in the feeling. But you want more – you’ve always wanted everything from him.

You break the kiss once more but he chases your mouth, evidently not wanting to give you up for a single second.

“Will you touch me?” You breathe, shocked that you can even speak, let alone those words, for the need coursing through you has clouded your brain. Everything about him has flooded your senses – the way he smells, so like the lands that you love so much. The way he tastes, more delicious than anything you’ve ever sampled. The way he sounds, with ragged breaths and a rumbling desire in his chest that become the things you want to hear the most for the rest of your life. The way he feels against your body, warm and solid, making you feel hot all over. But you want to feel all of him. You always have.

His tongue traces the curve of your lower lip while his hands continue to move you on his thigh, your sensitive core starting to soak the layers of your dress.

When he speaks, his voice is more gravelly and deeper than you’ve ever heard it. “When I touch you – really touch you, you beautiful woman – I want you to be my wife… And I want you spread out, naked on our bed, so I can show you just how much I love you.” 

Your fingers dig into his chest, and a whimper escapes your lips, as you squeeze your thighs tighter around his own. You didn’t even know he knew words like that, and they wrap around your heart, starting to fill the cracks that have formed there, all while he sets fire coursing through your veins. You feel a frenzied desperation to let this fire burn out of control, for him to give you what you long for. To feel the depths of his desire too.

But you nod your head, knowing he’s right. Knowing that straddling his thigh like this, kissing him like you have been, letting your thoughts run wild, is well beyond the bounds of propriety. And once again, you’re reminded that he always strives to do what’s right, even when it’s hard. 

To your surprise though, he doesn’t stop moving your hips as he leans in to mold his lips against yours once more. In fact, one of his hands continues to rock you against him as the other slips around to trail down your thigh, gathering a fistful of your dress in his massive hand. He slowly tugs on the fabric, and you lift your hips just the slightest, instantly missing the contact, but allow him to gather the front of your dress against his hips. Then he settles you back against his thigh – the thin layer of your lace underwear now the only thing separating your dripping, sensitive core from his leather trousers and solid muscle beneath. 

As you roll your body against his, tilting your hips forward, the friction is maddening. You moan into his mouth as his tongue delves deeper, sweeping against the roof of your mouth, the back of your teeth.

“Cregan,” you manage to whimper, the taut leather over his thigh becoming a slippery mess as you move and move. 

“I’ve got you,” he breathes against your lips, his voice thick with desire, as his hand snakes back around your hip to grip your ass. “Let go for me.”

You clench even tighter around his thigh, and around the emptiness in your core too. But even as you do, he tilts your hips forward even more so the tight bundle of nerves at the apex of your thighs brush against his. It sends pleasure coursing through your body, making you moan far too loudly. 

He doesn’t seem to care as a growl looses from his throat, vibrating against your lips, while he slides your hips up and down the length of his thigh, again and again. Faster, and faster, his trousers becoming truly soaked from your wetness, but he doesn’t seem phased by that either. All he seems concerned with is making you feel good, knowing exactly what to do in this moment – showing you, you realize, just a glimpse of how deep his love and desire runs for you.

The thought and the way his hands glide you over him is enough to send your peak crashing over you, washing you in bliss you’ve never felt before. You cry out against him, and he swallows your moans with a deep kiss. You shake against his sturdy frame, feeling his hands grip you even tighter as he continues to roll your hips, seemingly drawing out your pleasure for as long as he can. 

Your hands slide back up his chest to cup the back of his neck, tangling your fingers in his hair as he finally stills your hips. You gasp against his lips and feel his warm breath fan over your cheeks, his chest heaving to catch his breath. He gently tugs your bottom lip with his teeth, making you whimper again. How is it that your desire still burns brightly in your body, and that you’re still so close to begging him for everything he can give you?

He tugs you flush against his chest, and you feel him hot and hard against your thigh wedged between his legs, trapped in what you imagine are now painfully tight trousers.

You open your mouth to beg, but he speaks before you do.

“Will you meet me in the Godswood in thirty minutes?”

You settle back against the furs draped over Cregan’s large bed – your bed now too – and watch as Cregan leans forward from where he stands at the foot of the bed to place kisses on your ankles.

It’s been a whirlwind of a day – waking up still angry with him, the conversation in the library and at dinner, the events in the study. You’ve now come to learn that it’s his private study, where he spends long hours answering correspondence and pouring over account books. It’s as if your feet knew exactly where to take you to have those intimate moments with him – to confess what you’ve both been keeping tucked away in your hearts for so long. And then the quiet ceremony in the Godswood, proceeded over by Maester Oryn and witnessed by some household staff, Cassandra included. She had tears in her eyes at the end of it. Cregan swore before all and the Old Gods to honor and cherish you, to protect you for all nights to come. You vowed the same, and you’ve never seen him smile brighter. Then he draped a frosted blue cloak decorated with direwolves over your shoulders, officially bringing you under his protection. He sealed that promise with a kiss, breaking away eventually and whispering “Lady Stark” against your lips.

He insisted on carrying you from the Godswood to his chambers, in the way that husbands do with their new brides, all while you laughed with a lightness you haven’t felt in ages and stole as many kisses as possible without distracting him from climbing the stairs. 

As he entered the chambers – now marital chambers for both of you – he sat you down gently in a chair by the roaring fire in the hearth and knelt before you, taking your hands in his. “I asked Maester Oryn to write to the lords of the North, inviting them to attend a banquet in a fortnight in honor of our marriage. I trust you with my life, and so they should too. I wish for them to bend the knee to you, and to vow to support our children too, when they someday lead from Winterfell and the Dreadfort,” he’d said softly, his eyes searching yours. “I know I can’t change the past, my love, but I can set us on the right path for the future. I want to heal the North, and you.”

Tears came forth, and spilled gently down your cheeks. You know now that he’s truly loved you for so long, and he means what he says. You felt what little ice that still clung to your heart melt away completely, knowing he will do everything in his power to mend what has been broken.

You took a deep breath, and held his hands tightly as you said, “I forgive you, Cregan. And I love you.”

Tears pricked at his eyes too, and he leaned down to kiss your hands in his, before standing once more and pulling you up into his chest. For a long while he simply held you against him, kissing your forehead with such tenderness that it made you ache. 

Your hands had slowly slid up his chest between you, your fingers pulling at the laces of his gambeson, this time not willing to stop. One of his strong, calloused hands had lifted to cup your cheek, tilting your chin up so he could kiss you. It was a slow, lingering kiss – nothing like the desperate, wild kisses from earlier. A shiver rushed down your spine as you realized he meant to savor every moment tonight with you, his wife. 

It was with the utmost care that he unlaced your dress, never breaking your kiss as he let it fall to the floor and pool at your feet. He did eventually part from you, only to kneel before you again to peel off your underwear, long socks, and remove your shoes, leaving you naked before him, still clad in his own clothing and cloak. He’d softly kissed your hips and belly before standing again. You felt your nerves start to get the better of you – though it’s him, losing your maidenhood is not something you expected to happen today.

He leaned down to kiss you softly. Clearly sensing your apprehension, he said, “We don’t have to tonight. It’s alright.”

You shook your head. “No, I want to. I want to, Cregan. I just…I don’t know what to do.”

He kissed your forehead again before he bent his knees and reached down to lift you into his arms, his forearms wrapped securely under your thighs. Your chest brushed against his clothing, the fur of his cloak caressing your nipples, sending a jolt of pleasure through your body.  

“Let me show you,” he murmured, lips brushing against yours as he carried you to the bed.

And now you’re watching him remove his last layer of clothing, smiling softly at each other until he’s completely naked before you. Your eyes travel along the sharp angle of his jaw, down the column of his throat and across the broad planes of his chest, before following the light trail of hair leading down his stomach. Your eyes sweep over the v of his hips, before landing on the considerable length of him hanging between his sturdy thighs. Despite your nerves, your mouth waters at the sight of his cock, a bead of moisture glistening at the tip. Your eyes flick back up to catch a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips to see you admire him like this. He moves to climb onto the bed, crawling over you and caging you in with his knees and hands as he slowly kisses his way up your body. Your shins and knees, your inner thighs and hips, your belly and the valley between your breasts. As he does so, you reach out tentatively to touch him, fingertips trailing over his warm skin and tracing the faint scars on his forearms and shoulders – the marks of a seasoned warrior. 

“I love feeling you touch me,” he whispers against your skin, the tip of his nose brushing along the curve of your breast.

“It feels nice when you touch me too,” you agree breathlessly. “I love the way you kiss me.”

His lips skim higher, brushing lightly over your nipple. “Do you?” He asks, and you can hear the playfulness in his tone. His eyes flick up to meet yours as his lips close over the taut peak and swirls his tongue, making you gasp and arch up into him. It’s as if a bolt of lightning shoots right through your body from where he’s touching you, striking straight in your core. You grip his forearms where his hands are braced on the bed, framing your ribs. He swirls his tongue again, and then sucks in earnest.

You writhe beneath him in pleasure, your hips lifting to meet his. It makes his cock rub against your hips and belly, leaving a wet trail in its wake.

He moans against the friction and the sound reverberates through your body, making you even more wet for him. 

“Does that feel good?” He murmurs, moving over to your other breast and repeating his movements.

“Cregan,” you breathe, squeezing your thighs together from the pleasure rushing through you. Your hands sweep up to tangle your fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck as his mouth works over you.

He hums in response, kissing, licking and sucking, until his mouth travels up your neck, his tongue laving over your thrumming pulse. He pauses to kiss the soft spot behind your ear before finding your lips again, your heart hammering in your chest.

You kiss him deeply, needing to taste every bit of him, as he lowers himself so his chest and hips cover yours. He still braces his weight on his forearms, so as not to crush you, but you can feel every muscle clench and ripple against you as writhe beneath him, lost in the feeling of being enveloped by him.

His own fingers card through your hair, and the way the pads of his fingers skim over your skin sends shivers down your spine. “Can I touch you?” He husks in between kisses.

The question makes your shivers turn into a moan, and you nod, lips still brushing against his. You feel him smile against you, and your own smile spreads to mirror his.

Before he makes his way down your body, he grabs a pillow and pulls it with him, setting it next to your hips. Then he kisses his way down, pausing again to flick his tongue over one of your nipples, before leaving a wet trail down your belly and hips. Carefully, he shifts your legs to kneel between them, and then lifts your hips to place the pillow beneath you, with very little effort. His strength is something to marvel at, and you know you’ll always see him differently after tonight. Muscles coiled with desire, ready at any moment to lift you and tug you to him, before lavishing you with pleasure and affection. Your husband. You still can’t believe it – it’s real, he’s real, in your arms.

His eyes meet yours as he settles back down on his stomach, his head so close to your core that you can feel his warm breath tickle your skin. His eyes are glossy, only slivers of gray can be seen now. It steals your breath to be looked at like this – to be gazed upon with such hunger by him.

Slowly turning his head to kiss your inner thigh, he lifts your legs to drape them over his shoulders, before settling down to touch you, as you know you’ve both wanted for so long.

He kisses around your core, as if he wants to make you just as hungry for his touch – as if you aren’t already starving. You feel him smile against your skin as you shift your hips, a small whimper escaping your lips, and then you feel your world shift entirely.

Nothing, nothing, could prepare you for the feeling of his tongue dragging up and down through the wetness of your folds, making you even more drenched for him. You let out a breathy moan, your hands finding his hair again, desperate for something to hold onto as he licks you open.

“You taste even better than I ever dreamed,” he groans against your core, making pleasure throb so deeply inside you, you’re sure the spot could never be reached by either of you. You gasp, your thighs squeezing around his head for a moment before letting go, not wishing to hurt him. 

In response, his eyes meet yours with a playful smile while he shifts up to swirl his tongue over your pearl, with wet, quick flicks. 

“Oh gods, Cregan,” you moan softly, trying not to be too loud. Your fingers tighten in his hair as you try to ground yourself, but you can’t help but grind your hips against his mouth too. The pleasure is like nothing you’ve ever experienced, filling every fiber of your being more and more with every swipe of his tongue.

“Let me hear you, my love,” he encourages you before sucking on your pearl, drawing a loud gasp from you. “That’s it, my beautiful wife,” he says, his voice dripping with desire and affection. “I love the sounds you make.” As he speaks, you feel one of his fingertips drag through your wetness, and then swirl around the entrance of your core. 

Suddenly you’ve never needed anything more than to feel him push inside you, fill you up. 

“Cregan, please,” you plead, pressing your hips down against his digit. He flicks his tongue over your pearl once more as he obliges you, sliding his finger in slowly. You clench around him, marveling at how big just one of his fingers feels inside you. You have no idea how his cock might fit inside you, but you’re desperate to try.

Slowly, sliding in just a bit more, and then sliding back to your entrance, he helps you adjust with each thrust in and out, all while his tongue continues to work over your pearl. It all feels so incredible, making you moan over and over again.

Finally, down to the last knuckle, he curls his finger inside you, brushing over a spot that you didn’t know existed.

You gasp, spine arching off the bed. He tilts his head to kiss your inner thighs while he continues to sweep his fingertip over that spot inside you, as if he wants you to feel just that pleasure alone. It’s overwhelming in the best way, but you whimper when you feel him draw his finger backwards, away from that pleasure, only to arch again off the bed when he presses in again, but with a second finger next to the first. The stretch is pleasure that borders pain, making you gasp.

“You’re doing so well, my love,” he praises you, kissing your hip. “Just breathe for me.”

You do that as he works his fingers inside of you, any pain subsiding almost immediately as he finds that bundle of nerves again, both fingers curling to brush against it. And as he does, his tongue resumes playing with your pearl, sending your pleasure coursing through your body in waves that quickly rise to peak.

You cry out his name as his fingers and tongue move to draw out your orgasm for as long as possible – just like he did earlier in his study. As if he wants nothing more than for you to feel this blissful, this weightless, forever. And when he does finally slow, finally stills, your fingers slide down to brush tenderly against his jaw while he rests his head against your thigh, gaze meeting yours.

“Gods, I want to make you come again and again, everyday, for the rest of my life,” he husks, and turns his head to kiss the center of your palm.

You let out a light laugh and feel him chuckle against your hand.

“I’d like that too,” you agree breathlessly. “Will you…will you teach me how to make you come?” You ask, a little nervously. You want to make him feel the same pleasure you’ve felt – want to be everything he needs and more.

He kisses your palm again before shifting his body, crawling up to kneel between your thighs before dropping down to his elbows once more. Your legs lift instinctively to frame his hips, the pillow still nestled beneath you, and you feel the heft of his cock, hard, hot, and leaking against the apex of your thighs, brushing against your sensitive peal.

“Aye,” he agrees softly, kissing you with such tenderness that you’re sure your heart might burst. “But if you’ve had enough for tonight, we can always continue tomorrow or whenever you feel ready.” He lifts his head to look down at you, and you can see the depths of his love in his eyes. He clearly doesn’t want to overwhelm you, knowing you have the rest of your lives to learn how to make each other’s bodies and hearts sing. How is it possible to love him even more?

Your hands find his cheeks again as your thighs slide slowly along his hips. “I want you,” you breathe, fingers brushing softly against his skin. “I need to feel you inside me. I want to make you feel so good too, Cregan.”

A shudder ripples through his body as he leans down to kiss you once more, soft and lingering. “I love you,” he whispers when he pulls back just a bit.

“I love you too,” you breathe, eyes searching his. He smiles down at you, content, but you can see the hunger and the passion filling his gaze again. And you want nothing more than to feel the full force of his desire.

As if he can read your mind, he leans his weight onto one arm, and snakes a hand between your bodies, his knuckles brushing over your heated skin. He holds your gaze as you feel him take himself in hand, and then press the tip of his cock to your entrance. 

“Just breathe, my love,” he says gently, noticing the hitch in your breath. You do, as he presses himself inside you, just an inch or so, making you gasp at the stretch around him. He stills his hips as he drags his hand back up, framing his forearms on either side of your shoulders. He gently cradles your head in his massive hands, mirroring how you’re holding his face.

Slowly, he moves his hips, pressing a bit more into you. You tilt your head back into the bed, gasping again and squeezing your eyes shut.

He breathes your name, and your eyes fly open again. “Keep your eyes on me,” he says, and you do, finding his eyes again, trusting him so completely. You find you couldn’t look away now even if you wanted to. “Just like that,” he murmurs, thumbs brushing against your cheeks. He slides back out, nearly to your entrance, and then presses back in just a bit more, eyes locked with yours.

And so he sets a rhythm, pulling back and pressing back in just a bit more each time, giving you all the time you need to adjust, all while watching you carefully, his love and protection of you coming through with every thrust he takes. It fills your heart so deeply as he fills you so completely.

Finally, with the last thrust, he buries himself inside you, and you both share the same moan. “I still can’t believe you’re mine,” he gasps, nose brushing against yours.

“Yours,” you agree, “and you’re mine.” He nods in your hands that still hold his face, and then kisses you deeply before drawing his hips out and plunging back into you.

The rush of him against your inner walls sends pleasure cascading through your body, like water rushing over rapids, filling parts of you that you didn’t know existed.

He sets a delicious pace, your legs tightening around him as you clench around his length too.

“Fuck,” he moans, tilting his head to leave wet kisses on your neck, making you moan too. Your arms slip around his neck and your hands clutch at his shoulders, feeling his muscles ripple in time with his thrusts. Your lips brush against his shoulder too, your tongue slipping out to lick at the salty sweat on his skin. He kisses and kisses your neck, and you clench around him again – you can’t help it. He feels so amazing inside you, and his kisses leave you shivering with pleasure, every movement bringing another orgasm to wound tightly in your core.

And then he slows, panting against your neck and presses up to look down at you, amazement on his face. Before you can say anything, he rolls to his side, tugging you with him. He hitches your leg around his hip, stroking your leg in wonder, before curling his arm around your back, warm and strong. Your head nestles against his other bicep, and he kisses you deeply and thoroughly, his tongue swiping sensually against yours.

When he thrusts again, you gasp loudly and arch your back against his arm, for his cock not only reaches a depth you hadn’t thought possible – that place deep inside you that you thought neither of you could ever reach – his tip brushes against that same bundle of nerves his fingers had before.

Pleasure shoots through you like lightning as he does it again and again, making you a moaning mess in his arms, your peak so close. He seems to sense it; seems to note the way you’re fluttering around his length, when he says, “Come for me, beautiful.” He says it again, but this time with your name leaving his lips too. Hearing your name in that deep, gravely voice that you’ve only ever heard in your dreams, and his request, does it for you.

One more thrust has you crying out and clenching around him, your orgasm breaking over you in wave after wave – rolling thunder to match the lightning of pleasure striking through your veins. You find his mouth again for another searing kiss and you can feel his own orgasm before it happens, a tightened throb of him inside you as his muscles coil, and then release. 

He groans your name – something you want to hear everyday for the rest of your life – and buries himself deeper than he has yet, spilling and spilling hot ribbons inside you. You flutter around him, wanting to milk him for every drop, every bit of pleasure. He shudders in your arms, until finally he slows and stills.

He pants against your mouth, and pulls back just an inch to find your eyes. “You’re amazing,” he says, voice sounding wrecked. It makes your clench around him again, and he chuckles, brushing his nose against yours. “Are you okay?”

You nod, a smile spreading across your cheeks as your hands slide down to caress his chest. “I’m perfect.” Your eyes search his. “I’ve never been more perfect.”

His hand brushes softly up and down your spine as he kisses your forehead tenderly.

“Was that okay for you?” You ask, praying that it was.

“Perfect,” he repeats your words. “You’re perfect.” 

You nuzzle into his chest, still amazed that you’re in his arms, that you’ve just made love, that you’re his wife and the Lady of Winterfell. The pain and grief you’ve felt for days now seems to be fading into a distant memory. You’re not completely healed, but you know you he will strive to make sure you are.

After a few moments of blissfully listening to each other breathe, hands travelling softly over the other’s body, he speaks. “I was thinking you could practice your healing skills here too. I know you’ve always favored medicine and helping people, and I’m sure Maester Oryn would be grateful for your knowledge and skills.”

You pull back just a fraction to look up into his eyes, seeing the hope and peace in them. You had no idea he noticed that detail about you – had no idea he’d want you to bring your passions here, to Winterfell, too.

“You remembered that?” You ask, your voice wobbling a bit from emotion.

“Of course,” he breathes, his warm hand splaying lovingly over your back. “I could never forget how brilliant and selfless you are. The North is better with you in it, my love.” He says it with such tenderness, such sincerity, you feel as if your heart is reaching out to touch his.

You close the tiny space between you, kissing him with a love you never dreamed would be possible, but now couldn’t imagine living without.

You lean back into the sturdy, warm body behind you while you gaze down at the twin babies sleeping peacefully in matching bassinets, a content smile on your face. Cregan’s arms are wrapped around you, hands lovingly splayed over your belly. He kisses your neck softly before you feel him turn his attention back to your children. You know his gaze is filled with love too.

Twin boys, who will be taught how to lead the North by both of their parents. Brothers, who you and Cregan will raise to never have cause to betray the other, and to always support one another and maintain peace throughout the North. The future Lord of Winterfell and Lord of the Dreadfort. 

The last fissure in your broken heart has finally sealed over, filled only now with a love that knows no bounds.

©still-jon-snow: This work is prohibited from copying or from being entered into AI software. Thank you.

Dividers can be found here.

[swordgracerecs]

I literally live and breathe your prose, it’s genuinely insane to me how beautiful you write. It’s so awe-inspiring and you are constantly raising the bar for me and inspiring me as a writer. I wish I was even a FRACTION of what you are, because FUCK.

This was so GOOD. The plot, the characterization, every single thing is just mesmerizing. Another masterpiece and it’s just ,,, yeah 🫶 YEAH ITS FLAWLESS.

seriously it’s addicting and it just makes me want to better myself YOU ARE AMAZING ITS AMAZING I LOVE YOU 🙂‍↕️

˗ˏˋ A Golden Council ˎˊ˗ Jacaerys Velaryon

jacaerys velaryon x targtower fem!reader [part five of a golden cage series.] words: 12.2k. synopsis: "The innocent have already begun to drop like flies, Jacaerys. War is here," you whisper, "and it looms with an ancient breath." notes: things are progressing... ugh they're so cute! i hope nothing bad happens to them! warnings: emotional complexities. unreliable narrator. premonition. fluff. canon-typical violence/blood/injury. allusions to torture. survivor’s guilt. character death. angst. religious trauma. bad coping mechanisms. semi-public smut [fingering, f!receiving]. light hair pulling. mentions of hunger/not eating. also eating. foreshadowing. requests closed. previous. series masterlist. masterlist.

YOUR DRESS SKIRTS KISS ALONG THE WET STONE, AN ECHO OF FOOTFALLS INTO THE GRAND CHAMBER. 

Outside, the morning’s cries have bloomed into a thunderstorm – thrust from the bosom of the gods, heavy sheets of rain pelt upon windowpanes, seeping through the crumbling cracks on the outer bailey’s walls. 

Your chambers were cold. 

No hearth lit, scrubbed clean, stripped bare and brandishing a horrid stain swept over by a new tapestry rug, it is a new room now; and just minutes ago, as you’d tugged on the dress selected with your own delicately trembling fingers, cracks of thunder had beat upon the earth and tremored your spine. Jacaerys had posted with your guard just outside the doors. The Sept’s chill had brought you a bout of shivers, and even your betrothed’s cloak fastened tight round your neck did little to quell it. After dressing yourself, you’d stepped wordlessly from the empty room, fraught with ghostly whispers and phantom chokes, tugging your tresses from your neck and facing away from the Prince; and he, tightening your dress for you with dutiful fingers – muscles remembering the fastenings of your dress as though that first night was merely a breath past. 

Your hair falls freely – you could not bring yourself to meet the mirror hanging so hauntingly near your bedpost – and so you remain unobserved by your own wary eyes, focused instead on the visages which twinkle like stars in the abyssal sky of night as you and Jacaerys enter the Grand Hall. 

Your betrothed’s eyes trace your figure – a practice well known now, though you know this morning it is in regard less to your figure as it is concern for the absent look in your eyes; and you grasp the fine black satin of your dress as you bring yourself towards the table glowing and waiting before you.

It is the very dress you’d worn just days earlier to sup with your family – the very dress that’d been the subject of Jacaerys’ childish jabs, of your rage, of the depths of depravity that you’d fallen into with Jacaerys. 

It is that, but it is also the very dress that’d been hand-stitched by Elina. 

And though the torches burn bright against the midmorning overcast, a dismal cool serves to quench any warmth from the room – the hearth licks hungrily at the air as figures surround the painted table, your eyes heavy upon the Queen at the head. 

It is a pall that has been cast over the council; and you have to assume, surely, they have been readily informed of the ructions from last night – the ashes of some distant pyre lit in the haze of a stormy morning.

 And the Queen, carved from stone, stands with a grasp so tight upon the back of her chair, you wonder numbly if the wood might splinter below her touch. The fire licks up her stoned visage in a backlit haunt as your and Jacaerys’ feet fall to rest before your seats at the table. 

The Queen pardons you all to sit, and as you do your eyes meet Baela’s; a fire of concern that burns into the guilt raging within. You tear your stare away from your cousin to meet the burning curve of Gulltown carved along the table’s coast just before you, your nail tracing its indents idly. 

Perhaps it is the table’s burning kiss – a light that illuminates the hollows beneath Rhaenyra’s gaze, the tight set of jaw, the tempest which swarms the shore of her stare as she stares out into the storm that rages beyond the casements. 

It is a look, absent and ruminating, you know too well – and whilst she broods, Daemon, from beside her and with words as sharp as the blade on his hip, relays the night’s events to those who were not in attendance for the spectacle. 

His words, to you, fall on deaf ears – for there lies before you a cup, and your reflection swims in its contents; a ripple when someone shifts, a shutter when thunder rocks the table. Jacaerys, in the faint morning light, looks a picture too young from memory; a watery thing, washed away by the shores of a childhood lost to fate. And Lucerys, when the cup is jolted again – his young visage turned up with a snicker, mimicking his brother’s brow in a line of jest from years past. Your throat tightens inexplicably. 

And, in that way your mind often does, you are reminded of that haunting thought – that shadow cloaked around you, wherever you go. 

Why indeed was it not you in his stead, at Shipbreaker Bay? An unuttered thought, though just as vivid; as if it were ripped from the lips of your own betrothed, or the Queen herself. And as Daemon’s lips form the tale of teas and servants and one-eyed snakes, your own thought rises, smoke unable to die. 

It is thick, living in the tremor of breath, in the curl of lips, in the inching close of your posture; why were you forgiven mercy to cross paths with the Stranger, and not Lucerys? Not Elina? It is an event which taints your very thoughts – a seeping grief, one so blistering that it sinks into the marrow of the air and grasps your throat. 

What fate is worse than theirs that the gods have planned for you? 

You do not spare a glance at any attendant of the council until Daemon has finished the recount of last night’s events; you surface, then, in the middle of some sentence: 

“–And they sent the girl?” Baela’s voice – a shard through the fog of your mind. 

“She named her masters,” Daemon affirms – there lies a bitter satisfaction curling in his tone; your gaze meets his, and nails press crescents into your palms. 

Soon there is a parchment unraveled by Maester Gerardys upon the table, spread across the table’s thick stretch of the Riverlands; and upon inspection it belies a horrifying shake of penmanship, imbued with the distinct kiss of drying blood. You must bite back a bout of nausea at the sight of the scrawled little markings, stomach churning with what must have happened. It could not be less fresh than this very morning. 

Like the rest, Baela leans forward; a silent intake of the jagged script, the remains of blood upon the confession, though you do not dare. 

In a moment of understanding, it sinks your heart below your stomach; your breath lodges in your chest. A note of your own, written so neatly and yet with haste just this very morning – a promise of duty, of matters with Daemon. You glance at Jacaerys, but his gaze is upon his uncle across the way, jaw tight and eyes resolute. 

You sway, sick and light; Had he watched? Had Jace stood by as the girl screamed, as that weakened courage had unraveled, thread by thread, beneath the pressure of shared fury? Did he even flinch?

Your cheek is torn by the sharp bite of molars – and someone speaks, though you remain trapped in the narrowing confines of your own mind, swirling with realization, with possibilities: Jace’s hands, stained with that very same guilt that Daemon wears so brazenly. 

Daemon’s words cut through your thick haze of shock. “She was a servant from the Red Keep. She came at the bidding of the Prince himself; a loyal friend, sent with poison to deliver his message—” 

Your swallow is thick and it is as pulsing as your own heartbeat when the words come: 

“Aemond One-Eye.” 

And though no one speaks, the words chill the air, tighten throats, cast sidelong glances; your dress is pressed tight to your thigh, a clammy palm soothing in some self-regulatory attempt to cast aside the attention so unwillingly brought to you. 

And for your part, you cannot speak; the girl’s confessional inked by an unsteady hand bleeds together in your vision – and the enormity of it is numbing. 

Aemond has killed kin before – and it is no revelation, no bolt of sudden shock, to realize that his hatred for you has festered beyond the pale confines of mere words. 

No, it has always lived there, sharp as a sapphire eye in the cold light of flame, hungry as a hound starved in the dead of winter, patient as a wolf in wait. 

It has always been known, as the pains of your mother and the shame of your own name, that the seeds of his loathing would one day seek a darker bloom than mere words. 

Perhaps, as sure as you were the branch of olives extended weakly across a chasm in youth, as sure as you are now the tie that will bind the smallfolk to the Black Queen – perhaps as you are these things, so too you are to them — to everyone — simply a vessel. Carrying a name, carrying blood, carrying an excuse, carrying defiance, carrying sins – carrying a future that cracks, that seeps smoke, ash, blood, and ruin. 

And perhaps now more than ever it occurs to you: Gone are the days of innocence, of war written with ink and quill. 

Lucerys’ slaying marked the smothering of whatever last flicker there may have remained of childhood affection. Of shared lineage, of recognition of the fiery blood which pulses the same through all of you. Gone are the days that, in some childish dream, you might see your brother’s laugh again, see the shine of hair glinting in the swordyard, hear that humming song of beetles through a chamber door. It is a certainty, now:

You are a thread to be cut, a piece to be moved from the board. 

To Aemond, to them — your life, that fickle thing that became inconsequential the moment you took your dragon to the sky and left for Dragonstone – your life matters far less than this war, than this pain, than the endless, aching thirst for power and retribution. 

Aemond One-Eye.

It seems that once more, the conversation has continued on without you – and you rejoin in a hazy blink of numbness to Daemon’s sharp lilt.

 “This is no work of Otto Hightower,” He claims to a suggestion of falsities, “The Hand plays a game. Precise, careful. He would never risk the pretense of honor to kill his granddaughter – though, Aemond…” 

Your eyes meet Daemon’s –  within them lies a troubling appetency. 

“That one is unburdened by such concerns.” 

A lull, graced by a crack of thunder – and then a burst of bright light upon the sullen frames of shoulders – and the quiet cracks too, a splintered thing that brings a swarm of foreboding through you in the silent chamber. It has always been known, you are reminded. 

Queen Rhaenyra’s head lifts – emboldened by the beastly chill that laces her visage; her voice is quiet, sharp. “She came for the future Queen.” 

Your stomach pools in a horror, some numb thought of a future burdened and murky. The future Queen — to be referred to as such might have once put a proud curve to your lips, but now just brings you closer to that precipice you must not name. 

Daemon’s reply is sharp and litigious as ever – a far cry from the slithering smirks and teasing mirth from just the day before. Gone is any such semblance of taunt; all that remains is wrath. 

“And she failed,” He reminds the Queen. 

At this, Rhaenyra snaps up straight, whipping her voice across the chasmed chamber as her chair scrapes against stone. 

“My son is dead!” 

A reverberation through the chamber – an echo that could send forth a murder of black winged creatures through the sky, that could stir the deepest of untamed beasts from their homes in the underbelly of the Mont. 

You are not the only one to tense in the chamber. And beside you, Jacaerys’ eyes shine – with vindication, with torment. Outside, the wind howls and wails; tears lament the casement behind you, and across the island, the empty Sept weeps quietly. 

“My son,” she repeats in a harrowing, splintered voice, “was slain by that monster – and now he dares take her too?” 

And there lies that spectre – the one which waits in the shadows of each council and curls fists, draws hands to swords, presses quills to parchment. 

She shakes her head – the glint of a golden crown aches in the kiss of firelight. Thunder clouds moan ominously outside the castle walls. “I will not suffer it. I will not lose another.” 

Your throat, held in a choked pain, that empty lingering of sorrow. Grief knocks upon the door of the chambers, it pelts upon the windows, it slides down the stone walls. It kisses the guilt which lives in your chest, which blossoms something darker and less known; and your eyes avert towards the table once more, ignoring the twitch of your betrothed’s fingers underneath the table, flexing upon his thigh. It is an effort to not reach across the empty space between you and cradle his palm in your own. 

A voice finds traction in the aftermath of the Queen’s words – though you’ve hardly enough capacity to recognize the owner as foreboding hatred swirls in your heart. “What is to be done?” 

A short exhale, and then – and as clear as the Sept’s bell chimes over hills, the Queen nods. “The girl will pay for her crime.” 

A whisper of death, that horrible thing – it curls through the hall, blowing a chill down your spine – and the room is as still as death itself, as though the Stranger looms just outside the doors, biding his time. 

But the Queen has not finished; her eyes burn; soon venom drips from the blades strapped to each man at the table –  the scent of smoke is thick, it clouds your mind in a hazy fog, twisting the rainfall into the beat of wings in the air, to the whoosh of arrows, the roar of turbulent waters – of the rush of earth far below, wind through hair, the last scream of battle. 

Her voice is sharp and heavy – wind off icy slopes, fire burning villages peppered with snow; villagers fleeing like frantic ants in a sugar bowl. Crushed beneath the heel of hatred and fury and wrath. 

“I want Aemond Targaryen.” 

THE SKY STILL WEEPS WHEN THE GIRL IS BROUGHT FORTH.

The servant girl is bound by wrist and dragged before you before the sun reaches its crest in the sky; sheltered by thick clouds, cloaking the island in a dark haze. 

She does not yet weep – though her lip trembles, her eyes darting around the chamber, it is not until her sight befalls Daemon that true terror lights the color of her stare. It is all the confirmation you need. 

Knees fall shaken before the dais where Queen Rhaenyra sits. Imposing as ever in the dismal dark cloud of weak day, she is flanked by Daemon and Corlys; and you, lingering idly and emotionless behind the Queen, feel heavier than the rolling clouds high above. 

Baela’s warmth, just a breath away, provides only a scarce bit less comfort than Jacaerys, who stands in wrath beside you; though you do not waver at the blossoming stains of wounds streaking the girl’s skin before you, still your stomach clenches. 

She weeps soon enough. Pleas fall from her split lips, breaths trembled into the cold air – it is in less than a moment that the girl is left upon her knees that Queen Rhaenyra rises; a dark river of blood-red silk and a crown glinting in the low light of storm. 

It is a deceptively calm voice that reaches through the silence of the chamber. 

“You sought to poison my kin.” 

The girl’s babbling ceases, though tears thick and fat slide over her sullen cheeks. 

“To take the life of a royal Princess – who is as much my daughter as she is my father’s daughter.” 

In the pit of your stomach comes a festering, long-hibernated thing; a violent spill of gratification, of a starved and upended desire to be loved, to be cherished. A flickering memory – that first time, weeks ago, when you’d stumbled weary and bloody onto the Island; Perhaps, you have always bore this burden. 

“You will pay for your treachery, and for the innocent life taken.” 

And despite the girl’s tears, large and lamenting as the rain that slows outside, it is in a deep tone that Daemon reads aloud the girl’s confession – guilt laid for all to hear; and you with a growing numbness in each turn of coerced sentence, each stuttered breath the girl takes as her eyes watch the glint of Ser Erryk’s blade. 

But as they read through the confession, a glint sends a tremor through you – the haunting green of eyes; the lick of silver in a scar across her wrist, glinting in the low stormlight. There is a twitch to her lips – she pleads with you now, you realize with a dropping horror. Mercy.

A sickening pit in your stomach opens; you swallow down the lilting voice from the eve before. Elina, with her fingers threaded in your hair: 

But the smallfolk love you.

A bitter thing, that is. Your own life, attempted by the brother who’d taunted and whispered, snapped in the crowded street – they do not love you, he’d promised; They are dogs at the foot of a table, grateful for scraps discarded from hands that feast. 

And she was, you know deep down. She was kneeled before his greedy, cunning hands — simply waiting her turn for a bite. In a way, you cannot blame her. Though you do not look away, and you do not lament for her impending death. 

The sentence is pronounced; flames lick up the dark slated stone walls, and Jacaerys’ shoulder brushes against your own. It is an old habit – that starving, crawling reflex which spurs your mind: 

May the gods judge her with mercy where we cannot; may her soul find peace where we could not offer it; may the fire take her sins – as it will someday take us all.

The words whisper in your mind as Ser Erryk draws his sword, and they are a fragile shield against the weight in your chest. A plea for absolution; for her, for yourself, for all the blood that has yet to be spilled. 

And with the rustle of armor, your heart lurches. 

The blade rises. 

It glints in the chamber, and you lament that this procession was not under the weeping sky, where the sins of your line and the rivers of her blood might be washed away in streams. 

A warmth finds your own hand, then – slow, a hesitant drag of knuckle over the top of your hand – and in a rush of comfort, your palm turns over to accept him. Jacaerys’ fingers link between your own, locking your palm in warmth, a squeeze tight as the blade glints above the Queensguard armor. You do not look at each other.

In a breath of pain, you squeeze back – his pull brings you to his side closer, and the satin of your black gown grazes his own dark cloak, still damp from this morning. 

The blade falls. 

A horrifying sound, a gasp muffled by the turn of your gaze towards Jace’s shoulder – and with a sickening silence, the rain has ceased. 

The chamber is silent, but for the trickling pulminations aching onto the stone before the body. Your stomach churns. For your sake, a life has once again ended. 

In the aftermath, Daemon simply turns to leave – and at the question of his daughter, he reveals only a clipped sentence: He goes “to visit the prisoner.” 

Numb, you do not think anything of it; and the doors echo through the room. Dresses, cloaks, tresses and trousers ruffle as the council is dismissed; Ser Erryk wipes dark streaks from his blade. 

A foreboding swirls in the ripples of forgotten goblets by the doors; in the blood on the stone floor, which glistens sickeningly in the torchlight; a horrifying thing, one that echoes the price of treachery – and in the faces of most around you is no relief, no victory. 

Your gaze is frozen in a glance, then another, towards the corner of the hall; blinking away a vision of a cloaked, hooded figure you swore was just stooping near the dark. 

A haunting shadow, one that disappears as you blink: A spectre of what is to come. 

Smoke to be fanned.  

Blood to be spilled. 

IN THE WAKE OF THE RAINSTORM, WELL AFTER THE SUN FELL FROM THE SKY, CAME THE FOG. 

It crawled from the shadows across the sea; lumbering like the distant stirring of giants, it slid across the glassy water and choppy tide, lurking upon the Dragon Bridge and slithering into Aegon’s Garden. 

Night fell early today – though you spent most of the day perched at your casement, worrying your lips raw with thoughts that could not leave. It was not until the sky was blanketed by the relief of night, and stars littered its visage, that the anger came; and when it did, it was vicious, irrational. 

Dripping from the ends of your hair, leaking from billowed breaths as you clasped your cloak tighter to the shoulder of your doublet, your hatred steeped long and resenting within your heart. 

Now, the yard is still as it has been in the moon and a half since you arrived; it is quiet, the night biting at your nose, kissing your cheeks with a chilly hiss as the blade in your hand glints under torchlight. 

It is a poor hack which you unload at the straw-stuffed dummy before you – clumsy and misaligned, your stance falters and wavers. The steel in your palm is heavy, and your arms tremble with the unfamiliar burden; screaming muscles, aching throat – though sweat beads along your brow, you ignore the throb of fear and anger which twist in your chest. 

Each swing brings about another flash – whispers, a bloody parchment; a lifeless body, the thud of a final gasp. A face, hollowed and absent. The pelting onslaught of rain, blood bubbling from a gasping mouth – the grasp of a girl trying to remain in the realm of the living. 

And you, helpless, guilty. 

A cruel joke, your mind plays: Because in an effort to cast away the horrid dredges of your memory come forth the more pleasurable ones. 

Unbidden and brash are the memories of kneeled Princes, of lips plush and pursing around quiet prayer; of fingers straining against a nightgown, of a sigh pressed into your own mouth. Visions of a grin set apart by a longer memory of sinned tongues, wandering fingers, and hands grasping starched sheets. 

The Sept, heavy with desire and transgression, with death and life and whatever odd thing lies in between.  

You slip only slightly on the mudded ground, breath pluming as fog swirls below – a strain to recall just days before the words of instruction from Jacaerys, hands adjusting your grip on the hilt, fingers brushing your own. 

Any effort to cast out thoughts of your horrid desires, the burning warmth that blossoms and festers at the thought of his hands on your skin, is futile. An exhale falls sharp from your lips, eyes tired as you swing again; nothing but an intact dummy and a ringing in your forearm, you curse quietly under your breath. Failure pricks at your pride, whispering inadequacy and impending danger. And so you push forward. After all, the blood of a Hightower is thick in ambition.

“Your footwork is abysmal,” comes a voice from the shadows – rich and familiar, though in your state, still you startle. 

Your turn is sharp to meet Jace, crossing the darkened edge of the yard under the faint light of torches. And perhaps, had you felt any less bristled, you would have admired the expression leaking from his visage – bemused, exasperated, but wholly and effortlessly handsome. 

Your affection translates rather seamlessly to irritation. “Shouldn’t you be abed?” You retort – a stubborn one you’ve always been, hoping to steady your breathing as memory of the last shared solitude between you resurfaces once more. Your huff is quiet, “It is quite late.” 

Boots drag against muddy gravel, and he hums a low thing, sending a warmth down your spine. 

“Perhaps. But here you are,” he counters, always one for a verbal spar – and his eyes rove rather slowly over your figure before flicking to the target of your anger in all its straw glory. “...Waging war against straw and sticks.” 

You pay little mind to the curling amusement in his countenance nor the uptick in your own lips that you school easily. A raise of your blade, hoping to recall any such stance that might belie half the skill you wish to possess. “I need the practice.” 

He is quick, dry. “For what, exactly?” A glossy curl falls into his eye as he tilts his head, lips twitching, “Cutting your own hand off?” 

And it is odd, for him to mask his worry with humour – you bristle in defiance, knowing if you succumb to his plot to distract you, you’ll be nothing more than a green-girl breaking in a blushing fit – and the emotion that pricks at your eyes is quelled by a tight swallow.

“Spar with me,” you demand instead. 

He seems to find this amusing – in a raised brow, he shakes his head. “You’ve held a blade for all of three days, Princess.” 

Your jaw sets. “Then this should be easy for you, Prince,” you shoot back with a half step towards where he lurks at the edge of the foggy courtyard, beside the bannister overlooking the restless sea. 

For a moment, he regards you – you, in a muddied dress, hair messed and cheeks rosy from the cold; and in that dark gaze, you feel warm and still chilled to the very bone. 

He exhales quite slowly, a light shake of his head. “I won’t.”

You resist a sharp sigh, ticking your jaw. The blade falls as you drop your arm, the tip dragging in the mud as you take another step towards him. 

“I’m not made of glass, Jace.” 

And at your tone, he takes on his own patience. “You are not,” he agrees, “But I’m no fool, either,” he purses lips, wettened with his tongue. “Grief and anger are poor sparring partners.”

You falter at his words, sage as they are hypocritical. 

Some burning anger still festers, some resentment for the world that has chewed you up in a shipwreck of loss and spat you back onto untread shores; some disdain that nests clear in your heart and threads a tale for future loss and future sorrow – that warns of dreams past, of dreams soon to come – it burns. 

The blade is lifted before you can even think twice. 

And he, staring at you for a brief moment as you levy the steel, and then down to the very blade that lies level just upon his nose. 

Your hand is not steady; for it is a stark memory, a mirror reversed in some sick trick of the eye, moon past and breaths far since fallen. 

His gaze locks onto your own, dark and searching again – and there is a flickering there. He remembers. 

A memory shared in twin agony; two sides of the same mad coin. 

He remembers, and you can see it in the way his lips part, the way his brow knits upwards; that moment, now long ago and yet so burned into you both — a blade held between you, a desperate attempt to wield control in the face of everything so very uncontrollable – and a shaking palm, a whispered defiance.

The faint scar across your palm that still lives. 

Jacaerys doesn’t move, doesn’t flinch – and with a signet ring glinting in the torchlight, he reaches up slowly. 

You cannot blink before he is taking the blade into his palm and gripping. 

There is no sound to the contact – your breath hitches, and the sight of his palm closing over the sharp steel stings; salt in a wound. Dots of dark blood well from where the blade bites into flesh, crimson and soon weeping gently down his wrist. 

You’re struck with some horror. “J-Jace,” you falter, words falling from your lips in a frosted whisper – and your grip falters, though he does not let go. 

A shiver falls down your spine as you swallow down the rush of anger arisen. 

At the thought of Jacaerys, at the thought of your father, long since burned and gone from the realm of men; at the thought of the man you once called brother – the one who sent that knife so willingly towards your throat. At the whispering voice of your mother, which still curls around the corners of your mind and spits sin into the shadows. 

It is Jacaerys, you remind yourself. And perhaps, you have both always bore this burden. 

And when his voice comes, it is firm.

“Skoros iksis aōhon iksis ñuhon.”

The sword is heavy; his words are heavier. What is yours is mine. 

Blood drips slow down his pale palm, steady as what you’ve done, what you did – what you will do. 

And then your grip slackens entirely; his fingers tighten around the blade, refusing to release it as emotion stings in your eyes, breathing heavy as you shake your head. 

The blood is slow but it is real, and it comes from your betrothed. 

A fear – one that scratches its talons down your spine and claws at your throat; the burden of sharing, of becoming one. 

You nearly whimper as the sword lowers, slipping from your hands as your arms fall limply to the side. “Kesā botagon syt ziry,” your words hang in the yard: You will suffer for it. 

And for a moment, he does not move; the blade is now in his own fingers, wrapped and bloody as you tremble, a leaf in the dawn of winter. 

The hilt hits the mud – and perhaps in his gaze you find the emotion you cannot name, that ache in your chest that pounds with each breath you struggle to find. 

When the blade finally falls, his blood-slicked fingers leave smears of crimson upon steel; and his hand falls to his side, eyes still locked and unrelenting upon you. 

It is this reverent stare – a whisper, one from when the day was still lit with lighter stormclouds – this morning, when it cleansed itself with torrential pours and you and your betrothed ducked your heads under the gaze of seven strange gods. 

It is this stare you find again, calling to you, whispering. For the future… That I might be worthy of it. 

Of the realm, and of those who are beside me.

And just as the echo of his words reverberate in your mind, the days catch up to you; in a dizzying spell of empty chested-gasping, your knees buckle rather ungracefully. 

Jacaerys catches your back swiftly, uncertain; as though he knows not where to purchase them without overstepping. And he murmurs your name low – the bloodied hand comes to rest at the small of your back, warm and firm despite the sting you know it must carry. 

Your own grasp his shoulders, pulling him into you, unable to bear the stare of his gaze.

Your apologies are swallowed by the threat of tears – vicious things that prick at your eyeline and tremble your lip, though you swallow hard and blink away the haze clouding your vision. His embrace is hesitant as it is welcoming, hands light but steady all the same. 

Your own shaky grasp curls into the affection you so desperately dreamt for in youth – from upturned chins of your kin, from the avoiding gaze of your father, from the unreachable hands of your half-sister, from the cold pity of your mother. 

But Jacaerys is here now; he is here because fate has brought him to you, as you have been brought to him. And tresspasses must be gone, forgotten, swallowed by the irascible pit of youth – and in its wake must bud something else entirely. 

Your hands hold him, and they feel cleansed. 

It is a long moment suspended in the embrace of each other – the moon dances shyly behind thin clouds, and the shadow of a beast tattered and wild flickers high upon the Mont in the East. 

“Come,” Jace says at last – a light brush of his palm to your sleeve – and he guides you towards the banister overlooking the steep walls of the castle. 

Down below the sprawled stone walls, the fog crawls back in retreat; a dance with the tides, a waltz whose steps you know quite well by now. Soon, the slow march of fog will retreat in the longer slumber of eve; and it will return hungry and crawling in the wake of morrow to claim the fishing boats which depart from the docks. 

Jacaerys is a warm pillar beside you, blocking the brunt of seabreeze and bringing back the warmth to your cheeks. 

Down the coast is a cluster – the fishing docks and a gaggle of homesteads, lit by specks of torches. The waves rock in a slow dance against rafts, and the lanterns bob gently in the lick of tide. The thought pangs at your stomach as grass blows down the mountain in ripples lit by the moon – Elina’s lover, the boy with the bubbling laugh and a heart of the sea –  does he look out upon the same glassy moonlit waters as you do now, and hear her name in the waves? 

When will he learn she is one of the first of many spoils of war? 

Your head turns to dip, hands braced against the cold stone bannister; Jacaerys does not speak. He waits for you to come to him, as if he knows in some way, you always do. And when you break the silence, your voice barely carries over a whisper to the wind. 

“What good am I,” you wonder, “if I cannot even wield a blade properly?”

His breath curls in the air just above your eyes and you watch it dissipate against the starry sky. “You cannot learn to fight in days,” He insists, your name lilting from his lips in a bitter release of truth. 

The words are honest, yet they chafe at you; and in defiance, your eyes flicker skyward and roll with exasperation.

“And that is precisely the problem,” you sigh; along the coast, a flock of small birds circle and dip beneath the glassy shore. “Why did I not, too, grow up with callouses on my palms and steel in my hand?” 

He has no words to soothe the bitterness upon your tongue. 

The fog ebbs; spare tresses loose from your tied hair flick across your vision – you tame them briskly with a hooked finger. 

Along the line of small village shacks far below the castle, there is one torch still lit, casting a tall shadow down the rocky path – and wavering just as its flame, your voice is not as strong as you hope. 

“The innocent have already begun to drop like flies, Jacaerys.” 

Wind whistles gently. “War is here,” you whisper; A vision of a stirring beast, high above, scorching the papery wings that float just above a raucous sea. War is here, and it looms with ancient breath. 

Your words seep into the night, a melted thing that burrows itself into your marrow and twists your heart into a frigid stone. 

“You are not the only one who… feels what’s to come,” his voice lacks heat – instead he delivers his position with a rigid sureness that merely gnaws at the guilt in your stomach. 

A hand remains curled against the stone, a crimson fist as he leans opposite you on the balcony, “But you’re not helpless, even if you believe so.”

The sea is tamed at this hour; it is quiet and shy, kissing the fog which rolls over it with a tender affection. “Helpless is precisely what I feel,” Your tone leaks a bitterness, “The gods demand so much, yet they do not arm us with the means to meet such expectations.” 

And your words are a shadow of that tall tower beaming green and watchful; backlit out on the moonkissed training yard, you stand to Jacaerys and watch with a hopeful dread that he might see past the leaking emerald in your veins. 

Jacaerys exhales – his breath curls into the air, his boots scuff softly against the stone. His gaze burns through your visage, and you dare not turn to face him. “Wars are not only fought with swords,” He reminds. “Your strength lies elsewhere.”

You glance at him, your brow furrowing; frustration pricks at you. Your strength. Eyes roll to the heavens once more, lips puffing a plume of breath as you scoff. “–And where is that, exactly? In words? Politics? In being a thorn in your side?” 

And though he does not bristle at your childish jab, he also finds no such answer to provide you in the wake of your small outburst besides a sigh. His breath plumes before you, a rosy blush upon his nose and nipping across his cheeks. The cold has seeped through and begun to weary your bones. Your nail carves along the bannister’s rough stone in an unknown pattern. 

You are bitter and you are sore – but he stands beside you still, watching you with that amber gaze, patient enough to drive you mad. Your lips purse and puff out a plume of breath. “Or, perhaps it is to stand idly by while others fight and die?” 

And you know this stirs him – he, too, itches for the wind on dragonback; for the blade, for blood. It is written into the gold cracking through amber irises – when he cannot provide words in solace, you shake your head. 

You glance at him, silvered and bright against a dark yard. Jacaerys stands in some weary beauty, a tragic gift of the gods in a crumbling world – and yet you find that look he’s so often levied and only of recent times attempted to conceal: exasperation. 

It bristles you once more, though a small part of you knows well that he is correct. 

Your eyes impose upon him a look of similar indignation, crossing your arms across your chest. A scoff comes from your lips. “You’re the heir, Jace. It’s not the same.”

Fingers flex along the stone before you and his signet ring glints in torchlight – Jacaerys does not hesitate when he levies his response to you this time, quiet and intent in the gentle wind. 

“And you’re meant to stand beside me,” his eyes meet your own and they permeate that film of worry, that fleeting heartbeat which skips under his slow stare. With a shake of his head, the line of his jaw cuts through the dark of his cloak. “Not as someone waiting idly for orders. The gods know just as well as I that you would not dare surrender to such a thing. Nor would I wish you to,” His voice is that stern cadence you know only superficially; but it permeates you, it strikes you with an understanding that he is the future King, and you are the future Queen. 

“We must win not just battles, but the war itself – and it is not with steel alone.”

Though he has not finished, and the words that follow strike you with quiet thought. “Do you think Baela any less strong merely because she can’t wield a sword? Rhaena?” He wonders, lips plump and bitten, “My mother?” 

Certainty lies within his words, and you’re struck once more with the weight of the crown not yet placed upon his brow – by the draw of his stare, by the stern curve of lip. 

He’s correct, and perhaps this is the most frustrating of all. 

A good thing, then, that you’ve a match just as stubborn and ardent as your own spirit; how boring it would be to marry one who shares no similar tenacity for resolve. 

And though neither of you dare speak it, the space between you has become a thing of the past – he inches closer still when you turn to face him, ruefully shaking your head and watching his gaze trace the curve of your cheek. You feel his breath and it feels right. 

“Winning wars with words,” your voice is a dry attempt to deflect from the growing tension, from the hitch in your breath. But still, your lips twitch. “You make it sound so very romantic.”

And in your small pride, his lips twitch too – a ghost of a smirk, some spectre of the boy he has no such time to be. But he simply leans his forearms against the chilled stone, tilting his head to regard you from this angle and sighs gently, curls straying and caught in the kiss of breeze. 

You do not tame them for him, though you watch enviously as his hands manage the task on their own. 

“And you make it sound quite tedious,” he counters in a soft timbre, one that vibrates in the wind and settles low within your breast. Your gaze has found the round swell of his bottom lip, and it strikes you that perhaps the conversation has transcended the subject of war and gone to more petrifying territories. 

And perhaps in fear of that very fragile thread which holds you together, your faint smile melts, leaning to rest your arms beside his own upon the bannister. “Perhaps because it is,” You murmur, a quiet and lingering whisper. 

And he knows this; he, of all, knows it well. A muscle tightens in his jaw – a betrayal of the restlessness that has sewn itself poorly constructed sutures into the still festering wound of Storm’s End; it is in the shift of his shoulders, the flex of hands stained in crimson – haunted, perhaps, by the weight of a sword he is desperate to wield. 

It is when the moon shines from behind a measly string of clouds that you jolt in guilt; a puff of breath that leaves almost as a sigh, and Jacaerys’ gaze follows your frame as you turn and stalk away, bending low to retrieve the flagon of water you’d disposed of in your endeavor to wield your iron. 

When you are beside Jacaerys again, it is a soft coaxing that guides his wounded palm from the stone and into your own hand, gently unfurling it in your grasp. You pour the water in a heavy silence, intent on ignoring the heat of his stare upon your face – you choose instead to study how the blood cleanses from his hand in a river of pink, falling quietly to the muddied earth. 

Thankfully the cuts are shallow, superficial; he ensures you he will visit Maester Gerardys this evening; you insist on attending if only to make sure he keeps true to his word. And though he gives you his eyes rolled to the heavens, you still can see the flush growing upon his visage in the wake of your insistence. 

The torches lining the upper bailey walls are burnt low. It approaches an hour unseemly to remain out, if not now; and in the dancing light that fades in the flicker of Jace’s gaze, there lies that same boy who grew too quickly into a man – a burden dragged down by a crown, by a war that neither of you wished for. 

And perhaps you would have done something rather reckless in this moment – for his hair is glossy and curled in the nightfall, and his eyes watch yours with such wide reverence; his cheeks are that same rosy red you’ve come to meet in each memory of your shared trysts, his eyes are wanting and warm – his lips pursed and curved with a wishing breath. 

Perhaps you would have done something reckless – but when your mouth opens, your gaze hitches upon something rather inconsequential in the foreground and you pause. 

A faint flicker of movement along the path leading down to the fishing docks; your visage must reflect the interest you harvest, as Jacaerys too turns to follow your gaze with a blink of interest. 

A hooded figure; faint, carrying a freshly lit torch. 

A cool breeze brings unease to your stomach as your eyes fight the dark to make out any such shape. 

“Who do you suppose walks at such an hour?” 

And perhaps it is merely paranoia – the castle walls are not safe as you once thought, and Jacaerys knows this just as well – though his eyes hook onto the figure and their deliberate steps, jaw ticking as he hums shortly. “I don’t know,” he murmurs, voice slow and pondering. 

It is quiet for a moment; paranoia is a lingering thing these days, curled in the corners in the shadows, in wait like a starved hound; And though you worry your lip with your teeth, Jacaerys sets his hand to brush your own upon the bannister, and you do not pull away. 

Not interlocked, though brushing, you remain – and the hooded figure is swallowed by the foggy outskirts of vision.

Neither of you speak again, your gazes set to the horizon and breaths set in a slow march towards the unknown. 

THE NEXT MORNING, THE SKY SWALLOWS ITS SORROW IN SHY BURSTS OF BLUE.

Clotted clouds roll over hills, pregnant with the quiet promise of rain and thunder; though sunshine peeks through gaps and dapples the waves of green around you. The body of wildgrass shifts in its current, swaying around your untamed tresses, arms of yellow and green grasping your ribs, tickling your knees and kissing your cheeks. 

Across the cliffside meadow, your curling beast rests in a pocket of sun, her scales glinting, ancient breaths echoing through your lungs. There is an eruption, sudden but silent in the distance, of blackened wings of ravens down the valley near Aegon’s Garden – and soon come the shivering ripple of grass along the cliff, trembling to the rhythmic beating of wings. 

Winds shift; smoke and salt come, then, over the cliffside. You’re eclipsed overhead by a great shadow, though you need not look; soon, Vermax’s claws thunder into the ground of the meadow beside his sister. 

You squint against the sunshine, watching great chests expand and deflate in unison; a rhythm written into their molten blood – a tether just as strong as the one that binds you to his rider. 

The shadow of his frame slips from great wings, and you press your palms to your lids to ease the ache of sun glare. 

You should rise – should greet him as propriety dictates, nod your head or at least look up as the Prince crosses to you – but your legs are heavy with the weight of the shy sun, and you instead remain rooted and evergreen in your spot overlooking the great valley of Dragonstone. 

The wind whispers into your ears as he approaches, and you stretch your weary limbs softly, a breath puffing through your lips. 

The cliffs are steep, and drop off into slates of charcoaled black; gleaming splinters of glass glinting in the splotched sunlight. 

It is quiet as Jacaerys lowers himself beside you, cloak pooling against the fabric of your dress. 

His lashes are long, lit by the sun that peeks so shyly from the clots of clouds above. He gazes out to the sea, where the waves swell and crash against jagged stone; a flock of gulls take the sky above you, their gray feathers glinting against the morning light. 

Vermax has begun to chirp to his sister – it is an easy thing, their companionship – and you breathe into the wildgrass that tickles your arms, shivering slightly in the high breeze, tugging your cloak tighter. 

Jacaerys says nothing. 

And, still unspoken, there is something between you; lingering in the gaps between words, in the careful way you glance at each other’s countenances when you believe the other is not aware; there is something in the memory of sharp tongues and sharper tempers. 

In all honesty, it should be gone, that thing; after all that has happened, the blood and death and memories of years spent in mutual condescension – and yet, it remains. 

A hunger, unfulfilled. A flame refusing to die.

You’re unsure as to what drives you to end such silence. 

Your voice slips from the mountaintop, soft and as whispering as the wind that curls around your skirts, driving waves of the wildgrass to ebb and flow. 

“Elina had a lover.”

At your words he turns to you at last. His stare is warm and wary upon your mourning countenance, though he waits for you to continue. 

High above, wisps of clouds stir and circle in a rainbow of mist.  

“A fisherman. He promised to marry her when the war was won.” 

Jacaerys exhales slowly, a thing heavy and knowing. He needs not say anything; for he knows, as well as you, how this tale ends. You wonder if he feels the foreboding in his gut just as you do on your own. 

Salt and earth are carried through the wind between you – and a small grace of the incense sticks he favours to burn in his chambers. Jacaerys’ fingers curl into the grass, grasping, dirt smudging over the bandage over his palm. 

He does this, sometimes. Allows you the grace of quiet, even when his head is filled with too many thoughts. Your hand drifts towards him on its own – a small hope for comfort under the chasm of the open sky – and with a ghosted touch, you feel the bandage beneath your fingertips. 

He does not pull away; instead his gaze anchors once more on your visage, searching as you lift his hand into your own. “So many things left waiting,” you murmur, tracing along the fabric that nurtures the split flesh of his palm – where your sword was grasped just the last eve. 

His voice is just as quiet as your own as his fingers flex beneath yours. It seems he knows where your mind is; Perhaps his has been there all along. “War has always taken more than lives.” 

Your throat tightens. He does not need to say more. 

His shoulder brushes your own, and, without a thought, your hand rises to curl around the fabric of his sleeve, wrapping around his bicep. 

And he does not pull away as you rest your head upon his shoulder, curling into the side of him. A slight hitch in breath, perhaps shared by you both; but he breathes slow and long, his head eventually falling to rest against the crown of your own. 

So you and your betrothed rest in the morning breeze, choppy sea glinting and winking from far below. 

And it happens so very gently — his own hand falls to rest upon the flat of your thigh, precarious but grounding; a heat spreads from it, though there is something so right about his body against yours, about his heart beating just beside your cheek, that you have no mind to pay attention to the guilt of your mother’s voice curling in your breast.

Your dragon takes flight off the cliff – soon, the reflective chartreuse of Vermax leaps in chase, catching the wind and diving in their playful spiral downwards. A gust of smoke and ash, and you watch the water far below ripple as the beating of wings dive in descent. 

Your stomach rumbles in a distant reminder of hunger – your lips purse, hand unintentionally tightening around Jace’s arm as you sigh into his doublet. The drag of his jaw against your unruly hair; and lips that press somewhere upon the crown of your head, a faint skip in your heart. 

“I dreamt of my father last night,” his whisper leaks into your heart, tugging painfully. “Laenor.” 

And it is a thing, you realize – that he clarifies. It is unspoken, that thing that lingers in bad blood and memories of whispers, taunting and cruel from childhood. 

Your eyes shut, swallowing back a thick strike of angst. “He was a good man,” You murmur, breath lost to the wind. Jacaerys hums and you feel it against the warm skin of his neck. It is only a moment before his voice comes again, softer than usual. 

“I wonder if that is enough, in the end.” 

His words bring a quiet; weighted by the shaky breath Jace levies, by the pull you feel, that urge to press against him and never be separated. 

You can only provide him that same gift he’s given you – a listening ear. And he accepts it. “Harwin Strong,” he murmurs then – and your heart lurches at the wavering in his voice. 

Your betrothed does not name his father; but he does not need to. You know who his father was. And you do not hold him any less tight because of it. 

“He was a good man as well,” Jace says weakly, a watery thing.

You pick your head from his shoulder, heart aching with the tremor of loss, of all that has been denied to your betrothed. Your voice comes, and you hope it is enough. “I think he would have liked to see you as you are now,” you whisper, a careful thing as your fingers trace over his tense muscled arm. 

Jacaerys’ fingers twitch; your own trail over the veins which trickle over his hand. His smile is bitter. “I think he would have liked to see me at all.”

And that unspoken thing, nestling in the crack of your hearts – your heart aches, mind tumbling down into a chasm of memory and youth. Your hair catches the sunlight when you turn to watch your dragons in the distance, fishing along the gleaming waters and skimming the surface with their claws. 

A distant memory – the dragons, not any older than a few years, nearly small enough to be lost at a distance, clamoring to bite at the shores of Blackwater Bay. How you’d loved to watch them, then. Youth, you think bitterly – what an odd thing to share. Your brothers, your sister – they are but echoes of you; reflections, bent and warped and twisted and reshaped, but still an echo of your own longing, your own scarcity in the life of abundance. And Jacaerys – he is the same. Blood, and name, and duty; these things, which mean so much and yet so little. 

And in the end, is that enough? 

You glance out to the skyline, where the sea warbles and glints against a line of thickened clouds. Out beyond the plane of rolling thunder, there lies a Keep of red, and a throne made of swords. 

Is that enough? 

Your ruminations are disturbed by a shift in your betrothed’s balance. Withdrawn from his belt comes a pouch – small, velvet; from the kitchens. Your stomach keens at the sight, though your brows furrow, a churning flicker of fear striking your heart. Poison, your mind whispers, tightening your throat and seizing the beats of your heart. 

You’ve scarcely entertained the thought in the days since Elina died; it’s a poor thing, you know; but you’ve been unable to bring yourself to do it, in fear of the curling grasp of your brother’s talons even across the bay. 

His sentence is punctuated by the opening of the bag; a fragrant smell, roasted and honeyed – almonds, just how you prefer them. Your cheeks are hot, heart thudding in your chest. 

“I know you’ve not eaten,” Jacaerys says, offering the candied almonds to you, eyes syrupy pools of amber and honey as they take in the slight lurch in your chest. 

“I’ve no appetite,” you counter, hoping he cannot hear the roar of your stomach. He levels you a stare which, in other times, might coax a stifled huff of amusement from you; though your defiance merely grows as you narrow your gaze to him. 

“I don’t.” You insist, resisting the urge to cross your arms across your chest. 

This bristles him. 

Your attitude, you know, is not a favorable one. Just as you were last night, you’re inclined to resist out of some last ditch for self preservation; Though admittedly, you grow weary. 

The frustration returns to Jace’s voice just slightly as he sighs, leveling you with a stare that belies his patience, despite the way his eyes roll to the heavens and back. It is not the first time such an action, a mirror of your own attitude, has sent your stomach in flutters – a handsome visage indeed, your heart chides. 

His tone is that of a chastising nursemaid as he says your name. “You cannot live on air alone.” 

You turn just so with a strike of defiance in your heart, leaning back on an arm as you glare half-heartedly at him. “It is not your concern, Jacaerys.” Your retort is as much a lie as it is childish, though you set your jaw in indignation. “I am not your concern.” 

The wind is gentle in the silence, and your cheeks heat under his stare. 

He, indeed, does not enjoy the falsities of your words either. It’s only a moment before he closes in – his gaze, darker in the shade of a rolling cloud overhead, and his breath almost kissing your own.

“You are.” 

And there is that fire in his stare, that flicker that should have been long lost or doused yet remains burning, hungry. Possessive. He tilts his head to level with your own, and your pulse quickens. 

His lips nearly brush against yours; and despite yourself, your breath catches. 

Jacaerys’ voice is slow when it meets your ears. “Whether we will it or not. You are.” 

The space between you is unbearably small, your cheeks quite hot – and Jacaerys, brow stern, gaze set upon you. His own cheeks are rosy, fingers twitching upon your thigh as if he just realized where they remain, heavy, purchased. The wind has died; the almonds rest still in their velvet pouch. 

Your jaw ticks in some half-exasperated, half-hungry way; and it is unmistakable when it happens. 

Though it is a quick flicker, you see it: Jacaerys’ gaze, frustrated, insistent – dropping to your lips and flickering with something. A quiet memory of the empty Sept yesterday morning, of the moments stolen in your chambers, of the painted table pressed into your back, his lips upon your own. 

And that flame, that thing that remains despite it all – it flickers in your stomach, sparking and igniting as your eyes lock onto his in the soft light of the late morning. 

You don’t look away. 

The silence is taut as you slowly reach out, still caught in the churning gaze of his stare, still breathing your breath into his own, still ignoring the flutter in your chest. 

You take the almonds from his palm, though your jaw is set and your stare is blazing into his own. 

The almonds are sweet – a welcomed taste to the bitter guilt that’s kept you petrified for a long time; and Jacaerys watches with heavy eyes, locked upon your own, sending a flip to your stomach. 

It takes little time before his contact is broken, his gaze dropping to your lips as you press a handful to them, lashes fluttering as he lets out a nearly imperceptible exhale. 

But you certainly hear the tremor, as his gaze hooks on the ease of your tongue across your lips. 

A tightened jaw, the flicker of eyes, and you burn. 

You break your own stare when the heat becomes too much; your pulse spikes, though perhaps Jacaerys has executed his trick – for the pouch is empty, and your stomach is satiated. Though in its wake grows a new kind of hunger, fresh and yet familiar, and burning much too bright. Perhaps that, too, was a trick – a welcomed one. 

A bite of a plush lip, and you no longer attempt to conceal the flames of desire which lick up your throat. 

Down below, within the ramparts, the old Sept’s bell begins to chime. 

The sun has hit its crest in the sky; you and Jacaerys watch as a flock of dark wings depart from the bell tower and take towards the wooded forest beyond the Dragon Bridge. 

The bell chimes once more, and your mind drifts with its toll, wondering if it will sound any different when the chimes are not to signify the apex of daylight, but instead the celebration of a union. 

Something stirs in the pit of your stomach, the shadow of dragons passing overhead. “It’s not fair,” you murmur – and as Jace shifts beside you gently, his hand still purchased light and warm upon your thigh. 

He hums in that way he often does, his bandaged palm tracing the subtle crease of fabric upon your leg; you feel the heat of him through the fabric and repress a shiver. 

A scoff-like sound, almost bitter in its descent, falls from your lips. You shake your head, tresses stray and blowing around your head. Waves crash into the slated walls of the cliffs down below. 

“I should have wanted the waiting,” you admit, cheeks hot, heart aching. 

He swallows, and you see it in the way his throat moves. The sun kisses his profile, that profile which was drawn in the vision of the gods, in the love of the realms, in the blood of the ancients; a profile which brings a sickening yearning to your heart. 

He smiles, and though it is bitter, it is still radiant. 

“And I should have had the time to.” 

That’s it, you realize quite suddenly; there is no time left. There is a horrible feeling in your gut when you glance from Jacaerys to the horizon, where boats dot the sea like flecks of mud upon boots; where invisible people pull invisible fish onto the docks and ship them to invisible soldiers who will soon march with the banners of your betrothed. 

Your lips press together, and you repeat the words you’ve had beat into your spine since the very night that your father departed the realm of the living. 

Your lips curl. “War does not wait.” 

Jacaerys laughs softly, and though it is humourless, it is soothing to your burning veins. It is a mirror of the passion, the anger in your heart. “No,” he agrees, “It does not.” 

His lips are pink. Freckles kiss the slope of his nose, peppering his jaw; The wind brushes his hair from his brow. His eyes seem to take in those delicate and distinct features which make up your own visage, and you are struck with an immense emotion for which you have no name. There is no time left – there never was. 

You are hesitant, though the words still fall from your lips as you glance at him, at the soft warm glow glaring right behind the haloed ring of light above his curls. War does not wait. 

“So why should we?” 

His breath catches with your words, the syrupy blink of long lashes, of searching, willing eyes. You watch back with a fire you see reflected in his own gaze.  

A swallow, the slide of his bandaged palm up your thigh, sending a shiver of want through you. 

You meet him as eagerly as ever before, your lips pressing to his own with the thirst of the tide. 

It is no long-awaited thing; it is no breathless, heart-stopping kiss, but it is you and Jacaerys, alone and together, desperate and hungry and vengefully direct. There is no time for waiting any longer – your body aches to be against his own, and his sings the same song of desire as he presses against you with a small noise. 

Against your lips he murmurs your name – barely a breath as he tilts back into you, not gentle nor hesitant. It is urgent, raw – it is written by the words unspoken, by the feelings that draw both of you to tremble in the darkest hours of night; sand, slipping through fingers. His lips are warm, and his tongue is insistent against your own. 

The press of his chest, the grasp of your fingers in his curls; a slow and languid slide of his mouth over your own. A thumb strokes at the hinge of your jaw and your stomach flutters as he coaxes your lips open further for him. 

His breath shakes with that same fire you saw yesterday – that vengeful look, which drove duty and wrath together and what builds an immense desire within you at his touch. 

You take what you want from each other, and you do it willingly. 

It does not take long. He shifts, pressing you back into the wildgrass; and the sky yawns wide above you as he comes to hover above you, freckles littering his cheeks and a flush creeping along the slope of a regal throat. 

Lips feather over your mouth, down to your jaw, dipping to the hollow of your throat; an overwhelming desire clutches you, your eyes falling to the distance as his teeth graze your pulse; the pale stones worn with wind and weather – the Sept. 

You’re struck with the vision of a slipping shadow, looming in the depths of the altar, watching with a hooded visage; watching again in the Great Hall as blood leaks red and warm from an expiring life. 

And yet, all you can think of is him – Jacaerys, his hands dragging along your curves, his lips pressing, his breath lingering warm and unsteady against your skin. 

Your own hands find him in a hunger unrivaled; tugging him, whispering his name, pressing into the hard line of his body. 

He drinks your sighs, inhaling your breaths as you tug him to your own waiting lips as if you are starved. 

And still, there is guilt: a familiar thing, that pressure festering below your ribs. The staining of your palms with blood, innocent and spilled. 

But there is also anger.

Anger that you will never have the chance to enjoy the pleasures of marriage, to revel in love, or whatever might bloom in its absence, without the looming shadow of war. Anger that your life is not your own; anger at the chains of duty and blood. And so you press into him, taking – because that is all war does, in the end. And you are done waiting. 

And he feels it too— you taste it upon his tongue, within his grasp; possessive, hungry, desperate. The meadow is warm in the cool morning, and you let Jacaerys press against you, you let your hand slide up his face, feeling the fresh shaved slope of his jaw, feel his tongue against your own and the soft sigh he lets against your own lips. 

You melt into Jacaerys as wings beat high above your heads, as the sea churns below you, as a Usurper sits across the bay on a throne of iron, as arms are gathered leagues away. 

The thought festers still, even as Jace’s palm glides up from your calf, catching on the fabric of your skirt and sliding it up with him. A fierce arousal licks up your core at his touch, and you keen – though still the thought lingers, and you have to say it; perhaps in the hopes that he will soothe such fears, that he will assure you that fate does not have such a grip on your bloodline as you dream. 

Dreams, dripping with terror and whispers of death, try to grasp at your mind with their spiny talons; but you are warm, now, and your mind as wrapped with Jacaerys. Still, your voice tremors against his lips. “This will change nothing.” 

And Jacaerys puffs a breath against your jaw – a grin, one rueful and yet knowing – and his words are whispered low into your ear. Soothing, vengeful, promising. 

“Then let it be nothing.” 

Gods. 

You shudder as his lips find your throat, his hands dragging up the fabric of your dress, skimming along your trembling, wanting skin. The sun is bright. Your fingers slide beneath his tunic, mapping muscle, dragging against warm skin, slowly tracing lines of tension and want.

Let it be nothing.

Let it be ruin. 

Let it be whatever it must be.

Fingers trail up your dress skirts, leaving raised goosebumps in their wake as he breathes into your neck. You tug him closer, sighing into his ear as he skims over the aching need that pools between your legs. “Please,” you beg of him, knowing he hears the unspoken words in your voice. 

And with a jolt of pleasure, his touch finds your heat. You arch into his fingers, thighs parting wider as he exhales in desire. 

The wildgrass billows in waves; Jacaerys cradles you, pressing his lips to your thundering pulse as you suck in a sharp breath, eyes fluttering. 

He shushes against your lips faintly, just as two fingers slide slowly into your warmth; you inhale sharply at the pleasure, his breath trembling against your skin.  

It is bliss. 

A hungry, raw thing – the desire to push him over and crawl onto his lap; to let him have you, to claim him as your own, to let him claim you as his – it strikes need hot within you, and you shiver when he presses his fingers fully into you. Deep, slow, euphoric. 

And after just one moment, he begins to move; a slow soothing rhythm to the aching throb of desire that grows when he shifts and nudges you, pressing you flat on the grass below.

He joins you when your palms grasp his shoulders, balanced on one arm with his fingers caressing your hair; and the other between your thighs, slow and intent, driving you closer to the bliss you so chase.  

Your hips move against his ministrations, a quiet shutter when he hums against your lips, murmuring your name and crooking his fingers. Your own grasp is tight in his hair, and at your insistence of tugging the curls through your fingers, his lips part in a low groan of his own. 

Pleasure is a simple thing, when it is with Jacaerys. 

The sun beats down upon his frame, pressed above you, curls kissing your warm cheeks as you shake through your pleasure, pulling him closer, whispering words of need, words of desire. 

Let it be nothing, his voice chides in your mind; and a moan of his name from your kiss-bruised lips, head tilting against the grass as his thumb finds you and presses gently. He swallows your sighs with his own, shushing you only once when you whimper into his throat. 

Let it be nothing. 

Your hips leave the grass below, and he is gentle in the way he pushes you back down, his stare reverent, lips parted, eyes taking in each small expression of pleasure upon your visage. He groans softly, pressing his forehead to yours, breath heavy, ragged. His fingers stroke, tease, and you arch against him, gasping at the slow, torturous pleasure. 

The sun climbs behind dappled clouds. His fingers work to unravel you, even as your eyes roll back once more. Even as the wind kicks and ruffles his curls; even as you tug him impossibly close. 

Even as the Sept bell begins to ring once more. 

Through the haze of desire, both you and Jacaerys falter only slightly – it is unusual to ring the bells after midday; though they strike a third time, and you know. 

War Council is called. 

Something in you deflates – though the chiming of the heavy bell far below does not seem to phase your betrothed, as he soon resumes his ministrations, bringing a sharp gasp to your lips as a hazy warmth of pleasure stirs once more. 

A huff of shock from you curbed by a dreamy sigh, his lips pressing to the soft spot below your ear. A wonderful distraction, he is – you feel yourself dangerously close upon the precipice of bliss as he quirks a small smirk, some flicker of aroused amusement at your quivering thighs. 

The bells continue, though so does Jacaerys. 

Your hips writhe as you near that very thing you chase; and he holds you tenderly with breaths falling into your ears, the wind gentle as you hold him against you. 

“C-c–” you try to spit out the words which wait on your tongue, and Jacaerys watches you with boyish amusement as his fingers do not cease within you, pressing as your eyes roll to the heavens, a short breath falling from your lips. 

“Fuck–” You mutter, and you do not miss how such a lewd word brings a shiver to Jace’s spine – you swallow thickly, fighting the rising pleasure as you stutter. Soon enough, though your chest trembles and heat coils so deliciously within you, you finally spit out your words. “Council,” You mutter breathlessly, “We need to go—“ you’re cut off with your own sigh of pleasure and Jacaerys grins. 

“—to council?” He finishes for you, tilting his head, gaze flickering over your form slowly. A coil of desire at his teasing lilt, though you sent him a sharp look. 

“Yes,” you bite out sharply, though your hands merely pull him closer, willing him to not move away from you. 

A flicker of amusement lit in his gaze as he hums, stroking you with his thumb and watching how your hips buck into his touch. “War can wait, princess,” He murmurs into the wind, eyes warm and defiant as they catch yours. 

And you grin, then too – in bliss, in wonder, in relief; because yes. War can wait. 

A breath leaves you as your fingers tread through the curls at the nape of his neck, tugging him to your lips. His fingers stroke within you and you whisper his name as he brings you to your peak, a tremoring sigh as you gaze hazily into his own stare, reverent, hungry – devoted. 

Let it be whatever it must be. 

And so you do. 

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[swordgracerecs]

POETRY. ✨ Your characterizations are genuinely so stunning & accurate and your prose is just as beautiful! Love it! 🫶

Away From Prying Eyes

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x wife!reader

Tags: wedding night, first time, virgin reader (implied), female reader, p. in v. smut

Wordcount: 2.9k

Despite the pressure and scrutiny, Aemond takes the time to make you comfortable and to take care of you during your wedding night.

The heavy door of his rooms closed behind Aemond with a loud echo.

You had already been brought to his chambers, as was the tradition after the wedding banquet. You had been changed into a night gown made of cotton so thin he would see through it if you were to stand directly in front of a candle. You were clutching your own arms, which were crossed over your chest. 

Out in the corridor, the Queen, the Hand of the King and the Maester were waiting. 

Aemond had hoped you would be spared this humiliation, but tradition prevailed over individual sensibilities. There had to be irrefutable proof that your union was consummated on the night of the wedding, and that your marriage was therefore valid.

He despised it and wished nothing more than to go back into the corridor and give them a piece of his mind. His anger must have shown on his face, as you took a few steps toward him and slid a hand against his cheek, thumb stroking along his cheekbone. 

He hummed and turned his face into your warm palm, kissing it before mirroring you, sliding his own hand to the side of your face. He pressed a firm, reassuring kiss to your lips before stepping back. He went about the room, blowing out a few of the candles, leaving enough that you could still see each other, but dimming the light enough that you would feel less exposed. He couldn't spare you the scrutiny you would later be subjected to by the Maester, but he could at least try to make the evening less exposing and uncomfortable.

When he turned after blowing the final candle, he was surprised to see your standing right behind him. Without a word you started unfastening the golden buckles of his doublet. At first glance it had seemed black, but the more you had looked at it during the banquet the more you had noticed it was a very dark green. Aemond smirked and hummed in amusement at the fervor with which you unbuckled his garment.

"It seems as though my doublet has offended you," he said with a smirk.

Unfastening the last buckle harder than was necessary, you huffed. 

"Maybe it has," you commented. 

He couldn't reply as you surged up against him and captured his mouth in a deep kiss, pulling him in by the lapels of his now open doublet. He loved how commanding you could be, how demanding. You pushed his doublet from his shoulders and he took it off, tossing it to the side where it landed on a nearby couch. You wasted no time pulling his linen shirt out of his trousers, running your hands up his back like he had dreamed of. Except your hands were shaking slightly. You were good at concealing it, at conquering it, but it was obvious you were nervous.

You kissed for a while, savoring the fact that this time you wouldn't have to stop for fear of impropriety, as you were finally wedded. He groaned as you brought your hands to his front under his shirt, running your hands up his tight stomach to his chest. Your exploration was gentle and almost chaste, but it set his skin on fire. As you were running your hand along the muscles of his chest and shoulders for the third time at least, he slid his mouth to the crook of your neck, savoring your soft skin and soft moans. Sparks lit up between you, the fire of your mutual desire starting again, as had happened every time you had kissed so far. 

Aemond was about to bring his hands, which were resting on your waist, further up when you took a step back. You looked him in the eye as you tugged at the laces at the collar of your nightgown, first baring your shoulders and the enticing dip that led between your breasts. He swallowed when you bared your chest to his gaze, catching the fabric before your nightgown could fall past your navel. He took a second to admire your shoulders and breasts; he was excited to notice that the blush of your cheeks and neck extended down to your chest, which was moving subtly up and down as you breathed. 

Under your attentive gaze, he removed the rest of his clothes, eager to see if his appearance pleased you. You blushed even fiercer, barely daring to look at him lower than his chest.

Sensing your slight discomfort, he pulled you gently toward the bed, sitting on it first before welcoming your back in his embrace. It took little effort to pull you up against him, and you caught the movement easily, climbing into his lap.

The whole situation was exhilarating and almost overwhelming, from your hips being so close to his, to your breasts in his face. You seemed a bit out of breath but curious.

"It will hurt less this way," he explained quietly, and you nodded, timid but trusting, and your trust made his heart swell with affection.

He gently stroked along the curve of one breast, trying to figure out what touch would make your sigh in pleasure, if he needed to be gentle or if you would like a firmer hand. In the end you seemed to like both and while he kissed your neck greedily and his mouth watered at the thought of putting it elsewhere on your body. Soft sounds started to fall from your lips, no more the quiet breaths as before but gentle gasps and sighs. 

He groaned against your neck when you shifted and pressed against him, grabbing you by the waist on instinct, and you responded immediately, rocking against him.

He felt hard and hot against your navel and you desperately pressed closer to him, trying to appease the flame between your thighs, but each time your skin came into contact it only seemed to stoke and spread the fire. He pushed your nightgown up your thighs and in a moment of sudden boldness you pulled it up and off your body.

And there you were, bare before him and more glorious than he could have imagined. He took your in greedily, the expanse of your bare skin, your round breasts, soft and flushed pink. The patch of hair between your legs. The curves of your hips and stomach. He felt like a supplicant at the altar, full of devotion and the desire to worship.

You gasped when he put his open mouth to your breast, pressing his tongue against one of your nipples while stroking the curve of the other with his right hand, the left one firmly holding your waist. There would be time to explore, to let his imagination run wild and find a hundred ways to satisfy your desire, but he still wanted this first night to be good for you. 

He slid his hand from your chest down your navel slow enough that you could anticipate where he was going, then gently stroked his thumb from your patch of hair down to where you were wet and so incredibly soft. Your folds were moist but he proceeded in the most cautious and gentle manner he could.

He was careful but you were sensitive and unused to it, too tense for it to feel as pleasurable as it could have, as you were sure he could make it. He was educated and meticulous, you could only imagine what he knew of a woman's body. 

He pressed his thumb gently at the top of your folds, where he could feel a small nub, and gauged your reaction as best as he could. Between surprise, discomfort and apprehension, it was a little while before pleasure found you. When finally he saw the first flicker of pleasure on your face and heard your first moan, he felt a flush of triumph take him. His stomach tightened, his desire becoming insistant and painful, but didn't want to rush this. He let you get used to the rhythm and pressure of his thumb, marveling at how damp you gradually grew and how vocal you became, your sighs turning into moans and your hips rocking back into his hand.

You tensed a bit again when he gently probed deeper between your wet folds, searching for the entrance into your body. He stroked it lightly until you melted into his touch again, welcoming the feeling. He was taking his time to touch you, to make you feel pleasure as you both knew the next step could be from unpleasant to painful. You knew you might not enjoy it as much as you could have in other circumstances. Neither of you could forget the consummation of your union would be a rather public information.

When he slipped a tentative finger inside you, you gasped in his mouth and clutched his shoulders harder. He froze for a second, afraid of having hurt you, but his worry alleviated when you started your gentle rocking again, burying your face into his neck, your hands tangling in his hair. After a minute of uninterrupted rocking and quiet moans, he added a second finger carefully and reveled in the feel of your body. It was torture and ecstasy alike to have your moan for him and clenching tight around his fingers. 

He groaned when you brought one of your hands down to tentatively wrap around him, rocking up into your hand despite himself.

"My love," he whispered, sounding more undone than he had ever heard himself. He knew it wouldn't take long once he was inside of you and he tried not to blush in shame. You were drenched and tight and it felt like a siren's song, urging him to bury himself inside his wife.

You sighed and trembled when he guided you closer atop him, sliding between your folds. The feeling was foreign but made your core clench, the strange desire to welcome him inside of your making itself known. You rocked gently against each other, Aemond gauging your reaction, you trying to figure out if your body would accept him without too much pain.

He entered you with a steady but gentle push and you met him halfway, bearing down against him. It was as though your body knew what to do, how to welcome him into your most intimate place. The stretch burned a little but the feeling of being joined to him in this way overpowered the discomfort. You shifted your hips and rolled them experimentally, making the both of you moan. This simple motion seemed to trigger the next, which led to another and then another until your bodies were rocking together like waves on a shore, determined and unrelenting. He was more hesitant than you had expected and you wondered how many women had found their way to his lap. 

You were unbearably tight around him and it took all Aemond's willpower to pace himself. 

He watched you, mesmerized, his eye wide and almost pleading. You could tell he was holding back, letting you set the pace and angle, but from the way he was panting and groaning, you could tell he was enjoying it immensely. The feeling was indescribable, your whole body was alight with pleasure, your core growing hotter and tighter with each rocking of your hips into his. Having his fingers inside you had felt good but it didn't compare to this. It was as though your whole perception of your body was narrowed down between your thighs, the slide of him inside your and his abdomen pressing against your front curling into one whirlpool of pure pleasure. There was no real rhythm to it as you followed the instinct of your body, chasing some high you could feel building deep inside of you.

Whatever you were doing, it all had Aemond breathless and groaning beneath you, and that fact alone was heady. 

He moaned when you kissed the side of his neck and shoulder, an overwhelming feeling of passion and tenderness taking hold of you, but as lost to the pleasure of your bodies that you were, you couldn't find your words. He seemed to understand and responded by whispering your name and letting the hand that wasn't holding your hip roam your body, down to your thigh then up along the curve of your backside.

Holding you by the waist, panting against the curve of your breast, he encouraged you to grind against him, to find your pleasure as you wanted. He held on as long as he could, but the tight drag of your body around him, your arms around his shoulders and your mouth on his neck all proved to be too much quite quickly. It all felt much more intense that he had anticipated and the pleasure crested faster than he was used to.

He warned you with a groan that was intended as your name and gripped your hip tighter, and you seemed to understand, letting him take over the pace and force of your rocking. Within a few seconds he spilled inside you with a grunt followed by low hums as each wave of ecstasy passed through him. The intensity of it shook him to his core, as you held him tightly against your, pressing passionate kisses to his neck and shoulders. Once his mind had cleared from the cloud of overwhelming pleasure he sought your lips to ground himself and make sure you were still comfortable.

"What do you need," he gasped into your mouth, still shaking from his high but aching to please you.

You were trembling in his arms, still in the flush of pleasure and he would not leave you unsatisfied. His thumb found your nub again, but you were so wet and slippery that he had a harder time finding it than earlier. In the end he let you take your pleasure as you wanted, his hand trapped between your bodies, not daring to move. It was a sight to behold, your rocking against his fingers, chasing your own high.

You started shaking violently, gasping like you were drowning and then you tensed, making sounds like you were sobbing when the pleasure took you, your walls clenching and releasing around his fingers. You had never looked more wild and beautiful than in this instant, and it felt more significant than any of the vows you had taken during the wedding ceremony.

He held you gently and caressed your body with affection as you caught your breath again and silence slowly fell over the room. 

It was done. You and Aemond were irremediably joined, bonded together by faith, blood, and now flesh.

Aemond stayed behind the curtain as the Maester examined you, fuming.

He tried to distract himself with a cup of the herbal infusion Helaena had asked to be brought to soothe your nerves in case you needed it, but it didn't seem to have any effect on him. He was still riding the high of taking his wife for the first time and couldn't wait to be back in your arms, making sure you had been fully satisfied by your joining. 

"Everything is in order, my Prince," the Maester concluded with a neutral voice after what seemed an eternity to Aemond. 

He stepped out from behind the curtain and made his way back into the corridor, barely closing the door behind him. Instantly, voices could be heard, asking questions and pressing the Maester for answers.

Without thinking Aemond grabbed a robe and put it on hastily, having half a mind to march into the corridor naked but deciding that such an insolent display was better suited to his brother. Then he pulled the door open and stepped out into the cold hallway, all gazes turning to him.

"If you would be so kind to leave now," he demanded. "The night is young and my wife and I would like some privacy."

The Maester tipped his head respectfully while his mother and Otto Hightower gave him a look of approval, but all nodded and departed without a word. He knew there would be another meeting to discuss the consummation but he couldn't bring himself to care, as long as it didn't happen right in front of his chamber's door. 

When he stepped back into the room, you were sitting on the bed in your robe, hiding laughter behind your hand. Aemond felt instant relief at the sight, as he had been worried you would feel upset at the situation. He locked the door and threw his own robe aside, walking the few steps to the bed under your watchful eyes, almost preening.

"The night is young?" you quoted, sounding amused and curious. 

You mirrored him, removing your garment, and let yourself be pushed on your back, locking your arms around his shoulders with ease. He grinned and climbed on top of you before being pulled down into one of your passionate kisses.

"Indeed it is."

"We're truly alone now," you commented, and he hummed.

"Nobody to watch over, nobody to listen in," you whispered, bringing your knees up and your thighs closer together, effectively trapping him in the cradle of your body. He was glad you welcomed him into your touch this way, and he couldn't wait to explore your body at his leisure.

Dividers by @saradika

Beta reader @annikin-im-panicin

Author's Note: This work was taken from my series Love is a Downfall, edited into a reader-insert and turned into a one-shot (for readers who find reader-inserts more immersive). I hope you enjoyed it!

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[swordgracerecs]

GODDDDDDD I loved this so much 🙂‍↕️ again just so so good at crafting stories and the characterization is always so good!

Jacaerys Velaryon - Wolves and Dragons

Summary - The best part of being sent miles from home? The dragon prince who turns teasing banter into an art form—keeping days mischievously entertaining and nights breathtakingly passionate. Every stolen moment is a spark threatening to ignite everything.

Pairing - Jacaerys Velaryon x Stark reader

Warnings - Sexual content (hand stuff idk)

Word count - 2194

Masterlist for Jacaerys • House of the Dragon General Masterlist.

Being sent to King's Landing as a ward to Princess Rhaenyra wasn't a fate I had chosen, but it shaped my youth in ways I could never have imagined. 

The grand halls and heated politics of the Red Keep became my second home, yet the chill of the North still coursed through me, a reminder of where I truly belonged—a Stark, a wolf at heart.

It was a bright morning when Jace found me in the courtyard, tucked into a quiet corner with a letter from home in my hands. 

The scent of parchment mixed with ink filled the air, and the familiar, bold strokes of my brother Cregan's words brought a smile to my face. 

I traced the lines with reverence, savouring every word as if it were a piece of home.

"What are you reading?" came Jace's voice, smooth and curious. I felt him approach before I saw him, the warmth of his presence settling comfortably beside me. 

Turning, I met his gaze with a sparkle in my eyes and held the letter out for him to see.

"My brother Cregan wrote to me," I said, the words tumbling out with joy. I had read the letter three times already but couldn't help glancing over it once more.

"I see," Jace replied, a hint of amusement dancing in his eyes as he watched me wave the parchment. 

His gaze lingered, attentive, as if trying to catch a glimpse of my world through those few written lines.

"What's he like?" he asked softly, his interest genuine. I clutched the letter to my chest, feeling my heart swell with pride.

"The best," I declared, my voice steady but full of emotion. "He's tall and strong, but he has the gentlest soul. There isn't a man in the North—or the South—who matches his honour." I lowered the letter, lost momentarily in memories of Cregan's kind eyes and reassuring presence.

"He sounds... remarkable," Jace said, and I nodded fervently, a grin tugging at my lips.

"He is," I agreed, though a pang of longing hit me. "But he's also the reason I'm here, so far from Winterfell." My tone turned wistful, and Jace's brows drew together.

"What do you mean?" he asked, his voice laced with genuine concern. I let out a small sigh, feeling the weight of old resentments and gratitude all at once.

"When he became Lord of Winterfell," I began, folding my arms around myself, "the lords and ladies all but insisted he send me away. They believed he couldn't possibly 'raise' a young lady while maintaining the duties of a lord." 

My words dripped with disdain for those who thought me a burden, though a hint of humour sparked in my tone. "So off I was sent, packed up like a troublesome pup."

Jace's lips quirked upward, his dimples appearing as he tried—and failed—to stifle a laugh. 

"I see," he said again, but this time with a grin that made my frustration feel less heavy. I couldn't help but poke his cheek, trying to smother my own smile.

"It's not funny," I protested, but his eyes danced with mischief. He caught my finger, and before I could pull away, he bit down lightly, making me yelp in surprise.

"Maybe the lords and ladies were right to send you our way," he teased, his voice warm with affection. "Though I doubt they predicted just how... 'well-behaved' you'd be here."

I crossed my arms in mock offence. "What's that supposed to mean?" I demanded, narrowing my eyes at him.

"You don't act very civil here, either," he replied with a nonchalant shrug, feigning seriousness. 

My jaw dropped, and I slapped his chest lightly. "I blame Aegon's influence," he added, a smirk playing on his lips.

"Do not compare me to the likes of that fool!" I retorted with a laugh, but Jace only shrugged again, feigning innocence.

"Or what?" he challenged, crossing his arms in a mirror of my stance. 

"Oh? Well then, maybe I should remind you of something," I countered, an impish smile spreading across my face. I leaned in just enough to drop my voice to a conspiratorial whisper. 

"How about I tell him you were the one who tattled to his mother about him skipping his lessons?" My words hung in the air between us, charged and daring. 

His expression changed instantly, a flicker of panic crossing his features.

"You wouldn't," he said, his eyes narrowing, though I could see the sudden tension in the way he shifted on his feet. He was trying to appear unaffected, but I knew I had struck a nerve. 

That knowledge only fueled me further.

"I would," I shot back with relish, crossing my arms and tilting my head. "I swear it, Jace." I held his gaze, both of us unblinking, as the challenge hung between us like a blade poised to strike. 

For a few heartbeats, the world seemed to pause, caught in the battle of wills between us.

And then, he moved. In a blur of motion, Jace reached out and snatched the letter from my grip, spinning away before I could react. 

"You little—!" I gasped, the words barely forming before he was several paces ahead of me. "Jace! Give that back!"

"Not a chance," he called over his shoulder, a triumphant laugh escaping his lips as he darted through the hallway. "I think I'll hold onto this—for leverage."

"Oh, you'll regret this!" I shouted, already racing after him, my slippers pounding against the stone floors of the Keep. 

The chase wound through corridors and past startled servants who hastily stepped aside, their wide eyes tracking our flight. 

Determination surged within me—I couldn't let him get away with this.

He reached his chambers first, throwing open the door and slipping inside. I followed without hesitation, slamming the door shut behind me. 

Breathless but grinning, we now stood face to face. The air was thick with the thrill of the chase and the heat of our lingering laughter.

"All right, Jace," I said, trying to sound calm while catching my breath. "What will it take for you to give me back my letter?"

He leaned casually against the edge of a table, the letter dangling loosely from his fingertips. A spark of playful mischief gleamed in his eyes, and he tilted his head as if considering my offer. 

"Hmm... you're asking me to name my terms?" he mused, drawing out the moment for all it was worth. I could feel the tension shift, from the sharpness of our playful banter to something deeper, more uncertain.

"Yes, Jace," I replied, my voice softer now. I took a cautious step forward, never breaking eye contact. "Name your terms."

He smiled, and for a second, time seemed to slow. Neither of us moved, both of us aware of just how close we were, of how everything could change in the space of a heartbeat. 

It was a dangerous dance, one I had never expected when this day began.

"Well," he said, his voice low and teasing, "I suppose we could start with an apology... or maybe something more entertaining."

"Oh, I'm sure you'd like that," I shot back, though my words lacked any real bite. 

We were standing so close now, and my heart was pounding in a way that had nothing to do with the chase.

He waved the letter in front of me as if daring me to snatch it. "Careful," he said, his tone light but his gaze serious. "You just might give away what this means to you."

I met his eyes and, despite myself, smiled. 

"I think you already know," I whispered, and we stood there, balanced on the edge of something far more dangerous—and far more precious—than a game.

"Show me, then," he murmured, his voice low, a rough caress against my senses. I couldn't suppress the grin that spread across my face as I leaned up, capturing his lips with mine. 

He responded with a fervour that shattered all pretences; the letter fluttered to the table, forgotten, as his hands tangled in my hair, pulling me closer, demanding more.

Our positions shifted, and suddenly I was pressed against the edge of the table. The kiss deepened, scorching away all other thoughts. 

His hand traced a path up my leg, slow and teasing, disappearing beneath my skirts as my fingers traced their own journey beneath the hem of his tunic, revelling in the heat of his skin.

"Gods, Jace," I gasped against his mouth as his fingers danced and teased, igniting sparks that threatened to consume me.

"What?" he whispered, laughter rough and breathless on his lips. The warmth of it sent shivers cascading down my spine.

"Two can play this game," I managed to say, my voice a breathless promise. 

My hands moved lower, deftly loosening the ties of his trousers. I reveled in the sharp intake of his breath, the way his forehead pressed against mine as he shuddered.

"Seven hells," he groaned, the words tumbling out as my fingertips brushed along his length. Every touch was a challenge, every breath a surrender.

I gasped as his fingers curled deeper within me, my body arching to meet the rhythm of his touch. 

Emboldened, I mirrored his movements, the line between giving and taking blurring until there was no boundary—just the shared, reckless desire that consumed us both.

His groan reverberated through me, a low, primal sound that fanned the flames already blazing between us. 

I let my fingertips trace along his length, feeling every pulsing inch, savouring the way his breath hitched at my touch. 

Our movements were a wordless exchange, a conversation of hands and mouths, of heat and need that neither of us could hold back any longer.

"Jace," I murmured, voice ragged and trembling as his fingers moved inside me with a deliberate slowness that bordered on torment. 

His thumb pressed against the sensitive bundle of nerves, and I clutched at him, my hips moving of their own accord, seeking more of that delicious friction. 

The table beneath me dug into my back, but it only grounded the electric sensation building within me, sharpening the pleasure coursing through my veins.

His lips never left mine for long—always returning, always seeking. They trailed down my neck, tasting the line of my throat, nipping at the tender skin just below my ear. 

Every kiss, every press of his mouth, was a declaration, a claim. I buried my free hand in his hair, tugging him closer, unable to get enough of him. 

The other continued to work him, my palm moving in rhythmic strokes that had him biting back curses against my skin.

"Gods, you're perfect," he rasped, his forehead pressing against mine as he drew a shuddering breath. 

I saw the fire in his eyes, the unrestrained desire mingled with something far more tender, and it made my heart stutter.

"Show me," I whispered a challenge, a plea.

His response was swift—a tightening of his hold, a deeper thrust of his fingers that sent waves of pleasure crashing through me. 

My head fell back, a cry escaping my lips as his mouth found mine again, swallowing every sound I made. 

I matched him, my own hand moving with more confidence, more urgency. I could feel every tremor in his body, every breathless hitch as I stroked him, my thumb circling the sensitive head, drawing out a groan that vibrated against my lips.

We were a tangle of limbs, a blur of movement and sensation. 

His hand slipped lower, drawing me closer to that edge, while I pressed myself against him, feeling the tension coil tighter in my core. 

Our movements became a symphony, every motion building on the last, driving us both higher.

When his fingers curled once more, hitting that perfect spot, I shattered. Pleasure surged through me, white-hot and all-consuming. 

I clung to him as if he were the only thing keeping me tethered to reality, my cries muffled by his mouth. But I didn't stop. 

Even as I trembled in the aftermath, I kept my focus on him, determined to return every bit of pleasure he'd given me.

"Don't stop," he panted, his voice rough and desperate. I didn't. My strokes quickened, my touch a blend of light teasing and firm pressure that had him gripping my waist, his control fraying. 

His hips bucked against my hand, and with one final, strangled groan, he came undone, his body tensing, his release warm against my palm. 

I watched him, captivated, as he rode out the wave of pleasure, his eyes half-closed, lips parted in a breathless gasp.

For a moment, there was only the sound of our breathing, the lingering heat that filled the air between us. We stayed like that, foreheads pressed together, bodies tangled, hearts racing. 

Slowly, he opened his eyes, and a smile—soft, disbelieving, and wholly vulnerable—tugged at his lips.

In that quiet space, surrounded by the discarded letter and the echoes of our laughter and moans, we found something more real than we'd ever expected—a shared surrender, a shared power, and the promise of whatever came next.

"Still think it's a game?" I whispered, tracing my fingers along his jawline.

His smile turned wicked, and he leaned in, kissing me deeply. "Only if we keep playing."

And we did. Again and again. 

A/n - Jace x Stark reader is always so fun to write!

- Also posting update, I'll be out of the country for three weeks and won't have my laptop with me. During this time, I'll be posting these one-shots every other day instead of daily, as I won't be able to manage the usual posting frequency without my laptop (posting from my phone is very tedious but ill have to make do). Once I'm back, everything will return to normal!

[swordgracerecs]

Longtime lurker & fan of your works! The way you’re able to weave such beautiful stories with a shorter word count is genuinely inspiring as a fellow writer! I absolutely loved this & I love how much it made me yearn for Tyland, too. Super talented! 🫶

Tyland Lannister - Veils of Duty

Summary - A queen, trapped in a loveless marriage with a king who sees her as a mere obligation, finds fleeting comfort in the arms of her secret lover. Their forbidden passion starkly contrasts the cold, mechanical duty she endures with her indifferent husband.

Pairing - Tyland Lannister x reader

Warnings - Sexual content (smut!), infidelity

Word count - 2227 

Masterlist for Tyland • House of the Dragon General Masterlist

It's wrong to desire another man when you're married, and even more wrong to act on it while your husband remains blissfully unaware but guilt was a stranger to me.

After all, my dear husband Aegon, the king of the Seven Kingdoms, often found more comfort between the legs of a brothel whore than with his own wife, the queen.

"I will return later, I must speak with a few members of my council," Aegon said, dressing himself with the practised indifference of a king who had long since lost interest in his queen.

I nodded absentmindedly, barely registering his words. Since his ascension to the throne, it had become increasingly difficult for me and my secret lover to meet. Aegon was insistent on producing more heirs, a duty he fulfilled with mechanical regularity.

Once he left, I reclined on the silken sheets, lazily twirling a strand of my hair around my finger. The chamber felt emptier in his absence, but not for long.

The door creaked open, and I sat up hastily, clutching the sheets to my chest in a moment of panic before recognizing the intruder. Relief washed over me as Tyland strode into the room, his steps quick and purposeful.

A smile broke across my face. "What are you doing here?" I asked as he closed the distance between us, his lips seeking mine with urgent need.

"Visiting," he replied simply, my eyes darting to the chamber doors.

"You're mad," I whispered, my voice a mix of fear and excitement. "What if you get caught? He could return any moment."

"They would have my head for bedding the king's wife," he said nonchalantly, a smirk playing on his lips. "But it would be a worthwhile death, knowing I perished because I could not resist the breathtaking queen," he added, cupping my face gently in his hand.

Tyland's presence was a dangerous comfort, a reminder of the passion that still existed within me. 

Each touch from him was a sweet sin, a balm for the wounds inflicted by Aegon's coldness. 

Yet, beneath the pleasure lay a gnawing fear, how long could we dance on the edge of a knife before it finally cut too deep?

His lips found mine once more, I knew we were playing a perilous game. The walls of the castle held many secrets, and the price of our indiscretion could be steep. 

In those stolen moments, the weight of my crown seemed to lift, replaced by a sense of freedom I had almost forgotten.

Tyland's kisses were fervent, filled with a longing that mirrored my own. "If only things were different," I murmured against his lips, the words a lament for the love that could never be fully ours.

"But they are not," he replied, his voice a whisper against my skin, heavy with unspoken regret. "And that is why each moment with you feels like both a gift and a curse."

His words rang true, a bitter acknowledgement of our reality. Our love was a defiance of duty, a rebellion against the roles we were forced to play and in the confines of my chambers, away from the prying eyes of the court, we allowed ourselves to be who we truly were.

He began to undress, each piece of clothing falling to the floor with a deliberate slowness that heightened the anticipation between us. His eyes never left mine, filled with a tenderness that was as intoxicating as it was rare. 

Unlike Aegon, who approached our couplings with the detachment of fulfilling a royal obligation, Tyland made me feel cherished and desired.

As Tyland joined me on the bed, his touch was gentle yet insistent, his hands exploring my body with a reverence that made me shiver. His fingertips traced the curves of my waist and hips, sending waves of anticipation through me. 

He kissed me deeply, passionately, his lips trailing down my neck, igniting a fire within me. Each kiss was a promise, each touch a declaration of his desire.

I bit my lip, stifling the moan that threatened to escape. Any moment now, the door could swing open. Any moment, and this would all come crashing down.

His mouth travelled lower, worshipping my skin with a tenderness that made my breath hitch. He took his time, savouring every inch of me, his eyes dark with hunger and affection. 

When he reached the valley between my breasts, his tongue flicked out, tasting my skin, and I arched into him, a quiet moan escaping my lips.

"Does this please you?" he whispered his voice husky with desire, his breath warm against my ear.

"Yes," I breathed, my hands clutching at his back, pulling him closer. "More than you can imagine."

Tyland's hands moved lower, parting my thighs with a gentle insistence. He positioned himself above me, his gaze locking onto mine. He entered me with a care and consideration that Aegon had never shown. 

He paused, allowing me to adjust to the sensation, his eyes searching mine for signs of delight.

Every movement was deliberate, each thrust measured and controlled. He rocked into me with a rhythm that built slowly, his hips grinding against mine in a way that made me gasp. 

His hands roamed my body, caressing my breasts, brushing over my sensitive nipples, and sending shivers of pleasure coursing through me.

"You're beautiful," he murmured, his lips finding mine again, kissing me deeply, his tongue dancing with mine. His thrusts grew more insistent, his pace quickening, but never losing that underlying tenderness.

Our lovemaking was a dance of mutual need, a silent conversation where our bodies spoke the words we could never utter aloud. I wrapped my legs around him, pulling him deeper, urging him on. 

The friction between us intensified, and I felt the tension building within me, spiralling tighter with each passing second.

"Tyland," I moaned, my nails digging into his back, leaving marks that would fade but never disappear entirely.

He responded with a groan, his movements becoming more urgent, his control slipping as he chased his own release but even in the throes of passion, his focus remained on me, on my pleasure. 

He angled his hips, hitting a spot deep inside that made stars burst behind my closed eyelids.

With a final, powerful thrust, we both tumbled over the edge, our cries of ecstasy mingling in the air. He held me close as we rode out the waves of our climax, his body shuddering against mine.

In the aftermath, we lay entangled, our breaths coming in ragged gasps. Tyland's arms wrapped around me, his hands stroking my hair, my back, grounding me in the reality of our shared intimacy. 

For a few precious moments, the world outside my chambers ceased to exist, and there was only us.

"Stay with me a little longer," I whispered, my fingers tracing the contours of his face, memorizing every line, every angle.

"Always," he replied, pressing a tender kiss to my forehead. "For as long as we can."

In Tyland's arms, I felt truly seen, truly loved. He was attentive, his every action a testament to the depth of his feelings for me. 

With him, there was no pretence, no duty, only the raw, unfiltered expression of our forbidden love and in those stolen moments, I allowed myself to believe in the possibility of happiness, no matter how fleeting it might be.

Suddenly, a sharp knock on the door shattered our intimate bubble, startling us both. My heart raced as we froze, listening. Tyland's eyes met mine, fear reflecting in them.

"Your Grace," a voice called from the other side of the door, muffled but unmistakably authoritative. It was one of the Kingsguard. "The king requests your presence immediately."

I groaned inwardly, the weight of reality crashing down upon us. "Now?" I called back, trying to keep the frustration out of my voice.

"Yes, Your Grace. It is urgent," came the reply.

I sighed heavily, feeling the tendrils of duty tighten around me once more. Tyland's hand gently cupped my face, his thumb brushing over my cheek in a soothing gesture. 

"We must bid each other farewell," he said softly, a touch of sadness in his voice.

"I know," I replied, reluctantly untangling myself from his embrace. "But I wish we had more time."

"As do I," he whispered, his lips pressing one last lingering kiss to mine.

I rose from the bed, the cool air of the chamber a contrast to the warmth we had shared. I moved to the dressing table, hastily pulling on my robes. My hands trembled slightly as I fastened the intricate clasps, the urgency of Aegon's summons gnawing at me.

Tyland watched me, his eyes filled with a mixture of longing and resignation. "Remember, my queen," he said, his voice low and earnest, "I am always with you, even when we are apart."

I nodded, blinking back the sudden sting of tears. "And you with me," I replied, my voice barely above a whisper.

A quick knock sounded again, more insistent this time. "Your Grace," the Kingsguard urged, his tone leaving no room for delay.

With a final glance at Tyland, I steeled myself and walked to the door. The Kingsguard stood there, his expression stoic and unreadable. 

"The king is waiting in his chambers," he said, stepping aside to allow me to pass.

I cast one last look over my shoulder at Tyland. He gave me a small, encouraging nod, his eyes holding mine until the door closed between us.

As I walked through the dimly lit corridors of the castle, I felt the weight of my role as queen settle heavily on my shoulders once more. 

The passion and connection I shared with Tyland were moments stolen from a life of duty and obligation, moments that sustained me in the face of a loveless marriage.

As I stopped outside Aegon's chamber, the crown on my head felt heavier than ever, a cold reminder of the throne that kept my heart imprisoned. 

Yet, deep within, where no one could see, the fire of our love still burned, defiant, unquenchable, and damning.

I took a deep breath and composed myself. The guards outside the door announced my presence, and I was ushered in. 

Aegon sat at his desk, surrounded by parchments, the flickering candlelight casting harsh shadows on his face.

"You called for me?" I asked as I entered.

"Yes," he replied, not looking up from his papers. "We need to resume our efforts"

His words were delivered with the same cold detachment he applied to matters of state, a reminder of the duty that bound us together. I swallowed my frustration and nodded, moving closer to him.

"Of course," I said, my voice steady despite the turmoil within me.

Aegon finally looked up, his gaze appraising and indifferent. "It's important for the stability of the realm," he added as if to justify his clinical approach to something so intimate.

I forced a smile, knowing any resistance would be futile. "I understand," I replied, suppressing a sigh.

He rose from his chair, shedding his robes with the same mechanical precision he applied to his royal duties. As he approached, I steeled myself, trying to push thoughts of Tyland from my mind. 

Aegon's touch was devoid of warmth, his kisses perfunctory and dispassionate. I closed my eyes, allowing my thoughts to drift to the moments of true connection and tenderness I had shared with Tyland.

My mind drifted back to the warmth and tenderness of his embrace. The contrast between the cold, duty-bound king and my passionate lover was stark, and yet it was a contrast I had learned to navigate.

As Aegon moved over me, his movements were practised and routine, lacking the deep care and passion that Tyland had shown. Each thrust was mechanical, a duty to be performed rather than an act of love. I suppressed the urge to flinch, reminding myself that this was the price I paid for my position.

"Is this satisfactory?" Aegon asked, his voice flat and devoid of any true concern for my feelings.

"Yes," I lied, my voice barely above a whisper. "It is fine."

His eyes briefly met mine, flickering with something that almost resembled sorrow but it was gone in an instant, replaced by the steely resolve of a king whose heart had long since hardened.

I focused on the ceiling, counting the seconds until it would be over until I could retreat back to my thoughts of Tyland and the love that sustained me through these cold, indifferent encounters. 

As Aegon finished, he rolled off me without a word, returning to his papers as if nothing had happened.

I dressed quickly, eager to leave the room and the suffocating weight of my duties. "I will see you later," I said, my voice steady but distant.

As I fastened my robe my fingers found the gold locket at my throat, a gift from Tyland. Inside it, a single rose petal, now dried and brittle, just like the love we dared to nurture in the shadows.

Aegon merely nodded, already absorbed in his work. I left the chamber, the door closing behind me with a sense of finality. As I walked back through the corridors, I felt the familiar ache of longing for Tyland, the only one who made me feel truly alive.

For now, I would play my part, fulfill my obligations but in the secret corners of my heart, I carried the memory of our stolen moments, the love that defied the crown and that, more than anything, gave me the strength to endure.

A/n - Payback for the Aegon 'No Control' fic perhaps

[swordgracerecs]

everything dipper does is the BLUEPRINT. literally constantly inspiring all of my works/fics involving the starks, love your mind so much 🫶

ROBB STARK NSFW ALPHABET

pairing: robb stark x fem!reader

synopsis: robb starks NSFW alphabet (A-Z)

authors note: i did leave a bit (a lot) of my personality in here & for that i apologize — it is literally the only way to get over my mental block of being disgustingly lewd on tumblr. ANYWAYS. here’s me finding out 26 different ways to talk about cock and balls (and being annoying while i do it) ✊ enjoy!! (if possible) (shut up) (ok damn)

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

it varies ! he more often than not just likes to hold you, especially if its during the war. basking in the afterglow, shutting his brain off, feeling all warm and lovely <3 although sometimes he just cant turn his brain off, leaving you with a kiss to your forehead to sit at his table studying maps or doing whatever he does (smh) but he cant help glancing at you as you doze off (sappy guy)

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

his favorite part of himself are his hands. i dont make the rules (i do though) (moving forward) his hands are how he touches you, and he likes to watch as he… fingers you (i just gasped im so disgusting) IM SORRY HE DOES THOUGH. his eyes stay glued to where his hands bring you to your peak & also keep you still WOW IM SCANDALOUS

i think his favorite part of you would be your thighs. watching how they double when you sit, the warmth of the flesh under his hands, the feel of them wrapped his waist/head AH IM SO NAUGHTY

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

he loves seeing your skin covered in his… cum WOAH NELLY okay sorry. but he would literally marvel at the sight of your pretty flesh marked with him — likes to pull out and.. cum AH on your belly/back for this very reason

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

when you kiss him after you give him head he secretly likes the taste of himself zAGH

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

VIRGIN ALERT!! on a serious note, you are his first & its very sweet. but fear not - he is a very quick learner [smirk]

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

YEE HAW 🤠 (cowgirl) (idk leave me alone)

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

can be serious at times, but he's on the silly side i fear. it ties into his love for teasing (occasionally mocking), and while he can definitely get serious, he's laxer and more humorous (🤓) during the moment.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

the carpet matches the drapes. he’s a northman, he definitely doesn’t shave. he wouldn’t expect you to shave either, but would groom himself/keep himself trimmed if you asked it of him. he doesn’t care about hair — it was put there for a reason, and if you don’t care either, he’s not shaving. 🙅‍♀️🙅‍♀️

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

he's very intimate your first few times. during the war he's sometimes accidentally intimate when he just wants you after a long day, but it truly depends! especially if its a quickie

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

if its during winterfell, has (shamefully might i add) relieved himself to the thought of you. during the war? he simply has no time — he’s the king — and you're always around, so why would he use his palm?

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

edging and overstimulation !!! legend says dipper not elaborating was the prime embodiment of both edging and overstimulation

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

in winterfell you had to be sneaky, so it could vary from his or your room to a broom closet (scandalous) during the war you have your shared tent, and you wont be bothered, so theres not much reason to switch locations (except for fun) (the woods) (it would take convincing but he’d do it)

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

one of the things that gets him going the most is the looks you give him. giving him The eyes — even a stern look from you directed at other people gets his attention. oh and your dresses, the way they hug your waist n curves YES LAWD

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

(dont shoot me) slapping/hitting/anything to do with hurting you, scat/piss/vomit, (hold your fire) sharing you with anyone

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

pretty equal in both but has a preference in receiving (not mentioning sub!robb) (who said that) ranks last on the stark men skill scale (NOT SAYING HES BAD AT IT) (CREGAN N JON ARE JUST BETTER OKAY)

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

when you first shared the same bed, he made sure to take it slow, and his pace got gradually faster as time went on & you both became more comfortable with each other. he's usually on the faster side !

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

he is a quickie truther !! he loves the thrill of it, and they make him feel like he actually isn't losing his mind during the war. it's honestly a problem - if you want a quickie, you're getting it, whether he's late for the entire battle or not (idiot) (affectionate)

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

if you knew each other in winterfell, he was definitely open to taking risks. risks were pretty much all you had. but during the war, he's gonna take some convincing. after all, he's the king and you have your own tent - why risk anything at all? (for fun, you convince him)

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

stamina stamina stamina and did i mention stamina? the amount of time he can last + his recovery time is insane. honestly, i (and tow mater) pray for you

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

are toys even a thing in 298 A.C?? he probably would own them in a modern au perchance

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

he's so unfair he stole the 2020 election. this man is a teaser through and through, has absolutely NO shame in making you beg for it i fear. and remember the stamina i mentioned earlier?? yeah, you're not getting what you want anytime soon.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

yes 1!1! he's average in volume, sometimes quiets himself down to hear you LORDDD. a groaner, gasper, swearer, and occasional whimperer & i wont be taking any questions thank you.

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

he is a spitter. im sorry. spits on your [REDACTED] [THE WORD IS CUNT] before eating you out, and secretly wants to spit in your mouth/have you spit in his :3

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

longer than it is wider vein running up the right side thank u 💝

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

a yearner so bad he makes jeff buckley look aromantic. is almost subconsciously always yearning for you? you give this man ONE look and he is all over you smh [rolling eyes]

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

it DA DA DA DEPENDS! sometimes he's at his table looking at letters and maps, and other times he's out like a light

[swordgracerecs]

this made me act UPPPPPPPP YES LORD 🙂‍↕️

𝐁𝐚𝐝 𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐚 𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭?

Pairings: Criston Cole x reader Gwayne Hightower, minor Criston Cole x Gwayne Hightower

Warnings: Smut, swearing

You shouldn’t be doing this; you shouldn’t be letting Criston Cole comfort you in such a wicked manner. In exchange for your lord father's men fighting for Aegon the Elder, the queen dowager had made a deal with you, promising to find you a suitable husband. Despite the fact that many men had put themselves forward, none of them caught your attention, yet you were eagerly spreading your legs for a knight you barely knew.

You most definitely shouldn’t be getting more turned on knowing the former queen's brother was watching from the doorway as Criston devours your cunt with his mouth.

Breath catches in your throat, fingernails graze against the scalp of the knight, and just as you're about to reach your peak, Gwayne makes a point of locking the door; the clicking sound makes his presence known.

You frown at the loss of contact when Criston immediately moves away from you; the high you were so close to reaching disappears rapidly.

“When I came to visit the lady, I expected to see a guard at her door, not between her legs.”

Criston had quickly lost his cool composure and was visibly rattled by being caught. “Ser Gwayne… I… we…”

Amused, Gwayne ignores him and stands beside your bed. He traces your bottom lip with his thumb, “And what did the Lord Commander do to be so deserving to taste you?”

“I, uh, I was in need of comfort.”

“Oh,” the redhead leans down until his lips linger over your own. “Well, I think between me and Ser Criston, we would most definitely be able to achieve that.”

What he was suggesting sent him tingles through your body, but curiosity was getting the better of you. “Why did you come to visit me?”

“Alicent has purposed that we should be betrothed, and your father has accepted. I want to be the one to tell you in person.”

Before you can respond, Gwayne lowers the front of your shift, his cold hand cupping your breast. Criston's eyes widen; he wasn’t sure what to do. He chuckles at the way you wriggle at his touch, “Is something wrong?”

“Your hand is freezing!”

Leaning down, he closes the space between your lips, releases your breast, and teasingly traces his hand over your stomach until it reaches between your legs. He then begins to rub your clit at a painfully slow pace. “Cat got your tongue, Ser Criston?” Gwayne looks over his shoulder at the other man. “I do believe my betrothed was enjoying you before I interrupted.”

Criston straightens his posture, his eyes narrowing on Ser Gwayne. There was a tension brewing between the two men, and you were worried it would escalate, but you came up with an idea. Reaching down, you find Gwayne’s hand and guide his fingers to where you want them most.

They both seem more than pleased when a moan falls from your mouth. Eyes landing on Criston’s crotch, you finally notice the tent in his breeches was gone.

You want to say something, but no words come out; however, Gwayne seems to sense what you desire because he removes fingers from you and starts to untie the other knight's trousers. “The lady is ready for you, Cole; perhaps you need assistance being ready for her.”

Your jaw falls open as you watch the scene unfold. Criston says nothing but gives a small nod of consent. Smugly, Gwayne pulls the fabric down the knight's tanned thighs far enough that his cock springs free. He swirls the pre-cum on the tip of Criston’s cock and then begins to stroke him.

It was wildly inappropriate how erotic you found it.

Criston clenches his jaw shut; he wasn’t going to give the other knight the satisfaction of knowing how much he was enjoying it. Once he’s at full hardness again, Criston brushes Gwayne’s hand away and comes to stand between your legs, “Is this what you are wanting, my lady?”

“Yes.”

You throw your head back when Criston holds your thighs open and then thrusts his cock into you. Gwayne hushes any noises you might make as he kisses you again, this time with more passion.

“Fuck,” Criston moves your leg so that it’s resting on his shoulder.

Gwayne touches your clit again, but his movements are much quicker this time. Tears fall from the corner of your eyes as the intensity of your orgasm builds and builds, and when you finally come undone… it’s a high you’ve never reached before.

Criston pushes your shift up and pulls out of you, spilling his seed onto the lower part of your soft stomach and thighs. He drops down onto you, his forehead covered by a sweaty mat of hair resting on the crook of your neck. You stroke his back, then look over at Ser Gwayne, who smiles softly.

When the weight in you shifts, you peck at Criston’s lips, then the tip of his nose. Once he’s standing again, you readjust the shift. “I imagine our marriage will never be dull, Ser Gwayne.”

“Perhaps there’ll even be some nights Ser Criston could join us,” Gwayne jests before sitting down beside you on the bed.

The knight shoots him a glare before kissing you on the cheek and then leaves the room.

Gwayne laughs, then wraps his arm around your waist, pulling you closer to him. “Now, my pretty lady, you and I have much to discuss.”

[swordgracerecs]

By Fire, By Right

hi lovebugs,

I am SO sorry that this took so long, i just didnt have the motivation to do it. i did not proofread before posting. is it obvious i wrote this in an hour? oopsies. This one is shorter than both the Small Council and Steel and Silk, but thats bc it has literally 0 plot. none. zilch. enjoy

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Summary: On the night of your wedding, beneath the glow of candlelight and the weight of ancient vows, Aegon takes what has always been his.

WC: 3.8k

Warnings: 18+, Sex (p in v), oral (fem!receiving), no use of y/n, but implied fem!reader

King Aegon II x Wife!Queen!Reader

MDNI!!!!

The bedchamber was bathed in the soft glow of candlelight, golden flickers casting shadows over rich silks and cold stone. The air carried the faint scent of dragonfire and myrrh, clinging to your skin, a lingering trace of the vows spoken before gods and men. The chamber had been prepared with great care, the bed draped in deep crimson, an unspoken expectation woven into the hush that settled between you.

The feast had stretched long into the night, filled with wine, music, and endless toasts to your health and happiness. Lords had lifted their cups in grand displays, their words full of empty flattery, their voices loud with drunken revelry. The finest dishes in the realm had been set before you, the grandest musicians had played their songs, but none of it had mattered.

Not to him.

Aegon had barely touched his cup, ignoring the endless flow of wine that had been pressed into his hands throughout the night. His focus had remained on you, his gaze steady, his expression unreadable but intent. There had been no outward impatience, no sign of discontent, yet the way he had watched you told you everything. He had been waiting for this moment more than he cared to admit.

Now, at last, you were alone.

The chamber doors had closed behind you, shutting out the sounds of the lingering celebration, leaving only the crackle of the hearthfire and the quiet rhythm of your own breath.

Aegon sat at the edge of the marriage bed, his tunic loose at the collar, exposing a sliver of his chest. His crown lay discarded on a nearby table, its weight abandoned for the night. His violet eyes roamed over you, the same way they always had, but tonight, something had changed.

You had been his before this night. In whispers exchanged beneath the cover of darkness. In hands that had learned the shape of you in secret. In nights where restraint had faltered and desire had outweighed duty. In the way he reached for you when no one was looking, in the way he had always pulled you closer rather than let you go.

Yet tonight was different.

There was no need for secrecy, no need to slip away before the dawn. There were no barriers left between you, no pretense, no stolen moment that had to end before it had truly begun. Tonight, he did not have to claim you in haste. Tonight, you were his, and he was yours, and there was nowhere left to run.

"You are staring," you said, stepping closer, your fingers reaching for the ties at his sleeves.

Aegon did not blink, did not look away. The candlelight cast shadows across his sharp features, making the violet of his eyes seem darker, more intense. His lips curved, slow and knowing, but he did not move. He let you come to him, let you reach for him, let you think you had the upper hand.

Before you could undo the laces at his wrist, he caught your hands. His grip was firm but unhurried, his touch more possessive than forceful. His thumb brushed lazily over your pulse, his touch warm and deliberate as he studied you, taking his time. He looked at you as if he had all the time in the world.

A smirk tugged at his lips, the same self-assured expression he always wore when he knew he had already won. "Can you blame me?" His voice was low, rough with amusement, but beneath it lay something else, something heavier.

His fingers curled around your wrists, holding them in place as his gaze roamed over you. He did not speak immediately, letting the silence stretch just long enough to make you feel the weight of his attention. Then, finally, he murmured, "I have had you before, but tonight, you are mine in every way."

Heat curled in your stomach, pooling low as the words settled between you. You had always known him to be like this—arrogant, indulgent, utterly shameless in his claims over you—but there was something else in the way he looked at you now. There was no teasing lilt, no boyish grin. He was not just claiming you because he could. He was claiming you because, tonight, there was no need to steal anything. Tonight, nothing could take you from him.

"You have always been mine," you reminded him, tilting your chin up slightly. Your voice was steady, but you could hear the breathlessness in it, feel the way your heart pounded against your ribs.

His smirk widened, a spark of challenge flickering in his eyes. "Then let me remind you."

He pulled you onto his lap with practiced ease, his hands finding your waist and settling there as if they had always belonged. His grip was firm, his thumbs pressing into the fabric of your wedding gown as though he wished to tear through it, but he did not rush.

He exhaled slowly, the warmth of his breath brushing against your throat. He did not kiss you. Not yet. Instead, he lingered there, his lips grazing your skin, savoring the moment before he took what he already knew was his.

"This should feel no different," he murmured, his voice quieter now. His hands tightened at your waist, his hold possessive. "And yet."

You let out a slow breath, fingers threading through his golden hair, savoring the softness of it, the familiar heat of him.

"And yet," you echoed, your voice barely above a whisper.

The weight of the night settled between you, thick with something deeper than desire. This was Not a secret meeting behind closed doors. Not a rushed moment stolen between responsibilities. No hushed whispers in darkened corridors, no hurried touches before duty called you away. There was no shame, no fear of discovery, nothing left to keep you apart.

Only certainty.

Aegon cupped your cheek, his fingers warm against your skin as he tilted your face to his. His touch was not demanding but deliberate, his gaze searching yours in the dim candlelight. The teasing edge he so often carried had melted into something softer, something deeper.

"Let me take my time with you," he murmured, his voice quieter now, heavy with something unspoken. "Tonight, I have no reason to rush."

The words sent a slow warmth through you, one that had nothing to do with desire and everything to do with him. There was a promise in them, an unspoken vow that had nothing to do with duty or expectation. This was not a night for reckless passion or frantic need. It was a night for something greater.

You smiled, pressing your forehead to his, your touch soft and knowing. "Then take all the time you need."

Aegon let out a slow breath, one that felt almost like relief, before his lips found yours.

The kiss was slow and deep, nothing like the frenzied nights before. It was not a desperate claim or a demand but a confirmation of what had always been. He was yours, and you were his.

His hands skimmed over your back, moving with deliberate ease, gliding down the curve of your spine until his fingers found the delicate lacing that held your gown in place. He did not fumble, did not rush. Each tug and pull of the ties was patient, a testament to his practiced skill. As the fabric slackened and slipped away from your shoulders, he bent forward, pressing his lips to the newly revealed skin, his warm breath brushing against you like a whispered secret.

"I have dreamed of this moment," he murmured, his voice a low, velvety rasp against your skin. "Of undressing you slowly, savoring every inch of you."

His words sent a shiver down your spine, not from nerves but from the weight of them. You knew he spoke the truth. In all the times he had touched you before, there had always been a lingering urgency, a stolen moment that could not last long enough. But now there was no need for restraint, no need to keep his hands from wandering or his mouth from lingering.

Slowly, the layers of your wedding gown pooled around you, the rich fabric forgotten as it slid from your body. You were left in nothing but your shift, the delicate linen barely concealing the swell of your breasts, the curve of your hips. Aegon’s hands traced every inch of bare skin, his fingers gliding along the newly exposed flesh as if learning you all over again.

He was in no rush to claim you, no rush to take what had already been his in every way but this one. Instead, he took his time, savoring each touch, each brush of his lips, each soft sound that escaped you as he worshipped every inch of you.

He had called you his queen before the realm, but here, beneath the glow of candlelight, he made you feel like one.

"You are so beautiful," he whispered against your neck, his lips trailing down to your collarbone.

Your fingers tangled in his hair as he continued to explore your body with eager hands. The heat between you grew with each passing second, a slow burn that promised to consume you both. With a low growl, Aegon stood, lifting you with him. He carried you over to the bed and gently placed you down on the soft furs. His eyes drank in every inch of your exposed skin before he joined you on the bed.

He hovered over you, his weight resting on his forearms as he gazed down at you with an intensity that made your breath catch in your throat.

Aegon's lips claimed yours once more in a kiss filled with passion and longing. His hands roamed over your body with an urgency that drove any coherent thoughts from your mind. Your own hands were busy too – eagerly exploring every inch of his hard, muscular frame.

His hands continued their deliberate exploration, carefully peeling away the layers of your gown with a tenderness that belied his strength. Each new patch of skin, exposed to the cool air, was immediately claimed by his lips, his tongue, or the gentle scrape of his teeth, leaving a trail of tingling warmth in their wake. You arched into his touch, your breath hitching as he lingered on particularly sensitive spots, drawing out soft gasps of pleasure.

“You're still wearing too much,” you murmured, your fingers tugging insistently at the hem of his tunic.

He chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that vibrated against your skin. “Patience, my love. We have all night.”

Nevertheless, he released you momentarily, just long enough to pull the garment over his head, revealing the hard planes of his body. The flickering candlelight danced across his skin, highlighting every taut muscle and old scar. Your hands roamed eagerly over his chest, tracing the ridges of past battles and the firm definition of his abdomen, each touch reaffirming the magnetic pull between you.

Aegon's eyes darkened with lust as you explored his body. He captured your lips again, the kiss deeper and more urgent now. His hands slid down to your hips, fingers digging into the soft flesh as he pulled you closer. You could feel the heat of his arousal pressing against you through the remaining layers of fabric.

"I want to see all of you," he breathed against your mouth. With a fluid motion, he lifted you and laid you back on the bed. His gaze raked over you hungrily as he slowly removed the last of your gown, leaving you bare before him.

You flushed under his intense scrutiny, but there was no shame in it. This was your husband, your king, the man who had chosen you above all others. You reached for him, drawing him down to you.

Aegon's body covered yours, his weight a delicious pressure as he settled between your thighs. His lips found yours again, the kiss deep and consuming. You ran your hands down his back, feeling the play of muscles beneath his skin as he moved against you.

"You are exquisite," he murmured, trailing kisses along your jaw and down your neck. His hand cupped your breast, thumb brushing over the sensitive peak. You arched into his touch, a soft moan escaping your lips.

Aegon's lips moved with deliberate precision, tracing the path of his hand and leaving a trail of warmth that seemed to ignite your skin. He devoted himself to your breasts, switching between tender, feather-like touches and more demanding caresses that pulled involuntary gasps of his name from your lips.

Your fingers wove into the soft strands of his hair as he descended lower, planting a series of open-mouthed kisses across your abdomen. Each press of his lips made your breath catch in your throat as Aegon's mouth journeyed further down, his tongue crafting intricate patterns on your flushed skin. He lingered at your hip, delivering a playful nip that sent a shiver through you before he soothed the spot with a gentle kiss. His violet eyes, deepened with an intense longing, locked onto yours as he nestled himself between your thighs, ready to explore further.

"I want to taste you," he murmured, his breath hot against your most sensitive flesh. "To savor every part of you."

You nodded, your voice lost in the whirlwind of anticipation as Aegon lowered his mouth to your most intimate place. The first tentative swipe of his tongue sent a jolt of electricity through your body, causing your back to arch off the bed as if pulled by invisible strings, a breathless gasp escaping your lips. His strong hands, firm and steady, clamped onto your hips, anchoring you in place as he embarked on a thorough exploration with lips and tongue, each movement deliberate and expertly executed.

Aegon's dedication was unwavering, his technique a seamless dance between broad, sweeping strokes and precise, focused attention on the sensitive bundle of nerves that sent fireworks exploding behind your closed eyelids. Your fingers instinctively dove into the cascade of his silver-gold hair, pulling him closer, desperate for more as exquisite pleasure coiled tightly within you. Sensing your urgency, Aegon responded with eagerness, his tongue delving deeper, tasting and teasing with an artistry that spoke of familiarity and skill. He knew every curve and contour of your body, understood exactly how to touch you to ignite a fervent, all-consuming desire.

"Aegon," you gasped, your hips rolling against his mouth. "Please..."

He hummed a low, resonant tune against your collarbone, the vibration sending shockwaves of pleasure coursing through your body, like ripples on a pond's surface. His left hand remained firmly on your hip, fingers pressing into your soft flesh, while his right hand began a slow, tantalizing journey up your trembling thigh. You felt each of his calloused fingertips as they inched higher, teasing at your entrance, circling slowly before pressing inside with deliberate care. The dual sensation of his tongue, warm and wet, drawing circles on your clit, and his fingers curling inside you, stroking your inner walls, had you careening towards the edge of ecstasy.

Aegon's ministrations grew more intense, his fingers working in tandem with his tongue, a harmonious dance designed to bring you closer and closer to the peak. His tongue lapped against you, alternating between swift flicks and long, languid strokes, while his fingers crooked inside you, beckoning forth your orgasm. Your breath came in ragged gasps, your chest heaving as your body trembled with need, muscles tensing in anticipation. When he curled his fingers just so, hitting that perfect spot inside you, a hidden treasure trove of sensation, the tension finally snapped.

Pleasure crashed over you in waves, a relentless tide that left you crying out his name, your back arching sharply off the bed, sheets fisting in your hands. Aegon didn't relent, drawing out your climax with gentle licks and caresses, his fingers still moving languidly inside you, until you were quivering and oversensitive, your body pulsing with aftershocks. Only then did he press a final, tender kiss to your inner thigh, his stubble grazing your sensitive skin, before moving back up your body. His lips found yours in a searing kiss, his tongue sweeping into your mouth, and you could taste your own saltiness on his tongue, a primal, intimate exchange.

Aegon's body pressed against yours, his arousal evident as he settled between your thighs. His violet eyes were dark with desire as he gazed down at you, a mix of tenderness and hunger in his expression. You reached up to cup his face, drawing him down for another kiss.

"I need you," you whispered against his lips, your body still thrumming with aftershocks of pleasure.

Aegon's hand glided down the curve of your waist, his fingers tracing the contours of your body before firmly gripping your thigh. He gently lifted your leg, draping it over his hip, aligning himself at your entrance with careful precision. The warmth radiating from him was palpable, hinting at the imminent intimacy you both craved.

With a slow, deliberate movement, Aegon leaned forward, his chest pressing against yours as he enveloped you in a close embrace. Both of you gasped, a shared intake of breath as the familiar, electrifying sensation of him filling you completely surged through your senses. He paused momentarily, his forehead resting tenderly against yours, your mingled breaths creating a warm, shared space. In response, you rolled your hips with a silent plea, urging him to continue. Aegon responded, establishing a languid pace that had your back arching beneath him, your body instinctively synchronizing with the deep, measured rhythm he set. Each deliberate stroke sent waves of pleasure rippling through you, prompting you to wrap your legs around his waist, drawing him closer, urging him deeper into the connection you both shared.

Aegon's rhythm was unhurried and intentional, each movement deliberate as he maintained an unwavering gaze, eyes locked with yours. He moved with a languid grace, each thrust carefully measured to extract the utmost pleasure for both of you. The tension simmered within your core, a coil winding tighter with every precise roll of his hips. When he angled just right, hitting a particularly sensitive spot, a gasp escaped your lips, and your fingers instinctively dug into his shoulders, leaving small crescent-shaped impressions on his skin.

As the fervor of the moment began to consume him, Aegon's pace shifted from steady to frantic. His control wavered, and he buried his face in the crook of your neck, his breath a warm, ragged pant against your skin. His movements became more fervent, driven by a primal urgency. You wrapped your arms around him, holding on with desperation, as the overwhelming cascade of sensations threatened to drown you both.

With Aegon's thrusts becoming faster and more intense, your body quivered on the brink of another climax, every nerve electrified. The room reverberated with the melody of your shared passion—sharp, ragged gasps mingling with deep, resonant moans, accompanied by the steady, rhythmic creak of the wooden bed frame beneath you, which groaned in protest with each movement. Your fingers ventured down Aegon's spine, feeling the taut muscles ripple and contract beneath your touch, his skin glistening with a sheen of perspiration that caught the dim candlelight flickering in the chamber.

"Look at me," Aegon commanded, his voice roughened with a primal desire, cutting through the dimly lit atmosphere. You complied, lifting your gaze to meet his, where the intensity of his violet eyes seemed to pierce through you with an almost palpable force. The usual color of his irises was nearly eclipsed by the inky blackness of his pupils, dilated wide with lust, consuming the vibrant hue in a sea of darkness.

As you locked eyes with him, his gaze seemed to pull you into an ocean of intensity, and the room around you blurred into insignificance. Waves of pleasure coursed through your body, each one building upon the last. His hips moved with a relentless rhythm, each thrust more determined than the one before, expertly hitting that perfect spot inside you. You felt yourself hovering on the brink, every nerve tingling with anticipation, so close to that ultimate release.

"Come for me," Aegon growled, his voice a deep, commanding whisper that seemed to vibrate through your very bones. "Let me feel you." His words were a potent mix of demand and encouragement, resonating deep within you and urging you to surrender.

The combination of his words and a particularly deep, precise thrust sent you tumbling over the edge. You cried out his name, your voice echoing with the ecstasy that surged through you, your body tightening around him in response. Aegon's groan was guttural, his rhythm stuttering as your climax triggered his own. With a final, forceful thrust, he drove himself deep within you, releasing as he reached his peak, his body shuddering with the intensity of it all.

For several moments, you both lay entwined, bodies trembling and hearts racing as you came down from the heights of passion. Aegon's weight pressed you into the mattress, a comforting anchor as the room slowly came back into focus. His breath was warm against your neck, each exhale sending a small shiver through you.

Gradually, Aegon lifted his head, his violet eyes meeting yours once more. The intensity from before had softened, replaced by a tender warmth that made your heart swell. He brushed a stray lock of hair from your forehead, his touch gentle, as if savoring the moment.

"My queen," he murmured, his voice rough with emotion. "My wife."

You smiled up at him, reaching to cup his cheek, your thumb tracing the faint flush that still lingered on his skin. "My king," you replied softly. "My husband."

Aegon exhaled a quiet breath, leaning into your touch. For once, he did not speak, did not smirk or tease. He simply held you, his arms tightening around you as if anchoring himself in your warmth. The weight of the night settled between you, not in duty or expectation, but in something real, something that had always been there, waiting for this moment to be fully realized.

The candles burned low, their golden glow flickering against the chamber walls, casting soft shadows that swayed with the dying light. The world beyond this room, with all its expectations and burdens, had faded into nothing. The court did not matter, nor did the crown or the weight of what tomorrow would bring.

Here, in the quiet of your wedding night, there was only the warmth of his touch, the steady rhythm of his breath, and the unshakable truth that you belonged to each other completely.

Aegon held you close, his arms wrapped around you as if nothing could pull you from him. And for tonight, nothing would.

[swordgracerecs]

The way you write angst is just stunning, it’s absolutely masterful. I’ve always really admired your works and have looked up to you as a writer, and this is another piece that proves how well you’re able to craft such fantastic works!

Shield for a Heart

Pairing: King Aegon x wife reader

Tags: arranged marriage, angst, hurt/comfort, self-loathing, dubious consent, sex as a coping mechanism, begging, p. in v. sex

Wordcount: 2,680

As your husband Aegon ascends the throne, you can no longer bear his indifference and beseech him to consummate your fruitless union. His self-loathing makes the freshly crowned king crumble in your arms.

Aegon Masterlist

"And here you come with a shield for a heart and a sword for a tongue. Wasn’t I beautiful, fragrant and young?"

—Caroll Ann Duffy, Medusa.

The King's rooms were warm, perhaps a tad overly so, with a blazing fire in the hearth and numerous candles. You had ordered it to be prepared this way while your husband lounged on the Iron Throne with his squires and newly appointed guards.

Your heart was beating furiously in your chest as you heard his laughter coming from the staircase and then the hallway, bidding his drinking companion good night before he retired, no doubt eager to finish the wine that was waiting for him on his dining table.

His singing was unexpectedly harmonious as he pushed the door and walked into his chambers, only to fall quiet once the door was closed and he took notice of you, standing in front of the fire.

“Wife," he greeted, your title almost inquiring.

“Husband,” you greeted, but your tone didn’t convey much confidence. Aegon might have been inebriated, but he was not blind with it yet and he could see a slight trembling in your shoulders.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, taking in your slightly undone state—your feet were bare on the stones, and his heart skipped a beat when he noticed you were not wearing any shift or nightgown under your robe, fastened loosely at your waist.

Any wrong move would reveal your chest to his eyes, and perhaps a few quick steps could uncover the soft skin of your thighs. The prospect made his mouth water and his loins stir—you looked perfect, enchanting and so utterly beautiful, but once again he knew he had to hold on to his resolve and refuse you.

"Is it not obvious?" you asked, sweet and gentle.

Aegon pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, then made for the wine and poured himself a fresh cup. You did not object, instead watched him expectantly, eyes wide and lips parted on an eager sigh.

Aegon drank the cup in one breath, then slammed it upon the table, and the rich taste gave him a lick of courage. "Not tonight," he forced himself to speak, the two simple words feeling as broken glass on his tongue.

For months now, perhaps over a year now that he considered it, he had refused you at every turn, never giving you a reason. So far you had accepted his refusals, with tears in your eyes and the occasional stumbling apology, and never had you been so bold to await his return in his own rooms. He could still remember how crushed you had looked on your wedding night when he had made it clear he would not lay a hand on you, and the memory never ceased to make him burn with shame.

"While you were simply the prince, I could tolerate your... indifference," you said gracefully. "But now you are the king, you need an heir, and I am more than willing, your grace."

Aegon lowered his head between his shoulders, his hands braced on the tabletop, his back to yours—he had been a fool, thinking such a sweet disposition as yourself would never dare to confront him.

However now you were with your back to the wall as he was, and he knew you were being blamed for the lack of heirs, for his own failures, yet you had never made them public. You nodded each time the Hand or the queen dowager alluded at your ever flat stomach and empty breasts, promising in quiet words that you were fully committed to bearing him a son.

Your meekness and sweetness had been the promise from your father upon thrusting you at the feet of Otto Hightower, and the old man had been delighted with such a malleable temperament. You had flushed and lowered your eyes upon meeting your intended, and Aegon had only been horrified at the prospect that he would have to taint and defile such a pure creature.

He had no appreciation for beauty or anything pure in this life, as he was unworthy of it, and he loathed that such a woman had been given to him. Being his wife would never be anything but a downfall for you, and thus Aegon had vowed to himself that he would never succumb to his desires and defile you with them.

You would remain pure and perfect, and he would slowly rot in his own yearning.

"I have girls, waiting to be summoned in case assistance is needed," you suddenly said, snapping him out of his self-loathing. "Some of them you have favored in the past, the Madame told me."

"The Madame?" he asked, choking on his own laughter as he turned to face you once again.

"I had her summoned here in secret," you explained, your hands trembling as they fiddled with the belt of your robe. "She gave me private lessons, so that I might please you."

"Gods, you have debased yourself," Aegon lamented, fully knowing his drunken words were poorly chosen and you would find insult in them. He closed his eyes against shameful tears—now his failures had pushed you into depravity, sacrificing your own purity to learn of his debased ways. He loathed to imagine what perverted acts you had been taught, and he raged even more against his own reaction.

Clouding his mind along with the wine, his cock started to fill as you continued, unaware of his internal turmoil. "I wanted to please you... Not once in the year we have been married have you shared my bed and I wanted to learn..."

For an instant he frightened himself—his approval was about to slip from his lips and it took all his willpower to send you away. “Get out,” he moaned, pained.

“Aegon?” you gasped, and the pleading way with which you used his name sent a shiver through his loins.

“Get out," he said again, putting all his hatred for himself into it, begging whatever gods might be listening that you would take it for yourself and leave him once and for all.

You trembled, humiliation curling in your stomach at his refusal, but you forced yourself not to act on it. Instead you breathed through a repressed sob and took a few steps to him.

“I don’t understand,” you smiled, attempting to save face. “What is it that I did wrong, your grace? Tell me and I will rectify it.”

"It was nothing you did. Get out," he repeated, but this time it was more of a plea than an order. You knew he would not repeat himself a fourth time, and you were desperate not to provoke his anger as you had seen him unleash it on his own squires when in the throes of the drink.

Trembling, you reached for your belt and undid it, praying that the sigh of soft skin and womanly curves would settle him and convince him. Aegon's gasp echoed loudly as the silky fabric fell to the floor and you found yourself standing bare in front of him.

“Just once, I beseech you," you resorted to begging. "I can make it good, your grace, I swear you will be satisfied."

You gasped out loud as Aegon visibly snapped, and you almost stumbled over the pooled fabric of your robe as you took an involuntary step back. He marched to the door to his chambers with a snarl and opened it wide enough for his guards to see you if they turned, as well as for any servant who might walk the hallway.

"Out!" he hissed, and one of his guards threw a look over his shoulder, his head snapping forward again as he got a glimpse at your naked form. Still, you did not move to cover yourself.

"No," you whispered, your shame turning into desperation at the bottom of your stomach, or perhaps into something more violent, more potent.

“This is beneath you! Are you really so desperate that you would come here, begging for my cock?!” he screeched as he rushed to you, and his crude words resonated in the courtyard where all the royal rooms were.

Aegon could barely grip your arm and pull you along before the sharp sting of a slap across the face burned his cheek. “I hate you," you spat despite yourself, ashamed that you could not hold onto your resolve to be sweet, and resorted to anger instead.

“I know," he replied, a smile curling onto his beautiful face, two tears tracing wet tracks on it, and you loathed how much you desired to kiss them away.

“You are pathetic,” you whispered, and the lie burned your throat as it made its way out, and finally, Aegon burst into frantic sobs.

“Get out,” he moaned again, clinging to you despite his tears.

“Why?” you asked, your own hands coming to his shoulders, jostling him as to dislodge the words from his chest, desperate to know his mind. “Why do you loathe me so much?”

“Don’t you see?” he keened, and you bent forward to catch a glimpse of his face, hidden by his thick waves. "It is not you that I loathe but myself!"

The confession was hissed in your face and this time he did not have the strength to push you away, even as you kissed the tears from his cheeks. "Do you really want me, as pathetic as I am, to touch you? To force myself upon you?" he whimpered, leaning into your touch despite himself—his grip on your arm was still fierce, his nails leaving red crescents into your skin.

"I told you, I am more than willing," you countered, reaching into his hair to pull it from his face and force him to meet your eyes.

"I have seen that side of you that no one knows exists. I have seen how you behave with your sister's children, how you dote on them!" you pressed, then softened. "How tenderly you smile when you think no one is looking, how radiant you are as you meet Sunfyre."

Aegon whined as you recounted those moments he had meant for no one to see, and he felt as a beast with its soft belly exposed—at the same time he wished to submerge themselves into them and to drown into your touch, sweet and penitent, and to perhaps find absolution at your lips.

"Aegon, please," you murmured into your next kiss, to his mouth this time, and you sighed as you finally felt the softness of his lips after a year since your first and only kiss, dry at it sealed the oath you had then taken in front of the Septon.

"I would only bring you ruin," he murmured, pulling his mouth away, but his neck was defenseless as you pressed your kisses to it instead. "You were right to call me pathetic as you did."

"I was wrong. You're just hurt. I can soothe that hurt, if you'd just allow me," you said as you slipped your hands into his open doublet and under his shirt, seeking his skin before you reached for the laces of his trousers.

You imagined taming a wild, wounded dragon would feel no different, and you forced yourself to keep your movements soft even though victory was making you thrum.

"Please," he whispered, and you did not stop to wonder whether he was pleading for you to stop or to go on, and at this stage you did not care. He stumbled slightly as you slid a hand into the front of his trousers, wasting no time wrapping your hand around his length, letting it rest into the warmth of your palm.

"I want it, Aegon," you tried to spur him on. "I want you, feel it," you let go of his waist to reach for his wrist, and he finally unhanded you. He allowed you to guide him, only groaning when you pressed his hand between your thighs, cupping your cunt with it.

Aegon groaned into your neck at the feel of your wet folds, parting easily for his fingers. He pressed viciously into you and you only mewled, even when he came to meet your maidenhead.

"Take it, please. It's yours, just take it," you pleaded, and your hand tightened on his cock as he did so, pushing past the thin flesh and claiming you as his.

Aegon couldn't help but grin as you laughed into his hair, pushing yourself up on your toes and arching your back into his touch. Your hand left his wrist and both your arms wrapped around his shoulders—this time he could do nothing else but follow as you dragged him in front of the fire.

"The door," he whimpered between your kisses, scorching and almost feral.

"Let them hear. Let them know I'm yours," you replied as you pushed his trousers past his hips before shoving him down into one of the armchairs—there was hardly time for either of you to breathe or consider what was happening, but you were past reason.

A frantic desperation had taken hold of your skin, of your bones, and was leading you like a puppet, with only one purpose in mind, that of claiming your husband as yours and being claimed as his.

Aegon clung to you, pushing your hair over your shoulders as you straddled him and began the slow, agonizing descent over his cock. The stretch burned fiercely, but so did the pressure of his abdomen against your pearl, and the way Aegon's brow knitted over his darkened eyes made you soften.

Aegon melted into the backrest, unable to do anything else but watch as you rocked down against him, your cunt molding its silky walls around his cock and clenching with each roll. Your promises of pleasing him had not been empty, he realized as you started a quick rhythm, almost vicious in its desperation.

"Aegon," you sighed in delight even though your thighs burned.

"Please don't stop," he asked breathlessly, and you felt yourself grow bold under his adoring gaze.

The way he was looking up at you made you burn more intensely than the heavenly feeling of his cock rubbing against your sweet spot. You shook your head with a grin. "Not until you are spent," you replied, and it made him hiss behind gritted teeth, his hips thrusting up into yours.

You forced yourself to look upon him as you began your slow ascend towards your peak. You could feel it creep on you, closer and closer with each roll of your hips, and Aegon seemed as hungry for it as you were. He grew more sloppy as his own pleasure crested, his hands tightening at your hips—his thighs were caught in his trousers and he could not splay them as he wished to find leverage, and he had to surrender to your rhythm.

Aegon started to shudder, pleading whispers pushing past his lips that you swallowed eagerly. "How beautiful you are, my king," you said with a parting kiss before your back arched and you let your eyes close against the onslaught of your release.

"Say it again," Aegon sobbed as the first lick of his peak teased the base of his cock.

"My king," you gasped as he pressed into your sweet spot and the tension snapped, making your hips stutter and your cunt clench around him almost painfully.

Aegon cursed and grunted as he spilled into you, pulled into the whirlpool of your own peak—you cradled his head against your chest and he moaned the last waves of his pleasure around one of your tits. Looking over his shoulder and the back of the armchair, you chuckled as a guard pulled the door close swiftly.

"My queen," he finally acknowledged with no small amount of wonder, his wide eyes looking up at you, his chin nestled between your breasts.

"I am your queen. Whatever troubles keep you awake at night," you whispered, your hands carding through his golden strands. "I can deal with them. Let me stand at your side," you whispered as his eyes fluttered, his cock going soft between your folds. "Please let me fight for you."

Dividers by @/saradika

Thank you to the darling @anjelicawrites for reading this over and making sure it made sense ♡

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