jeongiegram

[jeongiegram]

We haven't insulted Condom enough for his version of dragon dreamers, and I'm here to insult him some more.

Why can Helaena both astral travel and not interpret her visions? Is it because the writers have a vendetta against common sense? Or because someone decided they could write a better story than GRRM, but forgot that it takes some brains?

Unlike GoT, where D&D focused on political games, making magic secondary, HotD inserts magic even where it didn't exist to begin with, without bothering to make it a coherent system. I could complain endlessly about what they did to the dragons and their connection to the riders, but that's not the point now.

Daenys the Dreamer, who foresaw the Doom of Valyria, was able to convince her father to move to Dragonstone. That's how dreams work - you see the future, you don't like it, you fix the future, done, you're awesome.

Why can't Helaena do the same? Why has no one, absolutely no one, thought to make her dreams an AU version of the plot, and attempts to fix it led to canon events?

Helaena tells Aemond to be careful, and to be wary of Jace, who will rip his guts out, only for him to end up losing an eye and gaining a dragon and contempt for their father. And she drowns in grief, crying at the bedside of her unconscious little brother, praying to the gods that he lives, and that the fever goes away.

Helaena deliberately avoids the night with Aegon when their daughter would have been conceived and brutally killed during the Dance, only to conceive twins later. And she looks at them with love, praying to the Seven that the fate of the unborn Alyssa will pass them by.

Helaena adds guards to Rhaenys's chambers to keep her from ruining the coronation, and orders Meleys chained tightly. And she flies with Dreamfyre by her husband's side, enjoying her last moments of peace, only to learn that Rhaenys has escaped anyway.

Helaena, advising that Aemond be sent to Storm's End, for if he goes to the Riverlands, the witch will steal his mind and heart. And she hears her younger brother, still wet from the rain, lie through his teeth that he intended to kill Lucerys all along and that he has everything under control.

Helaena stops her charity visits to the city, knowing that Daemon has hired assassins to desecrate her body and slit her throat the moment she leaves the sept after her prayers. The assassins find her themselves, coming to her house, killing one of her sons, cutting off his head before her eyes.

Helaena sees so much, and still can't save anyone.

Was it really that hard, Ryan?

[jeongiegram]

if Aegon talks to Larys 'bout his penis again in the 3rd season, ill kill myself

if anything Mushroom said about Aegon happens in 3rd season, ill kill myself

if Aegon isn't in Aemond's hallucinations, ill kill myself

if Aegon's screen time in 3rd season is only 30 minutes, ill kill C*ndal

[jeongiegram]

On my BBC Musketeers rewatch I suddenly remembered how in this fight scene Tom Burke is fully just wearing Nikes.

The rare and exquisite 17th century Nikes.

[jeongiegram]

the love i have for this show knows no bounds

[jeongiegram]

I love Dongfang Qingcang pre realising he has his own organic feelings for Xiao Lanhua outside of the one heart curse so much. he's just like The only thing that ties that little flower spirit and I is the one heart curse, if it weren't for that I would HAPPILY have gotten rid of her and meanwhile he's saying that while carefully sweeping her up and carrying her to bed, tucking her in all comfy, making sure the blankets are pulled up tight, cutting the crusts off a sandwich just the way she likes it, absently doodling Mr Xiao Lanhua in his evil moon supreme planner and shit. 10/10 what a guy.

[jeongiegram]

I tried really hard to find this meme yesterday but couldn't find it anywhere, so I remade it. If you made it (or know who did), please tell me, I'm sure yours is much better!

[jeongiegram]

hi guys briefly coming back from hiatus to talk about hotd not being nominated to any emmys.

it's a pretty huge deal, with hotd s2 being the only show in the entire franchise that was not nominated for the "outstanding drama series" award.

mind you, got s8 was nominated and WON that award, but i feel like that win was mostly about saying goodbye to one of the most iconic shows on tv, rather then the season itself.

i'm honestly very surprised it was publicly snubbed like that. it's very humiliating for hbo since they were openly denying the season receiving negative reviews.

the show has to deliver on s3 - but considering it is still run by the same people who refuse to admit and learn from their mistakes it's extremely unlikely. also considering how grrm was willing to risk being sued by hbo to talk shit about s3 script on his blog... yeah it's not looking great guys...

[jeongiegram]

If you haven’t watched the Ziqi’s Little Theater Clips make sure you do!!

Ding Yuxi went back to Hengdian in early October to film these on his own dime. He wanted to provide extra insight into Mu Sheng’s character that much. ♥️

(Yes you get extra sad Ziqi)

YouTube playlist (translations/transcripts included)

Thread of official stills on twitter

These have been out for a while, but a lot of people aren’t aware of them, so I thought I’d share again. They’re very cute. ♥️

[jeongiegram]

Ate this up just like Pt 1 @danysdaughter i love your writing so much omfg

Love Island!Bucky (Pt. 2)

pairing | love!island!bucky x fem!reader

word count | 9.2k words

summary | The next morning, instead of questioning bucky, the girls paint you as the problem — the messy one who blindsided sharon and stirred the pot. the judgment builds. the energy shifts. Then comes the dumping. Three girls vulnerable. One will go.

a/n | guys omg, I did not expect so much love for the love island headcanons lollll, anyway I went hella overboard for this. also I wrote this in present tense and it was giving me the ick and making my fingers crawlllll

taglist | if you wanna be added to my bucky barnes masterlist just add your username to my taglist 🩵

likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨✨

ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ - ᴘᴀʀᴛ 1

divider by @cafekitsune

The Next Morning 🌅

Cue soft acoustic guitar and wide drone shot of the villa bathed in early morning sunlight.

Iain Stirling (voiceover): “It’s a brand new day in the Love Island villa, and after last night’s emotionally devastating, slow-motion, whisper-in-the-dark, Soul Ties-level drama, you’d think things might have calmed down…”

Cut to you and Bucky, asleep and cuddled up in Soul Ties. 

“But no. Because this is Love Island, and peace is just a rumor.”

Cut to the girls’ dressing room, where tension is spreading faster than MJ’s lip gloss.

“Elektra’s getting ready to look flawless while ruining someone’s morning. MJ’s in her usual position — two inches from drama. And Trish? Trish is there because no one wants to be the third wheel and the fourth wall.”

The dressing room is thick with hair spray and tension. Sunlight filters through the windows, casting golden lines across countertops cluttered with makeup bags and hair tools. 

Elektra sits at the center vanity like it's a throne, legs crossed, one brow arched as she slowly runs a brush through her hair. Her voice is soft, almost casual — which makes it sting worse.

“I just think it’s wild,” she says, watching her own reflection with amusement. “Bucky brings Sharon back, and now he’s creeping into bed with her like it’s nothing?”

MJ lets out a gasp that practically echoes off the tile. She's leaned close to Elektra, glossing her lips and pretending she's not dying to be the one spilling the tea. “Wait, they were actually together last night?”

Trish, sitting behind them and stretching like she hadn’t been up for an hour waiting for this conversation to kick off, nods like it pained her to confirm. “I heard he left the bed after lights out. Went straight to her. Didn’t even try to be subtle.”

Elektra gives a low, theatrical laugh. “Please. That girl’s been crying all week — now she’s in Soul Ties with Bucky again? She’s been playing the victim card like it’s her job. It’s giving... manipulative.”

“And Sharon?” MJ adds, voice pitched to sound sincere, but there's that edge in it — the same one she always has when she wants someone to look bad. “She’s literally so sweet. Like, she did nothing wrong.”

“She got blindsided, that’s what happened,” Elektra mutters, tossing her brush onto the counter. “And that one—” she doesn't even say your name, just nods toward the door, “—knew exactly what she was doing.”

“She’s not even subtle about it,” Trish says. “I mean, don’t act like you’re above the mess and then go sneak a boy out of bed.”

Elektra’s lips curl. “Exactly. Some people talk about loyalty like it’s a brand — but clearly she’s only loyal when it benefits her.”

Across the room, Ororo stands by the mirror, arms folded as she slowly applies her moisturizer, not once looking in their direction. Karen sits nearby, silent, eyes fixed on her reflection, jaw tight. Neither of them says a word — but the air around them has changed. They heard every syllable.

“I swear,” Ororo mutters under her breath once the others are too busy giggling to notice, “if she says one more word...”

Karen leans in slightly. “She’s poking for a reaction. They all are. Don’t give it to them.” Then, quieter still, “But we’ve got her back. No matter what.”

You push open the dressing room door with one hand, the other tugging the hood of your sweatshirt further over your head. You don’t say anything — not “morning,” not even a nod. You just walk in with your face mostly hidden, body language tight, and that stiff, quiet air of someone who’s not sure whether they want to cry or scream.

You feel the eyes on you immediately. Not all of them. But enough.

You can practically hear them stop talking.

You know what they’re thinking. You know what you’re thinking — and that’s the worst part.

You're still torn. Still bruised.

He came back with another girl. But then he left her bed, broke the rules, and found you. Held you. Slept beside you like nothing in the world could’ve pulled him away.

So what the fuck does that mean?

You’re still figuring it out when Elektra says, without even turning fully around, “Well. Looks like someone had a wild night.”

You stop in your tracks. You don’t look at her — not yet. But your voice is clear when it comes out.

“Don’t start. Not this early.”

There’s a pause. MJ tries — tries — to stifle a reaction. Trish looks up from her water bottle, waiting.

But Elektra? She’s already smiling. Not wide. Just the kind of smile that says she was hoping you’d bite.

“I’m just making conversation,” she says lightly, flicking her mascara wand up through her lashes. “Didn’t realize that was off-limits now.”

You let out a short laugh through your nose. Dry. Exhausted. “You know what you’re doing.”

Elektra glances at you in the mirror, her tone casual. “What? I can’t ask about the villa’s newest and most confusing love triangle?”

Karen, sitting nearby, shifts slightly — not looking up, but her grip on her brush tightens.

Ororo doesn’t even pretend to ignore it. She turns her head, calm but watching.

Elektra continues, voice cool. “Bucky brings Sharon back from Casa, and not even twenty-four hours later he’s cuddled up with you like it didn’t happen. But sure, I’m the one being messy.”

The way she says it — soft, deliberate — isn’t loud. Isn’t obviously cruel. But it’s sharp. She doesn’t need volume to cut deep.

You lift your head finally, just enough for your eyes to meet hers in the mirror.

“You don’t care about Sharon,” you say flatly. “You just don’t like not being in the middle of the drama.”

Trish stifles a breath. MJ goes quiet.

Elektra doesn’t blink. “If I didn’t care, I wouldn’t be saying anything.”

“You’re not saying anything helpful,” you shoot back. “You’re stirring shit you know nothing about.”

Elektra leans back slightly, crossing one leg over the other, eyes locked on yours through the mirror like she’s bored, but her smile is too precise for that to be true.

She shrugs, slow and cool. “Hey, if you can dish it out, you should be able to take it.”

You squint at her, that dull throb in your temples starting to flare.

“Dish what out?” you ask, voice quieter now, but sharper. “You’ve been talking shit since you walked in this villa.”

“I’ve been asking questions,” Elektra says innocently, setting down her mascara wand like she’s so done with this. “If that gets under your skin, maybe there’s something worth unpacking.”

Ororo makes a sound from across the room — not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh. Karen just tilts her head down, like she’s reading the label on her moisturizer just to keep from rolling her eyes.

You open your mouth to say something else, heat rising up the back of your neck —

And then the door opens.

Sharon steps in quietly, wrapped in her robe, makeup-free, her expression open and uncertain. She looks around the room, her eyes scanning like she’s stepping into something she wasn’t invited to. Her brows knit just slightly, but she keeps her posture calm.

“Hey,” she says gently. “I just need a few minutes to get ready. Is the shower free?”

Elektra is up like clockwork — the switch in her tone almost whiplash-inducing.

“Yeah, of course, babe,” she says, turning to face Sharon with the perfect balance of warm concern and subtle drama. “You okay? You look kind of... off.”

Sharon hesitates, just a second too long. “Didn’t sleep much.”

Elektra gives her a soft, pitying look that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Yeah. I would think so. Must be weird trying to sleep while your guy’s out in another bed.”

That lands like a pin drop.

You lift your head immediately, expression tightening.

“Elektra,” you warn, voice low, but she waves it off like you’re being dramatic.

“No, I’m just saying,” she continues, still looking at Sharon, voice all faux-sympathy. “I’d be pretty torn up too. First night in the villa and he’s already moving on. That’s... brutal.”

You step forward, pulse spiking. “Don’t do that. Don’t put this on me.”

Elektra finally looks at you — not angry, not loud — just surgical.

“You went off with him. While she was still sleeping in his bed. After everything. That’s not just messy, it’s fucked.”

Sharon shifts slightly, her face still composed, but there’s something behind her eyes now — not shock, just quiet confirmation that she’s already been thinking everything Elektra’s saying.

You take a breath, trying to keep your voice steady. “It wasn’t like that.”

Elektra lets out a breath of disbelief. “Oh come on. You think that makes it better? You’re not stupid — you knew what it looked like.”

You glance at Sharon — and the worst part is, she’s not glaring. She’s not accusing. She just looks... tired. Like she’s trying not to feel humiliated.

And now, you feel sick.

“I didn’t mean for it to happen that way,” you say quickly, eyes still on Sharon. “I didn’t plan any of it. He came to me. I didn’t even know he would.”

Elektra scoffs. “Yeah, but you let him stay.”

Silence.

No one says a word. MJ’s frozen mid-makeup swipe. Trish has stopped pretending she’s not watching.

Ororo stands by the sink, arms crossed now, expression unreadable. Karen meets your eyes from across the room — no judgment, but concern. She knows this isn’t black and white.

But Elektra just tilts her head, all soft venom.

“You can do what you want,” she says sweetly. “Just don’t act like you’re the victim anymore. Not when someone else is standing right there.”

You stare at the floor for a second, jaw clenched, vision hot.

Elektra’s words hang in the air like smoke, still curling around the room, seeping into everyone’s silence. Sharon doesn’t say anything — she’s polite like that — but you can feel the judgment twisting, building, pressing against your chest like a weight.

You laugh once — short, sharp, humorless.

And then it just snaps.

“You know what?” Your voice is low, but it cuts through the room like a blade. “Go ahead. All of you. Dogpile on me. That’s clearly the game today, yeah?”

You look up, eyes bright and full of fire now. “Like I wasn’t the one standing at that firepit yesterday in front of all of you looking like a fucking idiot. Like I wasn’t the one humiliated on national fucking television while he walked in with someone else.”

No one says anything. MJ shifts her weight like she wants to disappear. Trish stares at the floor.

You keep going, voice steady but shaking from the sheer force of everything behind it.

“And now I’m the bad guy because I didn’t shove him off me in the middle of the night? Because for one second I wanted to feel like I didn’t imagine all of it?”

You glance at Sharon again, and your voice softens — not apologetic, but real.

“I didn’t mean for you to get hurt. And I’m sorry that you did. But I’m done pretending like I’m the one who fucked this whole thing up.”

You look back at Elektra, finally meeting her eyes head-on.

“You wanna play girl's girl? Cool. Just don’t rewrite the story like Bucky didn’t make the mess. You all wanna call me messy, but none of you have had the balls to say anything to him.”

But Elektra says nothing now.

Because you’re right. And everyone in that room knows it.

You exhale hard, rubbing your face once, then shake your head. “I’m done with this shit.”

And you walk out — hoodie still up, heart still bruised.

You find the staircase that wraps around the back of the villa — barely used, tucked between two walls where the cameras can’t quite catch a clean angle. You sit on the third step, legs pulled up, arms resting on your knees, trying to fold in on yourself like maybe you could disappear if you got small enough.

It’s quiet. For a few seconds. Then soft footsteps approach.

Ororo and Karen don’t say your name. Don’t announce themselves. They just stop a few steps down, careful not to crowd you.

Karen crouches down beside you, her expression gentle but serious. Ororo leans against the railing, arms crossed lightly, watching you like she’s waiting for you to look up first.

You don’t.

Karen’s voice is soft. “Are you okay?”

You laugh. Not because it’s funny. Just because what else are you supposed to do?

“No,” you say. Quiet, but real. “Seriously—no. I’m not.”

You finally lift your head, and the way your voice cracks a little as you speak again makes Karen reach for your hand instinctively.

“I have no fucking clue what’s going on anymore. I don’t know where I stand with him. I don’t know how I’m supposed to feel. One second I’m being embarrassed in front of everyone, and the next he’s sneaking out to hold me like���like that didn’t happen.”

Your eyes glass over, and you blink hard.

“I feel like I’m losing my mind. Everyone’s looking at me like I’m the bad guy, and I don’t even know what I’m defending anymore. I’m just… so fucking tired.”

Ororo still hasn’t moved. She’s quiet for a beat, then says softly, “You’re not crazy. You’re in the middle of something real, and people forget that just because it’s on camera.”

You shake your head. “Yeah, well, it feels crazy.”

Karen squeezes your hand gently. “You don’t have to have it figured out right now. You just need space to feel it.”

Ororo steps forward, finally, kneeling on the step just above yours.

“You’re not alone,” she says simply. “You never have to be.”

You exhale slowly, pressing your knuckles to your eyes for a second before letting your hands drop back into your lap. The weight in your chest hasn’t shifted, and your voice is quieter now, like you're already tired of hearing yourself talk — but it needs to come out.

Karen tilts her head gently. “What… actually happened last night?”

You hesitate, eyes flicking between her and Ororo. There’s no pressure in their faces. Just space. Space to be honest.

You finally speak.

“He found out I was sleeping in Soul Ties,” you say, voice low. “And then… after everyone went to sleep, he came out.”

You stare down at your hands. “Didn’t say much. Just got in behind me and held me. Like it was the most normal thing in the world.”

Karen watches you closely, her brows pulling together just slightly.

“He said he didn’t care if he wasn’t supposed to. That he couldn’t sleep knowing I was out there alone. And then he…” You trail off for a second. The words feel heavier in your mouth than they did in your memory. “He said some things before that. About how he didn’t think I’d pick him. About how he made the wrong choice. And then… we kissed.”

Ororo’s expression shifts subtly — not shock, not judgment. Just concern. Like she knows what’s coming before you even say it.

You let the silence hang for a second longer before your voice comes back, brittle and quiet.

“That was it. That’s all that happened. But—”

You shake your head, biting the inside of your cheek before the rest tumbles out.

“Words are cheap. Anyone can say nice shit when they’re lying next to you at two in the morning. What matters is what they do when the lights are on. And all I’ve seen so far is him choosing someone else and me being the one who looks pathetic.”

You blink again, hard.

“I feel like the biggest piece of shit. Like I let myself be played again. And now Sharon’s hurt, Elektra’s making it her mission to drag me, and I’m just sitting here trying to remember how I even got in the middle of this.”

Karen doesn’t speak. She just lets you sit with it.

Ororo’s voice is calm when it comes, steady and grounding. “You’re not the piece of shit in this story. You’re the one they keep expecting to carry all the guilt while he walks around like he didn’t light the match.”

You press your lips together, shaking your head again, like you can physically will the tears not to fall.

“I just…” your voice is barely there now, hoarse around the tightness in your throat, “I don’t know what to believe anymore.”

You stare down at the floor, blinking fast, willing yourself not to fall apart in front of them. Not now. Not again.

“I don’t know if what he said meant anything. I don’t know if he’s just playing a game, or if I am for letting him in. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do to fix it, and honestly…”

You stop. Take a deep breath. It shakes on the way out.

“I just wanna go home.”

The words fall out small, tired, and honest in a way that makes the air feel still. You don’t say it for sympathy. 

You say it because you mean it. Because for the first time since you got here, the idea of finishing the show doesn’t feel like a challenge — it feels like punishment.

Karen gently leans into you, resting her head against your shoulder without a word. Ororo doesn’t move, but her presence wraps around you like a second spine.

They don’t say anything right away.

Because they know that sometimes the most important thing someone can do is just be there when you can’t carry it anymore.

Tweet Challenge📱

The islanders are gathered around the firepit, energy nervous and unsettled. A few people try to fake-laugh their way through it, but no one’s really relaxed — not with a card on the table marked “#VillaTalks”.

A text informs Trish to take the first card, who reads it out loud.

“It’s time to find out what the world really thinks. One by one, tweets from viewers will be read out loud. Some are nice. Most… not so much.”

The first few tweets are harmless — jabs at random couples, calling Matt a walking red flag, teasing MJ for always stirring the pot (she takes it in stride, grinning). You’re sitting off to the side, Karen beside you, Ororo on your other side, silent support flanking you like armor.

Then the next tweet is pulled.

Elektra leans forward, plucking the card with dramatic flair. Her eyes flick across the words, and you already know — from the flicker of her smile — it’s about you.

She reads it out loud, tone sweet but loaded.

“Not her crying all week then playing sleepover with Mr. Flip-Flop 🤡#PickASide #MessyQueen”

A few people laugh awkwardly. MJ lets out a “Yikes” under her breath. Sharon’s expression doesn’t move, but her hand tenses slightly on her knee.

You stare straight ahead, jaw locked.

Elektra raises an eyebrow, feigning innocence. “Oof. Wonder who that could be.”

Karen shifts beside you. “We don’t have to pretend.”

The text prompt: “Islanders, who do you think that tweet’s about?”

It’s rhetorical. Everyone knows.

You speak before anyone else can.

“Me,” you say flatly. “Obviously.”

The next card comes, but the tension hasn’t broken. It clings to you, thick and sharp, like you’ve just been handed a version of yourself that the outside world has already judged.

And the worst part?

They don’t know half the story.

Bucky’s across from you, hands clasped between his knees, head lowered slightly. You don’t look at him. You don’t need to. You can feel the weight of his guilt across the firepit.

And still — no one says anything.

The tweet sits there in the air, sharper than anything Elektra could’ve cooked up.

And you sit in the middle of it, stone-still, trying to hold your head up — even though your chest is caving in.

The cards keep coming.

MJ grabs the next one, eyes widening slightly as she reads. Her tone is more neutral now — less playful.

“Her reaction was raw, real, and heartbreaking. Bucky doesn’t deserve her. #StayStrongQueen #KnowYourWorth”

A few murmurs ripple through the group. Karen nods slightly beside you. Ororo doesn’t react — but you feel the subtle shift in her posture, like she’s quietly validating it.

You don’t smile. You just stare ahead. You can’t smile, not when your heart’s still tangled up in all the parts of this that didn’t happen in front of a camera.

But then Sharon — quiet, careful — picks up the next tweet.

Her voice is steady, but there’s an edge under it.

“Bucky's out here doing everything but picking a lane. One day he’s with Sharon, next he’s in Soul Ties whispering sweet nothings to Y/N. Bro’s a full-time shapeshifter. #CasualKing #CuddleContractRenewed”

Even Bucky lets out a quiet breath — part laugh, part groan.

The villa chuckles, but no one’s really laughing.

You don’t look at him. You just fold your arms across your chest tighter.

Then Trish pulls the next one — and you know from her expression before she even speaks that this one’s going to sting.

“I tried to feel bad for Y/N but girl… you let him embarrass you at the firepit and still kissed him? You’re not a victim. You’re a volunteer. #Embarrassing #HaveSomeSelfRespect”

It hits harder than you expect.

Hard enough that your stomach flips.

You breathe in slowly through your nose, eyes locked on the fire like it’s the only thing grounding you.

Karen reaches out, her hand brushing yours in a way that’s subtle but sure.

Ororo doesn’t speak, but her gaze is locked on Trish — and Trish suddenly looks a little uncomfortable holding the card.

Elektra, of course, can't help herself. “People are just saying what we’re all thinking,” she says lightly.

You turn your head slowly, finally looking at her. “You’re loving this, aren’t you?”

Elektra smiles, tilting her head. “I didn’t write the tweets, babe.”

The air stills again. Even Bucky looks up now, eyes locked on you like he’s finally realizing how much this is costing you.

And the producers? They call it there — challenge over. Maybe it’s too real now. Maybe they got what they wanted.

You stand up slowly, brushing invisible dust off your legs, not looking at anyone as you walk off.

After The Challenge ❤️‍🩹

You find the far edge of the villa near the swing bench — not because it’s hidden, but because it’s just far enough from the cameras and the people and the noise. 

You sit with your hands folded in your lap, staring at nothing, your breath coming in that slow, numb way that only happens when you’ve stopped trying to fight the burn in your throat.

And then you hear his footsteps.

You don’t even have to look. The weight in the air changes when he’s around now.

Bucky doesn’t speak right away. He just stops a few feet away, like he’s trying to figure out if he’s even allowed to stand that close to you anymore.

You can feel his eyes on you — studying the way your shoulders are curled in slightly, how you’re blinking a little too often, trying to keep your face neutral.

He steps forward once.

You look up. Not all the way. Just enough to catch him in your periphery.

Your voice is soft. Frayed.

“Not now. Please.”

He doesn’t answer at first. Maybe he wasn’t expecting you to sound so… tired. Not angry. Not biting. Just done.

But then he speaks — quiet, almost like he’s trying not to scare you off.

“I just wanted to check on you.”

You shake your head once, still not looking directly at him. “Too late for that.”

“I know,” he says. “I know I’ve made all of this worse. I just… I didn’t see it until today. The way they’re coming for you. How it’s all landing on you instead of me.”

You finally look at him then. And it’s not with hate. It’s worse — it’s with that expression of someone who’s still holding onto the last sliver of something soft and hurt and doesn't know if it’s even worth it anymore.

“I didn’t ask for any of this,” you say. “I didn’t want a storyline or screen time or whatever the hell they think I’m doing. I just—” you stop yourself. The rest sits in your throat, unspoken.

He swallows, eyes searching yours. “I know. I’m not here to defend myself.”

You exhale slowly, like each breath is being pulled from your ribs.

“I can’t do this right now, Bucky.”

A pause. Then quieter:

“Please don’t make me.”

And that’s when it finally hits him — fully, deeply — that this isn’t just some tension to smooth over. This is a wound he’s responsible for. One you’ve bled from in silence while everyone else clapped and laughed and read tweets.

He nods once. Not in defeat. In understanding.

“I’ll give you space,” he says. “But I’m not gonna stop trying to make it right.”

You don’t answer. You just close your eyes for a second. And he walks away.

This time, he looks like the one carrying the weight.

Your Confessional 📹

You sit back in the chair, hoodie still on, strings pulled halfway tight around your face like you’re trying to disappear but couldn’t be bothered to finish the job. Your eyes are red-rimmed — not from sobbing, just worn out. Like sleep hasn’t found you in days.

For a second, you just sit there.

Then you huff a small laugh — not amused, not bitter. Just... tired. You shake your head and drag your hand down your face, pausing to press your fingers over your eyes for a moment, like maybe that’ll hold everything in place.

You drop your hand.

Look straight at the camera.

And smile — just barely.

“Apparently America hates me, which is unfortunate. But also kinda impressive, ‘cause America can’t hate me more than I hate myself right now.”

Your laugh is quiet, almost like it escaped by accident.

“No seriously, I got humiliated on national television, kissed the guy who humiliated me, then woke up to be called a messy queen by a Twitter handle named @/hornyforyourdad. Like. What the actual fuck am I doing.”

There’s no self-pity in your tone — just exhaustion. The kind that comes after feeling too much, too fast, for too long. You glance off camera, shrug once. 

“I should’ve just gone home yesterday. But I stayed. Because some part of me thought maybe…”

You stop. Then shake your head.

“Anyway. That’s on me.”

You exhale hard, sit up straighter, and give the camera one last deadpan look.

“Can I go now? Or do I have to read another tweet from someone who thinks I’m ruining feminism.”

Few Days Later — The Firepit 🌙🔥

Cue slow aerial shot of the villa under moonlight. Fairy lights twinkle across the patio. Wine glasses clink. Someone’s laughing too loud.

Iain Stirling (voiceover): “The moon is shining. The water is warm. And the tension? Well, that’s about to boil over like Karen after three glasses of white wine and a poorly timed truth-or-dare…”

“After a few blissful days of silence — and by blissful I mean emotionally repressed — it’s time for another Love Island classic: America’s vote.”

Cut to a group text alert. Everyone’s phones buzz at once.

“Islanders, please gather around the firepit immediately.”

The islanders file in, uneasy. You’re not even trying to hide the exhaustion on your face anymore.

Ariana walks in, flawless as always, cards in hand and not a single strand of hair out of place.

“Good evening, islanders.”

They respond — quiet, respectful, nervous.

Ariana wastes no time.

“As you know, America has been voting for who they believe are the least compatible couples in the villa.”

She pauses, lets the silence build.

“The three with the fewest votes are…”

She looks at the card.

“…MJ and Peter.”

Peter stiffens. MJ exhales, muttering, “Knew it.”

“…Karen and Frank.”

Karen swallows hard, jaw tense. Frank says nothing.

“And the third… is Y/N.”

A few heads turn your way. You stare straight ahead. Expression flat. Not surprised.

The firepit glows soft and orange against the night, casting shadows across stiff shoulders and tense expressions. 

Everyone’s sitting upright, backs straight like posture might protect them from what’s coming. You stand with Karen and MJ on either side — the only three girls up for elimination.

Your hands rest neatly at your sides. You’re not shaking. You’re not crying. You’re past all that.

Ariana stands in front of you, perfectly lit, her expression calm but unreadably focused — the kind of expression that means this was not the production plan.

She scans the card again, then looks back up.

“As there are three girls standing here — and only one will be leaving tonight — the decision falls to the islanders.”

The villa goes dead silent. You can feel people looking at each other, calculating, already shifting.

You already know.

The moment Ariana says it’s down to the islanders, you know.

And that’s when you step forward.

Not dramatically. Not slowly. Just one clean step, like you’re simply ready to be done.

“Ariana,” you say, clearly.

She pauses — caught off guard. That never happens.

“Yes?”

You exhale, not even blinking. “Can I volunteer to be voted off?”

There’s an audible reaction. Not gasps — just stunned silence. The kind that comes when people don’t know what to say, because no one expected this to come out of your mouth.

Ariana blinks. “You want to… step forward?”

“Yeah,” you say. Still composed, still poised. “I’d rather go on my own than stand here while everyone pretends it’s not already decided.”

It erupts. Quiet gasps, some whispered “what?” s, one “nah, she’s not serious” from the back.

Karen, standing beside you, instantly shakes her head. “No—no. What? No. Don’t—”

You glance at her just once, soft but steady. “Kare. It’s fine.”

She’s already blinking too fast, her lips parted like she wants to argue, but she’s choking on the emotion. Her hand twitches like she wants to grab yours and hold you there.

Ororo, still seated across the firepit, has her hand over her mouth. Wide-eyed. Frozen. Like watching someone walk into oncoming traffic in slow motion.

Ariana, still holding her cue card like it might save her, hesitates. “Are you sure?”

You nod once, then again. “Yeah.”

She takes a half step closer, voice quieter. “You don’t have to do this. You can wait for the vote. You still have people here.”

You let out the smallest breath, and you smile — just barely. Not a performance. Just the kind of smile people give when they’ve already made peace with something.

“Not enough of them.”

The air shifts. You’re not angry. You’re not bitter. You’re just done. And that honesty? It stings more than anything you could’ve shouted.

Ariana’s eyes scan you for a beat longer, like she’s trying to read something off you — trying to confirm you’re not breaking under the surface.

“Last chance to change your mind,” she says softly. “Are you sure?”

You nod again.

“I’m sure.”

The words land like a closing door. No one knows what to say.

Bucky hasn’t moved.

Karen’s face is crumpling now — barely holding it together. You feel her beside you, trembling.

Ororo finally lowers her hand from her mouth, jaw tense, eyes locked on you like she wants to get up and pull you away from this.

You’ve stepped forward. Ariana’s face has softened slightly — professional still, but there’s a flicker of something real in her voice now.

She looks at you one more time, calm, composed. “Well... if that’s your decision—”

“No.”

The word cuts through the night like glass.

Everyone turns.

Bucky’s standing now — two steps out from the bench, his jaw tight, eyes wide, like he can’t believe what’s happening even though he’s been watching it unravel for days.

“No,” he says again, louder now. His voice isn’t angry — it’s broken. “That’s not fair. She didn’t even let us vote. She just—she just stepped forward like it was already done.”

Ariana’s caught off guard again. Her brows lift. “Bucky—”

He keeps going, not hearing her. Not hearing anything.

“You don’t just get to decide that. You don’t get to stand up and walk out like you didn’t matter here. Like we were all gonna pick you without even thinking. You didn’t let us—you can't just leave.”

His voice is cracking, pitching up.

“You didn’t even give me a chance to say—”

He stops himself. But the words are still there, hanging in the silence like smoke.

Karen’s crying now. Not hiding it anymore. Shoulders shaking as she turns away, hand over her mouth.

You still haven’t turned to look at him.

Not yet.

Ariana glances between the two of you, then gently speaks again. “Bucky… she's made her choice.”

But he doesn’t move.

“I didn’t.”

His voice is softer now. Almost to himself.

“I didn’t choose right when I should have. And now she’s leaving before I get the chance to make it right?”

You finally look at him. Eyes rimmed red, but dry. And it’s not anger in your face.

It’s sadness.

Because maybe, just maybe, this is the first time he’s finally saying what you needed — but it’s three days, and a thousand cuts, too late.

You offer him something soft — something you’ve barely had left for yourself these past few days.

“It’s fine,” you say gently.

His head snaps a little, like you just told him the sky isn’t blue.

“No,” he says, voice sharp, shaky. “It’s not.”

He takes a step closer. Not crossing boundaries — just reacting like he physically can’t stand where he is anymore.

“You’re just—what? You’re gonna volunteer to go and act like that’s normal? Like we didn’t all just sit here stunned because no one was gonna pick you. Not a single person.”

You open your mouth, but he keeps going — not at you, for you.

“You think it’s fine because you’re tired. Because you’ve been carrying everything and everyone’s been letting you do it. But that doesn’t mean you deserve to walk out like you don’t belong here.”

His voice drops, quieter now, but tighter. Barely held together.

“You’re still here because people care about you. Because I care about you.”

That hangs in the air. No one moves.

The fire crackles behind you.

You inhale slowly.

The silence stretches long enough that everyone expects you might break.

But you don’t.

You steady your voice — not cold, not distant — just honest. Exhausted. Real.

“I want to go home.”

Bucky’s eyes flash — like he’s about to say something, but you raise your hand slightly, not to silence him, just to finish.

“I don’t want Karen to go,” you say, turning slightly toward her, just enough to feel her body trembling beside you. “She’s been solid since day one. She hasn’t played a single game. She deserves more time here.”

Karen’s hand covers her mouth again, and she shakes her head slightly, trying to stay quiet through it.

“And yeah,” you continue, with the hint of a wry smile, “me and MJ haven’t exactly braided each other’s hair this week. But she has a real connection. Peter has her back.”

You turn back to Ariana.

Your posture straightens — not stiff, just ready.

“This isn’t about who deserves to be punished. It’s about who has something left to do here. And I don’t.”

Your hands are at your sides. Your voice hasn’t cracked once.

Bucky’s chest rises again, and he opens his mouth — but for the first time tonight, he doesn’t speak.

Because what can he say?

You’ve already said it all. And this time, you’re not asking permission. You’re telling them.

You’ve just said your piece.

Your voice is steady. Your decision is clear.

And for a second — just a second — it feels like everyone might finally accept it.

Then Bucky exhales, sharp and short.

And says, “Okay.”

You glance at him — unsure what that means — but then he steps forward.

“I’m going too.”

There’s an audible reaction now. Not just gasps — full-on shock. Heads turning. Elektra's mouth drops. Sam sits forward like he's misheard.

Even Ariana’s expression cracks slightly. “Sorry—what?”

Bucky looks right at her. “I’m going with her.”

You blink — stunned. “Bucky.”

He doesn’t look at you. Not yet. His eyes are locked on Ariana. “I’m not gonna stay here and watch her leave like she’s disposable. I’ve done enough of that already.”

Ariana raises her hand, trying to maintain order. “Bucky, this isn’t—”

“I know it’s not how it works,” he cuts in, voice firm but not aggressive. “But I’ve made up my mind.”

You step closer now, voice low and urgent. “You’re going to walk away from the villa for me? After everything?”

He nods once. No hesitation.

But you’re not moved — you’re panicking now, because you know what comes next if he leaves for you.

“You think this is romantic,” you say, eyes shining now, not with tears — with clarity. “But it’s not. This is adrenaline. This is guilt. You’re gonna step out of here, get one breath of air, and start resenting me for it.”

“I won’t,” he says, voice sharp.

“Yes, you will,” you snap, heart racing. “Because you didn’t finish what you started here. And when it all settles and you’re sitting at home thinking about what could’ve happened — you’ll look at me and wonder if I was worth it.”

His jaw tightens. “You are worth it.”

“Then prove it by staying.”

The firepit is dead silent now. No one dares breathe.

He steps forward again, closer now. Not aggressive — just desperate. Real.

“I don’t want a better connection,” he says, his voice cracking at the edge. “I don’t want to flirt around and see what’s out there. I want you.”

You close your eyes for a second, chest tight, trying to hold the line.

“Bucky,” you whisper. “This isn’t the time to figure that out.”

He swallows hard, shaking his head. “It’s the only time that’s ever mattered.”

The air between you is so charged it almost hurts to stand in it.

Ariana waits for a beat longer, giving you both space to speak — to come down, maybe.

But when neither of you moves, she straightens, the weight of production behind her now.

“I have to ask,” she says carefully, her voice as gentle as it’s ever been. “Y/N, Bucky — is this your final decision?”

She looks at you first, but you glance at Bucky.

He answers before you can.

“I’m going.”

The words come out clear. No hesitation. Just certainty — the kind that makes the rest of the firepit collectively freeze.

Ariana blinks. “Bucky…”

But he’s already stepping forward, standing beside you now. Fully.

“I made my choice too late the first time,” he says, looking at you. “I’m not doing that again.”

It’s real. You can see it in his face.

But then Sam stands up from the bench, shaking his head.

“Buck, man,” he says, voice low, not condescending — worried. “Just think about this. You’ve still got a spot here. Don’t throw it away on impulse.”

Logan joins him. “You guys need space to figure this out — not both get dumped on a firepit and regret it next week.”

Frank speaks up, surprisingly sincere. “This isn’t a movie, bro. It’s your life. Don’t make it harder than it has to be.”

Bucky doesn’t move.

“I know what I’m doing.”

He looks at you again, quieter now.

“And I’m not staying here without her.”

Sharon's hand is over her mouth again. Trish is leaning forward like she’s witnessing history unfold. Even MJ — lips pressed in a hard line — looks shaken.

You?

You’re just standing there, trying to hold it together while the man who let you fall is now trying to catch you, after you already hit the ground.

Ariana clears her throat once, a beat longer before speaking.

“Alright,” she says gently. “If you’re both sure, then you have thirty minutes to pack your things.”

You nod. Bucky nods.

And just like that — it's done.

Girl's Dressing Room 👜

The villa’s quieter now. Thirty minutes.

That’s all you’ve got left.

Your suitcase is already half-packed. The dressing room feels weirdly still — like even the lights are dimmer, like the walls are holding their breath with you. And Karen is sitting cross-legged beside it, absolutely no help, sniffling so hard she’s practically shaking the floor.

And then Ororo walks in.

She stops in the doorway, blinking fast like she meant to hold it together — and then just doesn’t.

“Bitch.”

That’s all she says before the tears start. She walks across the room with fire in her step and heartbreak in her chest.

“We walked into this place together,” she says, voice cracking as she reaches you. “You and me. Day one. First step through the door.”

Her arms wrap around you so tight it’s like she’s trying to anchor you there.

You’ve been stone-faced for hours. Holding it in. Keeping it neat.

But the second you hear her voice crack, your whole chest caves in.

You don’t say anything — just bury your face into her neck and let go. Sobs shake out of you like they’ve been waiting for permission. You nod against her shoulder, helpless, clinging.

“I know,” you whisper. “Rori, I know.”

She tightens her grip. “No, I’m not doing this. I’m not letting you go like this. Not like this.”

Karen’s still on the floor beside your suitcase, full-on crying now, her hands fumbling with a half-folded dress like maybe if she just packs slow enough you won’t really leave.

“I’m so mad at you,” she says through a laugh-sob. “But I love you so much.”

You drop to your knees with her, still holding Ororo, and Karen just throws herself forward into your arms, the three of you wrapped up in one heap of heartbreak and mascara.

In The Bedroom 🏠

The crying from the dressing room is so loud it’s echoing through the villa.

Frank’s lying on his bed, pillow over his face. “Blondie is trying to zip herself into that girl's suitcase.”

Logan’s leaning on the doorframe, arms crossed. “And Storm’s gripping her like she’s got a death grip on a limited edition Birkin.”

They all pause for a second as another wave of sobs carries across the villa walls.

“Damn it,” Logan mutters.

At the end of the row, Sam’s still talking to Bucky, voice low but tense. “Man, just think about it. You walk out now, you’re done. You don’t even know what this is yet. You haven’t figured it out.”

Bucky doesn’t look at him. He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, bag already half-packed.

His tone is calm. Clear.

“If my girl’s leaving,” he says, zipping his suitcase, “then I’m leaving.”

By The Docks🌙🏝️

The sky is velvet blue now. The moon hangs low over the water, casting silver light across the still surface. It’s quiet — quiet enough that you can hear your own breathing.

Bucky’s already waiting at the end of the dock.

Shoulders tense. Hands in his pockets. But when he hears your footsteps, he turns.

And the second he sees your face, his softens. You’ve cried too much to pretend now. Your cheeks are flushed, eyes red and shining. You don’t even bother wiping them this time.

You stop in front of him, heart pounding, breath shallow.

“Are you sure?” you ask, voice raw. “Like really sure.”

He steps forward immediately, hands reaching up — one settling on your shoulder, the other rubbing gently at your upper arm.

“I’m sure.”

You shake your head, voice cracking. “You don’t have to do this for me, Buck. I’m not asking you to.”

He nods. “I know.”

You look up at him, hands trembling slightly as you press your palms flat to his chest — not pushing him away, just holding him there.

“This could ruin everything,” you whisper.

He exhales through his nose, then cups the side of your neck, thumb brushing the damp corner of your eye.

“I don’t care,” he says quietly. “You’ve been the only thing in this villa that’s ever felt real. And if I stay, I’m not just losing you — I’m staying in something that never meant shit without you in it.”

You press your forehead into his chest, eyes squeezed shut, trying to keep the emotion from swallowing you whole. His hands stay steady on your shoulders, rubbing soft, grounding circles into your skin like he’s trying to remind your body to breathe.

“I just don’t want you to regret this,” you say, voice muffled, trembling. “Staying would mean a real chance for you. New connections. A shot at the money. Everything.”

Bucky exhales — deep, slow — like he’s been holding that thought in too.

“That’s exactly why I’m not staying,” he says.

You look up, confused through the blur in your vision.

“If I stayed,” he continues, “it’d mean I’d have to explore more connections. Get to know more girls. Do the whole thing again.”

He pauses, gaze locked with yours, calm but serious now.

“I don’t want another connection,” he says. “I just want you.”

Your breath catches. It’s not sweet-talk. It’s not a line. It’s just true.

“But what about the money?” you ask, your voice thin, eyes searching his face for something — logic, doubt, anything.

He lets out a small laugh — not dismissive, just almost surprised that it still matters to anyone.

“I don’t care about the 100K,” he says, gently brushing his hand along the back of your neck. “What would I even do with it if I lost the one thing that made being here worth it?”

You shake your head, overwhelmed, tears welling again despite yourself. “You’re gonna ruin your chance.”

He leans forward, resting his forehead against yours.

“I’d rather leave here broke and with you than win it all and feel empty as hell every time I go to bed.”

You let out a soft sob, clutching at his shirt now, and he just holds you tighter.

“You’ve carried this whole thing alone,” he whispers. “Let me carry the rest with you.”

You’re still wrapped in his arms, hands balled in the fabric of his shirt, tears hot and silent now as they slip down your cheeks.

You’ve fought so hard to be strong, to be rational, to not let this mess define you — and now here he is, undoing every wall you built with one truth after another.

Bucky leans back just slightly, just enough to see your face. His hand comes up to gently brush a tear away from your cheek, thumb grazing the edge of your jaw like he’s memorizing the feel of you.

He’s quiet for a second.

Then he says it.

“I didn’t choose you once.”

You freeze.

“And it was the worst decision I’ve ever made.”

His voice isn’t trembling anymore. It’s solid. Certain.

“I’m not making that mistake again.”

You look at him — really look at him — and you know this time, he means every word.

This isn’t about guilt. It’s not about saving face.

It’s about finally showing up. And this time… he did choose you. Out loud. In front of everyone. No hesitation.

Your lip trembles as you pull your gaze away from him, turning your face slightly — not because you don’t believe him, but because it’s too much. Too much love, too much regret, too much truth.

You lift a hand quickly, trying to wipe your face, get it together — keep the illusion of being okay just a little longer.

But he notices.

He always notices.

“Don’t do that,” Bucky says softly.

You shake your head, still turned slightly, but he lifts his hand — slow, careful — and gently guides your chin back toward him.

“Don’t hide your face from me,” he says again, voice barely above a whisper. His eyes never leave yours. “Not now. Lemme see you.”

Your breath catches in your throat, your defenses crumbling all over again — not from his touch, but from his attention. The way he’s looking at you like you're the only person in the world who matters.

And for once… you let him see all of it.

Even the tears. Even the fear. Even the hope that maybe — just maybe — this isn’t the end.

You’re still holding his gaze, breathing uneven, heart thudding against your ribcage like it’s trying to get to him first.

He brushes his thumb gently over your jaw, voice barely audible over the sound of the waves nearby.

“Can I kiss you?”

It’s so quiet — the kind of question that feels like a vow.

You nod, almost instantly, but there’s a hitch in your breath as you do. A soft, shaky little exhale slips out of you, part laugh, part hiccup — like even this feels surreal.

Your hands lift, instinctively, fingers grazing his face — one cupping his cheek, the other resting just under his jaw. His stubble brushes your skin, grounding you. This is real.

He leans in slowly, eyes on your mouth for a breath longer than he should. His hand finds the back of your neck, warm and steady, thumb sliding just beneath your hairline.

And then finally — finally — his lips meet yours.

It starts soft. Delicate.

Like he’s memorizing the shape of your mouth. Like he’s afraid to ruin it by rushing.

He kisses you like he has all the time in the world — like he wants to undo every moment you felt unwanted, like he’s trying to rewrite all the nights you cried.

But then? You kiss him back. And it changes.

You press into him with something that isn’t just relief — it’s heat. Desperate. Your hands move up into his hair, threading through it as you pull him closer. You feel him exhale hard through his nose, his other hand gripping your waist now, holding you like he’s afraid you’ll slip through his fingers.

The kiss deepens — no longer slow, no longer sweet. It’s breathless now. Messy. Full of everything you’ve been holding back.

Your mouth parts and he takes the invitation without hesitation — tongue meeting yours in a rhythm that’s equal parts apology and promise.

He’s kissing you like he can’t get close enough.

And you’re kissing him like you’ve waited too damn long.

You pull back slightly, both of you still breathless, lips tingling. You try to catch your breath, your fingers still lightly curled in his shirt, chest rising and falling as you laugh softly.

“I can’t even think straight,” you murmur, voice barely a whisper.

Bucky just looks at you — eyes flickering down to your mouth again, lips parted like he’s considering whether to let you finish that thought.

And then he makes the decision for both of you.

He leans back in without warning and steals another kiss — not soft this time. Hungry.

His mouth crashes into yours, and this time there’s nothing gentle about it. His tongue slides deep into your mouth like he’s claiming every inch of you, tasting you like he wants to burn this moment into his memory.

His hands find your body again — rougher now, more confident. One grips the back of your neck, fingers weaving into your hair. The other drops to your waist, sliding around to the small of your back, pulling you flush against him like he needs you pressed to him.

You let out a soft moan, completely overtaken, your arms wrapping around his shoulders as your back arches instinctively under his touch. He groans low in his throat when you push up against him, like you just knocked the last bit of restraint out of him.

Your fingers claw lightly at the fabric of his shirt, trying to keep your balance, your lips moving with his like you’re starved — like you’ve both been craving this too long and now it’s spilling out of you all at once.

When he finally pulls back — just barely — his mouth lingers near yours, breathing heavy.

You blink at him, dazed, your lips wet and parted, and let out a breathless laugh.

“Okay,” you whisper, dazed. “Now I really can’t think straight.”

He smiles, breath still ragged. “Good.”

Your Confessional 📹

You’re sitting alone on the velvet bench, the light soft and warm on your skin. For the first time in days, your shoulders aren’t slumped. There’s no hoodie. No deep sigh. No tears.

You look like you again.

And even though you try — really try — not to smile… you fail miserably.

A small grin tugs at the corner of your mouth, and you bite your lip, cheeks lifting as your eyes flicker off-camera, bashful but glowing. You shake your head slightly.

“It’s kind of ironic, isn’t it?”

You look right at the camera now, eyes bright.

“I’m getting dumped from Love Island…”

You shrug, smile growing.

“…and I’ve never felt lighter in my life.”

There’s something warm behind your eyes now — not fire, not anger — just peace. Peace that only comes after surviving the storm and finding something real in the wreckage.

You pause, playing with the hem of your dress as you lean forward, elbows on your knees.

“For days, it felt like I was trying to hold the world up on my own. Carrying the silence. The judgment. Even trying to protect him.”

You glance down, your smile softening into something deeper now.

“And then… he chose me.”

You say it quietly. Like it still doesn’t feel real.

“But not like ‘I pick you in the next recoupling’ kinda way. I mean, actually chose me.”

Your voice thickens slightly, in the best way.

“Walked away from the game. The connections. The hundred grand. For me.”

You laugh softly, shaking your head.

“This was the ultimate choice. And he didn’t flinch.”

You lean back now, more relaxed than you’ve been the entire season. A sparkle in your eye.

“I’m leaving broke. Dumped. Probably roasted on Twitter.”

You purse your lips trying to contain your smile.

“But I’m also walking out with Bucky Barnes’ hand in mine.”

You glance sideways, that cheeky grin sneaking back in full force.

“And I don’t know about you, but that sounds like a win to me.”

Villa – Main Walkway 🌴

You and Bucky stand just at the top of the stairs.

His fingers lace with yours, firm, warm. You give him one last glance — that kind of look that says are we really doing this? — and he just squeezes your hand tighter.

Yeah. You are.

And then the two of you start walking.

The lights lining the path glow soft gold, like the villa itself is quietly watching you go. The islanders are still gathered at the firepit — Karen’s sniffling again, Ororo’s got her arms crossed like she’s proud and pissed, and the boys are quiet, even Frank, for the first time ever.

But you don’t look back.

Not once.

Because this exit? It’s about moving forward.

With him.

Iain Stirling (voiceover): “Ah yes, there they go… Bucky and Y/N. The emotional damage duo.”

The camera cuts to a slow-mo of you both walking in sync, fingers tightly interlocked, the music swelling underneath like something off a season finale soundtrack.

“Dumped by America, walked out by choice, left the hundred grand behind — but gained a man who finally learned how to use his heart instead of his… well, other assets.”

Cut to Bucky opening the gate for you — a tiny, stupidly sweet gesture — and you walking through first, glancing at him with a smirk.

“They say love is a battlefield. But in this villa? Apparently, it’s a firepit, a daybed, one tweet challenge, and emotional devastation wrapped in lip gloss and jawlines.”

The final shot catches your intertwined hands, backs to camera, walking into the night — away from the lights, the drama, the game.

Together.

“Will they make it on the outside? Who knows. But one thing’s for sure: they’ve just delivered the most dramatic exit since Natasha tried to storm out in 9-inch heels”

The gate closes behind you.

Cue black screen.

The Girliesss (in case people didnt understand my love island multiverse): Ororo Munroe (X-Men), you, Karen Page (Daredevil). Trish Walker (Jessica Jones), Elektra Natchios (Daredevil), MJ Watson (Spiderman)

Bucky Barnes Taglist:

@ruexj283 @muchwita @fayeatheart @Leathynn @thealloveru2 @person-005 @princeescalus @lilac13 @solana-jpeg @jeongiegram @winchestert101 @s-sh-ne @n3ptoonz @avgdestitute @xamapolax @Finnickodairslut @honeyhera29 @macbaetwo @rafespeach @bythecloset @ashpeace888 @buckmybarnes @c-grace56 @ozwriterchick @slutforsr @novaslov @xamapolax @theoraekenslover @user911224 @Tafuller @luminousvenomvagrant @byhuenii @rollsonrollss @shookethslut @a9053 @jasontoddswhitestreak @iah1606 @timelylovergirl @doperebelgoopland @fatlin-23 @500daysofhannah @grovelingmen

those who couldn't be tagged are in bold :(

[jeongiegram]

Love Island!Bucky Headcanons

pairing | love!island!bucky x fem!reader

word count | 3.5k words

a/n | yooooo, guys, ive literally been working since tues, every night closing 11:30pm😃🔫. this life is nawttt for the weak, on my soul, this job is taking years off my life, i just wanna be my teenage girl self and this life is not letting me!!!!

this is literally the first time I'm doing headcanons and I don't think I've done it right at all, but YOLO

alsoooooo im so glad my amaya papaya chose bryan and yesterday's ep made me smile so hard. anywayyyyyy pls americans vote for my girl amaya and bryan as best couple, im begginggg

y'all it's almost 3am and I'm tired af. and I'm going to sleep, i have work tomorrow at 12

taglist | if you wanna be added to my bucky barnes masterlist just add your username to my taglist 🩵

likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨✨

ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ

divider by @cafekitsune

First Coupling (Not Together) 💞

You walk into the villa confident and cracking jokes, immediately becoming a fan fave for your sass and no-BS attitude.

Bucky comes in a few days later as a bombshell — and everyone’s jaws drop. He’s flirty from the jump, but he picks another girl, one of the sweet ones who's all giggles and long lashes. You're unbothered (publicly), but the tension? PALPABLE.

You Get Played (Classic Villa Move)

You couple with this gym bro type who talks like he’s serious, but starts flirting with other girls behind your back.

The classic "I'm just keeping my options open" guy. When the truth comes out during a challenge or truth/dare night? You serve face, roll your eyes, and say, “I knew he was full of it, but I wanted to be wrong.”

Bucky sees it all. He’s been lowkey watching you the whole time, sending little comments like:

“That guy’s a fool, y’know. I wouldn’t’ve let you out of my sight.”

But he’s still with his OG girl, so you brush it off. Maybe he’s just being nice. (He’s not.)

The Twist Coupling 💞

It’s recoupling night. Everyone’s paired. You and another girl are the only ones left. You’re resigned to going home — standing there with your arms crossed and chin high, trying not to show you’re mad that your guy played you and Bucky’s still with the other girl.

But then.

“I’d like to couple up with this girl because she’s fiery, honest, and doesn’t take anyone’s crap. She’s been through it this week, and I think she deserves someone who actually sees her worth... So the girl I’d like to couple up with is—”

Cue dramatic pause. Camera on shocked faces.

When Bucky says your name, the villa goes SILENT. Literal gasps. Even the producers are gagged.

His original girl looks like she’s been slapped.

You blink. You squint. You’re convinced you heard wrong.

You walk over in pure shock, and when you stand next to him, instead of giving a sweet line, he hits you with:

“Don’t get excited, doll. I just flipped a coin.”

Confessional (cut to you, wild-eyed):

“Everyone’s lookin’ at me like I Jedi mind-fucked this man into saying my name. Meanwhile, if they took one look at my face they’d see I was just as gagged. You're confused? I'm fucking confused, bro. I mean, I'm standing there rehearsing my ‘fuck y’all, it’s been real’ speech and then—boom. My name. From him. What the helly?”

Post-Coupling Confrontation 👀

You pull Bucky for a chat after the coupling, already skeptical.

He’s relaxed on the beanbags like he didn’t just blow up the villa dynamics.

“I didn’t pick you to be a hero, sweetheart. I picked you ‘cause I wanted her gone. Clingy’s cute for five minutes—then it’s just loud.”

You laugh, a little surprised by the honesty, and nod.

“So what, you picked me to prove a point?” “Nah. I picked you ‘cause you’re the only one who doesn’t throw herself at me or cry when I don’t cuddle. Plus, we’d make a solid team.”

You stare at him for a moment, annoyed but impressed.

“So, we’re friends now?” “Friends who don’t get dumped from the villa. Unless you’ve secretly been in love with me this whole time.”

You flip him off.

Platonic Coupling Agreement 🤝

You both agree to couple up "strategically" — a villa alliance. You tell each other it’s platonic while secretly spending way more time together than necessary.

You lounge together, nap together (strictly no cuddling — at first), and throw sarcastic comments from the daybeds like the villa’s own Statler and Waldorf.

“She’s doing her baby voice again,” you mutter during a convo across the pool. “Should we start placing bets on who cries in the next 10 minutes?” Bucky adds.

But the chemistry? Dangerously high. And the longer you stay in this “platonic” couple… the blurrier the lines get.

Bucky in the confessional: “Nah, she’s just my emotional support chaos gremlin.” You in yours: “He’s like a sexy golden retriever who talks like he’s from the 40s and can’t stop winking. It’s actually like seriously annoying.”

────────────

You and Bucky become the commentary couple. Always on the daybed, sunglasses on, whispering into each other’s ears like you’re the villa’s own messy podcast.

“Why is she acting like they’ve been married ten years? They’ve been coupled up for four days.” “It’s the delusion for me.” “She’s already picked out baby names and I don't even think he knows her last name.”

You have a routine: share breakfast, roll your eyes in sync, and deliver savage but accurate commentary during firepit chats. Viewers are OBSESSED.

New Bombshell Enters 🔥

Tall, charming, with perfect teeth — he immediately clocks you as the villa’s "hard to get" girl and makes a beeline. Starts flirting. You’re flattered but playfully skeptical, throwing jabs but keeping it light.

Across the villa, Bucky watches with way too much interest for a “platonic partner.” Crossed arms. Jaw ticking. He will not stop glancing over.

Later, he corners you with a smirk.

“So, Mr. Model’s your type now?” “Didn’t know I had a type.” “Yeah, apparently it’s ‘generic charm and hair gel.’”

You raise a brow, amused.

“Are you jealous?” “What? No. Just saying—he’s not as funny as he thinks he is.”

Jealous. Absolutely jealous.

He Falls First ❤️

He starts doing little things bringing you coffee the way you like it, staying up late to talk about random stuff, getting defensive whenever a new guy even talks to you. But you don’t catch it. You’re convinced he’s playing the long game — riding your partnership to the finals.

You in confessional:

“Bucky’s a good partner. Strategic. Smart. Kinda hot when he’s not being annoying. But I know his game — he’s making sure he gets to that 100k. I’m not an idiot.”

Meanwhile, Bucky’s lying awake next to you, staring at the ceiling like:

“How the hell did I fall for the one girl who thinks I’m just in this for screen time?”

Casa Amor🏖️

The girls stay in the main villa, while the boys head off to Casa Amor. Before Bucky leaves, things are… weird. Tension’s been building. He’s been acting almost like he wants to say something, but never does. And you?

You in confessional:

“He’s not mine. He’s free to explore, obviously. I’m not gonna be the girl who waits around and gets played. But also… I’m not gonna pretend I don’t care.”

And yet — when temptation arrives in the form of gym-honed muscles and cologne that smells like deception, you hold your ground. Flirty convos? Sure. But when it comes time to choose, you say:

“I’m staying single. My connection with Bucky might be confusing, but I’m not ready to throw it away yet.”

Meanwhile at Casa Amor 🔥

Bucky’s spiraling. He misses you. Constantly thinking about your jokes, the way you roll your eyes, how you always call him out. But… he also believes you don’t feel the same.

Bucky in confessional:

“She’s never shown me more than friendship. And I— I need to protect myself. I can’t come back single and get humiliated on national TV.”

So, he couples up with a new girl. Not because he wants to. But because he thinks he has to.

The Recoupling — THE Scene 💔

The villa is silent as the boys walk back in. Bucky’s holding hands with his Casa Amor girl. Cocky smile. Trying to convince himself this was the right call.

And then—he sees you.

Standing alone.

Single.

Waiting.

Not even crying — just staring at him like he’s a complete stranger.

Camera cuts to everyone’s shocked faces.

Ariana: “You’ve decided to remain single. Can you explain why?” You (calm, almost nonchalant): “Because I thought what we had was worth waiting for. (you shrug your shoulders) Guess I was wrong.”

Bucky’s face drops. He’s instantly sick. Guilt. Regret. That look of someone who just fumbled the person who was actually real.

The new girl’s smiling awkwardly. The silence is deafening.

Post-Recoupling Fallout 📽️

You’re sitting in the confessional chair, body stiff, hands clasped in your lap. Your eyes are glassy, rimmed with red — but no tears fall. You’re holding them back with everything in you.

The producers ask how you’re feeling.

You take a shaky breath, force out a laugh that sounds like it hurts, and say:

“I wanna go home. I’m actually being so for real right now. Please, someone get my suitcase. Because I don’t wanna be here anymore.”

You glance away from the camera, blinking fast. Your jaw tightens like you’re biting the inside of your cheek to keep it together.

“I stood there, alone, in front of everyone. Looking like this dumbass while he walks back holding some other chick's hand. Like I’m the fucking idiot for having feelings. Like I imagined the whole thing.”

You shake your head, voice cracking:

“And the worst part? I didn’t even expect him to come back single. I just— I thought maybe he’d show me I mattered. But I guess I’m not worth that.”

Cut to Villa 🎬

You’re sitting alone, sunglasses on at night, hoodie pulled up — doing your best to disappear on the beanbags while Bucky’s across the firepit, staring at you like he knows he ruined everything.

Bucky in confessional (head in hands):

“I thought she didn’t feel the same. I was trying to protect myself, not hurt her. But when I saw her standing there all alone… I’ve never felt more like a loser in my life.”

Confrontation Scene 💥

It’s late. Most islanders are inside. You’re sitting outside by the pool, arms crossed tight over your chest, hoodie still up, knees drawn in. Silent. Closed off.

You hear footsteps. Heavy. Familiar.

“Can we talk?”

You don’t even look at him.

“I don’t wanna talk to you.”

Pause. Tension thick in the air. He doesn’t move.

“Yeah? Well, I wanna talk to you.”

You stand up fast, like your body can’t sit through this conversation. Still not facing him.

“What, so you can make me feel even more shitty than I already do? Newsflash, Buck, you nailed that one already.”

He takes a step closer. Carefully.

“No. I’m not here to make excuses. I’m here because I need you to hear me.” “I heard you. Loud and clear. You walked back holding her hand. That said everything.”

You try to walk past him — but his hand reaches out. Not rough, not forceful. Just… steady. He catches your wrist, and when you try to pull away, he doesn’t let go. Gently, but firmly, he keeps hold.

“Please. Just let me explain.” “Why? So you can tell me it didn’t mean anything? That you ‘didn’t know how I felt’? You knew. You just didn’t care.”

You’re standing there, body tense, wrist still in his grasp. You’ve tried to push him away. He won’t budge. Not with force — just that stubborn, aching softness that says he’s still clinging to hope.

“Don’t do that. Don’t shut me out when I finally got the guts to admit I messed this up. I chose wrong. And I regret it every second I look at you.”

That’s when your voice drops to barely a whisper.

“Why didn’t you just pick me?”

His eyes meet yours — red-rimmed, tired, exposed. And when he answers, his voice cracks open.

“Because I didn’t think you’d pick me.”

The words hit the air like a slap.

Everything in your chest lurches forward and backward at the same time. You can’t tell if you’re about to scream or cry — maybe both.

“Are you serious?” “You were always laughing with other guys. Saying we were just friends. I thought… I thought I was just someone you could lean on. Not someone you’d actually want.”

Your eyes well up. You take a shaky step back, pulling your wrist from his grip — and this time, he lets you go.

“You thought I wouldn’t pick you, so you didn’t pick me. And now we’re both here. Hurt. For what, Bucky?” “For being two idiots who couldn’t say how we felt.”

You’re shaking your head now — furious, exhausted, and done holding back.

“You don’t get to stand here acting like the victim, Bucky. You chose her. You didn’t even hesitate. And I stood there — in front of everyone — like a fucking joke.”

He stays quiet. Still. Just watching you with those ocean-deep eyes, face full of regret. He doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t flinch.

“You made me feel like I was nothing. Like everything we built meant nothing. And now what? You want to fix it? With what, exactly? A sad little speech and puppy blue eyes?”

Still no response. He just lets you speak.

“I was loyal to you. I waited. I trusted you. Even when I didn’t want to. Even when I told myself not to catch feelings for you, I still—”

Your voice breaks.

You turn away. Take a breath. Hands clenched at your sides.

And he still says nothing.

Not because he doesn’t have anything to say — but because he knows this moment isn’t about him. It’s about you.

“You didn’t even fight for me, Bucky. That’s what hurts the most.”

He finally steps forward, slow and cautious, like approaching a wounded animal.

“I know.” “That’s all you’ve got? ‘I know’?” “Yeah. Because there’s nothing I can say that makes it okay. I fucked up. I didn’t trust what we had. I thought I was protecting myself, but all I did was hurt you.”

You look at him then. Eyes still glassy. He’s not defensive. He’s not deflecting. He just stands there, open and raw, waiting for you to decide what happens next.

“You don’t owe me forgiveness. I just… I needed you to know I’m sorry. And if there’s anything I can do to make this better — I’ll do it. Even if it means walking away.”

You’re quiet now. Too quiet. Hands trembling slightly as you bring them up to your face, fingers pressing under your eyes to stop the tears from spilling over.

You don’t look at him when you speak again — your voice is soft, but it cuts sharp:

“You made me feel really fucking dumb.”

That’s the one that almost takes you out. Saying it out loud. Admitting it.

“Like I was some naïve little girl, thinking the guy I joked around with every day — the one who brought me coffee, made me laugh, looked at me like I mattered — was actually choosing me.”

You pause, breathing ragged. You wipe at your face again, but it’s useless now. A tear slips down anyway.

“I stood there thinking, ‘Don’t cry. Don’t let them see it hurt.’ But it did, Bucky. It fucking hurt.”

He’s quiet for a beat. Then:

“I know it did.” “And I hate that I’m the reason. I hate that I made you question something that was real — something I felt every damn day.”

You finally glance up, just in time to see him take a step forward.

“I didn’t think I deserved you. But I never wanted you to feel like you weren’t enough.”

He’s closer now. Slow, careful steps. Like he’s giving you a hundred chances to pull away. But you don’t.

“You were always enough. I just... didn’t think I was.”

And when he’s close enough, he pauses for half a second — eyes searching yours, hand hovering like he’s waiting for permission.

Then he pulls you in.

Arms wrap around you, steady and strong. Not desperate — grounded. Like he’s trying to hold in all the pieces he broke.

And this time… you don’t fight him.

You bury your face in his chest, fists clinging to his shirt, and finally let yourself feel it. The ache, the betrayal, the hope you tried to kill off.

“You’re such an asshole.” “I know. But I’m your asshole… if you’ll still have me.”

Night After the Recoupling 🌙

The villa’s quiet. Everyone’s in bed. Except you.

You can’t do it — sleep in that room while Bucky’s still sharing a bed with her. Even if nothing happens. Even if he’s trying to make things right. It still feels like betrayal just breathing the same air in that space.

So you grab your blanket, slip outside, and curl up in Soul Ties — the same place where you two used to whisper jokes and throw shade. The place that used to feel safe. Now it just feels cold.

You try to sleep.

You don’t.

Later That Night ✨

Bucky stirs. Looks across the room.

Your bed? Empty.

He checks the patio door and sees you — curled up alone, hood pulled over your head, blanket tight around you like armor.

He waits. Watches the others settle. Listens to the breathing shift from restless to deep sleep.

Then he slips out of bed.

Soft steps. Quiet hands as he opens the door.

He walks outside, crosses over towards Soul Ties, and pauses — just watching you.

Then, gently, carefully, he climbs in behind you. Doesn’t say anything. Just slides in slow, his chest pressing to your back, arm coming around your waist like it’s always belonged there.

You sighed softly, not even bothering to turn around.

“You shouldn’t be here.” “Don’t care.”

His voice is low, honest. No bravado, no teasing — just a quiet ache. His arm tightens just slightly around you. You don’t pull away. You don’t even breathe for a second.

Then, slowly, you turn in his arms.

Now you're facing him. Just inches apart. His eyes searching yours in the dark, moonlight casting soft shadows over his face.

“She’s still your girl. You’re still coupled.” “She’s not you.”

His hand slides up, knuckles grazing your cheek. You lean into the touch before you realize it.

“I couldn’t sleep. Not with you out here thinking I didn’t mean what I said.” “And what did you mean?”

He leans in closer — forehead almost brushing yours.

“That I’d choose you. Every time. I was just too much of a coward to do it when it counted.”

The air thickens. His gaze flicks between your eyes, then to your lips — slow and deliberate, but not assuming. Waiting. Giving you the chance to back away.

You don’t.

Instead, your fingers curl into the collar of his hoodie, anchoring yourself there. A silent yes.

He moves first — barely.

His nose brushes yours. Then his lips hover just over your mouth, not quite touching. Close enough to feel the heat, the need, the way he’s holding himself back like he’s afraid if he takes too much, he won’t be able to stop.

Then finally — finally — he closes the space.

It’s not rushed. Not rough. It’s slow, like he’s learning the shape of your mouth, like he’s memorizing you with every second. His lips part against yours in a careful pull, then press in deeper, surer, like he’s been aching for this and never let himself believe he could have it.

You respond instinctively — your hand sliding up into his hair, fingertips curling at the nape of his neck. You tilt your chin slightly, meeting him with just as much intensity.

He groans softly into your mouth — barely audible, but there. It makes your heart stutter.

The kiss turns messier for a breath, more urgent — like the both of you are falling into something you’ve been holding back for too long. But even in the tension, it never loses the softness — like you’re trying to comfort each other in the only language you both understand now.

Camera zooms in — soft lighting, silence but for the wind — the kind of moment the audience screams over.

When you finally break apart, lips swollen and foreheads pressed together, there’s no sound but the whisper of wind and the ragged way you’re both breathing.

He doesn’t let go. He just holds you tighter — like letting go now would undo all of it.

And you stay there. In that tiny, stolen piece of peace. Just you, him, and a kiss that changed everything.

Bucky Barnes Taglist:

@ruexj283 @muchwita @fayeatheart @Leathynn @thealloveru2 @person-005 @princeescalus @lilac13 @solana-jpeg @jeongiegram @winchestert101 @s-sh-ne @n3ptoonz @avgdestitute @xamapolax @Finnickodairslut @honeyhera29 @macbaetwo @rafespeach @bythecloset @ashpeace888 @buckmybarnes @c-grace56 @ozwriterchick @slutforsr @novaslov @xamapolax @theoraekenslover @user911224 @Tafuller @luminousvenomvagrant

those who couldn't be tagged are in bold :(

[jeongiegram]

a jewelry set for princess helaena targaryen

[jeongiegram]

what I love about catelyn’s characterization is that she isn’t everyone’s mother. she refuses to treat jon like one of her own. she doesn’t have any “motherly instincts” towards theon. even with brienne, she connects with her on more of a woman to woman level than through some mother-daughter dynamic. she never feels obligated to play the angelic “mother to all” figure.

but that’s the best part about her journey as a mother—it’s kind of messy. she has a favorite child, she’s forced to choose between her kids, she actively resents a motherless boy, she dislikes the hostage child living in her home. like yeah catelyn’s love for her children is beautiful and “pure” or whatever, but it also makes her cruel, selfish, impulsive, ruthless, even vengeful.

tbh catelyn’s sense of motherhood is just so unapologetically human, so refreshingly honest. she may be a mother, but there’s nothing romantic or intuitive or easy about it. catelyn stark loves her children, but it’s not that simple.

[jeongiegram]

Y'all TikTok HotD fandom is one scary place. Can't have ONE comment without 5 people sending you SA/death threats, ragebaiting you or insulting your family tree. Chill out...

[jeongiegram]

@missdreamfyre read my mind.

“she’s bald, she’s bald and she’s torturing people who have hair!”

[jeongiegram]

ugh i love this so much!

Hi, I saw your requests were open and I was wondering if you could write something about an Introverted targ!Reader/Slightly on the timid side but sweet, really close with Elia and loves her mother Rhaella to pieces slowly getting closer to Oberyn every time he visits??? If not that’s totally okay, I love your writing btw!! 💗

Fire and sunlight

Pairing: Oberyn Martell x targ!reader Summary: You arrive in Dorne shy and soft-spoken, but with each visit—and each moment with Oberyn Martell—you begin to bloom. Warnings: slow-burn, fluff, soft Oberyn, sweetness

The Dornish sun is blinding, even in spring, but you’ve always preferred its warmth to the bitter chill of King’s Landing’s shadowed corridors. You arrive under a pale parasol, tucked into the cushions of a litter that sways with the gait of your palfrey, your head slightly turned to watch the rippling horizon. There’s something in the air here—salt and orange blossoms, wind and freedom. You breathe it in like a secret you’ll carry back with you, if you must leave.

The Water Gardens stretch before you like a dream brought to life. Sunlight plays across shallow pools, children laugh somewhere beyond the courtyards, and the breeze carries the music of fountains instead of the whisper of spies. You’re not used to stillness that isn’t laced with caution.

Elia is the first to greet you—of course she is. She smells like myrrh and citrus and wraps you in an embrace that stills every frantic thought in your head.

“Finally,” she breathes against your cheek, pulling back only to cup your face in both hands. “You’re here. You look tired.”

You offer her a soft smile. “The journey was long.”

“You always say that, sweet sister, even when the journey is only through the palace gardens.”

You shrug, unable to argue. Elia is sunlight incarnate, luminous even when she's teasing, but she never says things to hurt. You feel it in the way she tucks her arm through yours as if she's afraid you’ll slip away again. She always walks just a bit ahead, leading you gently but surely into rooms where you’d otherwise hover at the edge.

“I don’t want you to hide this time,” she says, her tone fond but firm. “No more vanishing into corners with your embroidery. You must let them see you.”

Them.

You already know who she means.

But you say nothing. Instead, you let her lead you down a colonnade where columns frame the sea, and you blink against the light reflecting off the waves. Everything here is too open, too exposed, but somehow… safe. You can feel your shoulders beginning to loosen.

You want to tell her that you’ll try. That you’ll try for her. But the words stay lodged in your throat, as they often do.

She seems to understand anyway. Her arm tightens around yours.

You find yourself in the southern garden the next day, seated under a blooming citrus tree whose branches hang heavy with gold and green. The book in your lap is more comfort than distraction, your eyes reading the same line over and over while your thoughts drift. You trace the spine with your fingertip, already feeling the echo of steps on gravel before you see him.

He doesn’t announce himself.

You sense him by presence alone, heat and awareness folding around you like sunlight through a stained-glass window. When you look up, he is standing in front of you, his hands clasped behind his back, head tilted in a way that makes his dark hair fall into his eyes.

“I hope you won’t mind me saying,” Oberyn Martell begins, “but you’re not like any of the Targaryens I’ve met.”

Your heart gives a small, startled leap.

You nod politely, your fingers tightening ever so slightly around the edge of your book.

“Most of them,” he continues, crouching so he’s level with you, “seem to believe that silence is either a weapon or a punishment. But yours… yours is different.”

You’re too surprised to look away. The sunlight frames him from behind, a halo of molten light, but his voice is soft—quieter than you expected. Not demanding, not arrogant, only curious.

“You don’t speak much,” he says, smiling as if it’s not a flaw. “But when you do, I imagine it means something.”

Still, you don’t speak now. You can’t. You hold his gaze just long enough to let your lips twitch in a tiny, bashful smile.

“That’s all right,” he says, rising smoothly. “I don’t mind waiting.”

And with that, he’s gone.

You stare after him long after he disappears from view, your fingers resting still on the page that never turned.

——

You never meant to let him see you paint.

It was supposed to be a private indulgence—a moment of stillness by the fountain, your bare feet tucked beneath you, brush in hand. The parchment is wide across your lap, and you dip the brush gently into pale orange pigment, blending it with gold. The figure you’re painting is Elia—smiling as you last saw her, head thrown back in laughter, a breeze catching the ends of her braid.

You’re so absorbed in your work you don’t hear him approach.

“Is that Elia?”

You stiffen.

When you look up, Oberyn is standing behind you, hands clasped loosely, his expression unreadable. He steps closer but doesn’t touch the painting—only peers at it with a kind of reverence.

“You’ve caught her,” he murmurs. “That expression... she only makes that face when she’s looking at something she loves.”

You look down, flustered.

“She’s always easy to paint,” you say, your voice soft. “She glows.”

He hums thoughtfully. “You see her very clearly.”

You nod, feeling your pulse in your throat.

“Do you paint yourself?” he asks gently.

You shake your head.

“Why not?”

You don’t answer.

He kneels again, as he did that first day. “Because you’re afraid you’d get it wrong?”

You hesitate. Then nod.

“Then let someone else try,” he says, and you look at him sharply. “Let me try.”

You blush, eyes wide.

He chuckles, but it’s not mocking—it’s warm. “Someday.”

And then he walks away, leaving you with wet paint, trembling fingers, and something alive blooming in your chest.

——

You no longer sit in the shadows.

It’s early evening, and the sun hovers low over the dunes, casting golden streaks across the water. You sit near the fountain now—where the sunlight finds you easily—and your silver hair shimmers in its light. You brought two cups of Dornish wine, chilled and honeyed, and you’re no longer surprised when he finds you.

This time, he slows beside you. Watches the way you tilt the second cup toward him without a word.

He smiles. “Does this mean I’m welcome now?”

You meet his eyes.

“Yes.”

He sits beside you, close enough that your shoulders nearly touch.

“You always watch me,” he says after a moment, no judgment in his voice.

You tense slightly, then murmur, “You’re… difficult not to notice.”

His grin is slow. “Ah. But that’s not the same as wanting to.”

You lower your gaze. “You’re like fire,” you say finally, barely louder than a breath. “Beautiful. But bright. Too much for someone like me.”

His voice softens. “Fire doesn’t always want to burn. Sometimes, it just wants to warm. You should let it.”

The words wrap around you, and when he leans back on his elbows to look at the sky, you risk watching him—this time openly. The line of his jaw, the flicker of lashes, the fullness of his mouth.

And for the first time, you do not look away when he catches you.

——

You write her often—your mother.

Your letters to Queen Rhaella are filled with gentle reassurances and sweet, clumsy sketches of the gardens. You always include a pressed flower, careful to seal it between soft pages, and you imagine her smile as she opens each one, her tired hands smoothing the parchment. She is not well, not always, but she is the brightest star in your private sky.

One afternoon, while you're finishing a letter beneath the lemon trees, Oberyn walks by. You try to fold the parchment quickly, but he stops beside you, catching a glimpse of the trailing silver ink across the page.

“Your mother?” he asks.

You nod.

“She must be proud,” he says after a beat. “To have a daughter who still carries her so close.”

You look down. “She’s all I had, for a long time. I think… she held me together.”

“Not all you have now,” he says quietly. “Not anymore.”

You lift your eyes, surprised by the seriousness in his voice.

“She’s important,” he continues, crouching before you again, elbows resting on his knees, his gaze steady. “But don’t forget that you are too. To Elia. To your people. To me.”

Your breath catches, and your lips part slightly, but he doesn’t ask for a reply.

He stands again, offering you a small, solemn nod. “Send her my regards.”

That night, your hand shakes slightly when you add his name to the bottom of the letter.

——

There is music in the courtyard.

Elia’s nameday celebration is not grand, but joyful—laughter spilling out of the halls, dancers moving beneath the dusk-washed sky, silk and gold and red swaying like flame. You stay near the edge at first, fingers wrapped around a goblet, eyes following your sister as she moves in a circle of smiling faces.

Oberyn finds you watching.

“She wants you to join,” he says, offering his hand.

“I don’t dance,” you whisper, embarrassed.

“I do,” he says, with a smile that dares. “And I’m very good at it.”

You hesitate too long. He steps forward, lowering his voice.

“I will not lead you where you don’t want to go. But if you trust me… only a little… I’ll show you that it’s not so frightening.”

You stare at his outstretched hand.

It trembles in the air between you, waiting.

And finally—finally—you take it.

He draws you out gently. One step, then two. His hand is warm around yours, the other settling lightly against your waist. You barely hear the music at first—only your heartbeat, only the breath caught in your throat.

“Breathe,” he murmurs, close to your ear.

You try.

And then, slowly, he moves.

It isn’t a whirlwind. It’s not grand. He steps where you step, shifts when you shift, your movements growing braver with each pass. He doesn’t press or twirl or demand. He lets you stay small, but not invisible. He lets you feel—his strength, his attention, his quiet admiration.

When the song ends, your face is flushed, your heart flying. He bows low.

“My lady,” he says with theatrical charm.

And you can’t help it—you laugh. Soft, high, delighted.

He straightens slowly, as if memorizing the sound.

——

You’re in the gardens again.

The hour is late, the moon silvering the pools, and the others are asleep. You had wandered—unable to sleep, your thoughts too full—and found your way to the edge of the reflecting pond where moonflowers bloom and silence stretches deep and gentle.

He finds you there.

He always does.

But tonight, he doesn’t speak at first.

He only sits beside you, close enough that your shoulders press, and together you watch the wind stir the lilies.

“Do you ever feel,” you say suddenly, surprising yourself, “like… you’re too much for some places, and not enough for others?”

He turns to you slowly, his profile lit in moonlight.

“Yes,” he says, after a long pause. “But not when I’m with you.”

You swallow hard.

“I’ve never had someone see me,” you whisper. “And not want to change me.”

“I wouldn’t change a single breath you’ve ever taken,” he says, his voice lower now, rougher. “You’ve been soft in a world that punishes softness. You’ve stayed kind when cruelty would’ve been easier. I see all of that.”

You look up.

He’s watching you the way he does when he paints—like you’re something sacred.

“Oberyn,” you breathe.

And he leans forward slowly, giving you every chance to pull away.

You don’t.

Your lips meet his in the softest, most reverent brush of heat. Not wild or possessive—just true. You shudder from the weight of it, from the gentleness, from the way his hand cups your cheek like you’re something fragile and precious.

When you part, neither of you speaks for a long time.

There’s no need.

His forehead rests against yours, and the night swells with quiet wonder.

——

You don’t leave when the moons shift again.

You stay.

You stay because Elia smiles more when you're near. Because the sound of your mother’s letters arriving makes your chest ache with joy instead of sorrow. Because you’ve learned how it feels to be seen—not despite your softness, but because of it.

And because when Oberyn touches your hand now, he does not ask for permission.

He already knows it’s his.

One morning, you find a ring nestled inside a bloom he left at your window. It’s shaped like a sun entwined with a silver dragon—bold and bright and impossibly delicate.

You wear it without a word.

He finds you in the garden hours later, and for the first time, you walk to him—not as a shadow, not as a question.

As flame.

[jeongiegram]

HOTD's progressive ideas be like:

If you're a woman who's oppressed, it's your fault, and if you don't have the means to liberate yourself, you are weak and deserve to suffer and be humble

Slaughtering smallfolks doesn't make you a bad person as long as you spare the rich, overprivileged people you can relate to

Middle-aged man who cut his wife open without her consent to get his son out and took a child bride within a year of his "beloved" death is actually a great guy and a progressive icon

We want to avoid bury your gays trope so we, unlike in the book, give one gay character an extremely violent death, then write the other off the narrative and have him die offscreen anyway

Marrying off young girls and using them as barganing chips without asking their opinion is fine as long as its to cute boys their own age, because of course they will be happy

Heavy romanticization of grooming incestuous relationship

No one will notice that one of your girlbosses constantly caves in her husband's desires as long as she's smug and looks "badass"

Have your child bride suffer marital rape onscreen, then pretend it never happened and that was actually happy with her husband and they loved each and he treated her well

Making a character vaguely autistic means you don't need to actually develop them

Woman who slept with 13 year old boy is portrayed positively

Portray all your female characters as lacking any agency and devoid of ambition for the sake of it

All women are pro-peace because they are inherently "soft" or whatever, but mind you they never actually come up with coherent plans, they just talk in abstract and have no sense of the stakes

Make all your important POC characters subservient to white characters, to the point for example that Laenor didn't even think about his family or dragon when he abandoned to serve Rhaenyra's interests

[jeongiegram]

i immediately disregard any analysis of Alicent from a strictly modern view point. Alicent can’t be a conservative or a “woman for Trump” or a pick me because she does not exist in a world where women have the same rights and freedoms of men, she is a woman in a quasi medieval society operating within this societies constructs. “Alicent seeks male validation” oh you mean from her father who owns her? and her husband who owns her? and her son who she is forced to have and then forced to rely on because as a woman she cannot own land or wealth in her own right? no shit she does, as does Rhaenyra and Rhaenys because despite having the illusion of freedom, something Alicent doesn’t even have, both Rhaenyra and Rhaenys are beholden to the men in their lives, Rhaenyra to her father and Rhaenys to her husband.

even those who are sympathetic to Alicent still cling to this idea that if Alicent just sided with Rhaenyra then her life would be so much better but respectfully that is a crock of shit, Rhaenyra wouldn’t do anything for Alicent or help improve the standing of any other women because just like Alicent she is out for her own livelihood and the livelihoods of her children, that is the priority for both these women so why is Alicent always expected to put Rhaenyra over her family? Alicent never had the privilege of a women support other women mindset because she needs to look out for her self and because so many people refuse to look at Alicent outside of their modern lenses they think she deserves to be humiliated and punished simply for doing what women had to do for centuries. to me it proves that they never bothered to engage with her character critically or with the actual politics of the world.