Mother

[iluvbeingdelulu4evaaa]

Imagine! After the siege of Troy, you were turned in after being found hiding within the city walls, and instead of Agamemnon killing you, he decides to take you as his mistress. Slowly but surely the Stockholm syndrome rears its head, leaving you no choice but to love your captor.

A/n: Ya’ll I know this isn’t historically accurate or anything and it is my first kind of oneshot but I felt like the sexy mf who was aura farming the whole movie deserves some love

[p1ttlings]

☆ sweet creature !

𐔌 ﹒ ⋆ forced to work as a cashier at a family owned grocery store, you believe your life is over. until a hot older guy with a staring problem comes in once. and then, never again. not for three years. suddenly, he’s back. and you’ll make sure you never lose him again.

── warnings . . . not canon whatsoever. completely different universe with some of the same plot. cannot reiterate enough, this is completely big AU. lewd talks, curse words, bad jokes, sorta obsessive and stalker-ish!reader. will add more as the story progresses

── pairing . . . fem!reader x andrew “pope” cody

── note . . . this is me coping from that end. have to make a cute little smau

TAGLIST IS CLOSED!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

001 . . . love of my life

002 . . . uncle

003 . . . babysitter

004 . . . gaydar

005 . . . contact pic

006 . . . worldstar

007 . . . teen mom

008 . . . contacts

009 . . . talent show

010 . . . daniel

011 . . . nervous lying

012 . . . gagged

013 . . . third cousin

014 . . . nee-dohs

015 . . . goldfish

016 . . . hot girl spring break

017 . . . car seat

018 . . . weird

019 . . . pancakes

020 . . . sloppy makeout

021 . . . not quite

022 . . . the dress

023 . . . slow af

024 . . . lalalalala

025 . . . kidnap

026 . . .

027 . . .

028 . . .

029 . . .

030 . . .

[iluvbeingdelulu4evaaa]

My girl is YEARNING for pope but I get it. This hits the spot. Both lips are smiling

[snowluvvie]

Tom Hardy. age gap. Miami in the 80’s. gta ass operation yk he’s doing something illegal but you know better than to ask cause y’all have a beach house and a penthouse so it’s not rlly your business. mansion sex. dental floss bikini on the beach that he can easily slide his fingers past. sitting in his lap. bicep around your neck when u two are sleeping. 100 degrees n sweating all over eachother. him rubbing sunscreen on your ass nd grabbing rough all over it. bumps off the coffee table. bumps off his bicep!! he’s big & he’s your mannnnnn omg

[ladythedrunken]

lower the camera lower the camera hbo

[sedonasummer]

Like seriously. I’m not asking for a lot, just 6 inches down.

[iluvbeingdelulu4evaaa]

They had one job. Missed opportunity

[darktargslut]

Would you ever consider writing more AU headcanons or a short fic where Rhaenyra's daughter remains her heir and Ormund ditches the Green cause so he can benefit himself by getting with her?

Switchin' for you

Ormund Hightower X Targ!Reader

Part of 'The whore' series but can be read as a stand alone, AU team black wins ending

Summary: You manipulate the fuck out of Ormund, Ormund becomes team black but it's actually team ormund becomes king consort and his son becomes king

TW: Smut in the end, sub-Ormund, both of them have a breeding kink

The raven had arrived at dawn, you had been in the nursery when the letter came, sitting in the cushioned chair by the window with little Aethan in your arms. He was seven moons old, a small, perfect thing with silver-gold hair and eyes that had started out the newborn blue and were slowly, gradually shifting toward the violet of your family. His tiny fingers were wrapped around one of yours with that astonishing, fierce grip that babies had, and he was making those soft, contented sounds he always made when he was full and warm and safe in his mother's embrace. You had been humming to him, an old Valyrian lullaby your mother had sung to you when you were small, a melody that spoke of dragons soaring over the Fourteen Flames and lovers who burned together rather than be parted.

Melanie was nearby, folding his swaddling cloths with the quiet efficiency of a woman who had served as a wet nurse for nearly twenty years. She was a comfortable presence, calm and unhurried, her broad face creased with smile lines and her hands steady and sure as she worked and then the door had opened.

Ormund had walked in without knocking, he had a scroll in his hand, the parchment crumpled as if he had been gripping it too tightly, as if he had been holding it for hours, as if he had read it a dozen times and each reading had made him grip it harder still. The seal—green wax, you noticed—was broken, the edges jagged where he had torn it open in haste or anger or something worse.

"Melanie," you had said, and your voice had been remarkably steady considering the way your heart had suddenly begun to pound against your ribs like a caged bird, considering the way your blood had turned to ice water in your veins, considering the way every instinct you possessed was suddenly screaming danger, danger, danger. "Take Aethan to the wet nurse.I’ll come for him later."

Melanie had taken the baby from your arms without a word. Aethan had fussed at being separated from you, his tiny face crumpling with that particular expression of infant outrage that was somehow both heartbreaking and endearing, his rosebud mouth opening in a wail of protest, and you had pressed a kiss to his forehead and breathed in the scent of him—that sweet, powdery, impossibly perfect scent that all babies carried—before letting him go. The door had clicked shut behind them with a soft, final sound, and you had been alone with your husband, and the world had felt very large and very dangerous and very, very fragile.

"What is it?" you had asked, though some part of you already knew. Some part of you had been waiting for this moment since the day you married him. Some part of you had always known that the peace you had built here—the peace you had carved out of duty and compromise and the slow, grudging affection that had grown between you like ivy climbing a stone wall—was a fragile thing, a delicate thing, a soap bubble waiting to be pricked. "What has happened?"

He had handed you the scroll without speaking. You had unrolled it with fingers that were not quite steady, and the words had seemed to blur and swim before your eyes like fish beneath the surface of a pond, and for a long, suspended, breathless moment, the world had gone very quiet, the silence pressing against your eardrums like the silence at the bottom of the sea.

King Viserys is dead. Aegon II Targaryen has been crowned King of the Seven Kingdoms. The coronation took place in the Dragonpit before a crowd of thousands. Rhaenyra Targaryen remains on Dragonstone and has not yet issued a response. Lord Ormund Hightower is summoned to King's Landing to swear fealty to His Grace, King Aegon, Second of His Name.

You had read it three times. Four times. Five times. Each time hoping the words would rearrange themselves into something different, something less catastrophic, something that did not feel like the world cracking open beneath your feet. Each time feeling the floor tilt further and further, the walls closing in, the ceiling pressing down. Each time your eyes catching on the same damning phrases: King Viserys is dead. Aegon has been crowned. Rhaenyra has not yet issued a response.

Your grandfather was dead. The man who had sat the Iron Throne for nearly thirty years, who had held you on his knee when you were a child and told you stories of Old Valyria in his thin, wheezing voice, who had loved your mother despite everything—despite the whispers and the scandals and the endless, exhausting political machinations that had surrounded her like flies around honey—he was gone. You would never hear his voice again. You would never see his face again. You would never sit beside him while he showed you his model of Old Valyria, his gnarled fingers tracing the streets and towers of a city that had been dead for four hundred years. He was gone, and before his body was even cold, before the ravens had even been sent, they had crowned him. They had crowned Aegon.

"You knew," you had whispered, looking up at Ormund. Your voice was barely more than a breath, a ghost of a sound, but he heard you. He always heard you. "You knew this was coming."

"I suspected." His voice was guarded. Careful. The voice of a man picking his way through an arrowfield. "The king has been ill for a long time. The succession was always going to be... contested."

"Contested." The word tasted like ash in your mouth, like copper, like blood. "There is nothing to contest. My mother is the heir. Viserys named her heir twenty years ago, and every lord in the Seven Kingdoms swore an oath to her. Your father swore an oath to her. The lords of the Reach and the Riverlands and the North and the Vale and the Stormlands—they all swore. They knelt before her and swore by the old gods and the new that they would honor her claim, that they would defend her rights, that they would stand with her when the time came. This is not a contest. This is not a disagreement. This is treason."

That had been the beginning. The first spark in a powder keg that had been waiting to explode since the day you said your vows, since the moment you agreed to bind yourself to a house that had always been too close to the throne, too hungry for power. You had known, even then, that this day would come. You had known, even then, that the choice would have to be made. But knowing and facing were two different things, and now that the moment was here, now that the raven had arrived and the seal was broken and the words were staring up at you from the parchment, you found that all your preparation, all your careful planning, all your quiet contingency arrangements—they meant nothing. They were ashes in your mouth.

Now you were standing on opposite sides of the solar, the crumpled scroll lying on the floor between you like a line drawn in sand, like a boundary that could not be crossed, like the demarcation between two warring armies, and you had been screaming at each other for what felt like hours. Your voice was hoarse, your throat raw and scraped and burning, your hands shaking with a fury that had been building for months and finally had nowhere left to go but out.

"You swore to me!" The words tore from your throat, jagged and broken, sharp as dragonglass. "When you asked for my hand, you stood before my mother and you swore—swore on your honor, on your house, on everything you held sacred, on the Seven themselves—that House Hightower would stand with the rightful heir when the time came! You told her that you would honor his memory by keeping faith with the crown, that the word of House Hightower was iron and could not be broken! She gave you her blessing because she believed you! She trusted you! She welcomed you into her family, called you son, gave you her daughter's hand in marriage, and now—now you want to throw it all away for—for what? For Aegon? For that—that—"

"Do not." Ormund's voice was a thunderclap, his face dark with fury, his hands clenched at his sides so tightly that the knuckles had gone white as bone. "Do not speak of the king in my presence with such—"

"He is not my king!" The words came out as a shriek, raw and tearing, the sound of something vital being ripped apart. "He is a usurper and a pretender and a thief, and you know it! Everyone in the Seven Kingdoms knows it! From the Wall to Dorne, from the Iron Islands to the Narrow Sea, every man, woman, and child who paid attention to the succession knows that my mother was named heir by King Viserys himself, before the entire court, before the lords of the realm, before the gods and the laws of men! Your father knelt before her and swore an oath! He knelt, Ormund! On his knees, in front of the Iron Throne, with half the realm watching! And now you stand here and tell me that his oath means nothing? That your word means nothing? That everything you said to me, everything you promised, every vow you made before the septon, before the gods, before our families—that it was all a lie?"

"You dare—"

"I dare because I am your wife! I dare because I am the mother of your son! I dare because I am a Targaryen princess, and my mother is the rightful queen of the Seven Kingdoms by every law of gods and men, and I will not stand here in silence while you contemplate committing treason against her! I will not be the meek, obedient wife who nods and smiles while her husband destroys everything she holds dear! I am not a broodmare to be bred and put aside! I am the blood of the dragon, and I will be heard!"

Ormund slammed his fist against the desk and you flinched, taking a step back. The inkpot rattled and tipped, spilling black ink across the scattered parchments in a dark wave, staining the wood, ruining letters and documents that had taken hours to compose, his face was flushed dark with rage, a deep, ugly red that crept up from his collar and suffused his features, his eyes blazing with a fury that matched your own. And for a moment—just a moment—he looked like the man who had torn your dress from your body and thrown it into the fire moons ago. The man who had cornered you against the wall and called your mother a whore. The man you had feared and hated and loved.

"Your mother," he said, his voice low and dangerous, the rumble of distant thunder, the growl of a cornered beast, "is not the queen. Aegon is the king. He was crowned by the High Septon himself, anointed in the light of the Seven, before the eyes of thousands. The realm has recognized him. The smallfolk cheered for him. The lords are declaring for him. Storm's End has declared. Casterly Rock has declared. Half the Reach is rallying to his banner as we speak—"

"The smallfolk cheered because they were told to cheer!" You threw the words at him like weapons, like stones, like dragonfire. "Because the Gold Cloaks were in the streets, because the guards were at the gates, because anyone who did not cheer would find themselves in a black cell before sunset with a noose around their neck and the Stranger's hand on their shoulder! You know how this was done, Ormund. You are not a fool, whatever else you may be. You know the Greens have been planning this for years, decades, since before I was born, since my mother was named heir. Your uncle Otto has been scheming to put his grandson on the throne since the day Aegon drew his first breath, and you—you—stood before my mother and smiled and swore you would be loyal, swore you would keep faith, swore you would honor your father's oath, while all along you were waiting for this moment!"

"I was not waiting for anything!" He took a step toward you, his boots heavy on the stone floor, and you did not step back. You would not step back. You had given ground before, in the early days of your marriage, and you had learned that giving ground only invited him to take more. "I did not know they were going to crown him! I did not know they were going to move so quickly! The raven came this morning, and I was as surprised as you were—"

"Surprised?" You laughed, and the sound was ugly and sharp and utterly without humor, a jagged, broken thing that scraped against the walls and fell to the floor between you. "You were surprised that Otto Hightower, the man who has spent twenty years trying to undermine my mother, the man who whispered poison in my grandfather's ear at every turn, the man who was dismissed as Hand for his scheming and then schemed his way back into power—you were surprised that he seized the first opportunity to put his own blood on the throne? You were surprised that Alicent, who dressed in green and called my mother a whore behind her back and raised her children to hate their own sister, crowned her son before my grandfather's body was cold, before the ravens were even sent, before the realm even knew he was dead? You expect me to believe that you, the Lord of the Hightower, the most powerful lord in the Reach, the head of a house that has its fingers in every pie from Oldtown to King's Landing—you expect me to believe that you had no idea this was coming?"

"You can believe what you like." His jaw was set, his hands clenched at his sides, his eyes hard as flint. "The fact remains that Aegon is the crowned and anointed king. The lords of the realm are declaring for him. If I do not declare as well, Oldtown will be isolated. We will be surrounded by enemies on all sides. Every lord who declares for Aegon will look at Oldtown and see a prize to be claimed, a traitor's holding to be seized. My house—our house—will be destroyed."

"Your house will be destroyed if you declare for Aegon!" You stepped toward him now, closing the distance, your finger jabbing toward his chest as if you could poke a hole in his stubbornness. "Do you think my mother will forget? Do you think Daemon will forget? Do you think the Rogue Prince, the man who decapitated Vaemond Velaryon in front of the whole court for merely questioning my brother's legitimacy, will shrug his shoulders and say 'no hard feelings' when he learns that House Hightower has sided with the usurpers? They have dragons, Ormund. Syrax and Caraxes and Vermax and Arrax and Tyraxes and Moondancer and Meleys. My mother has more dragons than the Greens could dream of, more dragonriders, more fire and blood and death at her command than any force in the known world. And if you raise your banners against her, she will come for you. Daemon will come for you. They will descend on Oldtown like the Doom itself, and I will not be able to stop them, I will not stop them."

"Then we will fight—"

"Fight? With what?" You laughed again, and this time the sound was edged with something close to hysteria. "With swords and arrows against dragons? With walls and towers against creatures that can fly over them and rain fire from above? Your soldiers would be ash on the wind. Your city would be a graveyard. Your people would be charred bones and blackened memories. And for what? For what? For Aegon? For a drunken wastrel who cannot even keep his hands off the serving girls, who staggers from brothel to brothel leaving bastards in his wake, who has never done a single thing in his life to prove himself worthy of a lordship, let alone a throne? For a man who would burn this city himself if it meant keeping his stolen crown for one more day?"

"Aegon is my blood—"

"I am your blood!" You slammed your palm against your own chest, hard enough to bruise, your voice cracking on the words. "Aethan is your blood! Your son, he is my son, and he has Targaryen blood in his veins, dragonrider blood, the blood of Old Valyria, the blood of Aegon the Conqueror himself! And if you declare for Aegon, if you throw your lot in with the Greens, you will be signing his death warrant along with mine! You will be painting a target on his back that every Green in the realm will aim for! You will be giving them a reason to see him dead, and believe me, they will not need much of one!"

Ormund's face went still, the kind of still that makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up. "What did you say?"

"You heard me." Your voice was shaking now. "Do you think the Greens will let Aethan live? Do you think they will look at your son—your half-Targaryen son, your son with Rhaenyra's blood in his veins, your son who has a better claim to the throne through his mother than Aegon's own children do through his sister-wife—and see anything other than a threat? He has a claim to the throne, Ormund. Through my mother, through me, through the blood that runs in his veins, he has a claim. He is Rhaenyra's grandson. The grandson of the rightful queen. And the Greens have spent their entire lives tearing down anyone with a better claim than theirs."

"Aethan is an infant—"

"Infants grow up!" You were screaming again, your voice shredding, tears streaming down your face, hot and salt and utterly beyond your control. "Infants become boys, and boys become men, and men with claims to thrones are dangerous things to leave alive! What do you think they will do to him? What do you think Aemond will do to him? You know what Aemond is! You have seen the way he looks at people, the way he holds grudges like a banker holds gold, the way he never forgets a slight, never forgives an insult, never lets go of anything! He lost an eye and gained a dragon, and he has spent every day since becoming more dangerous, more cruel, more hungry for violence! He will look at our son and see a rival, see a threat, see someone who might one day challenge his brother's stolen crown, and he will not hesitate! He will not wait for Aethan to grow up and press his claim! He will kill him! He will come in the night with Vhagar's fire or with a blade in the dark, and he will kill our son, Ormund, our beautiful, perfect, innocent son, and you will not be able to stop it!"

"I would never let anyone harm Aethan—"

"You cannot protect him!" You grabbed the front of his tunic, your fingers twisting in the fine fabric, yanking him toward you, your face inches from his, close enough to see the individual lashes around his eyes, close enough to smell the wine on his breath and the sweat on his skin. "That is what you do not understand! That is what you have never understood, not once in all the time we have been married! You think because you are Lord Hightower, because you are their cousin, because you have been loyal and useful and accommodating, that they will respect you? That they will leave us alone? That they will let us live out our days in peace? They will not need you anymore! Do you understand that? The moment Aegon sits securely on that throne, the moment my mother and my brothers are dead and buried and their dragons are slain, the moment their victory is complete—they will not need you anymore! You will not be an ally—you will be a liability! A lord with a Targaryen wife and a Targaryen son who has a better claim to the throne than half the people in the Red Keep! A loose end! A threat! A problem to be solved!"

"Y/N, you are being hysterical—"

"I am being reasonable!" You released his tunic and stepped back, your chest heaving, your breath coming in ragged gasps, your heart pounding so hard you could feel it in your temples, in your throat, in the tips of your fingers. "I am seeing clearly for the first time in my life! I am looking at the world as it is, not as I wish it to be, not as you wish it to be! Think, Ormund! For once in your stubborn, prideful, infuriating life, think! Why do you think they sent Daeron here when he was barely more than a babe?” The words tumbled from your mouth faster than you could catch them, one lie chasing another before you had the chance to think them through. They tasted wrong, thick as ink on your tongue, each sentence more desperate than the last. You had never done this before and you hoped it did not show.

“Why do you think they fostered him in your household, let him grow up alongside your children, let him learn your ways and your customs and your people? Out of the goodness of their hearts? Out of family affection? Out of the kindness of sweet, pious Queen Alicent's gentle soul?"

"Daeron is my ward—"

"Daeron is a Green!" You spat the words like poison, like venom, like the contents of a snake's fangs. "Daeron has the blood of the same people who stole my mother's throne, who crowned Aegon before my grandfather's body was cold, and they sent him here—sent him to you—when he was barely old enough to walk. A third son, a spare's spare, a boy with no prospects and no inheritance and no future. Why? Why would they do that? Why would they send their precious prince to be raised so far from court, so far from his family, so far from everything he knew?"

Ormund's jaw tightened, a muscle jumping in his cheek, but he did not answer.

"I will tell you why." Your voice dropped, low and cold and trembling with a certainty you did not entirely feel but knew you had to project. The performance of a lifetime. The role you had been born to play. "They sent him here to be groomed. They sent him here to learn your castle, your city, your people. They sent him here so that when the time came—when Aegon was king and the Hightowers had served their purpose and the realm was securely in Green hands—Daeron would be ready. He is a grown man now. A dragonrider. A prince of the blood, however far down the succession. He has been raised in your household, trained by your master at arms, taught by your maesters, loved by your servants. He knows every passage in the Hightower, every hidden door, and when the Greens decide they no longer need you—when they decide that Oldtown would be better served by a lord who is entirely their creature, a lord who owes everything to them and nothing to anyone else—what stops them from naming Daeron Lord of the Hightower and casting you aside like a worn-out tool, like a broken sword, like yesterday's dinner scraps?"

"Daeron would never—"

"Daeron is a dragonrider!" You were screaming again, your voice raw and desperate, your throat burning with the effort. "When his brother tells him that Oldtown is his birthright, when Otto tells him that this is what he was raised for, what he was trained for, what his entire life has been leading up to—what do you think he will do? Do you think he will choose you over his own blood? Do you think he will choose loyalty to his foster family over the command of his king, his brother, his own flesh and blood?"

Ormund was staring at you, his face a mask of fury and doubt and something that looked almost like fear. His hands were clenched at his sides, his knuckles white as polished bone, his jaw tight enough to crack stone, the tendons in his neck standing out like cords. But he was listening. You could see it in his eyes—the way the doubt was creeping in, the way your words were sinking their hooks into him, the way the seeds you were planting were beginning to take root in the fertile soil of his paranoia and his pride.

"You cannot trust them," you said, and your voice dropped again, softening, becoming almost gentle. Almost tender. The voice of a wife who only wanted what was best for her husband, her family, her future. "You cannot trust any of them. They have been using you, Ormund. Using your gold, your soldiers, your influence, your name. Using the prestige of the Hightower to lend legitimacy to their coup. And the moment they have what they want—the moment Aegon sits the throne unchallenged, the moment Rhaenyra and Daemon and all my brothers are dead and buried, the moment the war is won—they will discard you. You will be a threat to them. I will be a threat to them, the daughter of the queen they usurped, a constant reminder of their treason. Aethan will be a threat to them, a child with a claim, a dragon in waiting. And they will not suffer threats to live."

"You do not know that—"

"I know the Greens." You stepped closer to him again, you reached up, slowly, gently, and cupped his face in your hands. Your palms against his cheeks. Your fingers tracing the line of his jaw. The gesture of a lover, "I know them better than you ever could. I have lived among them. I grew up in the Red Keep, remember? I saw the way they looked at my mother, the way they whispered about her behind closed doors when they thought no one was listening. I saw the cruelty in Aemond's eyes even when he was just a boy, the weakness in Aegon's, the cold, calculating ambition in Otto's. I saw the way Alicent smiled at my mother while she sharpened the knife behind her back. They are not honorable people, Ormund. They are not loyal people. They do not keep faith. They do not honor oaths. They are users and schemers and oathbreakers and kinslayers, and they will destroy anyone who stands in their way—including you. Especially you, when you have outlived your usefulness."

He stared down at you, his dark eyes searching your face. The fury was still there, banked but not extinguished, a fire that could flare up again at any moment. But it was warring now with something else—something that looked almost like uncertainty, almost like fear, almost like the dawning realization that you might be right. His hands came up, hesitated, and then covered yours where they rested against his cheeks.

"And what would you have me do?" he asked, his voice rough, scraped raw by all the shouting. "Declare for your mother? Take up arms against my own blood? My cousin, my uncle, everyone I have ever known, everyone I grew up with, everyone who shares my name?"

"I would have you fight for your wife," you said, and you let your voice tremble, let tears well in your eyes, let him see the vulnerable woman beneath the warrior. "For your son. For the oaths your father swore before the Iron Throne, before the eyes of gods and men. For the honor you have always claimed to hold dear above all else." You paused, and then you played your final card—the card you had been holding in reserve, the card you had been saving for exactly this moment, the card that would tip the scales. "And I would have you think about what happens after."

"After?" His brow furrowed. "What do you mean, after?"

"After my mother wins." You said it as if it were a certainty, an inevitability, a thing as sure as the sunrise. "After she takes back her throne and crushes the usurpers and restores the rightful succession. Do you think she will forget who stood with her and who stood against her? Do you think she will not reward those who kept faith, and punish those who broke it?"

Ormund's eyes narrowed. "What are you saying?"

"I am saying," you said, and you let a slow, knowing smile curve your lips, the smile of a woman who held all the cards and knew exactly how to play them, "that I am her eldest child. Her firstborn. Her only daughter. The child who came from her body when she was little more than a girl herself, the child she nearly died bringing into this world, the child she loves above all others."

"What are you saying?" he repeated, but his voice was different now. Quieter. Hungrier.

"I am saying that if I ask her—if I remind her of everything I have sacrificed, everything I have endured, everything I have done to secure House Hightower's loyalty and bring you into the fold—she will name me her heir." You stepped closer still, until your bodies were touching, you could feel the heat of him through your clothes. Your voice dropped to a whisper, intimate and conspiratorial, a secret shared between lovers. "I will be queen after her. The first ruling queen of the Seven Kingdoms. A queen in my own right, not a consort, not a regent, not a placeholder. A true queen, with all the power and authority that entails."

The silence that followed was absolute. You could hear your own heartbeat, loud in your ears, a drumbeat of triumph. You could hear the distant toll of the bells, the crackle of the dying fire, the whisper of the wind outside the window, the soft, distant sound of gulls crying over the harbor.

"And you," you continued, your voice a silken whisper, your fingers tracing gentle patterns on his cheeks, "would be my king. King Consort of the Seven Kingdoms. The most powerful man in the realm. Every lord in Westeros would bow to you. Every decision I made would be made with your counsel. You would sit beside me on the Iron Throne, the first true Hightower ever to do so, and your name would be written in the history books alongside mine for all eternity."

You saw it then, the moment the hook caught. The moment ambition overrode loyalty. The moment the vision you were painting became more real to him than the letters on the parchment, more compelling than blood ties and family bonds and everything he had ever known.

"And our son," you breathed, leaning in until your lips were almost brushing his ear, "our son, Aethan—he would be king after us. A Hightower king on the Iron Throne. Your blood, your name, your legacy, ruling the Seven Kingdoms for generations to come. The Hightower dynasty. A new golden age. All because of the choice you make today."

"That is..." Ormund's voice was hoarse. "That is what you are offering me?"

"That is what I am offering you," you confirmed. "Not just honor.Not just the ear of a distant cousin being controlled by an uncle. But a dynasty. A future. A throne. All you have to do—all you have ever had to do—is keep the oath your father swore. Stand with my mother. Stand with me. Choose us."

Ormund stared at you for a long, long moment. His expression was unreadable, his dark eyes searching your face, and you could see the war raging behind them—ambition against loyalty, the promise of a throne against the pull of blood, the future you were offering against the past he had always known. You let him see nothing in your face but love and hope and desperate, earnest sincerity.

It was a lie, of course. Most of it, at least. You had no idea if your mother would name you her heir. You had no idea if she would even consider it, not when she had three living sons, not when Jacaerys was her clear and obvious successor, but Ormund did not need to know that.

"If I do this," he said slowly, "The Greens will name me traitor. Aemond will want my head. They will come for us with everything they have."

"Then let them come." You tightened your grip on his face, forcing him to meet your eyes, letting him see the fire that burned in their violet depths. "We will face them together. We have an army. We have gold. We have dragons of our own—Aegarax will fight for me, the greens depend on oldtown, if you do not follow them most of their allies will retreat. We cannot survive if you choose the wrong side. And we cannot claim our destiny—our throne—if you let fear hold you back."

He was silent for another long moment. Then, very slowly, like a great tree beginning to fall, like a wall beginning to crumble, he reached up and covered your hands with his own.

"You make a compelling argument," he said quietly. "But I need more than promises. I need guarantees."

Your heart leaped, a wild, exultant thing, but you kept your face steady. You kept your expression earnest and loving and just the slightest bit vulnerable. "Name them."

"I will send a raven to your mother. I will tell her that I am prepared to declare for her, to raise my banners and call my bannermen, to commit the full strength of Oldtown to her cause. But in return, I want her word—her sworn, written word, sealed with her own hand and witnessed by her council—that you will be named her heir. That our son will inherit after you. That House Hightower will be bound to the Iron Throne by blood and law, now and forever. No ambiguities. No caveats. No loopholes for her sons to exploit."

"And if she agrees?"

"Then I will declare for her." His grip on your hands tightened, almost painfully. "I will raise my banners, call my bannermen, and commit the full might of Oldtown to the rightful queen. Every sword, every ship, every copper penny in my treasury—all of it will be hers. But if she refuses—if she will not give us this guarantee, if she will not put it in writing, if she hedges or prevaricates or offers anything less than what I have asked—then I will have no choice but to declare for Aegon. Do you understand?"

You understood. You understood that this was the best you were going to get—better, in fact, than you had hoped. You understood that you had pushed him as far as he could be pushed, that he was giving you a chance, a real chance, and that the rest was up to your mother. You understood that you had won.

"I understand," you said, and you let relief flood your features, let tears of gratitude well in your eyes. "Send the raven. Ask her. And when she agrees—because she will agree, she loves me, she wants what is best for me and for Aethan, she would never deny her only daughter this one thing—you will stand with us."

"If she agrees," Ormund repeated, but there was something in his voice now that had not been there before. Something that sounded almost like hope. Almost like hunger. "Then I will stand with you."

You nodded, and he nodded, and something in the room shifted. The fury that had been crackling between you like lightning began to dissipate, replaced by something quieter, something more fragile, something that might, with careful tending, grow into something stronger. An agreement. A truce. A partnership.

"Send for the maester," Ormund said, releasing your hands and stepping back. He crossed to his desk and righted the fallen inkpot, pulling a fresh sheet of parchment toward him with hands that were still trembling slightly. "I will dictate the letter myself. I want every word to be exactly right."

You watched him settle into his chair, watched him dip his quill in the inkwell, watched him begin to write. Your heart was still pounding, your hands still trembling, your throat still raw from screaming. But beneath the exhaustion, beneath the fear, beneath the lingering adrenaline that sang in your blood like wildfire, there was something else. Something that felt almost like triumph.

You had convinced him. You had actually convinced him. You had taken a man who had been moments away from declaring for the Greens, a man bound by blood and history and ambition to the usurpers, and you had turned him. You had used every weapon in your arsenal—fear and love, threats and promises, logic and emotion and the cold, calculated manipulation that you had learned at your mother's knee and perfected in the crucible of your marriage—and you had won.

You were a Targaryen princess. You were the blood of the dragon. And you had just changed the course of the war before it had even begun.

Now all you had to do was hope that your mother would do the rest. And if she would not—if she could not—well. You would cross that bridge when you came to it. You had learned, in the years since your wedding night, that there was always another card to play. There was always another lever to pull. There was always another way to get what you wanted.

You looked at your husband, bent over his desk, writing the letter that would commit him to your mother's cause—and to yours. And you smiled.

It was not a kind smile. It was not a gentle smile. It was the smile of a dragon who had just discovered that she could breathe fire after all.

—

One Year Later

The throne room of the Red Keep was silent, you stood alone before the great doors, your hands clasped in front of you, your heart beating slow and steady in your chest. The murmuring of the crowd beyond was a distant hum, muffled by the thick oak, but you did not strain to hear it. You kept your eyes forward, your breathing even, your spine straight.

The doors swung open, the throne room stretched before you, vast and glittering, a river of candlelight and shadow. The Iron Throne rose at the far end, its jagged peaks of fused swords catching the light like a mountain of blades. Banners of black and red hung from the rafters, the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen rippling in the warm air.

And every eye in the room was fixed on you, your gown was black silk, heavy and rich, embroidered with threads of crimson and silver that caught the light like dragon scales. A cloak of deep red velvet hung from your shoulders, the train sweeping the floor behind you. Your hair was braided in the Valyrian style, pulled back from your face.

You kept your eyes fixed on the throne, and on the woman standing before it. Rhaenyra Targaryen, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, waited for you at the foot of the Iron Throne. She wore black silk and a crown of gold and silver, and her silver-gold hair fell past her shoulders like a waterfall of moonlight. Her face was older than you remembered—marked by grief, by loss, by the terrible weight of the crown she had fought so hard to claim—but her eyes were bright.Bright with love.

You stopped before her and sank into a deep curtsy, your gown pooling around you like spilled ink.

"Your Grace."

"Rise," your mother said, her voice carrying through the silent hall. "Rise, my daughter."

You rose. Rhaenyra descended the last step of the throne and took your hands in hers. Her grip was warm and firm, and her eyes searched your face as if memorizing every detail.

"Lords and ladies of the realm," she said, and her voice rang out clear and strong, filling every corner of the vast chamber. "You have come here today to witness the continuation of my line. My daughter, my eldest child, my only daughter—she is the blood of Old Valyria, the fire of the dragon, and the truest heart I have ever known."

She paused, and her grip on your hands tightened.

"In accordance with the laws of the Seven Kingdoms and the traditions of House Targaryen, I do hereby name her as my rightful heir. She will be Princess of Dragonstone, as I was before her. Upon my death, she will ascend the Iron Throne as Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. Her children after her will inherit the crown, and her blood will rule this realm for generations to come."

She released your hands and turned to face the assembled lords.

"Let all those who would swear fealty to my daughter kneel."

The command echoed through the hall, and as one, the lords of the realm dropped to their knees. Lords and ladies, knights and courtiers, banners from every corner of the Seven Kingdoms dipping toward the floor. The Reach. The Riverlands. The Vale. The North. The Stormlands. The Westerlands. The Crownlands. All of them, kneeling before you in a single, unified gesture of fealty.

You saw Ormund among them, near the front of the crowd, his head bowed. You saw your brothers—Jace beside Baela, both of them kneeling with their hands over their hearts. You saw lords you had known since childhood and lords you had never met, all of them bending the knee to you.

To you.

"We swear our loyalty to you, Princess," the voices rang out, a chorus of hundreds speaking as one. "Our swords are yours. Our lives are yours. Our houses are yours. Now and forever."

The words echoed through the hall, bouncing off the stone walls and the dragon skulls and the jagged peaks of the Iron Throne. You stood there, your hands at your sides, your heart pounding, and let the weight of it wash over you.

This was your birthright. This was your destiny. This was everything you had fought for.

—

The celebration had continued long into the night, you could still hear the distant strains of music and laughter drifting up from the great hall below, the occasional burst of drunken cheering, the echo of footsteps in the corridors as servants hurried to and from, but you had retired early. You had wanted to be alone. Alone with him.

The servants had been dismissed hours ago. The fire in the hearth had burned down to a soft, amber glow, its embers pulsing like a heartbeat in the darkness, casting long shadows that danced across the marble floor and the silk-hung walls. The room was warm, fragrant with the scent of woodsmoke and the faint, lingering perfume of the oils your handmaidens had rubbed into your skin before the ceremony. And you stood by the window in nothing but a thin silk robe the color of blood, watching the moonlight dance across the dark waters below, feeling the cool glass beneath your fingertips.

You heard him before you felt him. The soft click of the door closing. The familiar rhythm of his footsteps on the marble floor—heavy, deliberate, the stride of a man who had spent his life in command. The subtle shift in the air as he drew near, bringing with him the scent of leather and wine and something deeper, something that was just him.

Then his hands were on your waist, warm and solid, his fingers spanning the curve of your hips through the thin silk, and his lips found the curve of your neck.

"You were magnificent today," he murmured against your skin, his voice low and rough, the words vibrating through you. His mouth traced a slow path from the hollow behind your ear to the slope of your shoulder, each kiss a deliberate, reverent press of lips and tongue. "Every lord in that hall was staring at you. Every single one. I watched them watch you. I watched them want you."

You let your head fall back against his shoulder with a soft, breathy sigh, your eyes fluttering closed as his teeth grazed the sensitive spot just below your ear. A shiver ran down your spine, raising goosebumps along your arms despite the warmth of the room. "They were staring because my mother told them to."

"They were staring because you looked like a goddess descended from the heavens to claim her throne." His teeth closed on your earlobe—just a gentle pressure, just enough to make your breath catch—and then his tongue soothed the sting. "You looked like their queen. The queen they will kneel to. The queen they will fight for. The queen they will die for. And I—" His hands slid up your sides, his thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts through the silk. "—I am the only one who gets to touch you. The only one who gets to see you like this. The only one who knows what you look like when you come undone."

You turned in his arms, your hands sliding up the front of his chest. He had changed after the ceremony—the heavy formal doublet replaced by a dark tunic of fine wool, unlaced at the throat, revealing the strong column of his neck and the faint dusting of silver-dark hair beneath. His hair was slightly disheveled from the evening's celebrations, falling across his brow in a way that made him look younger. Wilder. Almost like the man you had married all those years ago. The man who had frightened you and thrilled you in equal measure.

But you were not frightened anymore.

"And what about you?" you asked, your voice dropping to a low, silken murmur. Your fingers traced up his chest to the open collar of his tunic, toying with the laces, brushing against the warm skin beneath. "Will you kneel to me? Will you bend the knee to your future queen?"

His hands tightened on your waist, pulling you flush against him. You could feel the hard length of him pressing against your belly through the layers of fabric that still separated you. "I have knelt to you every day since the moment we met. Every hour. Every breath. I have been on my knees for you since the first time I saw you across that throne room, and I will be on my knees for you until the day I die."

"Have you?" You tilted your head, a slow, wicked smile curving your lips. Your fingers found the laces of his tunic and began to work them loose, one by one, deliberate and unhurried. "I do not remember that. Perhaps you should remind me."

"Perhaps I should."

He kissed you. His mouth claimed yours with a fierce, consuming intensity, his tongue sliding past your lips, stroking against yours, exploring the warm cavern of your mouth as if he were memorizing every inch of it. His teeth caught your lower lip and tugged—just hard enough to make you gasp, just hard enough to send a bolt of heat straight to your core.

You pulled back, breathless, your chest heaving, your lips already swollen from the force of his kiss. "I think," you said, your voice slightly unsteady despite your best efforts, "that tonight, I should be the one in command. After all—" You pushed the tunic from his shoulders, and the heavy fabric slid down his arms and fell to the floor in a dark pool at his feet. "—I am the heir to the Iron Throne. The future queen of the Seven Kingdoms. And you are my subject."

"Is that so?" His eyes were dark and burning, fixed on your face with an intensity that made your stomach tighten and your thighs press together. There was amusement there, flickering at the edges, but beneath it was something rawer.

"It is." You reached for the hem of his undershirt, your fingers brushing against the warm skin of his stomach, and pulled it up and over his head. He lifted his arms to help you, and then the shirt was gone, discarded somewhere on the floor, and he was bare from the waist up. The firelight played across his chest, the broad shoulders, the dusting of dark hair that trailed down his sternum and disappeared beneath the waistband of his breeches, the scars that mapped his decades of soldiering. Some of them you knew the stories of. Others you had traced with your fingers in the dark, wondering what battles had left their marks on him before you were even born.

He was not young. His body showed every one of his years, the slight softening around his middle, the lines etched deep around his eyes, the grey that had long since overtaken the dark of his hair. But he was yours. Every scar, every line, every silver hair. Yours to touch. Yours to kiss. Yours to command.

"And you—" You pressed a kiss to the center of his chest, right above his heart, feeling the steady thud of it against your lips. "—are my king consort. My husband. My subject." Your mouth trailed lower, pressing kisses down his sternum, your tongue flicking out to taste the salt of his skin. "Mine to command. Mine to touch." Your fingers found the laces of his breeches, working them loose with deliberate, unhurried movements. "Mine to please."

You pushed the breeches down over his hips, and he stepped out of them, kicking them aside. And then he was bare before you, completely bare, his arousal jutting proud and rigid from its nest of dark curls, already flushed and straining and leaking a glistening bead of moisture at the tip. Your mouth watered at the sight of him. You had seen him like this hundreds of times—thousands of times—and yet it never lost its power.

"And do you intend to please me?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper, strained with the effort of holding himself still. A muscle in his jaw jumped as he watched you look at him.

You lifted your gaze to his, your eyes dark with promise. "I intend to worship you." You stepped back, your hands moving to the sash of your robe. The silk was cool beneath your fingers, the knot giving way easily. "You called me a goddess. But tonight—" The robe slipped from your shoulders and pooled at your feet in a whisper of crimson silk. "—tonight, you are my king. And I want you to feel like one."

You stood before him in the firelight, bare and unashamed. The warmth of the embers kissed your skin, and you saw the way his eyes traveled over your body—lingering on the full curves of your breasts, the dip of your waist, the flare of your hips, the silver-gold curls at the juncture of your thighs. His throat worked as he swallowed. His hands clenched at his sides.

"Gods," he breathed, his voice rough and reverent. "You are more beautiful than the day I married you. More beautiful than the first time I saw you. More beautiful than any woman has a right to be."

"Flatterer." You closed the distance between you in two slow steps, your bare feet silent on the marble floor, and took his face in your hands. His stubble was rough against your palms. "You have already had me. You do not need to woo me with pretty words."

"I will woo you with pretty words until the day I die." His hands came up to cover yours, pressing your palms more firmly against his cheeks. "I will write sonnets to your beauty. I will compose ballads about your grace. I will—"

You kissed him, your lips moved against his with deliberate tenderness, and your body pressed against him—bare skin against bare skin, the crisp hair of his chest scraping against your sensitive nipples, the heat of him seeping into you, the rigid length of his arousal pressing insistently against your belly. He groaned into your mouth, and the sound vibrated through you, settling low and heavy between your thighs.

"Come to bed," you whispered against his lips, pulling back just far enough to speak. "Let me take care of you. Let me show you what it means to be my king."

You led him to the great bed. It was enormous, draped in silks of crimson and black, piled high with furs and soft, yielding pillows. The bed of the heir to the Iron Throne. The bed where princes and princesses had been conceived for generations. The bed where, gods willing, you would conceive another child tonight—a brother or sister for Aethan, another dragon to add to your lineage.

You pushed him gently down onto the mattress, and he went willingly, his eyes never leaving your face. He lay back against the pillows, his body sprawled beneath you, and you climbed over him, straddling his hips, your knees pressing into the mattress on either side of his waist. His arousal jutted up between your bodies, hot and hard and glistening, and you felt a surge of liquid heat at the sight of it. At the thought of what was about to happen.

"My king," you murmured, rolling your hips just slightly, just enough to drag your slick folds along the length of him. He groaned, his head falling back, his hands flying to your hips. "My king consort. Do you know what that means?"

"Tell me," he said through gritted teeth, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of your hips.

"It means you are the most powerful man in the Seven Kingdoms, second only to me." You leaned down, your hair falling around your faces like a curtain of silver silk, shutting out the rest of the world. "It means every lord in that hall bent the knee to me today, but you—" You kissed the corner of his mouth, feather-light. "—you are the only one I will ever call my king." Another kiss, to the edge of his jaw. "The only one whose name I will ever cry out in the dark." A kiss to his throat, just above his pulse point, where his heartbeat fluttered against your lips. "The only one who will ever be inside me. The only one who will ever fill me. The only one who will ever spill his seed in my womb and put another child in my belly."

His hips bucked beneath you, an involuntary, desperate motion, and you laughed—a low, throaty sound that made his eyes darken even further.

"Patience," you murmured, pressing a finger to his lips. "I am not finished."

"Y/N—"

"Shh." You traced his lower lip with your fingertip, feeling the warmth of his breath, the slight tremor in his chest. "You have given me orders for years. You have commanded me and corrected me and taught me. And I have loved every moment of it. But tonight—tonight, I give the orders. Tonight, I am in command. And your first order—" You reached down between your bodies and took him in your hand. He was hot and thick and throbbing, velvety soft over unyielding hardness, and the feel of him in your palm made your inner muscles clench with desperate, aching need. "—is to lie back and let me take what I want."

You positioned him at your entrance, the broad head of him pressing against your slick, aching folds. You were so wet already—had been wet since the moment he kissed your neck, since the moment he whispered those reverent words against your skin. You rubbed him against yourself, back and forth, coating him in your arousal, and he groaned and clutched at your thighs and called your name like a prayer.

Then you sank down onto him in one slow, deliberate motion, the feeling of him filling you—stretching you, completing you—drew a sharp, shuddering gasp from your lips. You felt every inch of him as he slid inside, the thick ridge of him, the way your body had to stretch to accommodate his size. He was so deep like this, deeper than in any other position, and you took a moment to simply breathe, to adjust, to savor the exquisite fullness of having him buried to the hilt inside you.

"Look at me," you commanded, your voice breathless but steady. Your palms pressed flat against his chest, feeling the rapid thunder of his heartbeat. "Look at your queen."

"My queen," he breathed, his voice ragged and broken. "My beautiful, fierce, impossible queen. You are—you feel—"

"I know." You began to move. Slow at first, a deep, rolling rhythm, rising up until he was almost out of you and then sinking back down, taking him to the hilt, grinding your hips against his. The firelight flickered across your bodies, casting dancing shadows on the walls, and you watched his face contort with pleasure, watched his hands grip your hips hard enough to leave bruises, watched his jaw go slack and his eyes glaze over.

"You are so deep like this," you murmured, your voice hitching as you found a rhythm that made sparks dance behind your eyes. "So deep inside me. Do you feel that? Do you feel how much I want you?"

"I feel—gods, YN, I feel—"

"Tell me." You leaned forward, bracing your hands on his chest, changing the angle so that every thrust dragged against that sensitive spot deep inside you. "Tell me what you feel."

"I feel like I am drowning in you." The words came out in a broken rush, his voice strained and desperate. "Like you are the only thing in the world. Like there is nothing else—no throne, no kingdom, no war—nothing but you and your body and the way you take me. The way you always take me. The way you were made for me."

"I was made for you." Your rhythm quickened, your hips snapping against his now, the wet sounds of your coupling filling the room. "Every part of me. Every inch. Made for you. Belonging to you. Just as you belong to me."

"Yours," he gasped. "Yours, yours, always yours—"

You rose up and then slammed back down, taking him as deep as he could go, and he let out a sound that was almost a sob. His hips bucked up to meet you, driving himself even deeper, and you cried out—a high, breathless sound that echoed off the marble walls.

"That is it," you panted, your thighs burning with the effort, your body slick with sweat. "That is it. Take what you need. Take what is yours. You are my king, and this is your kingdom—" You took his hand and pressed it against your lower belly, right where you could feel him moving inside you. "—right here. Inside me. Always."

He surged upward, one arm wrapping around your waist, and suddenly you were on your back, your legs wrapped around his hips, and he was driving into you with a ferocity that made the bed frame groan and the headboard slam against the wall. The change in position was dizzying, electrifying, and you clung to his shoulders, your nails raking down his back, your voice rising in a string of incoherent gasps and moans.

"My queen," he growled against your ear, his hips never slowing, each thrust deep and hard and perfect. "My queen, my queen, my queen—"

"Don't stop," you begged, your legs tightening around him, your heels digging into the small of his back. "Please, please, don't stop, I am so close, I am right there—"

His hand snaked between your bodies, his thumb finding that sensitive pearl of flesh at the apex of your folds, and he pressed down in tight, insistent circles. The dual sensations—his cock driving into you, his thumb working your clit—sent you careening over the edge. Your body arched off the bed, your inner muscles clamping down around him in rhythmic, pulsing waves, and a scream tore from your throat—his name, over and over, like a prayer, like a benediction, like a vow.

He followed moments later. You felt him swell inside you, felt the hot pulse of his release flooding your womb, and he buried his face in the curve of your neck and groaned your name with a desperation that bordered on reverence. His hips kept moving, slower now, gentler, riding out the last waves of his pleasure until he was spent and trembling and collapsed on top of you.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. You lay there, tangled together, your bodies slick with sweat, your breathing ragged and uneven. He was still inside you, soft now but still present, still connecting you. His weight pressed you into the mattress, and you welcomed it—the solid, grounding warmth of him, the proof that he was here, that he was yours, that you had survived everything and come out the other side.

Then his hand came up to stroke your hair, gentle and slow, his fingers combing through the sweat-damp strands.

"My queen," he murmured against your throat. "My wife. My love. My everything."

"My king." You pressed a kiss to his temple, tasting salt. "My husband. My heart. My home."

He shifted, easing out of you with a soft, slick sound, and you felt the warm trickle of his seed between your thighs. You would keep your legs elevated tonight, you decided. Give his seed the best chance to take root. Aethan needed a sibling. The realm needed more heirs. And you—you wanted another child. Another piece of him to carry with you always.

[iluvbeingdelulu4evaaa]

Oh you can’t find this in the store

[diirty--chaii]

Messy

Summary: Your marriage to your much older husband has faired far better than you ever thought it would. Though, sometimes you wish there was less...cleaning involved Pairings: Hyperspermia!Baelor Targaryen x Reader Warnings/Tags: Unspecified age gap (big and girthy), smut (light spit kink) Word Count: 2.1K Notes: blame eve and the brainworms for this

Prince Baelor was hesitant to remarry. In fact, he was perfectly content to be on his own after his wife's passing. He already had an heir, there was no rush. But then your father had offered your hand and when he'd laid eyes on you he couldn't refuse.

Your inital fears had vanished soon after your wedding. He was older, yes, but he was kind. Stories of cruel kings becoming crueler husbands were common to to noble born girls. Hushed lessons taught by worried mothers in an attempt to save their daughters from a shared fate.

Your wedding day was full of nerves, stomach turning as your maid from childhood dressed you for the last time. You were conscious of each footstep down the aisle, desperately trying to make your way to the alter without fumbling on your dress or your own two feet. Everything had occurred exactly how you imagined it.

Your wedding night? That was completely different that you had been told. Your mother had sat you down the night before and told you everything to expect. She also reiterated that it would hurt, but it was important to smile while you performed your wifely duties. You were not to make too much noise, not to move unless he instructed and to be patient until it was over. Your heart hammered in your chest as Baelor undressed you,

But after your down had slipped to the floor, he'd kissed your shoulder and lain you on the bed. Your whole body stiffened as he spread your legs. But instead of the head of his….member stretching you open his fingers gently pressed into the sensitive skin of your thighs, holding you open as he pressed a kiss to the sensitive bud between your legs. You could feel his smirk against your skin as his tongue ravished your body.

When he did finally push into your entrance, you were pleasantly surprised that it actually felt good instead of the searing pain your mother described. You body was pleasantly loose from Baelor's earlier actions, which helped your body accomodate him.

And after you'd gotten a taste of this new activity, it was hard for Baelor to deny you. There was just one problem-

"Lady Dyanna," your sister in law turns to you as you call out for her. The two of you are enjoying your tea on the balcony overlooking Kings Landing, "Because of my union to Baelor we are now sisters, correct."

"Yes, princess."

"May I ask you a question then? One that may be considered too…vulgar for me to ask another," your face warms.

An amused smile unfolds on her face, "Of course, princess. Though it was a while was many moons ago, I remeber what it was like to be newly married to the son of a king. What plagues your mind?"

"When you are finshed with your relations," you look at the foor unable to meet her eye, "How are you meant to deal with the mess afterwards."

Dyanna chuckles, "A simple cloth will suffice. You may ask your maids to warm the water as well. It well help soothe the ache that sometimes occurs. Though you want to be careful not to wipe away too much or you may be preventing the future heir from settling in your womb."

"This I know," you pause, unsure of how to say your true intention, "I mean moreso - when you are walking around afterwards. How do you manage the…leaking."

The older woman tilts her head, confused, "Well I remain in bed for the rest of the night so that is not as much of an issue."

"You've never had morning relations?"

"Not never," she says, a bit nostalgic as she thinks back to her youth, "Though I can't say I recall not being able to solve that issue with a cloth before I left my chambers."

"W-well I do," you sputter, "But sometimes it's quite a lot and it's uncomfortable when I walk. Especially if we've also had relations the evening before as well-"

"Relations in the evening and the morning? I didn't realize Baelor was quite so ravenous."

"It's not always him who initiates," you murmur, stirring your spoon in your tea, "In fact it's usually not him who initiates."

Dyanna laughs, "Oh, how I miss my youth. Though, I do not blame you. They are a handsome set of brothers are they not?"

Baelor has been busy this past week. He doesn't call you into your chambers until early the next morning. He's sitting at the desk in his room when you arrive. He smiles at you when the squeak of the door on its hinges announces your prescence.

"My prince," you say in greeting.

"My love, I am sorry to wake you so early. I missed your presence while I was away," he beckons you over with one hand as he stands, silver rings glinting in the light, "Did you sleep well?"

Your body follows easily, drawn to him. You shake your head as you fall into his embrace, "My chambers are far too cold without the blood of a dragon near."

"My apologies, my princess," he chuckles tipping your head up, and gently pressing his lips to yours, "The hunt lasted longer than inteded, but I am rested now."

His hands grip your waist firmly to pull you closer before reaching back to peel you out of your night clothes. You hesitate, stepping back.

"My lord, perhaps we should wait until this evening for those activities."

"What's wrong, my love?" he frowns, emphasizing the lines between his brows that you adore.

"Nothing," you shake your head, "I may have embarassed myself during my meeting with Dyanna and I need time to heal my pride, my lord."

"What happened?"

Your face warms, "I'm not sure I should discuss these matters with you."

"I am your husband, and the prince of the realms, you can discuss anything with me, my love," he tucks a stray curl behind your ear.

You sigh, "I had a question for her about…relations and now I fear she may believe me to be too enamoured with it."

Baelor chuckles, sitting on the edge of the bed, pulling you along with him.

"You are aware that Dyanna and Maekar have six children. There is nothing we are doing that they haven't done already."

"I know that," you say with a groan, buried your face in your husbands neck, "You should have seen the way she looked at me when I told her of my problem.

Your husband tilts his head, "Problem? You did not speak to me of any problems. Pray tell, I have not been hurting you have I?"

"No, no," you shake your head, reassuring him, "I have no complaints of our relations itself, husband. It's afterwards that I am sometimes I encounter a nuisance is all."

"I see," he nods, "Care to elaborate on this nuisance?"

You avert your gaze to the wall behind him, "It doesn't concern you, husband."

He smiles, "If it concerns my queen, then it concerns me."

"After we finish," you sigh, "Sometimes when I walk about the castle, I can feel you dripping down my leg. I simply asked Dyanna what she does, but it seems as though she does not have this same issue."

Your husband nods. He's had his suspicions about his condition. He may be king but he has taken part in his share of celebrations after a particularly well won tournament.More than a few of his past acquiantences have brought this very same topic to his attention before.

"My love, I believe I have a solution to your nuisance."

He stands to undo his robes. You lean back on your elbows watching his clothes fall to the floor. You bite your lip in anticipation, pulling his body on top of yours.

Your legs fall open for your husnband, your mouths moving languidly against each other as he his fingers reach the coarse hairs at the apex of your thighs. You sigh when his long fingers skim across your folds, diping into your entrance to spread your slick. He teases your sensitive bud with a light touch.

"Baelor," you whine which makes your husband smile as he kisses your neck, "Do not make me wait."

"I thought you were prepared to wait until nightfall, my love," the heel of his hand stays pushed up against that spot that drives you mad while his fingers slip inside you.

"Changed my mind," you pant, pulling him closer you you, "You would keep your wife waiting, my lord?"

"Never, my love."

Your back arches off the bed as Baelor pushes into you. He grips your leg, hooking it over his shoulder as your hips meet. His nose nuzzles along your jaw making his beard hairs tickle your neck.

"How's that feel, my love?" he murmurs planting a kiss on your collar bone.

"G-gods, Baelor," you groan, "So good."

He moves slowly, watching the way your face contorts in pleasure as he drags his cock inside you. His hand slips between your bodies to slow circles that drive make you moan.

He knows your body well, works it like like an instrument tuntil you're clawing at his back and shouting his name. He manages to stave of his own release but only for a few moments, just enough to drive into you once more filling you to the brim.

Though he tried his best, some of spend starts to leak out of you once more.

"Shh, my love," he coos, as he stands, trying to doge your attempt to keep him close, "I'm not going anywhere."

He sinks to the floor, grateful for the rug cushioning his aging knees. He wraps his arms around your legs, tugging you towards him.

"Baelor!" you gasp out, "What are you-"

"Why do you act as though I have not done this before," he chuckles, pressing a kiss to your mound, "This is my favourite place to be while unwind at the end of the day."

"But you've already...finished."

"I am quite aware, darling, worry not about me."

He spreads your legs apart, groaning at the sight of his seed leaking out of you.

"Wish you could see how we look together, my princess," he teases, leaning forward kiss your inner thigh, "Perhaps we should move the mirror to the bedroom."

He doesn't wait for your response, too entranced by the sight of you. He licks broadly, moaning at the taste your joined mess. You squirm in his arms, still sensitive from your release. He chuckles, digging his fingers into your thighs, holding you in place.

"We're divine together my love," he groans, licking at your entrance, "Want a taste?"

He meets your eye, grinning when you nod hesitantly at his words. He uses his tongue to scrape at your walls, collecting your shared juices with an obscene slurp and gently holding your ankle in the air to keep you from kicking his head.

He crawls up the bed to where you await with wide eyes, anticipating his neck move. He holds your head in place and forces your jaw open his thumb.

You don't even flinch when he spits into your mouth. You close your eyes, licking your lips with a moan when you swallow.

You're summoned into the Princes chamber later that night once more. Baelor is already in his bedclothes atop of the covers. You rush over, settling yourself on his lap.

"How was your day, my prince," you greet with a smile, running your fingers through his hair.

He preens, "Much better now that you're here, my love. How was yours?"

"Much better now that you're here," you laugh, repeating his words.

"And tell me, how was my solution to your nuisance today?" he chuckles. His hands start to lift your night dress, exposing more of your tanned skin.

"It worked," you smile, toying with the hem of his shirt, "Though I must admit I missed the reminder of you."

"Oh?" he quirks a brow, "How so?"

"I felt…" you pause, tilting your head trying to think of the right word, "empty today."

"Empty,?" Baelor repeats. You giggle, feeling the start of his interest poke you in the thigh.

You nod, "I missed the feel of my prince leaking down my leg during the day. Though I did enjoy what we did this morning-oh!"

Your yelp turns into a moan when Baelor flips you over and your back hits the mattress.

"Careful now," his voice is husky in your ear, "keep speaking like that and I'll have no choice but to put another heir in you, princess."

[iluvbeingdelulu4evaaa]

Dyanna and Reader talking abt Baelor and Maekar:

[i00que]

MEMO ── SHANE / COZY CABIN .

NOTES : you book a cottage for the christmas weekend, then you get to said cottage and there is a man sat on your couch. you've been double booked and the letting agency is useless! and if it couldnt get any worse, you are snowed in.

WARNINGS : reader-insert, (no y/n) forced proximity, age gap, reader has no stranger danger awareness, snowed in, 'enemies' to lovers, reader and shane are childish and petty, locking out in the snow, 'saving water,' domestic bliss, 'wife and baby' used, oral, creampie, unprotected sex, degrading, overstimulation, kitchen sex, choking, biting, marking, overstimulation, be warned.

CONFIDENTIAL MATERIAL ── 18+ ONLY.

11.5K WORD COUNT

the drive up took longer than it should have. you'd printed the directions because your phone signal cut out somewhere around the second hour, and you'd been following them with one hand on the wheel and your chin nearly touching the windshield, squinting through the snow like that would help. your car, which your roommate calls a death trap and your mother calls a disaster waiting to happen, had made a noise somewhere outside keswick that you'd decided not to think about.

the heater worked if you hit the dashboard in exactly the right spot, which you'd figured out around birmingham, and the back seat was so full of bags you couldn't see out the rear window. three sweaters. five sweaters. honestly you'd lost count at some point while you were packing and just kept folding things in. a book you'd been meaning to read since february. a second book in case you finished the first one, which you wouldn't, but still. enough tea bags to last a small village through january.

snow had started coming down properly somewhere past penrith, fat and slow, settling on the windshield faster than the wipers could deal with it. you'd turned the radio off because the signal kept cutting in and out and the static was making you anxious. just you and the road and the dark coming in from both sides and the sat nav lady who had given up entirely somewhere around the last junction and was now pretending the road didn't exist.

you found it anyway.

the track was unmarked, exactly like the booking confirmation had said it would be, and you almost missed it twice before your headlights caught the wooden post at the turning. gravel under the tyres. trees closing in on both sides. and then the trees opened up and there it was.

the cottage sat back from the track with a light burning above the door and smoke coming from the chimney, pale stone walls and a low roof with snow sitting thick on it, and you put the car in park and just looked at it for a second through the windshield.

five days. just you and this and the silence.

you turned the engine off. the quiet that came in was enormous.

you sat there for a moment longer than you needed to, watching your breath fog up in front of you now that the heater had stopped. it was already getting cold in the car. the kind of cold that doesn't ask permission, just moves in. you sighed, a long slow one that misted in the air in front of you, and rubbed your hands up and down your arms. your coat was in the back somewhere under the bags. you'd been wearing it for the first hour and then it had gotten too warm and you'd shoved it back there and now you were going to have to deal with the consequences of that decision.

you got out.

the cold hit you properly the second your feet touched the gravel. you sucked in a breath and your lungs complained about it. the snow was still coming down, soft and indifferent, landing in your hair and on your shoulders while you stood there like an idiot with the car door open.

you hauled your bag out from the back seat, then the second one, then wrestled the tote with the food in it out from the footwell where it had wedged itself at some point past carlisle. you got everything onto your shoulders and your hands and stood there slightly lopsided, already regretting every item you'd packed, and then you kicked the door shut with your heel and turned toward the cottage.

the path was short but the gravel was uneven under the snow and you couldn't tell where one ended and the other began. you went carefully. the light above the door was warm and orange and the smoke from the chimney was going straight up into the dark sky, no wind to push it anywhere. it smelled like woodsmoke and pine and cold air and something about the combination of it made your chest do something embarrassing.

you shifted the tote higher on your arm, got to the door, and tried the handle.

it opened.

warm air came out to meet you, and the smell of something burning low in the grate, and you stepped inside and pushed the door shut behind you with your shoulder and stood in the little hallway letting your eyes adjust.

and then you looked up.

there was a man in the living room.

you screamed.

not a little surprised noise. a full one, from somewhere deep, the kind that emptied your lungs completely and sent the tote bag swinging off your arm and hitting the floor and the contents of it rolling in three different directions. a tin of soup made it almost to the fireplace.

the man didn't scream. he didn't even flinch. he just turned, slow and unbothered, like he'd heard you coming and had already decided how he felt about it. he was standing by the window with his arms crossed over his chest and he was tall, properly tall, the kind of tall that made the low ceiling of the cottage feel lower. dark jacket, dark henley underneath it, jaw that hadn't seen a razor in a few days. his hair was a sort of dirty blond shot through with grey at the temples and his eyes were light and sharp and fixed on you with an expression that suggested you were, at best, a mild inconvenience he hadn't budgeted for. not scared. not guilty. just waiting for you to finish.

you looked at him and he looked at you and you became suddenly and acutely aware that you had been in a car for four hours and your hair had done something in the cold and you were wearing a sweater with a small hole near the collar that you'd been meaning to fix since october.

"who the fuck are you," you managed, when you had enough breath back to form words.

he looked at you the way you imagined he looked at everything. like he was deciding whether it warranted a response at all.

"who the fuck are you," he said back. flat. even. returned it like something he had no use for.

"i asked first."

"this is my cottage."

"this is my cottage," you said. "i booked it. december 20th through the 25th, i have the confirmation email, i have the key code, i have—" you gestured at your bags on the floor, "—five days worth of stuff."

"then you need to take your five days worth of stuff," he said, turning back to the window like the conversation was already finished, "and go."

"i'm not going anywhere. someone has double booked this place and we need to—"

"you need to," he said. "i'm not doing anything. i've been here since yesterday, place is mine, and you've had a long drive so i'll give you a minute but then you need to get back in whatever that is at the end of the track and go."

"that," you said tightly, "is my car."

"barely," he said, and looked at it through the window, and his expression suggested he agreed with every concern your mother had ever had about it.

"i can't go," you said.

"sure you can. door's right there."

"look at the track."

he didn't move.

"please," you said, because you weren't too proud, "just look at it."

a pause. then he turned and looked past you out the window and the silence that followed had a different quality to it entirely. the track had filled in almost completely, the snow coming down so thick and fast it had swallowed the tyre marks you'd made not ten minutes ago. your car sat at the end of it like a small sad island.

"it'll clear," he said, but there was slightly less of him behind it.

"it's getting worse," you said. "and my car is not built for that even on a good day, which this isn't. i cannot leave. i physically cannot leave right now."

he looked at the track for a long moment. then he looked at you. then he looked at the ceiling like he was asking it something and it hadn't come back with a satisfying answer.

"fantastic," he said.

"i know."

"this is exactly what i came here for."

"i'm sorry," you said, which you were, genuinely, partly.

"you brought four bags."

"three bags and a tote."

"the tote is a bag."

"the tote is a tote."

he looked at the tote on the floor, its contents still scattered across the hallway, and then he looked at you with the expression of a man who had not been consulted and was going to be thinking about that for some time.

"i'm going to get wood," he said, pulling his jacket on. "when i get back we're sorting this out."

"i'll make tea," you said.

he stopped.

"i don't want tea," he said.

"i'll make tea," you said again, and started filling the kettle.

“black.” he huffed and then he left.

you listened to the door close and stood in the kitchen for a moment and breathed, and then you walked to the front door and turned the lock. the click it made was extremely satisfying. you went back to the kettle.

it took him less than ten minutes. you heard the crunch of boots on gravel and then the door handle, and then nothing, and then three knocks, flat and unhurried, the kind that didn't bother to be polite about it.

you said nothing.

"door's locked."

you pulled your sleeves down over your hands and looked out the window above the sink at the dark.

another knock. harder.

"i can hear you in there."

you had not made a single sound.

a pause. long enough that you started to wonder, and then it came, something that was almost a laugh except all the warmth had been stripped out of it, just the shape of one, pushed through his nose.

"you're gonna open this door, little missy."

not a question. not even close.

you pressed your lips together very hard.

"the agency opens at nine," you called back, very pleasantly. "we can sort this whole thing out in the morning."

"open the door or i sleep in your car," he said. "see how it handles the cold."

"i'm making tea," you said. "do you want tea? i have biscuits."

a pause.

"you're a witch of a woman," he said, but the locked-out edge had gone out of it slightly. "open the goddamn door."

you got up, smoothed down your sweater, walked to the door with what you felt was tremendous dignity, and slid the lock back. you opened it four inches and looked up at him through the gap. he was standing on the step with an armful of logs, pink across his nose and cheeks, snow in his hair, and an expression that was doing a lot of work to stay even.

you smiled at him.

he did not smile back.

"thank you for the wood," you said, and opened the door the rest of the way and went back to the kettle, and you were extremely proud of yourself the entire way there.

he came in without saying anything, which you were learning was his preferred mode of communication. he stacked the logs by the fire with more force than was strictly necessary, setting each one down like he was doing it to have something to do with his hands that wasn't directed at you, and you made the tea and carried both mugs into the living room and set his on the coffee table.

he looked at it.

he looked at you.

it was very milky. you had put a significant amount of milk in it and the evidence was plainly visible and neither of you said anything about it for a long moment.

"i said black," he said.

"did you?" you said. "i was sure you said white."

"i said black."

"i can make another one."

he picked it up and drank it without breaking eye contact and set it back down and turned back to the fire, and the subject was apparently closed, and you took your tea to the armchair and tucked your feet up under you and felt deeply and thoroughly pleased with yourself.

"biscuit?" you said, and held the packet out across the gap.

he looked at the packet. he looked at you. he took one and said nothing and ate it in two bites and looked at the fire.

you ate yours in three bites because you were normal.

the silence stretched out. outside the snow kept coming and the fire cracked and shifted and you tried your phone out of habit and got nothing and put it back in your pocket.

"so," you said.

"don't," he said.

"i was just going to say—"

"i know what you were going to say."

"you don't know what i was going to say."

he looked at you sideways, the assessing look, like he was running a quiet calculation behind his eyes that you weren't going to be made party to.

"you were going to try and sort out some kind of arrangement," he said. "divide the cottage up. make rules. put tape down the middle of something."

you opened your mouth. closed it.

"i was not going to suggest tape," you said, with as much dignity as you had left.

he drank his milky tea with a grim expression and leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. "bedroom's mine," he said.

"the sofa is very comfortable."

he looked at you sideways. "you've been on it for three minutes."

"it's a good sofa."

"i get the kitchen in the mornings," he said, cutting across whatever you'd been about to say. "you can have it after i'm done."

"when are you done."

"when i'm done."

"that's not—"

"bathroom's shared," he said, like you hadn't spoken. "don't touch my stuff. i won't touch yours." he picked his tea back up. "agency opens at nine. you call at nine."

"i was going to call at nine anyway."

"call at eight fifty nine."

"it opens at nine, it won't—"

"call at eight fifty nine and wait," he said, and that was apparently that, because he looked back at the fire and the conversation was over by his estimation, and you sat in the armchair with your tea and your biscuits and looked at the side of his face and said nothing.

the fire popped and sent a little shower of sparks up the chimney. outside the snow was still coming down. the track would be completely gone by morning.

it occurred to you, sitting there, that you had screamed at this man, argued with him, locked him out of his own cottage, made his tea wrong on purpose, and negotiated sleeping arrangements with him, and you did not know his name and he did not know yours and that felt like important information to be missing.

"i'm—" you said, and gave him your name.

he looked at you. something in his face shifted very slightly, the way a door shifts when someone tests it without opening it.

"shane," he said. just that. like it was all the biography you were going to get.

you nodded.

he looked back at the fire.

"i'm not leaving in the morning," he said, after a while. not aggressive. just factual, the way he seemed to do most things.

"neither am i," you said, in exactly the same tone.

something that was almost a smile crossed his face, brief and unwilling, and he reached over and put another log on the fire without being asked and then stood, stretched in a way that took up a considerable amount of the room, and headed for the stairs without ceremony.

"night," he said, to somewhere in your general direction.

you watched him go.

the cottage settled into quiet after that. you read the same paragraph four times and gave up and just looked at the fire instead, which was more honest. upstairs you could hear him moving around, the occasional thud of boots on floorboards, a drawer, and then nothing.

you were asleep on the sofa by ten, which you hadn't intended, and you woke up at some point in the early hours with the fire burned low and a blanket over you that you were fairly certain had not been there when you fell asleep.

you looked at it for a moment.

then you pulled it up and went back to sleep and didn't think about it, because thinking about it would lead somewhere you weren't ready to go on the first night.

in the morning the war began.

you came downstairs at seven because you'd slept on a sofa and your back had opinions about it and lying there listening to them wasn't doing anyone any good. shane was already in the kitchen. he had made coffee, there was a mug on the counter that was clearly his, nothing that was clearly yours, and he was leaning against the counter drinking it and cleaning a small handgun with the attention of a man who wanted you to register that he had a small handgun. he looked up when you came in and said nothing.

you said nothing.

you went to the kettle.

"sleep well?" he said, in the tone of someone who did not care how you slept and was asking purely to be unpleasant about it.

"brilliantly," you said.

"sofa comfortable?"

"very."

"you were face down in the cushions when i came through at six."

"i was reading."

"at six in the morning. face down."

"i'm an early riser."

he made a sound that was not quite a laugh and went back to the gun, and you made your tea and took it to the sofa and sat down.

"that's my chair," you said, when he moved to the armchair.

"you're on the sofa."

"i was getting up."

"you sat down."

"i was in the process of deciding."

he crossed one ankle over his knee, picked the gun back up, and did not move, and the look he gave you over the top of it suggested that this particular conversation was finished and he had won it.

you sat on the sofa. it was a very good sofa. you didn't need the armchair. you were fine.

at nine you called the letting agency.

you were on hold for twenty two minutes. you knew this because shane counted from the kitchen, out loud, every five minutes, in a tone of quiet satisfaction. at twenty minutes you told him to be quiet. he counted the next five on his fingers, held up from the doorway where you could see them.

the woman on the phone was very sorry. system error. extremely unusual. she would look into it and call you back.

she did not call you back.

by eleven you were both staring at your phones, or rather you stared at yours and he watched you stare at yours while his battered flip phone sat on his chest like it had never done anything wrong in its life.

by twelve the log pile had been rearranged in a way that was clearly deliberate and impossible to articulate a complaint about. you moved the throw pillow from the sofa to the armchair. he moved it back without comment. you put it on top of the log pile.

he looked at it sitting there for a long moment.

"why," he said.

"decorative," you said.

"it's a log pile."

"it needed something."

he picked it up and dropped it back on the sofa. you put it back on the logs. he stared at you. you looked out the window with great serenity.

"you're doing this on purpose," he said.

"i don't know what you mean."

"you're an odd woman."

"thank you."

he moved it to the armchair. you moved it to the kitchen counter. he moved it to the bathroom, which was an escalation, and you retaliated by placing it on top of his boots by the door. he looked at his boots for a moment with the expression of a man taking stock, and then moved the pillow to on top of your bag. you put it on the doorstep.

he opened the door, picked it up, brought it back inside, placed it in the precise centre of the sofa, and sat next to it with his arms crossed and looked at you.

you sat on the other side of it.

you both looked at the fire.

"this is your fault," he said.

"this is absolutely your fault," you said

the letting agency did not call.

by two in the afternoon a kind of grim routine had established itself. you made lunch because you had yesterday and apparently that was who you were now, the person who made lunch, and you made enough for two without acknowledging that you were doing it and left his on the counter and took yours to the sofa. he ate standing up the way he always did, like sitting down at a table was a philosophical position he wasn't willing to take, and he didn't say anything about the lunch but he ate all of it, which was the same thing.

the afternoon went the way afternoons go when you're snowed in with someone you're pretending to ignore. you read. or you held your book and moved your eyes across it, which is adjacent to reading. shane did things at the kitchen table involving his map and his pencil and an expression of deep concentration that you suspected was at least forty percent performance. the thermostat became a point of contention around three, when you got up and moved it two degrees warmer and came back to find he'd turned it back down before you'd even sat down again.

you turned it up.

he turned it down.

you turned it up and added one for good measure and went back to the sofa and dared him with your eyes.

he looked at you for a long moment and then looked back at his map and left it, which you decided to count as a victory.

he found the corkscrew before you did and put it somewhere you couldn't locate it, which you discovered at five when you went looking for it. you stood in the kitchen opening drawers and he watched from the doorway and said nothing with a tremendous amount of satisfaction.

"where's the corkscrew," you said.

"don't know."

"shane."

"never seen it."

you opened the wine with a knife and considerable determination and took it to the sofa and did not look at him, and if he made a sound behind you that might have been the very beginning of a laugh you didn't give him the satisfaction of turning around.

he made dinner again. the same way he'd done it the night before, without discussion, without asking what you wanted, just started cooking at some point and put a plate in front of you when it was ready. it was good. it was extremely good. you said nothing about how good it was and ate every bit of it, and across the table he ate his own and didn't look at you and the candle burned down another inch.

after dinner you washed up. he dried. this also happened without discussion, which was starting to feel like its own kind of language, and then you were back in the living room with the fire going and your wine open and the snow outside the windows turning the dark blue and then black, and it was, objectively, exactly the kind of evening you'd driven four hours in a snowstorm for.

you were on the armchair. you'd claimed it early and held it. shane was on the sofa with his phone and his expression like a closed door and his long legs stretched out toward the fire, and the cottage was warm and quiet and the only sounds were the fire and the occasional turn of your page and outside the world was buried under snow and completely still.

it was around nine when you heard it.

a scratching at the front door. low and soft and irregular, stopping and starting.

you looked up from your book.

shane hadn't moved.

it came again. scratch. pause. scratch scratch.

"did you hear that," you said.

"yes," he said, without looking up from his phone.

"what is it."

"don't know."

"well what do you think it is."

he looked up then, slowly, with the expression of a man who had been asked to invest energy he hadn't budgeted for. "could be anything," he said. "bear. big dog. something worse."

"there are no bears in the lake district."

"you don't know that."

"i do know that, it's quite well documented."

"wolves have been reintroduced in parts of—"

"they have not," you said. "they genuinely have not."

he shrugged, which was the most aggravating response available to him, and looked back at his phone.

the scratching came again. softer this time. almost tentative.

you put your book down and crossed the room to the front door and opened it.

the cold came in immediately and the dark came with it and you stood in the doorway and looked out at the front yard and the snow and there, sitting on the path not four feet away, was a fox. small and very rust coloured and completely unbothered by any of it, sitting in the snow with its tail wrapped neatly around its feet, looking up at you with bright amber eyes like you were the one who had appeared without warning.

"oh," you said softly. "hello."

the fox looked at you.

you took one small step out onto the doorstep to get a better look at it, because it was perfect, because it was christmas and there was a fox in the snow and for one moment everything was exactly as lovely as you'd needed it to be when you'd packed your seventeen sweaters and pointed your terrible car north.

the door swung shut behind you.

the lock clicked.

you froze.

from inside the cottage came a sound you had not heard from shane maguire before. a real laugh, short and low, surprised out of him, there and gone almost before it landed, like it had escaped before he'd had the chance to decide against it.

you turned around.

through the little window beside the door you could see him. he had sat forward on the sofa, elbows on his knees, and he was grinning. not the almost-grin. not the corner of the mouth thing he deployed when you'd done something he found irritating and funny in equal measure. a real one, unguarded and sudden, doing something entirely unfair to his face, and he looked at you through the glass and raised his mug in a small unhurried toast.

you stared at him.

the fox, evidently satisfied that whatever this was had nothing to do with it, stood up, shook the snow delicately off its tail, and trotted off into the dark without a backwards glance.

you watched it go.

then you turned back to the door.

"shane," you said, very calmly.

the grin hadn't moved.

"open the door."

he looked at his mug.

"shane i am in my socks."

he looked up at that, looked at your feet on the wet doorstep, and had the absolute nerve to wince slightly, just a fraction, in a way that acknowledged this was perhaps marginally too far while also making it clear he had no immediate plans to do anything about it.

"you should have worn shoes," he said, through the door.

"you locked the door."

"you walked out in socks."

"because you locked the door."

"in december."

"shane."

"in the snow."

"open the door right now," you said, "or so help me i will sleep in my car and when they find me frozen to the seat in the morning it will be entirely your fault and i will haunt you specifically."

a pause. a long one. he looked at you and you looked at him through the glass and his expression was doing several things at once, none of which he appeared to be entirely in control of.

the lock clicked.

you came back inside on feet that were already soaking and stood in the hallway and looked at him, and he'd already leaned back into the sofa by the time you got through the door, phone back up, face entirely neutral, like none of it had happened and he had no memory of any grin.

"that was genuinely unhinged behaviour," you said.

"you went out in socks," he said.

"you locked the door."

"you weren't watching where you were going."

"you locked the door on purpose."

"reflex," he said.

"it was not a reflex."

"quick hands."

"shane."

"yeah."

"i hate you."

"mhm," he said, and that was the end of it apparently, and you went and stood in front of the fire with your back to him until your feet thawed out, and the cottage was warm and the fire was good and somewhere out in the dark the fox was going about its evening entirely unbothered, and you were standing in your wet socks being absolutely furious, and the worst part, the genuinely most annoying part, was that somewhere underneath the fury something wanted to laugh.

you didn't let it.

but it was there.

you woke up on the third morning to a different kind of quiet.

not the usual quiet, the one that settled over the cottage at night when shane had gone upstairs and taken all his difficult energy with him. this was heavier. the kind of quiet that had weight to it, that pressed against the windows and sat on the roof and changed the quality of the light coming through the curtains from pale grey to almost nothing.

you lay on the sofa and looked at the ceiling and knew before you'd moved that something was different.

you got up.

the window above the sink was half covered. not frosted, not misted, but filled, packed white from the bottom up, snow pressed against the glass like it was leaning on it, like it had decided the window was a surface it could use. you could see maybe a foot of dark sky at the top. the rest was white.

you stood and looked at it for a moment.

then you went to the front door and tried it.

it opened two inches and stopped. a wall of snow, solid and dense, packed tight against the frame from the outside. you pushed. it didn't move. you put your shoulder into it and shoved and the door shifted another half inch and a trickle of snow came over the threshold and onto the floor and that was all.

you stood back.

"shane," you said.

nothing from upstairs.

"shane."

a long pause, and then the creak of floorboards, and then his feet on the stairs, and he appeared in the hallway in a dark thermal and his jeans, hair unflattened from sleep, looking at you with the expression of a man who had been awake for some time and was waiting to find out what you were going to do with yours.

you pointed at the door.

he looked at the two inch gap and the wall of snow behind it and the trickle on the floor and said nothing for a moment.

then he crossed to the window by the front door and looked out through the narrow strip of glass still visible at the top, the part the snow hadn't reached yet. you came and stood beside him and looked out too.

the porch was gone. or rather it was still there, underneath, but you couldn't see any of it. the snow had come up over the railing overnight and kept going and was now sitting level with the window ledge and still building, the flakes coming down outside thick and unhurried and completely indifferent to the fact that you were watching them.

your car was a shape. just a shape, a soft white mound at the end of where the track used to be, indistinguishable from the rest of the landscape except that the landscape didn't usually have wing mirrors.

"right," shane said.

"right," you said.

you both stood there looking at it.

"how long does this last," you said.

"storm like this?" he looked at the sky through the top of the window, what little of it was visible, doing the calculation of a man who had spent enough time in bad weather to read it. "another day. maybe two."

"two days."

"maybe."

"we can't open the door."

"no."

"we're actually snowed in. properly."

"yes."

you turned and looked at the cottage. the small living room, the kitchen just off it, the bathroom down the short hallway, the stairs up to the one bedroom that was his and the sofa that was yours. the log pile by the fire. the kitchen cupboards with their limited and now finite contents. the kettle. your books. his map.

"how are we on wood," you said.

he looked at the log pile. "two days if we're careful."

"food?"

"depends what you brought."

"i brought enough for five days."

"for one person."

"yes."

he nodded slowly, doing the arithmetic, and didn't say anything about it, which was almost generous by his standards.

"gas on the hob?" you said.

"half a tank. maybe more."

"okay," you said. "okay."

you went to the kitchen and filled the kettle and switched it on because there was nothing else immediate to be done and tea was at least something to do with your hands. outside the snow pressed against the bottom of the kitchen window and you watched it while you waited for the kettle to boil, watched it sit there patient and enormous and entirely unbothered by any of this.

shane came and leaned in the kitchen doorway.

"stop looking at it like it's going to do something different," he said.

"i'm processing," you said.

"process faster. it's just snow."

"we can't open the door, shane."

"i know."

"the windows are half covered."

"i know."

"my car is completely buried."

"i know," he said, for the third time, with slightly more patience than you'd expected from him, which somehow made it worse. he crossed his arms and looked at the ceiling briefly and then back at you. "it's not going to get in. the cottage is solid, the roof is fine, we have wood and we have food and we have heat. we're not in any danger."

"i know that," you said, which was mostly true.

"you're doing a face," he said.

"i'm not doing a face."

"you are. you've been doing it since you opened the door."

"it's just my face," you said. "it does this."

he looked at you for a moment and something shifted in his expression, very slightly, in a way you didn't quite have the vocabulary for yet, and then the kettle finished and you turned away from him and made the tea.

you made his black.

he didn't say anything about it.

you both took your mugs to the living room and you sat on your end of the sofa and he sat on his and outside the snow kept coming down past the windows, past the half that was still visible, and the fire was going and the cottage was warm and the world outside had reduced itself to white and more white and the two of you in this small warm room with nowhere to go and nothing to do but wait it out.

you pulled your knees up to your chest and wrapped both hands around your mug and looked at the fire.

"you could have been nicer to me," you said, "from the beginning. given the circumstances."

a pause.

"could have," he said.

"but you weren't."

"no."

"any particular reason."

he drank his tea. looked at the fire. the log shifted and settled and sent a thread of sparks up the chimney.

"you locked me out," he said.

"you were going to make me leave in a snowstorm."

"you made my tea wrong."

"you called me little missy."

"you put a pillow on my log pile."

"it needed something," you said, for the second time, with complete sincerity, and something crossed his face that he turned away before you could identify it, and the snow pressed against the windows and the fire burned and outside the world was completely silent under all that white.

the snow didn't stop.

you knew this because you checked the window every hour with the dedication of someone who had been told not to and couldn't help it anyway, and every hour it was the same, the white pressing a little higher, the visible strip of sky a little narrower, the world outside a little more thoroughly erased.

shane stopped commenting on the window checking after the third time. this was either personal growth or he'd found it too easy to be worth continuing, you couldn't tell which.

the cottage had developed its own weather system by the second afternoon. a careful, loaded kind of atmosphere that had nothing to do with the storm outside and everything to do with the two of you moving around each other in four rooms with nowhere else to go. you'd established, without saying so, that the sofa was yours in the mornings and his in the evenings. the armchair was contested territory. the kitchen existed in a state of armed neutrality.

you were reading, actually reading this time, when he came in from checking the back of the cottage, all cold air and snow on his shoulders, and stopped in the middle of the room and looked at you.

"what," you said, without looking up.

"nothing," he said.

"you're staring."

"i'm standing in my living room."

"it's our living room."

"debatable," he said, and went to the kitchen, and you heard him put the kettle on, and a minute later a mug appeared on the table beside you.

you looked at it.

black tea. made right.

you looked at the kitchen doorway but he was already gone, back to the table and his map, and you picked the mug up and said nothing and drank it and the fire cracked and outside the snow kept falling.

it was a small thing. it was nothing. you read the same paragraph four times.

the evening was easier than the ones before it, which you hadn't expected. something had shifted in the barometric pressure of the cottage, not a lot, not enough to name, but enough that when he sat on his end of the sofa and you sat on yours the silence between you was a different kind than it had been. less fortified. still watchful but less armed about it.

you were sharing the blanket. this had happened without discussion, the way most things between you happened, some time around nine when you'd pulled it off the back of the sofa and he'd taken the other end without comment and now it sat across both your laps like a demilitarised zone and neither of you mentioned it.

"your feet are cold," he said, without looking up from his phone.

"i know."

"you're putting them near me."

"i'm not."

"you are. i can feel them from here."

"i'm fully on my side."

"your side is very close to my side."

"then your side is too big," you said, and pulled the blanket more firmly around yourself, and he made a sound that was almost a laugh and said nothing.

you woke up the next morning to find the last strip of visible sky through the front window gone. the snow had reached the top of the glass overnight and now the window was just white, a solid opaque rectangle, and the cottage had a muffled underwater quality to the light, dim and close and strange.

you stood in front of it for a long moment.

"it'll melt," shane said, from the kitchen, without you asking.

"i know," you said.

"you're doing the face."

"i'm not doing a face."

"you're doing it right now. i can see the back of your head doing it."

"that's not possible."

"i'm very perceptive," he said, which was so outrageously delivered without a trace of irony that you turned around just to look at him and he was leaning in the kitchen doorway with his coffee and an expression of complete neutrality.

you went and had a shower because it was something to do and the bathroom was warm and the hot water was one of the cottage's better qualities. you stood under it for longer than was probably reasonable and let the heat work on your shoulders and tried not to think about the snow against the windows or the track or your car or the fact that you were now on day three of being trapped in four rooms with a man who was mean to you in a way that was starting to feel dangerously like a language you were learning.

you were rinsing your hair when the bathroom door opened.

you screamed.

a proper one, full volume, the kind that bounced off the tiles and came back at you.

"what are you—" you yanked the shower curtain across so hard the rings scraped the rail, "shane what the fuck—"

"saving water," he said, completely calm, from somewhere on the other side of the curtain.

"get out."

"it's a shared resource. we don't know how long we're here."

"get OUT—"

"i'm not looking," he said, and you could hear it in his voice, the laugh he wasn't letting out, sitting right there behind his teeth, "i'm being environmentally responsible."

"i will actually kill you," you said, "i will end your life in this bathroom, get out right now—"

"you've been in here forty minutes."

"i was relaxing—"

"in my shower."

"it's our shower—"

"so i'm sharing it," he said, with tremendous reasonableness, and that was when the laugh escaped, low and genuine, and it bounced off the tiles the same way your scream had and you stood behind the curtain with your heart going at twice its normal speed and your face doing something you were very glad he couldn't see.

"get out," you said, very quietly, very precisely.

a pause.

"there's no hot water left anyway," he said.

"shane."

"i'll make breakfast."

"get out of the bathroom."

"eggs alright?"

"oh my god," you said, to the curtain, to the tiles, to nobody. "get out."

you heard him go. you heard him laughing on the other side of the door, quiet and unhurried, all the way down the hallway.

you stood under the cooling water and pressed both hands over your face and stayed there until it ran cold.

he had eggs on the table when you came downstairs, hair damp and expression extremely composed, and he looked up when you came in and looked back down at his plate and said nothing, and the corner of his mouth was doing the thing and you sat down and picked up your fork and said nothing either.

you ate your eggs.

they were good eggs.

"thank you," you said, which cost you something.

"water conservation is important," he said, without looking up.

you pointed your fork at him.

he looked at it. then at you. then back at his plate, and the corner of his mouth went further, and you put your fork down and picked up your tea and looked out the window, which was still completely white, and the cottage held you both in its small warm radius and outside the snow was finally, very slowly, starting to stop.

you didn't notice for a while.

it was shane who said it, quietly, from the sofa, where he'd moved after breakfast with his phone and his coffee.

"it's stopping," he said.

you looked up.

through the top of the side window, the narrow strip that was still clear, the sky had changed. lighter. not bright, not blue, but lighter, the heavy pressing white of the storm giving way to something thinner. and the flakes coming down were smaller now. fewer.

you both watched through the gap in silence.

"how long before the track clears," you said.

he was quiet for a moment. "few days. if it doesn't come back."

"few days," you repeated.

"yeah."

you sat with that. the fire cracked. somewhere outside a branch dropped its load of snow and you heard it land, heavy and soft.

a few more days.

you looked at him. he was looking at the window, the line of his jaw and the grey at his temples and the particular stillness he had that you'd stopped finding aggravating somewhere around yesterday and had started finding something else entirely, which was its own kind of problem.

he looked over.

you looked back at your book.

"you were looking at me," he said.

"i was looking at the window."

"i'm not the window."

"i'm aware."

"you were looking at me."

"i was looking in a general direction," you said, with great dignity. "you happened to be in it."

he made the sound. the one that wasn't quite a laugh. and then he looked back at the window and said nothing and you looked back at your book and said nothing and the snow outside had almost entirely stopped and the light was that particular pale grey that comes after a storm, clean and very still.

the fire needed another log around four. you were closer to it but he got up anyway, the way he'd started doing, and crouched down and put two on without being asked and stayed crouched for a moment looking at it, forearms on his knees, and the fire lit the side of his face and you watched him from behind your book and were extremely glad he was looking at the fire.

he sat back down.

not quite in the same place.

not significantly closer. not enough to say anything about. just slightly less far away than he'd been before, the sofa cushion between you a little less pronounced, the blanket a little more shared than divided.

you read your page. you actually read it this time.

it got dark at four thirty the way it did in december, sudden and complete, and the cottage lamps made everything amber and close, and outside the snow had stopped entirely now and the world was silent under all that white, no wind, no movement, just the enormous quiet of a landscape that had been put to bed.

your feet were cold.

they were always cold. you'd mentioned this to no one because mentioning it felt like the kind of vulnerability that would be used against you. but the sofa was cold underneath and your socks were the thin ones because you'd packed for festive and cosy, not for survival, and your feet were genuinely, persistently cold.

you shifted. pulled your knees up. put them back down. shifted again.

"what are you doing," shane said, without looking up.

"nothing."

"you've moved four times in ten minutes."

"i'm comfortable."

"you're clearly not."

"i'm fine."

he looked at you then, sideways, the slow look, taking in your tucked up knees and the way you'd pulled the blanket up and your expression of complete false serenity, and something moved across his face.

"feet cold?" he said.

"no," you said.

he looked at you for another moment and then looked back at his phone.

you lasted approximately three more minutes.

then, with the energy of someone doing something entirely reasonable that required no comment, you shifted sideways on the sofa, and lifted the hem of his shirt, and put both feet flat against the warm skin of his abdomen.

he made a sound like he'd been hit.

"what the—" he looked down, then at you, then down again, "—your feet are freezing—"

"i know," you said pleasantly, and opened your book.

"get your—" he started, and then stopped, and you felt the moment he decided something, felt it in the shift of his weight, and then his hand came down and wrapped around your ankle, not moving you, not removing you, just holding, his thumb against the bone, and he looked back at his phone with the expression of a man who had made a calculation and arrived somewhere he hadn't planned.

you said nothing.

he said nothing.

his hand was very warm. his skin was very warm through your socks and the fire was going and the lamp was on and outside was silent and white and you read your page and turned it and read the next one and actually took in most of it.

"you're like a radiator," you said, after a while.

"you're like a cold fish." he said.

"that's not a saying."

"it is now."

his thumb moved, slightly, against your ankle. just a small shift, absent and unconscious, and you were fairly certain he didn't know he'd done it, and you were very certain you weren't going to say anything about it.

"your feet are warming up," he said, about ten minutes later.

"yes," you said.

"so you can move them now."

"i'm comfortable," you said.

a pause.

"right," he said, rolling his eyes, but his hand didn't move.

you turned another page and the fire settled into its low steady burn and somewhere outside a branch released its snow and the soft impact of it reached you through the walls and shane maguire sat beside you with his hand around your ankle and his phone in his other hand and his face doing nothing in particular, and the cottage was very warm and very quiet, and you were snowed in for a few more days yet, and you had two books and enough tea bags for a small village, and honestly, objectively, you could think of worse situations to be in.

you weren't going to tell him that.

you made dinner because the alternative was watching him cook again and feeling unreasonably domestic about it, which had been a problem last night and the night before and you were taking preventative action.

it wasn't complicated. pasta, because the cupboards were what they were, with the last of the good tomatoes and some herbs you'd found at the back of the shelf and a quantity of garlic that you felt was appropriate and shane would probably have an opinion about. you stood at the hob and stirred and the kitchen was warm and smelled good and outside the snow sat still and silent and enormous and you felt, despite everything, despite the sofa and the tracking agency and the three days of low grade hostilities, something close to content.

shane was at the kitchen table with his map. he'd been there for an hour. you'd stopped asking about the map. it existed, it occupied him, that was enough.

you grated cheese. you tasted the sauce. you adjusted. you were aware of him watching you from the table the way he sometimes did when he thought you weren't paying attention, or possibly when he knew you were and didn't care either way.

"nearly ready," you said.

"i know. i can smell it."

"is that a complaint."

"it's an observation."

you put the plates on the table and sat down and he folded the map away and picked up his fork and you both ate and the candle between you burned and the kitchen was warm and outside was dark and white and completely still.

it was a good dinner. you knew it was a good dinner. you waited.

he ate about half of it before he said anything.

"you made the bread this morning," he said.

"i had time."

"you fixed the latch on the back window."

"it was annoying me."

"you've been cooking every night."

"we've been taking turns—"

"last night you made dinner and then told me i could wash up, which isn't taking turns, that's delegating." he pointed at the candle with his fork. "you even lit this."

"it was on the shelf."

"we've been here four days and you never lit it before."

"i was in a different mood," you said.

he leaned back in his chair and looked at you across the table with the candle between you and his arms crossed and the expression on his face was doing something you didn't entirely trust.

"what," you said.

"nothing," he said.

"shane."

"i'm just thinking," he said, "that all we're missing is a couple of kids and a big dumb dog and you'd be near enough my wife."

the kitchen went very quiet.

you picked up the tea towel from where it was sitting on the counter beside you and hit him with it. a proper swing, across the arm, and he made a satisfying sound of surprise and caught it before you could do it again and was grinning, actually grinning, the full one, the rare devastating one, and you turned back to your plate and picked up your fork and ate a large mouthful of pasta and stared at the middle distance with the focused energy of a woman who was absolutely not blushing.

you were absolutely blushing.

the tips of your ears were hot. you could feel it. you ate another mouthful and looked at the candle and not at him and the silence in the kitchen had a completely different quality to the one it had arrived with.

"near enough," he said again, quieter, almost to himself, picking his fork back up.

"eat your dinner," you said.

"yes dear," he said.

you picked the tea towel back up.

he held both hands up, fork in one of them, and the grin had settled into something smaller and more permanent, something that sat in the lines of his face like it was planning to stay, and you put the tea towel back down and ate your pasta and did not look at him and the candle burned between you and outside the snow was starting, very softly, to melt.

you washed up because apparently you were the kind of person who did things now, who kept their hands busy so their face had time to sort itself out.

the kitchen was quiet. shane had moved back to the living room after dinner, or you'd assumed he had, you hadn't looked, you'd just stood up and taken the plates to the sink and turned the tap on and looked at the window above it, which was still half covered in snow, the top half showing a dark sky with stars coming through now that the storm had passed.

stars. that was something.

you washed the plates and thought about nothing in particular and your face did what it needed to do and the hot water was good and outside was silent and still.

you didn't hear him come in.

you didn't hear anything, which was entirely typical of him, and the first thing you knew about it was two hands settling on your waist. not grabbing. not startling. just settling, easy and warm, like they'd considered the matter and decided this was where they were going. and then his nose, tucked under your ear, the faint scratch of his jaw against your neck, and he was very close and very warm and smelled like woodsmoke and something underneath that was just him.

you didn't move.

you weren't sure you could.

"you need help?" he said, very quietly, and his voice was different at this proximity, lower, the rough edges of it closer, and it did something quite serious to your ability to think in complete sentences.

the plate in your hands was already clean. you'd been washing it for some time.

"i'm nearly done," you said. your voice came out mostly normal. this felt like an achievement.

"mhm," he said, and didn't move.

his thumbs moved slightly against your waist, the same absent unconscious thing his thumb had done against your ankle earlier, like his hands did things without consulting him, and the tap was still running and the water was warm and his nose was still tucked under your ear and you were looking at the half-covered window and the stars in the top half of it and breathing very carefully.

"the plates are done," he said.

"i know."

"you've been washing that one for a while."

"it was dirty."

"it wasn't," he said.

you put the plate on the rack. you picked up a glass. you were very focused on the glass.

his hands didn't move. his nose didn't move. you felt him breathe, slow and even, felt it against your neck, and the kitchen was very warm and very small and the candle was still going on the table behind you and outside the stars were out for the first time in four days.

"shane," you said.

"yeah," he said, quiet against your ear.

you didn't say anything else.

you didn't have anything else to say, was the thing. you'd started his name and arrived at the end of it and found that whatever was supposed to come after it hadn't shown up, and the glass was clean and the rack was full and the tap was still running and his hands were still on your waist.

you reached out and turned the tap off.

the kitchen went very quiet without it.

his hands were still there. his jaw was still against your neck. and in the quiet you could hear the fire in the other room and the settling of the cottage and somewhere outside the first small sounds of snow starting to slide from the roof, loosened by the rise in temperature, the world beginning its slow return.

"nearly done," you said again, quietly.

"mm." his voice was low, rough from disuse. he didn't move away. instead his palms slid forward, pulling you back against him until your ass met the front of his jeans. you felt him already half hard there, pressing into you through the denim.

"shane," you tried again, but it came out thinner than you meant.

he hummed against your skin, then his mouth opened and he dragged his teeth lightly over the side of your neck. not enough to mark, just enough to make you shiver. his hands moved lower, gripping your hips now, thumbs pressing into the soft spots above your ass.

"been standing here like this for days," he muttered. "you in my way every time i turn around. acting like my wife, like you don’t know what you do to me."

one hand left your hip and slid down the front of your thigh, then back up under the hem of your skirt. his fingers found the edge of your panties and stayed there, tracing the line where fabric met skin.

"tell me to stop," he said, voice mean and amused at once. his fingers dipped lower, pressing the cotton against your cunt, feeling the damp spot already forming. "go on. say it."

you didn't. your fingers tightened on the edge of the sink instead.

shane laughed softly, the sound vibrating against your back. he pressed harder with his fingers, rubbing slow circles over your clit through the fabric until your hips twitched forward into his hand.

"that's what i thought," he said. "my wife gets wet just from me standing behind her. pathetic."

he hooked his fingers into the waistband and yanked your panties down in one rough motion, letting them drop to your ankles. the cool air hit your bare skin and you sucked in a breath. his hand returned immediately, two fingers sliding through your folds, spreading the wetness he found there.

"fuck, look at that," he murmured, almost to himself. he pushed one finger inside you without warning, then another, working them in deep and curling them against that spot that made your knees weak. his other hand stayed on your hip, holding you steady while he fucked you with his fingers, slow and deliberate, like he had all the time in the world.

"been thinking about this," he said against your ear. "how tight you'd feel. how you'd try not to make noise and fail anyway."

his thumb found your clit and rubbed in time with the thrust of his fingers. you bit your lip but a sound still escaped, half gasp and half moan. he grinned against your neck, teeth scraping again.

"there it is," he said. "don't hold back now. no one else is here to hear my wife getting finger fucked in the kitchen."

he added a third finger, stretching you open, the pace picking up just enough to make your thighs shake. his cock was fully hard now, pressed against your ass, and he rocked his hips forward in a slow grind like he couldn't help himself.

"gonna come like this?" he asked, voice teasing, mean. "on my fingers like a desperate little thing? or you want more?"

he didn't wait for an answer. he pulled his fingers out and brought them to your mouth, pressing them against your lips until you opened and tasted yourself on his skin. once you'd licked them clean he dropped his hand back down, this time freeing his cock from his jeans. you felt the hot length of it against your ass, then he was lining up, the head nudging at your entrance.

"say it," he said, voice low and rough. "tell your husband what you want."

you pushed back against him instead, and he laughed again, dark and satisfied.

"good girl," he murmured, and pushed inside you in one slow thrust, filling you completely. his hands gripped your hips hard enough to bruise as he started to move, fucking you against the sink with deep, steady strokes that made the dishes rattle in the rack.

"fuck, that's it," he groaned. "take it. my wife was made for this, wasn't she?"

he reached around with one hand to rub your clit again, matching the rhythm of his thrusts. the kitchen filled with the sound of skin meeting skin and your ragged breathing. 

he pulled out slow, leaving you empty and clenching around nothing. his hands stayed on your hips, firm, turning you to face him before he lifted you onto the counter in one smooth motion. the edge of the sink pressed cold against the backs of your thighs. your legs came up on instinct, heels hooking behind him, digging into the muscle of his ass as he stepped in close.

shane leaned in and kissed you hard, mouth open, teeth catching your bottom lip. he bit down just enough to make you gasp, then moved to your jaw, your throat, biting again where your pulse jumped under the skin.

"scream if you want," he said against your neck. "no one out there to hear it baby, just the snow and the trees and me."

his hands slid under your thighs, spreading you wider on the counter. he lined up again and pushed back inside in one deep thrust, burying himself to the hilt. your heels pressed harder into his ass, pulling him closer as he started to fuck you with steady, heavy strokes that rocked your whole body.

your fingers dug into his shoulders. the counter creaked under you with every thrust. your nails dragged down his back as he kept driving into you, each thrust punching a soft sound from your throat. shane's teeth found the curve of your shoulder and bit down harder this time, leaving heat behind. his hands gripped your ass, pulling you to the very edge of the counter so he could sink deeper.

"fuck, you feel good," he muttered against your skin. "tight little cunt squeezing me like it knows who it belongs to."

he pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes dark, mouth curved in that mean little smile. one hand left your ass and slid up to your throat, thumb resting over your pulse while he fucked you in steady, heavy strokes that made the cabinets rattle.

your heels dug harder into his ass, urging him closer. the wet slap of skin on skin filled the kitchen. snow slid off the roof outside in heavy thuds, but all you could focus on was the way his cock stretched you open and the bite of his fingers on your throat.

shane leaned in and kissed you again, biting your lower lip before he pulled back. "come on, wife. use your words. or do you want me to keep fucking you dumb until you can't think at all?"

he pulled back just enough to watch your face, that mean grin spreading as his hand stayed wrapped around your throat. "look at you," he muttered, voice rough. "taking every inch like a good little wife. you gonna come again on my cock?"

you tried to answer but the next thrust knocked the words out of you. your legs locked tighter around his waist, heels digging into his ass to pull him even deeper. shane laughed low and mean, hips snapping forward in a brutal rhythm that made your whole body jolt.

"fuck, that's it," he groaned. "squeeze me just like that. gonna fill this cunt up. gonna pump you so full you feel it leaking out for hours."

his thumb found your clit again, rubbing tight circles while he fucked you rough and deep. the pressure built fast, your walls fluttering around him until you came hard, cunt pulsing and gripping his cock. shane cursed, pace turning sloppy as he chased his own release.

“where do you want it baby, hm? i- inside? yeah?”

you couldn’t make a word beside a frantic nod as you clung desperately onto his shoulders, legs shaking around his waist.

"fuck you’re perfect– shit, here it comes," he growled, burying himself to the hilt. his cock twitched deep inside you and then he was coming, thick hot spurts flooding your cunt. he kept grinding through it, pushing every drop as deep as he could while you shook around him.

shane didn't pull out. instead he started moving again, slow and deliberate, fucking his cum back into you. each thrust made wet sounds as it pushed the mess deeper, some of it already leaking out around his cock and dripping down your ass onto the counter.

he watched your face the whole time, that grin widening when he saw the flush of embarrassment creeping up your neck. "aw, look at that," he teased, voice low and amused. "my wife getting all shy now that she's got a cunt full of cum. feel it? every time i push in it just squelches right back out."

you tried to look away but he caught your chin, forcing your eyes back to his while he kept fucking the load deeper with steady strokes. "don't hide from me now. you wanted this. wanted your husband to breed this pussy and make it all messy."

his cock stayed hard inside you, sliding through the cum with every thrust, pushing more of it out to trickle down your thighs. shane's grin never faded, eyes locked on yours as he kept going, making sure you felt every bit of it. his thumb stayed on your clit, rubbing slow circles until your walls fluttered again around his cock. he groaned, hips stuttering as he ground in deep one last time before finally pulling out.

cum spilled out of you immediately, thick and hot, running down your thighs. shane watched it for a second, that grin softening just a little before he scooped you off the counter. your legs were shaky but he held you steady, carrying you into the living room without a word.

he set you down on the sofa and disappeared for a minute, coming back with a warm cloth from the kitchen. he cleaned you up gentle, wiping between your legs with careful strokes while the fire crackled nearby. once he was done he pulled a blanket over both of you, settling in behind so your back pressed to his chest. his arm wrapped around your waist, holding you close as the snow kept falling outside.

"you good?" he asked quietly, lips brushing your ear. his hand rubbed slow circles on your stomach, grounding and warm.

you hummed in response as your eyes closed and your head rested against his shoulder, head tucked beneath his chin as he brushed his lips against the side of your head. "christmas came early.."

the last thing you heard was a satisfied little chuckle as he brushed his nose against your temple. 

i promised and delivered <3

[iluvbeingdelulu4evaaa]

I need a pt 2 NEOWWWWW

[velvetsainthills]

him with this song — James Norton as George Claire in things heard & seen 2021 he’s so pathetic and sometimes being freaky guys here I’m so in love

[myladyship]

You are my destiny! - Part I (Baelor Targaryen x Reader)

Summary: There is a custom that dates back to the Andals that says, "If you put a miniature version of the Maiden inside a large cake for the feast of the Maiden celebrations, the lady who finds it is destined to marry that same year and have a child the following year."

You are this year's lucky lady… You nearly lost a tooth as a result, but the court dismisses it as a joke by the Maiden.

You were one of only a few women in the Seven Kingdoms whose marriage was annulled due to infertility. Your husband annulled the marriage because you did not have children after nearly a decade of marriage.

Even though you were relieved to be free of your awful husband, you live a lonely life because no man wants to marry you.

You accept your fate until the feast of the Maiden, and you catch the eye of the Lord Hand.

Word Count: 3,519

Tags: Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Friends to Lovers, Falling In Love, Past Domestic Violence, Infertility, Pregnancy, Child Marriage, Period-Typical Sexism

Baelor’s mismatched eyes surveyed the ballroom.

Everything is going well… so far.

Today is the feast of the Maiden, and all the daughters of the great houses were brought to the Red Keep. The main purpose: to find suitable husbands. All the mothers of Westeros made sure their daughters wore the best gowns and best jewels coin could afford. They whispered among themselves about who has recently become widowed, who is looking for a bride, and who has the best land and titles.

Baelor wasn’t spared.

He doesn't have enough fingers on his hands to count how many Ladies approached them with their daughters and introduced them to him. The daughters would curtsy to him and speak to him with their sweetest voices. Some of them were as young as fifteen. Baelor politely went away from this conversation, feeling a little bit irritable with the attitude of some of these mothers.

He has been a widower for quite some time, and he has made no attempt to find himself a second wife. His mother probably wished he had a wife and, for her, more grandchildren. He has two healthy sons, one who is already married. His line is set, and there’s no need for a wife and more children. 

“I can’t believe she’s actually here!” He heard one lady whisper, horrified.

“The nerve! She’s walking bad omen!”

“How could she do that to her own cousins?"

He looked over and saw who they were talking about.

A woman wearing a grey gown enters the ballroom with two young ladies behind her. Some courtiers stopped their conversation and openly gawked at her with curiosity, mockery, disdain and a bit of pity

“Ser Delaney.” He called for his steward. “Who is that Lady and why does her presence cause this much fuss?”

Ser Delaney tells Baelor the woman’s name and house.

“Her husband divorced her.” Ser Delaney whispered. “That’s why they’re staring at her like that.”

“Divorce?” Baelor asked, surprised. “On what grounds?”

"Barrenness, my Prince," His steward explained. “She had been wedded to Ser Helios for almost a decade, and her belly not once swelled. He got the same Septon that wedded them to annul the union. He got remarried a few months later.”

It’s almost impossible to get a marriage annulled. The only ways to get an annulment are impotence, non-consummation and barrenness. There must have been enough proof for a Septon to come to that decision.

Baelor looks at her as discreetly as he can. He watched as the lady and who he assumes to be her cousins sat down. The younger of the two girls is looking around at people staring at them with her head low and her shoulders tensed. The woman in grey gently tipped her cousin's head forward. They shared a look and then a smile. A silent conversation that was enough to ease the young girl’s discomfort.

Baelor smiled at that interaction; it reminded him of when he was younger and his mother would tell him to keep his chin up when the courtiers commented on his Dornish side.

A Lord comes inside with who Baelor assumes to be his daughter. The Lord looked at the Lady in grey, and he smirked mockingly in her direction. Some people take great pleasure in other people's misery.

“That’s the Lady’s former husband," Ser Delaney whispered. 

Baelor hummed as he looked at her. The Lady in Grey didn’t pay attention to her former husband. She quietly sipped her wine and talked with the people at the table with a composed face.

“The young lady he just entered with is his new wife."

Baelor looked at his steward with a haughty look. He assumed she could be a younger family member. His steward shared the same expression as him.

...

“The Florent boy is looking at you," You teased.

Your cousin Muriel blushed. “No, he’s not!”

Your other cousin, Muriel’s sister, Mina, laughed. "Yes, he is!”

You smiled at their antics.

These Lords and Ladies expected you to lock yourself in your family’s keep and drown in your misery, but no. Just because you are no longer a wife doesn’t mean you are not a person. If you want to join a feast with your cousins, you will. Your former husband can flaunt his child bride all he wants; you will not cease to exist just because he made your vows void.

“He’s so handsome.” Muriel said dreamily.

“Then you should talk to the Florent boy.” You said.

“Not him!” Your cousin corrected. “The Hand.”

You and Mina stared at the high table where Prince Baelor was talking to the lord next to him. He looked handsome indeed.

“You think the song is true," Mina asked.

“What song?” You asked.

“You know…” Your cousin shrugged her shoulders. “The song.”

You glared at her through the corner of your eye. “You are not supposed to know that song.”

“I know, but it’s so catchy!” She groaned and mumbled under her breath. “Country was in peril; the Anvil was a rock. The Hammer smashed the bastard with his giant veiny—"

And as if he could hear from afar, Prince Baelor turned his head and looked directly at your table. You and your cousins turn away so quickly your necks made a snapping noise, and you three burst into laughter, not caring about the looks thrown your way.

The feast went on. Wine flowed and the music kept on. The Florent boy approached the table and asked Muriel for a dance, which the girl happily accepted with blushed cheeks. You and Mina stayed at the table talking and enjoying the cake when another Lord approached her and asked her for a dance; she too accepted and joined her sister on the dance floor.

You remained.

Part of you is happy that your reputation didn't disturb her cousins’ prospects, just like those other nobles whispered. 

The other part of you feels empty.

No Lord as looked at you with anything but pity or like you were a walking disease. No Lord appraoched you and asked you for a dance. You don’t think that will ever happen.

You look at the table where your former husband and his new wife sat. He looked happy and he was surrounded by various people. How can he forsake his vows to you and still be surrounded with warmth while you are the one that has to be the pariah? Is it because you barely fought for your marriage like a good noble lady should? What was the point in fighting for something that was as barren as your womb?

“Cake, my lady?” A servant asked with a tray full of cakes.

You nodded, and the servant placed the plate on the table.

“Thank you.”

You grabbed your fork and started eating the cake. You moaned at the taste. It was a delicious cake with berries and a hint of vanilla. You eat the cake while keeping an eye on your cousins, making sure those boys didn't take any liberties with their hands. You take another bite, and suddenly pain suddenly floods your mouth. Blood floods your mouth immediately, and the metallic taste mixes horribly with the sweetness of the cake. You drop your fork and clasp your jaw as you groan in pain.

Conversations at the surrounding table stop.

You feel something hard in your mouth, and you think it’s your tooth. You forgot all the decorum and spit on your plate. Blood, pieces of cake and an object fall on the plate. You look at what you think is your tooth, but to your relief, it isn't. It was bigger than a tooth, and it was mint green instead of white.

“What a…” You mumbled.

“My lady, are you alright?” A kind male voice asked.

You look up, and to your horror, it was Prince Baelor, and you present yourself to the heir to the throne with blood caking your lips and teeth. Words were stuck in your throat.

Prince Baelor didn't care that you didn't answer him. He took out a handkerchief and handed it to you. You hesitantly accept it and press it to your mouth; you could smell wax and parchment.

Your cousins approached you and checked on you while Prince Baelor inspected the object that was on your mouth with the fork. His brows furrowed as he looked at it.

“What is that?” Muriel asked, grossed out.

“The Maiden, I believe.” The Prince answered.

You take a closer look at it, and he is correct. It was a small miniature of the maiden with her serene face and gentle smile. How did it end up on the cake?

“Bessie!” A servant cried out. “They found it!”

A woman in an apron covered in flour ran into the hall. That must be Bessie. She runs to your table, not caring about the blood in your mouth or the presence of the prince. She reaches the plate and picks up the miniature of the maiden that was covered in your blood and spit. Mina gags.

“Oh, my lady! You have been blessed.” She tells you with joy as she holds the figure of the maiden up in the air like a war trophy. "Congratulations!"

You let out an indignant noise. Blessed with what? A chipped tooth?

“The Lady is bleeding.” Prince Baelor said with a firm tone that sent shivers down your spine. He put his hand on your shoulder, and you could hear your heart beating in your ears. “She could’ve choked as well. A Lady as been harmed under my roof. Explain yourself or you and your fellow workers will find work elsewhere."

Bessie’s face became white. He didn't raise his voice, not once, but you could hear the promise in his tone.

“My Prince.” The cook cleared her throat. “At every feast of the Maiden, I put a miniature figure on our cake batter, and the maiden who finds it is destined to be wed by the end of the year and have a child within the next. It’s a tradition in my hometown, and it always comes true.”

There’s laughter behind you. It’s a cruel and cold laugh. You recognised that laughter; it’s your former husband’s. He laughed just like that when the Septon declared your union null and void.

You’ve been married for almost ten years, and red has always stained your sheets. When you were late for a few days, you held your breath and then let out a disappointed sigh. You drank tonics that midwives promised to boost fertility, but it only made you want to throw up. You laid on your back and gripped the sheets so hard that your hands cramped when various maesters put their cold hands and instruments between your legs. You held babies in your arms, and for a few minutes you pretended they were yours. You kneeled in front of the statue of the mother and prayed feverishly.

Humiliations flood your body, and you want to disappear.

“I meant no harm, m’lord!" Bessie said, thinking they were laughing at her. “The lady has been chosen by the Maiden!”

You couldn’t control yourself and sobbed into the Prince’s handkerchief.

A hand smashes against the table, rattling the cups and utensils and quieting down the laughter. You look up and see the Prince’s balled fist on the table. He looked at the table where your former husband was sitting with a ferocity that made you wonder if that is how a dragon is supposed to look.

“Ser Delaney, please escort the lady and her cousins to a washroom so that she can clean herself.”

He stared at you, and all of the harshness in his mismatched eyes evaporated, and his gaze softened as he held his hand towards you. You accepted his hand, and he helped you get up. You followed the steward out of the hall with your cousins by your side and eyes staring at you, but you only hoped that the Prince still had his on you.

...

Baelor let out a tired sigh as he walked to the washroom.

The feast has gone well if you ignore the cake accident.

If Baelor had a motive, he would ban Ser Helios from the keep. He can still feel the way her shoulder tensed under his hand when that man laughed cruelly at her, and the sound of her sob echoed in his ear. He’ll make sure the lady and her cousins are settled comfortably and under his care for the remainder of the festival.

He stands in front of the door but stops the guard from announcing his presence. He listened in to the conversation. He listened to the sound of water in the basin and the two young ladies talking to each other. If his old Septa saw him now, she would pull his ear until it turned red.

“That baker is foolish!” He heard one of her cousins say. “Who puts a choking hazard on a cake? What if you had choked instead of harming your mouth?”

“Well, Prince Baelor would’ve probably saved her!" The other cousin said. “Did you see the way he ran the moment she let out that painful screech? For a moment it looked like he was flying.”

Baelor smiled softly but shyly. 

The reason why he was so quick to go to her side is because he was staring at her right until she spit out that miniature.

He didn’t mean to. His gaze just kept drifting to that table, and he couldn’t look away. She smiled beautifully, and when her gaze saddened, he just wanted to go to her and bring back that smile. When the cake was placed in front of her, his heart made a funny movement when her tongue poked out and licked the cream off the fork. Then it made another when she winced and let out a pained groan. He jumped off his chair when she leaned forward and spat out blood on the plate.

“And how would he save her? Shoving his fingers down her throat? It would’ve made it worse!”

“Probably!” She giggled. “Have you seen the size of his hands?”

Baelor unconsciously looked at his hands. They’re average for all he knows.

“They probably felt nice.” The cousin teased.

The Lady finally spoke. “By the Seven! He touched my shoulder, not my tit!”

The trio burst into laughter, and the guards at the door turned their heads away to avoid eye contact with the Prince. Baelor eavesdropped enough. With the tips of his ears red, he ordered the guard to announce his presence.

“Prince Baelor Targaryen, my ladies!” The guard announced.

The laughing stopped.

The door opens and he goes in. The three ladies go to the centre of the room and curtsy to him. The cousin, Mina, was biting her lip, trying to contain the laughter that was still stuck in her throat. The other cousin, Muriel, was looking down, begging the floor to swallow her. The Lady, the woman he came to see, was looking directly at him.

“My lady.” Baelor nodded at her. “If you need a Maester, I would be glad to send my personal maester to check on you.”

“You are too kind, my prince.” She said. “The wound has stopped bleeding, so there's no need to create such a fuss.”

"Nonsense." Baelor said quickly. He cleared his throat. “You are a guest, and your comfort is my priority.”

The Lady smiled and she wrung the handkerchief, his handkerchief, in her hands.

“If there’s anything you need… you can come to me.”

The two younger cousins share a look and have a silent conversation among themselves.

“Thank you, your grace.” She looked at the handkerchief in her hand. “Unfourtnulyey, there’s blood on the handkerchief you so kindly gave me. I’ll be sure it’s thoroughly cleaned before returning it to you.”

“Keep it.” Baelor said softly. “Will I still be seeing you at the feast again?”

The Lady smiled sadly and shook her head. “I’m afraid not, my prince. I feel I had my fill of them.”

Baelor buried his disappointment. He understood why. There were a few Lords and Ladies whispering about the baker’s words and how the Gods make funny jests once in a while. He’s not much of a believer like his namesake, but he does wonder if the Maiden has plans for the Lady in front of him. Perhaps it’s just a silly superstition.

...

You stay up at night and stare at the handkerchief Prince Baelor gave to you. The bloodstains have faded thanks to the hard work of the laundress. Part of you, for an unknown reason, felt disappointed you couldn't smell that faint scent of musk and parchment.

You can still remember the way he looked at you. You wonder if he knows your story. If he did, you’ll never forget the way his gaze held no judgement whatsoever and looked like a true person.

The Prince told you to keep it, but as you traced the stitches that formed the dragon sigil, you decided you wanted to do more. At the first sign of light, you sat on the chair near the window and started to embroider. By noon you were done.

You walked through the halls searching for the familiar form of the Lord Hand. You found him in the gardens with his oldest son, Valarr. You smiled but you stopped yourself. Doubt starts to settle in like an uninvited guest.

Would he even accept your gift? He was just being kind to you, nothing else.

You look at the handkerchief in your hand. It’s not perfect now that you take a closer look at it when the sun is at its peak. You did it in such a hurry. The dragon you stitched was a bit crooked; the heads were different sizes, and it looked more like a gecko than a powerful dragon.

You bit your lips as anxiety flooded you. You should leave. You lift your head and your heart skips a beat when you see Prince Baelor staring at you. It starts to beat faster when he says something to Valarr and walks towards you.

You bow when he reaches you.

“My lady, is there anything I can help you with?" He asks gently.

You clear your throat. “I wished to thank you once more for the other day.”

He smiled. “As I told you before, your comfort is my priority."

“Even so, I wish to express my gratitude even more.” You presented him the handkerchief.

Prince Baelor barely looks at it and grabs your hand carefully. Your body shivers with the contact. “My lady, I told you there’s no need to return it…”

“I made it!” You stop him, and you curse yourself for speaking that way with him.

He blinked and looked at the hand holding yours, now noticing how different the piece of fabric on your hand is compared to the one he gave you. He grabs it and holds it carefully. His mismatched eyes analyse the stitches in front of him. 

He looks up at you, and his gaze looks different. Relaxed, you could say. “Thank you, my lady.”

“It’s not perfect…” You try to say it.

“It does not matter.” He says softly. “And it being made by your bare hands makes it even more… special.”

You smiled shyly. “The dragon looks like an angry gecko.”

Prince Baelor laughed. “It does look a bit like one. Thank you, once again, my lady.”

You nodded. “You’re welcome, my prince.”

You bowed one more time and left.

Your whole body felt tingly.

...

She made it for him.

She created something with her own hands just for him. Not because she wanted favour with him but because she wanted to thank him and nothing else. Something inside Baelor warmed up.

He carefully traced the stitches. It was not perfect, but he did not care. This was his.

Baelor was so focused on the cloth that he did not hear Valarr call for him until he stood right next to him.

Baelor blinked and looked at his son. “Yes, son?”

“Are you alright?” His son asks.

“Yes, why do you ask?”

“Because I’ve been calling for you for quite some time and you didn’t answer.”

"Apologies, I was..." He tried to find the words.

“Is that the lady you mentioned the other day at supper? The one whose tooth broke was almost broken by the maiden.”

“Yes, it was her.” He confirmed. “She just wished to thank me one more time.”

“She’s also the one whose marriage got…”

“Let us not speak of someone who is not here to speak for themselves, Valarr.” Baelor snapped, feeling the urge of protecting her even though he knows Valarr wouldn't say anything inflammatory towards her.

Valarr raised a brow but nodded his head. “Of course, father.”

They started walking.

“I do wish to add one thing.” Valarr said after a while. “Her ‘husband’ is quite a pathetic man if you ask me.”

Baelor remained silent for a moment.

“I agree, son.”

[sleepysidcros]

Sitting, Waiting, Wishing.

Sidney Crosby x Female reader

Love doesn't disappear; it waits until you're ready to find your way back

SERIES PLAYLIST

Timeline: 2009-2027

Genre: romance, slow burn, angst

Summary: In 2009, you're a doctoral student completing your clinical rotation with the Penguins' medical staff. Between rehab sessions and late nights at the arena, you meet Sidney Crosby; who slowly becomes your favorite part of every day. Over three years, friendship becomes love, and love quietly becomes a future neither of you realize you're building. Then, when your dream job arrives, and unable to ask either of you to sacrifice the career you've spent your entire life chasing, you make the impossible decision to walk away. Fourteen years later, while visiting Pittsburgh to help your father recover from surgery, your feet carry you back to the park where your relationship began.

Sid's already sitting on the same bench; some things change, some things never do.

Contents: Heavy angst, slow burn, mutual pining, time skips like no other, references to surgery and hospitalization, eventual happy ending, marriage, parenthood. NO CHEATING !!!

Chapter One - A Heart Like Hers

(2009) Chapter summary; A sports medicine doctoral student begins her clinical rotation with the Penguins' medical staff expecting nothing more than another semester of work. Instead, she meets Sidney Crosby; who keeps inventing reasons to wander into the training room. Friendship grows into routine, routine becomes tradition, and before either of them realizes it, they've claimed a little corner of Pittsburgh as their own.

Chapter Two - It Had To Be You

(2010-2012) Chapter summary; Somewhere between spare keys, Sunday mornings, family dinners, and quiet nights studying while Sidney watches game film, the relationship becomes something permanent; or so it seems. But when a prestigious sports medicine institute on the West Coast offers the opportunity of a lifetime, the future they've imagined together begins slipping through their fingers.

Chapter Three - The Man Who Can't Be Moved

(2026) Chapter summary; Fourteen years later, you've built the career you always dreamed of. Sidney has built a Hall of Fame career of his own. Yet neither of you has ever quite managed to recreate what you once had together. When your father undergoes surgery in Pittsburgh, a familiar walk leads you back to the park where everything began. Sidney is already there. Still sitting on the same bench, still quietly carrying pieces of the life you once planned together.

Chapter Four - So Easy (To Fall In Love)

(2026-2027) Chapter summary; Neither of you tries to recreate the relationship you lost. Instead, you slowly learn the people you've become over the last fourteen years. Coffee turns into dinner. Dinner becomes weekends together. Old habits return naturally, while new dreams quietly take their place. For the first time since 2012, the future belongs to both of you.

Chapter Five - Just Like Heaven

Epilogue; Years after sitting beside the Monongahela River imagining a family that never seemed possible, you return to the same park with your daughter between you. Some dreams don't disappear with time. Sometimes they wait.

A/N; I'll delete this and jump if no one fw it, this is going to be a LONG ASS SERIES 🥹🥹, this post alone took me a good 30 minutes pls

[iluvbeingdelulu4evaaa]

I CANT WAIT I KNOW I JUST FOUND AN ABSOLUTE BANGER

[lustedbby]

ormund girlies go watch jessie ware’s ride music video and get some perverted inspiration

[iluvbeingdelulu4evaaa]

Yall don’t understand, this is like a guttural need. And I’m not even ovulating-I mean joking.

[iluvbeingdelulu4evaaa]

IT HAS BEEN FOUND!!!!

MY PRECIOUS 😛

Life is good because the fic has been found thanks to @noone1233nobody

Here’s it for anybody wanting it

Post by @floatyflowers · 2 images

💬 19  🔁 84  ❤️ 1825 · Mama's Boy|| Dark Valarr, Matarys, Daeron, and Aerion x Motherly! Reader · "She is Dark Sister made flesh, if I cannot

[iluvbeingdelulu4evaaa]

YALL I need help tracking down a one shot. I don’t remember who published it but it was peak and so good. It was about how during the Blackfyre Rebellion, Daemon Blackfyre is so enamored by readers fighting skills that she and him are caught in a sword fight and he goes to stab her but not to kill her, but to keep her from producing any heirs for any other man. I think the story goes on about how reader is Baelor and Maekars sister and that as both their wives die, she takes care of the maekarlings and Baelors sons. HELP ME FIND IT PLZ ITS TOO GOOD I NEED IT

[liafraserdiary]

I did this for my husband

[iluvbeingdelulu4evaaa]

Just saw a tt about liking icing off his fingers while baking. You know what to do

[spicyrose]

❀˖° — ENVY AND LUST.

aerion targaryen x daeron's wife!reader, daeron targaryen x wife!reader

aerion overhears you and daeron having sex and becomes obsessed with his brother's wife.

1.2k+ words.

cw: fem!reader, no y/n, dom!reader, sub!daeron, aerion doesn't think he's a sub but realizes he is for you, aerion's creepy pervert behaviour, aerion's misogyny, edging, mentions of bondage, one 'good boy', mildly incestuous connotations

the targaryen retinue is travelling and the walls in this castle are less thick than those of the red keep. aerion's lying in bed when he starts to hear a noticeable thud thud thud coming from his brother's room. soon he can hearing groaning and whimpering and little 'uh uh uh'. it's muffled, but obvious enough what's going on. aerion smirks and starts stroking his cock without even a hint of shame.

***

the next morning at breakfast, aerion sees daeron and is ready to start shit. slyly asks his brother how his evening ride was. makes all sorts of crude remarks, asks if the mare was an easy enough ride. if she struggled to bear his weight. if his mount was all worn out now. but daeron is just confused and it's no fun if his food doesn't realize it's being played with. so aerion outright says "could hear you and your ride last night. didn't think you had it in you, but it sounded like your wife thoroughly enjoyed herself."

and daeron is so annoyed with his little shit of a brother, mostly for the disrespect towards you. and he probably should keep his mouth shut but he doesn't. "you're the one obsessed with our family's history. you should know dragons don't ride. they're ridden."

and daeron leaves to return to his wife's side. aerion watches the two of you and notices for the first time that it's daeron who nuzzles into and is utterly devoted to you.

***

aerion's never deemed you worthy of much attention, but now he can't stop thinking about you and wondering what exactly you do to his brother.

aerion doesn't have many opportunities to speak with you without another's presence. but when he does he probes with devious questions, testing you. compliments your horsemanship. asks how you manage to tame a stallion. plays at being the good brother by commenting on how happy daeron seemed with you. how much he had improved under your...influence. is so bold as to acknowledge that his brother had given up whoring for you, a sure sign of his...happiness in the marriage.

if you understand his meanings, you don't let on, and aerion may be bold but he is also intentional. he can't be too direct lest he ruin the game.

***

because the family is travelling, he has the opportunity to sneak into your things. aerion goes into your room and takes one of your dresses, the lowest cut one, and uses it to fist his cock until he cums thinking about you riding him. he leaves it in a bunch on the floor. he assumes the servants must have found it and if they recognized what the residue was, they didn't raise the alarm. he also stole your perfume before he left.

he listens every night but he doesn't hear you fucking his brother again. he groans in frustration.

he finds a whore that looks a little like you, if he squints. he makes her wear your perfume. aerion gets her to ride him, but it's not right, she's too careful about it. she's not making him feel whatever you made daeron feel. he flips the whore over and fucks her, but ultimately finds the experience disappointing.

he tries to linger outside the bathing house the party stops at so he can sneak a glimpse at you, but the ladies are too well guarded and he spots his father and has to make himself scarce.

***

the weeks that drag on are torturous. finally, the retinue returns to king's landing and aerion has his chance. that night he uses the secret passages in the red keep, one of which fortuitously leads to daeron's room. he peers in through a crack in the wall and, just as he hoped, finds you taking advantage of having your husband all to yourself.

daeron's laid out on the floor while you ride him, both naked. his mouth's hanging open and he's whimpering. his hands grasp at the rug and it's obvious to aerion that you've told daeron he's not allowed to touch you.

"please please please" daeron moans.

"what do you want, dear husband?" you smirk down at him.

"w-want to suck on your tits."

you grip his hair and pull daeron to sit up. daeron's practically drooling, dipping his head down towards your pretty breasts, when you shove him back down on the rug again. daeron whines.

you lean down, tits bouncing near his face but not close enough.

"do i need to tie you down?"

"n-no," he stammers.

"is my husband going to be good for me?" you purr.

"s-so good!"

aerion's cock is out and he's touching himself, matching your rhythm so he can pretend it's his cock you're riding. he speeds up as you do. you're both going faster and aerion can feel himself getting closer and see that daeron's the same.

then, you stop.

daeron cries and grasps at the rug. and, though aerion had no intention of stopping, no desire to stop, he found his hand no longer moving. aerion's face presses against the wall and he pants, hard.

you pull daeron up into a sitting position and your legs wrap around his back. both you and daeron moan, the position evidently pushing him even deeper inside you. you begin moving again and aerion can see you're riding for your pleasure, not your husband's, though the sounds daeron is making make it obvious he's still very much enjoying it. aerion began stroking his cock again.

you stick your fingers in daeron's open mouth and he obediently begins sucking on them. you ride your husband again faster and faster until you suddenly stop short again. daeron is distraught and aerion only manages to remain quiet by biting his fist as he also stops touching himself, though he keeps a tight grip on the base of his cock.

daeron's actually crying and aerion wonders if his brother is this pathetic (hypocrite, he's hardly any better) or if you'd edged him before this. maybe even denied him for days.

"you're going to cum if i keep going, aren't you, sweetheart?" you cooed.

daeron nodded and whimpered.

"well, i can't have that. you look too perfect like this. my good boy." you cooed.

aerion's hips jerked forward.

"but it's not fair i don't get to keep having fun just because you can't control yourself, is it?"

daeron shook his head.

aerion never understood the stories of men who brought kingdoms to war and ruin over desire for a woman. seemed too much trouble for some cunt. aerion had assumed it was romantic nonsense, the work of storytellers, but it's now obvious to aerion his brother would agree to anything you said in that moment. give you anything you asked for. anything at all. daeron was completely pathetic and miserable and utterly weak for you, it was embarassing.

gods, aerion envies him.

you untangle yourself from daeron, your bodies separating with a wet sound that has aerion's hips thrusting again. he can't help it. he can't deny himself. he keeps pumping as you drape yourself across yours' and your husband's bed.

you spread your legs wide. aerion can see every inch of you. his hips buck uncontrollably as daeron crawls towards your exposed pussy.

daeron presses his face between your legs and licks a stripe up your cunt. you moan, and that does it for aerion.

aerion cums, hard, biting his fist until he tastes blood.

he's shaking all over as his body comes down. aerion feels he could topple over, but he braces himself against the wall. he can't rest now.

not when he's about to enjoy watching his brother eat your pretty cunt.

[iluvbeingdelulu4evaaa]

[jakecockley]

“my brother’s mace, most like. he’s strong.”