Hiiiiii my Name is Belle (pronounced Bell) but my Mutuals can just call me Bee🐝 (cause I like you guys real much💜).
I'm really into shifting, spirituallity, ghosts and stuff like that, nature and witchcraft and generally everything magic related. I also love reading and watching TV (mostly Netflix) and I love relaxing by just going outside with my skateboard. I am also an ENTP (for those who care) and I will kill for my friends if they ask me to😇. If I could, I would eat Popcorn all Day and only Drink Iced Coffee (but sadly this is not how the Human body works🥲) and I am a hopeless romantic even tho that often doesn't shine trough. Also my obsession with flowers💐🌸🪷🏵🌹🌺🌻🌼🌷🪻 is almost as big as my ego.
I am a proud bisexual💙💜🩷 and against any Form of discrimination. So as long as you are nice it doesn't matter what you are, you are welcome🙃
(Also I probably have undiagnosed ADD so this is a safe-space for every neurodivergent🤎)
And a little warning I am more sarcastic than should be legal and tend to be a little dramatic sometimes🫠
Hiiiiii my Name is Belle (pronounced Bell) but my Mutuals can just call me Bee🐝 (cause I like you guys real much💜).
I'm really into shifting, spirituallity, ghosts and stuff like that, nature and witchcraft and generally everything magic related. I also love reading and watching TV (mostly Netflix) and I love relaxing by just going outside with my skateboard. I am also an ENTP (for those who care) and I will kill for my friends if they ask me to😇. If I could, I would eat Popcorn all Day and only Drink Iced Coffee (but sadly this is not how the Human body works🥲) and I am a hopeless romantic even tho that often doesn't shine trough. Also my obsession with flowers💐🌸🪷🏵🌹🌺🌻🌼🌷🪻 is almost as big as my ego.
I am a proud bisexual💙💜🩷 and against any Form of discrimination. So as long as you are nice it doesn't matter what you are, you are welcome🙃
(Also I probably have undiagnosed ADD so this is a safe-space for every neurodivergent🤎)
And a little warning I am more sarcastic than should be legal and tend to be a little dramatic sometimes🫠
I adore that I can finally put in necessary aids for myself in my drs, honestly, I use to always want to script out all my medical stuff, but recently i’ve really realize that I don’t know who i’d be without it, it’s been apart of me and my life since I was born. It’s something I feel like I can no longer seperate from myself.. ig idk how to describe it but I wouldn’t be me with out them.
finally get my anxiety diagnosis that my parents kinda reasonably refuse to get me, get aid for all the side effects of my heart condition, help with my mental health, etc.
I am keeping all of it but scripting it a better system.
I never really use to talk about this stuff on my old accounts just cause it never really was anything I thought people would understand ig. (my group irl doesn’t really get it cause they don’t live with this stuff like I have, they don’t get it when I talk bout it.)
same here I was planning on scripting out my adhd but I dont know how to function without it if that makes sense. My entire life I've centered my entire schedule around adhd works so i dont get overstimulated, almost all of my hobbies/interests are because of hyperfixations. I wanted to script it out but that would mean losing a big part of me
I adore that I can finally put in necessary aids for myself in my drs, honestly, I use to always want to script out all my medical stuff, but recently i’ve really realize that I don’t know who i’d be without it, it’s been apart of me and my life since I was born. It’s something I feel like I can no longer seperate from myself.. ig idk how to describe it but I wouldn’t be me with out them.
finally get my anxiety diagnosis that my parents kinda reasonably refuse to get me, get aid for all the side effects of my heart condition, help with my mental health, etc.
I am keeping all of it but scripting it a better system.
I never really use to talk about this stuff on my old accounts just cause it never really was anything I thought people would understand ig. (my group irl doesn’t really get it cause they don’t live with this stuff like I have, they don’t get it when I talk bout it.)
same here I was planning on scripting out my adhd but I dont know how to function without it if that makes sense. My entire life I've centered my entire schedule around adhd works so i dont get overstimulated, almost all of my hobbies/interests are because of hyperfixations. I wanted to script it out but that would mean losing a big part of me
A.N: My loves, you're absolutely amazing, thank you so so much for your wonderful support, you've made me so happy! 🩷I hope you'll like this one as well, and please let me know what you think🩷 ILYSM, kisses! 🩷
Pairing: Robb Stark x F!Reader
Summary: Honesty is the solution to many issues.
Word Count: 5,3k
Warnings: Explicit language, adult themes, MDNI. By clicking 'keep reading', or asking to be tagged, you confirm you're 18 +.
Thank you to my wonderful beta @chibi-lioness !
Series Masterlist
The wedding was in two days, and Robb couldn’t have been more confused.
He would’ve been lying if he said he didn’t expect his lady’s cold demeanor to warm up after he won the duel for her hand, and he had even managed to stop himself from breaking that knight’s face as his mother had made him promise, but his lady didn’t look pleased at all.
For some reason.
“I don’t understand,” Robb muttered and sipped his ale. “Aren’t girls supposed to like it when men fight over them?”
Theon nodded wistfully. “Aye, they do.”
“All those ballads say little else!” Robb insisted and Theon tilted his cup in his direction.
“They say nothing else.”
“Then what is happening?” He ran a hand through his hair, then turned to Jon. “What do you think?”
“I think there are no girls at this table,” Jon pointed out. “Which means it’s not much use to assume what they like.”
“I know what girls like,” Theon said, making Jon grimace.
“Has anyone informed them of it?”
“Aw don’t be so envious Snow, someone will warm your bed eventually.”
Robb raised his hand to get Silas’ attention when he stepped into the hall and he approached them to plop down next to Jon.
“Here’s the victor’s table,” he joked and nodded at Robb. “How’s your hand?”
Robb clenched and unclenched it, ignoring the bruises on his knuckles.
“It’s fine,” he said with a shrug. “How’s my lady?”
Silas puffed up his cheeks in deep thought, stealing a glance over his shoulder as if he expected her to appear out of thin air.
“Your maester prepared her a draught, she’s resting,” he said after a beat. “Better let her. It’s been a long day for one so…”
“Angry?” Theon suggested, earning warning glares from both Robb and Silas. “At Robb, I mean.”
“She’ll calm down,” Silas said, “she just doesn’t have the stomach for violence. Even in the jousts, Margaery has to tell her if it’s alright to look because she doesn’t want to see the bloodshed—her best friend,” he added when he saw Jon’s confusion, and Robb scoffed.
“I still don’t know how I feel about her.”
“Makes one of you,” Silas replied. “Because trust me, Margaery has already decided how she feels about you.”
Robb drummed his fingers on the table.
“And my wife?”
“You’ll have to ask her,” Silas said with a smug smile. “But if you’re asking about my sister, who is your betrothed and not yet your wife, I can tell you that her anger does simmer down eventually.”
Except that she was indeed his wife, Silas just didn’t know it yet.
Robb chewed on his lip, trying to ignore the sinking in his stomach. “It didn’t sound like it’d simmer down.”
“No wonder.” Silas rolled his eyes. “Her biggest issue back home was to decide on which gown to wear for which feast, not her betrothed putting himself in danger—”
“I wasn’t in danger.”
“At least not in the way she thought, but Lord Stark would’ve disowned his precious heir if he lost to a Reach knight,” Theon joked, clasping a hand over his shoulder to shake him, and Robb huffed out a laugh.
“Aye, he would have.”
“We’d have Mikken melt down your sword for horseshoes.” Jon grinned at Robb. “So that you could take up needlework with the girls.”
Robb flipped him with a chuckle. “Fuck off.”
“Simpler than my plan” Silas said, “I would’ve killed Ser Gwayne if you lost.”
Jon raised his brows. “Would you?”
“My sister is not going to be wed to that prick,” Silas said. “Robb’s wellbeing has nothing to do with that, no offense.”
Robb sipped his ale. “None taken.”
“I’d just betroth her to the prince of Dorne.”
Robb lowered his cup immediately. “What?”
“Yeah, don’t tell the twins though.” Silas motioned at a servant. “It took me a lot of time to decide between you and him earlier, so it only makes sense.”
The mere idea of her being wed to anyone else made jealousy shoot through his veins so fast that for a moment his mind went black before he cleared his throat, aware of the frown pinching his forehead while the servant put a cup in front of Silas, then filled it with ale.
“My lord.”
“Thank you,” Silas said. “Anyway, I’m glad you didn’t die and I don’t have to go through this whole nonsense again. Much appreciated.”
She wasn’t going to wed anyone else. Not in Dorne, not in anywhere, she was staying right here in Winterfell to be his lady, and—
Well. That was if she ever forgave him.
“Could you two give us a moment?” Robb asked Jon and Theon, taking Silas by surprise. Theon frowned but let Jon pull him by the shoulder and walked away with him to another table while Silas sipped his drink.
“Well, this can only be about my sister,” he commented. “What is it?”
“She’s cross with me.”
“Hasn’t escaped me.”
“And she has been for a while.”
“I have a feeling this duel made the earlier times look like friendly banter,” Silas pointed out. “But yes?”
“She wanted me to withdraw before the duel,” Robb said. “I don’t think she understands—”
“She doesn’t, but nor do you.”
That made Robb frown. “What do you mean?”
Silas ran his tongue over his teeth, then sucked in a breath.
“It appears,” he said, “she cares for you more than I’d like her to.”
“More than you’d like her to?” Robb repeated. “We’re to be wed in two days. Is it so bad that she cares for me?”
Silas lifted his cup to his lips.
“Your maester just had to give her a draught so that she can sleep the remnants of today’s fear away,” he muttered and took a sip. “Because she was worried you’d die in that duel, and wouldn’t listen to anyone including me for the very first time. So you tell me if that’s bad, Stark.”
Robb’s heart clenched painfully in his chest, guilt crashing down on him like a ton of bricks. The memory of her on the verge of tears flashed in his mind, making him let out a breath as he ran a hand through his hair.
“I know why you did it,” Silas continued. “I know you wouldn’t withdraw and that you would win, that’s exactly why you’re the one who’s betrothed to her and not one of these idiots who are here for the wedding. I can understand the way the North works, and dislike its toll on my sister at the same time.”
“Silas, I—” He licked his lips, his stomach doing a painful flip. “I hate that I made her cry.”
“Good,” Silas said and downed his drink, then gave him that perfect courtier smile of his. “Do keep that in mind. Because the next time my sister cries, so will the rest of House Stark for losing their heir.”
With that, he walked away from him, leaving him there dumbfounded.
He decided to go to her door around dinner time to see if she had woken, but the sight of Arys leaving her room greeted him as soon as he turned the hallway leading to her bedchambers. Arys gave Robb a quick smile and closed the door behind him, then stepped away.
“She’s still asleep,” he said, making Robb’s stomach drop in disappointment. “I don’t want to wake her for dinner, she can eat when she wakes. Her maid will be with her for the night, until the morning.”
Robb swallowed thickly and nodded, then went to sit on the windowsill facing her door.
“She should rest,” he muttered, chewing on his lip. “But she’s…she’s alright, is she not?”
“She’s fine,” Arys assured him. “She’ll be completely rested tomorrow morning, trust me. After sudden fear, the body has a way of fixing things. Sleep is the best way to do so, the draught Maester Luwin prepared is just making it faster.”
Robb nodded again, keeping his eyes on the door as if it would magically open to let him see his lady without disturbing her slumber.
“I would listen to me and not Silas on this if I were you.”
Robb’s head shot up. “How did you…?”
“I know my brother,” Arys said with a chuckle. “Don’t take anything he says today as a personal offense. It is now dawning on him that he’s going to leave her here after the wedding, and that he’s going to have to trust you with her.”
“He can.”
Arys offered him the same smile he had seen on Lord Greensted multiple times.
“He won’t,” he muttered as he went to sit beside him on the windowsill. “And it has nothing to do with you. He’s going to need more time than my sister to handle the fact that she will be away from the Reach. He doesn’t know how he’s going to go back home.”
“He can stay in Winterfell as long as he wants.” Robb shrugged his shoulders. “All of you can. Her family is my family now.”
“I appreciate that,” he replied. “But in any case, don’t let what he said haunt your mind.”
“It’s not what he said,” he admitted, making Arys hum.
“Then?”
Robb fell quiet for a moment before he forced himself to take a deep breath.
“What happens if she never forgives me?” He couldn’t help but ask. “She claimed she would never.”
“As southerners, not every word coming out of our mouths is an oath unlike you and your countrymen,” Arys told him. “We’re taught to yield our words as weapons. You’re a good warrior, you know better than anyone that not everyone who swings their swords is trying to kill another. Some simply use it to protect themselves.”
Robb brushed a hand over his face and rubbed his eyes, exhaustion creeping up on him.
“I know,” he muttered. “I just don’t like that I’m the source of her sadness. I’m supposed to be sheltering her from any distress as her husband, not impose such upon her.”
Arys raised his brows and shook his head.
“Don’t blame yourself on that either,” he said. “Nothing you can do, really. It’s the family curse, Cliff used to say.”
Robb tilted his head in confusion. “What?”
“You’ve seen our family,” Arys said. “We tend to stand out in one way or another. You’d think it’d make things easier, but seems to be the opposite. Alton evaded it with Elinor somehow, but Silas, and Cliff, and the twins, and my sister...In a vast sea of admirers, we’re drawn to the one who’ll torment us the most, purposefully or otherwise.”
Robb’s frown deepened and Arys shook his head as if trying to shake off the thoughts, then slapped a hand over Robb’s shoulder in an assuring manner and stood up.
“You should follow her example and get some rest,” he said, nodding in the direction of his lady’s bedchambers. “Congratulations on your victory, Stark. Let my sister sleep.”
Robb watched him make his way down the hallway and turn the corner in complete silence, his thoughts like a storm in his head. He exhaled and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, then turned his head when he saw Grey Wind enter the hallway. A small smile curled his lips despite his mood, and he reached out to scratch the direwolf behind his ears, earning a low rumble in return.
“Very well then,” he murmured. “Let’s go get some fresh air, hm? I don’t feel like attending dinner yet.”
Eventually, he would decide to forgo dinner altogether in order to avoid the crowd that was surely still going to be there in the morning for breakfast as well. He could barely sleep that night, only falling into slumber towards the dawn, his dreams restless as if he knew what tomorrow morning would bring.
Summer snow.
All the southerners in the castle seemed rather excited to see it. The hallways were buzzing with chatter, but all Robb could think about was how his lady wasn’t going to like it if it snowed tomorrow during their wedding as well. He couldn’t help but wonder whether that old saying was correct after all, seeing that at least the start of their marriage was going to be cold as winter itself if he didn’t explain himself and made his lady understand why he could not have withdrawn.
He went to her bedchambers first thing in the morning, but her maid informed him she had left, so he made his way into the Great Hall with Grey Wind, his eyes darting around to catch a sight of his lady, yet she was nowhere to be found. As if it wasn’t enough, his presence seemed to have gathered attention, judging by many of the northern lords congratulating him for the duel, some slapping his back and some squeezing his shoulder as they walked past.
“You and I both know you’re not genuine, and so does she—” He heard Lady Jorelle chastise her mother who shushed her as he walked past, but he was in too much of a hurry to stop and greet them. He approached the twins who were in a deep conversation with Theon by the corner, and Braxton nodded at him as Perceon turned around to see him better.
“Good morrow.”
“Good morrow,” Robb said. “Is my lady around?”
“She was here half an hour ago,” Theon said. “She just left.”
“Where?”
“She said she would go to the Godswood to enjoy the snow,” Perceon said and Braxton nodded.
“Alone,” he added. “She wants to enjoy it alone, she said.”
Robb looked over his shoulder in the direction of the entrance, then nodded and took a step but Braxton stopped him.
“Robb, that’s not a good idea.”
“What?”
“You don’t want to talk to her right now,” Perceon said. “Listen, I get that you’re this great warrior, but even a Targaryen on a dragon wouldn’t be able to handle my sister when she’s truly angry. Let her anger simmer down.”
“We’re to be wed tomorrow evening,” Robb reminded him. “I need to talk to her beforehand, if I explain—”
“She’s not going to listen to your explanation,” Braxton said. “She’s not going to listen to anyone. Let her calm down, then try to talk to her, you’ll still have the time until tomorrow evening.”
Robb shook his head.
“I’m not waiting any longer,” he said and strode away from them with Grey Wind padding along beside him. He ignored the lords and ladies on the way that bowed or greeted him as he went down the stairs, then stepped outside to the yard. He crossed it and passed the gates that led to the Godswood, Grey Wind picking up the pace as if he was too excited to stall.
He found her sitting on a fur cloak under the weirwood tree, her knees drawn to her chest, her back resting against the trunk of the tree. It was almost funny, how the mere sight of her was enough to make him stop dead in his tracks, his heart galloping in his chest without her even realizing he was there. She was watching the snowflakes fall from the sky, the wide branches and the blood-red leaves of the weirwood tree almost sheltering her, but the rest of the Godswood was already covered in a thin layer of snow, bound to melt away at the first rays of sunlight.
Was he ever going to get used to the sight of her? Or was he going to lose the air in his lungs every time he cast his gaze on her?
Grey Wind made his way to her, seemingly pulling her away from her own thoughts as she cooed at him, reaching out to give him head scratches. The direwolf rumbled deep, plopping down in front of her so that she could pet him better, and Robb tried to ignore the tension churning his stomach.
“My lady.”
The only clue to how she felt about his presence was the momentary clench of her jaw, yet she sounded calm when she spoke.
Almost too calm.
“Is my presence wanted in the Great Hall?”
He shook his head, now daring to enter her sight though she didn’t lift her head to look up at him, instead kept petting the direwolf.
“No,” Robb said after a beat. “Unless of course you want to go back.”
“I do not,” she said. “I decided to enjoy the scenery.”
He licked his lips. “I thought it would bother you.”
“The weather?”
“The snow,” he corrected her. “Because of that oldwives tale. I doubt it’ll still snow tomorrow, but—”
The rest of whatever he was going to say got lost somewhere between his mind and his mouth when she lifted her head to give him a glare sharper than any sword. She eyed him up and down as if she didn’t just pin him to his spot without uttering a word, then shrugged her shoulders.
“I don’t need a sign from the gods to understand what kind of marriage we will have,” she deadpanned. “You’ve demonstrated it perfectly yesterday.”
His stomach sank.
“My lady.” He took a step towards her. “About yesterday…”
She heaved an exhausted sigh and pushed herself to her feet, dusting off the skirt of her gown.
“I require no explanations.”
“I’d like to give them anyway,” Robb insisted as Grey Wind left them there to go deeper into the woods, no doubt to find the rest of his siblings. “I know that you’ve been cross with me, I know this duel did not help, but I assure you, I was never in danger. You had no reason to—”
“Worry?” She finished his sentence for him. “How strange, that’s what everyone kept telling me back in the Great Hall before I excused myself. Singing your praises, telling me I had nothing to worry about. Lady Cerwyn even dared tell me there was no reason to cry.”
“There wasn’t.”
“Just like there was no reason to fall for childish provocations?”
Robb’s head shot up, his jaw clenching at the remark.
“That was no childish provocation.”
“It was,” she said, “and you entertained it.”
“What did you expect me to do?” he asked tersely. “Not accept it?”
She threw her hands up. “Yes!”
“I had to.”
“Why?”
“Honor demands—”
“Who cares?!” she exclaimed. “Nobody cares about that—”
“Maybe not in the south where they lack it.”
…That was the wrong thing to say.
It took Robb less than a second to realize that was the wrong thing to say.
She stared at him in complete silence for a heartbeat before a burst of laughter left her lips, making her lower her head, covering her mouth. If it were any other time, the sight of her shoulders shaking with laughter could’ve been a good sign, but for some reason, Robb had a feeling this was a way, way worse than her glare. She stayed like that for a couple of seconds, then lowered her hand and looked up at him, a menacing smile pulling at her lips.
“I only meant—”
“You’re right,” she cut him off, putting her hands on her hips. “You’re absolutely right. Honor means everything in the north and nothing in the south. You seem to have enough of it for the both of us anyway, so it should be of no issue if I started breaking promises. If anything it’s expected of me, so would you like to be the one to tell Jorelle Cerwyn I withdraw my offer, or should that responsibility fall upon me?”
Well, that was completely irrelevant to this conversation.
He strained his mind to understand how this had anything to do with the reason why she was angry at him, but came up empty.
“Because I think you should do it,” she spat. “While you’re at it, tell her neither her nor her family will ever step foot in Winterfell while I live here. And don’t you ever give me a speech about honor, when you hold no regard for anyone else’s but your own.”
Robb rushed to follow her when she moved away from him. “My lady, I didn’t mean to offend you—”
“Yet you’ve done nothing but!” Her voice rose as she whirled around on her heels. “Ever since I arrived here! So allow me to return the favor; if you wish to bed your mistress so much, you’ll have to go to her cute little castle. I’m told it’s near here, should be easy enough.”
He gawked at her. “…What mistress?”
“Or if that’s too much of an inconvenience for you, go back in there and tell your family we’re breaking the betrothal,” she snapped, making his heart drop. “The whole north would rejoice, and you could go tumble in the snow with her. I’ll be all the way down in the south, and never even think about you ever again.” She pointed back at the castle. “Off you go!”
A silence fell upon them while he tried to wrap his mind around what she had just said.
“You—” He paused, disbelief numbing his mind so badly that he had to force himself to ask: “You think I have a mistress?”
“What game are you playing at?” she asked back, disdain etched on her beautiful face, a couple of snowflakes falling upon her lashes. “There’s no one else here.”
She was jesting. She had to be jesting.
There was no way she believed he could so much as look at another woman let alone take a mistress when she occupied every corner of his heart and his mind. A chuckle escaped him despite his attempt to control himself, but that seemed to awaken a new wave of anger in her.
“You know what?” she said, her voice trembling with fury. “Forget it. I’ll go back to the Great Hall and announce that I will never, ever wed you!”
When he was a mere boy, there was that one time he had heard his mother angrily insisting his father would send Jon away. The idea had scared him so badly that he had stopped in the hallway to listen, and soon enough his father had left his mother’s bedchambers with anger etched on his face. After taking him to his solar to assure him Jon would be going nowhere, Robb had asked his father why he had walked out of those bedchambers looking that angry if Jon was to stay anyway, and his father had heaved a sigh.
“Robb,” he had said. “You’re nearly a man grown. And as the heir to House Stark, it is your duty to make our house proud and set an example. As a Stark and as a man, no matter if it’s your mother, or your sisters, your future lady wife, or any woman you see on the street, you will never be the source of fear for any woman. On the contrary, you will protect them from any man who may impose fear on them. Do you hear me?”
Robb had nodded fervently.
“And,” his father had added, “if you ever find yourself in any kind of argument with a woman, you will never, ever raise your voice or advance upon her. No matter what she says. The only time you move, you walk in the opposite direction. Do you understand me?”
In his defense, he was going to walk in the opposite direction, but with his lady.
He grabbed her hand before she could walk away from him, making her let out a squeal before he pulled her towards the weirwood tree.
“How dare you?” Her voice went high-pitched while she tried to yank her hand back. “Let go of me this instant, or else—”
He stopped in front of the tree and turned to her, letting go of her hand.
“Ask me.”
“What?” She narrowed her eyes, still breathing hard. “What are you talking about?”
“We’re standing in front of the weirwood tree,” he stated. “I cannot lie here. It’s clear you don’t take my words as they are even if I told you to, so ask me whatever you want.”
“You think I won’t?” she taunted him. “Go on. Say it in front of your gods that your mistress—”
“I don’t have a mistress,” he cut her off. “I swear it by my gods and yours.”
“Not yet perhaps, but you plan to take Lady Jorelle as your mistress.”
“No!” Robb said with a huff of indignation. “I do not, and I will not. Do you believe me to be that low?”
“You said—”
“I’ve never said I’d have a mistress,” he insisted. “I told you I would never dishonor you or our marital vows. What part of that suggests I’d do such a thing?”
She pulled back slightly, stealing a glance at the weirwood tree as if she wanted to make sure it was indeed the right tree before turning to him.
“Then what?” she demanded. “You’ll love her from afar and yearn for her your whole life while wed to me?”
He knew he had to set this right and make her stop believing whatever folly she seemed to believe, but seven hells, it took everything in him not to grab her by the shoulders and kiss her senseless.
“No!” he exclaimed. “Of course not, why would you think that?”
“You said I should put her in my ladies-in-waiting—”
His hands shot up so that he could run them through his hair in an attempt to control himself. “You asked for my help!”
“You said you had an arrangement not so different than the southern court!”
Robb dropped his hands, trying to find the right words through disbelief.
“Her family,” he started slowly, as if that could make her understand it better, “has been loyal to mine for generations. There were talks of a betrothal between us, like I’ve told you. I figured it would be a good idea to include her in your ladies-in-waiting as a way of honoring her family and their loyalty, so that they wouldn’t feel spurned. Is that not the same as the southern court? Keeping loyal families close to reward them and keep the alliances going?”
“But you disappeared with her just the other night! You followed her outside and left me in the Great Hall, and—”
“Jon said everyone talked to her family and not her,” he said. “So I wanted to talk to her to make sure she wasn’t heartbroken, and she wasn’t. That whole conversation took less than five minutes, then my father pulled me into a meeting with Lord Bolton as I’ve told you—do you not hear anything that comes out of my mouth, or do you simply refuse to believe it?”
She gawked at him with wide eyes before she averted her gaze, her brows furrowed in deep thought as if she was trying to find more proof of his infidelity.
“So then, you—” she said after a torturous minute and cleared her throat, sticking her nose in the air. “Am I to understand you don’t have affections for her or anyone else?”
The look he gave her was nearly chastising.
“Or anyone else?” he repeated and she shrugged her shoulders, still pouting.
“You said to ask.” She pointed at the weirwood tree. “You cannot lie.”
“I would not,” he said, his heartbeat speeding up. “I do not. My lady, I…”
Gods, now he knew what his father meant when he used to say he was more intimidated by his mother than by the war. A fire spread over his face and ears despite the cool wind shuffling the leaves above them, his stomach doing flip after flip as if his lady held a sword to his throat instead of just standing there, looking up at him.
He could’ve laughed at the absurdity of her having to hear what he felt if he wasn’t so tense all of a sudden, how did she not know?
The whole castle knew. The whole North knew by now.
But perhaps that was the reason. Perhaps he hadn’t been open enough in southern standards, with their flowery language and court banter.
“I wasn’t raised to embellish my words.” He tried to ignore the tightness in his chest, clasping his hands behind him. “Nor write ballads or poetry.”
“I require neither,” she was quick to say. “I’ve grown tired of them long ago. I don’t crave flattery, but honesty.”
“Then trust my honesty when I say you’ve never had to worry about any mistresses,” he told her. “I’ll be loyal to you until my last breath.”
“Because honor and duty demands it?” she asked, making him swallow thickly before he shook his head.
“Because my heart is at your command,” he rasped out, barely able to hear his own voice from the blood rushing in his ears. “For you to decide its fate. Beyond honor or duty. I yield and welcome the defeat if it’s by your love.”
Silence clung to snow as it descended upon the Godswood.
He couldn’t look away even if he wanted to, he realized, not even if his own gods willed him to, not when she held his gaze captive. She stared at him in complete disbelief before realization dawned on her beautiful face, and she let out a breath as if a terrible weight had been lifted off her shoulders. Despite the tears still sparkling in her eyes a soft smile curled her lips, sending hope through his veins faster than lightning in a storm.
“Your heart’s fate is forever twined with my own I’m afraid,” she told him, stealing the air from his lungs. “Yours is at my command, mine is at your mercy. It’s no defeat, I’ve found, though it may appear such when one is not used to the idea of truce. But I’m yours and you’re mine, where’s the defeat in that?”
…She loved him back.
By the Gods, she loved him back.
Any hope of finding the right words deserted him, his ears muffled with the blood rushing in them, excitement almost too much to bear. He lifted his hand to wipe the remnant of tears before cupping her cheek, her eyes fluttering close, her skin almost icy under his warm palm. He pulled her closer in an instant, wrapping an arm around her waist to shield her from the cold wind blowing through the woods before he traced her cheekbone with his thumb, his heart still slamming against his ribcage hard enough to hurt. A giggle escaped her when he playfully ran the tip of his nose over hers, the pleasant sound warming his insides like liquid fire.
He was nearly in a daze when he spoke: “Where have you been all this time?”
Her face lit up with a happy smile, her gaze slipping down to his lips before it snapped up to his eyes again while she traced the direwolf clasps holding his cloak together as if she was too delighted to keep still. Her sweet scent was all around him when he leaned in, flooding his senses, pulling him deeper under her spell and making him lightheaded as it settled in his lungs to make them its rightful home.
“Down in the south,” she breathed out softly. “Waiting for you.”
summary After bonding over a shared love of horror films, you and Josh slip into something far stranger — a game of fear, control, and desire that blurs lines. Josh always believed horror and sex were two sides of the same coin — and with you, he finally gets to prove it.
wc 10k words
warnings explicit (MDNI!), PIV, masturbation (f. receiving + observed), oral (m. receiving), fingering (f. receiving), mask kink (wearing while bj!), dub-con elements, some non-con touching, psychological manipulation, soft coercion, fear-as-foreplay, voyeurism, praise kink, sub/dom dynamics (blurry), shame, slight obsession, situationship kinda vibe/hooking up - no aftercare
pairing josh washintgon x fem!reader (+ mentions of rest of until dawn gang)
You caught him staring before he ever said a word.
His eyes – dark, intent, half-lidded beneath the dim theatre glow – lingered on your face with a lazy, unashamed curiosity. When you finally glanced back at him, his mouth twitched into a smirk before he flicked his gaze to the screen, sinking lower in his seat like your gaze had scalded him.
But he kept looking. You felt his eyes drifting back during quiet scenes, heavy and hot on the back of your neck.
“Dude, just say hi, be cool,” Chris whispered urgently beside him.
“You’re one to talk. You still haven’t asked Ashley out,” Josh hissed back.
“Oh, that’s bull, dude. When was the last time you got laid?”
“I get laid plenty,” Josh lied smoothly. “Shut up – she’s about to gut him.”
Just as the final girl plunged the knife into the killer’s chest, you turned around sharply.
“Can you two please be quiet?” you snapped, your whisper edged with irritation.
They froze. In the flickering light, you could only half-make out their faces: the blond kid with glasses, slack-jawed in apology. Beside him, Josh slouched deeper into his seat, legs sprawled wide, staring up at you with a smirk curling lazily at his lips.
“Sorry about that,” the blond boy blurted, flushing scarlet.
Josh didn’t say anything at first. Just kept staring, eyes raking over your face, your parted lips, the quick rise and fall of your chest. Finally, he shrugged, voice casual.
“Yeah, sorry. Didn’t mean to interrupt your… immersive cinematic experience,” he said, his tone dripping with sardonic amusement.
You narrowed your eyes. A beat goes by before you find yourself asking, “Have you seen this before?”
His grin widened, showing teeth. “Yeah. Who hasn’t? Classic slasher structure. Hooper’s pacing is dogshit, though,” he said, scratching idly at his jaw. “But… y’know… final girl’s hot as fuck. I’d pay to see her gut him again.”
“Dude,” Chris muttered beside him, elbowing him hard.
“What?” Josh scoffed, still staring at you. “She knows what I mean. Women ‘n all… you get it, right? Like… lighting, framing… hot girls with knives. It’s, like, feminist or whatever.”
You let out a short, incredulous laugh despite yourself. “Sure. Real feminist masterpiece, with all the gratuitous tit shots.”
He didn’t flinch at your sarcasm. Just kept smiling, gaze roving over you like he was cataloguing each curve, each twitch, filing them away for later.
“I'm Josh,” he introduced.
You scoffed softly at that, hesitating before giving your name in return. He repeated it back to you, tasting it carefully, as if he was already imagining how it would sound gasped against his mouth.
“Real nice meeting you. See you around,” you said, gathering your bag.
“See you,” Chris muttered, clearly mortified by his friend.
Josh watched you leave, biting back a grin when you glanced over your shoulder at him one last time.
Chris exhaled as the credits rolled. “‘Women ‘n all’? Real smooth.”
Josh ignored him. His mind was already elsewhere.
Josh spent most of his childhood in the back row of private screening rooms – the kind lined with dark wood panelling and silent carpet that swallowed every footstep. He’d sit for hours watching rough cuts projected onto a screen three times his height, flickering under the low hum of the ancient projector.
His father always sat two rows down with directors and writers, notebooks balanced on their knees, murmuring to each other between mouthfuls of stale theatre coffee.
“Needs more blood here.”
“Bring out the eroticism. Right now it’s too sterile.”
“Her fear feels fake. We need the real thing.”
Josh would rest his chin on his knees and watch actresses scream, mascara smudged down porcelain cheeks. Watch latex wounds split open to reveal carefully layered gore, painted and sculpted by hands steadier than his own ever were.
He’d listen to the conversation drifting back to him – talk of framing, of lighting for skin, of the optimal colour grade for arterial spray.
Nobody ever called it beautiful. But to him, that’s exactly what it was.
He learned early that horror was an art of contradiction.
You show people what they fear most, but you frame it so perfectly they can’t look away. It was the only genre honest enough to admit that people wanted to see the worst parts of themselves. Wanted to watch a body torn apart under warm tungsten light, blood blooming across linoleum in shades so vivid it almost felt holy.
Sometimes he wondered if his father noticed him there at all.
The men would talk over him, discussing how to make a woman scream just right. How far you could push an audience before they flinched. How many seconds of nudity before the MPAA threatened a rating bump. How many seconds you could leave her dying on-screen before the audience lost sympathy.
“It’s always a balancing act,” his father once said absently to a director. “Fear and desire. You give them too much fear, they’ll look away. Too much desire, they’ll feel ashamed. Just enough of both, and you own them.”
Josh never forgot that. He thought about it every time he picked up his dad’s old camera.
Every time he watched his mother slip silently out of the theatre before the screaming started. Every time he saw a girl’s eyes go wide in a movie and felt something bloom tight in his chest. Every time he fucked, hoping to see that same cocktail of shock, fear, and trembling want.
He went to every horror screening that week, hoping you’d show. Maybe it was pathetic. But then again, he was used to feeling pathetic.
When he saw you at the popcorn machine before Dawn of the Dead, his chest clenched painfully with something like relief.
You were struggling with a jammed tray when he sidled up behind you, close enough for his chest to brush your back.
“I think it’s broken.”
You barely glanced at him until you recognised his voice. “Oh- Oh! It’s you.”
He chuckled softly under his breath, licking his lips as his eyes flicked down your back, lingering at the curve of your ass before darting back up.
“Josh, right?” you said.
“You can call me whatever you want, sweetheart,” he replied, his voice dropping lower, testing your reaction.
You rolled your eyes, a reluctant smile tugging at your lips. “That’s cute. You just come out of a showing of 1981’s Dracula or something?”
“No, no… here for Romero,” he said, jerking his chin at the screen listing. “You?”
“Same. I’ll take any chance to watch something in 35mm.”
He smirked. “I like 60mm better.”
You sipped your Slurpee, not missing how his eyes flicked to your lips around the straw. A moment goes by as you think about what to say next. “You know, I’ve got basically all of Romero on blu-ray.” You tell.
“No kidding,” he hummed. “I collect DVDs too. My friends call me weird for it. ‘Why bother when you have streaming?’ 'n all that.”
“Same here. I just like the idea of physically holding it and–”
“–actually owning it,” he finished for you, voice quiet and reverent. “Well, uh, I watch them with a projector in my room. If you ever wanted… I could probably show you any movie you like.”
You smiled at that, amused by his audacity. “Is that right? This your line, then? You wanna show me your little Criterion collection?”
He grinned. “Is it working?”
You shrugged. “Depends. If you help me get my popcorn, I’ll give the thought a chance longer than five seconds.”
He nodded. “Well, that thing’s broken. But, coincidentally, I have a large popcorn that two people could share. And I am here all alone, and you seem to be as well.”
“...Seriously?”
“What? You don’t like the m&ms I mixed up with it?”
You sighed, then nodded. “Fine. We share.”
You didn’t exactly know why you entertained Josh.
You didn’t know why you accepted his offer to go to the diner after the movie – him insisting on paying, waving off your wallet with an obnoxious little flourish. You didn’t know why you let him put his number in your phone, his thumb lingering just a little too long against yours as he handed it back.
You didn’t know why you texted him the next day.
Or why you kept texting him after that. Or why, weeks later, you still found yourself slipping out on quiet evenings to sit beside him in darkened theatres, half-listening to his muttered commentary as you watched girls scream on screen.
But you did know he was… odd.
And you didn’t mind that.
In truth, you’d always found yourself orbiting towards oddness – people and things with jagged edges, with a darkness tucked somewhere quiet behind their eyes. For a long time, you kept whatever interest you had in horror mostly to yourself. Your friends tolerated it politely, the way one might tolerate a friend’s sudden enthusiasm for botany or stamp collecting. They didn’t get it. Not really.
Your exes had tried, in their own half-hearted ways. One had watched The Descent with you, then spent a week unable to sleep without a lamp on. Another had lasted twenty minutes into the original Suspiria before leaving the room in disgust, telling you there was “something seriously fucked up” about liking films like that.
So Josh, in that sense, was… convenient. Comforting, almost. Because he out-weirded you.
He out-weirded everyone.
When he spoke about horror, his voice lost its performative cockiness. He became precise, almost reverent, flicking through references to Savini, Hooper, Carpenter, Argento, Fulci with an encyclopaedic devotion.
It wasn’t performative film-bro theory; it was something deeper, older, messier. The way priests must have once spoken about their saints. He knew each death scene the way religious scholars know lines of scripture.
He told you about his family, how his dad won awards, wanting to follow in his footsteps. You watched some of his dad’s movies. They were cool, proper gory, classic style horrors. They looked full of life despite being filled with death.
And when Josh spoke about fear, about violence, about women screaming on screen, there was a frankness to it. No apologetic deflection. No moral caveats. Just honesty. And you realised, perhaps with relief, that it was the first time you’d met someone who didn’t try to sanitise horror to make it palatable for conversation.
You liked dancing around how badly he wanted you — though some nights, you couldn’t quite tell how. Sometimes he looked at you like a muse, ready to cast you as his perfect final girl. Other times, like a director, hungry for direction, a fish hook in hand and bodies waiting to be slashed.
It was unsettling, and you knew he liked that. And you wouldn’t entertain this the way you did if you knew you didn’t either.
A low-budget slasher is playing on the big outdoor screen. Half the cars are steamed up already. Someone honks too long. Somewhere, popcorn spills. You're parked up near the back, windows down. The air smells like grass and gasoline. The film flickers over both your faces, cutting you into shadow and light.
You’re half-curled in the passenger seat, feet on the dash, licking at a red lollipop you didn’t even want, just something to do. Josh is behind the wheel, hand half-in a bag of sour gummy worms, not really eating them.
Onscreen, a girl screams. Not a good scream. The bad kind — too shrill, too fake.
You say, without looking at him, “Does this turn you on?”
He laughs — short and low. You smile a bit at his lack of response, also amused that you actually had the balls to ask him.
“No judgement. Just… we watch so many of these. You always have a look in your eye,” You elaborate, and then repeat. “Is this what gets you off?”
He doesn’t seem at all hurt or upset by the question, actually, he seems rather spurred on, now facing you. “What, the scream?”
You glance over. “The whole thing. Knife, tits, punishment,” You fake your own final girl scream, weak and flailing, mocking. “Ahhh.”
Josh makes a face like he’s pretending to think. “I mean. She’s hot.”
“...But?”
He shrugs. “Yeah, sure, the screaming's hot, tits are nice ‘n all, but… you know, i-it’s more about build-up. You know. Power, threat, tension. Fear pulling everything taut.” He reaches over, snaps the lollipop out of your mouth and bites it himself without asking. “It’s not about the blood and sit. It’s… It’s really about what might happen just before it does.”
You let him take it. He acted on impulse. With you, it felt easy, like you’d let him do anything to you. Maybe you would. So you something maybe a little dumb. “So like sex.”
Josh chews. Slowly. “Exactly like sex. Sex and horror are the same thing, don’t you think?”
You furrow your brows and shrug. “Explain.”
He sighs, thinking for a moment. “Well.. It... You know that moment right before you cum—when everything in your body tightens, like you’re on the edge of something huge and terrifying and perfect, and it’s like, for a total split second you don’t even know if it’s going to feel good or if it’s going to break you?”
You blink at him. Slowly. The flickering light from the screen dances across his jaw. He looks serious now, not like he’s trying to be gross or edgy. Just honest. He masterfully is all three.
“That,” he says, finally. “That’s the same feeling as when someone’s walking down a dark hallway in these movies, and the music’s all tense, and you know something’s about to jump out, but you don’t know from where. That second before the knife. Before the scream. Before release.”
He turns back to the screen, voice lower now. “That’s horror. It’s the whole game. It’s not the knife, it’s not the scream. It’s the breath riiiight before the scream. It’s possibility. The not-knowing. Something’s coming, and your body feels it before your mind can even begin to catch up.”
You blink. The screen lights his profile — cheekbone sharp, jaw clenched — and for a moment he doesn’t look like Josh. He looks like the thing in the dark.
“Horror and sex are the same because they strip you down to nerve endings,” he says. “Both of them are-are looking for the exact same response, right? Make you… you know, hyper-aware of your body. Make you wait. Anticipate. It's all control and surrender. Tension and release.”
You swallow. Loud in your own ears. He’s still talking, quiet but certain.
“One wants to fuck you. The other wants to kill you. But both want you on your back, wide-eyed, whimpering."
There’s a long beat. The girl onscreen starts crying now, barefoot and blood-slick, running through a fog-machine forest. You glance at Josh, just once. He’s watching you again.
You say, almost too quiet, “So… do you want to fuck me or kill me?”
He doesn’t blink. “Same thing, isn’t it?”
And when the scream hits, sharp and desperate, it almost sounds like laughter. Maybe that’s just you.
Something shifted that night. Subtle, but permanent—like a hairline crack in glass that you can’t unsee once it’s there. You couldn’t help it. It felt good being seen the way he saw you. Like you were the strongest and weakest thing in the world. A holy contradiction. A mirror he didn’t want to look into, but couldn’t stop staring at.
One night at a frat party neither of you really wanted to be at, Josh got drunk faster than expected.
Like, wasted — the kind of drunk where jokes slur into nonsense but everyone laughs anyway. You bumped into him near the kitchen, and he wouldn’t shut up, tossing out dumb puns and bad impressions that made you roll your eyes... but smile anyway.
His grin was too wide. A little wild. Like he was trying to convince himself that everything was fine.
“See this girl?” he said, slinging an arm around your shoulder in a sloppy side hug. “My movie woman, isn’t that right?”
You felt your face burn. His friends cheered like they were at a football game.
“Can’t believe you found someone who matches your horror movie freakshow,” Jess — blonde, glossy, already half-drunk — teased as she wrapped herself around her boyfriend Mike. “No offense, girl.”
“None taken,” you muttered, trying not to seem bothered.
“And she’s hot, right, Chris?” Josh added, grinning. “Hottest fucking face when she gets scared, I swear. You gotta see it.”
Chris stammered, clearly uncomfortable, throwing a quick glance toward the girl next to him — Ashley, you remembered. Mousey, quiet. Definitely not enjoying the show either.
You elbowed Josh lightly. “You smell like stale beer and regret,” you muttered, trying to laugh it off.
He laughed too — way too loud.
Later, you ditched your own friends to keep him steady. He’d tipped past the fun drunk stage and into the swaying, mumbly one. You guided him into a random upstairs bedroom so he could crash. The place reeked of weed, sweat, and years of spilled beer. You told him to stay put while you grabbed water.
He didn’t.
When you got back, the room was empty.
Panic tightened in your chest as you searched the house. You finally found him barefoot and shirtless on the roof, crouched beside the window frame like some half-lost ghost. He was staring out into the dark — the in-between spaces where streetlights didn’t reach.
“Josh?” you called.
No answer.
You waited. After a moment, he blinked — like your voice had just broken through a fog. Slowly, he turned to look at you, expression slack. “Sorry,” he murmured. “Was somewhere else.”
You didn’t ask where. You didn’t want to know.
But then his face changed. Subtle — like a shadow passing behind his eyes. The softness hardened. His pupils narrowed. His voice turned low, almost flat.
“You don’t belong here,” he said.
The words didn’t sound like his. They felt… wrong.
Then, as quickly as the mask had slipped on, it slid back off. He blinked again. Shook his head, like he was waking up. “Shit. I didn’t— I didn’t mean that. 'M sorry, my head just gets... loud.”
You nodded slowly. “I’m gonna go get Chris, alright?”
He didn’t stop you. But his eyes stayed locked on you as you walked away, and the weight of that gaze lingered the rest of the night — through shots with Sam, through fake laughter in the Uber, through brushing your teeth alone in the bathroom at 2:40 AM.
You weren’t sure if he wanted to kiss you or kill you.
You weren’t sure which option scared you more.
He looked at you like you might ruin him. Like he wanted you to. Like maybe that was the point.
You knew he was medicated. Knew he struggled to keep the thing in his head caged. Knew that some nights he was all teeth and nerves and couldn’t remember what he said in the morning.
But around you, he wasn’t calmer. He wasn’t safer. He was just… more.
And then—there was another night.
Too late for calls. 2:07 AM. Your phone lit up with his name.
You hesitated. Something clenched in your stomach. Then you answered.
Silence.
Then: “I’m outside.”
You peered through the window.
He was standing just beyond the porch light’s reach — arms crossed, body still, face unreadable in the half-dark. Pale. Like he’d been waiting a long time.
Your gut twisted. You texted your best friend Josh is here — just in case, before unlocking the door.
You stepped out slowly, the night cool against your skin. “Hey.”
He looked up like he hadn’t expected you to answer. His eyes were too sharp. Not drunk. Not high. Something else. Something fraying.
“You’re really giving me some It Follows vibes,” you said, trying to sound casual. “You good?”
He scratched at his jaw. “Yeah. Fine.”
You studied him. “How long have you been here?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
A pause.
“Can I come in?” He tried.
You crossed your arms, suddenly very aware of your thin pyjamas. “Does anyone else know you’re here?”
“No. Why does that matter?”
“Because it’s two in the morning, Josh.”
His eyes flashed — defensive, almost insulted. “What — do you think I’m gonna hurt you or something?”
“I don’t know what I think,” you said carefully. “We watch movies together. I like you. But this is a little... intense.”
He stared at you. His shoulders twitched. Then a smile curled across his face. Not warm. Not reassuring. “You scared?”
You didn’t answer.
“I like that,” he murmured. “I like seeing that in your face. That little edge. Makes me wanna see how far I could push it.”
You took a step back. He mirrored you. Close enough now to touch.
“This is like Nightcrawler,” he said suddenly. “You seen it?”
You shook your head.
“Good movie. You’d like it. We could watch it now.”
You blinked. “Josh… Why are you here?”
He looked down. Voice cracked, quieter. “I don’t wanna be alone.”
That cracked something in you.
“My parents are ghosts. My apartment’s freezing. My sisters aren’t picking up. I don’t know what else to do, okay? Can’t I just—fuckin’—hang out with a hot girl and watch a movie?”
Silence.
You swallowed. “One movie. I have work in the morning.”
You should’ve said no.
You should’ve told him to go.
But instead, you opened the door, made him tea, and sat on the opposite side of the couch while Jake Gyllenhaal played a sociopath on screen. You kept your feet tucked under you and your phone nearby.
Part of you was scared of what he’d do if you sent him away.
The other part was scared of how much you didn’t want to.
Josh was broken in ways that felt familiar. And he never made you feel strange for the rot you carried. The stuff that made your skin itch. The cruelty you sometimes imagined without guilt.
You could say things to him that would make someone else call a therapist. He’d just grin and go, “I totally get it.”
And maybe that’s what every girl wants.
You were curled up on his carpet, knees hugged to your chest, watching as he fiddled with the projector wires by the window. His apartment was dark, lit only by the pulsing blue of the paused DVD menu on the wall. Dust floated lazily through the light beams, and his silhouette shifted back and forth, muttering under his breath.
Here you were. Accepting that ridiculous line as he showed off his little Criterion Collection. It worked on you, that’s for sure.
“You sure it’s working?” you asked, sipping your drink. It was too strong, and you winced a little.
Josh glanced over his shoulder at you, hair falling into his eyes. “Yeah. Probably. Unless it fries and explodes, in which case… y’know. Free fireworks.”
You snorted softly, shaking your head. “Great. Love risking death for a midnight horror marathon.”
He turned back to the wires but shrugged, his tone casual. “It’d be a pretty cinematic way to go.”
“Mm. Very Final Destination,” you murmured, swirling the liquid in your cup.
There was a short silence as he plugged in the final cord. The projector whirred to life with a sudden mechanical clunk — a sound that felt too loud in the dark. You watched dust swirl in the blue static light, lazy and slow, like ash.
Josh crouched low by the cables, muttering. The shadows cut him up weird — all jaw and shoulder, all sharp edges where there shouldn't be. You sipped your drink. It was too strong. Bitter. Something sweet layered under rot.
“You sure it’s working?” you asked.
He glanced back at you, hair falling into his eyes. “Yeah. Probably. Unless it fries and explodes.”
You raised a brow. “Great. Love risking death for a midnight horror marathon.”
He didn’t laugh this time. Just smiled to himself. “It’d be a pretty cinematic way to go.”
The screen flickered, throwing up the DVD menu. The trailer loop started again, screaming in stutters. You stared at the blue glow until the title font burned behind your eyes.
He stood, slow. Drifted to the DVD shelf, one hand stuffed into his hoodie, the other trailing along the spines like they were bones. Humming under his breath. Calm. Too calm.
You got up and joined him.
“Martyrs, Inside, Audition…” you listed. “Jesus, are you trying to get me on a watchlist just for being in the same room as you?”
Josh didn’t look at you. He was focused on a case, thumb worrying a cracked corner. “What, you scared of subtitles?”
“I’m scared of you getting hard at Takashi Miike movies.”
He made a low sound — not quite a laugh. Then: “You think I don’t?”
Your mouth opened. Closed. You grabbed the nearest DVD just to do something with your hands.
“You know normal people have Pixar collections.”
He shrugged. “Normal people are liars.”
You held up Inside. The cover was scratched. Watched too many times. “You’ve got, like… a fetish for this shit.”
His eyes flicked to you, unreadable. “I like what’s honest.”
“Honest?” you echoed.
He took the case from your hand, fingers brushing yours, voice quiet. “Yeah. It’s not polished. It doesn’t clean up the mess. It says, ‘this is what people are.’”
You were going to make a joke. You were halfway to rolling your eyes. But something in his face stopped you. Not hunger — not exactly. Something quieter. More patient. Like he was waiting for a switch to flip.
“That's bleak,” you muttered.
He smiled at the floor. “People are bleak.”
Then he slid the DVD into the player, and everything felt colder.
The movie started. You sat on the bed. His bed. You pulled your knees up, sipped the drink again. It still tasted wrong.
Josh didn’t sit yet. He stood in front of the projector light, casting a huge, stuttering silhouette on the wall — head tilted, arms crossed. You watched the shadow of him twitch and blur. It looked like something crawling.
You said nothing.
He finally settled beside you, close enough that the heat from his body pressed softly against your arm, but not quite touching. The silence between you stretched, heavy and loud—more than the flicker of the brutal movie throwing jagged shadows around the room. No rhythm, no story, just relentless, raw impact.
“What’s your first movie gonna be like?” you asked, breaking the quiet, voice low.
He hummed, eyes on the screen for a moment before a slow smile pulled at his lips. “Maybe a comedy.”
You blinked, surprised. A short laugh escaped you. “Seriously? Mr. Hundreds-of-horror-movies, walls covered in blood and gore, dad a horror legend… and now comedy?”
Both of you had seen this film a few times. It wasn’t like you were particularly eager to rewatch it, so, may as well have a conversation.
He shrugged, a hint of something dangerous in his smirk. “Horror comedy. It’s easy to scare people. Hard to make ‘em laugh.”
“True,” you nodded, curious despite yourself.
“Like… teenagers at a summer camp. You know, the usual suspects—the jock, the clown, the whore. But the kicker—the whore’s the killer. Always been sharp, just hiding it.”
You hum and shake your head at that. It rang cliché for someone like Josh.
“You don’t like it?” He raises his brows. “Fine. Drop the comedy. What makes you scared?”
You shrug, thinking for a moment, shuffling through your own mental list of horror films that truly scared you. “I don’t know. Being trapped, unable to escape.”
“Right. Then… alright, horror movie, four people stuck underground with a mysterious being. Light barely on… voices make them go crazy, turn on each other,” He goes on. “And… as time goes on, one of them just… fuckin’ snaps. Loses it and kills one. Then… They eat each other to survive. Or they all fuck. Maybe both.”
You blink, surprised at how casually he drops that last bit. “Gross.”
“Oh come on. You’d watch it. I know you would, and—and you’d probably drag me to AMC at 11 at night for a surprise 50mm session,” He counters.
Beat. “35mm, I don’t care about 50m,” You correct.
“You’d watch it. And you’d love it. Probably be turned on by it too.”
You scoff. “Says you. Why do they have to eat each other?”
“Threesome underground horror fucking? I’d get that on blu ray.”
You roll your eyes but it doesn’t hold much weight as your lip twitches with a smile. “At least it’s not that cliché.” You pause, eyes flicking to the screen as a shriek rips through the speakers — another kill, raw and ragged. “You’re probably the guy who snaps.” You add, casually.
You’ve done this version of pitching movies a few times. Drive-ins, diners, car rides on the way back, all of that. Josh always had to have some sort of bad twist, no ending that was ever tied up nicely or resolved, there had to be a twist, and that usually came from a character snapping. It was just a pattern you’d noticed with him. He loved characters on the precipice.
He blinks, like the thought’s new. “What d’you mean?”
You shrug, heart thudding a little too fast. “I dunno. You always talk about breaking points. Like, when someone loses it, flips out. I wonder if you’re waiting for that too.”
He looks at you then, his face folding into something unreadable. The blue light flickers over his jawline, shadows stretching like claws. He doesn’t find a response, quiet settling between you both as the movie actually starts to get not horrifically bad.
You’re worried for a moment that you’ve offended him, but the thought leaves quickly when you remember who you’re thinking about.
The movie’s scream tore through the darkened room again—raw, jagged, desperate. It echoed in your chest, reverberating beneath the brittle silence that stretched between you. The flickering screen painted his face in shifting shadows, half-hidden, half-revealed, like some restless predator waiting in the dark.
He settled beside you at last, close enough that the heat of his body pressed faintly against your arm—soft, invasive. Not quite touching, but heavy with a charged promise that made your skin crawl and burn all at once. The silence around you wasn’t empty; it was thick with something unspoken, something waiting to snap.
Do you want to kill me, or fuck me?
The question still hung there, raw and unfinished, a razor sliding against your nerves. Neither answer fits. Neither felt enough.
His hand moved before you could react. Warm fingers slid onto your thigh with an effortless certainty—as if your body was already his territory, like the touch was inevitable. The slow, deliberate pressure beneath your skirt teased something feral beneath your skin.
You didn’t pull away. You couldn’t. The fire was already there, lacing through your veins, mixing with the cold edge of fear.
The brutal scene on screen faded to a distant blur. Your breath caught when his thumb grazed just below your skirt’s hem, slow and deliberate. Your heart thundered, erratic and wild, a sound louder than the movie’s screams.
By the time the fifth kill flashed across the screen—a wet, violent garrotting in a rusted tub—you turned your head, a shaky laugh slipping free, disbelief mixed with a thrill you couldn’t place. And then he was there, fast and sudden. His mouth crashed onto yours like a storm breaking through a fragile calm.
You froze. Shock flooded your senses. Eyes wide, breath caught.
The space between you shattered.
The film’s brutal soundtrack shrank into silence beneath the roar of your blood.
It wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t even hungry. It was sick. Like a need that had turned into something moldy and wet. Teeth dragged your lip raw, tongue insistent. His hand slid up to your throat — not hard. But enough.
You pull away from him, just caught off guard. He mutters a curse at that.
You glare at him, words weak on your tongue as you open your mouth and shut it. You reach for him again, shutting your eyes as you press your lips onto his again.
You arch into him, pulse hammering. You deepened the kiss, a light moan escaping you as his fingers curled their way around the nape of your neck, tugging you closer to him.
His other hand, still on your thigh, immediately rose up, pushing up the fabric. Something about this classic scenario felt so cliche. Watching a scary movie with the scary guy late at night. Maybe there was a killer after both of you now.
Shit, you’d probably both die if this was a horror movie.
Your brain is swirling with the possible kills that would happen to you. You’d obviously get to run first. Josh, maybe knife in the chest or something. You’d have to do a pretty scream, right before you’re hacked up and they cut to the title card, and then-
“Tell me to stop,” he mutters against your jaw, interrupting your thoughts.
You don’t.
Your lips are rough, skin pushing against each other, quick, hasty, impulsive as the movie is near forgotten.
“You like this,” he says. “You like thinking I might snap. Right?”
His fingers dig in a little harder. You gasp — not entirely in protest. The truth is, Josh very much could. You don’t know what it would look like. Him… snapping. Whatever that meant. Maybe he’d make news for trying to recreate a gory prank on his friends, or something stupid like that. Maybe he’d hide you away. Or chase you.
Maybe he already has snapped.
You didn’t mind as much as you probably should.
“Say it,” he demands.
You swallow hard. Whisper, trembling, “I like it. I like—fuck—how close you get.”
He shifts over you now, pushing you into his pillows, his weight heavy, the projector whirring and the movie on. You’re barely keeping up. Every touch walks a razor's edge between pleasure and panic, and you swear it’s all the same thing.
Josh moves like he owns you, like he earned this, like he’s waited long enough to take. And he talks — always talking — voice low in your ear, dark little promises.
“I could make you cry.”
“I could make you scream.”
“I bet no one’s ever really ruined you.”
You clench around nothing.
“You’re fucked,” you breathe.
“I know,” he says with a faint chuckle, grinning, eager. “So are you.”
And when he finally pushes inside you, it’s like a breaking point. Everything shatters — control, composure, maybe even reality. Your nails scratch his back hard enough to bleed. He groans like that’s what he wanted. Like he needs pain to feel good.
You lock eyes. And in the flicker of the movie screen — shadow, light, shadow — he looks feral. And beautiful.
You whisper, voice shuddering with admittance, “You scare me.”
He smiles, then kisses you again—like your fear only fuels him, making him even more alive, more turned on.
You kept hooking up after that.
It wasn’t sweet or tender. It was something else – messier, sharper. Like each of you were using the other to scratch an itch just out of reach. It was all about control and release with both of you. Giving, relinquishing, taking, experiencing.
You came back to his place after a late showing of Suspiria, still pulsing with the strange, electric violence of it. The remake, not the original—though he’d spent the entire car ride home dissecting the differences like it was a sacred text. You let him talk.
He was good when he got like that. Animated. Weirdly precise. His fingers twitching like he wanted to grab a camera himself.
“Jesus, the way she screamed,” he was saying as he unlocked the door, voice pitched low like he couldn’t let go of the high. “Not the usual horror shriek. Y'know? Real panic. Wet. And the lighting? That high-contrast hell-red bleeding down the stairwell? Argento’s legacy crawling up her spine like rot. That’s... that's cinema.”
The second you were inside, he kicked the door shut and turned to her. His mouth crashed into hers without warning—open, urgent, his teeth catching her lip. You gasped but didn’t pull away. Your back hit the wall with a soft thud, and he crowded into your space like a man possessed.
He tasted like soda and heat and something darker, and the way he kissed was hungry, like he was trying to eat the fear right out of your mouth. One hand tangled in your hair, the other gripped your hip through the denim, fingers bruising, locking you still.
“That scene,” he murmured between kisses, breath ragged, lips hot against your jaw. “When she’s tangled in the wire, and the camera just lingers, doesn’t cut away. Like your own goddamn skin’s tearing. She fucking howls. Shit’s primal. Fucking transcendent.”
His knee shoved between your thighs, prying your legs apart, and your breath caught hard in your throat. Your body answered before your brain did—hips rocking forward against the pressure, heart thudding a little too loud. You laughed, breathless.
“You good?” You find yourself asking with how animated he’s being.
“Yeah,” he said, almost too fast. “Yeah. I’m fine. I just—fuck—I need you.”
He spun you around and pushed you toward the kitchen counter, pressing against her from behind. His hands slid under your shirt, dragging it up roughly to expose the soft skin of your waist. You shivered.
“Tell me to stop,” he murmured, breath warm against your neck, his hands slipping beneath your bra cups, fingers eagerly circling one nipple. “C’mon…”
But you didn’t. You pressed back into him instead, her body pulsing with the residual thrill of the movie, with him, with the danger humming just beneath the surface. You felt the hardness of him through his jeans, grinding against your ass, his breath hitching as he pushed her harder into the counter.
“God, you’re so—” he started, but didn’t finish.
His mouth was too busy. Hot lips at your ear, then your neck, then biting down gently on your shoulder as his hand slipped past the waistband, down into the heat between your thighs, fingers finding you already warm and wanting. He groaned low in your ear, rocking his hips forward so you could feel the stiff line of him through his jeans, grinding slow and deliberate.
“God,” he muttered, breath hitching against your neck. “You’re so—fuck.”
His hand moved slow and deliberate between your legs, two fingers slick and relentless, while the other arm wrapped firm around your waist, locking you to him like you might disappear. His chest was flush against your back, the heat of him overwhelming, grounding. Each kiss he pressed to your shoulder or jaw came edged with teeth, more bite than comfort, more tension than sweetness.
You let yourself sink into him—into the weight, the want, the friction and static of everything coiled between you. His breath dragged rough through his nose. You could feel the restraint in his hold. Barely.
Then he whispered, voice low and scratchy, half-laughing, half-serious, his mouth brushing the shell of your ear: “Scream like her, yeah?”
Your stomach dropped in a twist of lust and unease—confusion and thrill braided together. You didn’t have time to question it before he shoved two fingers into you, fast and full, and his thumb was already there, circling your clit like he knew exactly how to unravel you.
“Shit—Josh,” you gasped, hips jerking.
“Come on, babe,” he said, voice strained, coaxing but desperate. “You can be real good for me, can’t you?”
Your hand scrambled behind you, grabbing at the back of his neck for balance, fingers curling in his hair as he groaned at the contact. You moaned again as he hit the right spot, that fluttering sweet ache blooming deep, hips instinctively grinding down against his hand.
“Good,” he rasped, his voice deeper now, guttural. “See? You’re so good for me. Fuck.”
You clenched around him at his words, his praise like gasoline on fire. He didn’t slow down. If anything, he shifted—thumb speeding up in tight, rhythmic circles, while his fingers pumped slower, thicker, pushing deep and curling up just enough to make your vision spark.
You were moving now, grinding against his palm like you needed it—chasing it, matching his rhythm. His mouth grazed your shoulder, teeth dragging over your skin as if marking you.
Your breath came fast, broken. You were already close.
“Right… right there. Fuck—Josh,” you moaned, his name the only thing you could hold onto.
He grunted into your skin, hips pressing hard into your ass like he couldn’t help himself. “You’re fuckin’ perfect,” he murmured, almost to himself. “I could keep you like this.”
Just as you were about to come, your moans high-pitched and frantic, he pulled his fingers out, making you swear in frustration. Wet fingers trailed briefly back to your breasts before landing at your mouth, pressing the taste onto your tongue. You grunted, caught off guard, but licked it off anyway, hearing him groan at that.
He pulled the rest of your jeans down, helping you shimmy them off along with your panties, tossing them aside.
He wasn’t any softer as he undid his belt quickly, sliding his jeans and boxers down just enough to free himself before shoving into you from behind. You clenched tightly around him, rough and raw.
After that first thrust, both of you moaned in unison—wild, desperate, and utterly consuming.
His hands grabbed your hips like iron, yanking you hard as he drove into you with brutal, unforgiving force. Every thrust was jagged, raw, as if he was fucking to mark you—claim you—without mercy. The heavy smack of skin against skin filled the room, pounding out a savage rhythm that matched the wild beat of your heart.
You moaned loudly, feeling his length through you, hard, hitting just the right angle. Your face angled towards his, and you felt his hand grab your jaw, forcing your lips to his for only a moment. You separated and arched your body onto the counter, cool against your skin, goosebumps along your waist, breath stuttering in gasps, your body burning, stretched wide with every deep, relentless thrust.
Heat pooled low and tight, snapping and coiling in your core, sharp and overwhelming. Overstimulation pricked at the edges, and it only made it more intense, more addictive.
You arched your back hard against him, hands scrabbling at the counter beneath you to keep steady. Your breath came ragged and raggeder, eyes squeezed shut as fire blazed through you.
Then with a guttural curse, he slammed into you harder, deeper—jerking you over the edge. Your climax ripped through you like a damn breaking, wild and loud, your voice shattering the silence with a desperate, ragged scream.
He held you tight through every tremor, chest pressed hard against your back, murmuring filthy praise that made your skin crawl and burn. "There she is. There she is, right? You're my... my favourite final girl." The weight of him was crushing and grounding all at once—terrifying, possessive—and you never wanted it to stop.
And the thought settled strangely between your ribs—something possessive, something worshipful, something a little too intense.
You didn’t really know what you were. Neither of you cared to label it. Labels were for people who wanted order, control, clarity—and whatever this was, it thrived in the messy, the undefined. You existed in a rhythm entirely your own, mostly existing after 8PM.
You didn’t bother explaining it to your friends. Eventually, they stopped asking. They got the memo when you’d casually say you were headed to Josh’s or that he was picking you up for a movie. There was an unspoken understanding. A glance. A smirk.
“Yeah, that’s code for getting dicked down by the movie freak,” one of them remarked once.
You’d just laughed, because really, what else could you say?
That was probably the most accurate way to put it. It wasn’t romantic, but it wasn’t nothing. It was sweat-slicked skin and late-night films and bruises blooming in secret places. It was feeling seen in the darkness of a theatre seat or under flickering TV light while some fucked-up horror scene played on. It was the safety of being ruined by someone who understood how badly you wanted to be.
You weren’t dating, but you knew how he liked his coffee. He wasn’t your boyfriend, but he knew what your silence meant when you lay beside him and didn’t speak. There were no pictures of you together, no texts that said “I miss you,” but there was gravity. A pull. Something that felt inevitable and too complicated to name.
And maybe that was enough. Maybe naming it would’ve broken it.
When he showed you his movie memorabilia collection, your eyes were drawn immediately to a mask he was working on. You took one look and couldn’t help but grin. “Put it on,” you challenged.
It was a grotesque thing—pale and cracked, with soulless, gummy eyes and teeth that looked like they’d been chewed on and spat out. It reminded you of a clown, or maybe a scarecrow gone wrong. It fucking freaked you out.
“You like it?” he murmured, voice low.
“It’s scary,” you said, folding your arms but still unable to tear your eyes away.
Without a word, he lifted the mask and slid it over his face. As he did, something in him shifted. His shoulders straightened, his posture changed—he seemed taller, broader, more imposing. You caught a glimpse of one iris through the cracked eyehole, but mostly it was the hollow gaze of the mask staring back at you.
He looked down at you, but you weren’t sure if it was really him looking or just the mask.
You bit back a small, nervous smile. Your heartbeat sped up, partly from the thrill of the mask’s unsettling presence, but partly from something else—the way he stood there, still and quiet, radiating a new kind of intensity.
“This is like… something out of The Strangers,” you offered, voice a little breathy. “Except in that movie, the killers actually talk. And in this one...” you trailed off, unable to finish.
He said nothing, but his silence stretched and thickened the space between you.
“Josh?” you tried again, stepping a little closer.
He was still wearing his usual clothes—dark blue flannel rolled up to his elbows, grey shirt beneath, dark denim jeans and worn Converse—but with that mask, he felt like someone else. Something darker. Something more dangerous.
Your fingers itched to reach out, to touch the cracked surface covering his face, to pull it off—or maybe, to let him keep it on. Your breath caught as the air between you shifted, charged and heavy.
You swallowed, meeting the hollow stare of the mask, and the way his body leaned subtly toward you, like a predator circling his prey.
“Josh, take it off,” You tried.
“Why? You said it scares you. C’mon, it’s fun now,” He said, voice a little muffled beneath the mask, but just as lilted and excited.
You just nodded, meek and breathless, as he moved closer, the air thickening between you. Your back bumped against the table of props, a cold, hard surface anchoring you in place. His forearms pressed down on either side, trapping you against it. His hands gripped the edge tightly, veins standing out as if holding himself back from snapping.
Your eyes traveled over him—over the rough flannel sleeves rolled up to his elbows, the faint scar on his wrist, down to the hard length pressing insistently beneath his jeans. Your breath caught, heat pooling low and sharp, a raw ache blooming behind your ribs.
He tilted his head slowly, like a wild animal appraising its prey—curious, possessive, predatory. The cracked mask hid most of his expression, but the glint of his dark iris through the shattered eyehole held you captive. It was a challenge and a promise all at once.
Without thinking, your fingers found his belt buckle, trembling as you undid it. The sound of the leather loosening filled the quiet room. The tension coiled tighter, wrapping around you both like a living thing.
His breath came ragged, shallow, almost strangled as your hand slid beneath the waistband of his jeans. Your skin tingled where it brushed his—the heat of his body radiating through the thin fabric. You wrapped your fingers around him, slick and warm, every twitch sending jolts of fire through you—sharp, insistent, impossible to ignore.
Your gaze locked onto his through the broken mask. The hollow stare was mesmerising, unsettling. That cracked face, still and unreadable, gave his dark eyes an unnatural intensity—like a beast trapped behind broken glass. The mask wasn’t just a prop anymore. It was part of him, and it made everything feel dangerous and thrilling.
You sank to your knees, slow and deliberate. Your fingers eased the waistband lower, peeling the jeans down to expose the tense, trembling flesh beneath. The sudden coolness of the air hit him and made him shiver against your mouth.
Your tongue flicked out, tasting the salt and heat clinging there. The taste was sharp, almost metallic, and you savoured it—the scent of sweat, the rough edge of him. His breath hitched sharply, body stiffening under your touch.
His hands tangled in your hair in an instant, pulling gently but with ownership. His grip was firm, possessive, as his breath grew hot and ragged against your skin. The mask remained in place—an eerie, cracked barrier between you—but his eyes burned with something darker, sharper, more demanding than before.
You took him deeper, slow and deliberate, lips and tongue tracing every inch with care. You savoured each sharp intake of breath, the low growls vibrating through his throat. Your fingers curled around the base, steady and sure, matching the rhythm of your mouth to the rising pulse beneath your touch.
His hips jerked involuntarily, subtle but urgent. His voice cracked out in rough curses and desperate murmurs, raw with need. “Fuck… yeah, just like that.”
You didn’t rush. You held the moment like a taut wire about to snap, letting the tension coil tighter—an electric thread humming between you. The room was heavy with the scent of sweat and something raw, feral, almost primal.
His grip in your hair tightened, nails pressing lightly, dragging you closer as his body trembled, trembling with mounting need. The heat rose between you—wild, desperate, crackling in the silence between ragged breaths and muffled groans.
Your free hand slid down your own skin beneath your skirt, raising the material subtly, fingers brushing your bare hip before moving lower, teasing yourself through the thin material of your panties. The slick warmth beneath your touch mirrored the growing fire between you and him, a secret shared in the shadows.
With a guttural curse, his body tensed sharply, shuddering through a slow, deep release. The pulse of him spilling hot and thick in your mouth sent a thrill tearing through you, raw and jagged.
You kept your movements steady, swallowing everything, lips and hands steady as you rode out the tremors of his climax.
When his body finally stilled, breath uneven, eyes heavy with fierce, chaotic relief, you pulled back just enough to meet his gaze. The wild hunger was still there, lurking behind the mask, but beneath it flickered something raw, unguarded—something almost fragile.
He watched you carefully through the cracked eyeholes, the mask giving him a power he didn’t have before. The way you looked at him—half scared, half wanting—ignited a dark fire inside him. The mask wasn’t just a piece of cloth or plastic; it was control, it was fear, it was raw, unfiltered power. And you, trembling there before him, were his perfect final girl.
When he caught sight of your hand slipping beneath your skirt, moving quietly, he let out a low, guttural growl that vibrated through the mask.
“You’re touching yourself, fuckin' hell,” he said, voice thick and rough, each word a command. His hand shot out, firm but not cruel, catching your wrist to steady it. “Don’t stop. Finish. For me.”
You stayed on the floor, in your skirt, the weight of his presence pressing down on you like a storm. The dim light caught the sharp angles of the mask, making him look monstrous, godlike—untouchable. You obeyed, knees hard on the wooden floors, eyes wide, a mix of fear and thrill beneath your gaze as you watched him watch you, unfamiliar with the figure in front of you as you touched yourself.
“Good, see?” he breathed, voice dark with satisfaction, almost hungry. “You’re just so good for me. Nobody else like you, you know?”
His gaze burned into you through the hollow eye sockets, unblinking and intense. You felt like you were being stripped bare beneath that stare—every secret craving, every fear, every wild, desperate want exposed and owned by him. He stared as your fingers moved over your core, panties moved to the side, giving him full exposure.
You moved slowly, trembling, fingers pressing deeper, chasing the coil tightening inside you, every slick motion punctuated by the weight of his eyes on you.
“Hey- Look at me, okay?” he growled, voice low but sharp as a knife. “Let me see everything.”
His praise wrapped around you like chains, binding you tighter with every word. The fear tangled with your need, sharpening every nerve until your whole body was a live wire, electric and raw. You cried out—loud, unrestrained—as you pumped your fingers into yourself, messy and desperate.
“Fuck, fuck—” The pace was frantic, thumb circling your clit hard and fast, but your fingers inside moved slow, dragging, trying to mimic the way he filled you up, thick and mean, like he owned your body.
“You watch all the movies I want, y’scream just like I want, follow every rule—my perfect final girl,” he murmured, voice thick with possessive pride. “You do everything I say. So fucking good.”
Your breath hitched as the wave broke over you—raw, fierce, and shattering. Your fingers trembled, gripping at yourself desperately, the tension unspooling in helpless, beautiful release.
He stayed above you, watching, drinking it in—his mask hiding any softness, but the hunger and power pulsing from him undeniable. He loved the control, the fear, the way you gave yourself over to him completely—mask and all, body and soul.
And in that moment, you were his—perfect, terrified, utterly his.
“We should do that more often,” Is all he could say.
You hung out less after that, actually.
You had a nightmare where him—or someone wearing the mask—came in and killed you.
You didn’t even remember all of it. Just the feeling: a hand over your mouth, your body pinned, the weight unbearable. You woke up soaked in sweat, skin crawling, and didn’t speak to him for a week. Every time your knees brushed the floor, the phantom ache came back. Like your body remembered where you’d been before your brain could sort out if it was something you wanted.
But you found yourself back at his place anyway, when he texted saying he couldn’t sleep and wanted to watch The Beyond again.
YOU: idk… not super horny 2night tbh
JOSH: ur the one jumping to conclusions, i just said movie
JOSH: but if u do wanna suck my dick i’ll take both
JOSH: that actually sounds good. def come over then
YOU: fuck off
YOU: be there in 20
You don’t even remember finishing the movie. You’d fallen asleep half an hour in, the flickering glow of corpses and slime and screaming pulling you under. His bed was warm and already familiar.
When you woke up, hours later, your mouth was dry and the projector was still humming in the background. You didn’t remember getting undressed, but your shirt was gone and one of his was bunched around your ribs. You were sore in ways that weren’t unfamiliar.
Josh was lying next to you, still awake, fingers drawing aimless circles on your bare back like it was just muscle memory.
You wake again sometime later to the soft fuzz of static, flickering light sketching fractured shapes across the ceiling. The sheets are tangled around your calves. Josh is finally asleep—his body splayed out like he collapsed mid-thought, mouth slack, one hand curled loosely at his stomach. He still smells faintly of sweat and something else you can’t name but know down to your marrow.
The projector is still on. But the film’s changed.
It’s your pick now. You’d queued it earlier that week without saying anything—just in case. Something quieter. Possession (1981). No chainsaws. No punchy one-liners. No torture. Just blue-tinted grief and rotting fruit and a woman’s body undoing itself in ways no man onscreen understands.
You sit on the hardwood floor, legs bare, skin prickled from the cold. The film plays on. You don’t reach for a blanket.
Josh stirs around the subway-tunnel scene, half-woken by the inhuman wails of a woman giving birth to something unspeakable.
“...fuck,” he murmurs, rubbing at his face. “This thing again?”
“She fucks the creature in act three,” you say, flatly. Like you’re telling him a spoiler. Or a warning.
He props himself on one elbow, blinking through sleep. “Isn’t that supposed to be a metaphor for divorce?”
You shrug. “Or femininity.”
Josh watches the screen. Then you. “You like this because it’s upsetting.”
“She fucks the creature in act three,” you say, like you’re offering him a spoiler, or a gift.
He drags himself up onto one elbow, bleary. “Isn’t that a metaphor for divorce?”
You shrug. “Or womanhood.”
“You like this because it’s upsetting.”
“I like this because it refuses to explain itself.”
Josh snorts. Then — watching you instead of the screen — “Is that what I’m doing?”
You don’t answer. The monster is onscreen now. Wet and writhing and ridiculous. Something like a miscarriage, something like a god.
You sit still, breathing slow. Letting it wash over you. Letting him sit with that. The flicker of horror in his eyes for once isn’t about the gore.
You wonder if he knows it yet — that this is still sex and horror.
Just a different kind of fucking and fear.
Josh watches the screen for a bit, then shifts onto his side to look at you. The room is half-dark, lit only by the unravelling blue of the projector. You don’t move to cover yourself. You’re still on the floor. Still not looking at him.
“You okay?” he asks.
You nod. You’re not sure if it’s true. But it’s the kind of thing you both say when you don’t want to say anything else.
“You were into it,” he says after a beat. “Last time.”
You don’t respond. He’s not asking. He’s reminding you.
“Didn’t have to tell you to get on your knees.”
He laughs—softly, like it’s just a fact. “Didn’t even have to ask.”
You close your eyes. The floor is cold, and your thighs ache, and your wrists still feel the shape of his fingers like they’ve been marked. Like your body is keeping score.
“You liked the mask,” he says, lower now. “Not just the idea of it. The real thing. Being scared. Not knowing if I’d—”
“Stop.”
It’s quiet, but final.
A breath. Then another. He doesn’t press.
You finally look at him. His face is open, waiting. No smirk. No cruelty. Just a boy with something hungry in him he doesn’t quite understand.
“I liked that it was you,” you say.
That shuts him up.
Not I liked you. Not I wanted it. That it was you.
Because if it hadn’t been—if it had been anyone else, in any other mask—you’re not sure you would’ve come out the same.
You get up, legs stiff, and grab your jeans from the edge of the bed. The movie’s still playing behind you. Anna’s already falling apart on screen, her mouth red with dirt and spit and madness.
Josh sits up, watching you dress. “So… we still watching something next week?”
You pull on your jacket, finally turn to him. He looks a little sheepish. A little hopeful. Like none of it means anything if you don’t say it out loud.
You toss him a look over your shoulder. “Pick something good this time.”
You leave him there, in the flicker and static and leftover scent of you, the sound of a woman screaming still echoing across the walls.
He’ll think about it all night. You’ll let him.
note: this fic was a BITCH yall know how hard it is to write for a character ur not even thinking bout that much anymore... ok anyway!! ahhhsgrh im still not fully fully happy with this, i know it can be better, so honestly i mgiht come back and do some minor revisions, but i also overthink everything so i figure may as well get it out there lol.
also i only edited this once, pleaseee let me know if i missed out on a tag!!
A.N: My loves, you're absolutely amazing, thank you so so much for your wonderful support, you've made me so happy! 🩷I hope you'll like this one as well, and please let me know what you think🩷 ILYSM, kisses! 🩷
Pairing: Robb Stark x F!Reader
Summary: The heir to the north is raised not only to rule, but also to fight.
Word Count: 5k
Warnings: Explicit language, adult themes, blood, violence, MDNI. By clicking 'keep reading', or asking to be tagged, you confirm you're 18 +.
Thank you to my wonderful beta @chibi-lioness !
Series Masterlist
Everyone knew it was customary to bring presents to a couple for their wedding, and of course all houses competed with each other to in generosity back in the Reach. It was not only a way to display their alliances but also high status and wealth, and you were more than aware that everyone would come to Winterfell bearing gifts for you and Robb.
But as always, your family had gone above and beyond.
In addition to many chests of silks and jewelry Cliff had gotten you from Free Cities, he had also brought you the most magnificent horse you had seen in your entire life. Her coat shimmered like precious silver under the sunlight; so you decided to name her Silk after Robb joked about how she was as shiny as your gowns. You could barely wait to ride her, but you figured it had to wait until after breakfast.
You should’ve known breakfast wouldn’t be peaceful though.
“Of course we’re not wed!”
“We are.” Robb nodded solemnly. “We were bound in front of the weirwood tree, and as of last night—”
You elbowed him, stealing a look at the rest of the table who were in multiple deep conversations. “Lower your voice!”
“As of last night, we’re man and wife.”
“There were no witnesses.”
“Grey Wind was around.”
“I’m afraid your direwolf cannot be a witness,” you pointed out. “The point of the witnesses is the fact that people cannot argue that the wedding took place. What’s he going to do if someone comes forth and challenges the fact that it took place?”
“Maul them,” he answered. “I’m not saying we will not hold the wedding in front of the guest, I’m saying we are wed, so your gods wouldn’t mind—”
“They would, because we didn’t say the exact words.”
“That makes no difference as long as we are sworn to each other.”
You rolled your eyes. “Even if you were right—”
“I am right!”
“Our marriage remains invalid until it’s consummated,” you said, keeping your voice calm even though your cheeks started burning. “Therefore, we’re not man and wife for another two nights.”
He gave you a mischievous grin and leaned in to whisper; “But if we’re wed—”
“Shh!”
“If we’re wed, your gods wouldn’t disapprove.”
It wasn’t your gods though. Rather, it was the fact that this was the only revenge you could get from him.
He desired his mistress and wanted to keep her around? Fine.
You were going to wed him, you were going to do whatever you could within your marriage to seduce him away from his mistress, but he would have to wait until the very last second to have you as his wife.
“Do you know much about my gods, then?”
“I know they have thousands of rules unlike mine,” he grumbled. “But if I came to your bedchambers tonight—”
“No.”
If you didn’t know any better you would’ve thought Lord Robb Stark, the heir to House Stark and to the North was begging: “Then come to mine.”
“No to that also.”
“Then meet me in the Godswood tonight,” he said, his eyes gleaming playfully. “We can consummate our marriage beneath the heart tree like the old Kings of Winter did thousands of years ago.”
You scowled at the suggestion.
“I shall only lie on soft sheets and nothing else,” you told him. “As I’ve done my whole life. Anything otherwise is simply out of the question because it would give me terrible discomfort.”
Robb looked like he was trying his hardest not to burst into laughter. “Terrible discomfort?”
“It’s no fault of mine if my skin is sensitive.”
“That sounds like a feigned issue for a girl who spent her whole life in flimsy silk gowns.”
“It’s a real issue!” you insisted and stuck your nose in the air. “I’ve been like this since I was born, there’s nothing to do about it.”
“I highly doubt—”
“My father says my wet nurses were given silk gowns and gloves so that I wouldn’t be uncomfortable while they tended to me when I was a baby, because I always started crying when I touched rough fabric,” you said. “I’m telling you. It’s been like this since forever.”
He stared at you in silence for a couple of seconds like he was at a loss for words, but then his lips twitched in amusement.
“Why do I have the feeling that you starting to cry whenever you touch rough fabric isn’t a habit of the past?”
You shot him a glare, then turned your gaze to Alton who had just walked into the Great Hall to make his way to the High Table. Ser Gwayne entered the hall soon after, with a stern yet arrogant look on his face as he went over to the table where his friends were having breakfast at.
“Touch this.” Robb held out a tablecloth for you with a grin, and you swatted at his hand, coaxing a laugh out of him. “I’m serious—”
“It is quite sad you’re so smug about this because I was considering coming to your bedchambers,” you lied, “but if I am to be taunted…”
His eyes widened and he shook his head fervently. “No no no, forget I said anything—”
“The North remembers,” you recited in a solemn manner without so much as a glance in his direction, then took a sip of your tea. He shifted in his seat as if he couldn’t sit still, stole a look at the rest of the table, then leaned in so that you could hear his low voice.
“What are your plans for the rest of the day?”
“Not consummating our accidental wedding,” you stated, lowering your cup. “And yours?”
“So you agree it was a wedding.”
Out of the corner of your eye, you could see Ser Gwayne approaching the High Table. He bowed his head at Lord Stark, the rest of the table falling quiet upon noticing his presence, and his obvious means to address him.
“Lord Stark,” he said, the rest of the hall’s chatter fading into whispers as well. “Lord Greensted.”
Robb’s jaw tightened.
“Ser Gwayne,” Lord Stark said. “I hope you’re enjoying your stay.”
“I am, my lord,” he said. “The hospitality of Winterfell is warm enough to make one forget the cold of the North.”
Lord Stark nodded in acknowledgment.
“Your hospitality and kindness is what make this speech harder on my heart than it need be,” Ser Gwayne said while Silas sat up straighter with a frown. “But please know that I hold your house to highest regard in honor.”
What was happening?
Lord Stark looked rather confused as to why this conversation was taking place along with every other northerner, which you figured was expected. It wasn’t common for a guest to address the lord at the High Table during breakfast unless it was of great importance, so you had no idea what this could be about.
However, you seemed to be the only southerner at the table who didn’t understand what was taking place.
“Ser Gwayne,” your father said, his voice tense for some reason. “Sit and enjoy your breakfast, hm?”
Silas ran a hand over his face, the twins exchanged glances before turning in their seats to see Ser Gwayne better, and Cliff leaned in to whisper something to Arys that made him roll his eyes, but he took out a couple of coins out of his pocket to place it into Cliff’s palm, muttering something back.
“I respect House Stark,” Ser Gwayne said. “And House Greensted, but the lady deserves a sword sworn to her in true love, not duty.”
…Oh no.
Oh no no no—
The realization dawned on you like a ton of bricks, and your hand shot up to Robb’s wrist to grab it as tight as you could but Robb didn’t even flinch; he just kept his eyes on Ser Gwayne as if he could kill him with his glare.
“Let the gods decide who deserves the lady’s hand in marriage,” Ser Gwayne told Robb and pulled his sword, then bent his knee. “I challenge you to a duel, my lord.”
Chaos erupted through the crowd in the hall, but you could hardly hear it over your heartbeat pounding in your ears. You tried to think through the fear rushing through your veins at the mere idea, then forced yourself to scoff.
“My betrothed will not entertain such—”
“I accept.”
Your head whirled around when Robb’s deep voice cut you off, and you stared at him, your mouth half agape.
“What?” you managed to ask when you found air again, and Silas pushed his seat back to get up. “No! I—I refuse!”
“Ser Gwayne,” Lord Stark said, his demeanor as calm as Robb’s. “You realize you’re renouncing the guest right?”
Something shifted in Robb’s gaze; feral excitement gleaming in his eyes while he leaned in expectantly, his whole attention focused on Ser Gwayne, waiting for the knight’s response. At first you couldn’t quite tell why it was so familiar, because every time Robb looked at you—even at the height of his desire like last night or back in the armory— there was always a soft light underneath it all, but then the memory hit you.
It was familiar because you had seen this look in Grey Wind’s eyes when he killed that lion back in the woods.
“I renounce it, my lord.”
A wolfish grin split Robb’s face as if he’d just heard the best news while you shook your head fervently, tears of fear rushing to your eyes.
“No!” you insisted. “I don’t want—”
“Come, my dear sister,” Silas’ voice came from behind you, and before you knew it, he had already hoisted you out of your seat as if you were a mere child. He used the side entrance so that he wouldn’t have to drag you across the hall, and he didn’t stop until you reached your bedchambers no matter how much you tried to wiggle out of his grip. He all but pushed you into your bedchambers and slammed the door behind him.
“You need to—”
“How dare you?” You couldn’t help but snap, your voice going high-pitched, ringing through the room. “How dare you drag me out of rooms? I’m no child!”
“Blossom…”
“That duel will not take place!” you said, wiping your eyes before you pointed at the door. “Go back there, tell them it’s not taking place!”
“It is taking place my sweet,” he said gently. “Whether you like it or not. But not to worry—”
“Not to worry?” you repeated. “Not to worry? It’s a duel, Silas!”
“I know that.”
“It’s disrespect!” you said, straining your mind to find an excuse. “To our house, and to House Stark. They cannot let that happen, make father stop it.”
“He cannot do that, we’re in Winterfell,” he said. “Not in our home.”
“He never says no to me, he’d find a way.”
“To repeat, we’re in the North,” he said. “Father doesn’t exactly have power here, and even if he did—”
He stopped talking when someone knocked on the door and cracked it open, and Perceon peeked his head in.
“I figured this is where you’d be,” he said and stepped in with Braxton following him. “They decided to hold the duel in an hour. Exciting, isn’t it?”
You blinked a couple of times. “Exciting?”
“Can I duel people as well, but for fun?” Braxton asked and Silas pinched the bridge of his nose. “I haven’t been in a fight since we left Dorne.”
“You’re not dueling anyone, idiot.”
“No he can though, I bet I could convince some people to renounce their guest right.”
“We’re also guests here, Perce!”
“Silas, if he—” You could feel the tears burning your eyes at the idea. “If Robb dies…”
Silas gave a chuckle while the twins burst into laughter, making you glance between them.
“What’s so funny?”
“Robb?” Silas asked. “Robb is going to die at some duel? Gwayne Fossoway of all people is going to kill him?”
“I’ve watched Ser Gwayne fight before,” you insisted. “He won two jousts in a row. I remember, because he asked for my favor a year ago at the Merryweather tourney.”
Silas took a deep breath, and walked to you to clasp his hands on your shoulders so that you would stop pacing.
“Blossom,” he said. “My sweet sister, you need to stop and think, alright? Do you seriously think the heir to the North is going to lose a duel to a random knight of the Reach?”
“You don’t know—”
“I know that Ned Stark put a real sword in Robb’s hand when he was a mere child,” he told you. “I know that he was raised to be the perfect Warden of the North. You’ve heard of the Northern army, you know how unstoppable it is, and House Stark raised their heir to lead that army if need be. Northerners aren’t like us, their lord fights beside his men. I promise you, Robb is the best warrior in this castle right now.”
“Second best,” Braxton corrected him. “But only because of his youth and lack of war experience. The best is probably his father.”
“I would worry less about Robb and more about how it’ll affect our house’s relationship with the Fossoways,” Perceon said, flinging himself on your bed. “If Robb does end up killing him.”
Your heart skipped a beat. “He wouldn’t kill him.”
“He might.”
“Northerners don’t fight to harm, they fight to kill,” Silas said. “Fossoway just renounced his guest right and challenged him. And whatever you’ve been doing seems to be working, he’s quite taken with you already even before the wedding, so…”
There was another knock on the door before Cliff and Arys stepped in.
“See, told you she’d calm down.”
“I—” You paused for a moment, your eyes darting over your brothers, then you threw your hands up in the air, exasperated. “Why are you all here?”
“Why not?”
“Yeah, it’s not your castle yet,” Perceon and Braxton said and Arys shrugged.
“Elinor keeps trying to invite herself and Alton to Oldtown, I don’t want them there.”
“I’m so glad I arrived last night,” Cliff commented with a grin. “I’m going to be leaving here much richer than I already am, because everyone from the Reach is very confident in Ser Gwayne Fossoway.”
“Can I join?” Perceon took out a coin and flipped it in Cliff’s direction who caught it mid-air. “A gold dragon, Robb will win in five minutes.”
“Two dragons, three minutes.” Silas told Cliff and you blinked a couple of times, looking from Cliff to him.
“Have you all lost your minds?!” you exploded. “My husband—”
“Betrothed!” came the chorus and you stomped on your foot.
“He might die, and you’re all using this for entertainment?”
Arys rolled his eyes while Cliff went over to the table to fill himself a cup of wine, and Braxton sprawled on the sofa.
“His whole family was in that hall,” Arys reminded you. “Did you see any of them express anything close to worry?”
The simple question made you frown.
“They’re not worried, because they know what he’s capable of,” Arys said. “Do you believe the North would be so careless with their heir if they didn’t trust in his skills with sword?”
“Exactly what I’ve been saying,” Silas muttered. “Besides, even if he did die, you’d be fine. I didn’t travel all over the realm just so that you can marry a fucking Fossoway. Ser Gwayne would just have an unfortunate accident on the way back to the Reach.”
“If Robb dies I’m betrothing you to the prince of Dorne.” Braxton pointed at you. “You’d thrive in Dorne.”
“You keep saying that because you haven’t travelled outside Dorne, Brax. If she came to the Free Cities—”
“I just don’t think our beloved sister belongs there, no offense.”
“Oldtown is also an option.”
“Gods be good, I cannot have this argument with all of you again—”
…Oh.
Oh, you hadn’t even thought about that.
You had been so worried about Robb that it hadn’t even occurred to you that him getting killed in such duel would mean you’d go back to the Reach for another betrothal. It sounded almost absurd if not impossible to even consider such idea; to be expected to impress someone as if nothing happened, to play the court game, to…
To spend your life with someone else, be his wife and have his heirs.
You were not going to do that. You couldn’t.
You weren’t going to even entertain the thought of moving on, have him as some distant memory as if the mere idea of his absence didn’t burn a hole in your chest, pain making your breath catch in your throat.
Where had the air gone in this damn place?
“Where is he?” you cut through your brothers’ bickering and Cliff frowned.
“He said he was going to the armory to sharpen his sword before the duel.”
You licked your lips, then walked past Silas who called after you as if he wanted to stop you, but you paid no mind to it and walked out of the room, your heart pounding in your ears.
Cliff was right, Robb was in the armory, joking with Theon and Jon as if there was nothing wrong. As hard as it felt, you managed to pull yourself together at least for appearances before you knocked on the doorframe, gathering their attention.
“Can I have a word?” you rasped out and Robb frowned at your expression before he nodded.
“Of course.”
“See you at the duel.” Theon laughed while Jon slapped his back, and they both walked past you and left the armory. You closed the door behind you, your eyes darting over his body.
“Where’s your armor?”
He motioned at the chainmail thrown on the desk. “There.”
“That’s chainmail, not armor.”
“Armor is for wars,” he said with a scoff. “Not entertainment.”
“Ent—he’s going to be wearing full body armor, Robb!”
“I know.” He grinned. “All the Reach knights have very shiny armors, Jon says we should give it to Sansa as a mirror after I’m done with him. I’m told I get to keep it when he yields.”
He was jesting.
He had the nerve to be jesting as if you weren’t about to burst into sobs.
“Do you think this is funny?” you asked. “He means to kill you and wed me, and you stand there—”
“I’m going to be more offended than you are if you’re assuming he can kill me. You’re not going to wed anyone but me.”
You swallowed thickly and took a deep breath.
“Go there and tell him you’ve changed your mind.”
He let out a laugh of disbelief. “What?”
“Tell him—”
“Do you not know me at all?” he asked with a grimace. “I would never do that.”
“Fine, then I’ll tell him you’ve changed your mind—” You turned around to leave, but stopped dead in his tracks the minute he said your name in a sterner tone than you’d ever heard from him before. Your eyes snapped up to his when you whirled around, a shiver running down your spine at his glare.
When he spoke, it was as if he was expressing of a law of nature: “You’ll do no such thing.”
You’d almost forgotten.
Or perhaps you had never really understood. Everyone kept telling you Robb was the heir to House Stark and you knew that, but you had a feeling that this was your first introduction to the future Warden of the North, the head of House Stark and the lord of Winterfell. Gone was your carefree and playful betrothed, replaced by someone else entirely; a man whose unforgiving gaze alone said more than words needed, whose orders were to be followed, not questioned.
“Why not?” you insisted. “You’re so certain you’ll win anyway, so is every northerner. You need not prove it to the southerners—”
“I’d look like a scared boy,” he cut you off. “It’s not even a matter of discussion, nor will it ever be. Leave it.”
“Because you said so?” you asked, your vision getting blurry with tears. “Because, what, because you—”
“Because it’s my name and honor.”
“What do I care about honor?” you snapped. “What use is it? You might die!”
“I’m not going to die—”
“And if you do?” you asked. “If something goes wrong and you die?”
“Then I die,” he said with a shrug of his shoulders. “I’d rather lose my life than my honor. It may not be important in your part of the realm, but it means everything here. Without it, I’d have nothing.”
“You’d have me,” you managed to say, painfully aware of the pleading tone in your voice as you took a step towards him. “You’d have me, Robb. Please don’t do this.”
A soft light appeared in his eyes and he heaved a tired sigh; whether it was pity at your naivety or your inability to understand the matter, you could not tell.
“Don’t ask that of me.”
The dull ache in your chest spread through your body, poisoning everything in its path. For a couple of seconds, you could only stare at him before a bitter smile curled your lips, and you tried to swallow the lump in your throat.
You should’ve got used to this by now, of course he didn’t choose you.
This castle was full of people who would’ve chosen you over their honor, and here you were, begging the only man who would not.
“Gods, what a lesson you’ve turned out to be…” you rasped out and wiped your eyes, sniffling. “Alright. As you wish.”
“My lady—”
“I’ll never forgive you for this,” you cut him off, looking him in the eye. “So long as I draw breath. But I wish you luck on your duel, my lord.”
With that, you stormed out of the armory, not even casting a glance back as you wiped your eyes and made your way to the castle.
Standing in the crowd in the grand court yard, feeling as if your heart was going to explode in your ribcage and take you from this world, you could only think of one thing:
You should have poisoned Ser Gwayne.
Margaery had given you that bracelet for you to use it, and you couldn’t think of a better use for it. Instead of going to Robb to plead with him, you should have taken the matters into your own hands, visit Ser Gwayne in his chambers, slip the poison into his wine and walk away. Robb would keep his precious honor and name and whatever else they were taught that held more importance than life without putting himself in such danger, and you—
Well.
You weren’t going to be betrothed again. Not to the Reach or Dorne or the Free Cities or Oldtown, or wherever it was that your brothers thought was a good idea to form an alliance with. You were either going to wed Robb or no one at all, no matter what everyone else seemed to think or plan.
You were more than aware that everyone who so much as cast a glance in your direction could tell you had been crying; your eyes were red-rimmed and glassy, and you felt like you could pass out at any moment if it weren’t for Silas standing right beside you, letting you half lean to his side so you wouldn’t sway on your feet. Lady Stark had come earlier to give you some words of comfort, but it sounded as meaningless as the chatter of the crowd filling the yard. You sniffled and played with the bracelet around your wrist, trying your hardest to ignore Jorelle and her family not far from you.
“His mother talked to him,” Silas told you when Lady Stark went to stand beside Lord Stark. “Made him give his word. He won’t kill Ser Gwayne when he yields.”
When.
Not if, when.
You couldn’t wrap your mind around how every single northerner here looked completely unfazed with what was about to take place. Robb was the heir, they were supposed to be nervous wrecks but everyone looked more excited than worried.
Jousts were the least favorite part of any tourney for you. While it was true that you and Margaery loved tourneys, for you, it had always been about dancing and feasting and getting compliments and admiration, not bloodshed. It was nearly a habit to avert your eyes whenever the spears of the knights on horseback clashed, and Margaery would always tell you whether it was alright to look or not, in case it got too violent.
Duels didn’t have horses though.
And apparently no proper armor either, at least for the northerners.
The crowd parted as Robb made his way through, his eyes finding yours, making your heart beat even faster. You blinked back the tears, averting your gaze from him to turn to look up at Lord Stark who was standing on the loggia with Lady Stark, the chatter ceasing immediately. Lord Stark’s icy gray eyes fell upon Ser Gwayne before he looked at Robb, then gave a nod of acknowledgement.
Which meant the duel could start.
Cheers from both sides erupted through the crowded yard and Robb grinned as if he was having the time of his life before twirling the sword in his hand. Ser Gwayne raised his shield, then lunged at him, making you gasp and turn around to bury your face into Silas’s arm, your hands shooting up to your ears to block out the clash of the swords as if not hearing it would make it go away. You didn’t know whether you were pleading to your gods or his, but you mouthed a short prayer over and over again into the thick velvet of Silas’s doublet while the nausea churned your stomach, every muscle in your body tensing up.
You had no idea how long you had been praying—it could’ve been a moon or a minute, but Silas touched the small of your back, causing you to lift your head from his arm, lowering your hands from your ears. The unmistakable sound of metal clashing was nearly drowned in the loud cheers, and you turned around, expecting the worst.
It wasn’t what you pictured in your head at all.
This was what Silas meant, you realized through the fear. This was why everyone in the realm feared the north.
This was the reason why even the kings for thousands of years didn’t make an enemy of the north. Back in the south, you’d had the chance to watch the training of so many knights before and during the jousts, it had always reminded you of a graceful dance with swaying and twirling and spinning. Silas himself had joked once that it was similar to your training; he was taught to dance with a sword, and you without one.
But this was no dance.
This was a hunt.
Robb circled him like a wolf would circle a wounded prey while Ser Gwayne tried to find his balance, but even you could tell it was of no use. The swing of Robb’s sword was so heavy that it knocked the sword out of Ser Gwayne’s hand, the knight lifting his shield but Robb had already slammed it against his helmet, the blow stunning the knight right before Robb yanked the shield out of his arm, and tossed it to the side. The crowd went nearly feral, yelling and cheering while Robb threw his own sword aside and pulled the helmet off of Ser Gwayne’s head to punch him right in the face, a sickening crack echoing in the yard.
“Robb!” Lady Stark called out almost warningly when Ser Gwayne fell to the ground and a snarl twisted Robb’s handsome face for a moment, resembling Grey Wind’s threatening growl. He lifted Ser Gwayne by the neck of his armor to mutter something into his ear, then switched his hand to the back of his neck so that he could hold him up as he dragged him towards the crowd, right underneath the loggia. Blood poured down Ser Gwayne’s face and he swayed on his feet like he was in too much pain to stand up even with Robb holding him up, but he still managed to speak.
“I—I yield.”
Robb dropped him unceremoniously to the ground, the southerners falling silent but the cheers of the northerners were loud enough to ring through the yard for the both sides. Your heart was slamming against your ribcage when his eyes found you, and as if he wasn’t the very man who had just overpowered a champion knight of the Reach without so much as getting a scratch on him in return, he bowed his head to you, his gaze nearly burning your skin.
“My lady,” he said, the northern accent in his deep voice making your heart skip a beat. “Forgive me for worrying you.”
You could only stare at him, pinned to your spot in disbelief while he grabbed his sword to sheath it, then walked past you and made his way back into the Inner Keep with Theon and Jon following him suit. Two men lifted Ser Gwayne by his arms to carry him to the maester’s chambers and Silas scoffed, shaking his head.
“Told you he’d be fine.” He stole a look at you. “You’re not frightened, are you?”
You let out a breath, a strange heat swirling at the pit of your stomach as you licked your lips, trying to think through the haze.
“No,” you managed to say. “No, I’m not frightened at all.”
"Don't speak ill of the dead" my ass. If you didn't want people talking shit about you when you're no longer there to defend yourself, you should've been a better person.
The Germans really cooked making "Hobbyless behaviour" an insult. It is both devastating, applicable to a wide range of people and behaviours, and doesn't resort to swearing.
Man ranting on the internet about the Superbowl halftime show or complaining that something is "woke"? Hobbyless Behaviour. Girls mocking another girl for not looking right? Hobbyless Behaviour. Mindless vandalism? Hobbyless Behaviour.
It is more powerful than "get a life" or the English "You're Sad" because it gets to the central point of the matter, and that is wonderful. Danke, Deutsch.
synopsis: summoned to the red keep to prove her family's loyalty a decade after the blackfyre rebellion, the lady of house peake only intends to survive court politics — becoming entangled with prince valarr targaryen was not part of the plan.
author’s note: first and foremost, just a quick shout out to @the-darklings and the incredible holy waters for sparking the idea for this!!
this part is rather exposition heavy. but i promise we will get to the juicy stuff soon, so please have patience!! i told you guys i took the slow in slowburn seriously!!
also please forgive any errors in timelines/lore/canon, i am not very well versed and fighting for my life!! gentle corrections welcomed, just please be nice <3
wordcount + tags: 4,909. + enemies to lovers, slowburn, forbidden romance, sparring as flirting, canon-typical misogyny/violence, pre-akotsk
part one || part two || part three
Valarr Targaryen x F!Reader
The letter bears the three-headed dragon pressed deep into red wax.
It sits between you and your father on the long oaken table in Starpike’s solar, unbroken since it was delivered, as though the words inside have already delivered the news despite remaining unread.
You’re no fool. You’ve heard the rumours circling these past few months – a knight overheard praising Daemon Blackfyre too loudly in a Reach tavern, one of your cousins travelling too frequently to Tyrosh, a levy slow to answer the Crown’s call. Nothing treasonous, nothing evident, but enough.
Your father reaches forward in his seat and finally breaks the wax seal, reading in silence. The fire snaps in the hearth, wind pressing faintly against the narrow windows of Starpike’s stone tower, and you wait, pulse thrumming close to your skin as you shift your weight from foot to foot.
You watch his face instead of the parchment, the careful stillness settling over it, the minute tightening of his expression, and your heart sinks down to your stomach before he even opens his mouth.
“It is an honour,” he says at last, setting the letter on the table with a deep breath. “For you to be invited to stay at the Red Keep.”
You remain very still where you stand. “...Invited.” The word feels bitter in your mouth, obvious in its lie – it is not an invitation, it is a summons.
“King Daeron believes it would strengthen the bond between our house and the Crown.” Your father’s voice is steady – already practical, already disattached.
“And if I decline?” It leaves your mouth before you can stop it.
His eyes lift to yours then, and the expression you find there makes you want to cry.
You know the burden your father has carried since the rebellion – the grief of the loss, the humiliation of being forced to bend the knee, the careful rebuilding of your house’s reputation, the way every decision must now be weighed twice as heavily – but at this moment, he just looks like a tired old man.
“You will not decline.” He says quietly, and you understand that there is no room left for argument.
The wind rattles the shutters again, and you think of the banners that flew from these towers when you were a child – bright and defiant swaths of orange. You think of how quickly they were lowered in obedient surrender, how few of them were rehung in the aftermath.
You fight desperately to keep your temper at bay as the unfairness of the situation threatens to overwhelm you. “So I am to serve as… some sort of bargaining chip? Because the Targaryens suddenly no longer trust our word?”
“You are to serve as the Lady of House Peake, and as my daughter,” he corrects gently, leaning back in his chair with a sigh. “As proof of our loyalty and good faith, a reminder that House Peake stands with the realm.”
The distinction feels thin. And if we do not? The question hangs unspoken. You look toward the window, toward the hills beyond within which the road to King’s Landing begins, dread settling low in your stomach.
“I will be a prisoner and nothing more,” you shake your head, clenching your jaw. “Do you not see? This is how they keep us under lock and key–”
Your name leaves your father’s lips in a harsh bark, and your mouth snaps shut. “You will be a Lady at the Red Keep. There is no higher honour for someone of your standing.”
You can tell from his voice that your father’s patience is waning, but it’s your life on the line, you who will be torn away from your home, followed by suspicion and whispers and held under constant scrutiny.
You focus very intently on the wood of the table, your nails biting into the flesh of your palm. “For how long?”
“As long as the King requests.”
There is no anger in your father’s tone, no cruelty, only necessity and resolve. You swallow, sagging as the fight drains from you. He rises then, coming around the table to stand before you, his hands settling firmly at your shoulders.
“You will be watched,” he says quietly. “Every word measured, every alliance noted. You must be careful.”
“I know.” Your voice is soft, defeated.
“You must not give them reason to doubt you. To doubt us.”
You want to scream, to hurl curses, to cry, to hurl the letter across the room and refuse to go. You meet his gaze instead, resolve settling heavy in your veins. “I will not.”
He studies you for a moment longer – not as the Lord of a house, not as a political strategist, but as a father sending his daughter into a court that once executed his kin. “They will see your strength.” He says reassuringly.
You are not reassured, but you still sigh, arching an eyebrow. “Would you not rather they see our loyalty?”
A smile almost overtakes the exhaustion on his face. Almost. “You will show them both.”
You leave at dawn a day later, no tears, no public display. An escort awaits you bearing banners of red dragons on black fabric, enveloping you before you’ve even had the chance to say your proper goodbyes.
The gates of Starpike creak open, and you ride through them without looking back, though you feel weight pressing against your spine as though the stone castle itself is reluctant to let you go. You do not know when you will see it again.
The Red Keep is larger than you remember. When you were younger and the world had not yet narrowed to whispers and careful words, you imagined it as something glittering – spires of red stone and dragon banners snapping proudly in the wind.
Now it just feels like a fortress. The corridors twist endlessly, their walls thick and cold, the narrow windows letting in only thin shafts of pale light from the afternoon sky – not that different from your own home, but still so unfamiliar.
Inside, everything gleams – armor burnished, stone scrubbed clean, courtiers dressed in silk and careful smiles. You feel the shift as you pass, the way conversations halt, the way eyes linger just a moment too long, recognizing your house colours, the sigil stitched at your breast.
Your footsteps echo softly against the stone as you follow the knight ahead of you. He does not speak. The guards you passed in the courtyard did not speak either, only watched you as you passed, their gazes scrutinising and cold.
You keep your hands folded before you as you walk, fingers laced tightly enough that the knuckles pale.
Your father’s words echo stubbornly in your mind. They will see your strength. You only hope they will not see it as impetuous.
The door ahead opens at the knight’s knock, and he gestures you forward with a respectful incline of his head. “You may enter, my lady.”
You swallow, take a deep breath, and step inside.
The solar is warmer than the corridor outside, the hearth burning low despite the mildness of the day. Sunlight spills through tall windows overlooking Blackwater Bay, the water far below a dull silver beneath the clouds.
Standing beside the table near the window is not King Daeron, but you recognise him nonetheless.
Prince Baelor Targaryen does not look particularly like the other Targaryens you have encountered or heard tales of – his hair is short and dark, almost black in the dim light of the room, his skin touched faintly by the sun in a way that makes tales of the silver-haired Targaryens seem ghostlike by comparison.
He is broad-shouldered, solid in the way of a man accustomed to armor and horses rather than court silks, though today he wears neither – only a plain black doublet with the three-headed dragon worked subtly over the breast in deep red.
He turns as you enter, his eyes settling on you with quiet attention, and your breath hitches in your throat at the sight of one brown eye, one blue.
You remember yourself and drop into a deep curtsey. “Your Grace.”
“Lady Peake.” His voice is warm, though not overly so, the sort of tone that fills a room easily without needing to rise in volume. When you straighten again, he is already stepping forward. “You have had a long journey. I hope the road treated you kindly.”
It is a polite thing to say, but you cannot quite bring yourself to smile. “The road was… uneventful, your Grace.”
A pause lingers between you. Baelor studies you for a moment – not rudely, but carefully, the way a man might look over a new piece on a cyvasse board, considering how it might best serve him.
At last he gestures toward the chairs near the hearth. “Please. Sit.”
You obey, folding yourself into the seat with measured composure. Baelor takes his seat behind the desk, and for a moment, he simply rests his elbows on the arms of his chair, hands loosely clasped.
“I imagine this was not a journey you were expecting to make.” He says, the words spoken plainly, without accusation or false softness, and you lower your gaze to your hands.
“I… was not, your Grace.”
Baelor nods once, as if that answer was expected. “I will speak plainly,” he starts, and you appreciate that, at least. “The realm has had little peace since the rebellion. Too much blood shed. Wounded pride that takes longer to heal than many men like to admit. My father seeks to restore stability. Unity.”
Your throat tightens. Images flash unbidden through your mind – smoke rising beyond Starpike’s walls, ravens flying from tower to tower, your cousins riding out beneath banners of red fabric bearing black dragons.
You blink, clearing the memories away. “And my presence here is… to further that aim.”
“It has the power to.” The words are deliberate, and he considers you for a moment before continuing. “There are… whispers, as there are always whispers. I would rather silence them with closeness than with force.” There it is. Not a threat, not quite, but a warning.
“You believe my father’s loyalties have shifted?” You ask despite yourself, brows tugging together as you try to understand what changed, what brought you here, why now.
Baelor hums softly, head tilting as if weighing the words before he lets them fall. When he speaks again, his tone is measured – patient, but deliberate, each phrase placed carefully where it must land. “The King believes now is the time to ensure that old alliances are given the chance to become new ones.”
His gaze lifts back to you, steady and searching, though there is nothing openly accusing in it. “The war ended some years ago,” he continues, fingers loosely folded atop the desk. “But wars do not truly end when the swords are sheathed. They linger in the memories and stories men tell when the candles burn low.”
He pauses, watching to see how you react.
“There are many houses who fought for my cousin in the rebellion,” he says at last, the word cousin used plainly rather than with bitterness. “Some did so from ambition, some from grievance, others from loyalty to men they believed in… I do not pretend that every man who followed the black dragon did so out of treachery.”
The statement lands quietly, but it is a generous one, more generous than you expected from the heir to the Iron Throne. He leans back slightly in his chair, studying you with that same thoughtful attention. “But the realm remembers banners, and who carried them.”
Your fingers tighten subtly in your lap.
“And so, my father believes,” Baelor says, voice still calm. “That it is wiser to bind such houses close to the throne rather than leave them standing at its edge.” His gaze flicks briefly to the sigil at your breast before returning to your face. “Hostages make enemies. Guests make allies.”
The corner of his mouth shifts – not quite a smile, but something gentler than the political calculation of the words might suggest. “You are here as the latter, Lady Peake. My family does not intend you harm, nor isolation. You will move freely in these halls, and you will be treated with respect. I would prefer it remain that way.”
Another pause settles, heavier this time, before he adds, more quietly, “But that, I think, will depend as much on you as it does on us.” The statement is not harsh, not even particularly stern, but you recognise it unmistakably as a test.
You already knew everything he said, but hearing it all so plainly spoken by the Hand of the King makes something in your stomach turn. Still, you are relieved by the honesty, the clarity with which it has all been laid out before you.
“I understand, your Grace. I would prefer that as well.” You nod, the gentlest of smiles turning your lips.
His tone remains gentle, but there is steel somewhere beneath it. “I hope that your time here may allow such mending to begin.”
Silence falls again, the only sound a gull crying somewhere over the water outside. Baelor rises slowly from his chair, pacing toward the window. “You will find the Red Keep complicated,” he says. “There are many voices here. Many opinions.”
You cannot help the small breath of humor that escapes you. “I have noticed.”
That earns you a quiet chuckle, the sound knocking something loose in your chest, letting you ease into your chair slightly. “Yes,” he says. “I imagine you have.”
For a moment he studies you again thoughtfully. “You need not fear speaking plainly to me, Lady Peake,” he adds after a moment. “I value honesty more than courtesy.”
You meet his gaze again. “That may be… inadvisable, your Grace.”
Baelor’s smile deepens just slightly. “Perhaps,” he says, before his expression grows thoughtful again. “But I suspect you have already learned that court can be far more dangerous when no one speaks the truth at all.”
He inclines his head toward the door. “You will be assigned chambers in Maegor’s Holdfast. I saw to it that they overlook the gardens.”
You blink, taken aback by the gesture, but before you can think too much about it the door creaks open behind you.
You turn in your seat, and immediately blanch in the face, recognising King Daeron at once. The resemblance between father and son is clear, though the King carries himself very differently – where Baelor’s presence filled the room with steady calm, Daeron’s seems to tighten the air itself.
His gaze lands on you immediately, and you drop into a deep curtsey, nearly tripping over your own skirts in your haste. “Your Grace.”
He looks you over quickly, his eyes pausing briefly on the three castles sewn into your bodice before returning to your face. “So,” he says, voice brisk, already sounding faintly impatient. “You’re Lord Peake’s girl.”
There is no warmth in the words, but still, you keep your head bowed in deference. “Yes, Your Grace.”
Baelor inclines his head. “Lady Peake arrived only a few moments ago.”
“I see that.” The King’s attention remains on you for another moment, weighing, measuring. Then he flicks a hand in a curt gesture toward the door, his gaze already turned toward his son. “You may go.”
The dismissal is immediate enough that it takes you a heartbeat to react, but when it does, you bow your head once more. “Of course, your Grace.”
Neither man stops you as you turn and practically flee into the quiet corridor beyond, the door closing softly behind you – but it does not latch completely.
You have only taken a few steps when the King’s voice carries through the wood, causing your footsteps to falter. “I see you have already been too gentle with her.”
A pause, before Baelor answers, calm as ever. “Courtesy costs us little.”
“They rode beneath the black dragon,” Daeron replies sharply, the name of Daemon Blackfyre left unspoken but unmistakable all the same. “Do not forget why the girl is here.”
“She is a guest.”
“She is an example.”
You do not wait to hear more, wary of the Kingsguard watching you, instead turning towards the servant sent to escort you to your new chambers. You stride down the corridor with your spine straight and your hands folded carefully before you, the echo of the King’s words following you through the halls.
Baelor had been almost shockingly kind, but kindness, you realise now, does not mean you are welcome here.
The attendant finally stops before a pair of heavy oak doors carved with twisting dragons, their wings stretching across the panels in intricate detail. The iron hinges are black as soot, shaped like claws curling around the wood.
“Your chambers, my lady.” He says, bowing as the doors swing inward.
For a moment you do not move, breath caught in your throat.
The room inside is large – far larger than the chamber you left behind at Starpike, its high ceiling supported by dark wooden beams, the walls dressed in rich hangings of crimson and black. A hearth burns low along one wall, the faint scent of smoke and cedar lingering in the warm air.
Most notably, however, are the dragons that surround you.
They coil through the embroidery of the tapestries, their heads carved along the mantle, their wings etched into the legs of the table near the window. Even the tall bed dominating the far end of the chamber rises with bedposts carved in the shape of three-headed dragons rising into the sky, beneath a canopy worked with the sigil in thread that gleams faintly when the light catches it.
You step inside slowly. It is beautiful, and you unmistakably do not belong here.
“Do you like it, my lady?” The voice pulls your attention suddenly, withdrawing your outstretched fingers from the dragon curling along the bedpost.
Two young women stand near the wardrobe, both dressed neatly in the dark red and black livery of the royal household, one with soft blonde curls, the other with dark hair and darker features. They drop quick curtseys when you turn toward them, their expressions polite but curious.
“We are to attend you,” the tall blonde one says. “I am Ellyn. This is Mara.”
Mara inclines her head with a shy smile, and you study them for a long moment before nodding once. “I… have attendants now.” You say, almost to yourself.
Ellyn’s expression brightens with a curious smile at the wonder in your voice, while Mara moves quietly to place a small chest beside the wardrobe. “The rest of your belongings will be brought shortly, my lady,” she says. “If there is anything else you require–”
Your attention drifts toward the door again, just now noticing the two Goldcloaks posted in the corridor outside. They straighten the moment they see you peering out, and your brow lifts.
When you turn back toward the maidens, your mouth has curved faintly at one corner as you gesture toward the hall. “Is the extra security meant to keep me in… Or everyone else out?”
The two girls exchange a quick glance, eyes wide. “Oh– No, my lady,” Ellyn says hurriedly. “They are not for you.”
At your confused expression, they exchange another glance, expressions twisted. Mara hesitates before answering, her voice lowered to a conspiratorial hush. “Prince Valarr’s chambers are down the corridor.”
You blink once, the words settling slowly. You had heard the name, of course. Prince Valarr Targaryen, eldest son of Prince Baelor, second in line to the Iron Throne, and apparently the man who will sleep only a few doors away from you.
Your gaze drifts back toward the corridor where the guards stand waiting as if carved out of the very stone.
“Oh…” You murmur.
Ellyn either does not hear the shock in your voice or politely pretends she hasn’t. “The prince’s rooms have always been here,” she adds, busying herself by unpacking one of your chests. “It is one of the most secure parts of the keep.”
Secure. The Kingsguard just beyond your door. Your thoughts begin to churn again, restless and heavy all at once. This morning you were still at Starpike, fulfilling the role you were born into, but now you are here – summoned by a king, surveyed by a prince, installed in chambers heavy with dragon sigils and quiet expectations no one has yet spoken aloud.
You pace once across the room, then again, the carpet beneath your boots thick enough to muffle the sound, but the motion does little to quiet the restless energy building in your chest.
Mara watches you through her dark lashes uncertainly. “...Would you like us to prepare a bath, my lady?”
You shake your head sharply. “No.”
You stop near the open window, closing your eyes to feel the breeze drifting in from outside, listening to the distant sounds of the castle it carries – voices, footsteps, the dull rumble of carts moving through the lower wards.
And beneath it all something sharper – steel striking steel. Your eyes fly open as you turn back toward the girls. “Where are the training grounds?”
They blink. “The… training grounds?”
“Yes.”
Mara gestures vaguely toward one of the walls. “In the courtyard, my lady. Through the eastern tower and down the stone steps.”
You nod once. “Good.”
Ellyn’s eyes widen slightly. “You wish to go now?”
You are already moving toward the door. “Yes.”
“But your things–”
“—Will still be here when I return.” You flash her a smile as you disappear from the room, leaving your two new attendants gaping after you.
You continue down the corridor, following the echo of clashing blades toward the stairwell as the dragon tapestries watch you go in silence.
The cavern of the Red Keep causes you to lose your way more than once, so when you feel the fresh breeze blowing the sounds of swords clashing down the corridor, you follow it keenly.
When you stumble upon the training yard, it is alive with the dull percussion of late afternoon training – the steady clang of practice swords, the barked corrections of knights, the thud of shields absorbing blows. The rhythm of it all is almost grounding, familiar to you in a way the corridors of the Red Keep are not.
You stand beneath the shade of a carved archway, watching, assessing, fervently trying not to think about the reality of your current situation that dawns more on you each moment, and for the first time all day, you are able to simply breathe, unwatched.
Of course, nothing lasts forever, and you feel the shift before you understand it – a subtle thrum in the air of the yard, men straightening unconsciously, attention drawn toward a single man moving through the crowd draped in an air of measured confidence.
The Crown Prince’s son carries his father’s features clearly, even from afar – the elegant features, the strong line of his jaw, the dark hair cut short, the only evidence of his Targaryen namesake the streak of silver woven through the dark strands, pale as forged steel as it catches the light.
Prince Valarr is not armored in ceremony, wearing simple garments, dark and fitted, a dragon clasp fastening his cloak at the shoulder. His gaze lands upon you, his expression unreadable as he finds you watching from beneath the arch, and before you have time to prepare to meet another Targaryen today, he is heading toward you.
“Lady Peake.” He greets, his voice smooth and formal as he inclines his head towards you. Up close, you’re surprised to notice how little he looks like the Targaryens of whom you’ve heard tales, faint freckles scattered across fair skin, one of his eyes a warm brown, the other a pale violet blue, mirroring those of his father.
You blink, remembering yourself, and dip into a rushed curtsey. “Your Grace.”
When you rise, you find him surveying you coolly, and you can feel the scrutiny plainly, though he hides his expression well. The court has surely spoken your name enough since your arrival was announced, and he is no doubt curious of what to make of you – as you are of him.
There is a moment of silence, not quite awkward, but definitely not comfortable, where he presses his lips together and you fidget with your hands.
“You have been received by my father?” He asks finally, ever the courteous, and you nod with a small smile.
“I have, yes,” you answer, and then tack on. “He is a very gracious host.”
Valarr nods, seemingly pleased with your answer. After another beat of silence, he glances down the corridor, then back to you. “And my grandsire?”
You pause, calculating the best response for the brusque dismissal you’d received. “I– Yes, but only briefly.”
Another silence, and it really ought to be your turn to prompt conversation, but you’re too busy willing your palms to stop sweating and your heart to quiet down.
At last his gaze flicks down toward the yard, then returns to you. “You’ve come to watch the knights train?” He asks, raising a brow.
The faint lift at the corner of his mouth carries a suggestion you recognize immediately, of ladies fanning themselves and loitering around to watch the knights and princes sweat beneath the sun.
Your spine straightens almost imperceptibly, bristling at the insinuation.
“I came to see where I would be spending my mornings, your Grace.” You have to fight to smooth your tone despite the tightening in your chest, your hands folded in front of you to stop them from curling.
Valarr frowns slightly, searching your face for humour, but he doesn’t find any. “You jest, my lady,” he says after a moment. “Surely you will not be–“
“Training?” You supply politely. “I shall, my Prince. I was told it would be best to resume my daily habits from Starpike. For the sake of my… assimilation.”
“Your daily habits?” The amusement in his voice is clearer now.
The briefest image of you slapping the amused look off his face flashes at the back of your mind, and you take a deep breath to dispel it. “Yes.”
Valarr studies you for a long moment, then exhales a quiet breath that almost resembles a laugh, and you run your tongue along the sharp edges of your teeth.
“I see,” he says slowly. “Though I do wonder whether the other occupants of the yard will know quite what to make of such habits.”
You tilt your head. “Surely a prince as accomplished in arms as yourself understands the value of keeping one’s skills sharp, your Grace.” You blink at him with deliberate innocence.
His eyes narrow instantly, nostrils flaring ever so slightly as you watch him wrangle his expression into a near perfect mask of impassivity. “Of course, but perhaps there are other activities more suited to your ladyship’s temperament. Might I suggest needlepoint? Promenades through the gardens?”
You feel heat rush to your face. For a moment you nearly let it pass – you are in the Red Keep, and he is the prince. Courtesy should win, but the yard below rings with the clash of steel, and your hands still remember the weight of a sword.
When you speak again, your voice remains polite, only the edge has sharpened.
“I did not realise the people of King's Landing had such… delicate sensibilities, my prince,” you say evenly. “I shall try not to disturb the balance of things.”
Valarr’s expression cools even further. “I assure you,” he replies, “The balance of the King’s Court is hardly disturbed by ladies waving wooden swords around.”
“Perhaps that’s why–” You nearly lost the throne, you’re about to say, and you shut your mouth fast, suddenly realising the idiotic and treasonous retort that was about to fly out. You pause for a moment, summoning another ending to your sentence that won't get you executed, and Valarr studies you, eyes narrowing in confusion.
“Why your knights seem so very comfortable.” Still too insolent to be said to a prince, but better than flat out treason.
The silence that follows is sharp, the prince before you going very still, the muscle in his jaw jumping visibly as he clenches it – likely fighting back a harsher retort.
“I was told that given a little time the Lady Peake would remember her place in this court,” he tilts his head, levelling you with a look that makes your heart race and heat rush to your face. “It appears now that may have been optimistic.”
For several long seconds, neither of you speak, the voice in the back of your head telling you to shut up and mind your tone finally working properly.
Then, Prince Valarr inclines his head in a perfectly courtly gesture, expression tight and eyes slightly narrowed. “Good afternoon, my lady.”
He steps away before you can respond, striding toward the steps leading back up into the halls of the Keep. You watch him go, heart still thundering in your chest, the streak of white in his dark hair flashing once in the afternoon sun before he disappears.
Only when he is gone do you release the breath you have been holding, and decide – with perfect certainty – that you despise Prince Valarr Targaryen, and if the look he left you with is any indication, the feeling seems entirely mutual.
Heres whats gonna happen, benoit freakin blanc and I are gonna ask you all some questions, and you all are gonna answer them and we're gonna get to the bottom of who killed monsignor wicks ☝️ aND WHY. and thennn... THATS IT!!
jud holding his hands behind his back when he's being cute and approachable because he sees them as weapons. the constant self-restraint. the overcompensation to make himself seem as harmless as possible.
