Omg sooooo true about all the Jace fics being so soft!! But did you see that man this season! The sass, the angriness, the hatred for his enemies. He finally had a voice and it was so fucking hot!! Please give me more rough sex with Jace!! Bonus points for choking pretty please!!
don’t gotta ask me twice, this isn’t super long but i think you’ll still enjoy it ;) i also have another ask that just says more mean rough jace so here ya go
if you don’t leave soon | jacaerys velaryon
pairing: jacaerys velaryon x fem!reader
warnings: choking, smut (MDNI 18+), wax play
────── ☾ ──────
Jacaerys was always handsome to you, but lately, he was hot. Like really, really, hot.
When you were present at council meetings, you noticed that Jacaerys would actually speak up and make his voice heard. He was becoming more vocal toward his mother as well, and was truly asserting himself as heir to the throne. Ever since his business in Winterfell, he wore his hair down, his natural dark curls framing his exquisite bone structure perfectly.
He was always frustrated as of late, and the veins on the hand that rested on the hilt of his sword would tense and flex as he gripped it tighter and tighter. You couldn’t bring yourself to look away.
You couldn’t get him out of your head.
Even just being in the same room as him turned you on, your legs clenching together in your seat as your body instinctively turned toward him.
He was consuming your every thought, every move, and every dream. It became unbearable. Your desire for Jacaerys was controlling your entire life.
You needed air. You needed to spend the hours in the dead of night distracted, rather than in your chambers with your hand between your legs and Jacaerys on your mind.
You tied your robe closed around your nightdress, taking a deep breath as you snuck out of your chambers and headed toward the outdoor overlook, in desperate need of the nighttime air on your face to calm your desires down.
You slowly creaked open the door to the council room, intent on just passing through to arrive at your destination, when you saw Jacaerys seated at the council table.
He was slouched in his chair, an elbow resting on the table as leverage for him to rest his head in his palm. He was inspecting the table, deep in thought. So deep, in fact, that he didn’t even hear you come in.
You were a mere few feet behind him when you broke the silence. “Jace?”
Jace’s body jolted slightly when you spoke, violently snapping him out of his trance. “Hey.”
“Are you alright? It’s rather late,” you asked.
“Just thinking,” he answered, his eyes still transfixed to the table in front of him.
“I do not wish to disturb you,” you said, unsure of what else to say, but you didn’t make an effort to leave.
Jacaerys lifted his head and finally turned toward you. “You are not disturbing me.”
You gave him a small smile in response. The air was thick between you two, the silence awkward and deafening. The flames from the candles on the table flickered, illuminating his features as they danced. He looked so pretty. You couldn’t move, you couldn’t speak, and most importantly, you couldn’t look away.
You had to say something. You couldn’t just awkwardly stand somewhat behind him and stare at him forever, but you desperately didn’t want to leave. “Want some company?”
Jacaerys smiled at you. “Sure.”
You sat down in the chair closest to him. He was at the head of the table, and you were seated beside him, slightly around the bend. You were turned toward him, allowing you to watch him even more.
You sat in silence for several minutes. You were in awe of his beauty, his appearance in the late hour driving your hormones wild.
Jacaerys finally spoke first. “I secured a partnership in the Riverlands today.”
It was not at all what you expected him to say, but you were happy that he was finally speaking to you. “On your own?”
“Mhm,” he responded, toying with one of the model towers on the table, “I didn’t alert my mother I was leaving. I just went and did it.”
“She must have been very pleased with your initiative,” you told him.
“And yet she still refuses to utilize my talents,” he sighed, knocking over the piece he was toying with, his voice slightly raising at the end of his sentence as his frustrations made themselves known.
You looked to the piece rolling around the table, and then to him. “I’m sure she only wants to keep you safe.”
Jacaerys threw his head back, leaning on the chair and letting out a frustrated sigh. “She needs me if she wants to win this war.”
“I agree,” you said, the words coming out before you could think them through.
Jacaerys tilted his head down just enough to see you. “You do?”
You adjusted your robe in your lap. “Of course.”
Jace stayed looking at you for what felt like forever. “What are you doing up at this hour?” he asked you.
“I could not sleep,” you admitted, and it was the truth.
“Neither could I,” he reciprocated, “I have not been sleeping much as of late.”
“If you need to speak of what troubles you, I believe myself to be a rather good listener.”
You exchanged yet another look in a moment of silence before Jacaerys sighed, asking, “Do you think me capable of ruling?”
The question caught you off guard. “What?”
“As it is now, do you think I could rule?”
You swallowed nervously. You didn’t understand why he was asking you, and you were worried that you would give him the wrong answer. You figured the truth was always best. “I think we are much too young to assume such positions, but if you continue to grow the way you have as of late, I think you will make a wonderful ruler.”
Jacaerys leaned forward and placed a hand on your knee. You flinched in surprise, and your breathing caught in the back of your throat.
“Thank you,” he said.
“Of course, Jacaerys. You know I’ll always stand behind you.”
Jacaerys looked at you through hooded eyes. The moonlight was streaking into the room, and the only sound was the flickering of the candle wicks.
You did not expect him to speak, and if he did, you expected it to be about more insecurities regarding his position as the queen’s son. What he said was the very last thing you expected, but along the lines of the very first thing you often dreamed of.
“I’m quite pleased to have you in front of me.”
You blinked, expecting yourself to snap out of this dream and see where you truly were soon, but nothing changed. He was in front of you, and this was reality. You shuddered as Jacaerys began to rub your leg with his thumb.
“I-“
Words completely escaped you.
“May I be candid with you?” he asked, his voice gentle.
“Of course,” you said, your voice shaky.
“If you don’t leave soon, I won’t be able to stop myself from fucking you.”
You inhaled a sharp gasp. You didn’t intend to make noise, but you couldn’t help yourself. Your cheeks flushed as you stared into his eyes, searching for any sense that this was a joke or a test, but to no avail.
“W-what?”
“You have to leave, or I’m going to fuck you.”
“Jace-“ your voice trailed off.
“Get up.”
You stood immediately, your chair shifting slightly backward from the urgency of the move, your body responding to his demands as if it was second nature. He followed suit, stepping toward you so that your bodies were touching as he gazed down at you, his body looming over you.
He pushed your hair behind your shoulder, his fingers grazing against the nape of your neck as they moved to the back of your head. He gripped your hair and yanked your head backward.
“I don’t think I can control myself anymore,” he nearly whispered, dipping his head into the crook of your neck.
He fought with all of his self-control not to touch you, nervous he would overstep if you didn’t consent. He simply inhaled your scent, watching you swallow in anticipation and nervousness.
“Tell me to stop,” he said.
Your lips parted, but no words came out.
“Tell me to stop, Y/N,” he repeated.
You took a deep breath, Jacaerys placing a soft kiss on the side of your neck.
“I don’t want you to stop.”
Jace lifted his head to meet your gaze. “I don’t have the self control to be nice to you right now. I’m too frustrated.”
Your confidence grew as he spoke. The assurance that he wanted you too made you realize that this was now or never, and you were way too horny to get in your own way.
“So don’t be nice to me.”
Jacaerys yanked your hair backward even more, exposing more of your neck to him. He took a deep breath, connecting his lips to your neck again. He sucked the spot he landed on, his unoccupied hand pulling your waist against his hips.
He then bit down on the skin of your neck, pulling lightly with his teeth. You whined at the feeling, and you could suddenly feel his clothed cock throb against your thigh.
Jace’s hands traveled down your body until they reached the back of your thighs. He pushed and prompted you to jump, your legs wrapping around his waist. You instinctively placed your arms around his neck for balance.
He spun you around, dropping you gently onto the table.
“Kiss me,” he instructed.
Your fingers tangled in the hair on the back of his neck as you looked at him. This was all you’d been waiting for.
You pulled him closer to you, connecting your lips in a desperate kiss. His lips moved in sync with yours, his hands grabbing at your waist. He pulled you closer to the edge of the table, so that his hips could rub against yours. He grinded against you as the kiss heated up, your mutual eagerness coming to light.
You tested the waters, catching his bottom lip between your teeth and tugging slightly, disconnecting the kiss as you watched his face to garner his reaction.
He growled and pressed his lips to yours again, kissing you even harder as he vigorously untied your robe, bunching up the bottom of your nightdress and pushing it up your thighs.
His lips trailed down your jawline to your neck, sucking the slightly bruised spot from before as he pulled your small clothes down your legs enough to allow him access to your core. He immediately began to rub you, running a finger between your folds and circling around your bud.
You threw your head back, which only made Jacaerys suck harder on your neck.
He pulled away, leaning over you and using an arm to swipe away everything on the table directly behind you.
“Lay down,” he demanded.
You shifted your body until you were laying on the council table, your legs dangling off the edge as your current location dawned on you.
“Jace, what if someone walks in?” you asked, trying much too hard to sound coherent.
“Stay quiet and they won’t,” he replied, nearly a threat, untying his breeches and grabbing the seam of his small clothes, pulling both down to free himself.
“But-“
“Sh,” he said, kneeling down on the floor in front of you.
You were staring at the ceiling, completely at Jace’s mercy, and you loved it. You couldn’t see what he was doing, you could only feel him prop your legs up onto his shoulders.
Without warning, he licked from your hole to your bud, collecting the wetness as he pressed his mouth onto you, licking and sucking at your cunt. Your back arched off of the table, a low whine leaving your lips.
You peered down at him, and he was already looking up at you. One of his arms was shaking slightly, disappearing underneath the table, while his other arm held onto your hips. He was touching himself.
Even though it was happening right in front you, just the thought of Jace touching himself as he watched you react to him tasting you was too much for you. He looked so fucking pretty between your legs, his nose buried in your cunt, and his hair soft against your inner thighs.
Your hand moved down to hold onto the back of his head, lightly pulling at his hair to keep his tongue in a steady rhythm. It made Jacaerys moan into your core, and the feeling sent a shiver up your spine, causing your hole to convulse around nothing.
You continued to release soft, high-pitched moans as his tongue moved faster and faster. Your back arched again, and Jacaerys pressed his forearm into your lower stomach, forcing you to stay still against the table, but the stimulation was too overwhelming.
“Jace, I can’t-“ you tried to bargain, but it only made him stop. He stood up and towered over you.
“Can’t what, hm?” he taunted you.
He had you wrapped around his finger. You swallowed in anticipation, and Jacaerys watched the way your throat tensed from the nervousness.
He couldn’t help himself. He brought a hand up to your throat, running his pointer finger along the center before grabbing it, holding slight pressure on either side.
He gazed down at you in amusement, his cock throbbing against his stomach at the sight of you, laying down ready for him, with his hand around your throat.
Jace leaned down as far as he could toward your ear. “You gonna be good?” he whispered.
You nodded your head up and down, but that’s not what he wanted.
He squeezed your throat even tighter, your breathing now slightly obstructed. “It would be rude not to answer your future king when he asks you a question.”
You nearly gasped, “I’ll be good,” the words strained and nearly a whisper from the pressure on your throat.
Jacaerys stayed close to you, holding your neck down against the table as he lined himself up with your entrance, watching your face contort as he slowly pushed into you. Your head tried to turn away from his gaze, but you couldn’t move.
Watching you struggle, unable to do much due to his hand around your throat, amused Jacaerys. He peppered kisses along your jawline as he began to move in and out, not giving you much time to adjust to his size.
You whimpered nonstop as he fucked you, only keeping a tame pace for a few thrusts before he began to ruthlessly snap his hips. You cried out when he picked up the pace.
“I warned you I wouldn’t be nice,” he said.
You tried to respond, but the pressure against your vocal chords had you coughing instead. Your walls squeezed Jace’s cock, any reminder of his hand around your throat instantly heightening your arousal.
“Aweh,” Jace cooed, “you like it when I choke you, hm?”
“Y-yes,” you struggled out, using all your power to speak the word.
Jacaerys growled, standing tall, but never removing his hand from your throat. His unoccupied hand gripped your waist, keeping you close to him as he slammed into you.
He let his pent up anger take over his actions, watching you writhe and grab at nothing as he fucked you and, subsequently, knocking anything and everything off the table.
You knocked over one of the candles closest to you, and the wax ran for a moment, the hot liquid hitting your upper arm. You gasped at the sudden sting of pain, and Jacaerys noticed it wasn’t just a normal moan.
He scanned your body and caught the wax hitting you.
“Did that hurt?” he asked.
You wrapped your hand around his wrist, hoping he would let up on your throat and allow you to speak easier, but he wasn’t budging. “Only a little.”
Jacaerys removed his hand from your throat and watched as you gasped for air, coughing for a moment before you finally caught your breath.
He lifted one of the still-lit candles over your breasts, slowly tilting it further and further to the side until wax dripped directly onto the flesh of your breasts. You hissed at the pain, but it cooled the moment a drop hit your skin. He moved the candle back and forth, covering your cleavage in the wax.
“Fuck,” he cursed under his breath, placing the candle back down and wiping away the cooled wax with his finger. There were red marks all along your upper breasts from the heat.
“Christ, Y/N,” he moaned. His cock was still inside of you.
You became self conscious, thinking you did something wrong. “I’m sorry,” you said, hoping he would apply it to whatever you did wrong.
“For what?”
“I don’t know.”
“You didn’t do anything wrong,” he assured you, running his hand over your breasts, tracing your collarbone, and gripping your throat again, “except for plaguing every single dream I’ve had for weeks.”
He was dreaming of you?
He started to move again, immediately resuming his brutal pace. His hips knocked against yours with every thrust, and the tip of his cock hit the sweet spot inside of you.
“Jace- I-“
He could feel you beginning to squeeze him, your breathing quickening and your moans falling freely.
“Come for me, Y/N. You’re mine.”
You’re mine. That was all it took.
Your body jolted with release, cries of his name attempting to escape your throat but getting caught by the pressure from Jacaerys’s hand, which was now pressing even harder as you came, enhancing the pleasure of your climax.
“Fuck,” he cursed, feeling you squeeze him and further lubricate his cock, “you feel so fucking good.”
You were overstimulated, your body attempting to come down from one high while simultaneously chasing another as Jace continued to piston his cock in and out of you.
As dominant as he was being, you felt like you should do something to help him come, so you swallowed your pride and embarrassment and whispered in his ear, “Come in me, Jace, I wanna feel it inside of me.”
Jacaerys dropped his head into the crook of your neck, his eyes blown out with lust. He groaned at your words.
“Please, Your Grace.”
No one had ever called Jacaerys such a high-ranking title before. It was destined to be his, as he was the heir to the true queen, but it had never been spoken out loud. It added to his dominance, reminding him that he was in control over you.
He came on the spot.
His hips snapped harshly against yours a final few times as he spilled his seed deep within you. Your legs were shaking as he pressed his forehead to yours, catching his breath as he pulled out of you.
He stayed bent over for a while, enjoying being close to you.
“You alright?” he checked, disconnecting his hand from your neck.
“Mhm,” you hummed in response.
“You can breathe alright?” he continued.
“I can breathe just fine,” you assured him.
Jacaerys sighed and smiled at you. “Then I guess I didn’t do a good enough job.”
You blushed at his words, which only made his smile widen further. You covered your face with your hands, but Jacaerys grabbed your wrists, moving them away and kissing your knuckles.
He stood and clothed himself, holding out a hand for you to take as you jumped off of the table. You nearly collapsed, but Jacaerys wrapped an arm around your waist.
“What are you doing to me?” he asked genuinely.
“I could ask you the same question,” you replied, leaning upward to place a kiss on his cheek.
Dean hooking up with Garrett's sister at his and Hannah's wedding. This could be fun
I've been working on this one for almost two weeks. It's finally out!! I can't believe I wrote 8k...
Summary: The wedding bells are finally ringing — Hannah and Garrett are getting MARRIED! For the occasion, everyone reunites at a breathtaking lakeside venue in Massachusetts, just a stone's throw from where their story first began. Friends return, old memories resurface, and for one unforgettable weekend, Briar's favorite alumni are back together. Among the guests is Garrett's younger sister, who spent the last three years living her best life across Europe. She never expected to see Dean again — not after the week you shared together
Warnings: 18+, smut, p + v, secret relationship, drinking,
—
‘’Logan and Grace are going to go in first. Then, Allie and Tucker,’’ the wedding coordinator explained. ‘’Don’t forget, bridesmaids come in from this side and groomsmen the other.’’
They nodded, following the instructions and walking slowly and elegantly.
‘’Best man and maid of honor, you'll be last before the bride— where is the bride?’’
Everyone looked around for Hannah, then turned to Garrett because he of all people should know where his future bride was.
Truth was, he hadn’t seen Hannah in a few hours. Her parents had arrived in the morning along with other members of her family. Then, it was Allie’s turn, and although they had seen each other the night before, they had a lot to talk about.
‘’I’m here,’’ Hannah called with you in tow, making your brother sigh with relief. ‘’The strap of my dress broke so we had to sew it back on.’’
The two of you went to the back of the aisle while Garrett returned to his place at the altar.
The wedding coordinator smiled. ‘’Crisis averted. Shall we continue? Best man and maid of honor, you'll be the last ones down the aisle before the bride. Dean, once Garrett's in position, you'll take yours beside him.’’
Dean gave a curt nod.
He hadn’t changed much since you last saw him. His hair seemed a little longer and his shoulders wider, but he still looked as handsome as you remembered. Especially in gray. It matched his blue eyes well.
Tearing your eyes from him, you busied yourself by smoothing the wrinkles from Hannah's dress, adjusting the water bottle in her hands that served as a bouquet before stepping off to the side. It looked ridiculous, but her flowers won’t get here until tomorrow morning so Allie improvised and gave her a water bottle instead.
You felt a nudge. Dean was waiting and offering you his arm. You apologized quietly and took it.
The second your hand slipped into the crook of his arm, Dean straightened and you began walking side by side down the aisle — not as a couple, not even close —, but there was something undeniably intimate about it.
With calm eyes looking ahead and a soft floral dress ending just above your ankles, you began walking. Every step brought you closer to your brother standing tall at the altar, but all you could focus on was the feel of Dean’s bicep under your hand.
‘’How’s Florence?’’ the latter asked quietly.
‘’Good,’’ you replied carefully. “Quiet. Beautiful. A little too easy to get lost in.”
Dean hummed softly, like he was picturing it. “Sounds like you picked the right place, then.”
You glanced up at him, but his eyes stayed forward, focused on the path ahead. Dean’s arm stayed steady beneath your hand as you walked, like he wasn’t thinking about it at all. Like this was just another role to play.
But you were very aware of it.
The warmth of him. The solid press of muscle under your fingers. The way he matched your pace without effort.
‘’You look good in that dress, by the way.’’
You almost stopped walking right there, taken by surprise by his compliment. It wasn’t just any compliment though. It lingered — heavier than it should have, carrying something unspoken beneath it.
The wedding coordinator watched carefully from the front, then lifted a hand. ‘’Perfect. Stop there!’’
You both came to a halt, still arm in arm.
‘’Dean, you'll step over to Garrett once she reaches her spot. Maid of honor, you'll line up with the two bridesmaids. Your spot is at the front."
You nodded.
‘’Perfect,’’ the coordinator said, making a note on her clipboard. ‘’Now let's practice the bride's entrance.’’
· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·
For the rehearsal dinner, the wedding party had gathered around a long table in the property’s large backyard. The sun was about to set over the lake, giving a beautiful golden hour ambiance, which was perfect to take pictures for the wedding album.
Three years had gone by since you all sat down together. Life had pulled everyone in different directions — different cities, different countries. Sunday dinners like this didn’t happen as easily anymore.
But somehow, the chaos was exactly the same.
‘’Because G has banned me and Pricilla from his house. You know I would never miss your birthday, Hannah,’’ Tucker defended.
You glanced at him, a soft smile on your lips. ‘’Priscilla? You got a girl, Tuck?’’
Logan laughed, shaking his head between bites. ‘’Priscilla is Tucker’s golden lab.’’
You blinked. How did you not know Tucker got a dog?
You knew he had moved back to Texas and opened a gym, but somehow a whole dog had completely slipped under your radar.
‘’That dog got mud all over my couch the last time you came over,’’ Garrett added.
‘’And the carpets…and the entrance wall,’’ said Hannah.
‘’And Priscilla is very sorry about the mess,’’ Tucker apologized, completely unbothered. ‘’She’s better behaved now.’’
Garrett rolled his eyes.
‘’Can I see her?’’ you asked.
Tucker pulled up an album from his phone and handed it over. ‘’This was when Dean visited last month. He took her on a run every morning. She loved him. Refused to leave the guest room for hours after he left.’’
You raised an eyebrow as you looked over the screen. ‘’You? Dean Di Laurentis? You went to Texas?’’
That was unexpected. Dean had always been a city person. The kind who preferred penthouses to ranches and clubs to open fields. You had difficulty imagining him in cowboy boots and a plaid shirt.
You swiped to the next photo: Priscilla in a truck bed, a purple bandana around her neck, someone’s hand scratching her belly. You recognized Dean’s signet ring instantly. Swiping again, a short video of Dean in athletic shorts, shirtless and sweaty, likely coming back from a run. Tuck called for his dog, but the latter stayed by Dean’s feet.
‘’She’s very cute,’’ you said, handing the phone back.
You couldn’t risk staring at Dean’s naked chest too long.
Tucker slipped it into his pocket with a satisfied grin. ‘’She knows it, too.’’
‘’She also knows she can get away with murder,’’ Dean pointed out. ‘’Last Christmas, she stole an entire loaf of garlic bread off the counter.’’
‘’It was artisanal,’’ Tucker defended. ‘’My girl has expensive taste.’’
Garrett scoffed. ‘’She ate the plastic bag too.’’
Laughter rolled through the table, and something in your chest tightened.
When you left for Europe, you had assumed keeping up with your friends through social media, texts and phone calls would be enough to stay in the loop. Apparently, it wasn't. There was so much you had missed…
‘’Enough about that dog,’’ Allie decided, setting her empty glass of wine down. ‘’Now that Hannah and Garrett are tying the knot…who is next? I saw this gorgeous dress on 5th Avenue and I need an occasion to buy it.’’
Hannah laughed, shaking her head at her best friend.
Garrett’s eyes turned to Logan. ‘’My bet’s on Logan. No pressure though,’’ he added.
Allie made a disapproving sound. ‘’Your money’s already lost Graham because Logan doesn’t want to get married. Grace told me.’’
Grace narrowed her eyes at Allie and Logan was quick to defend himself. ‘’That’s not what I said.’’
‘’I said I didn’t see the point of spending so much money on a wedding. I’ve seen the prices and it’s insane shit. Right now, our priority is to get a house,’’ he explained, covering Grace’s hand with his.
Beside him, Grace nodded.
‘’We all know Dean’s never settling down, so that leaves you,’’ Allie continued, shifting her eyes to Tucker and then to you. ‘’And you.’’
‘’Tucker caught Dean’s college habit, so marriage is probably not on his mind,’’ Logan teased, only to receive a piece of bread thrown at him.
‘’And my sister is not seeing anyone,’’ Garrett said, his eyes falling on you. ‘’She would have told me, right?’’
Before you could say anything, Allie did.
‘’You don’t know that,’’ Allie said smoothly. ‘’She might have a mysterious Italian man she didn’t tell us about.’’
The table went a little quieter.
There had been an Italian man in your life, but that boat sank into the Mediterranean sea before it even left the port. His name was Edoardo. He was tall, handsome and worked as a chef at a high-end restaurant. You kept him from your friends due to that relationship not being serious enough to share.
Dean’s gaze found yours then, steady and unreadable, like he was waiting.
‘’I don’t.’’
· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·
After one last glass of wine, you wished everyone good night, then went to your room. Being the sister of the groom had its perks — you had been granted a room to yourself. Unlike Tucker and Dean who were forced to room together. It'll be like away games at Briar, Garrett told them with a clap on their shoulder and an amused smile.
Unzipping your dress and removing the makeup from your face felt freeing. Although she was relatively comfortable, you had been wearing that dress since noon. You couldn’t wait to fall on the plush bed and close your eyes.
Except your eyes wouldn’t close.
The ceiling fan turned slowly above you. Outside, faint frog sounds mixed with crickets as the moon glowed over the lake. It should be relaxing, but instead your mind wouldn’t quiet.
It kept replaying moments you didn’t want to replay too closely.
Dean’s arm under your hand.
His voice beside you in the aisle.
His eyes on you when Allie asked if you were seeing someone.
He hadn’t looked at you like that since…Paris.
You had posted on your social media about setting foot in Paris and, a few days later, Dean sent you a DM about an hypothetical trip to Paris. He needed a place to take his mind off work because working at his grandfather’s law firm was sucking the life out of him.
Seeing him haul his suitcase up to your small apartment the following made you mentally kick your feet and giggle. He was really there. For you.
That night, you went to the bar under your apartment and talked over a glass of wine. It was funny how quickly life had changed from beers at Malone’s to wine in Paris. You felt so…adult.
‘’I didn’t know you were a win connaisseur, Di Laurentis.’’
Dean let out a quiet laugh, swirling the deep red wine in his glass before taking another sip. ‘’I’m not. I just appreciate a good french red.’’
You smiled over the rim of your own glass. ‘’Paris does have great wines.’’
‘’What else is great about Paris?’’ Dean asked, raising an eyebrow and leaning closer over the table.
You wanted to grab the front of his shirt and kiss him. But you didn’t.
Not long after, the combination of jetlag and a long flight hit Dean and you came back to your place.
‘’I forgot to tell you, there’s only one bed,’’ you explained, slightly embarrassed, motioning to the Murphy bed near the window.
Dean glanced at the bed, noting your light pink sheets that matched the ones at your old dorm — some things didn’t change. ‘’What?! I thought this was the Ritz.’’
You threw a pillow at him and he laughed.
The next day, instead of taking him to all the tourist traps, you decided to show him your Paris. The neighborhood café you always go to for breakfast, your favorite bakery, little rituals you loved, and hidden corners tourists rarely see. Dean’s french was terrible, so you had to translate for him…and you may or may not intentionally left out the compliments locals gave him.
It wasn’t until that evening that he made a move to kiss you. Not a sweet, romantic kiss like the romcoms. It was all tongue and pure desire, making up for all the time he had wanted to kiss you again but refrained from. You heard a passerby whistle teasingly but ignored him, gripping the front of Dean’s button up shirt to press him against you.
That week in Paris was your best kept secret.
· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·
It was nearly 1am when you heard a knock on your door.
Peeling the comforter off you, you left your bed. You assumed it was Garrett getting cold feet and needing to talk, but when you cracked the door open, your heart stumbled.
Dean.
He had changed out of his dress clothes into a pair of athletic shorts, his blond hair looking like he had been tossing and turning for the past hour.
‘’Sorry,’’ he said quietly. ‘’I thought this was Garrett’s room… Tucker’s snoring is a violation of the Geneva Convention. I was hoping to crash with him.’’
You raised an eyebrow. ‘’Garrett's room is on the floor above. He has the master bedroom.’’
‘’Right. I should I guessed that.’’
Dean scratched the back of his neck, his usual confidence dimmed by sleepiness and the late hour. The dimmed hallway light casted soft shadows across his unfairly handsome face.
‘’Do you want to come in? Can let the best man show up with bags under his eyes. It’ll ruin the wedding picture.’’
Inviting Dean was at the rock bottom of the list of good ideas. Actually, it probably belonged somewhere below drinking champagne on an empty stomach and letting Logan pick the wedding playlist.
Because this was Dean.
Dean, who found you alone and crying on your birthday during your second year at Briar and took you to the closest bakery to buy your favorite cake. Because no one should be alone and crying on their birthday…especially without a cake. He even made it a tradition to send a chocolate and raspberry cake to your door on your birthday. Dean who punched Hunter Davenport after he cheated on you. Dean who kissed you the night the Hawks won the Frozen Four and called you his good luck charm. Dean who came to Paris just to spend time with you.
And now he was standing in your doorway in the middle of the night, shirtless and looking far too good for you to keep your hands — and lips — to yourself.
· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·
‘’You dropped out of law school?!’’ you repeated, staring at him in disbelief.
‘’In my second year. And I left the family’s firm,’’ Dean added, sinking farther into the plush pillows, one arm hooked behind his head.
Your jaw nearly hit the floor. ‘’What?!’’
You had always found it ironic that the guy who got into the most trouble was the one who wanted to become a lawyer — like his grandfather. But the more you got to know Dean, the more you realized there was far more to him than his Six Flags reputation. Beneath the effortless charm was someone who was genuinely intelligent. He stayed on top of his classes, picked things up faster than most people, and had a sharp mind that made law seem like the perfect fit.
Dean gave a small shrug. ‘’I realized it wasn't for me. It was...too much.’’ His gaze drifted toward the ceiling before finding yours again. ‘’After I quit, I went down to Tucker's place in Texas for a few weeks. I needed to get away, clear my head, and figure out what I actually wanted to do with my life.’’
‘’Did you find it?’’
He hummed. ‘’I coach a junior girls team. I may have missed my opportunity to play in the NHL, but hockey is still part of me.’’
A smile spread across your face. ‘’That’s great, Dean.’’
He let out a quiet laugh, though it sounded almost embarrassed. ‘’Yeah?’’
‘’Yeah.’’
You pulled the plush blanket over your legs as a cool breeze slipped through the cracked window. As you shifted against the headboard, Dean's eyes flickered down your cami two-piece pajama for the briefest second, following the movement before catching himself and looking back up. He could probably see your nipples against the fabric, but it’s not like he hadn’t already seen them.
‘’I’m sure you make an amazing coach.’’
A crooked smile tugged at his lips. ‘’Those girls are something else,’’ he continued. ‘’They're between eleven and thirteen, so half the practices are spent teaching them hockey, and the other half is convincing them that falling isn't the end of the world.’’ He chuckled. ‘’But when one of them finally nails a drill they've been struggling with, it's a better feeling than getting an A on any exam I ever took.’’
You couldn't help but smile wider. ‘’You like seeing them succeed.’’
He nodded. ‘’I do.’’ A thoughtful silence settled over him. ‘’I spent so long chasing what everyone else thought I should want that I never stopped to ask myself what actually made me happy.’’
His eyes met yours, steady enough to make your stomach tighten.
“Turns out, it wasn't arguing in a courtroom. It was being at a rink.’’
You held his gaze a second longer than necessary, his as beautiful as you remembered. In the soft moonlight spilling through the large window, you had a perfect view of the ripples of muscles of his chest and abs. He may not play hockey anymore, but his body still carried the unmistakable strength of an athlete.
Dean caught your wandering eyes, and one corner of his mouth lifted. ‘’What about you? Paris looked good on you. Why move to Florence?’’
‘’A job opportunity. You know the winery we visited together?’’
His expression softened slightly, the memory clearly clicking into place. ‘’The one where you tried to convince me you could tell the difference between wines?’’
‘’I could,’’ you defended, grabbing a pillow and tossing it at him.
Dean laughed, catching it against his chest with an easy grin. ‘’You absolutely could not.’’
You laughed quietly before continuing. ‘’A position opened up in their marketing department. Their headquarters are in Paris, but the job is remote. I can work from wherever I want as long as I’m in the office once a month. Paris was amazing, but I wanted something different. Somewhere quieter.’’
Dean looked impressed — and proud. ‘’That’s great, baby.’’
The word slipped out so naturally neither of you registered it at first. Then both of you froze.
You searched his face before allowing the smallest smile on your lips. ‘’You used to call me that.’’
Dean let out a quiet breath. ‘’Old habits are hard to unlearn.’’ He tried to make it sound like a joke, but the longing in his eyes gave him away.
· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·
A soft but insistent knock on your door slowly pulled you from sleep. Not again…
You chose to ignore it, far too comfortable under the sheets, and pressed your face deeper into your pillow. Whoever needed you could wait another ten minutes, right?
Then you felt the warmth of someone beside you, and the events of last night came rushing back. You couldn't remember exactly when the talking stopped or who fell asleep first. You must have moved during the night absentmindedly because Dean’s arm was under the bottom of your top, resting over your soft skin and you were curled up against him. The touch was intimate, but not undesired.
Peering one eye open, you saw that Dean was still asleep. His blond hair was messy from the night, his face relaxed in a way you rarely got to see. Without the usual smirk or playful confidence, he looked almost peaceful.
You brushed a hand through his hair, wishing you could stop time and stay here longer.
Unfortunately, a second knock hit your door.
‘’Hey, you awake?’’ Grace's voice came from the other side. ‘’It’s past eight and Ava is here for hair. Madeline should be here in fifteen minutes for makeup. Unless you want to look like jetlag is affecting you, I suggest you come down. Oh, and there’s breakfast too!’’
Right. The wedding.
· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·
The large living area, which had been turned into a bridal glam suite, was already alive by the time you walked in. You hadn’t bothered dressing, not wanting to get unwanted clothing marks when you’ll change into your dress later.
The smell of fresh coffee and pastries filled the room, mixing with the sound of laughter and the occasional panic that came with a wedding morning.
It was organized chaos.
Hannah sat on a chair in her silk robe, coffee in one hand and a croissant in the other, laughing as Allie tried to convince her that she absolutely needed to get her hair into an updo because it’ll look better with her veil…and will make her chest stand out.
‘’I don’t like having pins poking at my scalp,’’ Hannah argued, tearing a piece from her croissant. ‘’And my chest will stand out whatever I do. My dress is a sweetheart neckline.’’
‘’I’m with Allie on that, but not for the same reason,’’ Grace replied, sitting across from her while Ava was beginning to curl her hair. ‘’It’s gonna be hot today and having your hair down is only going to make you uncomfortable.’’
Hannah’s mom agreed with Grace, but reminded Hannah that it was her wedding. She could wear her hair however she liked.
You made yourself a plate with blueberry scones and some strawberries, trying to not think about the man who was in your bed.
‘’So, are you feeling nervous?’’ you asked the bride-to-be. ‘’I can’t wait to have you as my official sister in law.’’
A sigh left the brunette’s lips. ‘’A little,’’ she admitted, trying to not think about everything that could go wrong. ‘’But who isn’t on their wedding day, right?’’
You rounded the table and sat beside Hannah, offering her a small smile. ‘’Well, if there’s one thing you can stop worrying about, it’s Garrett leaving you at the altar.’’
Hannah looked over at you, her eyes softening.
‘’My brother has been head over heels in love with you since college. I’ve never seen him smile the way he does when he’s with you, or talk about anyone the way he talks about you. You’re it for him.’’ You paused, glancing down at your hands before continuing. ‘’Garrett and I didn’t grow up with the best example of what love was supposed to look like. He was so scared of being like him… But he found an amazing girl who helped him realize that he wasn’t our dad’s copy. He was nothing like him.’’
Hannah’s eyes grew glassy, and she reached for your hand. ‘’I promised myself I wasn’t going to cry so early.’’ She tried to blink the tears away, but her mom handed her a tissue.
· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·
The ceremony was beautiful.
The afternoon sun cast a golden glow over the lake, its calm surface shimmering behind the flower-lined aisle. A gentle breeze carried the scent of wildflowers through the gardens, stirring Hannah's veil just enough to make it dance as she walked toward Garrett.
There wasn't a dry eye among the guests.
Especially after the vows. You had expected something heartfelt from Hannah. As a musician and songwriter, she had a way of putting even the biggest emotions into words. But Garrett? No one had expected him to put together something as touching. There hadn't been any grand declarations or poetic metaphors — just honest promises, quiet memories, and a love so undeniable even Cupid’s nemesis would’ve been rooting for them.
By the time the officiant pronounced them husband and wife, the entire lawn erupted into applause.
Garrett didn't hesitate. He cupped Hannah's face and kissed her as though he'd been waiting years for that moment — which, in a way, he had.
Across from you, you caught Dean looking at you. He didn't look away when your eyes met, holding your gaze.
You hadn’t talked once today. There hadn’t been any time to. From the moment you climbed out of bed this morning, the day had been a whirlwind of hair and makeup, dress repairs, photos, last-minute details, and the ceremony itself.
For a brief moment, the cheers around you faded into the background.
He looked devastating in his blue suit, the tailored jacket hugging his broad shoulders and tapering perfectly at his waist. The crisp white shirt beneath it made his sun-kissed skin stand out, while the afternoon light caught the golden strands of his hair. Clean-shaven and effortlessly put together, he looked like he had stepped straight out of a perfume ad — so unfairly handsome it was almost distracting.
Dean’s gaze flickered back to the newlyweds before returning to you, and the smallest smile tugged at the corner of his lips. You couldn't tell what he was thinking, but something in the way he looked at you made your heart skip.
Behind you, Allie was studying the exchange without saying anything.
· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·
Long oak tables overlooked the lake, dressed with a dusty blue table runner that matched the cushion on the chairs. Low arrangements of pale blue delphiniums, white ranunculus, baby's breath served as centerpieces, accompanied by flickering candles. The woodland elegance matched Hannah and Garrett perfectly.
On the very left, a small stage was built with a piano keyboard set in the middle, letting the guest assume Hannah would be performing later. According to Allie, she had written a song for Garrett. A song she never planned on releasing nor singing elsewhere. A song just for their big day.
‘’A picture with the bride!’’
Jules called as they were holding a camera, making sure you, Allie and Grace were all in the picture too.
You had already taken loads of pictures, but these were only for the memories you would look back on years from now. Silly selfies, people dancing and laughing, and inappropriate gestures from the groomsmen.
After the picture was taken, one of Hannah’s aunts stole her away and Grace went to Logan’s rescue, catching a woman well into her forties flirting with him. An amused laugh spilled on your lips at the sight.
‘’What’s going on between you and Dean?’’
You snapped your attention back to her. ‘’What are you talking about?’’
Allie gave you a look. ‘’I saw him looking at you.’’
‘’You’re imagining things. When was the last time you had your eyesight checked?’’
‘’Don’t play that card with me,’’ she warned, not letting go of the subject.
You sighed. ‘’I’m not playing any cards, Allie. There’s Dean and I.’’
Speaking of Dean, he was standing by the bar, getting drinks with Tucker and a Bruins player. Tucker was talking about hockey stats, completely invested in whatever point he was trying to make, but Dean’s attention had shifted to you. His eyes moved over you slowly, taking in the blue dress you were wearing and the way the silky fabric fell perfectly against your body.
He watched Allie leave, then turned back to the bartender and ordered another glass of champagne.
‘’Thought you might need a refill,’’ he said, his voice low enough that only you could hear as he appeared at your side.
You smiled as you accepted the glass. ‘’Trying to get me drunk, Di Laurentis?’’
Dean's lips twitched. ‘’If I was, I would have brought you something stronger.’’
A laugh escaped you. ‘’Thanks.’’
As you took the flute, his fingertips lingered against yours for the briefest second before his other hand found the small of your back. The touch was innocent enough that no one around you would think twice about it, but you felt every second of it. You leaned slightly into him, taking a sip of champagne while his thumb brushed your skin lightly.
‘’Having fun?’’ he asked.
You looked around, seeing Hannah and Garrett smiling patiently through yet another round of family photos.
‘’It's weird,’’ you admitted. ‘’My brother is married.’’
Dean followed your gaze. ‘’I know.’’
‘’It feels like yesterday we were all at Briar, and now…’’ You laughed softly. ‘’Give them a couple of years and they'll probably be chasing toddlers around.’’
‘’Garrett's going to be an overprotective dad.’’
‘’Oh, absolutely.’’
‘’Hannah's going to pretend she's the reasonable one.’’
‘’But she'll secretly be worse.’’
Dean chuckled. ‘’One hundred percent.’’
For a moment, the two of you simply watched them, the conversation settling into a comfortable silence.
‘’So, when are you going back to Florence?’’ Dean asked.
Before he could answer, the band eased into a slow song. Around you, conversations quieted as couples drifted toward the dance floor.
‘’Dance with me.’’
You blinked. ‘’Dean…’’
He set his champagne flute on the nearest table before holding out his hand. ‘’Come on. It’ll be like on Canal Saint-Martin.’’
The memory hit you instantly — the warm summer night along Canal Saint-Martin, some musicians strumming their instruments beneath the glow of a lamppost while a small crowd lingered along the water's edge. Without a second thought, Dean had held out his hand, a crooked smile tugging at his lips, and pulled you into the music. He surprised you by not stepping on your feet — not even once. You swayed to the music, his hand settling at your waist before he effortlessly twirled you beneath the glow of the moon.
No one had ever danced with you like that. No one had ever looked at you the way he had that night.
You looked at his outstretched hand for another second before slipping your fingers into his.
· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·
You couldn’t remember who made the first move. Who reached for whom. All you knew was that Dean's lips were on yours and your hands all over each other’s body.
Every few steps, one of you would reluctantly pull back just enough to keep climbing the stairs before crashing together again and kissing against the wall, unable to wait until you reached somewhere you could finally be alone.
This kiss was the first since Paris.
That last night, you both agreed to never speak of Paris. Because you would never work as a couple. Dean was in New York, working at his family’s firm and would be attending law school in the fall while you were on the other side of the ocean. The distance between you was simply too much.
Yet here you were.
Dean’s hand cupped your jaw as he kissed you again, his tongue sliding in and caressing yours. Your fingers tangled in the lapels of his suit, wrinkling the expensive fabric as he backed you up another step.
A laugh escaped you when your heel caught on the edge of the stair.
‘’Careful,’’ Dean murmured against your mouth, one arm instinctively circling your waist before you could lose your balance. ‘’I don’t want you to get a concussion before I get my piece of cake. I’ve been wanting to do kiss you all day.’’ He pressed his right below your ear. ‘’To touch you all day,’’ he continued, kissing down your neck. ‘’To fuck you all day.’’ He pulled the thin strap of your dress down your shoulder and kissed your exposed skin.
You leaned your head back, pliant under his lips, and pushed your hands into his hair. Dean’s breath hitched when you pulled at it, loving the way you knew exactly how to unravel him.
He kissed down your collarbone, slow and deliberate, savoring every inch of skin he hadn’t touched in what felt like a lifetime ago.
Once you made it into one of the rooms, you pulled Dean’s jacket off and began working on his belt while he lifted the bottom of your dress up, high enough to slip a hand under and press his hand over your panties.
‘’Dean,’’ you mewled, bucking against him.
He smirked against your lips, keeping going as he felt a wetness soak through the fabric. ‘’Like that, babydoll?’’
Tease was Dean’s second name. This man absolutely loved to play with your body and vice versa. He could spend over an hour just doing that. But your body was literally aching for him right now.
‘’Dean,’’ you repeated, breaking the kiss. ‘’If you don’t fuck me right now, I’ll kick you out of this damn room and do it myself.’’
He didn't need to be told twice.
Pants down to his thighs, the blond slipped a condom on before pushing inside you, the sensation making you gasp sharply and claw at the vanity table under you. You had almost forgotten why everyone at Briar went to him for a good time. Your body arched at the delicious stretch, your walls clenching around his cock.
‘’Ah, fuck,’’ you moaned, feeling him fill you.
Dean thrusted into you with long, deep strokes, his hands on your hips keeping him anchored. ''Baby, you feel so good,'' he praised, his pelvis smacking against your ass loudly. ‘’Missed this so much. Missed you so much.''
You rocked back against him, meeting his thrusts as desire ran through your whole body. There was no better dick than this one. Not that you would ever admit it.
Curses left his lips as he thrusted more erratically, desperate and needy after all this time apart. Your breasts were threatening to spill from your dress, whose skirt was currently bunched up at your waist for accessibility purposes. Taking it off would have been easier, but neither of you bothered fully undressing.
After you both finished, Dean, who was spent and breathless, pressed kisses up your spine, a smirk curling on his lips. He wasn’t ready to let go of you — and neither were you.
· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·
You and Dean slipped back into the celebration, each stealing a glass of champagne from a passing server. The music was still playing, laughter drifted across the lawn, and, thankfully, no one seemed to have noticed you had disappeared.
Dean took a sip of champagne, but you stopped him.
‘’Wait,’’ you said, reaching up and brushed your thumb across the corner of his mouth, wiping away the faint smear of your lipstick.
‘’Where were you?’’ came Grace’s voice from behind you, making you both turn a little too quickly. ‘’You missed the bouquet toss.’’
You nearly choked on your champagne.
For a second, your mind went completely blank. Between the lingering taste of Dean’s lips, the orgasm he just pulled out of you and the pleasant haze you were basking in, coming up with a believable excuse felt impossible.
Dean didn't miss a beat.
"She lost an earring," he said smoothly. ‘’I was helping her look for it. It belonged to her mom’s, so it’s a very sentimental piece.’’
Grace's face immediately fell. ‘’Oh no! Did you find it yet?’’
You nodded, forcing a small smile. ‘’It was in the grass, over there,’’ you said, pointing to the right.
Relief softened her features. ‘’Good!’’
Guilt twisted in your stomach as she smiled, completely convinced. But before you could dwell on the lie, Grace linked her arm through yours and dragged you away from Dean.
· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·
Hannah disappeared for a few minutes before returning in a different dress — a simple white satin gown that flowed around her as she crossed the lawn toward the small stage. A hush gradually settled over the reception. Conversations faded, glasses were set down, and every guest turned toward her.
She smiled as she settled onto the piano bench, smoothing the skirt over her legs before resting her hands lightly on the keys. Behind her, hundreds of fairy lights twinkled against the trees, reflecting softly across the dark lake. The warm glow bathed the stage in gold, making it feel almost magical.
Garrett stood at the front of the crowd, unable to take his eyes off his wife.
Hannah leaned toward the microphone with a nervous laugh. ‘’Garrett and I had an unusual debut, you could say. I was going to tutor him in Ethics and, in exchange, he would help me get this one guy’s attention. He came up with this whole plan where we would pretend to date...except we forgot about the pretending part.’’
Laughter rippled through the guests, Garrett shaking his head with an affectionate smile.
Hannah's sparkling eyes found him before she continued.
‘’Music has always been my form of expression — my refuge. With a guitar in my hand and a sheet or paper, I was practically the next Taylor Swift,'' she continued, glancing at Allie. ''But there came a moment in my life where I was convinced I had lost my creativity and ability to write lyrics.''
She looked down, making your heart ache. The past may be behind her, but would never stop hurting. You had never met someone as strong as Hannah.
‘’Garrett encouraged me to write songs again.’’ Her smile returned. ‘’He would listen to my old videos and tell me how he loved that song. How he loved my voice. His confidence in me gave me the courage to write again and to perform my original work.''
You’ll never forget the day of her showcase. How everyone had rushed to the auditorium to see her perform and support her. She and Garrett were broken up at that time, but he had stood in the front row — for her.
‘’The day I accepted to tutor him was the best decision I made because, unknowingly, I needed him just as much. He didn't just make me fall in love — he made me believe in my music again. And without him, I wouldn't be recording in a music studio. So, for our special day, I decided to write and dedicate this song for you, my husband.’’
Hannah pressed the first keys and you got lulled into her melody, the soft notes drifting across the lakeside like a secret meant only for the two of them.
For a moment, nobody moved.
The entire world seemed to narrow down to Hannah sitting beneath the glow of the fairy lights and Garrett standing a few feet away, looking at her like she had hung every star in the sky herself.
Her voice joined the piano, gentle at first, carrying every emotion she had poured into the song. It wasn’t a performance. Not really. It was a love letter set to music.
You watched Garrett’s expression change as he listened. The playful smile he had worn moments ago slowly disappeared, replaced by something softer. Something vulnerable.
Your eyes drifted through the crowd, looking for Dean.
He stood on the other side of the stage with Tucker, his attention on you — again. Except this time, there was no smirk. No teasing grin. No playful look in his eyes. He was just looking at you. Really looking at you. And somehow, that felt more dangerous.
You expected him to look away the second he realized you had caught him, to put that familiar wall back up and pretend he hadn’t been watching. But he didn’t.
Dean held your gaze across the crowd, the music filling the space between you.
Then Hannah’s voice rose, pulling your attention back to her.
· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·
As fun as weddings were, nothing compared to the moment you finally take off your shoes. Pretty shoes were demons in a heel form! With a relieved sigh, you slipped the straps from your ankles and kicked the heels away before wiggling your sore toes against the cool bathroom floor.
You removed your jewelry and caught your reflection in the mirror. Your hair was beginning to fall from its carefully pinned curls, and your makeup was begging to be removed.
Just as you were about to change out of your dress, you heard your door open and close. The sound of the water faucet running covered it, causing you a near heart attack when you saw Dean’s reflection in the mirror.
‘’You want to kill me, Di Laurentis?’’
His tie had disappeared somewhere throughout the evening and the top three buttons of his dress shirt were undone. His sleeves were rolled to his forearms, and he looked just as tired — and tipsy — as you felt.
‘’You’re too beautiful to kill,’’ Dean replied with an easy smile, leaning against the bathroom doorframe.
You turned off the faucet and snorted. ‘’That’s your opening line? You’d make a shit slasher killer.’’
‘’Who said I wanted to be a slasher killer? Can’t hide that handsome face under a mask.’’
You shook your head. ‘’What are you doing in my room?’’
He pushed himself off the doorframe and took a few slow steps into the bathroom. ‘’I wasn't lying, by the way."
You paused, your hand resting on the edge of the sink. ‘’About what?’’
He met your eyes in the mirror. ‘’About you looking beautiful.’’
‘’Can you unzip my dress?’’
Dean reached for the delicate zipper, his knuckles brushing the bare skin of your back as he slowly eased it down. The soft rasp of the zipper seemed impossibly loud in the quiet bathroom.
When he finished, his hands lingered at your waist as he caught your eyes in the mirror, then pressed a soft kiss on your shoulder. ‘’Anything else?’’
You pulled the thin straps from your shoulders, letting the dress slip down your body until it pooled around your ankles, leaving you in nothing but your underwear. Dean's gaze lingered on your reflection in the mirror, sweeping over your bare skin before finding your eyes again. You should have felt shy beneath his attention, but you had been naked together long enough to not care anymore.
A light groan left Dean’s throat. ‘’Now you’re going to kill me.’’
A cocky grin threatened to spread on your face. You would never get over the power you had over this man. This man who normally oozed confidence like cologne, could melt into something softer just from seeing your naked body. No one else ever acted that way with you.
‘’Am I?’’
One of his hands slowly moved up to your chest, cupping and squeezing your breast in his large hand. ‘’Yeah. I’m fucking dead, babydoll.’’
· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·
Morning came far too soon.
You woke up to sunlight spilling through the curtains, soft and golden, the kind that made it impossible to pretend you were still asleep. Past you was an idiot for not shutting the blinds last night.
Rolling over, you came face to face with Dean’s blue eyes.
‘’Morning,’’ he mumbled, his voice rough with sleep.
Somehow, even after an entire night of celebrating, he looked unfairly good.
A small smile pulled at your lips before you could stop it. ‘’Morning.’’
He watched you for a moment, then a familiar crooked grin appeared.
‘’What?’’ you asked.
‘’Nothing.’’
‘’You're staring.’’
‘’Can't I appreciate the view?’’
You rolled your eyes, but you couldn't hide your smile.
Before Dean could come up with another smug remark, the door swung open and Allie rushed inside, her hair a mess and missing one slippers on.
‘’Bathroom emergency!’’ she announced breathlessly. ‘’My room doesn’t have a bathroom and someone is already using the main one and I really, really need to…pee.’’ She came to an abrupt stop, her eyes darting from you and then to Dean, and the fact that his bare ass was in full sight. ‘’Oh my god.’’
Allie’s jaw dropped. For a solid three seconds, she didn’t move — or breathe — and just stood there like someone had pressed pause on the entire universe. Then her brain caught up. Dean Di Laurentis was in your bed and completely naked.
‘’Oh my god!'' she shrieked again, louder this time.
Dean barely flinched, while you wanted to disappear through the mattress. Not because you were embarrassed of being seen with him. It just wasn’t how you wanted to reveal your ‘relationship’.
And you wanted to have a talk with Dean before telling anyone. What did last night mean? Was it simply two people getting caught up in a wedding, too much champagne, and old feelings...or was it the beginning of something real? You needed to know where Dean's head was. Where his heart was.
‘’I’ll be back,’’ Allie declared, her bladder forcing her to rush to the bathroom.
‘’Cover yourself,’’ you hissed at Dean, pulling up the sheets to hide his lower half.
He grinned like the devil. ‘’That’s not what you were saying last night.’’
· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·
You had forgotten how American brunch was different from in Europe. You had grown accustomed to fresh bread, cheese, prosciutto, and an espresso that disappeared in three sips. Here, brunch was an event — towering stacks of pancakes, bacon, sausage, eggs, hashbrowns, endless refills of coffee, and enough food to keep you full until dinner.
It was also the perfect cure for hangovers.
They also had bottomless mimosas. This was the best part of American brunch.
At one of the tables, Tucker, Logan and three Bruins players were stuffing their faces with eggs, bacon and hashbrowns while feeling the weight of an elephant sitting on their head. Some things never changed.
A few tables over, Allie and Grace were sitting together, visibly regretting last night’s last glass of champagne.
With a plate of pancakes and a mimosa in hand, you walked over to them. ‘’How’s the head, Gracie?’’
‘’I hate champagne,’’ she replied, glaring at your mimosa.
‘’She and Logan stole a bottle of champagne last night,’’ Allie explained, stabbing a hashbrown. ‘’It didn’t agree with the cocktails and she got sick.’’
‘’Oh no,’’ you said, feeling bad for Grace.
‘’That’s Logan’s fault,’’ the latter grumbled. ‘’He kept getting me refills—’’
‘’Heard that!’’ Logan called from his seat. ‘’I plead not guilty.’’
You laughed, then began eating your pancakes.
‘’So,’’ Allie began. ‘’Did you sleep well? Aunt Shauna said she heard some strange noises all night. Her room right next to yours.’’
Lifting your head from your plate, you glared at her. She may have kept her mouth shut about this morning, but you knew Allie Hayes too well to know she would do anything to pull the juicy gossip out of you.
You opened your mouth to spill out some lie, but Dean appeared at your table. He had showered and changed out of his wedding clothes.
‘’Sorry to interrupt, ladies, but Garrett is looking for you.’’
You raised an eyebrow. Was Garrett actually looking for you? Unlikely. He and Hannah were busy thanking Hannah’s family for their gifts and for coming to the wedding. They were from the midwest, so some of them were going to hit the road soon.
‘’I'll be back,’’ you told the girls.
‘’Take your time,’’ Allie sang, her grin widening.
You shot her a warning look that only made her smile harder.
Dean waited until you had fallen into step beside him before leading you away from the dining room and out onto the wraparound porch overlooking the lake. The chatter from brunch faded behind you, replaced by the gentle lapping of water against the dock and the few singing birds.
‘’We need to talk.’’
You nodded. ‘’I know.’’
‘’I assumed we would talk in the morning, but hurricane Allie blew in and…’’ Dean trailed, taking a seat on the bannister so he was closer in height to you. ‘’This weekend, it wasn’t just a wedding fling. Not for me. I’ve been thinking about you a lot since I quit the firm. About us.’’
He let the words settle between you before continuing.
‘’Not just the physical part. Although the sex is fucking great.’’
You let out a small laugh. He wasn’t wrong.
‘’What I’m saying is, I want to try us. For real.’’
‘’We still live on different continents, Dean,’’ you reminded him.
‘’I know. But we were at different stages of our life back then. I think we can work.’’ Dean searched your face, as if trying to gauge whether you were on the same page or not. ‘’I coach from September to May. I have the whole summer to myself. And you said it yourself, your job is remote. You can spend a few weeks in New York, work from there. We can make it work.’’
You stared at him.
Because that was the thing about Dean. When he really wanted something, he didn't just talk about it. He figured out how to get it. But right now, he was making it sound almost too easy.
‘’I know there'll be days where the time difference sucks. Days where one of us is tired or busy or wishes the other person was just there.’’ He paused, reaching for your hands and pulling you in. ‘’But I want this. I want us, baby.’’
Your heart tightened.
‘’Dean…’’
‘’You want it too. I know it.’’ He leaned his forehead against yours. ‘’I feel it.’’
Of course you wanted it. Wanted him. But you were scared of hurting. Because love was painful.
‘’I don't want this to be something we try for a few months and then give up when it gets hard,’’ you admitted. ‘’I don’t want to get hurt, Dean.’’
His expression turned serious again. ‘’Neither do I.’’
He leaned to kiss you, slow and deep, and you melted against his tongue.
Behind you, the door opened and Garrett stepped out. ‘’What the fuck?!’’
can we see maybe modern jace getting jealous but like not in a toxic way in a are you honna leave me way. and hes sososo soft and needs cuddles? tnkss
Henllo my lovely lovely reader! This has been pending for a while but thank you for waiting so patiently!! 🫂
Sorry my Alicent lovers, she’s a b*tch in this 🥹
Enjoy~~
Jacaerys Velaryon had always considered himself an unusually secure person, all things considered.
Not arrogant. Never that. Just settled, in the way people are when they've already survived the worst version of a question and come out the other side of it.
He hadn't always been that way, though.
He remembered being eight, sitting on the floor of his bedroom with a split lip and dirt still ground into the knees of his trousers, shoulders shaking with the effort of not crying. He remembered the door opening, and quickly scrubbing his sleeve across his face, and how his mother had known immediately anyway.
I didn't lose, he'd told her.
I never asked if you did.
He'd tried to explain it that some boy at school had said Jace couldn't possibly be Laenor's son, not really, not when he didn't look a thing like him. Rhaenyra had gone very still for a moment, as if deciding how much truth a person could hold.
Then she'd taken his small hands in hers and told him the truth anyway. That his biological father had been a man named Harwin Strong, who had loved him very much, but who had passed away before Jace and his brothers were even old enough to properly remember his face. That Laenor was still his father in every way that mattered, because Laenor was the one who'd stayed awake through nightmares, who'd taught him to swim because he was terrified of the deep end, who had looked at him the day he was born and said, simply, he's beautiful.
Blood doesn't make a father, she'd told him, cupping his tiny face in both hands. Love does.
He had believed her. He still did, thirteen years later. The whispers about his features, brown curls where there should have been silver, ordinary eyes where there should have been that unmistakable Valyrian violet, had eventually faded into something he barely registered anymore.
Or so he'd thought, until the afternoon you brought home a magazine.
┈┈・୨ ✦ ୧・┈┈
You'd arrived at his flat practically glowing, a glossy issue of Rogue clutched against your chest like you'd just won something.
"I finally found it," you announced, dropping onto the sofa beside him without any warning, already flipping it open across your lap.
Jace looked up from his laptop, smiling before he'd even fully processed what you'd said. "Hm?"
"The newest issue. My favourite actress is on the cover."
You talked while you flipped through the pages, filling the room with easy, unhurried chatter about filming locations in Italy and a rescue dog she'd apparently just adopted and a dress you thought was, in your exact words, criminally good. Jace didn't follow half of it but he liked it anyway, liked the sound of your voice more than the content of what it was saying, liked watching your face light up over things he'd never have cared about on his own.
Then you gasped.
"Oh, I didn't know they interviewed him too."
He glanced over, more out of habit than curiosity, and felt something in his chest go quietly, unpleasantly tight.
A full page spread of his uncle Aegon looked back at him. Expensive tailored suit. Silver blond hair styled to look effortless, which it absolutely was not. Pale lilac eyes catching the studio lighting like the camera had been built specifically to flatter him.
Young Entrepreneur of the Year, the headline read, and privately Jace thought that if anyone in that family had actually earned the title, it was Aemond, who did the real work while his older brother smiled for photographers and accepted the credit.
You didn't know any of that, of course. You just kept scanning the article, murmuring something about how ridiculously photogenic he was, how well that whole family photographed in general, the lighting, the styling, all of it.
Jace stared at the page. Silver hair. Purple eyes. The exact same features that ran through his mother, through Laenor, through nearly everyone he'd ever sat across a dinner table with.
Everyone except him and his brothers.
Alicent's voice surfaced in his memory before he could stop it, unbidden and unwelcome. Such a shame, isn't it. The poor boy didn't inherit any of the family's beauty.
He hadn't thought about that sentence in years. He resented that it had apparently just been waiting for him.
Would someone like her rather have someone who looked like that?
He hated the thought the second it appeared. Hated himself a little for thinking it at all. Before he'd properly decided to do anything, his hand had already reached over, closed the magazine, and sent it flying across the room.
You blinked. "...Did you just throw away my magazine?"
"Maybe."
"I paid 1 silver stag for that."
"I know."
"You just launched it across the room."
"I did."
"Why?"
He opened his mouth but nothing useful came out, because what was he supposed to say. Sorry, I got irrationally jealous of my own uncle because a decade old insecurity just woke up without warning.
"...I panicked," he settled on.
"You panicked… at journalism?"
He nodded, solemnly, as though this were a reasonable answer.
You stared at him for a long moment before you burst out laughing, calling him a weirdo, asking if he'd genuinely been jealous of glossy paper. His ears went pink immediately, which only made you laugh harder. He denied it. You didn't believe him. Eventually you crawled across the sofa, nudged his shoulder with yours, and pinched his cheek.
"My pretty boy," you said.
His heart stumbled slightly. "...Really?"
"Jace. I've been dating you for months. I think that answer should be obvious."
You kissed the corner of his mouth and went back to your magazine, entirely unbothered, and the knot in his chest loosened. Not all the way. Just enough that he could ignore it for a while.
He didn't know yet that it wouldn't be the last time.
┈┈・୨ ✦ ୧・┈┈
The real trouble started, as most things in that family did, because Rhaenyra forgot to mention one small detail.
"Mother invited us for dinner," Jace said, grabbing his keys off the counter. "Just a quiet evening."
"I'm finally meeting your family properly?"
"You've met Luke and Joffrey."
"They kidnapped me for bubble tea. That barely counts."
"They like you."
"They interrogated me about how I really like you or was it the money."
Jace nearly dropped his keys. "...They what."
"They're sweet," you said, slipping your hand into his as you headed for the door, laughing at his expression. "Terrors, but sweet and making sure I wasn’t some gold digger."
The drive over was easy, your hand resting in his the whole way, music low through the speakers. Neither of you suspected a thing, right up until Jace opened the penthouse door and his smile simply vanished.
"...Oh."
You peered around him and froze.
It wasn't a quiet family dinner. It was the ENTIRE FUCKING family. Viserys settled comfortably in an armchair with a cup of tea. Daemon sprawled across the sofa like he'd personally paid for it. Baela and Rhaena setting the table. Helaena curled by the window with her cat in her lap. Luke and Joffrey wrestling over the remote. Aemond by the balcony doors, absorbed in his phone. Aegon stealing appetizers straight from the kitchen counter. Otto (who the fuck even invited him?) deep in conversation with Viserys about something political. And Alicent, wine glass in hand, wearing the expression of a woman who very much wished she were somewhere, anywhere, else.
"I swear to you," Jace whispered, "I had no idea."
You squeezed his hand. "I know."
"You do?"
"You have the worst poker face I have ever seen in my life."
Relief crossed his face so fast it was almost funny. "Thank you."
Before either of you could retreat back toward the elevator, which you were both, quietly, considering, a voice cut through the apartment like a siren.
"OLDER BROTHER JACE IS HERE!" Joffrey bellowed, pointing dramatically at the two of you. "AND HE BROUGHT HIS GIRLFRIEND!"
Every single head turned at once.
The silence that followed was the kind you could feel in your jaw. You raised your free hand in a small, painfully awkward wave.
"...Hello- Uh- Hi."
Nobody spoke. You considered, briefly and seriously, whether the floor might simply open and swallow you.
Then Rhaenyra blinked, and her whole face transformed. She crossed the room so quickly you barely had time to brace before she'd taken both your hands in hers.
"So you're the lovely girl," she said warmly. "It's wonderful to finally meet you. Jacaerys talks about you far more than he'd ever admit."
"Mother."
"You do," Luke chimed in helpfully.
"Constantly," Joffrey agreed.
"He smiled at his phone for ten minutes yesterday," Luke added. "It was embarrassing."
"It was disgusting," Aegon called from the kitchen, not even looking up from the appetizers.
Jace pressed two fingers to the bridge of his nose. "I'm leaving."
"No you're not," Daemon said lazily, without opening his eyes. "You brought entertainment."
Before Jace could formulate a defense, Baela had already appeared, looping her arm through yours. "There she is. So this is the famous girlfriend."
Rhaena arrived a half second later. Helaena drifted over more quietly, studying your earrings with real interest.
"I like your earrings," she said.
"Oh, thank you."
"They're little stars. They remind me of the night sky. I like stars."
"I noticed," you said, smiling, and Helaena looked pleased in a way that felt like a small, private victory.
Before you'd fully registered what was happening, you had been deposited onto the sofa between Baela and Rhaena, and the questions began arriving from every direction at once.
How did you two meet. Who confessed first. Who kissed who first. Has he written you poetry.
Across the room, Jace groaned. "Oh no."
"Save yourself," Luke advised solemnly. "There is no saving anyone once those three start."
You laughed, a little nervously, and did your best to answer everything while Baela stole your phone to look through your photos and Rhaena gasped theatrically at something on it. Meanwhile Jace had slipped, almost against his will, into older brother mode, standing between Aegon and Luke to prevent whatever low grade argument was brewing between them, even though privately he wanted to throttle Aemond himself for something said twenty minutes earlier that he'd already half forgotten.
A part of you, watching all of this unfold, felt faintly like you'd wandered into a room full of supermodels who happened to also be a family. Every single one of them was, infuriatingly, beautiful.
┈┈・୨ ✦ ୧・┈┈
Rhaenyra found you again not long after, this time in the kitchen, gently but firmly informing you that guests were not permitted to help with dinner.
"I promise I'm capable of chopping vegetables without losing a finger," you said, already reaching for the knife regardless.
"That's not the point."
"I don't feel like a guest."
Apparently that was the correct answer, because five minutes later the two of you were standing shoulder to shoulder at the counter anyway, Rhaenyra sliding a tray into the oven while you worked through a pile of peppers beside her.
"You know," she said, glancing fondly toward the dining room, where Luke was currently attempting to balance three dinner rolls on top of Joffrey's head, "I've been trying to get my boys to help me cook for years."
"They don't?"
"Oh, they try." She laughed. "They're just enthusiastic."
"That's a diplomatic way of putting it."
"They have good hearts, though." Her expression softened as she watched them. Then, with no real change in tone, as though she were asking about the weather: "So. What do you see in my eldest?"
You nearly choked on your own laugh. "Oh."
"Don't 'oh' me. I'd genuinely like to know."
You looked through the doorway. Jace was still stationed between Aegon and Luke, hands raised placatingly, trying to referee an argument that had apparently escalated to include a butter knife.
"I don't know," you said slowly, and then, more honestly, "everything just feels easy with him. I've never had to pretend to be anything I'm not. He listens. He remembers little things, if I mention I like a certain chocolate once, it just shows up on my desk during exam week without me asking. He always walks on the side closest to the road. He sends me good morning messages every single day, even when he saw me the night before. He pretends he doesn't like horror movies, even though I know he secretly does, because he always asks if we can watch another one right after."
A fond laugh slipped out of you before you could stop it.
"And I've never once doubted that he loves me."
Rhaenyra had gone quiet beside you, her eyes suspiciously bright. "That sounds like my Jacaerys," she said finally, smiling. "He gets that from his father."
You opened your mouth to ask which one she meant, but before you could, Viserys wandered into the kitchen, and the question dissolved into the next moment before you'd found the words.
"There you are," he said kindly.
You straightened instinctively. "Mr. Viserys-"
He waved the title away with mild exasperation. "Oh, enough of that. Viserys is perfectly acceptable."
"It doesn't feel right."
"Then Grandfather."
You blinked. "...Excuse me?"
"If you're important to Jacaerys," he said, patting your shoulder gently, "then you're important to me."
Something in your chest went warm and slightly overwhelmed. "Thank you. Grandfather."
He beamed, patted your head affectionately on his way past, and wandered back toward the dining room looking thoroughly satisfied with himself.
Across the room, Alicent watched the entire exchange over the rim of her wine glass, her mouth pressing into a thin, unreadable line.
┈┈・୨ ✦ ୧・┈┈
Dinner was chaos, in the fondest possible sense of the word.
It started with Luke and Joffrey arguing over the garlic bread, which somehow evolved into Aegon stealing half the basket, which somehow became Aemond calmly threatening to stab his brother with a butter knife.
"I wouldn't actually stab you," Aemond said, sighing. "It'd be unhygienic."
"See," Aegon grinned. "He loves me."
"I tolerate your existence."
"That's practically affection in your language."
Jace pinched the bridge of his nose. "Can we please have one family dinner where nobody threatens bodily harm?"
Daemon didn't even look up from his wine. "No."
"Fair enough," Jace muttered, and you had to cover your mouth to keep from laughing out loud.
He glanced at you across the table, and the sight of you smiling seemed to visibly loosen something in his shoulders. Without quite thinking about it, his foot found yours under the table. You nudged him back.
Baela noticed immediately. "They're flirting under the table."
"We're sitting right here," Jace said flatly.
"You think we don't notice?"
"We don't."
"You literally just smiled at each other over touching feet."
"We did not."
"They're adorable," Helaena offered dreamily.
"They're embarrassing," Aegon corrected.
Dessert arrived, and for a few merciful minutes, the table went quiet, cake apparently commanding more loyalty than gossip. Then Daemon set his fork down with a particular stillness that Jace recognized immediately as trouble.
"So," Daemon said.
"No," Jace said.
"I haven't even asked anything."
"I know that tone."
"Do you?"
"Yes."
Daemon leaned back in his chair, entirely unbothered. "So. When's the wedding?"
Jace inhaled a piece of cake at exactly the wrong moment and doubled over, coughing. You nearly dropped your fork.
"Uncle, we've only been together a few months."
"So? I was younger."
"We're twenty one."
"Your mother had Lucerys by your age," Daemon pointed out, entirely too pleased with himself.
Rhaenyra rolled her eyes so hard it was audible. "And look how that turned out."
Daemon simply laughed at his nieces suffering, placing a hand over his heart.
"I was aiming lower," Rhaenyra said sweetly, and the whole table dissolved into laughter, even Jace, some of the tension finally easing out of his shoulders.
Then Alicent spoke, calm and almost thoughtful, as though continuing a conversation no one else had realized was happening.
"I suppose there are advantages to waiting," she said, cutting neatly into her dessert without looking up. "After all, when choosing a life partner, appearance does matter. Especially when one hopes for beautiful children." A small, polite pause. "There are certain features that tend to remain within Valyrian blood. It would be a shame to lose them."
The table went completely still.
You frowned, not immediately understanding, but you felt Jace go rigid beside you, watched the color drain slowly from his face as his hand tightened around his fork hard enough that his knuckles went white.
"Alicent," Rhaenyra said, and her voice had turned to ice.
"I simply made an observation."
"It was unnecessary."
"Am I wrong?"
That was it. Jace's hands hit the table hard enough to rattle the plates, his chair scraping violently backward as he stood. He didn't look at anyone. He simply walked out, and by the time you'd scrambled up and mumbled an apology to the table, the elevator doors were already sliding shut behind him.
"There is absolutely nothing for you to apologize for," Rhaenyra said quickly, gently, but you were already moving, grabbing your bag and hurrying after him, catching the elevator just before it closed completely.
The ride down was silent. His hands were trembling, barely, at his sides. You reached for his sleeve. He didn't pull away, but he didn't respond either, and you decided, wisely, to simply stand beside him and wait.
Whatever this was, you understood by now that it had very little to do with a single comment at dinner.
┈┈・୨ ✦ ୧・┈┈
The drive home was quiet in the wrong way. Not the comfortable silence you two usually shared, the kind filled with idle hand holding at red lights and half finished sentences. This one sat heavy in the car, pressing against your ribs.
Jace's knuckles never once loosened on the steering wheel. You looked at him more than once. Each time, his jaw was tight, his eyes fixed straight ahead, his expression carefully, deliberately unreadable.
You thought about speaking, several times. Each time, something told you he needed the silence first.
When he finally parked outside your building, neither of you moved for a long moment. Then he climbed out, and the driver's door shut harder than he'd clearly intended, the sound echoing through the parking garage. You flinched. He closed his eyes immediately.
"...Sorry."
Even angry, even shaking slightly with whatever he was holding in, he still walked around to your side. Still opened your door. Still waited until you'd stepped out before he let it close.
You offered him a small smile. He couldn't quite return it.
The walk upstairs was just as quiet. Keys jingling. The lock clicking open. You slipped your shoes off by the entrance and settled onto the sofa. He didn't sit. He started pacing instead, kitchen to living room and back, one hand buried in his curls, the other rubbing restlessly at the back of his neck.
You'd seen him stressed before. Exam weeks. Presentation deadlines. The time Luke had nearly set off the fire alarm attempting to make grilled cheese. Never quite like this.
"...Jace."
He hummed, distracted, not stopping. "Mhm."
"Jace." Firmer this time.
He stopped mid step. Turned, slowly. "...What?"
The sharpness in his own voice seemed to surprise him as much as it did you. His face fell almost instantly. "...Sorry."
"I'm not angry at you."
"I know." He dragged a hand over his face. "I'm sorry."
You stood, crossing the room slowly. "What happened tonight?"
"Nothing."
"Jace."
"It was just Alicent."
"No." You shook your head gently. "I know that's not it. You don't storm out over one rude comment. You've dealt with comments like that your whole life. So what actually happened?"
He looked away, toward the window, toward anywhere that wasn't you.
"You don't have to protect me from it," you said quietly.
"I'm not."
"You are."
"I'm fine."
"You've been pacing for ten minutes."
"I'm thinking."
"You're spiralling.”
"I am not spiralling."
"You threw my magazine across the room because I complimented a photoshoot," you said, and watched him blink, caught off guard.
"...You still remembered that."
"I remember everything."
Silence stretched between you, longer this time. Jace finally walked into the kitchen and braced both hands against the island, his head hanging low. You followed, standing close enough that your shoulder nearly touched his, and rested your hand gently over his.
His fingers twitched beneath your palm.
"...Talk to me."
He swallowed hard. When he finally lifted his head to look at you, the anger had drained out of him completely. What remained, underneath it, was fear. Raw and unfamiliar, a version of him you'd genuinely never seen before.
"Do you," he started, voice barely above a whisper, "do you really want to be with me?"
You frowned. "...What?"
He laughed, short and humourless. "Stupid question. I know how it sounds." His hands moved helplessly, searching for words that weren't quite arriving fast enough. "I've never cared. At least, I thought I hadn't. My whole life, people have looked at my family. My mother. My father. My uncles. My cousins. And then they look at me, and they don't even have to say anything. I already know."
He let out a breath that shook slightly on its way out.
"I don't have silver hair. I don't have purple eyes. I don't look like them. And tonight, when Alicent said it, I couldn't stop thinking. What if she's right. What if you deserve someone who actually looks like he belongs in this family."
Before another word could leave him, you stepped forward, placed both hands on his face, and covered his mouth.
"...Mm?"
You stared at him, entirely unimpressed. "Wow. I always thought I was the yapper in this relationship. You are giving me serious competition."
The confusion on his face cracked, just barely, into something almost like a laugh.
"I am not finished," you said, and he nodded obediently, waiting until you lowered your hand.
"The absolute nonsense that just came out of your mouth might genuinely be the stupidest thing I have ever heard in my life."
"...Excuse me?"
"You heard me." You poked him firmly in the chest. "Absolute. Poppycock."
"What does that word even mean?”
"It felt appropriate."
Despite himself, the corner of his mouth twitched upward.
You folded your arms. "So. You think you're not handsome because you don't have silver hair."
"That's not exactly-"
"And purple eyes."
"I-“
"And because you don't look like the rest of your family."
He sighed, dragging a hand down his face. "When you say it out loud, it does sound a little ridiculous."
"A little?"
"...Very."
"Good." You reached for both of his hands before he could think about retreating again. "Now answer me something. If I woke up tomorrow with silver hair and purple eyes, would I suddenly be more beautiful to you?"
His answer came so fast it nearly overlapped your question. "No."
"Why not?"
"Because you're already beautiful as you are.”
"No matter what?"
He squeezed your hands. "No matter what."
"So if I stayed exactly the way I am…”
"I'd still think you're the most beautiful girl in every room I've ever walked into." Jace continued.
You smiled softly. "Exactly. So why," you asked gently, "are you judging yourself by a standard you'd never once judge me by? You don't look at me and wish I had silver hair. You don't wish I had purple eyes. You don't wish I looked more Valyrian."
He shook his head slowly. "I've never once thought that."
"Because you love me."
"...Yes."
"And I love you," you said. "You don't need silver hair for me to think you're handsome. You don't need purple eyes. You certainly don't need to look like Aegon." A small laugh escaped you. "Thank God, honestly."
That, finally, pulled a real laugh out of him, quiet but genuine.
"I happen to like your curly brown hair," you continued, reaching up to run your fingers through it. "I like your freckles. I like the little scar on your chin from when Luke hit you with a cricket bat, which he insists to this day was an accident."
"He maintains his innocence."
"He was absolutely aiming for you."
"He denies it."
"He's lying."
Jace chuckled, some of the tightness finally leaving his shoulders. You cupped his cheek gently.
"I like your smile. I like how your eyes crinkle when you laugh. I like that your nose scrunches up when you're concentrating on something. I like that your hair sticks up every morning because you refuse to dry it properly."
By now he couldn't quite meet your eyes, his cheeks warming visibly.
"And," you said softly, "I like that you're kind. That you remember every little thing I tell you. That you've never once made me feel like I was too much. You listen. You care. You love so quietly that people don't always notice it, but I do. Every single day."
His eyes had begun to shine, suspiciously bright.
"So don't you dare stand there and tell me I deserve someone else," you said, tapping his chest gently. "I already found exactly who I wanted. Not because of what you look like. Because of who you are. And if I had to choose all over again, I would still choose the ridiculously handsome boy standing in front of me."
That was what finally broke him. He stepped forward so suddenly you barely had time to react before his arms wrapped tightly around you, his face pressing into the curve of your neck like he was trying to memorize the shape of you against him. You wrapped your arms around his shoulders, one hand sliding into his hair, and felt him exhale, one long, shaking breath, like he'd been holding it in for years without realizing it.
"I'm sorry," he mumbled into your shoulder.
"What are you apologizing for?"
"I don't know." He laughed weakly. "I think I've just spent so long pretending it never bothered me. It did. So when Alicent said it again tonight, I believed her."
You pulled back just enough to look at him properly.
"No," you said. "You believed the frightened little boy who got teased on the playground. You didn't believe Alicent. You just forgot what your mum told you."
"Blood doesn't make a father," you said quietly. "Love does."
His breath caught. "You remembered that."
"Of course I remembered. You told me that story."
"You really do remember everything."
"I do."
You brushed a stray curl off his forehead. "And your mum was right. You are loved beyond measure."
He closed his eyes, and this time, when he leaned into your touch, it wasn't because he needed convincing anymore. It was because he'd finally, fully embraced himself.
┈┈・୨ ✦ ୧・┈┈
Later that night, the two of you lay tangled together beneath your duvet, though tangled was perhaps too generous a word, since Jace had somehow managed to occupy roughly ninety percent of the available space, his head resting against your chest, one arm locked securely around your waist. He wore the most spectacular pout you had ever seen on a grown man.
"Feeling better?" you asked.
A muffled noise, which you chose to interpret as yes.
"You know," you said thoughtfully, "I think there's a very easy solution to your whole crisis."
He looked up, immediately and correctly suspicious. "...I don't like that sentence."
"You could always dye your hair."
Silence.
"Platinum blonde," you continued sweetly.
Jace stared at you, utterly betrayed. "I'm sorry?"
"You heard me. I think it'd suit you."
"It absolutely would not."
"We could get you purple contacts too."
His eyes widened in genuine horror. "You wound me."
"I think you'd slay."
"Do not say slay while I am emotionally vulnerable," he gasped, and you burst into laughter, unable to help yourself.
"I'm serious."
"I'm sorry."
"No, you're not."
"I'm a little sorry."
"You're enjoying this far too much."
"I really am," he admitted, and then his eyes narrowed, that mischievous glint returning that you'd learned to be wary of.
"You know what," he said.
"...What?"
"I've decided."
"No."
"I no longer want sympathy."
"...You don't?"
"No. I've decided you deserve punishment. For crimes against your boyfriend."
"You're being dramatic."
"I think I'm being perfectly reasonable."
He lunged before you could brace yourself, and you shrieked, dissolving almost immediately into helpless laughter as his fingers found your sides. "NO! Jace!"
"This is what happens," he declared between your laughter, "when you suggest I bleach my hair!"
"I'M SORRY!"
"I don't believe you!"
"I TAKE IT BACK!"
"You called me slay!"
"I DIDN'T CALL YOU SLAY, I IMPLIED IT! AND YOU STILL SLAY!”
"That's worse!"
He finally relented, collapsing back against the pillows beside you, both of you breathless, your sides aching from laughing. After a moment, he reached over and found your hand in the dark, lacing his fingers through yours, lifting your joined hands to press a slow, lingering kiss against your knuckles.
"So," he said quietly.
"So?"
"...Thank you."
"For what?"
His thumb traced absentminded circles over the back of your hand. "For choosing me."
You didn't answer with words. You leaned over instead, pressed one soft kiss to his forehead, another to the corner of his mouth, and finally rested your forehead gently against his.
"There was never anyone else I wanted," you whispered.
And for the first time all night, Jacaerys Velaryon smiled without a single trace of doubt left in it.
Synopsis: You just wanted to try the viral backless dress you saw on TikTok and also perhaps tease your boyfriend Jace a little bit but things take a fiery turn.
Pairing: Modern!Jacaerys Velaryon x Reader
Genre: 18+, smut
Warning: pwp tbh, oral (fem receiving), hitting it from the back?, matting press, so many hickeys, p in v, no protection (don’t be like this irl just sayin~~), creamepie, making out, aftercare, cuddles at the end!
A/N: Erm second time ever writing smut 👉👈 (pretty sure I messed up my past-present-future but oh well-)
The bathroom mirror is still fogged at the edges from the shower you took an hour ago, the whole apartment smells like the vanilla body oil you dabbed into your collarbones and the burnt-sugar candle Jace keeps on his dresser because he thinks it makes the place feel less like some dungeon and more like home. Rain taps against the window in that soft, uneven rhythm, and somewhere down on the street a taxi lays on its horn for three long seconds before giving up. The bass from the apartment below thumps faintly through the floorboards, someone's pregame already in full swing.
You're in front of the floor length mirror leaned against his closet door, tilting your chin, checking your lipstick, rolling a strand of hair between two fingers because you can't decide if you want to leave it down or twist it up. The dress. God, the dress. From the front it's demure, a soft slate satin that skims your front and drapes clean at the thigh, the neckline looked innocent and modest. It looked like something you'd wear to your aunt's wedding but that's the trick of it though. That's why you spent forty-seven dollars on it during a two AM TikTok haze last Tuesday.
Behind you, Jace is sprawled across his unmade bed in gray sweatpants and a white tee that's been through the wash so many times it's practically translucent at the hem. His phone is angled above his face, the blue glow catching on the sharp bridge of his nose and the messy dark curls that fall across his forehead. His feet are crossed at the ankles and he’s laughing at something, a low huff of a sound, you can hear the tiny audio of some Reels compilation.
"Sof said she's already at the bar," you tell him, thumbing through your phone in the mirror's reflection. "She got the corner booth."
"Mm." He doesn't look up. "Which bar?"
"That new one downtown. The one with the disco ball in the bathroom."
"Sounds like a fire hazard."
"You sound like your mom."
"Rude." He scrolls. "My mom's cool."
You laugh, sweeping bronzer along the high point of your cheek, and shift your weight from one side to the other. The satin whispers against your thighs. You've been waiting, actually, for him to look up. You've been arranging yourself in his peripheral vision for the last ten minutes and he's been oblivious in that specifically annoying boyfriend way, and it's starting to feel almost insulting. You bought this dress to tease him. You'd like the courtesy of being noticed back.
You set the bronzer down and pivot on your heel. Turning your back to the mirror to check the drape of the fabric across your ass, one hand smoothing over your hip.
You hear it before you see it. A sharp inhale. Then, a choked half sound that dies in his throat followed by the soft slap of a phone hitting a chest.
You glance over your shoulder into the mirror. Jace has propped himself up on his elbows, mouth open, eyes so wide you can see the whites all the way around his brown irises. His curls are sticking up in six directions from where he'd been running his hand through them. His phone is face down on his sternum, forgotten.
"What?" you ask, and you can't keep the grin out of it.
"What the fuck."
"What?"
"Turn around."
"I am turned around."
"No, turn, come here, turn all the way." He sits up so fast the mattress creaks. "Have you seen the back of that dress?"
You laugh, pressing your tongue to the inside of your cheek, and rotate slowly on the ball of your foot until you're facing him. "Well, yeah. I bought it."
"Sweets." His voice cracks on the second syllable. He looks genuinely aggrieved, like you've handed him bad news at a hospital. "Love, no."
The back of the dress is the joke. From nape to just above the swell of your ass there is nothing. No fabric. No zipper. A few delicate strap knots and chains at the small of your back and that's the entire architectural principle keeping the front on your body. The dip of your spine is on full display, the two soft dimples at the base, the smooth stretch of skin from your shoulder blades down. You spent twenty minutes with a jade roller earlier making sure the whole canvas of your back looked like glass.
Jace swings his legs off the bed and stands abruptly. He crosses the room in three strides and stops just behind you, close enough that you can feel the heat of him but not touching, and his reflection in the mirror looks stricken.
"No," he says again, quieter.
"Yes."
"You cannot leave this apartment."
"I can and I will."
"I wouldn't mind if I was there." His fingertips ghost the small of your back, not landing, just hovering, like the skin might burn him. "Like, if I was going with you, sure, whatever, wear it, look like this, be a menace, I'll fight everyone in the bar. But alone?" His voice pitches up. "You want to go alone? Downtown? In this?"
"Sof will be there. And Jessie. And probably Serena if her flight lands."
"None of them have upper body strength."
"Jace."
"I'm being serious."
You reach up and gather your hair, twisting it into a loose knot at the crown of your head. The motion pulls the dress tighter across your ribs and you watch him watch it in the mirror. His throat bobs. You slide a claw clip out from between your teeth and snap it into place, and then you tilt your head, satisfied, and reach for your mascara.
"Change," he says. Weakly.
"Nope."
He's still standing behind you. You catch his reflection and the way his mouth has gone tight, the way his eyes are doing that flicker thing where he's thinking, calculating, cooking something up. His hands are loose at his sides. His shoulders are set and he's got the same look on his face he gets when he's playing chess against his brother Luke and he's about to do something petty.
You're about to ask him what he's thinking when he drops.
Just, drops, straight to his knees behind you with a soft thud on the hardwood, hands coming up to cup the sides of your waist like he's steadying a vase.
"Jace- what are you-" you start, twisting to look at him, but he's already leaning in, and the first press of his mouth to the base of your spine punches every word right out of your lungs.
The sound you make is embarrassing. A short, high thing, half gasp, half whimper. His lips are warm and slightly parted, and he presses them just above the little dimple on the left, and then he kisses the one on the right, slower, deliberate, and you feel the heat of his breath fan across your skin in the split second between each kiss.
"Jace." You try to swivel out of his grip and his hands tighten, thumbs pressing into the divots of your hip bones through the satin. Not enough to bruise. Just enough that you're going nowhere.
"Mhm." A kiss to the base of your spine, wetter this time, a hint of tongue.
"You're being…" another kiss, "so annoying…" another, higher, right at the small of your back, "oh my god."
He kisses his way up, patient, like he's got a list. Every vertebra. He works up your spine one bone at a time and you can feel your knees getting weak. Your hands come up on instinct and brace against the mirror. Your palm leaves a fog print on the glass. In the reflection you can see the crown of his dark curls between your shoulder blades, the shell of his ear, one of his eyes closed in concentration.
At the middle of your back he opens his mouth properly and drags his teeth. You feel it in your stomach.
"Ah-" you hiss, and his answering laugh vibrates against your skin.
"You're the one who wanted attention."
"I didn't."
"You so did."
"I was doing my makeup."
"Sure." He kisses higher, right between your shoulder blades. "Doing your makeup." Higher. "In a dress with no back." Higher. "Facing away from me." His voice drops. "In the mirror where I could see you."
His mouth reaches the nape of your neck and he stands as he does it, unfolding himself up the length of your body, and now his front is flush against your back, his chest broad and warm through the thin cotton of his tee. One arm loops around your waist, splaying wide, his palm pressing flat against your stomach. The other hand comes up and slides around the side of your throat, thumb hooking under your jaw, and he tilts your head to the left with the gentlest pressure, exposing the long tendon of your neck.
You watch it happen in the mirror. Your own face, lips parted, eyes gone dark and glassy. Him behind you, curls falling forward, jaw set. His mouth against the hinge of your jaw. His mouth on the soft spot beneath your ear. His mouth sucking hard just above your collarbone, and this time you feel the sting of teeth and the deliberate pull of suction and you know, you know, he's leaving a mark on purpose. He shifts an inch and does it again. And again. Slower. Right along the ridge of your clavicle where no makeup can hide it and no scarf could reasonably cover it.
Your eyes close and your hand slips off the mirror and finds the back of his neck instead, fingers threading into the curls at his nape, and you feel him hum against your skin, pleased, when your nails scrape.
He works you over for what feels like a long time. Your pulse point. The soft under side of your jaw. The curve where your neck meets your shoulder. He alternates, kissing and sucking and dragging his tongue in slow, wet stripes. You are absolutely, comprehensively lost. The room smells like him now, and the last ghost of your perfume, and everything is very quiet except for the wet sounds of his mouth and your uneven breathing and the rain and the distant bass from downstairs. You were losing your mind.
He pulls back.
You open your eyes slowly. In the mirror, he's grinning with full teeth. Smug in a way that would be genuinely insufferable if you had any blood left in your brain. His hair is even worse than it was before. His lips are pink and wet.
Your neck and shoulder look like a paint pallet. There are three, maybe four, blooming red marks already darkening toward purple, one high enough that the collar of a jacket wouldn't touch it.
"What…" you manage, "is that face."
"I marked up my territory." He is so pleased with himself. He tilts his head, considering his work like a curator. "Certifiably mine. Notarized. Do you still want to go outside?"
You feel your jaw set. The brat in you rises like a bubble. "Yes. I do."
Something flickers across his face. His grin sharpens.
"Who…" he says, dropping his voice to a register you feel in the base of your spine, "said we're finished."
The world tilts.
He turns you by the hips, walks you backward to the mattress, and the back of your knees hit the edge of it and you go down. Your claw clip snaps loose. Your hair spills out over his navy duvet. Before you've even registered horizontal, he's peeling his tee off over his head, and then it's off and on the floor and you get the full view.
You have seen him shirtless approximately nine hundred times and it still does something stupid to you. He's lean, always has been, but two years of a serious gym habit have carved him. The flat plane of his chest with the faint scatter of dark hair between his pecs, the ridged shape of his stomach, the sharp cuts of his obliques disappearing into the low waistband of his sweats. His mouth is still red from your neck. There's a flush high on his cheekbones.
You prop yourself up on your elbows. "Very funny. My friend is waiting, actually."
He plants a hand on your sternum and pushes you back down, gently and leans over you with a knee braced on the mattress between your thighs.
"Didn't I tell you…" he says, close to your mouth, "we aren't finished yet."
You open your mouth to give him something witty. You had something. You had a whole line but it evaporated because his mouth is on yours and it is NOT gentle. It's the kind of kiss that has been building for the whole ten minutes he's been leaving hickeys on your neck, hot and open and you feel it right down to the bottoms of your feet. Your thighs squeeze together on reflex and there is already so much heat between them it's almost embarrassing. Slick. You've been slick since he hit his knees.
His tongue drags across your bottom lip, a question, and you part for him and he groans into your mouth, low and needy. Your hands find his curls and you fist them lightly, tugging, and he makes another sound, muffled, his hand slides up the outside of your thigh, catching the satin of your dress, dragging it up with him. His palm is hot as his thumb traces the crease of your hip.
He pulls back. A thin thread of spit connects your lower lip to his and breaks and lands on your chin. His eyes are half-lidded and completely blown. Your chest is heaving along with his and somewhere in the back of your head you register that your friends are absolutely getting stood up.
"Turn over," he says.
You blink. "What."
"Turn over." His hand slides under your ribs and he's already helping, guiding you onto your stomach on his duvet. Your hair fans out. Your cheek presses into the pillow that smells like his shampoo. "The dress." He tugs at it and it comes loose in one soft slither. He works the satin up over the swell of your ass and bunches it at your waist. You're not wearing underwear. You couldn't have worn underwear with this dress and you know he registered that because he makes a soft strangled sound behind you.
"Sweet mother of Gods."
"Jace."
"You're going to kill me. Like, physically. I'm going to have a stroke."
"You're being dramatic."
"You're not wearing underwear," he informs you, in case you had somehow forgotten, and his hands come down on the backs of your thighs and squeeze, and the mattress dips as he lowers himself.
The first thing you feel is his warm breath. Then his mouth on the back of your left thigh, high up, sucking. Another mark. He drags his mouth two inches over and does it again. Another two inches. You’re going to start looking like a Leopard. You feel the wet swirl of his tongue over the bruise he just made, soothing it, before he moves to the crease where your thigh meets your ass and bites, softly and you jerk.
"Oh my god-“
"Mm."
He kisses across the swell of your ass, teeth grazing, and then up, up to your lower back where he sucks another mark right above the dip of your spine, and you can feel the heat of it blooming into your skin. He is being thorough. His hands slide up the backs of your thighs and part them gently and you let them fall open because at this point your bones have turned to warm honey.
And then his mouth is on you.
The first stripe of his tongue is long, flat and slow as it goes from your clit all the way to your entrance and back, the sound you make is not a sound a human should make. It's ragged, your fingers fist in the duvet and your hips buck up on instinct and he lets you, hands sliding under to cradle the fronts of your hips, and then he pulls you back and up onto your knees so your face is still on the pillow but your ass is in the air.
"Better," he murmurs against you, and then he goes to work.
He was good at this. You have told him he was good at this once when you were both drunk on cheap red wine, and he has taken that compliment and internalized it like a religion. His tongue circles your clit in slow, deliberate patterns, and then flicks, then flattens, and finally he closes his lips around it and sucks. You make a noise into the pillow that would have neighbors calling the cops if the building had thinner walls. He drags his mouth lower and pushes his tongue into you and you feel one of his hands leave your hip, then two of his fingers replace his tongue, curling up, finding that spot as his mouth returns to your clit.
Your knuckles are white in the duvet. You reach back blindly with one hand and find his hair and just hold, twisting the curls between your fingers. Your other hand fumbles for a pillow to pull under your face, to muffle yourself, because you cannot stop the sounds coming out of you. Little whimpers. A long with a broken "oh." A stuttered "please" you didn't mean to say out loud.
"Yeah?" His voice is muffled against your wet pussy. "Yeah, sweets?"
"Jace."
"Come on."
He crooks his fingers again and sucks as you fall apart. Your thighs clamp together but that doesn't stop him as he works you through it with slow steady pressure until you're twitching and pushing his head away with a whimper of oversensitivity, and only then does he pull off with a wet, obscene sound and press a kiss to the inside of your thigh.
You felt boneless. Your face smashed into the pillow and you feel drops of sweat sliding down between your shoulder blades, your hair stuck to your temple. You crack one eye open and the room is soft and blurry in your vision.
Behind you, you hear the rustle of him shoving his sweats off. The clink of his belt buckle- no wait- he wasn't wearing a belt, that's the sound of his phone hitting the floor. The soft crumple of fabric. And then his hand is on your hip again, warm and steady, and the other is grabbing a pillow from the head of the bed and sliding it under your hips, lifting you.
You feel him line up. The blunt hot press of him against you. Your breath hitches.
"Ready?" His voice is wrecked.
"Mhm." You say in agreement.
He pushes in slow. Inch by inch. The stretch of it makes your eyes flutter closed. He was not small by any means. He's got a slight curve to him that hits you in a way you have written frankly embarrassing journal entries about, and by the time he bottoms out you can feel him everywhere. His hips settle flush against your ass as his hand smooths up your spine and back down.
"Fuck," he breathes.
"Move," you whisper.
He moves without question. The first thrust is slow, testing, and then the second is a little harder, and by the fourth he's found a rhythm and the sound of it fills the room. The wet slap of skin on skin. The soft creak of his mattress. His breath, ragged, right above you. Your own broken little "ah, ah, ah" every time he snaps his hips forward.
He folds himself over your back, his chest to your spine, one of his arms braces beside your head and the other slides under your ribs and pulls you back against him. His mouth finds your shoulder and he bites, then sucks and then bites again. A hickey blooms in the crook where your neck meets your shoulder. Then higher. Then the back of your shoulder blade. Then he pulls back just enough to see and drives forward hard and you cry out into the pillow.
You turn your head, cheek smashed against the duvet, and he sees it, sees you looking for him, and he leans down and catches your mouth from the side, angle awkward and messy, and it's all tongue and spit and neither of you can breathe right but he tastes like you making you moan into his mouth. Then his hips stutter.
"You're so-" he says against your mouth, and doesn't finish, just kisses you harder, "fuck, you're so-“
Your hand fists in his curls again and holds him there.
He straightens up eventually to get better leverage, hands gripping your hips, thumbs digging into the meat of your ass, and he watches himself move in and out of you and makes a low groan that you feel in your sternum. His hand comes down in a light slap on your right cheek and you jerk forward with a whimper and he does it again, harder, and then soothes it with his palm.
"You were really gonna go out?" he asks, panting. "Like this? Looking like this?" Another sharp thrust. "For other guys?"
"Not for-" you gasp, "other guys."
"Sure looked like it."
"Jace."
"Mhm?"
"Please-"
He shifts his angle just barely. And it hits something behind your navel and you see white at the edges of your vision, his hand slides around and finds your clit, and it takes maybe forty seconds before you're coming again, harder than the first time but this one you can't muffle at all. It rips right out of your throat. Your whole body clenches around him and he makes a broken sound holding still, jaw tight, riding it out with you.
When you come down enough to breathe he pulls out gently, and before you can protest the sudden emptiness he's flipping you onto your back.
You blink up at him, dazed, hair a wreck, dress still bunched around your waist. He grabs the hem and drags it up and off over your head and it lands somewhere around his room. Your body is flushed, chest heaving, a sheen of sweat on your covering you and hickeys blooming everywhere. His eyes are still dark and his curls are damp at the temples.
He grabs your ankles and hooks them up over his shoulders, one and then the other, folding you nearly in half. Your knees graze your own chest then he slides back in in one long push as you both groan.
"Oh-" you gasp, "oh- fuck- Jace."
"Yeah," he breathes, and it comes out shaky as his hands slide from your ankles down the backs of your calves to grip behind your knees, pinning them wider and higher, the angle of him inside you shifts so deep you swear you can feel him under your ribs. "Yeah, there you go. There's my girl."
The rain has picked up outside. It's not soft anymore, it's a steady drumming against the window, the bass from downstairs has kicked over into something with a heavier beat, a low pulse that syncs almost obscenely with the rhythm of his hips. The candle on the dresser is burning low, the wick swimming in a pool of melted wax, throwing amber shadows across the ceiling. The whole room smells like sex now.
You can barely keep your eyes open but thrusts continue to knock a soft high sound out of you and suddenly an almost pornographic sound leaves your mouth along with Jace’s name as you scratch his skin.
"Fuck, do that again."
You do it again. Four red lines blooming down the tan of his forearm, and he groans in response, low and long, and drops his head so his forehead presses against your shin where it's hooked over his shoulder. There's beads of sweat sliding down the side of his throat, and you watch it disappear into the hollow of his clavicle.
He lifts his head. His eyes are almost black, pupils blown so wide there's barely any brown left, and his mouth is swollen. He looks feral as if he's been possessed by something old and hungry, it's a look you are well aware of over the course of your relationship.
"Come here." He unhooks one of your ankles, then the other, and lets your legs drop to wrap around his waist instead, as he leans down over you, chest to chest, and you feel the flat wet heat of his skin against yours and it makes you shiver. His weight is heavy in the best way, almost grounding. He braces himself on one elbow beside your head and his other hand slides up your rips, thumb dragging along the underside of your left breast.
"Jace."
"Mm."
"Kiss me."
He does, openmouthed and messy and you moan out. He swallows the sound while his hips are moving in slow deep grinds now instead of thrusts, working himself against that spot inside your belly, every roll of him drags the base of his cock against your clit and you feel another orgasm building, low and slow like heat rising in a kettle.
He pulls back from your mouth and trails his lips down your jaw, down the side of your neck, over one of the hickeys he already made, sucking gently, marking it again, and then down, further, to the flushed skin above your breast. His mouth wraps around your nipple and he laps. Slow, flat strokes of his tongue, then he closes his lips around it and sucks, and your back arches off the mattress hard enough that your front presses up against his mouth.
"Oh god-“
"Mhm" he moans at your reaction before switching sides, giving your other boob the same treatment. His tongue circling and his teeth grazing. Once he’s done, he nuzzles into the soft valley between your breasts and presses a kiss there, almost sweet, before he mouths back up to the other side and does it all over again, longer this time, until your nipples are stiff and shiny while you tremble under him.
"Jace- Jace- please, I'm-"
"I know." His voice is thick. "I know, Love, come on, one more."
"I can't-“ you cry out.
"You can."
He shifts putting his weight on his forearms on either side of your head and drops his forehead to yours, so all you can see is him, dark curls falling forward, freckle on the bridge of his nose you've kissed a thousand times, and his hips pick up a faster and harder, almost unforgivable pace. The mattress is squeaking now, in earnest, and somewhere in a distant part of your brain you register that the downstairs neighbors' bass has gone quite and you don't care, you don't care about anything except the fact that Jace’s eyes are open and locked on yours and he is looking at you like you're the only thing in the world worth looking at.
"Come on," he pants. "Come on, come on, come on."
Your hand slides down between your bodies. He shifts up a little to give you room as your fingers find your clit, slick with both of your juices combined, you rub tight fast circles and almost immediately your over the edge and coming before you're gone.
You cry out loud, right against his mouth, and he kisses you through it, you clench around him is what does him in. He finally goes still as his whole body tenses. His forehead presses harder into yours and his eyes squeeze shut. He makes the most wrecked sound you have ever heard from him, a broken little "oh, fuck, oh fuck, sweet girl-" and you feel him pulse inside you, hot and thick, he shudders through it with his cock buried as deep as he can get.
The two of you hold there, both breathing hard. His curls tickling your forehead. Your legs still locked around his hips. Your fingers still tangled in the damp hair at the nape of his neck. Someone in the hall outside is laughing at something on their phone as they pass by, and it's such a mundane sound compared to what just happened that it startles a laugh out of you.
He lifts his head. His eyes are soft again. Brown and warm and a little glazed.
"Hi." His voice is a rasp.
"Hi."
"You okay?"
"Mhm." You say nodding.
He pulls out slowly, careful about it, you both wince at the loss. He looks down between your bodies and makes a low, satisfied sound in his throat, you tilt your chin up to see what he's seeing. His cum is leaking out of you, sliding down onto the pillow he shoved under your hips earlier. He drags two fingers through it and pushes it back into you, slowly and deliberately, the aftershock makes you twitch and gasp.
"Sorry, sorry." He's grinning. He's not sorry. "Couldn't help it."
"You are so-"
"So what."
"So much."
"Mm." He kisses the tip of your nose, and then your cheek, and then your mouth, soft this time, no tongue, just the press of him. "Stay right there. Don't move."
He rolls off you and stands. You watch him walk to the bathroom, naked, the long line of his back, the two dimples at the base of his own spine, the muscled slope of his ass and the back of his thighs. He flicks the bathroom light on and you hear the tap run. You let your head loll to the side letting your eyes roll shut. Your body feels like it's melted into the mattress.
He comes back with a warm washcloth folded in his palm, and the softness on his face as he crawls back onto the bed does something painful and specific to your heart. He kneels between your knees and cleans you up with the kind of careful tenderness that used to fluster you back when you were still figuring out how to receive it. Now you just close your eyes and let him. He wipes down the insides of your thighs, and then between your legs, slow and gentle, and then he tosses the washcloth toward the laundry hamper and misses but doesn't care at the moment.
"C'mere." He flops down beside you and drags you into his chest, and you go willingly and he arranges you the way he likes, one of your thighs hooked over his hip, your cheek on his chest, his arm heavy around your back. His hand starts a slow drift up and down your spine.
The candle finally burs out. The room dims to the blue of the streetlight through the rain-streaked window. His heartbeat is a steady, slowing thump under your ear.
"Sofia…" he says, after a long moment.
"Mm?"
"You should text her."
"Oh." You laugh, small and hoarse. "Right."
You reach blindly for your phone on the nightstand. It's got three unread texts and a missed FaceTime. You squint at the screen.
Sof (9:04 PM): where are u
Sof (9:11 PM): hello???
Sof (9:19 PM): girl is jace holding you hostage
You show Jace the screen and he snorts reading it.
"Accurate."
"I hate you."
"Mm hm."
You type back one-handed, thumb clumsy. so sorry babe. wildly detained. love u. tomorrow brunch on me. You add a red heart. You put the phone face down.
Jace's fingers are tracing something on your back and you realize after a second that he's tracing the edges of one of the hickeys he left, thumb rubbing gentle little circles over the sore skin.
"You are absolutely covered," he says, and there's something almost awed in his voice. "Head to toe."
"Whose fault is that."
"Yours." His hand slides up into your hair and cradles the back of your head. "You're the one who bought that dress."
"I bought that dress for girls night.”
"You bought that dress to torture me."
"Same thing."
He huffs a laugh into the top of your head, presses a kiss there. His mouth stays for a second, warm through your hair. You can smell his skin, the clean cedar of his deodorant almost sweated off, the sharper note of his sweat underneath, the faintest ghost of your body oil transferred onto him. You feel very, extremely, unreasonably fond of him. It rises up in your chest like a slow warm tide.
"Hey," you say.
"Hm?"
"I'm keeping the dress."
"I know."
"I'm gonna wear it out. Eventually."
"I know." His hand smooths down your back and comes to rest at the very base of your spine, right where he started. His palm is broad and warm and his fingers spread over both dimples, claiming. "Just, with me."
"Deal."
He hums, low and content, and shifts to pull the duvet up over both of you, tucking it around your shoulder with his free hand, and then he settles back, holding you closer against the long warm line of his body while the rain keeps drumming steady on the window.
thank you to the lovely anon who sent in this request!!! i lost a bit of my sanity trying to translate the high valyrian… but we persevere!!!
winds roared outside the walls of dragonstone, salted water crashing up on the rocky banks as the western sky bled from vibrant oranges and pinks into a black ink spill. inside the runic castle, jacaerys velaryon, the queen’s heir, held onto his lady wife with a bruising grip, her beautiful moans cresting his ears as he rutted into her slick.
“look at you — such a good girl. so pliant and sweet for me.” sweet whimpers of ecstasy leave your lips, hitting jace straight in the gut as he continues his tirade of praise over your body.
“jace!” you squeal, nails digging into his shoulders, leaving crescent moons in their wake. your husband only grins at your whines, speeding up his movements and hiking your legs higher until the sweetness of your moans grow louder in a crescendo.
brushing your hair off of your forehead, jace grips your cheek, his hold tender and soft, a warmth spreading in your body that only he can wield.
“ñuha gevie riña,” he whispers, smoothing his fingers down the expanse of your collarbone. his hands are a juxtaposition of themselves; one a bruising grip on your thigh, while the other flits softly down your skin, leaving you a speechless, blubbering mess. “nyke daor pāsagon iksā ñuhon.”
the high valyrian wraps around jace’s tongue like ivy on archaic stone, his words unknown to you, yet the softness of them leaving you to believe they’re nothing but praise. your hands move from his shoulders, cupping his face with the softness of the maiden as jace stares down at you lovingly, a sheen of love in his eyes.
“you’re mine,” he laments, holding onto you a little tighter. “and i love you so.”
ñuha gevie riña: my beautiful girl
nyke daor pāsagon iksā ñuhon: i cannot believe you are mine
everything's on fire ?? I'M ON FIRE !! this was so hot !!! being jacaerys's wife is a true blessing and it means his wife gets caresses wrapped in high valyrian. HEHE HOW BEAUTIFUL THIS WAS 😝🤍🤍
“Why does he get to do it?” Aegon’’s chest was pressed firmly against your back as he hovered over you to watch his son feeding before bed.
“Do what?” You hummed softly, leaning into the warmth of your husband as your son latched on.
“Suck on these,” Aegon palmed your other breast as you whined softly, a subtle ache ebbing through you from how heavy your chest felt full of milk.
“Aegon,” You shook your head, smiling softly at your husband's childishness, “He’s our baby.”
“And?” He scoffed, holding your hips gently as he caged you between your son and the crib, “I’m just saying, I was here first.”
Aegon stopped himself from swearing after the side glance you gave him, knowing your husband better than he probably knew himself. A subtle pout etched onto his aging features, tired eyes staring down at you as he kneaded your sore breast for emphasis. You did feel guilty that you’d been neglecting your husband since childbirth, even though you knew you shouldn’t. Aegon was the perfect husband and father, reassuring you that you were still the most perfect, beautiful woman in the Kingdom. But insecurities would often plague your mind, and finding very little time for yourself since your son had arrived into the world meant that these thoughts would continue to fester at the back of your mind.
“Can’t even remember the last time I had these to myself.” Aegon continued.
“There’s no way you’re jealous of your son,” You laughed, leaning into his touch as he began to gently sway you from side to side.
“Ain't My fault he’s got the perfect life,”Aegon smirked as he pecked your cheek, “What I wouldn’t give to fall asleep sucking on these.”
He gave your other breast a playful squeeze as he raised it towards him before letting it bounce back into place. The chemise you wore did little to stop the motion as you let out a soft gasp, milk leaking from your nipple and soaking the thin fabric. Aerion was miserable today. He hadn't been out of your arms all day. So putting on a proper dress was the least of your worries. You were certain this was the least desirable you'd ever looked to your husband, with baby spittle and milk staining your dress, messy hair, and tired eyes. But Aegon was gazing at you as though you were holding his world with your bare hands, keeping the moon and stars in the sky as he pressed another soft kiss to your cheek.
“They’re actually really sore,” You whined as you lay your son back in his crib, pressing a gentle kiss to his forehead before standing back up. You didn’t even bother doing your bra back up as your breast continued to leak milk, sighing gently as your husband began pressing soft kisses along the column of your neck.
“Is he suckin’ too hard?” Aegon nosed your cheek as he watched his son feeding.
“No, they’re just full.” You mumbled, “I feel like I’ve been feeding him for hours today and it didn’t make a difference because I’m still leaking.”
“Seven Hells”
“Aegon” You chastised him for his language as he pulled back to give you an incredulous look.
“What? He can’t understand me yet.” Aegon’s lips curled into a smug gin.
“If his first word is a cuss word I’m never speaking to you again.” You taunted as you turned to face him.
“You could never,” Aegon teased, pressing a soft kiss to your lips.
“Want to take that chance?” Aegon pecked another kiss on your lips before nuzzling your cheek, keeping his hand on your hip as he leaned over the crib to press a kiss to his son's forehead.
“Your first word is going to be ‘daddy’ isn't that so?” He smiled sweetly, pressing a final kiss to the top of his head before standing upright.
“Or mama,” You smiled softly at your baby boy, breaking off into a soft yawn as you covered your mouth.
“Are you tired?” Aegon hummed as you nodded in affirmation.
“He’s been so fussy today, I didn’t get much time to myself.” You mumbled.
“Let me look after you, Princess.” He took your hand in his as he led you towards your shared bedroom. He nodded his head to your handmaiden to go watch your sleeping son.
Turning his attention to you as he curled a hand around the curve of your neck, his thumb grazing your jaw as he pressed a gentle kiss to your lips, “I think it's about time someone looked after you isn’t it, sweetheart?”
“Aegon'' You gasped as he pulled you down to lay on the soft sheets, the thin material you were wearing riding up your thighs as you suddenly felt self-conscious about the stains against the fabric from feeding your son and the fact you couldn’t even remember the last time you’d had taken a bath. The maids and house staff all offered their help, but at every turn you refused. Aerion was yours, and no one but you or Aegon could care for him. The wounds from Blood and Cheese were still too fresh for you to allow strangers near your son's nursery.
It’s silly how shy you feel around your husband over your basic outfit, pulling off your chemise, left you in a basic pair of cotton, small clothes, and a bra. Motherhood made it difficult to cater your wardrobe to style over substance. The ache in your lower back had you choosing the most comfortable clothing you owned, but Aegon thought you’d never looked sexier. The ethereal glow you’d taken on since pregnancy stuck around even now, your body truly a gift from the from the seven as he felt his cock throbbing with urgency between his thighs. But this moment wasn’t about him, it was all about you. Ignoring the throb as his cock leaked fresh pre against the fabric of his small clothes as he leaned forward. Helping to undo the clasp of your bra as he watched the fabric spill down your shoulders, allowing your breasts to drop naturally as he moaned at the sight of them. How heavy they looked, your nipples darkened and swollen as you gazed up at him shyly.
“Aegon, don’t stare. I know that they look so different," you mumbled, but how could he not? When you were the one who carried his son to term, you were the reason his son was happy and healthy now.
“You’re so pretty,” He cooed softly as he began to press chaste kisses against your collarbone, following a path towards your sternum before nuzzling the valley of your breasts. Warm palms soothed along your abdomen, feeling your tummy where your baby had been for so long, “Tell me if I’m too rough.”
“Please, Aeg.” You mumbled, pouty lips and furrowed brows as he leaned in closer.
“It’s been too long since I’ve had these to myself,” He murmured, nuzzling his face between them before moving to suckle on your nipples.
His lips slurp your breast as warm milk begins to flow, the sweet taste of it hitting his tongue as he moans against the soft skin. A large palm reaches up to take the fat of your breast in his hand, kneading gently to tempt more milk from your chest. There’s a part of him that feels wrong, as though he’s stealing milk from his son, but at the same time Aegon loves every inch of you and he wants to take away the pain you feel when your breasts are heavy and lactating. So he continues swallowing the sweet milk that leaks from your chest as he switches breasts, his tongue swiping along the mess that’s leaked from your nipple against your skin. Groaning against you as he gently wraps his lips around your nipple, cheeks hollowing as his throat bobs. Your hands thread through his messy hair as your nails graze his scalp. holding him in place while he worships your body.
“So good, My love.” You murmur, your head writhing against the pillow as he gets another taste of you, the milk sliding down his throat as he groans against your skin.
“You’re so fuckin’ perfect, my beautiful little wife” He rasps, pulling back to gaze up at you through half-lidded eyes.
Squeezing your breast to watch the milk begin to trickle out of your taut nipple before he leans forward to lap it up. You can feel the heat beginning to rise between your thighs, the sudden realization sweeping over you that you can’t remember the last time you’ve had the time or energy to be intimate with your husband.
His hardness presses against your crotch as he shows how desperately he wants you, urgency brewing inside him as his fingers slip beneath the hem of your panties. Dragging his fingers through your slick to feel how wet you are for him as he sucks in a breath. Two of his fingers slip into your wet, tight heat and suddenly he’s reminded of how gorgeous you feel wrapped around his cock. His fingers curl inside you as he continues to lap at your breasts, his tongue circling your swollen nipple as he tastes more of your milk in his throat. A slight lilt to your voice as you beg him for more, a keen sense of urgency to your tone as you try to tug at his sweats. Desperate to feel him deep inside you, to satiate the ache swirling between your thighs.
Aegon pulls his fingers from your centre as you whine at the loss of contact. Moving to pull his trousers down just enough to free his aching cock before he wraps the same fingers coated in your slick around his girth. Giving himself a teasing pump as his leaking tip nudges your clothed sex.
There’s an innate sense of urgency as he curls his fingers into the hem of your cotton panties to tug them down your thighs, leaving them hanging around one of your ankles as he lines himself up with your sex.
“Please, Aegon.” You slur, “I need you so bad.”
He presses the bulging tip of his cock against your tight hole as he presses his weight forward, feeling you slowly begin to swallow the length of him. Eagerly sucking him in as he pushes his hips forward, so wet and pliant that he manages to bottom out with minimal resistance as he stills inside you for a moment to cherish the sensation of your walls squeezing his cock once again.
“Fuck,” He chokes out as your breasts continue leaking milk, the sight alone has his cock throbbing inside you as he sets a languid pace. Violet eyes meet your own as he rests his forehead on top of yours for a moment, surrounding himself with you, “Always feel so goddamn perfect, like you were made for me”
Aegon licks his lips as he watches your breasts continue to leak for him, the creamy milk against your skin as he hovers over you, slurping up the spilt milk as it’s still warm on his tongue. He knows he won’t last long, not with all the pent-up frustration and the taste of your milk on his tongue.
“Aegon,” You gasped, the familiar sensation already swirling in your pelvis.
“I am gonna stuff you so full of my cum you’ll always be round and plump with my child.” He continued, pressing open-mouthed kisses against the swell of your breast, “You’re so pretty like this, sweetheart. So perfect.”
“Aeg, I’m gonna—” You mumbled, feeling the coil inside you dangerously close to snapping as he alternated breasts, easing the tension in your chest as he released more of your milk from inside you. The pain dissipated as it was replaced with white, hot pleasure as you began to clamp down around him.
“You’re so pretty, so perfect, taste so good—” Aegon continued to slur his words as his nose nudged your breast,
Feeling yourself slowly falling into your bliss as
“Come on, sweetheart. I’ve got you.” He sucks your nipple hard, causing you to throb around him as you feel yourself tumble into your bliss. Your walls flutter around his cock as he continues his messy pace, groaning at the way your body feels clamping around him, trying to milk him of his release.
Shamelessly searching for his own release as his balls start to tighten, the thought of fucking another child into you has his pelvis throbbing as he imagines you all round and full with his release. Cumming deep inside you with a grunt of your name as he spills hot ropes of cum inside your fluttering walls. Leaning on his forearms as he rides out his climax, fucking his release deep inside you as he imagines you pretty and round with another child. His thrusts slow to a gentle rut as he rests his weight on top of you for a moment, looking down at you with complete adoration as you gaze up at him towing tired eyes.
Aegon groans when he pulls out of your slick heat, his eyes immediately diving between your thighs to watch the thick, creamy mixture of his release begin to dribble from your hole . His fingers delving between your thighs to push it back inside you as he thinks about giving you another child, picturing keeping you like this for as long as possible.
“Do you feel better, sweetheart?” His nose nuzzles between the valley of your breasts as you both enjoy the quiet moment alone together, pressing soft kisses against the sensitive mounds.
“Much,” You whisper as Aegon flicks one of your nipples playfully.
“Finally got my spot back,” He grins up at you from between your breasts as he nips at the soft skin.
“Until your son wakes up,” you smile softly, already feeling yourself succumbing to slumber.
“Better make the most of it then.” Aegon rumbles as he wraps his lips back around one of your nipples.
The hatred between your uncle and the Targaryens becomes blurred
smut, age gap, pregnancy kink (3.0k)
The air in the chamber smelled of damp stone and old sulfur, that scent that clung to your throat every time a dragon breathed nearby. Two days had passed since you arrived at Tumbleton, two days of narrow corridors and lowered voices, of feeling like every Hightower you crossed paths with was measuring you with their eyes, as if searching your face for something to confirm or something to condemn. You didn't care. You hated them all, even though your own blood carried that name through your mother. You were a Targaryen. Nothing more.
That morning you went down with Daeron to the space they'd improvised for the dragons, a chamber dug underground, too small, too dark for creatures born for the open sky. You felt Blackhunt's restlessness before you even saw her, a tremor that climbed up through your bones, a tension the two of you had shared ever since they'd been locked in there. The dragon scraped her claws against the stone, made the air crack with a low growl every time the ceiling seemed too close to her folded wings.
Daeron stood in front of his own dragon, speaking to her in whispers.
"We'll be flying again soon," he told her, running a hand along her warm scales. "Have patience."
You stayed a step behind, your hand resting on Blackhunt's flank, feeling the heat of her body pass through your palm. She didn't bear the confinement well either, neither of you did.
That was when the door opened and your uncle's figure filled the stone doorway.
"I warned you," Ormund said, looking at Daeron with that voice he used for everything, half reproach, half sermon. "I told you not to grow fond of the beast."
"She's not a beast," you said, before you'd even thought it through, your voice cutting through the silence of the chamber. "And she has a name."
Ormund barely looked at you, as if your presence were background noise he could ignore.
"Stay out of this."
"You don't give me orders," you answered, taking a step toward him, feeling your blood pulse hot behind your eyes. "I'm a princess, I could burn you if I wanted to."
He didn't answer. He turned to Daeron with a brief smile, almost tender, the only tenderness you'd seen from him since you'd arrived.
"At least you're a good boy," he said, placing a hand on Daeron's shoulder. "Gentle. You say your prayers. The light of the Seven shines on you, the Father favors you."
"As if the Seven existed," you said, contempt rising up your throat.
Ormund looked at you then, finally, with something close to disdain.
"Both of you carry tainted blood," he said, slowly, as if savoring each word. "The Targaryens are a wild line. Of little intellect, but great cunning. With dark spells that created abominations to seize what belonged to others. We are superior."
You felt Blackhunt's growl before you heard it, a low roar that rose through the dragon's chest, her nostrils flaring, fire pulsing somewhere behind her ribs. She knew.
"Calm the beast," Ormund said, without taking his eyes off you.
You didn't. You let Blackhunt growl a second longer before resting your hand on her neck, a gesture that was more a warning to your uncle than comfort for the dragon.
"The gods have assigned you a divine purpose," he said then to Daeron, ignoring you completely, as if he were already done with you. "A purpose only you can fulfill."
"What is it, my lord?" Daeron asked, in that voice that hadn't quite finished becoming a man's, unsure, almost childlike.
"They put a woman on the throne," Ormund said. "And you've lost your brothers, that leads to only one path. Now you must be king."
You watched Daeron go pale, watched the weight of those words come crashing down on him like a slab of stone.
"You're not asking me to turn against my siblings," he said, almost in a whisper.
You stepped forward before Ormund could answer.
"What he's doing is treason," you said, driving each word in like a knife. "Aemond is next in line for the throne, and I, in turn, am the queen. My mother didn't promise me to him for nothing."
"Those are matters of the past," Ormund replied, unruffled, as if your anger were barely a breeze. "Daeron will restore the old order. He'll begin a new world."
He gestured toward the door, and two guardsmen came in dragging a soldier who resisted, his hands bound and his face already swollen from earlier blows.
"A good king must show that he treasures many virtues," Ormund said, with the calm of someone reciting something learned long ago. "Honor. Wisdom. Justice…"
"He defended a woman who was attacked!" Daeron exclaimed, his voice breaking between indignation and fear.
"He laid a hand on a Hightower," Ormund answered, unyielding. "That soldier is an extension of you. Of the Crown. Justice must be done."
"Isn't mercy also a virtue, my lord?" Daeron asked, and this time his voice trembled entirely, his eyes searching for something in his uncle's face that was no longer there.
"That's what your father would have said."
Daeron took a step back as his uncle suddenly closed the distance.
"Forgive me," he murmured.
That was when you approached, slowly, unhurried, letting your footsteps echo against the stone. You took his face in your hands with a care you reserved only for him, for that brother who was barely two years younger but whom you protected as if he were made of glass.
"You always dreamed of being free, like a Targaryen," you told him, quietly, only for him, though you knew Ormund heard every word. "This is the moment to begin. Do justice the way we do it. Feed that man to Tessarion, a true Targaryen never trembles, take what's his by fire, start with him."
You held his gaze a moment longer, searching for that spark you knew was there, buried under fear, and then you stepped back, went to stand beside your uncle, your spine straight and your chin raised.
Ormund approached Daeron and drew his sword, offering it to him with both hands, like a relic.
"I risked everything to raise you," he said. "You won't want to disappoint me."
Daeron took the sword. He sought your eyes one last time, and you nodded, just barely, a minimal gesture that was all the answer he needed.
The man begged for mercy. The word broke in his throat as Daeron ran him through.
Ormund stepped forward to take the sword from his hands, then bowed, and you did the same, never taking your eyes off your brother, then you walked over to him, ignoring the body still bleeding out on the stone, and rested a hand on his shoulder.
"You did well," you told him.
Behind you, Tessarion released a brief burst of flame, a roar of fire that wrapped around the body and filled the chamber with sudden heat, with the sickly sweet, horrible smell of burning flesh. The dragon approached afterward, slowly, to feed.
You left the chamber without looking back, leaving Daeron with the sword still trembling in his hand and the smell of burnt flesh clinging to his clothes. Every step you took through the corridors made your blood boil a little more, until you reached your uncle's chambers and found the door ajar.
You walked in as if the place belonged to you, and in a way you felt it did, that everything Ormund believed he possessed in there belonged to you too, even if only so you could tear it from his hands.
"I won't let you take away my right to be queen," you said, without preamble, your voice cutting through the silence of the room.
Ormund didn't even flinch. He stood by the window, and looked at you with that exasperating calm he used for everything, as if your fury were nothing more than a child's tantrum.
"As I already said," he answered, without looking away from you, "those are matters of the past. Daeron will be the new king, and I'll find him a worthy wife, a submissive one."
"I won't let you do that," you said, taking a step toward him.
"It's not your decision to make."
"No," you agreed, and took another step, and another, until you stood a hand's breadth from him, close enough to see his jaw tighten. "It's mine. If I have to, I'll marry him. I'll have as many children as I can, uncle. To be queen, to extend the Targaryen blood you hate so much."
Something crossed Ormund's face then, something that wasn't quite surprise nor quite disdain, but an uncomfortable mix of both.
"You won't do any such thing," he said, his voice lower, more tense. "I'll lock you up if I have to, you won't marry him."
"I could have children all the same," you answered, not retreating a single inch, holding his gaze like a challenge. "Daeron could give me bastards, and I'd make sure the Hightowers were erased from history, if that's what it takes. No one is going to stand above me."
Ormund let out a low, dry laugh, almost a growl. The sound reverberated in the stone room, closer than it should have been. You were pressed so tightly against him that you could feel the heat of his chest, the scent of incense and old leather that always accompanied him, and something darker underneath: the sweat of a man who had just manipulated his nephew into killing.
“Bastards?” he repeated, tilting his head toward you. His voice dropped an octave, hoarse. “Do you really think I’m going to allow my nephew, my Daeron, to sully his lineage? To let your dragon-swollen womb produce more monsters with violet eyes and silver hair?”
You took another step forward, your chest brushing against his, and neither of you pulled back. The air between you grew thick, charged with fury and something neither wanted to name yet. You felt your breathing quicken, the heat rising up your neck.
“Disgust?” you whispered, almost against his mouth. “I doubt you want to mix your precious Hightower blood with mine, uncle. It would make you nauseous, wouldn’t it? Imagining me naked beneath you, legs spread, receiving your seed. Imagining my womb growing with something of yours inside. Everything that comes from me repulses you, doesn’t it? My body, my blood, my children… everything that carries the seal of the dragon.”
Ormund stared at you fixedly. His eyes, normally cold and calculating, now burned with something wild. His hand suddenly rose and gripped your wrist tightly, not to push you away, but to keep you there, pressed against him. You could feel his pulse beating fast beneath his skin, his hot breath against your cheek.
“Don’t provoke me,” he said through gritted teeth. His other hand rose to your jaw, holding it firmly, forcing you to maintain eye contact. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”
You felt his body tense against yours. The fabric of his tunic brushed against your dress, and beneath that… the unmistakable hardness of his arousal pressing against your hip. It wasn’t just rage. It was desire, raw, forbidden, disgusting to himself, and that only infuriated him more.
“You think you’re so superior,” he continued, his voice hoarse, almost a dangerous whisper. “With your dragon, your Valyrian blood, your damn pride. But look at yourself now… trembling against me, with your nipples hard under that dress. Are you so desperate for power that you’d spread your legs for the man who wants to take your throne?”
You smiled, slow and dangerous, and pushed your hips forward, deliberately rubbing against him. The gasp that escaped his throat gave you more pleasure than any victory.
“Maybe I am,” you replied, lowering your voice until it was only a purr. “Or maybe I just want to see how much you hate yourself when you take me. Because you will, uncle. You’ll hate every second you’re inside me… and you’ll want more.”
His hand on your jaw tightened harder, almost painfully. For a moment you thought he was going to kiss you, or hit you, or both. The silence was deafening, broken only by your ragged breathing.
Then, with visible effort, he pushed you back, but not enough to let you go completely. His eyes dropped for a second to your lips, betraying him.
“Get out of here,” he growled. “Before I do something neither of us can undo.”
But you didn’t leave, and he didn’t let you go either.
Your pulse throbbed between your legs, hot and treacherous. You didn’t pull back. Instead, you lifted your chin and brushed your lips against his, barely a touch, a provocation.
“I’m not leaving,” you whispered against his mouth.
That was all he needed.
With a guttural growl, Ormund pushed you against the oak table behind you. The impact was sharp, but it didn’t hurt; it only fueled the fire. His mouth crashed down on yours with fury, kissing you as if he wanted to punish and devour you at the same time.
His lips were hard, demanding, and his tongue invaded your mouth without asking permission. He tasted of wine and contained rage. You responded with equal intensity, biting his lower lip while your hands rose to his chest, tugging at the laces of his tunic.
“I hate you,” he growled against your neck, biting the sensitive skin just below your ear. His hands slid down your sides, gripping your hips hard, pressing you against his hard, hot erection straining beneath the fabric.
“And I despise you,” you replied, panting, as you slid a hand between your bodies and stroked him over his clothes. You felt him throb under your palm. “But that doesn’t change what I want right now.”
Ormund let out a hoarse sound and lifted your dress with brusque movements, pushing it up to your waist. His fingers found your bare skin, sliding up your thighs until they reached your already wet center. When he touched you there, sliding two fingers between your slick folds, you both moaned at the same time.
“So wet…” he murmured against your throat, almost in disbelief. “For me.”
You didn’t give him the satisfaction of a coherent response. You only arched your hips against his hand, seeking more friction. He slid one finger inside you, then two, moving them with a precision that made you clench your teeth to keep from screaming. His thumb found your swollen clit and rubbed it in slow, firm circles, bringing you to the edge with an ease that infuriated and aroused you in equal measure.
You pulled the dress over your head with trembling hands and threw it to the floor. You stood naked before him, save for the gold chain hanging between your breasts. Ormund paused for a second, looking at you with raw hunger: your hardened nipples, the curve of your waist.
He removed his tunic in a single movement, revealing a torso marked by old scars and tense muscles. His body was imposing, broader and stronger than you had imagined.
You pulled him toward you again, kissing him violently while untying his pants. His cock sprang free, thick and heavy, the head already glistening with precum.
You wrapped your hand around it, stroking him up and down with firm movements. Ormund let out a choked gasp and lifted you, sitting you on the edge of the table.
He spread your legs with his hands and positioned himself between them.
“Look at me,” he ordered.
You did. His eyes locked onto yours as he guided his erection to your entrance and thrust into you in one deep movement. The stretch was intense, almost painful at first, but pleasure followed immediately. You both moaned. He was big, hot, filling you completely.
He began to move with strong, controlled thrusts, each one deeper than the last. The table creaked beneath you. You clung to his shoulders, digging your nails into his back as he fucked you with a mix of hatred and lust that made you feel powerful. Every time he bottomed out, he brushed that spot inside you that made you see stars.
“Tell me you want it,” he growled, biting your shoulder. “Tell me you want me to fill you.”
“I want it,” you gasped, wrapping your legs around his waist so he could go deeper. “Please…
He picked up the pace, his hips slamming against yours with force. The wet sound of flesh against flesh filled the room along with your moans.
He kissed you again, more savagely, while one of his hands moved down to rub your clit in time with his thrusts. The orgasm hit you suddenly, intense and overwhelming.
You clenched around him, screaming his name against his mouth as waves of pleasure coursed through your body.
Ormund didn’t last much longer. With one final hoarse growl, he sank to the hilt and came inside you, spilling his hot seed in deep pulses. He stayed there, buried inside you, breathing heavily against your neck.
For a long moment, only your breathing could be heard. Then, slowly, he lifted his head and looked at you. There was no longer only fury in his eyes. There was something darker, more possessive.
“You’re not going to marry Daeron,” he said quietly, still inside you, his hand slowly caressing your belly. “Nor are you going to bear anyone’s bastards. If anyone is going to swell this womb… it’s going to be me.”
You felt a shiver that had nothing to do with fear. A part of you, the wildest and most Targaryen, ignited at the image: your body changing because of him, carrying his children, uniting the two bloodlines into something new and powerful.
“Then take me as your wife,” you whispered, running your fingers through his sweat-dampened hair. “Make me truly yours, uncle. I want your children. I want my womb to carry your legacy…”
He closed his eyes for a second, as if your words hit him harder than any sword. When he opened them, there was a fierce determination in his gaze.
“You will be my wife,” he murmured against your lips, sealing the promise with a slow, deep kiss, still joined to you. “And you will give me dragons with a Hightower crown.”
a princess wed to a dashing knight should be living a fairytale—but gwayne hightower is also the son of the schemer who would soon plunge the realm into civil war. how long can you resist his charms... when he proves time and again that his affection is as genuine as his honor?
genre/warnings:
arranged marriage, unrequited love, hurt/comfort, yearning, jealousy, mentions of injury & blood, fluff and lots of kissing afterwards, sunshine!gwayne and grumpy!reader, political drama, targaryen!reader (reader is rhaenyra's younger sister), spoilers! takes place in season 1 of house of the dragon
notes:
gif by @/bladeofdreadfort. wc. 4.5k ! hotd s3 is finally here and so does my man gwayne <3 i really loved writing this so i hope you’ll enjoy it!
For the longest time, Gwayne had known that the matter of his marriage were not his to ponder. As the son of the Hand of the King, his future was a tapestry woven by him in a series of cunning, calculated moves.
Yet, he had never truly expected to be betrothed to you—a princess of the realm.
The young princess for the queen’s brother. By every measure, it was a masterful stroke of politics and his father had once again outdone himself. After binding his sister to the king, it was now his turn to seek the heart of the realm’s most coveted maiden after the Princess Rhaenyra.
However, to Gwayne, you were more than just a political alliance. You were a paragon of beauty, the girl haunting his dreams, the princess who has stolen his heart—
But seven hells, were you also one hard lady to entice.
Every charming smile he threw your way was met with an arched, unimpressed brow. Every poetic compliment he rehearsed tasted like ash and shattered against your coldness. You didn’t swoon like the ladies at the tourney grounds, nor did you soften at his obvious attempts to woo you.
Instead, you looked at him as if you could see right through the nervous man underneath.
Your assessing gaze was currently fixed on him from the shade of the courtyard gallery. Down in the dirt, Gwayne was sweating through his padded doublet, trying his absolute best to look formidable as his sword clashed against his squire’s shield—because he knew you were watching.
He has to look good. Your wedding was in three weeks, so he was fighting to impress—determined to give you a show of how your betrothed was as dashing as the realm claimed him to be.
With theatrical flair, he executed an aggressive sequence before driving his squire back with a heavy strike, deftly sweeping the poor lad’s legs out from under him, and sending him sprawling into the dirt with a breathless thud.
Breathing heavily, Gwayne smoothly rested the point of his sword near the fallen boy’s chest in a classic pose of victory.
“You are just dead,” he declared with his signature grin, before turning to where you were.
You leaned against the stone balustrade, looking down at him with an expression of mild, patronizing amusement. He flashed you a hopeful, boyish grin that begged for even a shred of your approval.
And as if deciding to grace him with your presence, you descended down the stone stairs. Gwayne’s smile widened, and he met you halfway as you reached the bottom.
Ignoring the staring stableboys, he dipped his head and took your hand, placing a kiss on it.
“Princess,” he greeted, his dark blue eyes meeting yours with an excited crinkle.
“An impressive display, Ser Gwayne,” you replied, smoothly pulling your hand back from his grasp. He was giddy, about to thank you for the compliment, when—
“I must commend your passion. It takes a truly remarkable knight to exert such effort against a boy half his size who is actively paid to lose to him.”
Gwayne winced slightly, but the grin quickly returned to his face, refusing to let your sharp tongue deter him.
“A knight, no matter the age, must practice for all manner of foes. It shall be a good lesson for my squire to learn,” he countered softly. He had always been a naturally courteous man, but he had been practicing an extra measure of gentleness ever since the betrothal was announced, even when you remained frosty.
He hoped that you would recognize it—that you would see he was willing to bend his pride just for you.
However, you merely lifted your chin higher, your eyes flashing with a challenge.
“Is that so? My, what a chivalrous soul you are. I suppose I shall sleep soundly knowing you are defending the realm with your immense prowess and formidable army of squires.”
One thing he could never truly understand, though... he hadn’t asked for this match any more than you had, yet why did you look at him as you would a liar?
And it hurts because... he remembers how the more innocent, younger you, who had wiped blood from his face, hadn’t looked at him as you do now.
“We are to be married in no less than a moon,” he reminded you, still with a smile. “Tell me, Princess... what must a man do to earn a genuine compliment from his bride?”
You held his gaze for a beat, letting the silence stretch just long enough to watch the slight twitch in his jaw. Then, a devastatingly sweet smile graced your lips as you tilted your head.
“Compliments are but wind, my good ser. If we are to marry soon anyways, what use would flattering you with empty words do?”
Gwayne let out a defeated chuckle. “I shall just continue striving to become a man worthy of your hand, then.”
You had just insulted him and mocked his swordsmanship in the same breath, and yet, somehow, he still found himself tethered to you still.
What a fool he was.
He didn’t give up just like that, of course. Gifts was also Gwayne’s language of affection.
He had commissioned a seven-pointed star necklace for you in Oldtown, crafted from the finest silver and diamond. He had watched his late mother and sister find such profound comfort in it, and so he had believed it would make a fine gift for you.
Yet, now that he presented the gleaming jewelry to you, you were rendered silent.
“You do not like it,” he realized, a note of disappointment building through his usual confidence.
“It is exquisite. Truly,” you started, your voice gentle but lacking the reverence he had anticipated. “But... you must not expect me to wear it often.”
“Is it the design? If it offends your sensibilities, I can have it redone, or—”
“I assure you, I know your intentions are kind,” you looked at him, a certain sternness in your eyes. “It is just a matter of preference, is all. I treasure this necklace from my mother rather greatly, and wearing it is how I keep her close to me.”
The tragic death of Queen Aemma was not so easily forgotten, least of all when you resembled her so much. Gwayne’s smile faltered, the enthusiasm in his eyes dimming when his gaze found the sapphire necklace of Arryn falcon on your neck, a heirloom passed down.
He looked down at the silver star resting in the wooden box, suddenly finding it so plain, before forcing himself to meet your gaze again.
“I just want you to know that... you are in my thoughts, constantly,” he murmured, his gaze rising to meet yours again. “Whenever I see something I consider beautiful, I think of you. I want you to have it. You should know I have no underlying intentions other than that.”
You gave him an appreciative nod, pursing your lips together. “Your kind thoughts are much appreciated.”
So he had failed, again. Sigh.
What better way to impress your betrothed and prove to the entire realm that you were worthy of her hand than by claiming victory at the King’s nameday tourney?
Even you would at least bestow a real smile upon him. That was what Gwayne was after.
Or at least, it was until his gaze drifted to the edge of the battlement grounds where the knights were assembling. There, he saw you.
With Criston Cole.
The sight struck him. You, who usually looked at him with indifference, were attentive, your eyes bright in a way Gwayne had never managed to make them. Cole, in turn, had a reserved smile, his attention entirely locked onto you.
It could have been anyone but Criston—the Dornishman!—Cole. Why him?!
A sharp spike of resentment flared in his chest. He decided right then and there that this cannot stand, and marched towards you both.
“Good day, Ser Criston,” Gwayne greeted with a forced smile, his voice dripping with a courtly cheer that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
Cole returned his greeting, and he turned to you then. “My betrothed, fancy to have found you here. You shouldn’t have to sully yourself with the dirt.”
“I was merely wishing Ser Criston luck in the lists.” As always, the corners of your lips curled into that faux smile whenever facing him. “The competition looks fierce today.”
What about him? You hadn’t thought of wishing him, your own groom, luck?
“Fierce for some, mayhaps,” Gwayne nodded, his smile sharpening as he took another step forward, deliberately cutting off Criston Cole’s line of sight to you. He reached out, his gauntleted hand gently but firmly taking yours.
“But I sure do not fear a crowd of knights of modest beginnings and second sons. And I have hoped that I might find you in the stands later, and you would bestow upon me your favor to assure me of my victory.”
He looked down at you, the forced arrogance in his eyes momentarily cracked. He wanted you to look at him the way you had just looked at Cole, really.
But cruel, relentless you never granted it so easily.
“Your romantic sensibilities are commendable, ser.” You let out a soft sigh, as if lamenting, “but victory is still guaranteed by skill and the favor of the Seven, and not merely from a scrap of silk.”
The rejection was subtle, but in the presence of Criston Cole, it felt like a public execution.
“It is said even a scrap of favor from one’s bride can turn the tide of many battles,” Gwayne replied, his voice dropping an octave as the last traces of courtly cheer evaporated. “Unless, of course, your favor has already been promised to someone else?”
His eyes flicked towards Cole, searching for a reason to draw steel before the tourney even began. And that Dornish wretch had the gall to look at him in the eyes and retorted:
“May the best knight win, ser.”
Your betrothed had become terribly displeased and you knew it. Your hollow smile deepened, you stepped forward and smoothly slid your hand into the crook of his arm.
“No, no. You are free to ask me for it later, of course, my dear.”
Gwayne knew better that the honeyed words held no real affection. Yet, like a moth drawn to a flame, he couldn’t help but fall for it each and every time.
You held his leash, and you knew exactly how far you could play with and stretch it. But as he looked at you, a quiet ache settled in his soul.
Is it truly so wrong of him to seek your heart? How much longer would he have to endure this torment, giving everything while his affections remained completely unreturned?
“From today to the day we breathe our last, all that I am is yours.”
That was the first thing he told you when the betrothal was announced. In a den of vipers, Gwayne Hightower was entirely his own man.
He didn’t possess the calculating ambition of his father, who viewed every living soul as a piece in his game of thrones. Nor was he prudent like his sister, Queen Alicent, whose motto in life was duty and sacrifice.
You know that. You really knew that your chosen betrothed was everything but unkind. He was everything the songs promised a knight should be— genuine, posh, with a touch of arrogance that made him charming. He held you in high regard, and his attempts to make an impression on you were sweet.
Despite how you behaved around him, the truth was... it took everything in you not to fall for Ser Gwayne Hightower.
But he is still Otto’s son. You hated the Lord Hand with every fiber of your being—the man’s thirst for power had already forced your childhood companion Alicent into your father’s bed, turned your sister Rhaenyra into a scheming cynic, and your own betrothal to Gwayne was just another piece of his grand design.
However, watching the tourney unfold from the royal box, your thoughts swirled with guilt and anxiety. In the end, he hadn’t asked for your favor at all. Ironically, his sudden silence unsettled you far more than his persistence ever had.
Looking back on your interactions, the weight of your biting marks pressed heavily against your chest. You had rejected him so many times, using your faux smiles and sharp wit as shields. Every time you remembered the look of hurt that crossed his face before he masked it with a patient smile, a fresh wave of guilt washed over you.
Did he deserve to be punished just for pursuing you? Was it fair to make him pay for his father’s sins?
Down in the dirt, Gwayne rode beautifully, unseating two seasoned knights from the Reach and splitting lances with a Lannister to thunderous applause from the crowd. For a moment, watching his silver and green armor gleam in the sunlight, a spark of pride flared in your chest.
Then, Ser Criston Cole rode onto the field.
The tension between the two men was palpable even from the high stands. They charged— one lance shattered, then a second. By the third pass, it was clear it was a matter of pride.
And on the fourth pass, the collision was catastrophic.
With a terrifying crack that echoed across the grounds, Cole’s lance struck dead center. Gwayne was violently unseated, flung from his saddle to hit the earth with a sickening crash.
A collective gasp sucked the air from the stands. Through the rising dust, you saw your betrothed lying completely still. Cole’s lance hadn’t just broken— it had compromised his armor. His steel breastplate was shattered to pieces, the shards visibly lodged into his chest, dark blood already pooling through the fractures.
Your breath hitched, your hand flying to your mouth in horror.
Six years ago, a similar scene had paralyzed your heart the very same way. Blind to the rules of propriety, you bolted from the royal box. Pushing past lords and ladies, you sprinted down into the arena—desperate to reach him.
The maesters and several squires had already swarmed him, unbuckling the undamaged pieces of his armor with hurried hands. Gwayne was propped up against a wooden barrier, half-conscious, his head lolling to the side as his eyes struggled to hold focus.
“Will he be alright?” your voice cracked, almost shrill, the composed facade of a princess shattered as you hovered over the maesters working on him. “Tell me he will be alright.”
“The steel hasn’t pierced the heart, Princess, but we must move him to immediately to extract the shards,” one of them mumbled, wrapping a temporary cloth around the wound to stem the bleeding.
Gwayne let out a low, guttural groan at the pressure, his eyelids fluttering. Through the haze of pain, he recognized your voice. He knew you were there.
Driven by a sudden, overwhelming surge to comfort him, you dropped to your knees beside him. Your hands were trembling as you reached out, using the hem of your sleeve to wipe away the grime and blood that smeared his pale cheek.
But before your fingers could trace his jawline, Gwayne’s gauntleted hand came up. With a sudden burst of remaining strength, he swatted your hand away—
“Do not touch me,” he rasped.
The words were raw and bitter, dripping with an icy venom you had never heard from him before.
. . .
Gwayne refused to meet your gaze. He pressed his eyes shut, his jaw clenched so tightly the bone practically strained against his skin.
It wasn’t just the physical agony tearing him apart. It was the suffocating, absolute humiliation.
He had lost. He had been unseated and laid low in the dirt in front of the entire realm—and worse, in front of Criston Cole. He couldn’t bear to see the pity in your eyes. He couldn’t bear to look at the woman he loved and see confirmation that he was exactly what you always thought of him: unworthy.
“I’m— fine,” he choked out then. “So... go back to the Keep.”
It was funny how this was the same thing that had happened to him six years ago, during the Heir’s Tourney. He had been brutally unseated by Daemon Targaryen then, and just like now, you had come running to him, wiping the blood from his broken nose with your kerchief.
He fell in love with you then... and he has been in love with you ever since.
The girl holding his heart was a princess, and he had never dared to hope for more, never dreaming his conniving father would actually arrange your hand for him. He had thought it a blessing.
But his pursuit of you the past three moons had yielded nothing but a bitter truth— you despised him.
So he preferred to choke on the blinding pain, to let it consume him entirely, rather than suffer the indignity of your comfort.
You are in love with him.
You had spent weeks trying to resent the circumstances that led to your marriage with Otto Hightower’s son, reminding yourself over and over that he had fractured your family, sowing seeds of rebellion that would break once Alicent’s son came to age, and it would spell disaster upon you all—
But the wounded knight with broken nose six years ago had long since owned a part of your heart, and one week without Gwayne Hightower persistent on your heel, you had found yourself... sad.
“Mrawgh...”
“I’m not lonely,” you mumbled petulantly, brushing a hand against Grey Ghost’s silver scales as the dragon curled up, blinking his golden eyes shut to rest.
To occupy yourself, you spent the days with your dragon in the Dragonpit. Tending to Grey Ghost made the long hours pass faster— he was a recluse and not keen on flying often, but his quiet presence matched your somber mood.
Leaving him to his slumber, you walked away lost in your thoughts, entirely failing to notice how slippery the stone ledge had become.
Your foot caught on a heavy iron ring embedded in the floor. The world tilted as you stumbled backwards, losing your footing entirely. You braced for a painful impact against the stone floor, but a pair of strong arms wrapped securely around your waist, arresting your descent.
A sharp, ragged gasp left your savior’s lips. As you stabilized, you realized your hands had instinctively braced against his chest—pressing right over the bandages of the fresh wound.
“Steady there,” the redhead managed, a strained smile tight on his lips as he gently set you back on your feet. His green tunic made you realize who he was—
“Gwayne!” you breathed. Your hands hovered over him, trembling, almost terrified to touch him again. “Why are you—your wound! I didn’t mean to—”
“I am fine, truly,” he assured you, his voice softening as he offered a warm, comforting smile. “It is but a scratch, Princess. It takes more than a clumsy tumble from you to injure me.”
Just like a hundred times before, Gwayne Hightower sought you out. You could see the sheen of sweat on his forehead and how he looked pale still—
From today to the day we breathe our last, all that I am is yours.
“You are supposed to be resting!” Your voice rose despite yourself. “Why are you here?!”
This wasn’t what you wanted to tell him. You wanted to tell him a lot of other things! Like he was a fool, and that you would forbid him to enter the lists once you two were wed, that you couldn’t bear the thought of losing him—
His blue eyes crinkled with that familiar kindness as he reached out, softly tucking a stray strand of your loose hair behind your ear.
“If I wasn’t here, then you would take a fall.” His voice a soothing balm to your frayed nerves. “I can’t very well let my betrothed hurt herself before our big day, can I?”
This was the first time since King Viserys announced your betrothal three moons ago that you looked genuinely worried for him. It made something inside him burst with joy, even if it was tinged with a bitter aftertaste.
Gwayne’s thumb gently brushed across the back of your hand that was still pressed against his chest.
“Tell me... Is this the only way I could truly have your attention? Must I be grievously injured, a step away from Death’s door, for you to look at me like this?”
Your eyes widened by a fraction. Precious, precious girl. He chuckled softly, a teasing glint brightened his eyes.
Just this once, could he be allowed to be just a little bit cruel?
“Even if you keep looking at me with those beautiful eyes...” he whispered, his smile turning a little wistful, “...my heart might just run out, one of these days.”
He gave you one last, kind smile—a look of affection that no longer held expectations, or reeked of the politics that bound your families. Then, he gently gripped your hand, pulling it away from him before turning on his heel to leave you to your own devices.
When your fingers fell limp into the cold air, a stinging realization pierced through you like a dagger:
Is this how he feels? Is this what he endures every time I evade him? How has he survived it over and over?
As his warmth retreated into the shadows of the Dragonpit, something sharp tore deep inside your chest.
You didn’t want him to go. The walls you had spent weeks building to protect your heart against the Hightower name crumbled into dust. Your eyes burned with tears that blurred his retreating figure.
He was nearly out of the pit when you gathered your skirts, abandoning your pride, and ran after him.
“Ser Gwayne!”
Before he could turn back, you lunged, throwing your pride and your fears to the wind. You crashed into his back, your arms wrapping tightly around his waist, burying your face against his spine. He stiffened, almost flinching—
But then he heard you sob.
“Princess...?” he asked softly. His tone shifted, turning from startled confusion to a protective concern as he carefully turned around within your embrace. He reached up, gently tilting your chin up, only to find your cheeks flushed and wet with tears.
Realizing you were truly, genuinely weeping, Gwayne’s breath hitched in his throat.
He didn’t think. He didn’t let past rejections dictate him. He immediately wrapped his arms around you, pulling you close against his uninjured side.
“Shh, please do not weep,” he said in your ear, his own voice suddenly thick with emotion as he rocked you slightly. “Darling... please.”
Darling. Why did the word sound so devastatingly sweet in your ears? As you clung to him, you realized with absolute certainty that you wanted him to call you that for the rest of your days.
As he held you, feeling the warmth of your hands anchoring yourself to him, the pieces finally fell into place:
Has she... returned my feelings?
When your sobs finally quieted and your breathing turned calmer, you gently pulled back just enough to look up at him. Your eyes met his, and an ache settled in your chest.
He was such a beautiful man. Red hair, blue eyes, with ghost of dimples— still the very same wounded knight you had secretly harbored affections for with all those years ago.
Driven by a clear wave of clarity, you didn’t wait for him to speak. Reaching up, you stood on your toes and pulled him down by his collar—
—and pressed your lips to his.
Gwayne went rigid at your sudden boldness. But as your fingers tangled into his soft hair, any lingering shock vanished. With a low groan, he leaned into you, capturing your mouth in a kiss that felt like the bursting of a dam.
He drank in your sighs, his lips moving against yours with a desperate longing, as if he were trying to memorize the taste of you. He pulled you closer, his hands tilting your head back, anchoring you to him.
“You really are—” he growled against your mouth, his breath hot and ragged, “my utter undoing, Princess.”
Before the words could even fully register, you gasped as he gathered you up and hoisted you backwards, setting you down onto the broad stone railing.
Gwayne stepped between your thighs, pinning you to the ledge as his mouth descended on yours once more, even more ravenous than before. The kiss became a blur of lips, tongues, and breathless gasps—
His hands left your face to map the lines of your body, his palm sliding down the column of your throat to the curve of your shoulders. In his mind’s eye, he was already stripping away the heavy, suffocating layers of your gown, picturing the soft, aching swell of your breasts and the intoxicating dip of your waist.
In less than a week... as soon as you swear your oaths before the Seven, he would be graced by that sight.
Gwayne dragged his lips down from your mouth, leaving a trail of scorching kisses along your jawline before burying his face in the crook of your neck.
“Ser Gwayne—” your voice came hitched, and that what brought him back to reality.
He bit softly at the sensitive skin there, swallowing the fire that was about to consume him. When he finally pulled away to breathe, his lips lingered against yours.
“Well, you did kiss me first, Princess,” Gwayne murmured, his eyes twinkling, voice delightfully raspy as his arms settled loosely around your waist. “If I had known a broken rib would finally get you to kiss me, I would have marched up to Grey Ghost and asked him to toss me by the tail weeks ago.”
“Please don’t,” you giggled, circling your arms around his neck.
“Ah, but think of the romance— a dashing knight, battered and bruised, crawling back from the Dragonpit just to collapse into his bride’s arms.”
A breathless laugh escaped your lips, giving way to a very sweet, genuine smile. To Gwayne Hightower, this was the prettiest you had ever been, and his heart throbbed.
Oh, so she does, he realized, a quiet reverence settling into his soul. She does return my affections.
Gwayne leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, finally certain that his heart was safe in your hands.
“You might not know it,” he whispered, “but I have been in love with you for a very long time.”
You looked up at him, your eyes bright with unshed tears, and he met your gaze with a look of such devotion it stole the breath from your lungs.
“So let me say this once again. From before, now and until the day we breathe our last, all that I am... is yours.”
In that moment, you couldn’t have known that the realm would soon be plunged into a senseless civil war, pitting your sister against his in a dance of dragons and blood. You couldn’t have foreseen the ashes, the betrayals, or the heavy price the Hightower green and the Targaryen black would have to pay.
None of that matters right now. All you wanted was to lose yourself in his embrace and savor the fragile perfection of your wedding to the man of your dreams... for as long as it would last.
Summary: Joel's exhausted by the time he makes it to bed. But when a pretty little thing crawls in beside him, he finds the time for you, just like he always does.
Warnings: +18 MDNI, post outbreak, jackson!joel, unspecified age difference, joel pov, porn no plot, dry humping, slow and soft sex, smut with feelings, internalized shame, intimacy, unprotected piv, clit stimulation, kissing
Note: i haven't written for joel in monthsss but i hope you enjoy!!
WC: 2k
[masterlist] [AO3]
Joel’s the kind of exhausted that only comes with age.
Weary bones, heavy limbs, tired eyes.
He’s falling into bed as soon as he gets home, often forfeiting dinner in favor of blissful rest. Sometimes even before the sun’s fully set.
And today is just one of those days. He’d spent the night tossing and turning, trying to massage away a kink in his neck that persisted well into the afternoon. But he hadn’t had time to complain or think too much about how excited he was to crawl back beneath the sheets, because the northernmost barn was falling to pieces.
So, not only was he functioning half empty from the start, but the work today was also strenuous. Sawing raw timber to the perfect length, sanding down the sharp edges, hammering nails into plywood. A full day.
And when Denise had stopped him on his way home, waving him down with a glass of freshly squeezed lemonade in hand, she’d given him that bright, hopeful smile and said, “Little Sammy ran that damn bike into the back door again. Would you mind fixing the hinges?”
His back ached and his knees were creaky, but Joel soon found himself knelt on Denise’s porch, screwdriver and fresh nails in hand.
It didn’t take long, but it did take every last scrap of energy that remained inside of him.
Joel’s house was always quiet. Too big for him, really. Ellie was in the garage already, lights still on, up too late when she had early patrol the following morning. But Joel didn’t have it in him to remind her how important sleep was. Not when he was running on fumes himself.
So he dragged those tired, old bones inside. Kicked off his boots and jeans right at the door of his room, hung his flannel over the back of the chair at his work bench, and let out a long sigh as he climbed beneath icy cotton sheets.
He’s half asleep, eyes closed and muscles sinking into the mattress, when he hears it.
The click of the latch on the unlocked front door. The creak of your careful steps as you climb the stairs.
Joel feels you before he sees you. Too exhausted to pull himself out of blissful almost-sleep. The mattress dips beneath your weight, limbs outstretched, seeking him out of instinct.
This isn’t the first time this has happened. Not the first time you’ve found yourself peering out of your window next door waiting for him to get home. Not the first time you’ve ended up in his bed or in his arms.
And Joel knows he should put a stop to it—you’re too young, too sweet, too…good.
But he’s too worn out to fight his impulses. He’s tried for months to keep his thoughts pure when you cross his mind, but it’s been a losing battle from the start.
Especially when you’re like this. Warm and soft, pressed up against his side, wearing an old t-shirt he’d let you borrow the night before and not much else. A comfort that feels more like home than this house does.
The tips of your fingers tickle his forearm, rousing him just enough that he lifts the heavy limb so you can crawl right into his embrace.
Joel holds you tight. He always does. Biceps big and strong around your shoulders. He holds you like he might lose you tomorrow, because there’s a part of him that fears one day you’ll wake up and see something you don’t like.
He worries you’ll begin to see him for what he is; old, weary, tired. Not even half the man he used to be. Not half the man you deserve.
But for tonight at least, you still wear those rose tinted glasses. Pressing sweet kisses to his face; his nose, his forehead, his cheeks. Nuzzling your face into the crook of his neck, making cute, whiny noises at the back of your throat. Like you’re desperate, unable to get close enough despite every inch being pressed against him, leg hooked over his hips.
You find a comfortable position and still beside him, letting out the same sort of long sigh Joel did just moments ago. But you don’t sleep—your breathing doesn’t even out, your muscles don’t go slack.
Joel knows what you need. Long before your hips tilt, before you press your center against his thigh, before you whisper his name in the dark.
“S’okay, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice deep and dark and sleepy. “C’mere.”
He reaches over and brackets his arm around your waist to drag you on top of him, your center already warm and wanting.
It’s starting to get out of hand, he knows. Starting to become a routine. But Joel doesn’t have many sweet thing in his life, not anymore, and he finds you near impossible to resist. “I’ve got you,” he says. “Take what ya need.”
You lay against his chest, ear pressed right over his heart. Joel kisses the crown of your head when your hips begin to tilt, rubbing yourself against the steadily growing bulge beneath the thin fabric of his boxers.
Soft, wanton sighs leave you at the sensation, and even with a barrier still between you he can feel your clit pulse against the underside of his cock.
Needy little thing you are. But Joel doesn’t mind—he likes the feeling. Of being needed, wanted. Especially by a girl as sweet as you.
You grind on top of him for a while. Not seeking release, not yet. Just feeling the hard warmth of him beneath you, savoring the weight of his big hands stroking softly up and down the expanse of your back.
He can feel your arousal growing with each pass, wetness slowly seeping through his boxers, slick and sticky. Joel nudges you gently with the tip of his nose, the prickly hairs of his mustache tickling the side of your face. “C’mon, sweet girl. Let’s get this shirt off, hm?”
When you nod, you pull yourself up tiredly. The movement is slow and thick like molasses, so Joel uses the last of his energy to help you.
His hands find the hem of the oversized t-shirt and pull it upwards, over your head to be discarded on the floor beside his bed. It leaves you completely naked, bared for him in more ways than one.
In an instant, you fall back against him, breasts pressed up against his chest. Your skin feels cool against his, smooth and pillowy. “S’warm,” you mutter, rubbing the side of your cheek against the coarse hair that litters his chest, graying in some places.
Joel’s cock throbs beneath you, but he doesn’t pay it any mind. He just lets you settle back down and allows you to rest. His hands wander, though, the way they always do.
Sliding down your back, over the sides of your thighs, thumbs massaging gentle circles. He strokes his fingers gently back up to your shoulders and then brings them down your arms, smiling when he sees goosebumps rise in his wake.
When they settle back at your hips, his touch is a little more eager. Kneading at the softness, inching over the curve of your ass until that’s all his hands are filled with.
Joel loves touching you. Not just suggestively, but intimately. He loves feeling the closeness and the trust you put in him to take care of you, to keep you safe, to make you feel good.
He massages the supple flesh, holding you close, until his need for you begins to grow teeth, gnawing at his psyche.
Joel knows he shouldn’t. He knows that.
But he’s just so tired, and you’re so soft. Gentle and kind. And you make him feel loved—something Joel Miller has not felt for a very, very long time.
He guides you with his hands gripping at your curves, sliding your slick cunt over his aching cock. His breath feels hollow, stuck in his lungs.
When he lifts upward, just a little, enough to provide a little extra pressure, you mewl in response.
Joel is quick to soothe, shushing softly into your ear. “Shh, you’re alright. Hang on, sweet girl. M’right here.”
He knows what you need. It’s become a nightly ritual at this point. You come to him seeking connection, seeking the comfort of an older man. Most nights you just need to be held, to be nurtured, to be loved the way you deserve.
But other nights, Joel knows you need a little more. A connection that runs a little deeper.
He reaches beneath you, hooking his thumbs in the elastic band of his boxers and tugging them down his tired legs. Just enough to free his cock, already hard as stone just from your proximity.
Joel pulls your forward, up his torso, giving himself room to line his length up with your entrance.
He slides in real easy.
You’re already soaked, dripping with arousal. And the moment he’s fully seated inside you, stretching you real wide, filling up your belly, you let out a breathy whine.
It feels right, being here like this with you. It feels like coming home.
Joel moves you slowly, guiding each roll of your hips, slowing you down when you try to pick up the pace.
There’s no rush. Not here, not with him. He’ll get you there. He’ll get you what you need. What’s the sense in hurrying through it?
He wants to savor it. The feel of your sweet, soft pussy, clenching and leaking around his length. The way your stuttering breath tickles his skin. The way your hands grip him harder and harder, holding him impossibly closer.
He wants to savor the way you love him.
“Gimme a kiss, baby,” he whispers in the dark.
You turn your head, just enough so that he can press his lips to yours. In this, too, Joel moves painfully slow.
It’s not a claiming, it’s an exploration. His lips move against yours, memorizing the feel of them, the shape and the taste. He slowly licks into your mouth, tongue gliding against yours, breathing in your exhalation.
The building coil around his spine is anything but slow, however. He loves being here with you maybe a little too much. He loves you a little too much.
Joel thrust upwards, keeping a steady, unforgiving rhythm while he slides his hand between you. His fingers search blindly for your clit and he finds it in seconds, circling those slow, tight circles around the pulsing nerves.
Your sounds grow louder, release building. The sound of your joining echoes in the empty room, slick and wet and feverish.
He knows your close when you start manually breathing—lungs stuttering, chasing the delicious relief that only he can provide.
“You got it,” he encourages. “S’right there, baby. Give it to me.”
Your eyes stay locked to his, lips parting on a jagged moan. You don’t say anything; no warning, no begging. You just feel it, feel him, moving deep inside you, fucking you through it.
“That’s it,” he says, voice all soft and warm the way it only ever is when he speaks to you. “There you go.”
He doesn’t stop until you find the natural rhythm of oxygen again, until the shaking in your thighs relents to an easy tremble.
Joel feels that white-hot coil beginning to spool within himself, and pulls out of you with just enough time to shoot thick ropes of cum over your pubic bone.
He thrusts the underside of his cock through your syrupy folds, a gentle rocking until he’s spent. He somehow finds the energy for a few extra thrusts, smearing his release over your clit.
You don’t move an inch, and Joel doesn’t want you to.
Instead, you just lay there on top of him, sticky mess between you, your head resting delicately on his chest.
When you reach up to card your fingers through his graying hair, Joel feels his muscles go completely slack, tension bleeding from his weary bones.
“M’sorry I woke you up,” you say, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “I know you were tired.”
“Don’t be sorry,” Joel says, and he means it. “I’ll always have time for you."
Jacaerys Velaryon x wife!reader - House of the Dragon (spoilers for s3 ep1!!)
Summary: Jacaerys survives the Gullet, so naturally the maesters have opinions about what he should and should not be doing during his recovery. Unfortunately for them, Jace has opinions too.
A/N: this works as a standalone or sequel to Saltwater, except this fic is significantly less angsty and significantly more "what if jace spent a month trying to argue with medical professionals." :) must admit i cracked myself up a lil writing this and also PLEASE send in reqs im running out of ideas
MASTERLIST - REQUESTS (open) - WC: 4.0k
A month after the Gullet, the castle still smells faintly of medicines, as though the sea itself has followed Jacaerys home and settled in the stone with him.
You have grown so accustomed to it that you hardly notice anymore.
A month ago, you would have given anything to smell it. A month ago, there had been blood. So much blood. But now there are only maesters, all the time.
Three of them stand gathered around the table right now near the window, speaking in low, serious voices while Jace sits in a carved chair looking increasingly irritated with every minute.
Sunlight spills through the narrow panes behind him, catching in his dark curls and turning the edges of them gold, softening him in a way that makes him seem almost boyish despite everything he has endured in the last couple weeks.
His injuries have faded from terrifying to merely alarming. The worst of the bruising is gone, the cuts have begun to heal, and colour has returned to his face, though not yet enough for you to relax.
Unfortunately for everyone else, so has his stubbornness.
You stand beside him with one hand resting lightly on the back of his chair, partly affection but mostly precaution if you're being honest with yourself, because the prince has developed an unfortunate habit of forgetting that nearly dying is supposed to slow a person down.
"Your Grace is recovering admirably," Grand Maester Gerardys says at last.
Jace straightens immediately, as if the words themselves have restored him. Gerardys clears his throat with the patient air of a man who has spent his life delivering unwelcome truths to the powerful. "Recovering admirably, however, does not mean recovered."
Jace slumps back with all the theatrical suffering of a man condemned to the Wall. Gerardys continues as though he has not noticed the prince's offence.
"Your ribs are still mending. The wound to your side has not fully healed. The fever has passed, but weakness remains. Any unnecessary strain could set back his recovery considerably."
Jace folds his arms. "What strain?"
The three maesters exchange a glance, and you immediately become suspicious. Jace notices it too, his brows drawing together. "What strain?" he repeats, sharper this time.
Nobody answers.
The silence stretches, and stretches, and then stretches a little further, until finally the old maester clears his throat again, looking faintly pained. "This includes physical exertion."
Jace nods at once. "Yes, I gathered that, obviously."
"Excessive physical exertion."
"Yes."
"Particularly..." Gerardys pauses, and one of the younger maesters suddenly finds the floor fascinating. "...marital exertion."
The room falls completely silent.
For a single moment Jace simply stares at them. Then his face changes all at once, horror and outrage arriving together.
"I beg your pardon?"
You turn away quickly because you can already feel laughter rising in your throat and you know if you let it out now you will never stop. Beside you, Jace looks scandalised beyond measure. "What do you mean?"
"My Prince-"
"No." The word echoes off the stone walls. "Absolutely not. This is absurd and I refuse to accept it."
Gerardys remains maddeningly calm. "It is only temporary."
"Temporary?" Jace sounds personally betrayed. "You are forbidding me from bedding my own wife."
The younger maester goes slightly red. You stare very intently at the tapestry across the room, because if you look at Jace now you will lose whatever dignity you have left. He points an accusing finger at the entire collection of healers. "I survived a naval battle."
"Indeed."
"I was shot."
"Yes."
"I nearly drowned."
"Correct."
"And your conclusion is that my greatest threat is my wife?"
The maesters look vaguely embarrassed. Jace looks outraged. And suddenly, despite the lingering ache that still lives in your chest whenever you remember the sight of him bleeding on a bed, you feel lighter, because this is familiar. This is your Jace. He's alive enough to argue and complain. Alive enough to glare dramatically at innocent old men and be stubborn.
Your hand slips from the chair to his shoulder, and immediately he covers it with his own. Gerardys notices, and his expression gentles. "My Prince," he says, "the restriction is not punishment."
Jace groans. "I would beg to differ."
A few of the maesters smile despite themselves. Gerardys gathers his papers, "It is only another month."
Jace nearly chokes. "A whole month?"
"Perhaps less, if recovery continues."
"A month."
"You survived the Gullet. Surely you can survive a few more weeks."
Jace mutters something deeply disrespectful under his breath, and you squeeze his shoulder in warning and affection both. His fingers immediately tighten around yours as he looks up at you, exhaustion and frustration playing on his features.
You smile at him, and his expression softens immediately.
Then Gerardys speaks again, and the spell breaks at once. "And separate beds may also be advisable."
Jace's head snaps around, "No."
Silence settles over the chamber. Jace's hand remains wrapped around yours, firm and warm and immovable. "I nearly died, so I am not sleeping without my wife."
They exchange glances and then, wisely, surrender. "Very well."
You lower your head to hide your smile, because truly, there are battles even the maesters cannot win.
That evening the matter should have been settled, at least in theory.
The maesters had spoken, their instructions delivered and their warnings had been repeated no fewer than six times over supper, as though saying them often enough might somehow make Jace more inclined to obey.
Instead, he is attempting to negotiate, which is perhaps exactly what you should have expected from him and yet still feels faintly absurd when he is sitting there shirtless on the edge of the bed, looking incredibly offended by the very concept of restraint.
You sit beside him with a fresh roll of linen in your lap while he holds one arm lifted so you can reach the wound along his side.
The chamber is quiet except for the crackle of the fire and the distant, steady sound of waves striking the cliffs below; night has fully settled beyond the windows, leaving only darkness on the other side of the glass and the warm gold of candlelight within.
Carefully, you peel away the old bandage, and he hisses through his teeth at the movement. You glance up at once. “You are being dramatic.”
"Three arrows pierced my body.”
“A month ago.”
“It still counts.”
You make a skeptical sound and reach for the ointment, though you cannot quite keep the corner of your mouth from twitching. For a few moments silence settles between you. You smooth the salve across healing skin, studying the angry scar that is beginning to form there, the sight still makes something twist painfully in your chest.
There are moments when you look at him and see only Jace; your husband, your best friend, the boy who once raced you through castle corridors and stole lemon cakes from the kitchens with the shameless confidence of someone who had never once been told no in his life.
Then there are moments like this, when memory comes back all at once and with it the blood, the fever, the endless waiting, the terrible certainty, however brief, that you might lose him. Your fingers pause before you can stop them.
Immediately, his hand settles over yours.
He notices. Of course he does.
You lift your eyes, and his expression softens at once. “I am all right,” he says quietly.
“Mm.”
His thumb brushes slowly across your knuckles.
Then, because Jacaerys Velaryon possesses the survival instincts of an overconfident golden retriever, he says, “I still think the maesters are being unreasonable.”
You close your eyes for a brief, weary moment. You had been wondering how long it would take.
“You are recovering from grievous injuries.”
“I am recovering exceptionally well.”
“You still tire walking up stairs.”
“Well, I dislike those stairs.”
You begin wrapping the fresh bandage around his ribs. “They are not unusual stairs, Jace.”
"They are steeper than other stairs."
Despite yourself, you laugh, and his grin appears immediately. He tilts his head, thoughtful in the way that always makes you suspicious.
“What exactly constitutes marital exertion?”
You nearly drop the bandage. “Jacaerys.”
“It is a reasonable question.”
You finish tying the linen perhaps just a little tighter than necessary, and he winces. You feel no guilt whatsoever.
“They were quite vague,” he says after a moment.
“They were not vague. They were, in fact, extraordinarily clear.”
Jace considers this with the air of a man weighing evidence in a trial he has already decided to win. “Perhaps to you.”
“To everyone.”
“Not to me.” His smile widens, and you are suddenly struck by the realisation that the maesters should perhaps have prescribed confinement in separate castles.
“They said strain,” he says, as though he's continuing a perfectly sensible conversation.
“Yes.”
“And exertion.”
“Yes.”
“So theoretically-”
“No.”
“What if-”
“Jace.”
He stops, though only because he is laughing now, actually laughing, and the sound fills the room so easily that for a moment you forget everything else.
“You are impossible,” you inform him.
“I have been told.”
He reaches for your hand, and you let him take it. His fingers close around yours with a warmth that feels almost unbearably familiar, and when he speaks again his voice has lost its teasing edge. “Another month is a very long time.”
You shake your head, smiling softly, but before he can begin constructing another ridiculous argument, you lean forward and press a kiss to his mouth.
The effect is immediate. Jace falls silent, blessedly, wonderfully silent, and when you pull back he blinks once, then twice, as though he has forgotten every thought he was having.
A second kiss lands at the corner of his mouth, then another against his cheek, and with each one his smile grows slower, softer, warmer, until by the third he has entirely abandoned his campaign against the maesters.
You feel rather proud of yourself.
He grins and reaches for you, and you allow him to pull you nearer. The blankets shift around you both as you settle beside him carefully, because he is still healing and you are both painfully aware of it.
His arm slides around your waist. Your head finds its familiar place against his shoulder.
The first week after the maesters' decree is irritating.
The second becomes ridiculous.
By the third, it's infuriating.
Jacaerys Velaryon approaches recovery the way he approaches every obstacle in his life: by refusing to accept that it is truly an obstacle at all.
If the maesters insist upon restrictions, then he will simply find exceptions.
One evening, as you sit beside him on the bed with your book open in your lap, he glances over and says, almost casually, “I stand by my opinion that their instructions were imprecise.”
You do not look up. “No.”
“They never actually provided definitions.”
You turn a page. “They are maesters, Jace, not scholars debating philosophy.”
He sighs, long-suffering and theatrical, and shifts a little closer.
Recently, he has become fond of finding excuses to sit beside you, or hold your hand, or drape an arm around your shoulders, or rest his head in your lap while insisting he is 'too weak' to move despite having spent the entire afternoon arguing in council.
“What if,” he begins. You close your eyes.
“What if,” he repeats, undeterred, “the concern is specifically overexertion?”
“It is.”
“Then surely the solution is simply avoiding overexertion.”
At last you lower the book and look at him properly. His expression brightens at once, as though he has won something merely by drawing your attention.
“Jace.”
“Yes?”
“No.”
He groans, and you return to your book.
Three nights later, he appears to have developed a new argument. You discover this when he is sprawled across the bed with his head resting against your shoulder, warm and comfortable and entirely too pleased with himself.
“What if,” he says thoughtfully.
You nearly laugh. “Again?”
“I have had several days to refine my position on the issue.”
“Gods preserve me.”
“What if I simply did not move very much? You could do all the... moving... uh, like difficult parts.”
You lower your embroidery hoop and glance down at him. He looks entirely sincere, which somehow makes it worse.
“Jacaerys.”
“I am not going to do any part because we are not going to do anything.”
He studies the ceiling for a moment, then turns his head just enough to look at you. “I think you are dismissing my proposals too quickly.”
“I think you enjoy hearing yourself talk.”
“I enjoy talking to you.”
Oh, you hate how good he is at being charming.
His arm slips around your waist. “You know,” he says quietly, “I do understand why you’re worried.”
The humour fades a little. You look at him, but his gaze remains fixed on your joined hands.
“You frightened me,” you admit.
Something flashes behind his eyes. “I know.”
Silence settles between you, gentle and sad and comfortable all at once. Then, because he is incapable of allowing a serious conversation to remain serious for too long, he lifts his head and says, “So that is still a no?”
You stare at him.
Jace immediately begins laughing, and when you throw a cushion at his face he catches it easily, looking delighted by the rejection.
Which, unfortunately, only convinces you that recovery is proceeding exceptionally well.
One morning at the beginning of the fourth week you're standing at the edge of the bedchamber, the salt-laced wind moaning through the open shutters as the last embers in the hearth crackle low.
Jacaerys is desperate today, even more than usual
He lies propped against the pillows, his bare chest rising and falling with quick, restless breaths, the angry red scars along his ribs and hip still mapped in fresh pink, but they are scars now, nonetheless.
It's been two months since the Gullet.
To the naked eye he seems fully recovered — he partakes in council meetings, goes on long walks with you along the shore, is no longer winded by those particularly steep stairs — but the maesters’ edict remains iron.
No strain, no exertion, no touch that might tear what they say has barely knit. Yet here he is, dark eyes fixed on you with shameless hunger, voice low and frayed.
“Please,” he murmurs, the words thick with frustration, his hand extended, palm up, fingers flexing as if he can already feel the shape of your waist.
“I cannot do this, I’m not some broken thing anymore. I feel you every night in my dreams, and then I wake up and you won't even let me touch you properly. I need your hand, your mouth, anything. Just… let me feel you again.”
He sits up a little straighter, a small grin finding his lips, voice dropping to a growl. “You’re aching too, I know it. Two months without feeling how wet you get for me-"
"Jacaerys, stop being so crude, you cannot possibly think-" but he continues, completely disregarding your objections.
"Gods, I’d give anything to see you under me like I used to, but I won’t move. I swear it. Just you, I'll even lie still.”
Your fingers tighten on the bedpost, because you cannot dent he's right. You do miss him, painfully so. You miss the feel of his hands on you and the stretch of him inside you, but reluctance still coils tight in your chest.
You take one hesitant step closer.
The cool stone floor beneath your bare feet gives way to the softness of the mattress as you perch carefully at his uninjured side, your fingers brushing the edge of the linen without yet touching him.
“Jacaerys,” you whisper, “I cannot, the maesters said-” But the way his hips twitch, just once, desperate and involuntary, stops the protest on your tongue.
A soft, helpless sound escapes him, and something shifts inside you, because this, in a way, is also him in pain, except this time you actually have the power to help him.
Your hand drifts over the sheet, hovering just above the bulge you can just start to see emerging beneath the linen.
“You must promise me you’ll lie perfectly still,” you remind him, the words gentle but unyielding, “There are reasons they forbid it; you could open one of the wounds.”
His dark eyes flash, jaw tightening as if he might argue, but apparently the months of forced stillness have left him too raw, too aching, and he nods once, a bead of sweat tracing down his temple.
You smile then, small and maybe a little teasing, and let your fingertips graze the linen over the head of his cock.
Slowly you peel the sheet down, then work on the laces of his breeches before pulling them down and finally revealing him fully to the firelit air.
His cock thick and flushed dark, the vein along its length pulsing visibly as you wrap your fingers around the base with deliberate lightness, still not quite sure how this is going to go.
He groans, low and broken, head tipping back against the pillows, but he holds himself rigid as promised, muscles trembling with the effort.
You lean in, breath ghosting over the sensitive head, and press the softest kiss there, tasting the salt of him while your free hand rests lightly on his uninjured hip to remind him of the boundary.
“Only on my terms tonight, dearest husband,” you whisper against his skin, stroking him once, slow and torturous, savouring the way his breath hitches and his fingers clutch the bedding instead of reaching for you.
“I will give you this, you just lay there and let me take care you.”
You tighten your grip just enough to draw another shuddering groan from him, your thumb circling the slick head of his cock in slow, deliberate strokes that make his thighs tense against the sheets.
He’s so hard it must be painful, the heavy length twitching in your fist with every pass,
The sight of your big, strong husband, normally so commanding, now reduced to biting his lip to keep from thrusting stirs something warm and aching in your chest.
It feels like the biggest relief.
You still remember every moment of the last two months, watching him wince at every breath, lying awake beside his bandaged body while fear gnawed at you both, and now here he is, flushed and leaking for you, trying so hard to obey even as his hips give one tiny, involuntary roll.
It’s adorable, that stubborn flicker of dominance surfacing in the way he grits out your name, only for it to dissolve into a whimper when you lean down and drag your tongue along the underside of his shaft.
His fingers fist the bedding harder, knuckles white, and you can see the war in his eyes, the urge to grab your hair and guide you deeper warring with the maesters’ warnings and his own fragile healing.
“Fuck… just like that,” he rasps, voice cracking with need so raw it makes your own neglected body clench.
You take him deeper into your mouth, hollowing your cheeks with a soft suck that has him arching his head back.
It's as if you're watching him heal in real-time, because he’s becoming himself again, that fierce, passionate man who once pinned you laughing to the furs.
You hum around him, savouring the salt-bitter taste of him while your free hand strokes soothing circles over his tightening stomach.
You pull off just enough to murmur against the flushed skin, teasing the slit with the tip of your tongue until his breath stutters.
“Still, Jace.”
Then you resume your rhythm, slow, twisting strokes of your hand paired with wet, deliberate licks. He trembles beneath you, every suppressed sound proof of how desperately he’s craved your touch.
You quicken your pace with deliberate mercy, not seeing a point in dragging this out any longer than you have to, lips sealed tight around him as your tongue swirls and your hand pumps in steady rhythm, feeling the way his thighs quake despite his vow to stay still.
His voice breaks on your name, half-command and half-plea, while one of his hands finds your hair and grips tight, not that you mind at all.
Finally, he spills hot and pulsing across your tongue, thick spurts you swallow with a soft moan of your own. You keep stroking him through it, gentling your touch as the last tremors fade, watching the tension drain from his battered body until he lies boneless and breathless, dark eyes glassy.
For a long moment afterward, neither of you says anything.
The chamber is quiet except for the soft crackle of the fire and the distant rhythm of the sea beyond the windows. The candles have burned lower than either of you realised, leaving the room washed in warm gold and shadow.
Jace lies beside you with that same dazed, contented smile still lingering on his mouth, as though he has not quite remembered how to put it away.
You glance at him from the corner of your eye and shake your head. “What?”
His smile only deepens. “Nothing.”
“Mhmm.”
He gives a quiet, breathless laugh and reaches for your hand where it still rests atop his stomach, threading his fingers through yours. His thumb moves over your knuckles, warm and absentminded.
The sight of him like this, softened and unguarded, makes something in your chest loosen.
You fuss over him out of habit more than necessity, fetching a washcloth, straightening the blankets around his hips and making certain he is comfortable, searching his face and posture for any sign that he has overdone himself despite every promise he made.
Jace watches the whole business with open affection, his expression growing gentler by the moment.
“My darling,” he murmurs, though there is no real complaint in it. You ignore him. “You are checking on me.”
“Someone has to.”
His teasing fades then, leaving something softer in its place. For a moment he simply watches you, and when he lifts your joined hands and presses a kiss to your knuckles, the gesture is so familiar that it catches you off guard all the same.
“Thank you,” he says quietly.
You look up at him.
The words are not playful nor triumphant, not even particularly clever. Your chest aches unexpectedly, because beneath all the bargaining and persistence and impossible shamelessness, you know what this has really been about.
Weeks of fear. Weeks of recovery. Weeks of being careful. Weeks of wondering whether life would ever feel normal again.
You squeeze his hand, and his fingers tighten around yours at once.
“You do not need to thank me.”
“I do.”
His voice is gentle. “I know I was insufferable.”
You giggle softly. “Do you now?”
Without either of you needing to say anything, Jace opens his arm toward you. You move into it at once, as naturally as breathing, as though you have done it a thousand times before. Because you have. Your head settles against his shoulder, his arm folds around your waist, and the blankets shift around you both as you settle more comfortably together.
Eventually you feel his lips brush lightly against your hair, a sleepy, lingering kiss that makes you smile before you can stop yourself.
“Tired?” you murmur.
“A little.”
“You should sleep.”
“So should you.”
The waves continue their endless song beyond the walls.
somehow i ended up writing a several-thousand-word account of jace velaryon attempting to find loopholes in doctor's orders. i regret nothing <3 lemme know if you guys liked this, trying to decide wether to write more for jace or not.
Warnings: 18+. Unprotected p-in-v. Disgustingly loving sex (sorry). Soft dom!Simon Talks You Through It™️ Creampie. Brief mention of Reader’s insecurities w sex
Note: I’m on Instagram now (kinda), come say hi :-)
Word count: 2.1k
It wasn’t like you hadn’t tried before.
You’d had your fair share of lovers and experienced more than a good deal of fun. With everyone in the past, climax came the same way, every single time: clitoral stimulation, and clitoral stimulation alone.
By this point in your life, you suspected your g-spot was probably just a figment of your imagination, no more real than Atlantis, Santa Claus or the Tooth Fairy.
That was, until, you met your boyfriend, Simon.
And things had only been official for a week.
You and him had fooled around a handful of times—made love, as he called it, and kissed and cuddled and occasionally dry-humped until the two of you were both panting, groaning messes—but all of this was new. Simon was still learning you, as you were him.
He finished between your tits. You came on his tongue. He fingered you to the point of tears, and you learned how to touch his sac just right to get him to blow his load in seconds. On this night in particular, you were fucking missionary, and holding hands while you did.
Lovesick puppies, Price would say. Neither one of you seemed able to unglue your lips or unlace your fingers or keep your hips from colliding again and again and again in frantic search of the other’s furthest depths. You were perfectly wrapped up, with no desire to move
Except, you needed to reach down between your bodies to actually get off. That was a minor detail.
You didn’t think the man above you would mind if you moved your touch from his, but then that grip tightened the second you tried pulling away.
“Keep it there, lovie. Like holding you like this,” he said.
You enjoyed it, too. It was intimate, and sweet, and with your hands pinned on either side of you, locked securely in his, you felt safe. You just couldn’t finish.
“But I…I need to come,” you whispered against him. You rolled your hips and felt his cock twitch inside you.
Simon grunted, then swallowed. Nodded slowly.
“Yeah. I’ll get you there. Feel this?”
He slid deeper for emphasis.
You didn’t.
You rarely did, or at least not in the way you figured you were supposed to get when something pressed there.
“I think…sort of, yeah,” you hedged your answer.
Don’t bruise his ego, don’t hurt his feelings.
This is all on me, Si, I promise it’s not you.
Cutting in over your thoughts, Simon moved swiftly. Took your hips in his big, strong hands, lifted up, and plunged his cock to the hilt. The girth of him was enough to knock the air out of your lungs, and you felt your walls stretch, sting, and weep sweet liquid warmth around that intrusion. You moaned.
“Better?” The man’s question was simple.
Before you could answer it, he was sliding a pillow underneath your backside. Sawing his long, thick, leaking cock in and out of you, he reached a new spot.
You made a face, feeling good from that but…strange.
Simon snatched your hands up again and planted them beside your head on the mattress. He thrusted steadily. He peppered kisses all over your face and your neck while the bed frame squeaked in time, and you had to dig your heels into his ass to ground yourself.
“Talk to me, baby. Can’t make it better if you don’t.”
“I—I know, I just can’t—”
At the same time, Simon tilted your hips slightly once more, and the tip of his cock kissed something soft and wet and dizzyingly pleasurable inside your body. A loud, embarrassing cry slipped out between your lips.
You wanted to clap a hand over your mouth, hating the way you’d just sounded, but your fingers were stuck to his. Simon grinned down at you, toothy and approving.
“Can’t do what, now, darlin’?”
The warm, bulbous head of his cock had found its mark, and he just kept prodding that spot, like it entertained him to do it. The fingers laced between your own constricted their grip even more, and Simon leaned down to kiss you while his cock carved a mind-numbing path. In between kisses, he praised you.
“That’s my girl. She’s likin’ it now, isn’t she?”
“Feel good when my cock hits that spot?”
“Your pussy’s fuckin’ soakin’ me, baby.”
But still, somehow, it just wasn’t quite enough.
Maybe you’d never found that place after all.
This was where most men gave up—after a few good minutes of fucking when their balls had gotten to be as swollen as stones and their bodies were aching for release, more often than not, they’d go off chasing their own high. That was when you usually started rubbing your clit, or waited for your partner to finish so they could get you off with their tongue or something.
You hated to feel like a burden, and you really despised the thought of being the reason your sweet Simon couldn’t get to orgasm. So you squirmed again.
Straining to reach down, to try and touch yourself, you whimpered, “Si, please, it just—it takes me too long—”
“Good thing we’ve got all night,” Simon replied bluntly.
Then, once again, he twisted your bodies like you were as soft and malleable as putty in his hands, and this time, he hitched one of your legs around his hip, high.
With one slow-rolling thrust and an audibly squelching sound, Simon’s cock stretched your hole to maximum capacity, and then a little more. Your juices leaked down his shaft, aiding the slide, and he stabbed in a few shallow strokes. Probing. Testing the waters, as if he were trying to find something hidden inside you.
You sucked in a breath. Simon’s gaze slid to yours.
“Let’s find that precious spot, lovie. Easy, now.”
Gently coaxing your body open, he drove a slow, measured pace. He split your cunt like it was the easiest thing in the world, delving within your wet, velvety heat to tease every contour and crevice of your pussy. His tip leaked precome. His balls glistened in your arousal and landed with the gentlest plap, plap, plaps while he explored your insides with his member.
It really was as simple as that, nothing more and nothing less than poking around. Having patience.
“S-Si,” you stammered, nose wrinkling slightly.
“What’s’at, baby? Got something to tell me?”
Like a teacher, almost, he pressed for more.
Like his cock was showing you something new about your body but he needed your help to tell him just how and where to find it, Simon took care to be kind. He smoothed a hand over the crown of your head and then cradled the back of it, one massive set of fingers splayed out against your skull and engulfing it wholly.
He still held onto your other hand tight.
Your cunt pulsed. Ached. Fluttered around him.
Stuffed to the brim, you had only to feel, and murmur:
“Higher.”
“Higher?”
“Um, to the…to the left.”
Simon tilted his hips left.
Yes.
That was just it. So close.
Almost…
Or, maybe…
“Maybe it just…isn’t there,” you huffed out, deflating. “Know you’re trying so hard, baby, but I think I can’t—”
Then Simon hit the same spot as before, only higher.
Just like you’d told him: to the left, and then…
“Oh, fuck,” you cursed. “Oh, fuckfuckfuck.”
The grin above you stretched even wider.
“There, lovie?” Simon goaded you on.
“Right there.” You nodded furiously.
A wave of pleasure swept through your limbs, from your core down to the soles of your feet. Your toes curled, and you squeaked, feeling Simon’s cock graze that soft, spongy, sensitive place—except he’d pushed in deeper. The sensation made your eyes roll back.
“Little dove doesn’t mind my pokin’ after all, huh?” Simon’s words were a tease, but you heard a strain in them, too. The second you were caught in the throes of real pleasure, your cunt must’ve clamped like a vice.
“Keep…keep pokin’, Si,” you choked out. “I like it.”
Your lover kept at it—poking from the inside.
The routine almost felt like losing your virginity all over again, together. Simon cradled your head, told you how good you were doing, how sweet you were for him, and you whimpered under his hold. Squirmed and clung to him for dear life, then kissed him feverishly.
Simon’s mouth was hard and hungry, his thrusts deep. His cock throbbed within the wet, clenching confines of your pussy, and he seemed to be going wild at the feeling. With the idea that he was driving you wild, too.
You realized as much when he whispered it to you.
“Could lose my bloody mind when you’re like this—” Another sharp, labored breath. Another shudder passing through his body when your insides squeezed. “—so why didn’t you talk? Ask for what you needed?”
Your voice was small. “Didn’t wanna be a bother.”
Your eyes were locked with Simon’s, and in his irises, you caught a shade of concern. It flared, hot as anything, then mixed with disbelief. Disappointment.
“Don’t be angry, Si, I—” you started, hurried.
“‘M’not.” Simon blinked. But he gritted his teeth, and he withdrew his cock until the head was bumping and teasing between your folds, then he shook his head. “It’s those fuckin’ pricks who should be sorry, yeah?”
The ones that you’d been with before.
You wanted to protest, insist that you were at least partly to blame, but you never got the opportunity.
Simon was back inside you in a blink.
Hitting that same spot again, and again, and again.
He grinned, the tic of a muscle in his jaw telling you that he was less amused this time around, but proud.
Vindicated.
“Well. It’s not like they’re ever gettin’ a chance in between these pretty legs again, are they, lovie?”
You nodded in agreement.
You smiled back at him, only to have that gentle curve falter a little when you felt Simon’s thrusts accelerate.
“Only thing that’s gonna touch this spot other’n my cock is my seed, splatterin’ all over your walls, right?”
When he gave a playful nip to your lower lip and squeezed your hand tighter, you knew that he meant it. The man had plunged so deep inside you that his pubic bone was now grinding against your skin, and the rest of him was buried. His balls, all full and warm and heavy with his release, rested firmly in your cleft.
And the steady, measured strokes of his cock landed with near-surgical precision on the G-spot you’d convinced yourself up until tonight didn’t exist.
Simon beamed. You were overcome with ecstasy.
“This it, lovie? This spot right ‘ere?” he cooed.
His cock bobbed against that gummy and indescribably dizzying place, causing your last moan to morph into something more akin to a shriek.
You nodded your head: “Y-Yes. Yes.”
“Feel good when I hit it?”
“Fucking perfect, Si.”
You sighed when the man bottomed out for what felt like the millionth time, and the pleasure never waned. He felt just as good now as he did when he first got in.
“Yeah? Gonna come on my cock then, pretty girl?”
“Yeah. I’m— I’m so close.”
“Go on then, love.”
And, shortly, you did.
Maybe three, four, five more stabs of his cock to your most precious, intimate place and you were unraveling beneath him, stars bursting in your line of vision. It seemed dramatic to say, but that was really what it came to—your mouth hanging open, eyes wide, gaze peering into Simon’s while he fucked you through the most intense orgasm of your life. You clung to him, and your walls spasmed again and again and again, milking the man’s release in the next few seconds. Simon shuddered and grit his teeth as he unloaded a thick, gooey load inside, dousing that spongy, body-numbing spot and then some. The two of you moaned in unison.
Your body was boneless, your head a hazy mess.
It took several seconds for your conscious mind to come back online fully, and when it did, Simon was leaning in again and planting kisses along your face.
“That’s my girl,” he murmured, breath fanning hot across your skin. “My perfect girl. You did so good.”
You smiled and caught his mouth for a proper kiss.
“Thank you,” you murmured against him.
Then Simon squeezed your hand—the one he’d been holding this entire time. He lifted it gently, like he was afraid too rough of a movement might split you in two.
He turned your wrist and kissed the back of your hand, eyes locked on yours and expression soft while he did.
⊹₊⟡⋆ cw —angst. hurt/comfort. leon x fem!reader. leon has a breakdown and really needs a hug. not proofread! ᯓ★
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sometimes the break between missions was worse than the actual mission.
leon was accustomed to the fallout that came after returning from missions. at the end of the day, when the BOWs and the new strain of whatever virus umbrella concocted were contained for few minutes, days, weeks, and leon could go home he didn’t relax— didn’t know how to. he might be able to breathe easier when his life wasn’t in immediate danger, but that doesn’t mean he’s at peace.
it’s been so long he doesn’t think he remembers what peace even feels like anymore.
he rarely found a time where his mind was quiet. it was always a raging storm of complex emotions and a constant replay of the more disturbing things he’s witnessed.
leon sat in his car, hands squeezing the steering wheel until his knuckles were white. he hasn’t even left the parking lot of the private airport. he’d watched government officials remove the remains of the BOWs he had managed to bring back. he was trying to make sure they were contained properly, but that just turned into him staring off at the blinking lights on the landing strip. little beacons in the night.
if he’d had a normal life he would’ve probably been in bed asleep with a wife curled up against him. maybe kids asleep down the hall from them. a modest home in a quaint neighborhood. that was the goal, right?
but nobody stayed very long, or leon just didn’t give them a chance to — except for you, but that ended months ago at this point.
the key to your house still attached to his key ring was a painful reminder of everything he couldn’t have. everything he lost. it mocked him when he’d return from missions.
leon never knew why you hadn’t asked for it back, maybe you’d forgotten that he’d had it, or maybe you let him keep it on purpose. like giving him an excuse to come back. or maybe you’d changed the locks and it didn’t matter if he had the key at all.
that thought stung the most. he knew you didn’t want him to come back, your words made it evident the day he was called in the middle of the night five months ago for an assignment.
he’d slipped out of your bed and packed his bag with his gear— he’d kept it all at your house because he was there more often than he was at his apartment at that time. leon had known for a while that you weren’t happy with his job, but that time was your breaking point. it was all so fresh in his mind. the things you said, how you’d begged him to stay, but his feet carried him to the door anyway. how your voice sounded when you told him not to come back after he was done with the assignment. leon had barely looked over his shoulder at you before grunting like it was a response then left without a word. he hadn’t even really given it much thought until he had returned from that assignment to find his stuff in a couple boxes on your porch. that was real.
the breakup didn’t stop leon from checking in on you. he’s gotten into a habit of parking in the street across from your house when he returns from assignments.
he tried to tell himself he wouldn’t do it anymore but he’s breaking. feels like he’s deteriorating, like his fight has been depleted. and he’s leon…he’s supposed to be strong, be the one who never quits because that’s how he was trained…
leon couldn’t explain why this mission had sent him over the edge. why this time he’d come back completely and utterly shattered. he didn’t think it was one thing in particular, but a culmination of everything he’s seen and been through over the years. that maybe after almost dying for the nth time he just couldn’t help it.
your porch light is on, the single bulb illuminating the front door. you’d gotten into a habit of leaving that light on whenever he was away, guess that hasn’t changed.
he knows it’s a mistake, knows he shouldn’t go to the porch, shouldn’t try to use the key.
but steps out of his car and across the street before he can stop himself.
everything feels like it’s too much, too heavy and dark. so fucking dark in his head.
leon just needs the one person that had been his only safe haven.
he stops at the door, unblinking as he stares at the light, watches how a couple months fly around it. he understands how they feel. trapped, stuck in this loop because they don’t know any better. does he know better?
his jaw clenches as tears collect in his eyes. he didn’t have the energy to stop them. he was strong, but he’s still human. and he’s seen so much bad.
when he works up the courage to slide the key into the lock he’s surprised the lock clicks and he’s able to open the door.
a brief worry about scaring you considering it’s the middle of the night and he’s not sure if he’s really welcome crosses his mind, but when he steps inside and lets the door close behind him, he’s enveloped in the familiar smell of you, your home— and it wrecks him.
his back hits the door with a thud, hands shaking and legs giving out as he slides down until he’s seated on the hardwood floor.
you had always been a light sleeper, so when you heard noise coming from downstairs you grabbed the metal bat you kept next to your nightstand and crept out of your bedroom. calling the cops would’ve probably been the logical reaction to thinking there was an intruder in your home.
you tried to rationalize the sound. it was just an animal or the wind. when you step off the stairs and poke your head around the wall you see the figure slumped against the door. even in the dim lighting you know it’s leon. you’d know it’s him regardless if you could see or not.
“leon! you scared the hell out of me.”
your voice cuts through the silence. sighing, you set the bat down and step into the hallway. it’s only when you get closer that you see how he’s shaking. his legs are pulled up to his chest and he just looks so small, so unlike himself.
“leon?” any irritation you were feeling about him just showing up after no contact for months was gone instantly.
you knelt in front of him. unsure of what to do or say. you’ve seen how his work effects him before, how he would get sometimes between missions. it’s why you asked him to stop, why you broke it off with him when he continued to leave. but you couldn’t recall a time that he was like this. never like this.
“baby,” the term of endearment slipped off his tongue broken, tinged with a sadness that never was there before.
“hey, talk to me,” you reach forward, gently placing your hand on his cheek, lifting his head.
the pain in his eyes is so clear. you know something happened, something must’ve happened for him to be like this.
“i should’ve listened to you,” the words came out with a sob, empty eyes meeting yours. he knew that you had been looking out for him and his well being when you asked him to quit, asked him to stop risking his life every single time the DSO calls him, and yet, he kept going back.
you watched tears slip down his face, he was clearly dealing with something you couldn’t begin to comprehend.
leon had shared some details regarding his job with you. he had to after he showed up bloodied, bruised and in a sling from dislocating his shoulder. that was all mild, thankfully, but he did end up having to tell you more than he wanted because of that incident.
“i’m so sorry,” his words were barely audible. he just couldn’t hold himself together anymore. he leaned into you, needing you’re warmth. he just needed tonight, that’s it, he’d leave in the morning.
you blink a few times, finding that you’re growing emotional over seeing him this way. tentatively, you wrap your arms around him, letting him lean against you fully.
leon pressed his face into the crook of your neck trying desperately to calm his breathing, quiet his torturous mind.
“please don’t apologize.”
“i should’ve listened—“
“no, it’s not your fault,” you press a kiss to the top of his head. trying to find the right words. “i should’ve handled things better.”
the love you have for leon runs deep. you’re unsure whether he knows it, but the breakup didn’t dull your feelings for him, nor his for you.
“just let me stay tonight,” it felt more like a plea than anything else. his hands weakly grab at your sides, he’s hanging on by thread. “please don’t kick me out again.”
your heart sinks at the pure desperation in his voice. the brokenness of his voice. how hollow he sounds.
you hold him tighter, threading your fingers into his hair. tears cling to your lashes as they begin to fall from your eyes as well. throat burning from the raw emotion.
you press your cheek against the top of leon’s head, cradling him against you, trying to comfort him as best you can. there’s no way you could ever push him out again, not after this, not now.
“you don’t have to go, this is your home too,” you whisper, it’s all you can manage now. if this is hard for you, you can’t begin to imagine how hard this is for him. you’re not the one who’s witnessed horrific things and been on the verge of death countless times.
you feel him relax then fall apart more, holding nothing back. the sobs that wrack his body are so powerful that you have to bite your lip to keep yourself composed. now isn’t the time for you to fall apart too. it isn’t until the shaking stops and his tears have run dry that you’re able to find your voice.
“we can talk in the morning. let’s…just get some rest for now,” you’re uncertain of what the conversation will bring, but you know now is not the time for it, it can wait until tomorrow or the next day. leon can’t, he comes first.
leon nods, lifting his head to see your face wet with tears like his. his lips brush against yours, a ghost of a kiss. he pulls back before either of you have a chance to do something emotion fueled. it’s evident neither of you are in your right mind.
you meet his eyes once more, and they are damning. they say more than he can put into words right now.
‘i can’t do this alone anymore, i need you, i need your strength’.
he leans on you as you both stand. silence passes between you two, there’s a million things you both could say right now, but none of them come. this is enough for now.
you flick off the porch light before wrapping an arm around leon, walking you both to your bedroom.
you’ll figure this out when day breaks because leon’s home, and he’s not leaving again.
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