zai✨❤️

22 Years ✨

[zai-targaryen]

Welcome to my blog ⭒ ☆

🌹 : Zai she / her, 22

mexican, taurus , infp-t

⋆ reader & writer

⋆ multifandom, but currently thinking about akotsk & f1

⋆ ✧ currently thinking about Baelor & Maekar.

[vinnieswife]

Chemistry read!

Harry collet x costar!reader (2,8k)

An incredible chemistry read with Harry Collett landed you both roles on HBO, and three years later, your on screen romance became real life. @moonlightlexie

MATERIALIST

The holding area in the London audition studio felt less like a modern media hub and more like a high - stress pressure cooker, dozens of teenage actors were pacing back and forth, clutching heavily watermarked script pages, muttering their lines with rigid, overly dramatic British accents, everyone knew the stakes, this was HBO’s.

You had been sitting in a corner chair for nearly an hour, trying to steady your breathing, you were reading for a prominent original character, a fierce, fiercely loyal noble whose connection with Prince Jacaerys Velaryon was described in the casting notes as an intense, deeply mature slowburn born out of political isolation and shared grief, up until ten minutes ago, you had watched a procession of polished young guys walk past, looking terrifyingly confident, trying way too hard to act like brooding future kings.

Then Harry had walked in, he didn't look rigid at all, his dark curls were entirely windswept from the London drizzle, and he was adjusting a slightly oversized jacket that looked like he’d borrowed it last minute, when his eyes scanned the crowded room, he caught you watching him, instead of giving you a competitive smirk, he had offered a remarkably warm, slightly goofy smile, navigated the maze of chairs, and dropped his backpack right next to yours. "Hi," he’d said softly, rubbing his palms against his jeans, “madhouse in here, innit? I’m Harry by the way”, there was an immediate, grounding lack of pretense about him, you smiled back, introducing yourself, and within minutes, the crushing weight of the audition had simply evaporated, running lines together in hushed whispers, you realized he wasn't trying to perform some stoic caricature of royalty, he genuinely cared about Jace’s emotional vulnerability, he matched your take on the script with an effortless chemistry that left you completely disarmed, now, standing outside the double doors of the main audition room after the casting assistant called both your names, Harry nudges your shoulder with his.

“don't stress" he whispers, his eyes warm, “we've got this, yeah?”

"You nervous?" you ask, teasingly raising an eyebrow.

“Absolutely terrified" he admits with a soft laugh, adjusting his collar, “which is great, because I'm pretty sure Jace feels terrified twenty four seven"

When the doors swing open, you walk in together, the room is vast, lined with high definition cameras and a long row of folding tables, behind them sit the showrunners, the casting directors, and Ryan Condal, they look exhausted, having spent days watching kids mimic fantasy tropes with deep voices and heavy, unnatural gestures.

"Welcome, both of you" Ryan says, offering an encouraging nod, “we’re jumping straight into scene three., for context Jacaerys has just discovered the crushing truth regarding his lineage and he’s spiraling, he’s furious, his pride is completely wounded... and your character is the only person on Dragonstone who can break through his walls and understand him. Whenever you're ready”, both of you swallowed with tension.

You and Harry took your positions on the taped X's in the center of the room, the red recording lights on the cameras blinked to life as harry closes his eyes for a single beat, when he opens them, the sweet, goofy boy from the hallway is gone, his posture straightens, but his shoulders carry a heavy, suffocating weight, his jaw is clenched so tightly a muscle ticks in his cheek, and his dark eyes burn with a raw mixture of teenage rage and profound hurt.

He begins pacing like a caged animal, reciting Jace's lines with a breathless, furious cadence. “let them whisper, then, let them call me whatever they dare in the dark, I am the eldest son of the rightful queen, and I will not sit by while they tear her name and mine to shreds" In previous reads with other actors, they had shouted the lines directly at you, puffing out their chests and turning the moment into a generic screaming match to show dominance, but you remembered the subtext you and Harry talked about outside, how Jace’s anger was just a desperate shield for his terror, and instead of matching his loud volume, you step directly into his path, forcing him to halt dead in his tracks.

“Stop pacing for a second….” you say, your voice dropping into a quiet, steady cadence that anchors the entire room, “let them speak their poison, let the lords of Westeros choke on their envy, you are a Velaryon, your blood is fire, a crown is not given by the whispers of old men, Jace. It is earned by the sacrifices of the one who wears it”, you gently tap his chest with your finger, right over his heart, Harry freezes, the raw intensity in your eyes catches him completely off guard, he doesn't just deliver his next line; he reacts to yours. 

For a long moment, the space between you crackles with an electric, unscripted stillness, behind the folding tables, the executives hold their breath, nobody even dares to shift in their chairs, harry’s chest heaves under his  jacket, his breath hitching slightly as his dark eyes search yours, drinking in the unwavering calm you’re offering him in the middle of his storm. 

He shakes his head slightly, a harsh, humorless laugh escaping his throat that wasn't in the sides at all, “you speak of crowns as if they are ours to take”, he says, stepping even closer, his voice dropping an octave, raspy with unshed tears, “tell me how… how can I stand before a dragon, how can I lead an army when every lord in the realm looks at my face and knows I am a bastard? they laugh at me behind closed doors”, you could feel the fear radiating out of him, when you grabbed his arm he tensed.

“then make them bow before they can laugh”, you answer without hesitation, stepping toe to toe with him, refusing to let him retreat into his own dark thoughts, “let them doubt your hair or your eyes, but never, and listen to me...” you grabbed his face, so softly he thought he imagined it “…never let them make you doubt who you are. Stop trying to face everything on your own, you are not alone in this fortress Jace, I am here”

Step by step, the anger visibly drains from his posture, leaving behind a heartbreaking vulnerability. He takes a half step closer, closing the physical distance under the harsh studio lights. His breathing is shallow, and on pure, unscripted instinct he reaches out, his fingers brushing against your wrist, a silent, desperate plea for grounding., when he speaks, his voice cracks with genuine emotion, “they… they look at me and they see a lie... and sometimes... sometimes I look in the mirror, and what if they're right my love? What if I am just a lie?”

“then do not look in the mirror…” you whisper, closing the remaining space between you until your shoulders touch, your eyes filled with emotion as your face acted on its own, your hand moved on its own, locking your fingers firmly with his “…and come to me, I cannot promise to change how you feel, but I can make you see who you are”.

“and what if I fail?" Harry whispers back, unscripted, his forehead leaning down toward yours until your breath mingles in the quiet room, his eyes flicker down to your lips for a split second before locking back onto yours with a desperate, beautiful intensity, “what if I tear everything down?"

“then we can rebuild it together”, you answer instantly, the words spilling out completely naturally, as if you'd been waiting your whole life to say them to him, “burn the world if you must, Jacaerys, but I will not let you burn yourself”, the silence that follows your sentence is absolute, for three long seconds, neither of you moved, entirely locked in an intensity that makes the modern casting room feel like a candle lit chamber in Dragonstone. Nobody in the room dares to cut the scene, completely mesmerized by the sheer weight of the moment hanging between you two.

“and... cut" Ryan Condal says softly, breaking the spell like a gentle tap on glass, behind the table, no one is typing, the casting director slowly lowers her pen, looking at Ryan with wide eyes and raised eyebrows, the director sits back, a massive smile breaking across his face as he lets out a quiet laugh and shakes his head in disbelief.

“where on earth did that come from?”, Ryan asks, leaning forward on his elbows and staring between the two of you in utter awe, “guide me for a bit, uhm the physical contact, the improvisation… who told you to take it there?"

"No one, sir”, Harry stammers out, his face flushing red as he rubs the back of his neck, instantly breaking character, “we just... outside in the hall, we were talking about how terrified Jace really is under all that anger, and it just felt like what they would say to each other"

"It was pure instinct”, you add softly, catching your breath as you look over at Harry.

Ryan exchanges a stunned look with the director, tapping his pen against the table, “Mhm instinct like that is rare, very rare, you two didn't just read the scene, you completely rewrote the energy in this room, bam just like that”

"Well, well” the director says, "Sarah, I think we can officially cancel the rest of the afternoon’s auditions, don’t you think?, Kids, that wasn't a chemistry read, that was lightning in a damn bottle”, Harry slowly blinks, the heavy character melting away instantly as his ears turn a brilliant shade of red, he looks down at his shoes, then over at you, an ecstatic grin breaking across his face.

"The way you two moved together, trusting each other's rhythm... oh man you can't teach that" the casting director adds, making a massive mark next to both your names, “you two are literally them"

As you walk out of the casting office a few minutes later, the adrenaline is still humming through your veins, Harry turns to you in the quiet corridor, hands shoved deep into his pockets, his eyes shining, “so…” he murmurs, his voice laced with that brilliant, cheeky wit, “…I guess that means we're going to be spending a lot of time together"

“looks like it my prince," you smile back, your heart doing a strange, entirely unscripted flip in your chest, neither of you had any idea then that the intense connection that stunned a room full of executives was going to completely redefine the next few years of your lives, both on top of dragons, and off.

Three long years later… (idk how to do time skips im sorry)

"If you pull my cloak one more time, I swear to God, Harry, I’m telling the directors you’re sabotaging me" you whisper, leaning close so the lavalier microphones tucked under your heavy leather costume don't pick it up.

"It’s not my fault!" Harry whispers back aggressively, though the massive smirk on his face completely gives him away, “this tunic weighs like forty pounds and the velvet on your shoulder is practically begging to be grabbed, It’s for character accuracy babe, Jace is possessive"

"Jace is a dramatic menace and so are you" you laugh, ducking out of his reach as the hair and makeup team scurries onto the set to fix a stray lock of your hair.

You two where currently deep in the production of Season 3, sitting on a massive, foam-rendered battlements set in Wales, season 1 had been a blur of nervous rehearsals, learning how to walk in heavy medieval boots, and late night study sessions in hotel rooms over cold pizza, dissecting character arcs. Season 2 brought longer hours, heavier emotional scenes, and a realization that neither of you was acting anymore when Jace and your character looked at each other like the rest of the world was burning down around them.

"Alright, and… we are rolling" the assistant director calls out, echoing across the chilly studio stage, “quiet on set! and... action!" The playful banter instantly vanishes. Harry shifts his weight, his posture hardening into the prince of Dragonstone. The wind machines kick up, blowing fake smoke and ash across the stone floor, you step up beside him at the edge of the set's ledge, looking out over the green screen that will eventually be rendered into a stormy sea.

"The fleet sails at dawn," Harry says, his voice carrying that grounded, low cadence he’d mastered over the years, he turns to you, his eyes dark with the heavy knowledge of what’s coming, "If I go to the Gullet... if I do not return..."

“do not… do not finish that phrase”, you interrupt taking his hand, your thumbs brushing over his knuckles just like you did in that very first audition room, “do not speak of loss before the blades are even drawn, you will return to me, Jacaerys, that is not a request”, he looks at your joined hands, then up at your eyes, the camera creeps in close, catching the quiet, agonizing tenderness between you, for a second, the script falls away, the way his breath hitches, the subtle soften in his gaze, that’s not Jace looking at a fellow noble, that’s Harry, your harry, utterly besotted with you, completely forgetting that eighty crew members are watching.

He leans in, pressing his forehead against yours, whispering the scripted line with a sincerity that makes your skin tingle, “always"

"Cut! Oh so beautiful, that’s a wrap on the battlements sequence"

The set bursts into noise, technicians start moving lighting rigs, wind machines spin down, and the heavy atmosphere vanishes, Harry lets out a long breath, rolling his shoulders back “sweet mother of jesus, my lower back is destroyed today”, he groans softly, though he doesn't let go of your hand, instead he tugs you gently toward the side of the stage away from the chaos, "How did that feel? was it alright?"

“Come on you know It was perfect H”, you say reaching up to pick a stray bit of fake ash out of his dark curls, “you were brilliant, very brooding, very tragic"

"I aim to please" he winks, wrapping an arm around your waist and pulling you flush against him behind a wooden prop wall, he tilts his head, kissing you softly on the lips, a slow, sweet kiss that has nothing to do with Westeros or showrunners.

When he pulls back, he’s grinning that same goofy, warm smile from the audition room three years ago, “I love that I get to do this with you, seriously, best job in the world"

"Yeah? even with the forty pound tunic and both of us dying in the next scene?”

“Yes ma’am even with the dying” he chuckles, resting his chin on your shoulder, “though I wouldn't complain if we wrapped early so we could go grab proper food, I’m literally starving”, he pressed his forehead against your shoulder.

"We have two more scenes today drama queen”, you remind him, tapping his nose. 

You're so bossy, you know that?" Harry sighs, though he's grinning ear to ear as he buries his face briefly into the crook of your neck, taking a deep breath of your perfume before stepping back, “two more scenes, then food, real food, not craft services fruit platters"

“deal" you smile straightening his leather collar that had gotten twisted during the scene. “now come on, let's get back before the director thinks we ran off"

Later that evening, after the long, grueling shoot wrapped and the heavy costumes were finally shed, you both found yourselves sitting in the back of a black car heading back toward your hotel in Cardiff, the rain was drumming a steady, rhythmic pattern against the tinted windows. Harry sat close beside you, his long legs stretched out, his fingers comfortably laced with yours, he looked so tired, the faint dark circles under his eyes proof of the intense filming schedule, but his expression was entirely peaceful, he squeezed your hand gently, looking over at you in the dim light of the passing streetlamps.

“remember when we first got the call that we both booked it?" he asked softly, a nostalgic smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, “my mum literally started crying in the kitchen, and I was just sitting there on the floor thinking, ‘right, don't mess this up, you've got to act with that brilliant girl from the audition room again'"

You laughed, resting your head on his shoulder, "You really thought I was brilliant?"

"Are you joking? You completely ran that room”, he said, turning his head to press a warm kiss against your hair, I knew right then, honestly, even before Jace and your character had their slow burn on paper, I was already totally done for"

"You're so dramatic Collett," you teased, though your heart warmed, leaning further into his side.

“just honest dear…” he murmured, his arm tightening around your waist as the car glided smoothly through the wet streets, “…just honest”.

the chemistry read dialogues are a big shit and trust me they were worse bc I changed them like 5 times

[fairies-in-the-garden]

Quiet Unraveling 🕸️๋࣭ ⭑🕷

When Spider-Man climbs through your bedroom window, you expect another night of medical aid. But instead of tending to his wounds, you unravel the boy behind the mask, pushing past his panic, awkward hesitation, and his fear of being enough. What begins as a breathless, electric confession in the dark becomes something far more dangerous: a quiet, undeniable refuge where the city's noise finally fades away.

pairing: peter parker x reader | 5.5k words

warnings: MDNI ! 18+, p in v, very slow burn (until it isn't), secret identity, mask stays on, switch! peter, superhero / civilian romance, mutual pining, smut, dry humping, peter is awkward (duh), banter, mild vulnerability / panic attack recovery, fluff, sweet aftercare, emotional payoff

author's note: kinda rushed but when i saw him in just the mask in bnd... i had to get writing STAT!

✩₊˚.⋆🕸️⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆🕷⋆⁺₊✧

The sound came first. A soft thud against the fire escape, followed by the familiar heavy slide of your bedroom window.

You were out of bed before even fully awake, a washcloth and gauze already in your hands from habit, before he’d even fully stepped into the room.

"Spidey? Hey, talk to me—where are you hit?"

You reached for him, hands hovering over his chest, ready to inspect for blood. For jagged tears in his suit. For the tell-tale sign of a bruising impact.

As you scan him for injuries, you imagine what his adventures were tonight. A half-sleepy grin contorts your face...

"Who was it tonight? Some guy with laser-shooting wings? Or—oh—was it that guy that crawls out of the city sewers? I hate that guy."

But he didn't collapse, per usual; didn't even laugh at your quizzing. He just stood there, motionless, in the middle of your rug, vibrating. Literally. His entire frame seemed to be humming with an excess of kinetic energy, his shoulders hunched up toward his ears like he was bracing for an explosion that wasn't coming.

"Spidey?" You lowered your hands, confused. "You’re not hurt?"

"I… no. No, I’m fine," he rasped out in a half-sigh, half-whimper. His voice was thin, strained, and sounded even more muffled than usual behind the fabric of his suit. He turned, and the white lenses of his mask seemed to fix on you.

"I was halfway to the Upper East Side. I was—I don’t know. I was patrolling. And then I realized I was turning around. And then I... was just here."

"You sure you're not hurt?" you whispered, your brow furrowed. "You seem... I don't know, off. And more than usual."

You tried to inject a bit of teasing warmth back into your voice, hoping to coax him out of whatever heavy shell he was wrapped in.

He flinched. The movement jerky and uncoordinated. He took a clumsy step toward you, then stopped, his web-shooters clicking as he clenched his fists.

"My senses," he rasped, his voice dropping an octave. "They’re—they’re too much tonight. The city is just… screaming." He took another step, his boots squeaking against the floorboards.

"But the second I climbed through that window, all of it went quiet. You're—" he pivots, mouth clearly moving before his brain can process the words. "This is the only place where my head seems to stop spinning."

He looked like a man trying to solve a physics equation while a hurricane tore through his brain. He was twitching, his fingers drumming against his thighs, his posture shifting between a defensive combat stance and a desperate, searching slouch.

He didn't know what to do with his hands. He was a hero who could stop a falling building, but right now, he looked like he was afraid that touching you would break you.

"You're shaking," you said, stepping into his space.

"I'm not," he lied immediately, his voice cracking. He was clearly trembling from head to toe.

You reached up, your fingers grazing the spandex-covered line of his jaw. "Let me see you," you whispered, emboldened by the raw, desperate energy radiating off him. "Take it off. Just for a second."

His reaction was immediate. He recoiled as if you’d touched a live wire, his hands flying up to grip your wrists before going feather-light.

"No," he said, the word coming out sharp and desperate. "I can't. Please."

"Why not? It’s just us," you say softly in contrast.

He let out a ragged breath, the sound hitching in his chest. "If I take it off... if I look at you, and you look at me... I'm going to lose it. I’m already barely holding it together."

He pulled you in, then awkwardly paused, hovering in a stiff, agonizingly unsure limbo. The realization of what he’d just admitted seemed to hit him all at once, flushing the skin beneath the fabric hot red.

With a soft, mortified groan, he awkwardly dropped his head down to the crook of your neck, burying his face against your shoulder in a desperate, instinctive bid to hide, though the mask already concealed every inch of him.

"I need the mask," he mumbled miserably into your skin. "It’s the only thing keeping me from—from jumping out the window again because I... I don't know how to handle what I'm feeling when I'm around you."

He was so clumsy, so painfully, endearingly not the legendary Spider-Man in this moment. He bumped his forehead against your shoulder, his movements frantic and uncertain.

"Hey. Breathe," you murmured softly, pressing a reassuring, grounding kiss against the side of his masked jaw.

"I don't need to see your face," you continued, your hands moving up to cup his masked head, your palms sliding over the cool, synthetic fabric.

"If you won't take it off, if you aren't ready for me to see who you are... just tell me. Can you tell me your name?"

"You don't understand," he leaned into your touch, trembling so hard you could feel it in your own bones, "If I tell you... I can't take it back. Everything changes. You’ll look at me and you won’t see the hero anymore. You’ll see... just me. And I’m not—I’m not nearly enough."

His voice cracked, losing that smooth, heroic inflection and instead showing just: the boy. Young, tired, and desperate.

"That's not true," you whispered, pulling back just enough to look at the blank, white eyes of the mask, searching for the person underneath.

"I don't care about the hero—" you reached out, giving a soft, firm pat against his chest to emphasize him, right over the heavy thumping of his heart. "—I care about the person standing right in front of me."

His head tilted to the side, lenses studying you in a stunned silence. Then, he fell back half a step, his weight shifting as though he wanted to slip away into the shadows once more.

"I care about you," you added softly, keeping your hand flat against the taut muscle of his chest, refusing to let him retreat into the dark. "Just you."

He was silent for a long moment before speaking: "Peter," he finally choked out. The name sounded foreign on his tongue, stripped of its usual armor. "It’s... it’s Peter."

The admission seemed to drain the last of his remaining strength. He slumped slightly, his head dropping, his forehead resting against yours, the mask acting as the only barrier between your skin and his.

"Peter," you repeated, testing the weight of it, the intimacy of it.

He shivered at the sound of his own name. He was terrified, he was awkward, and he was completely, hopelessly exposed.

He didn't know how to navigate this without the total anonymity, gripping your waist like you were the only thing anchoring him. He hadn't given you his face, but he had given you his name. A secret far more dangerous than the suit.

"Peter," you whispered, feeling him shudder.

"I shouldn't be here," he murmured, thick against your neck. "I keep telling myself I have to go, that there’s a patrol route—" He cut himself off with a self-deprecating huff. "The moment I’m a few blocks away, my head stops working. Everything is static. Except for this."

His hands shifted to cup the back of your neck, his touch painfully shy as he held his forehead steady against yours. He let out a sharp, embarrassed laugh...

"God, listen to me. I’m a mess. I’m supposed to be the guy who has it all under control."

You let out a soft, huffing laugh, determined to trade the heavy silence for something a little lighter. Physical wreckage, you knew how to handle, but seeing him mentally frayed like this felt entirely different.

"Good. The stoic superhero thing was getting boring. I like you much better when you're completely unraveled over me." You lightly teased him.

He let out a nervous, breathless laugh, the tension breaking just enough for a shy, crooked smile to hide behind the fabric.

"I've... I've always been unraveled over you."

A warm, quiet thrill bloomed in your chest at the confession, making your fingers tighten slightly against his neck. Before you could answer, a fresh wave of self-doubt hit him, his shoulders hiking up again as he nervously shifted his weight.

"Is this... I mean, is this okay? I’m wearing all of this. I’m just a guy in a suit, I’m awkward, and I’ve never actually... done this."

A playful glint sparked in your eyes, your lips curving into a slow, wicked smile. "Done what, Peter?"

His brain short-circuited. Was that presumptuous? Does she think I'm being a jerk?

"W-wait, no, I didn't mean—" he stammered, dropping his hands and stumbling back in a panic. "I shouldn't have said that, I'm making it weird—"

Before he could retreat, you grabbed his shoulders and hauled him right back against you. "Relax," you laughed softly, reeling him in. "I was only teasing."

You take his hands and guide them to your hips, your own hands sliding up to wrap around his neck, pulling him in flush against you. The fire within you burns brighter, an aching, heavy thrum of excitement pulsing low and insistent.

You’d be lying if you said you hadn't thought about this exact moment every single night since the first time he found his way to your window. You could feel the terrifying, liberating edge of it slipping right through your fingers, begging to be spoken before fear could talk you out of it...

"Touch me, Peter."

He chokes on air. An instant, spiraling panic bleeds into him as he clumsily knocks you both back against the edge of the bed frame. He was overthinking every point of contact, terrified that his super-strength would betray his desire for gentleness.

"I-I don't know—" he stammers, his hands flying up to hover uselessly in the air, trembling violently. "My senses are too dialed up right now, I can't even feel how much pressure I'm putting on you. What if I don't know my own strength? I could hurt you, and I wouldn't even realize it until—"

"You won't hurt me, Peter," you interrupted, your voice steady, absolute, and completely sure. You slid your hands up, resting them against the sides of his masked face, urging him to look down at you. "I trust you."

The words seemed to hit him like a physical blow. A ragged, broken sound escaped him, muffled entirely by the mask.

"You shouldn't," he whispered back, his voice thick with emotion, sounding younger and more vulnerable than ever. But slowly, hesitantly, the rigid stiffness left his frame.

The cosmic scales suddenly tip; leaving you feeling like the fearless hero, while Peter seems so desperately human.

"We'll go slow," you murmured softly, your thumbs brushing the sides of his jaw.

Before he could overthink it, you gave a gentle nudge against his chest, guiding him backward until the back of his knees hit the mattress. He sat down on the edge of the bed in a daze, completely yielding to your lead.

Without breaking contact, you stepped between his knees and shifted forward, straddling his hips. The moment your weight settled over him, the hard, distinct outline of his arousal pressed firmly against you; rigid and instantaneous beneath the suit.

Peter froze completely. Every muscle in his upper body locked up, his breath catching sharply in his throat as his hands hovered uncertainly in the air, terrified to move a muscle.

"Jesus—uh—I can explain. That's totally involuntary, you see I—"

You didn't give him time to spiral. Catching his trembling hands, you guided them up and placed them flat against your chest, right over your breasts, pressing them gently against the soft fabric of your shirt.

"Are—are you sure?" he asked, his voice cracking into a panicked whisper, vibrating against your palms. "Like this?"

"Just like that," you murmured, watching the way his white lenses dilated, taking in the intimacy of your position.

Slowly, testing the boundaries of his own permission, his hands began to move. His fingers traced the contours of your waist before drifting downward, exploring the curve of your hips with agonizing, reverent care. When his gloved fingers finally brushed against the hem of your shirt, he stopped entirely, his breath hitching.

He looked up at you, searching your face for any sign of hesitation. "Can I—is this okay?"

His fingertips grazed the warm, bare skin just below the fabric, trembling against you. You nodded, a slow, encouraging smile touching your lips.

That single movement was all the permission he needed. His hands slipped beneath your shirt, his palms hot and rough against your skin as he traced the curves of your ribs, pulling you closer. You didn't wait for him to figure out the logistics; you caught his wrists, guiding his hands higher, letting him explore the shape of you as the friction sent shivers straight down your spine.

"Can I take this off?" he whispered, his voice thick with awe as his gaze locked onto yours. "To see you?"

"You can do whatever you want to me, Peter," you murmured softly.

He swallowed hard, a nervous flutter hitting him instantly. "Well, I don't know about that, I—"

You cut him off, leaning down to press a soft, quiet kiss against the fabric of his mask where his lips were. When he stayed frozen, completely overwhelmed by the audacity of his own desires, you decided to take matters into your own hands.

You grabbed the hem of your shirt and pulled it cleanly over your head, tossing it aside.

Even without seeing his face, you could practically feel him gawking, his breath hitching so hard you felt the twitch of his muscles beneath you.

"Easy now, Spidey," you teased, gesturing downward with a knowing look. His gaze dropped, tracking the movement, and the tight, rigid outline of him straining against his suit jumped in response.

"Is it hot in here?" he blurted out, utterly sincere and spiraling into a total nervous wreck. "I'm feeling really hot."

You laughed, reaching out to hook your fingers into the fabric of his collar. "We gotta get you out of this suit." Before the panic could fully take root, you added, "Mask stays, of course."

He visibly settled, the lingering tension in his shoulders dropping an inch. Your hands went to the back of his neck, fumbling blindly for a zipper or a seam to try and undo the upper half of the suit, but it was seamless, engineered beyond your understanding.

"I can't—" You said, struggling.

In an instant, raw, mounting desire took over. Before you could finish your sentence, Peter's hands gripped your waist to lift you off him. But miscalculating his leverage in the heat of the moment, he used just a little too much force, setting you down on the mattress beside him with a heavy thud.

"I'm so sorry, are you okay?" he babbled instantly, his hands hovering over you in a panic.

You laughed, breathless and thoroughly amused, giving his arm a playful tug. "I'll be much better once this is off."

"Right, right," he muttered frantically, springing to his feet to tear at the material himself.

He moved to rip at the chest seam, but stopped dead in his tracks, his white lenses darting back down to look you over. A sudden, bold shift hit him.

"Let's make it even," he said, his voice dropping an octave as his eyes roamed over your bare torso. "Take off your pants."

He paused, instantly second-guessing his tone, backtracking with a soft, flustered stammer: "...if you want to."

You didn't hesitate a second. "I want to."

You kicked off your sleep shorts swiftly, standing up in front of him now in just your underwear. At the sudden, unfiltered sight of you, his breath caught, and you could see the unmistakable shift in his stance as he grew even harder.

That was all the motivation he needed. He worked hastily, ripping the rest of the red and blue suit down, rolling it off his arms and tossing the bundle carelessly across the room.

He stood there now in only his mask and dark briefs.

You were completely blown away. He was built: a striking mix of beefy muscle and lean, athletic lines. The veins in his forearms danced under the dim light as his muscles tensed with heavy, pulsing anticipation.

For a long, charged moment, both of you stood there in an awkward hold, unsure who would make the first move.

Then, Peter snapped.

He closed the gap in a blur, grabbing you around the waist and pulling you down onto the bed, pinning you beneath him. He didn't waste time, crashing his masked lips down onto yours in a hungry, instinctual kiss.

A breathless moan escaped your lips as you writhed beneath him, your nipples instantly hardening into aching peaks against his chest. He moved to kiss down your jaw, the synthetic fabric of the mask awkward and rough against your sensitive skin, but you could still feel the heat of his lips beneath it. Soft, plump, and desperate for more.

His bare hands, warm, steady, and impossibly soft against your skin, sent a violent wave of goosebumps cascading down your spine. They traveled up your ribs before cupping your breasts, his thumbs brushing lightly over your hardened nipples, squeezing with a reverence that made you arch up into his touch with a sharp intake of breath.

Hands tangled, limbs brushed, and a frantic, breathless rhythm took over as you both explored every inch of each other's bodies in the charged, dim light of the room. The friction was intoxicating, the heat between you building into something heavy and consuming.

Right on the precipice, with the air thick and the world narrowing down to just the two of you, you caught his wrists, halting his frantic pace.

You looked up at him, your chest rising and falling rapidly. "Wait, Peter."

He froze instantly, his breath hitching as he hovered over you, terrified he'd crossed a line or moved too fast. "Yeah? What—did I hurt you? Are you okay?"

You reached up, your fingers gently wrapping around the edge of the fabric at his jawline.

"Let me lift your mask a little," you whispered, your voice soft, absolute, and loaded with quiet longing. "To kiss you. I wanna to feel you."

His breath hitched, the white lenses of his mask widening as his hands went completely rigid at your sides. You watched as his chest rose and fell at an alarming speed.

"Just to your lips," you urged softly, your thumb tracing the soft line of them beneath the spandex. "Just enough... Do you trust me?"

The desperate, unspoken longing in your eyes broke whatever resistance he had left. His hands drifted up to gently cover yours, his fingers shaking as he gave a tiny, agonizingly slow nod.

"Okay," he breathed out, the word thick with surrender.

With trembling fingers, you rolled the fabric up just below his nose, exposing his lips and the sharp, flushed slope of his jaw. The cool night air hit his heated skin, and he swallowed hard.

He looked breathless, entirely undone, the visible lower half of his face so beautifully human.

"Hi there, Peter," you whispered softly, a small, tender smile touching your lips.

You didn't give him a chance to overthink it. Pulling him down by the back of his neck, you finally closed the distance, pressing your lips straight against his exposed mouth.

The kiss was everything the mask had kept from you: warm, soft, and electric.

He let out a low, shuddering moan against your mouth, his hands sliding up to cup the sides of your face as he kissed you back with a fierce, starving desperation, finally letting go of every restraint he'd ever carried.

The kiss lingered, heavy and breathless, before he slowly pulled back just enough to look at you, his chest heaving against yours. The exposed lower half of his face was flushed, his lips slightly swollen. His eyes, still masked, burned with an intensity that made your breath catch.

Without breaking eye contact, he let out a shuddering sigh and began to trail his lips downward. He pressed a warm, lingering kiss against your jaw, then down the sensitive column of your throat, and over the rise of your collarbone.

Every sweep of his mouth and brush of his stubble sent a fresh wave of electric shivers through you. He moved lower still, his lips ghosting over your ribs, pressing slow, worshipful kisses across your skin until his mouth hovered just above the waistband of your underwear.

He froze there, hovering by your core, before looking up at you, his voice thick and hesitant.

"We can stop, if you want to."

You blinked, staring down at him in total confusion. You were dripping wet, your panties already soaking right where his last kiss had grazed your most sensitive skin.

"Stop?" you asked, breathless and incredulous. "Don't stop."

With that, he didn't hesitate. He caught the edge of your underwear with his teeth, giving a sharp, clever tug that pulled the fabric down, while his hands smoothly finished the rest of the work, sliding them off completely.

When you were fully exposed, your thighs glistening from the sheer volume of your arousal, Peter froze completely.

He pulled back, staring. He looked utterly dizzy, his super-senses booming with the scent of you, the heat of you, the absolute reality of it all overwhelming his brain.

He dropped his head back, a hand flying up to rub at his temples as a low groan tore from his throat.

"Peter, hey," you murmured softly, shifting forward to sit beside him and cradle his face. "Lie down for me."

You maneuvered him gently until his shoulders hit the mattress, leaving you kneeling beside him for a brief moment so as not to overwhelm his overloaded system. His arms dropped out to either side of his body in sheer exhaustion, heavy and limp against your sheets.

"Let me take over," you whispered, leaning over him. "Just relax for me."

You straddled his hips then, sliding your wet core over his dark briefs a few times, drawing a sharp, ragged gasp from him. His hands shot out instantly, grabbing your hips. They dug in hard, the grip firm and demanding, yet trembling with a desperate care not to hurt you.

Your hands pressed flat against his bare chest to steady yourself, feeling every single muscle beneath your palms bunch, contort, and strain as he held you.

Reaching down, you hooked your fingers into the elastic waistband of his briefs and pulled them down. He surged up out of them in an instant, his heavy length springing free to slap hard against his flat stomach. He was thick, red, and raw, pulsing with an intense, heavy heat.

"Jesus Christ, Peter," you breathed out in awe.

His white lenses blinked up at you, panic instantly flaring beneath his daze. "What's wrong? Is it—did I—?"

"Nothing, I just—nothing," you stammered, completely mesmerized.

His mask was still pulled up past his mouth, and you watched as he nervously sucked his bottom lip into his mouth, his chest heaving under your hands.

"You ready?" you asked, a thrill running down your spine.

"Fuckk—shit—sorry, language!" he rambled, his voice cracking wildly. "Yes—yes, please, I'm ready—"

You reached down, lining him up to your entrance.

"Wait, wait, god—uh, a condom, I don't have a—"

You laughed, your cheeks flushing a bright, hot pink from desire. "It's okay, I'm on birth control. We should be alright... unless you've got like... super sperm?"

Even with only the lower half of his face visible, you could see him turn a violent, burning red. "Uh, I—I don't think so. I—"

"Peter, I'm teasing you again," you smiled down at him.

He groaned, sinking completely back into the mattress. "Have mercy, woman, please!"

You chuckled, your hand returning to guide him once more. Sinking slowly down onto him, you took him all at once, letting out a soft, ecstatic sigh as your hands went back to his chest for leverage. His hands locked firmly onto your hips.

He stretched you out completely. The sudden fullness brought a sharp, lingering burn that forced you to pause, waiting just a heartbeat for your breath to catch up. Then suddenly, the tight ache rapidly melted into a heavy, exquisite heat.

You began to move up and down, setting a slow, agonizingly sweet pace. Once the rhythm settled into something comfortable, you quickened it, letting the friction build into a breathless, demanding rush.

"You can thrust up into me too if you wan—" you started, but before you could even finish the sentence, a low growl tore from Peter's throat.

The steady rhythm shattered completely, replaced by a frantic, driving urgency. He bucked up hard into you, skin slapping wetly against skin as he violently picked up the pace, meeting your descent with a breathless, punishing eagerness that stole the air right out of your lungs.

His hips snapped upward in a relentless cadence, each thrust hitting deeper, harder, sending your head spinning. You gasped, your fingernails biting into the taut muscles of his chest as you rode the sudden, overwhelming wave of friction.

The sound of your breath mingling with his heavy, desperate groans filled the dim room, every nerve ending in your body alive and buzzing with the frantic heat of him. With every harsh, driving thrust he met you with, your energy bled away, replaced by a heavy, boneless exhaustion.

Already reaching your breaking point, your muscles gave out. You collapsed forward, sliding down until you crumpled completely against his chest, your face tucked into his shoulder as you panted, too spent to hold your own weight.

Even trapped beneath your dead weight, Peter didn't slow down. His hips kept snapping upward in a frantic, desperate cadence, driving into you deep and hard.

Suddenly, his hands left your hips. He reached up, his fingers sliding firmly into your hair and cupping the sides of your face to yank you back up.

Before you could catch your breath, his mouth crashed against yours.

It wasn't a gentle kiss; it was hungry and aggressive, his tongue aggressively pushing past your lips to plunder your mouth. Your lips and tongues moved in a desperate, frantic sync that mirrored the brutal rhythm of his body still pounding relentlessly beneath you.

Every thrust of his hips mapped to the greedy slide of his mouth, consuming the last remnants of your breath until you were completely, deliciously lost in him.

You moaned softly into his mouth, overcome by the raw, carnal feelings flooding every inch of your body. The sound of that moan flicked a switch inside him.

He flipped your bodies over effortlessly as his arousal consumed him. Pinning you back against the mattress, he pounded into you harder and faster, filling every inch of you. The friction was dizzying, the heat between you reaching a blinding fever pitch.

"This okay?" he asks her, his voice rough and ragged against your ear.

You can only respond between breathless gasps and moans of pure pleasure, "Ye—yes—"

Your pleasures began to build in tandem, rising together in a fierce, dizzying spiral. You could feel him twitching inside of you, every internal pulse matching the frantic, escalating knot tightening in your stomach. It was building more intensely than you ever knew was possible.

You were completely fucked out, floating in a thick daze, your eyes screwing shut in pure, overwhelming pleasure.

As the edge rushed up to meet you both, Peter let out a reckless, guttural shout.

"Fuck it."

With a violent, impatient yank, he ripped the mask entirely off his face, tossing it aside into the dark room, desperate to see you completely in this blinding moment of release.

You didn't even notice the sudden rush of air, your eyes still shut, your back arching as your body violently shattered into your orgasm.

"Fuck, that's it," you heard him say. His lips finding your breasts, sucking hard.

You could feel his damp hair prickle against your skin, but before you could process the shift, his hands slid up to grip your ribs, holding you fast as he drove into you one final, obliterating time, tumbling over the edge right alongside you.

The aftershock hit you like a physical wave, leaving your limbs heavy, trembling, and entirely boneless against the mattress. With a low, reluctant groan, Peter shifted, slowly pulling out of you.

A soft, involuntary whimper slipped past your lips at the sudden loss of contact, missing his heat the second he left you.

He didn't go far, immediately sliding down to lie right beside you in the tangled sheets. Without a word, his head found its way to the crook of your neck, his breath feathering hot and uneven against your skin as you both lay tangled together in the dark.

One of his hands slid down from your ribs to splay flat across your stomach, while the other tangled gently in your hair, keeping you anchored against him as if he were terrified that letting go would make the moment vanish.

"God, that was incredible," he breathed out, his voice cracked and entirely wrecked, vibrating straight through your skin. He pressed a soft, lingering kiss against the damp curve of your shoulder, his lips still trembling slightly from the rush of it all. "Are you... are you okay?"

When you finally blinked your eyes open against the heavy, lingering daze of the aftershocks, your breath hitched. Your gasps caught in your throat, contorting into a long, helpless gasp.

"Peter!" you shrieked, a sharp sound of panic tearing out of your throat. "Your—your mask!"

You immediately slapped your hands over your eyes, squeezing them tightly shut, your heart hammering all over again for an entirely different reason. You had made a promise, and in the blind frenzy of the climax, you thought it had slipped off by accident.

Beside you, his chest shook with a low, breathless laugh. Strong fingers gently wrapped around your wrists, pulling your hands away from your face with practiced ease.

"No, no. It's okay," he whispered, his dark eyes softening as he looked down at you, a tired, genuinely happy smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. "I took it off."

"But—" you begin, your voice trembling slightly as your eyes trace the unfamiliar, painfully handsome lines of his face. He cuts you off gently, his thumb brushing a stray lock of hair from your cheek, his gaze steady and completely unyielding.

"I needed to see you," he whispers, his voice dropping into something raw and certain. "All of you."

"I can't believe I'm seeing all of you," you whispered, the realization finally settling deep into your chest.

You stared up at him, your breath catching as you finally let yourself take in his features. His dark curls fell in messy, damp strands across his forehead, and his dark brown eyes were still blown completely black with lingering adrenaline.

Tracing the sharp, handsome lines of his face—the jawline, the soft curve of his lips, the quiet warmth in his expression—you realized he was better than you had ever imagined.

"You're perfect, Peter," you added softly, a quiet awe lacing your voice.

Above you, Peter propped himself up slightly on one elbow, his own gaze tracking over every inch of your face with a fierce, quiet reverence, taking you in completely now that the shadows were gone.

"Far from it," he murmured, his thumb gently tracing the line of your jaw, his gaze holding yours with an intensity that made your chest ache. "…but you are."

"Do you want me to stay?" he asked quietly, the playful tease gone, replaced by a sudden, careful vulnerability. "I can stay. Or... if you need space, I can go. Whatever you want."

You reached up, your fingers tangling softly into the damp curls at the nape of his neck, pulling him just a little bit closer.

"Stay," you whispered, a small, certain smile touching your lips. "Definitely stay."

"Unless some supervillain is gonna break in and kill me... then leave immediately," you added with a dry, teasing little joke.

Peter immediately puffed out his chest in an exaggerated, intensely goofy manner, striking a heroic pose against the pillows. "Hey, you're looking at Spider-Man," he declared, trying to sound utterly formidable. "I'm with you till the end of—"

You blinked, an amused smirk tugging at your mouth. "Wait, isn't that Captain America?"

Peter instantly deflated, groaning as he buried his face dramatically against your shoulder.

"Gahhh, don't bring up that guy while I'm naked in your bed," he muttered, his voice muffled against your skin. "He's jacked. Damn it, you know I should've gone to the gym with him while I still had the chance. Now he's dead... or well, old. I don't know... I haven't seen him in forever—"

You let out a loud, fond laugh at his rambling, reaching up to cup his face in your hands and pulling him straight back down into a lingering, affectionate kiss.

"I prefer Peter anyway," you murmured softly against his lips, the endearment thick in your voice.

Peter completely melted into your touch, a soft, contented sigh slipping past his lips as he settled back down beside you, completely at peace.

"I also think I prefer you coming to my window looking for this over medical assistance any day," you added with a soft, teasing grin, thinking back to all those frantic, bleeding nights that used to end with gauze and hydrogen peroxide instead.

Peter let out a low, rumbling laugh that vibrated against your chest, tightening his arms around you just a fraction more.

"Yeah," he whispered, pressing one last, lingering kiss to your temple. "Me too."

He paused, listening to the dark around you both. No distant sirens, no endless city buzz. Just your heartbeat, soft and low against his chest.

"It's quiet tonight," he murmured softly into your hair, a deep, contented sigh slipping past his lips.

[sluvaffair]

🕷 Brand New Spidey 🕷

     ↳ Warnings/Themes: Mature (🔞). Smut. PWP. Unprotected P in V. Spread Eagle. Not-proofread. Dry humping.      ↳ Pairing: BND!Peter Parker x F!Reader      ↳ Words: 2853      ↳ Summary: Your boyfriend returns from patrol beaten and bloodied and with a new attitude.

☁️: Walked out of the movie wet as hell. The scene that this picture is from... yeahhhh. So, here we are. First time writing for Marvel / Spidey so be nice pleaseeee. There's no real spoiler warning, as the fic is based on the image from the trailer. ‪‪❤︎‬

General Masterlist here. Peter Masterlist here.

Through the noise of the New York night moving below, something hits your bedroom window hard enough to rattle the glass and drag you out of your sleep. Another loud tap follows before the room falls quiet again. The traffic outside carries on as though nothing happened, and the silence inside your room stretches on long enough that you being to wonder if you'd imagined it.

Still caught somewhere between sleep and consciousness, you instinctively reach for your phone. It takes a couple of seconds of blinking against the harsh glare of the phone before the numbers come into focus. 03:17. No missed calls or texts.

You let your head fall back against the pillow, your eyes already drifting closed as sleep begins to pull you back under again. It's only then, just as you're comfortable, that the next sound tears through your bedroom.

Your bedroom window, old and creaky, is slid open. The curtains stir as something, a big something, slips past them. There are no footsteps or creaks of the floorboards to prove it happens, just the rustle of the curtains as more breeze flies through.

"...P–Peter."

The name slips from your mouth before your mind has even fully caught up. It has to be him, he's the only person reckless enough to slip in at three in the morning, and the only one who would consider your fourteenth story window as a perfectly reasonable front door, despite having a key.

There's no response, so you reach for the lamp. A soft, yellow glow fills the bedroom, your eyes taking another second to adjust before immediately settling on the wall.

Peter's halfway up your bedroom wall, crouched close to the ceiling with his weight resting on his feet. He has one hand on the opposite wall, as if he needs it to keep him balanced.

He's still not turned to look at you, opting to watch the city through the gap the wind creates in the curtains. One shoulder in his suit has been ripped almost clean off, exposing bruised skin beneath streaks of drying blood. There's more dried blood along the side of his face, disappearing beneath his jaw and into the collar of his suit. Fresh crimson still trickles from a cut above his eyebrow, his curls clinging damply to his forehead.

You chew your bottom lip as you take him in. It's become the norm for him to crawl through your window at night after patrol, but never this late and never looking this banged up. Dating Spider-Man has its perks but now it brings you an uncomfortable swirl in your stomach.

"Pete?"

When he finally looks over to you, the breath in your throat catches. His eyes, usually so soft and brown when they look at you, are gone, replaced by darkness. You blink a few times, as if that will reset your sight and give you something more familiar.

It doesn't and your brow furrows. You've spent enough time looking into Peter's eyes to know every shade of brown that they could be in a different light. This wasn't that. The colour has been swallowed whole, replaced by a black glossy enough to catch the light from your bedside lamp.

Over time, you've learnt to just roll with the things that happen to and around Peter. Now, for the first time really, he's beaten, he's bloody, his eyes are pitch black, and he just stares at you.

It's probably one of the most unsettling things you've ever seen, which makes it deeply irritating that your first coherent thought is still 'God, he's attractive'.

"That's... new," you finally say.

His head tilts ever so slightly, the movement smooth enough that it reminds you he isn't entirely human, as if him clinging on your wall without a regard for gravity wasn't reminder enough.

"What happened, handsome?" You ask softly.

One corner of his mouth twitches at the nickname, it's barely a smile, but it's enough to loosen the knot that has been tightening in your chest from since you turned the light on.

"Suit yourself," you say.

The silence feels wrong on him. Usually, Peter feels silence the way other people breathe. He apologises, makes terrible jokes, and talks himself into circles until you have to interrupt him just to get a word in. Even after the worst patrols, he somehow finds the energy to ramble on about the criminal who threw a microwave at him or complain about New York's pigeons' vendetta against him.

Tonight, he just watches you. His gaze follows you as you kneel beside the bed and pull out the first-aid kit you stashed there for times like this. It tracks the movement of your hands while you sort through gauze and antiseptic, placing them on the bed.

"Come here."

This, he obeys immediately. Usually there's some sort of protest, "I'm fine." "You don't need to fuss." "It's not even my blood."

But today, he walks down the wall, each step carrying him lower until both feet settle quietly onto the carpet. He walks the short distance over to you, stopping close enough that you can smell the rain and city dust beneath the metallic tang of blood.

There's tiny cuts scattered across his jaw, already looking like they're healing. "You really got beat up, huh?"

He nods in response.

"The other guy look worse than you?"

Another nod.

"Good."

It's your turn to watch him, your eyes trailing down from where his hair is still damp to the way his muscles bulge out of his suit. A hum of approval slips past your lips, and the corner of Peter's mouth lifts again.

"Missed you." His voice is rough, quieter than usual, as though he hasn't spoken in hours. Knowing Peter, that is unlikely.

"I missed you too." You reach for the antiseptic. "Suit off, sit down."

It's a routine you've done time and time again. He's out of the suit in no time, then on your bed in only his boxers. His chest and stomach is no better than his face, scrapes and bruises littered across him.

You kneel between his open legs, soaking a cotton pad with antiseptic before lifting it towards the cut above his eyebrow. "This is going to sting."

Normally, he'd flinch before you'd enough touched him, already complaining about your bedside manner despite being the one who'd shown up at your window and begging you to take care of him with those puppy-dog eyes.

But, the antiseptic touches raw skin without so much as a wince or bad joke about how it hurts worse than anything he fought as an Avenger.

The furrow in your brow deepens for the second time today as you carefully clean his face. "Peter."

His black eyes flick briefly to your mouth before returning to your eyes. "What?"

"You've been staring at me for the past... I don't know. Like five minutes."

"I know." Is his simple response.

There's something in his voice that somehow manages to sound not quite like Peter but also entirely like Peter at the same time. A hint of brown peaks through his eyes as you study him.

You find yourself looking away first, pretending to concentrate on cleaning the cut along his jaw even though you've already wiped it clean.

When your thumb accidentally brushes against the corner of his mouth, any hint of brown disappears, replaced by pitch black again as there's a faint hitch in his breath.

The effects of his reaction rolls through your body in a way that you're not sure you can admit out loud. Although he doesn't show it, he's probably in pain, and the worry you'd had initially is very quickly being replaced by a burning desire.

"I think we're done."

You stand to throw the used cotton aside. The moment you try to leave, warm fingers close around your wrist. It's not tight enough to bruise, but it's enough to stop you in your tracks, to stop you from even thinking of pulling away.

The tug on your arm is done with hardly any force at all, but it still has you tumbling forward. Your hands land on his shoulders to steady yourself, and he lets go of your wrist only to settle one hand against your waist.

Lifting you with ease, he puts you on his lap.

For a brief second, he looks almost puzzled by the contact, as though some part of him is only catching up to what the rest of him decided several seconds ago.

As your fingers trace down the lines of his chest, over the faint bruising, his eyes drop to your chest, watching how your chest begins to rise and fall faster as your heart thuds in your chest.

His nipples are already erect, so perky and tempting and you can't help but slide your thumbs over them. It's as if the touch sparks something within him, his hands tighten on your waist, drawing you closer until there's barely any space between your bodies.

The streets of New York sound even more distant as the sounds of ragged breathing fills the room, it's all consuming and desire pools in your stomach without even being touched.

"Pete," you moan, and the restraint snaps.

Peter's hand cups the back of your neck, pulling you down to crash his lips to yours. It's not really a kiss, it's too messy and too desperate, and he groans in your mouth as your teeth accidentally catch the cut on his lip. Still, he doesn't pull away. In fact, he craves more.

His hands run over your back and then down to cup your ass, tilting your hips forward in an attempt to press you harder against him. He hums quietly against your mouth, the sound vibrating somewhere deep in his chest.

Somehow, he calms down enough that his lips move against yours in a way more resembling real kiss, his tongue sliding over yours. The motion has heat prickling under your skin and a throb blooming between your thighs. Your nails scratch at his back, adding to the collection of marks there.

Without breaking the kiss, Peter eases you both backwards. You barely notice you're being moved until you suddenly feel him, all of him, press against you. He arranges you so he's flat on his back, your knees on either side of his hips.

The thin fabric of your panties is damp in a way that you're sure he can feel through his boxers. He's done nothing so far to warrant that.

"Fuck," you groan against his mouth as you shift against him. The friction sending little sparks of pleasure through you, but not enough to satisfy the ache.

He pulls back just enough to look up at you. You could always tell what he was thinking through his eyes, but they're still black, probably darker than before if that's possible. But, the expression on his face gives you all the reassurances that his eyes can't.

"My senses are going crazy." It's the first sentence that was more than two words he's pulled together all night, so you sit up straight, looking down at him. He closes his eyes, drawing in a deep and ragged breath. "Fu-. You smell so..."

The praise went straight to your core, more wetness dampening your panties and Peter whimpered.

He didn't open his eyes immediately, taking another long, shuddering breath of air as if your scene was an intoxicant he couldn't get enough of.

Shifting in his lap, you grind down against him with as much pressure as you could manage. His hands on your hips twitched, his fingers digging into your skin with enough pressure that you knew it would bruise tomorrow. Good.

His eyes lock on to yours, the void in his gaze terrifying in a way that only made you ache more. "I can hear your blood rushing. I can feel... no, I can smell how warm and wet you are."

Leaning forward, you drag your chest against his bare skin until your noses almost brush.

"So, then you know I'm ready for you." You kissed the bottom of his jaw, where a bruise has formed. "I'm begging for it." Another kiss and shift against him. His full body tremors underneath you. "I need you."

Before you can blink, his hand flies up to wrap around the back of your neck, and then the room spins. Peter's over you in an instant, pressing his erection against your core.

There's a wet patch on his boxers where his precum has pooled and each roll of his hips coats his boxers as it glides over your damp panties.

"Fuck... Pete."

Your nails find their way to his back again, leaving him with marks that you know he'll appreciate in the mirror in the morning.

Peter whimpers, hair flopping over his face and eyes half-lidded as he moves faster against you. You reach up, thumb flicking over his nipples in time with his grinds against you. Electricity runs through his veins at every wipe.

"I-I'm not- I'm close already," he stutters, his dick twitching in his boxers.

"But I want you inside of me," you all but whined.

"Okay, yes."

If you weren't as aroused as you are now, you would have laughed at the unnecessary acrobatics as he jumps back to pull your panties off in one swoop. The cold air hits your soaked folds, and his throat bobs as he watches the way it glistens in the light.

"Hurry up," you begged, legs closing slightly. It was a silly thing to feel so self-conscious in front of the man who's been between your legs more times than you could count, but he's also not seen you this desperate before.

He stands to pull his boxers down, a soft moan escaping his lips as the fabric catches on his sensitive tip. He turns to look at you as you swallow hard. His dick is beautiful, slightly curved and thick in a way that fills you up completely every time. It's flushed a pretty pink at the tip. Your tongue moves in your throat, craving the feeling of how heavy it would feel on you.

Settling between your legs again, Peter spreads your legs wide. He rubs the tip of his length through your slick folds, his precum and your arousal mixing. He uses the tip to circle your clit with extra pressure, and you cannot help the grind of your hips.

Peter taps his dick on your clit once, then once again, running it through your folds again.

Your hands hook under the backs of your thighs, pulling them to your chest and exposing yourself to him. "Peter, please."

"I'm sorry, baby," he coos.

Just the tip is eased past your hole, and it's enough for your mouth to go slack, eyes rolling back as the stretch burns so well. He continues to push in slowly, face scrunched as your walls wrap around him like a specialised glove.

Every ridge, every vein, and every pulse drags hits against the walls of your pussy. He fills you up completely, thick and veiny, and neither of you move for a moment, too lost in the feeling.

"Won't last long," he grits out.

Sweat already beads at his forehead. Sex with Peter is usually a stamina war, he goes rounds and rounds before even tiring. But whatever's happened to him has heightened his senses in a way that he cannot yet control, the feelings overwhelming him to the point of almost overstimulation.

"That's okay, take what you need."

He begins to move, pulling out so just the tip is left in before pushing back forward. He finds the right angle immediately, hitting against your spot and making your toes curl.

Without missing a thrust, Peter grabs hold of your ankles, using them to spread your legs further. The new angle has you both sighing, moans mixing in the room with the sounds of his skin clapping against yours.

"Feels s'good, s'tight," he groans. "Touch... self."

Three of your fingers immediately find your clit, circling with the pressure that you know you like. It only takes a few tightly pressured circles for the first waves of your orgasm to shake through your body.

Peter watches your body arch as your orgasm hits you in full force. You clench around him and that combined with the pure ecstasy on your face has him burying himself deep inside of you, giving you a few more frantic thrusts before he's whimpering and groaning, his nerve endings going haywire.

Seconds later, he's shooting hot, ropey cum into you. He falls forward but keeps his body hovering over yours. Your hands cup his cheeks, pressing kisses to his face as you both come down from your highs. He mumbles praises to you between kisses, making your heart squeeze.

"Feeling better, Pete?" You ask.

"Yeah, thanks to you," he sighs. He sits back on his heels, still buried inside of you.

As you watch him, his eyes slowly clear of the black, his soft brown eyes finding yours.

If you enjoyed, please consider leaving a comment, ask, reblog etc. it means a lot x

[vinnieswife]

Juno arrest!

Harry Collet x costar!redaer (1,5k)

@missconduct1676 -> they go see Sabrina Carpenter during her tour stop in London and the two get arrested at her show (so I kinda got more inspired by sabrina’s interview talking about the arrest soo I worked with that)

MATERIALIST

The soft scratch of the scrapbook page turning matches the rhythmic patter of rain outside your London apartment. On the screen of your laptop, Sabrina Carpenter is sitting behind a table littered with glitter, stickers, and Polaroids, carefully constructing a tour diary for Variety.

You have the back of your head resting on Harry's chest, his arm is wrapped securely around your waist, pulling you tightly against his chest as you both lean back against a small mountain of throw pillows on the couch. Every now and then, he presses a soft, absentminded kiss to the side of your neck, his breath warm against your skin. You can feel the quiet, steady vibration of his low chuckle when Sabrina takes a piece of tape, carefully placing it onto the page.

"Okay, I’m going to tape this here. I hope that looks good," Sabrina says on the screen, her voice filled with that signature bright energy. "The Juno arrest has been one of the most special memories of the whole tour by far..."

Harry squeezes your hip, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Oi, look, It’s our bit" he murmurs, his accent thick and comfortable in the quiet room, "we're famous babe, this is like officially pop culture history"

"Oh please" you laugh, tilting your head back to look at him. "We were literally shaking dont act like you weren't terrified when she pointed those pink fuzzy handcuffs at us"

"I was acting, wasn't I?" Harry protests, a playful grin tugging at his lips, "love I am a proper serious actor"

"Right, a serious actor who almost tripped over the front-row barricade because you were staring at her boots" you tease, poking his cheek.

He catches your finger in his hand, lacing his fingers through yours and bringing your hand up to kiss your knuckles "for your information I was staring at you, actually, you looked insane in the crowd lights"

Your heart does that familiar, ridiculous little flip. Even though you’ve transitioned from best friends to something entirely official, the way Harry looks at you still feels like a sudden rush of warmth.

On screen, Sabrina is explaining the origin of the bit. "...Basically, I have this line in Juno that says 'Want to try on my fuzzy pink handcuffs?' And I was like 'It'd be fun to give the fans pink fuzzy handcuffs every night'" She beams at the camera, smoothing down a photo. "...But I've gone to arrest a wonderful amount of people from fans at the shows to friends of mine that come... When I got to arrest Jack Antonoff and Margaret, they were like my first ever couple arrests, which was really, really fun." 

Then, Sabrina pauses, holding up a fresh Polaroid to the camera, It’s a picture of you and Harry, you’re laughing, your face completely flushed, while Harry has one arm hooked around your shoulders, holding a pair of bright pink, fluffy handcuffs up to the camera like a trophy, a massive triumphant grin plastered across his face.

“But honestly?” Sabrina says, leaning in closer to the camera with a massive, knowing smile. “My absolute favorite couple arrest of the entire tour, like, hands down, no competition...has to be Harry Collett and y/n, I am a literal, massive fan of House of the Dragon, okay? I watch it religiously on the tour bus, and when I saw them walk into the VIP section, I think I actually forgot the lyrics to my own song for a second.”

You let out a soft groan, burying your face in Harry’s chest as he bursts out laughing, his chest shaking against your back.

“Because if you watch the show...” Sabrina continues excitedly, gesturing with a pair of scissors, “their characters have the most agonizing slowburn, like, I’m screaming at my TV every Sunday for them to just kiss already, and then to see them show up to my concert, looking so incredibly cozy, and just being so loud and proud about dating in real life? I was literally obsessed. I told my security, ‘Bring them to the front right now, they’re getting arrested for being too cute.’ And the fact that they made it official recently? Yeah, the pink handcuffs did it.”

"See? Sabrina gets it...." Harry says, his voice vibrating against your ear as he kisses your temple. "...the slowburn was agonizing, she’s real for that."

"It wasn't that agonizing," you argue, turning around in his lap so you're facing him properly. You rest your hands on his chest, looking into his eyes, "they were just... figuring it out"

"Babe, we took three years" Harry says softly, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw, "three years of me staring at you on set and off set, hoping you'd notice I was completely gone for you."

Your mind instantly drifts back to the beginning, you had been thrown into a whirlwind of massive sets, elaborate costumes, and intense, emotionally charged scenes. Your characters were written to be fiercely loyal to one another, childhood companions whose bond slowly, subtly shifted into something deeply romantic amidst the chaos of a brewing civil war.

Because the writers wanted the chemistry to feel completely authentic, you and Harry spent nearly every waking hour together. You memorized lines in each other’s trailers, shared endless cups of terrible set coffee, and walked around the backlots of Leavesden Studios still dressed in your Westerosi tunics, talking about everything and nothing.

He became your safe harbor in the middle of a massive, overwhelming industry. If you were stressed before a heavy scene, Harry would find you, gently bumping his shoulder against yours and offering a stupid, terrible joke just to see you smile.

Everyone else saw it before you did tho, the crew would smirk when Harry stayed on set on his days off just to watch your coverage. The fans parsed through every interview, clipping seconds of the two of you whispering to each other on red carpets, making TikTok edits set to Taylor Swift songs with captions like 'THEY ARE LITERALLY SO IN LOVE'

"Three years was worth the wait…" you say softly now, bringing yourself back to the present. You lean forward, resting your forehead against his, "..though, I gotta admit, Sabrina claiming she's the reason we made it official is pretty funny."

"Hey, the pink handcuffs were a catalyst love" Harry chuckles, his hands sliding down to rest securely on your lower back. 

On the screen, Sabrina is moving on to the next part of her scrapbook, picking up a customized beer bottle. “Okay, great. So this is our customized Sabrina, I guess it's beer... bottle for our tour. I don't even really drink beer, which is I guess the irony...” She goes on to talk about the spin-the-bottle game she plays on stage, singing covers like Mamma Mia and 9 to 5. 

Harry reaches over, lowering the volume on the laptop just a bit, his attention entirely returning to you, the soft, glow of the screen illuminates his face, highlighting the ridiculous, affectionate warmth in his eyes that still makes you feel entirely seen.

"You know" Harry says, his voice dropping into that quiet, intimate register he only uses when it's just the two of you, "I still get messages from the lads teasing me about it, Ewan sent me a text yesterday calling me a 'simp' because of how I was looking at you in that Variety clip they showed."

"Well, you are a simp..." you say, flashing him a wicked grin, "a certified one in fact"

"Only for you darling" he replies instantly, entirely unbothered by the label. He leans forward, his lips brushing against yours in a slow, lingering kiss that tastes faintly of the tea you'd brewed earlier, "only you"

You melt into the kiss, your fingers tangling in the messy curls at the nape of his neck. The journey from script read-throughs and nervous glances across crowded sets to this quiet, perfect moment on a rainy afternoon felt entirely surreal, yet completely inevitable.

When he pulls back, just a fraction, his forehead is still resting against yours, his breath mingling with your own "the best of friends to lovers..." he murmurs, a soft smile playing on his lips, "pretty good trope if you ask me."

"The absolute best," you agree, wrapping your arms securely around his neck and pulling him close again, completely ignoring the laptop as Sabrina continues her tour diary in the background. You are exactly where you are supposed to be.

[venmondiese]

PULL YOURSELF TOGETHER.

✧ | summary: Maekar and his new, soon-to-be Bride sneak away from one of the many celebrations in name of their betrothal (based on this request!)

✧ | pairing: maekar 'the anvil' targaryen x reader.

✧ | tags: 18+, mdni, age gap, oral sex like a lot, fingering and mentions of maekar making reader discover her g-spot, pussy pronouns, squirting and overstimulation, thigh riding and as always references as maekar as an old man. not beta proofed !

✧ | note: so i have no idea where the request went so i had to publish this seperatedly :-( sorry anon, i hope you like it and it was worth the wait !! i loved your request it was really delicious.

“I will not repeat myself” Maekar’s tone is stern, as one accusatory finger points at both of his eldest sons. 

“Father-” Daeron says, less drunk than usual… but still drunk. 

“No. You will not treat these ladies as if they were wenches in a tavern.” 

“Any woman can be a wench” Aerion says, arms crossed and uninterested by his father’s scolding. 

“Stop that foolishness, boy. You won’t pull any shit tricks today, less in days meant to celebrate my bride” His tone is final, he won’t have any misbehaving from any of his children. Aemon, Daella and Aegon were fine on their own, even Daeron, but Aerion and Rhae? Gods give him patience…

“What does it even matter? We are seconds from being in a carriage, hours alone with you” Aerion grumbles. “These wenches won’t be with us there”

“Keep this going, and you’ll be tied to the carriage and walking all the fucking way to King’s Landing” Maekar says, as he slaps the back of Aerion’s neck. “Now stop your shit and keep your composure.”

As Daeron walks back to be more chivalrous, Aerion simply huffs and walks away, his next target to bother being Valarr, who was speaking with his lady wife.

Maekar isn’t very fond of the idea of going to King’s Landing for his wedding, yet he was a prince of the realm, son of the King… so where his wedding would take place was not a question, as it would very obviously be in Baelor’s sept. 

He always liked the quietness of his home, having some few people of his own, but nothing compared to the extravagance of King’s Landing… And now, his whole kin had to travel back to King’s Landing, after having many celebrations of their betrothal here at Summerhall. 

He sees Baelor speaking with their father and Aerys, to which he avoids not to be met with some taunts from them. His children always have a way to set him off, and he only wants a moment of peace, quiet and tranquility. Is that too much to ask?

“No, Rhae, you can’t do that” He hears his mother say, sitting next to the dornish cakes, with her granddaughter amusing her. 

“But I want to have a suitor who woos me!” 

“You’re still rather little for that” Queen Myriah says, half amused by her granddaughter's antics, she had always said how Rhae was such an amusing child, and she always spoiled her with jewels. 

“Mother” Maekar says, walking closer, seeing them both alone. 

“Ah. Maekar” Myriah says, smiling sweetly to him. “Do sit with us, Rhae was telling me how she likes having a full court on Summerhall”

“Yes, father, we should always have a full court”

“Absolutely not” Maekar cuts Rhae at once, and he turns to his mother "Where is my bride? Was she not with you just now? The carriages will be ready any moment now” 

“She was, indeed.” The Queen says “But minutes ago she stepped out of the hall.”

“She told me she was going to fix her braid, father,” Rhae says to him. “she said i should tell you right away, because she still had things from her wedding dress to put on her carriage before we go.”

Maekar groans, looking at Rhae “How long ago was this?”

“A long time ago” she says, empathizing dramatically on how long ago it was. 

“Rhae” Maekar groans, passing a hand over his face as if fighting a migraine.

“Why does she always have to fix her braids, father?” Rhae asks him curious. “Is her hair done wrong? My handmaiden is much better, she could do her hair”

“Do not fuss over it, Rhae”

“I can ask my handmaiden” 

 “Fine. Do not make more trouble”

“But-”

“You heard me”

Fixing her braid, yeah right. Maekar thinks, slipping outside the ball just to search for his betrothed, trying not to get caught leaving. Daeron was by the food with Aemon, Rhaegel and Alys were amusing Aerion so he wouldn’t burn the curtains for fun, while Daella and Aegon were with his father. Alright. Summerhall is not burning down. He can leave his children for a few minutes on their own.

As he walks down the hall, he fixes the collar of his attire. He is certainly overwhelmed, having to run behind his children because apparently, he has raised six savages who could not behave one single day in their lives. It gave him a migraine to think that the seven-day celebration of their wedding had not even begun…

At least his mother found it amusing, as she looked after her grandchildren. “They do not have their mother, sweetheart, you have to understand them” she had said, as his six little demons nodded along as if that explained their behaviour. 

“Guess who!”

Two pairs of cold hands cover his eyes, and he can hear the ruffle of your dress as you practically run, catching him off guard. Feeling your body pressed behind his, on your tippy toes to cover his eyes. 

“I wonder who it could be,” he grunts, one of his hands moving yours, hearing your giggle before he turns around to see you. “Whatever you need me for?”

‘Fixing braids’ was your secret way to alert him, in a way, that you wanted to be alone with him for a few seconds in between all the fuss of the celebrations previous to your wedding. 

“Me?”

“I highly doubt that you, of all people, would have a reason to deepen my migraine” he says, his hands coming to your waist. The halls were practically empty, since every servant was making sure their equipment was being properly placed in each carriage. “Do you truly have something left to pack?”

“No, I just saw you so stressed, and I thought… a break before going away… and besides, ” You say with a charming smile, looking up at him. “I missed you”

Maekar looks around the halls, checking that it was evidently empty, before leaning down to press a small kiss to your lips. 

“Hm” he grunts, his hands holding your waist. “I need a fucking break”

“You always have me” You tease him. 

“You will not be by my side in a carriage with six cursed children” 

“No, I will be with my father” 

“Lucky you” he mumbles, his hands caressing your waist a little too much, getting more improper by the second. 

“He will fall asleep by the second the horses start galloping, and you have not heard how loud he snores”

“Hm, hm…” Maekar is not paying attention to you, only checking you out. “You didn’t get me to sneak away only to speak, did you?”

You grin, eyes squinting slightly as you preen under his attention. He was older than you, much so, and you had never played the shy maiden… well, you have, but only for his amusement... and lust. 

“I do not want to be apart” you say quietly “I was thinking we could have… a little goodbye kiss”

“Is that so?”

“Or anything your affection might grant me” 

He sighs, a reluctant smile forming on his lips. Unbelievable, he thinks, as he looks at you.

Maekar checks the surroundings once again, not a single servant in sight as everyone was simply busy trying not to leave anything behind, much less since their lord Prince would be the one marrying. He made sure everyone knew that this had to go flawlessly. 

“Come here” he grumbles, his hands on your waist as he pulls you closer to him, just to pick you up from the ground. “Shhh… don’t make a sound, don’t let them hear you”

You giggle softly, as Maekar knows his way into his own palace, moving swiftly until he reaches his study. Thank the Seven Above everyone was fussing over the wheelhouses being ready, since the hallways were mostly empty.

Summerhall’s cabinet was full of books and even some artwork, that you know it was placed by the King when his sons were little. 

“Go away” Maekar says to his deerhounds, who were enjoying bits of bones in the carpet. “You’re making a–”

“Leave them be” you groan, as the dogs take their biting bones and go away.

The table was way too big, he had always complained, but it served him well when he needed the kids to study by themselves, because he could watch them and scold them if needed. And now he finds a new purpose, once that he is not so much against.

He moves away the candle holders with one hand, placing you as delicately as the Anvil might be, as he moves to kiss your exposed neck. His hands are greedy, as he always is when around you; not appropriate for betrothed, much more when it was known you were an unmarried lady yet. 

Yet he cared little for propriety; he had six children, there was nothing in the world he hadn’t done. His hands linger in your lower back a little too much; he kisses your cheek too close to your mouth; he practically has you sitting on his lap, all that in public with the court judging him and you. 

And how horrified the court would be seeing how lustful he is when you escape for some minutes to be all alone. 

“What my affection might grant you, you said?” he grunts against your neck, his hands moving around your waist, holding you in place as if he was afraid you’d move away. 

“Mhm… if the time serves well…”

“It will”

He moves to kiss you, sighing against your lips as he manages to relax for a while, away from all sources of stress and bother. 

“If I had my way…” He says, his hands moving to pull up the skirts of your dress, as puffy as it was. “I’ll get you to my bed, pull your undergarments aside and fuck your pretty pussy until I get tired…”

You hum in approval, your hands trying to pull him closer to stand between your legs. 

“You’d like that?” he asks, lips against your neck.

“Yeah…”

“But you’re still a maiden, darling…” he says, a low rumbly tone that serves more like a tease. “Mhm? You shouldn’t let me”

Seeing his piercing light purple eyes, as you feel his hands move under your skirt and up your thighs. You want him so bad, you do not care to wait until your wedding night. 

“I would” your tone is persistent, your hands on the collar of his formal attire. You bite your lip slightly as his hands, rough and big, are resting under the bone of your hips. 

“But we can do many things without breaking your maidenhead, can’t we?” He asks, pressing a rough kiss on your cheek, his beard scratching your cheek slightly, but the action doesn’t bother you at all. “You know how much I love your pussy”

He pulls his chair closer, the one with velvety cushions, that no doubt was a gift from Dorne. As he sits down, you practically blush at what he is about to do; you do not need introductions as he practically accommodates you as the wishes. 

The skirts of your dress was a bother in moments like this, as you have to hold it in place to leave your betrothed the required space between your legs. 

“Look at that” his tone is raspy, moving one hand to allow his index finger to caress the folds slowly. “You’re so wet for me, darling. She is dripping wet”

Maekar did that strange thing that had caught you off guard the first time, but now you simply nod to his words. “Aching…”

He moves his fingers to glide through your folds, hearing how you let out a soft sound at the feeling. Pushing the fabric of the skirt upward for more space, he hums.  

“Why don’t we fix that?” He murmurs, moving to press a soft kiss on your thigh.

He tried to be gentle, he truly did. Gentleness earned quiet responses, soft moans and whimpers he delighted himself in. But time and secretiveness do not allow him extended chivalry. Neither did his lustful hunger. 

As you open your legs wider for him, he isn’t patient enough to keep his mouth away any longer, latching onto your weeping cunt like he always has belonged there.

“Ah…” you moan breathlessly, making Maekar grunt.

His tongue slides against your folds, lapping insistently as his hand moves to hold your hips still. You feel the hair of his beard scratching against the exposed skin, but the sensation makes you tingle. 

“She’s the prettiest cunt, isn’t she?” He groans against it–her. 

“Yeah…” your voice is shaky as his lips move against the delicate skin near your clit. 

You know Maekar is fairly experienced, having six children, and you’ll be his second wife. He nuzzles your cunt, groaning in delight as he starts sucking and lapping at your cunt, his tongue everywhere it can reach. 

It is a welcoming overstimulation, as you have to bite your lower lip not to moan too loudly and let everyone know how your betrothed is between your legs.

His hands come to hold your thighs upward, knowing the exact position which gives him more access to keep licking as he pleases. The chair he uses groans slightly as he moves forward, his nose squished against your folds as you whimper.

“Seven above…” you whimper dreamily, head falling back as you feel his hand cupping your mound, wetting his fingers before he slides one inside, and soon, a second follows. 

“Look at her, she takes ‘em so well…” he speaks, sounding like a drunk man, his speech less proper as he delights himself. “She just wants them inside, so greedy…” he whispers, almost thinking out loud and speaking to himself. 

He is relentless, as his mouth latches back at your clit, as he slowly moves his index and middle finger inside you, walls clenching at the dual stimulation. 

You don’t know if you had been so wet, feeling him everywhere in your pussy. He was an expert, and he knows what he is doing, because it feels so good, you can’t even form a thought. 

“At our wedding night…” he starts rambling, moving his face back slightly as his fingers move like scissors inside, in a very fluid and pleasuring motion. “I’ll have you all night. I won’t leave a part of your body unattended from me. From head to toe” Maekar's tone is serious with promise, and you know he means it. 

You want to clench your thighs together, but he does not allow you to. Each of your legs rest against his shoulders, and you’d soon squish his head… which he would love. 

“This little clit is so needy” he mutters, moving forward to flicker it with the tip of his tongue. “Just wants me to make her cum…” 

“I’m gonna- -” you say, as if those words triggered something in you. “Keep- keep doing that, with your tongue”

Flicking his tongue on your clit makes your whole body shiver, as if something had made you shudder. His fingers, so thick and experienced, plunge inside you as he deciphers the rhythm that has you moaning softly trying to keep it together (as much as you can) while having an orgasm. 

Feeling your walls trying to milk his fingers, clenching and rhythmically squeezing him further inside drives him insane. And when instead of fingers, will be his cock… He felt how the precum was making his underwear sticky. 

Maekar knew that everyone was waiting. Probably the wheelhouses were ready, but… Gods, your cunt was so pretty, all in front of him, and he was starving. He cannot help himself. 

His mouth salivates, as he decides to tilt your hips slightly, to have just the right angle for it. He lets his saliva fall, watching how it dribbles over your cunt. 

“Oh, look at that…” his tone is mesmerized, eyes not leaving you. “I know what will settle you down, until I get to bed you proper” 

He would always tease about how needy you were, always trying to pull him in the dark for kisses – And now more. He knew it was dangerous to escalate from kisses, to have his face buried in your pussy. It was a matter of time before he convinces himself that he could use only the tip to fuck you softly, to feel your cunt spam around his cock without making you lose your maidenhead. 

“She’ll give me another…” 

When his mouth finds your cunt, this time he is hungrier, moaning against the wet folds as if he was a starving dog. His lips latch at your cunt his tongue trying to be everywhere, and he feels everywhere, not allowing you a moment to breathe properly. 

His fingers circle around your clit as his mouth moves lower, mixing with your wet release, groaning in delight. His tongue feels flat against your opening, and he moves all the way up to your clit. 

If you thought he was done with you… how wrong you were.

It is as if some sort of beast had taken upon him, a more animalistic side, that you are not against, not at all. Though this time you’d last briefer, both of you knew. 

Already stimulated, moans spill out of your lips easily, as you have to press a hand against your hand not to moan loudly for everyone at Summerhall to hear. 

You bite your finger as Maekar’s fingers move to slide inside your pussy again. You were so tender, coming down from an orgasm just for him to try and get another one from you. 

“Maekar…” you moan, looking at him as your legs tremble at his ministrations. Your pussy pulsates against his fingers, which makes him grin wickedly.

His hands spread your legs further, using his shoulder to keep you open as he desires. He laps at your cunt while his fingers find a spot in your cunt that makes you squeal, feeling him so deep makes you moan loudly. 

“What is that?” You moan as he does something, making you feel something you’ve never felt before. His fingers move against your walls, the sensation delicious“Seven above…, Maekar..”

You are not sure if he ignores you or is too deep in concentration, as he keeps going. You knew you wouldn’t last long; but this feels different, more rapid, spreading like wildfire in your belly. 

“Oh, Gods…” 

You gush over him, all over his fingers, getting all over his beard and face, yet he does not care for it, instead you see his hand move against his already freed and hard cock. You didn’t notice when he started touching himself…

The pressure on your tummy releases as you see Maekar slurp your cunt, as if he could do this all day. “Oh, that– Seven above…”

As your betrothed leans back in the chair, catching his breath, he moves a hand to his beard, his face one full of pleasure. “Come here…”

Your body feels like a fluid, moving to sit on his thigh, as he bites his lip softly as he cradles your face. “That’s called a squirt,” he says softly. “Full of surprises are you, hm?”

“You’re hard” You murmurs, as if this was a big surprise for him. 

“I know,” he says quietly. “You made me so hard.”

He looks pussy drunk, his eyes full of lustful hunger as his hands caress your waist, not minding the stiffness that the dress provides to your figure. His eyes, always so stern and tired, look at you as if you were his greatest treasure and the remedy to all of his aches. 

“You made me had two orgasms”

“You are young” He grunts, his mouth seeking yours in a slow movement. You feel exhausted, but he pulls and pulls more from you; and you don’t hate it. “That’s the grace of being young and full of energy, not like a fucking old man”

You kiss him softly, not caring about tasting yourself on his lips. You loved him, and you can’t wait to be his wife, waking up next to him and not having to be chaperoned to be with him. 

“I read that in Yunkai, the masters give the bed slaves something so they can have an erection for hours” In a soft tone, your voice is soothing as your hands come to his shoulder for support. “Maybe that will be of use for us?”

“You want me to have an erection for hours, after you were whining about having two orgasms in a row?”

“Hmh” You say with a charming smile.

“Just having you here will make me fucking cum in my pants like some greenboy” He grunts, but not at all bothered. 

Still a bit out of breath, your smile makes him seek your mouth to share a kiss once again. It was ridiculous how horny you could be with him. Your hips rock slightly on his thighs, your cunt already sensitive making you whimper. 

“You want more?” He asks breathlessly against your lips.

“Do you want an orgasm, or do you want your balls to hang heavy all the way to King’s Landing?”

That shuts him up.

You rock against his thigh, hearing his grunts as he kisses you like he wants to devour you. Already so overstimulated, you wanna be in his arms and sleep, yet Maekar was like your own personal drug, you could never have enough of him. You spent nights thinking of him, picturing your life together at Summerhall, touching yourself at the thought of him 

Whimpering against his mouth, your arms circle his neck trying to hold onto him for dear life as your hips rock slightly. It is no great stimulation, sure, but having him near is enough to have you dizzy.

“You’re perfect” He mutters against his mouth. 

His compliments are the most soothing balm on your soul, as you moan softly. You separate slightly, breathless, wanting to say something equal in return…

Two loud knocks make you jump on his thigh, as you feel all the blood draining from your body. Maekar practically stands up at the sound, as he tries to tuck his cock on his breeches. 

“Brother” 

Baelor. Maekar thinks, a bit sourly. 

“Hide.” He says to you, still trying to tuck his cock on his breeches. “And do not come out for anything.”

You look at him lightly panicked, looking around “Where?” You whisper. 

“Maekar, are you inside?”

“Behind a curtain, under a table-- Fuck, anywhere” he whispers, yet loud enough that you hear his desperation.

You scurry off, to hide behind one of the big and heavy curtains that leaves to the window. They are massive, and it does wonders to hide someone.

Maekar takes a table cloth, cleaning the table as if he was cleaning his crime and sin. The Gods will send me to the deepest hole in the Seven Hells. He thinks. 

“Maekar”

“Enter!” He grunts. 

Both Baelor and your father enter on his study. He passes a hand on his beard, as if remembering how you soaked him, trying to get it off. 

“What.” he says, his tone not deceiving anything wrong. 

“What are you doing here?” Baelor asks, half amused at finding him isolated. “Do you not know that we are all waiting in a celebration for you”

“Oh, fuck off” he grunts.

“Why weren’t you at the hall? The wheelhouses are ready”

“Try to manage six fucking kids at once” He says, watching your father behind Baelor. “What is it?”

“My daughter is… missing.” 

Maekar tries not to cough, or laugh, looking at both. 

“What do you mean ‘missing’?” He tries to dissimulate. 

“We couldn’t find her.” Your father said. “She always does this, I can never find her”

Baelor walks around, looking down at the yard from the window. The wheelhouses were more than ready, only waiting for the two people most important.

“Ask Rhae,” He says, waving a hand. He knows where you are, and he is very upset about being interrupted. More so because he had to dissimulate his erection, that was slowly drying because nothing made him flaccid like a cockblock. “My daughter said she wanted to fix her braids, she must be with her handmaiden somewhere…”

“Perhaps we shall go to her handmaiden chamber, my Lord. We haven’t checked there” Baelor says then, turning around on his heels. He was so close to the curtain you were hidden, but in Maekar's opinion, you were well hidden.

“I suppose”

Baelor, always so perceptive, waits for your father to turn around, before mouthing something very clear to his brother, pointing at the curtain were you were hidden, and where the end of your dress peeks slightly in the middle of the fabric.

Pull yourself together.

[maekarart]

By cumblebee on X

[vinnieswife]

i have an idea but it might not that good

i just watched that one video of the cast playing who’s who, and harry mentioning abt his season 1 posture😭

what if he visits the doctor and asks costar!reader to go with him, he’s worried about his spine and everything but it all ends funny/on a light note after the doctor confirms there’s nothing wrong with him 😀

also love love LOVE your work<3 i genuinely read them diligently everyday😔

I thought about writing this bc I have a lot of drafts and idk when to post them!!! 😭😭 also sorry for any spelling mistake!! English is not my first language.

Harry Collett x costar! reader (1,7k)

You found yourself on a rainy Tuesday morning, sitting in the passenger seat of Harry’s car, listening to him quietly spiral for the fifth time in twenty minutes.

"I'm telling you love, it's fucked," Harry said, his voice dropping an octave as he gripped the steering wheel, peering intently at the traffic ahead. "I look like a bloody question mark, my spine is doing things a spine shouldn't be doing."

You took a slow breath, leaning your head against the headrest to look at him. "Harry, your spine is fine"

"No, it's not just that" Harry insisted, his accent thickening the way it always did when he got dramatically defensive. "Have you seen the memes? The entire internet thinks I have no lumbar support! 'Jace Velaryon posture' is literally a fucking trending audio, fuck…what if I'm shrinking? I'm already not massive, I can't afford to lose two inches to a curved back"

You snorted, trying, and so failing, to hide a laugh behind your hand. "You're not shrinking H”

"You're laughing," he said, turning his head at a red light to look at you with deep, tragic betrayal written across his face, “my spine is disintegrating and my own girlfriend is laughing at me, cold-blooded, wow“

"I am accompanying you to a private doctor's appointment at eight in the morning on my day off," you pointed out, reaching over to pat his knee. "If that isn't true love, I don't know what is"

Harry’s face softened instantly, his dramatic panic melting into that soft, dopey smile he only ever saved for you. He leaned across the center console, catching your hand and pressing a quick, loud kiss to the back of your knuckles. "I know I know you're a saint, genuinely a gorgeous,” he kissed your cheek “perfect saint” he kissed you again “but if the doctor says I need a full back brace, im  not getting out of the flat”

"Deal" you grinned.

Moving Harry through a waiting room was always an event, mostly because he couldn't sit still when he was nervous. While you sat comfortably on the leather sofa scrolling through your phone, Harry paced the length of the room, adjusting his oversized hoodie, bouncing on his heel, and periodically stopping in front of an anatomical poster of the human skeleton to glare at it like it had personally insulted his family.

"Look at that" he whispered loudly, pointing at the poster's spine “straight as an arrow, mine's probably shaped like a bendy straw."

"Harry, sit down before you give me an aneurysm" you laughed softly, pulling him down by his sleeve until he collapsed onto the couch beside you.

The moment he sat, the clingy boyfriend kicked in. He immediately slid his arm around your waist, resting his head heavily against your shoulder, inhaling deep and burying his nose into the crook of your neck.

"Harry, we're in public" you teased, though you automatically ran your fingers through his soft hair.

"Don't care, I need emotional support," he mumbled into your collarbone. "If I'm dying, I want to be cozy."

"You're not dying, you dramatic idiot"

"Harry Collett?" a nurse called out from the doorway, holding a clipboard.

Harry jolted up, his eyes widening. "Right, this is it. If I don't make it out, tell Ryan Condal to give Jace a heroic off-screen death."

You rolled your eyes, pulling him up by his hand. "Come on, dramatic, let's go"

The consultation room was bright and clinical, dominated by an older, exceptionally patient-looking doctor named Dr. Evans. He greeted you both warmly, clearly recognizing Harry but remaining entirely professional as Harry sat on the examination table, looking like a nervous golden retriever at the vet.

"So… Harry," Dr. Evans began, clicking his pen over a chart. "What seems to be the issue today? Lower back pain? Sciatica? Any numbness?"

"Well, doc," Harry started, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees, ironically hunching over completely as he spoke. "It's not really pain, It's more of a... structural integrity issue"

Dr. Evans blinked. “Sorry structural integrity?"

"Yeah," Harry said solemnly. "I think my posture is permanently ruined. I've been getting... feedback, thousands of people, actually. They've been making side-by-side edits of me standing next to a shrimp. And I laughed at first, right? But then I looked in the mirror, and I was like, wait?"

You had to bite the inside of your cheek so hard it bled just to keep from bursting out laughing. You covered your mouth with a hand, pretending to cough.

Dr. Evans looked from Harry's dead-serious, deeply concerned face over to you, catching the absolute hilarity in your eyes. The doctor's lips twitched slightly, but he kept his composure. "I see, so, social media feedback has led to a concern regarding spinal curvature?"

"Yes" Harry exclaimed, clapping his hands together. “exactly that, look, I'll show you." Harry stood up abruptly, stripping off his heavy hoodie to reveal a plain black t-shirt. “okay, so when I'm relaxed, I stand like this..." He slouched forward, rounding his shoulders dramatically until he looked like a medieval peasant carrying a sack of potatoes, “and when I try to stand straight, it feels so weird, like what's wrong with me?"

The doctor chuckled softly, standing up from his chair. "Alright, Harry, step over to the wall for me, let's give you a look"

For the next ten minutes, you watched in utter delight as the doctor performed a series of basic physical exams. He had Harry bend over to touch his toes, tilt his head from side to side, and stand up against a height board. You took out your phone and discreetly filmed a three-second video of Harry standing completely rigid against the wall, his eyes darting around nervously like he was being processed into prison.

"Well, Harry" Dr. Evans said finally, washing his hands at the sink and grabbing a paper towel "I have the official diagnosis."

Harry held his breath, looking genuinely tense. "Give it to me straight, doc, am I getting a back brace?"

"You have…” the doctor  said, turning around with a dry smile, “…a perfectly normal and healthy spine, excellent mobility, zero signs of scoliosis, and perfectly aligned vertebrae."

Harry blinked. "Wait, for real?”

“yes” the doctor said, smiling. "What you have, Harry, is what we in the medical field call... bad habits. You slouch when you're relaxed, likely because you're tall (lmao he wishes) and comfortable, and you probably spend too much time looking down at your phone."

You couldn't hold it in anymore. A loud, ringing laugh escaped your chest, and you fell back against your chair, shaking your head. "I told you, I literally told you!"

Harry turned to you, his face going a bright, furious shade of red, though a cheeky grin was already tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Okay, alright, simmer down over there will ya?”

"A shrimp, Harry?" you teased, wiping a tear from your eye. "You made me come here at eight in the morning because TikTok made you think your spine was collapsing, and the doctor just diagnosed you with slouching?"

"It was a legitimate medical concern" Harry insisted, though he was giggling now, rubbing the back of his neck in deep, adorable embarrassment. He turned back to Dr. Evans. "So... no physical therapy? No crazy back harness?"

"Maybe just do some basic core exercises and remember to pull your shoulders back when the cameras are rolling," he advised, chuckling as he handed Harry a summary slip. “…and perhaps stay off TikTok for a bit."

"Yeah, definitely doing that" Harry mumbled, his ears burning as he grabbed his hoodie, “thanks, doc, really appreciate you not throwing me out."

The walk back to the car was a victory lap of absolute roasting.

"I can't believe this," you said, walking side-by-side down the sunny street. "The Harry Collet defeated by bad posture"

"Listen to me," Harry said, catching your waist with one arm and pulling you tightly against his side as you walked, dropping a heavy, affectionate kiss right on your temple. "If you ever mention this to anyone, I will personally leak all the embarrassing videos I have of you singing in my trailer"

You gasped, “you wouldn't dare" looking up at him.

"Try me love" he grinned, his eyes crinkling at the corners. He looked so relaxed now, all that dramatic anxiety completely gone, replaced by that warm, infectious energy that had made you fall in love with him in the first place. He squeezed your hip, pulling you even closer as you reached the car, “seriously though, thank you for coming with me, even if I looked like a massive idiot."

"You always look like a massive idiot," you hummed, turning in his arms once you reached the passenger door, you wrapped your arms around his neck, leaning up on your tiptoes. "But you're my massive idiot, now with an officially certified, perfectly healthy spine.

Harry chuckled, his hands settling warm and heavy on your waist, he leaned down, pressing his forehead against yours for a quiet, sweet second before pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your lips.

“You know I love you," he whispered against your mouth, sweet and genuine, all the joke dropping away for a fraction of a second.

"Love you too, Harry” you smiled, kissing him back lightly. “now, stand up straight and drive us to get breakfast, you owe me an iced coffee for this."

"Yes ma'am," Harry said, instantly pulling his shoulders back into a hilariously exaggerated, overly rigid military stance. “as you wish”

You burst out laughing, shaking your head as you opened the car door, “just get in the car, shrimp"

[kitkatkitzune]

POSTURE PAIN

Pairing: Jacaerys Velaryon x Fem!reader

Summary: Jace is suffering from back pain, you offer to help.

Warnings: 18+, Suggestive, Tbh this is kinda smut, Jace is a little subby, Kind of mentions of time period sexism??, Potential Inconsistencies in the tense it’s written in (who is surprised? the answer is no one)

Notes: Hello! I’m so sorry I didn’t post this sooner like I wanted to BUT I am working on many different fics right now for many different ASOIAF characters!! I’ve even begun to draft for my October event so stay tuned!!

This is my first time writing something so suggestive/smutty so please be kind to me!

&& the header is for comedic purpose because… look at him lol

Word Count: 1.3k

MASTER POST , ASOIAF MASTERLIST

———————

You were curled up on the chaise by the fire with a book in your hands. This was your nightly routine. After shedding your heavy gowns, hair pins, and other jewels you would sit and read while in your thin night shift. You would typically do this until Jacaerys joined you in your shared chambers even though he had told you many times that you need not stay up for him.

You had just finished your chapter when he entered the chambers looking exhausted.

“Long day?” you ask as you close your book, standing up.

He nods, rubbing his neck, “I called for the maids to bring water for a bath.”

You make your way towards him before chuckling, “You need it. You smell like Vermax...”

Smiling, he tilts his head at you, “Yes, I was patrolling today.”

There was a knock on the door and maids filtered into the room with buckets of hot water, quickly making their way to the connected bathing room. They were gone just as quickly as they arrived. Jace never liked or wanted the maids washing him. He was perfectly capable of cleaning himself. Not to mention the fact that you had offered to help him many times after you had been wed, just as he would help you.

You sat beside the tub, taking turns telling each other about your day. You told him of your readings and research in the library, he told you of his conversation with Daemon. Jace did not remain in the bath for long, he never did unless you were bathing together, he didn’t find it relaxing and when the water cooled even the slightest bit he began to complain.

As he got dressed for sleep, you made yourself comfortable on your side of the bed. Jace groaned as he walked across the room, one hand clutching his lower back.

“You sound like an old man,” you say teasingly.

He rolls his eyes, groaning more as he sits on the bed with his back to you, “I feel like one. My back aches and my neck is so stiff…”

You sit up, scooting across the bed until you can rest your hands on his shoulders and your knees are touching his lower back. You tilt your head to look at him, a small frown on your face, “Well my love…”

“Well what?” he turns his head towards you.

“I believe it is from your posture.”

“My…posture?”

“Yes, you stand hunched over and sometimes you walk with your head jutted out.”

He looks offended, “I do no such thing.”

“My love,” you run a hand down his back til you reach the center, “you’re even slouching right now,” you push against his back, forcing him up straight causing his back to curve.

Then you return your hands to his shoulders and pull back slightly, putting him in a more proper sitting position. He looks at you again, only this time he appears shocked, horrified, and also relieved.

“How’d…”

“One of the very first things us ladies learn with our septas is how to stand proper. I don’t believe they teach such things to princes and lords. No, the first thing they teach you is how to swing a blade. Standing straight for me is subconscious but for you… it’s something you need to focus on.”

“You mean to tell me that I have been walking around hunched over my entire life and no one has said a thing?” he asks, exasperated.

“Not many people would dare question a prince… although I will say that Luke seems to stand properly, as well as Joff but he’s still little so that could change! Daemon is… well, sometimes I believe he stands with his shoulders too far back and his chest puffed out.”

Jace sighs, rubbing his temples, “My little brothers stand better than I do? What kind of example am I leading…”

You hum and scoot away from him, back to your side of the bed, “It can also come from stress, you carry a great weight on your shoulders Jace. No jest intended. Your back will likely ache for a while even as you adjust to the new posture… but I know something that will help for now, lay down on the bed.”

He gives you a startled look, his face flushing, “My love I don’t think that would help…”

You gasp, “You’re perverted! No! I meant… lay on your stomach, not on your back!”

“Oh.”

“Mhm.”

He complies, and moves to the center of the bed, resting his head in the crook of his arm. You click your tongue, “Put your arms at your sides.”

Jace does and only then do you move. Slowly, you move to straddle his lower back just above his tailbone. You start up by his shoulders, your hands working at tight muscles near the neck.

He immediately lets out a groan and hides his head in the pillows. You smile to yourself, biting your lip to suppress a giggle.

You hum a song while massaging his back, you can feel the tension leaving his body as you work your magic.

It seems as though he is going to fall asleep, completely relaxed as your hands are getting lower on his back. But that would be too easy. His hips began to rock into the bed, subtly at first and then more obvious, before he lets out a quiet moan.

“Love,” he croaks out, “I’m… sorry,” he hides his face entirely, “wait, please…”

You shush him before whispering, “It is natural Jace,” your hands fall to the bed on either side of the man beneath you as you lean forward til you're laying entirely on top of him, breasts pressed against his back.

“Do you wish for me to continue?” your lips brush his ear and he shivers letting out a noise that sounds like a whimper.

“Hm?” you hum, playfully biting his ear making him shudder, “I can not hear you with your face hidden in the pillows.”

Jace turns his head to look back at you. His eyes are dazed and his cheeks red, “Please…”

You smile, pecking his cheek before leaning back and continuing your work. You can’t help but feel pride every time he moans or groans or whimpers when his hips jerk into the bed. You were just about to stop and offer a proper solution to his current predicament when you felt him tense up harder than before.

“Fuck,” he mumbles your name, “‘m sorry…”

You slip off of his back and onto the cool furs on your side of the bed. He attempts to shimmy down the bed but you shake your head and pull him into your arms. Unable to hide his face between your legs, he hides in your breasts. You run your fingers through his curls, “You’ve made a mess of your trousers,” you tease.

He nips at your skin through your shift and you tug at his hair in response. Jace looks up at you and pouts.

“How does your back feel?” you ask, him being in pain being the main thing on your mind.

“Better, much better.”

“Good, we’ll work more on your posture tomorrow okay? I can begin to remind you if you’d like?”

“Please do,” he mutters, still embarrassed by the situation.

You laugh and pull him back to your chest. Just as you’re about to drift off Jace comes to a sudden, horrifying realization. His voice is muffled due to his face being buried in your breasts, “When I asked you to allow me to court you, to be my wife… I was walking like that? Standing like that?”

You giggle, “Yes Jace, I’m afraid you were.”

“And you still agreed?!”

“You have a pretty face.”

Since he caught a stray during this I must add…

[liesandspookyfairytales]

Life, love, loyalty part 2

Part 1 | Part 2 |

Pairing: Gwayne Hightower x Targaryen wife reader (Rhaenyra's sister). Gwayne Hightower & reader & Daeron Targaryen.

Summary: Your family's journey to a safe and happy life.

Warnings: Not proofread, angst, fluff, kind of out of character Gwayne, everyone is tired, sweety Daeron, he calls Tessarion Tessie.

Word count: 3.5k

Notes: I know that in the first part the reader was Rhaenyra's daughter, but I decided to change that to fit better with this part. I also wrote a little hint to another role that one of the minor character's other had years ago, I'm curious to see if anyone picks up on it so comment if you think you know what it is! Requests for Gwayne are open!

Reblogs and comments are a creator's best friend 🫣

Description of reader's dragon (I always use the same description to make it easier, unless someone requests something different) Game of Thrones universe masterlist

A week after I saw my husband I quietly move through the moon lit hallways of the Tumbleton keep. I peek into the different rooms I come across, but Daeron is in none of them, causing my irritation to spike. The longer I spend in here, the bigger the risk that I get caught.

I softly push open another door and scan the dimly lit room. A relieved sigh leaves my lips as I spot Daeron fast asleep in the bed. I watch him sleep for a bit, smiling at how much I see Gwayne in him. I kneel next to the bed and softly tread my fingers through his hair. Daeron stirs softly before he startles awake. He looks scared as he sees a hooded figure next to his bed and lunges for his dagger, holding it in front of him protectively. 

“Daeron it’s alright, it’s me,” I quickly shush him before he draws too much attention. “Muña?” his voice shakes slightly. “Hello my little dragon,” I smile, cupping his face in my hands. Daeron relaxes for a second before his body tenses again. “Muña, you can’t be here, Ormund will hurt you if he finds you.” “I know little dragon, I talked to Gwayne and we decided that we’re going to leave, just the three of us.”

Daeron’s eyes widen, hope shining in them, “you talked to Kepa? Is he coming here?” I shake my head, “we haven’t gotten that far in the plan yet, our first priority was to get you out.” The boy moves up from the bed and wraps his arms around me, burying his head in the crook of my neck. “I missed you Muña.” His words are muffled as I hug him back tightly. “I missed you too sweetheart.” I pull back, cupping his face once more, “gather everything you need, I’m getting you out of here.”

“Tessie as well?” He darts around the room to stuff some trinkets into his bag.” “Tessie as well,” I confirm. He lets out a sigh of relief, but hesitates after. “Ormund will claim that you kidnapped me to use me as leverage.” Shit, I hadn’t thought of that. “Writing a note to say that you left willingly won’t work, he’ll either claim that there was no note or that you were forced to write it,” I muse, “we can’t do it publicly, but we need witnesses.” Daeron shifts nervously on his feet, then his eyes light up. “Lord and Lady Footly, we can go to them, tell them that I’m leaving willingly. They both support Rhaenyra. Lord Footly might be terrified, but his wife has much more spine than he does, she’ll tell the truth.” I nod thoughtfully, “that might work.”

I move quietly through the hallway again as Daeron clutches the back of my jacket. “Which way?” I whisper to him. We duck behind a wall as a patrol of Hightower soldiers passes by. “This way,” Daeron whispers, leading the way, “Ormund kicked them out of their chambers, they really don’t like him.” He knocks on a large door, which is opened by a stern looking lady. “What in the Seven Hells are you doing here at this hour, young prince?” Her eyes fall to me with suspicion. “And who are you?”

I push the door further open and lead Daeron into the room. “You don’t mind if we come in, do you Lady Footly?” I tell her as I close the door behind us. The room we are in is definitely not fitting for a Lord and Lady of a noble house. My eyes sweep the room and land on Lord Footly. The man looks scrawny and for some reason his face reminds me of the mythical dwarves of the stories I was told as a child.

“What is the meaning of this,” Lady Footly hisses from behind me. Daeron looks at me and I gesture for him to lead the conversation. “Lord Footly, Lady Footly, I apologize for interrupting your evening, but this cannot wait.” He gestures to me. “This is my mother and she-” Lady Footly interrupts him, “I thought the queen dowager was your mother.” The woman looks more and more suspicious with each passing second. “Well yes, she is my birthmother,” Daeron stammers slightly. “But I was sent to Oldtown to live with my uncle and his wife as a babe, they raised me, she raised me.” He gestures to me. “Therefore this is my mother, not queen Alicent.”

Lady Footly’s eyes soften slightly, but she still looks suspicious. I sigh and lower my hood, showing my silver hair. “You’re a Targaryen,” Lord Footly realizes and I nod. “Yes, Daeron tells me that you support the rightful queen. My sister, Rhaenyra Targaryen.” Lord Footly scrambles to his feet and bows clumsily in his haste. “Daeron is my son in all but blood and I wish to take him with me to safety.” “Of course,” Lady Footly says, much more gentle this time, “young boys don’t belong in war, no matter what everyone thinks of it.”

“But why have you come here?” Lord Footly asks. “Lord Ormund will twist the truth when he finds out I’m gone, he’ll claim that I was forcefully taken by Rhaenyra. I’m here to tell you that I’m willingly leaving with my mother.” I nod sharply when Daeron looks at me questioningly, asking if he did it right. “You are the witnesses that Daeron was not forced to leave with me.” I look at Lord Footly. “Do your Maesters have access to ravens?” The small man nods. “Send out ravens to the other Lords, tell them that Daeron willingly left the Hightower army.”

“Lord Ormund will not let this go unpunished,” Lady Footly says. “Then send word to Hugh and Ulf as well, they are guarding the city outside on their dragons. Tell them that they are to interfere if Ormund tries to harm you, or any of the citizens in Tumbleton, by the order of queen Rhaenyra’s sister.” Lady Footly narrows her eyes at me, “You are not the queen, so why would they obey your order.” “Because my family is the reason they were allowed to bond with a dragon.” Lord Footly nods, bows clumsily again and hurries out of the room.

I pull Daeron closer. “Go get Tessie, then we’ll find a way out.” “There is a hidden doorway that leads outside,” Lady Footly informs us. “I’ll take you there.” She turns to Daeron, “you remember the large tree next to the fountain in the gardens?” Daeron nods. “Get your dragon and meet us there.” I pull Daeron into a firm hug before he makes his way to wherever Tessie is. Then I follow Lady Footly.

“Why are you helping us?” I ask the woman. “Like I said, little boys don’t belong in war.” She looks at me with a dark look. “And I’ve seen the way Lord Ormund treats your son. He might care for him in some way, but it’s not normal for a boy to know the signs when a grown man is about to throw a tantrum like a young child.” My jaw clenches as we hurry into the cold night air. We dodge the Hightower guards and make our way to the tree Lady Footly told Daeron about.

Luckily it doesn’t take long for Daeron to show up, an agitated Tessie behind him. Her growls and hisses echo softly through the night, followed by Daeron’s desperate shushing. The blue dragon chirps in greeting as she sees me and bumps her head into Daeron’s chest, almost like she is relieved. Behind me Lady Footly moves away the plants that cover the wall to reveal a door. It’s just large enough to fit Tessie.

“Go now, before the guards find you,” Lady Footly ushers us through the door. I let Daeron manoeuvre Tessie through first and give the Lady of Tumbleton a grateful nod. “Thank you, Lady Footly. She nods once, then closes the door behind us. Daeron looks at me expectantly, “What do we do now?” I let out a low whistle to call Mirrax to me. “We go to King’s landing.” His eyes widen and he looks almost scared. “I can’t go there, they’ll kill me Muña.” I shush him gently. “I know that you’re scared my little dragon, but if we want to get out, we have to do this the right way.”

Mirrax lands next to me, cheerfully greeting Daeron and Tessie. I gesture for Daeron to climb onto the saddle, making sure he has fastened the straps. He swats my hands away with a smile, “Muña I know how to do it.” I climb into my own saddle, “sōvēs,” I tell her. With that, she takes off into the night sky, Daeron and Tessie following close behind. I hear Daeron laugh freely and look back to see him spread his arms as he enjoys being in the air again.

-

It takes us half a day before we reach King’s landing. We land outside the city, making sure our dragons aren’t noticed and make our way into the Red Keep. I ask a member of the queensguard where my sister is and make my way to the small council’s meeting chamber. Daeron looks at the hallways with amazement and I smile. He was so young when he went with me and Gwayne to Oldtown, it doesn’t surprise me that he doesn’t remember the Red Keep. I pull his attention to me when I put my hand on his shoulder, “when we enter the meeting chamber you stay behind me, alright? Let me do the talking, I’m sure it’ll all be alright.”

Two guards spot me approaching and open the doors, allowing us to pass while sharing suspicious looks when they don’t recognize Daeron. I quickly move up the steps, Daeron staying a distance behind me like I told him. By the table Rhaenyra looks up, smiling as she spots me. Next to her Daemon, Mysaria, Alyn and two others look as well.

I bow quickly, greeting my sister and queen. “Sister,” Rhaenyra smiles, “I couldn’t find you, where have you been?” I take a deep breath. “I was at Tumbleton,” I tell her. She frowns, “Why? Hugh and Ulf have the situation under control there.” “I know,” I hesitate. Rhaenyra would hear me out, but Daemon is a loose cannon and my sister’s control over him isn’t what it was.

“I went to find someone,” I announce. The members of the small council frown in confusion. “Do you mean Gwayne?” Rhaenyra questions and I shake my head, gesturing for Daeron to join me. “Sister, this is Daeron Targaryen.” I wrap my arm around Daeron’s shoulder as Daemon jumps up from his chair, drawing his sword. “You dare bring him here, you dare betray your sister?” he hisses angrily. I quickly move Daeron behind me, shielding him with my body. “If you lay a hand on my son I swear I will kill you, uncle.” 

Rhaenyra stands from her chair, betrayal in her eyes. “You would betray me,” she whispers. I shake my head desperately, “no sister, I would never, I promise.” “Then why would you bring the boy here,” Daemon snaps. “Because he is my son Nyra, I need him safe.” I ignore Daemon, pleading with my sister instead. “I couldn’t take the risk that he would get hurt or worse, killed.”

Daemon turns to Rhaenyra, “the boy is a challenge to your rule, Rhaenyra, you need to kill him.” My blood runs cold, my mind screaming at me to get Daeron out, but I stay still, shielding Daeron with my body. I knew that this part would be hard. Rhaenyra holds up her hand, shushing her husband. She sits back down in her chair, a wary hesitance in her eyes as she looks at me. “Why did you bring him here?”

“I support your claim to the throne Rhaenyra. There hasn’t been a single day that I haven’t supported you after our father made you his heir. But this war has torn apart my family. I still love Gwayne and Daeron with all my heart and we don’t want this life. Gwayne and I talked at Harrenhall and we want Daeron to grow up somewhere safe, somewhere he can be whoever and whatever he wants to be.” Daeron squeezes my arm, offering silent support.

“You talked at Harrenhal?" Daemon echoes, seemingly intent to prove my betrayal. “Yes, we talked at Harrenhal." I glare at him before turning back to my sister. “I went there to kill Gwayne. I was prepared to kill my own husband for you Nyra, that is how loyal I am to you.” Behind me Daeron’s body tenses and I see him look at me with a shocked expression. “And did you kill him?” Rhaenyra questions. I shake my head, ignoring Daemon’s scoff. “I couldn’t do it and I’m not sorry, Rhaenyra. Would you be able to kill your husband?” Rhaenyra looks at Daemon and shakes her head.

“We ended up on opposite ends of this damned war because we both wanted to honor the vows we made to our Houses, but ignored the vows we made to each other in the process. So when I went to kill him, we talked. About how we mean everything to each other. How Daeron is our son even though we did not conceive him. And in the end, we came to the conclusion that we need to leave, no matter how hard it would be.”

Rhaenyra looks taken aback. “You want to leave me?” she questions. I shake my head. “Want? No, of course not. But I need to.” I raise my head higher. “Your Grace, I hereby ask for permission to leave this court. Gwayne, Daeron and I will leave Westeros to live out our lives somewhere else, never coming back.” “Rhaenyra, the boy is a threat to your rule,” Daemon argues, “you can’t let them leave. What is to stop them from raising an army to challenge you?”

Before I can answer Daeron steps in front of me, ignoring me as I hiss for him to get back behind me. He walks up to Rhaenyra’s chair, foolishly paying no mind to Daemon, who points his sword at my son’s chest. I draw my own sword and hurry after him. Once he stands next to her, he kneels on the floor while he looks at her with a challenge in his eyes. 

“Rhaenyra, you might remember me from when I was a baby, but I don’t, so in my eyes this is the first time we meet. I was raised by your sister with stories about her loving and fierce sister, my aunt Rhaenyra. Throughout my youth I was told both sides of the story. One side where you are the rightful heir and the other side where Aegon ascends the throne.”

My son looks at me, an apology in his eyes. “I am sorry, but I can’t swear my loyalty to you.” I step closer to Daeron, keeping my eyes locked onto Daemon. “But I can’t swear my loyalty to Aegon either,” Daeron continues, making the room pause. “However, what I can do is swear my loyalty to my Muña and Kepa, to the people who raised me. I have no desire to be king and I am prepared to renounce any claim to the Iron Throne if you let me and my Muña and Kepa leave like she told you.”

The room is utterly silent. Rhaenyra stands from her chair and Daeron follows. “You remind me of my son, Jace,” my sister smiles softly. “Should things have gone differently I think that you and him would have been good friends.” She looks at me. “Your parents have raised you beautifully. Therefore I accept your offer. You renounce the throne and the three of you will be allowed to leave Westeros.” Daeron gives Rhaenyra a polite nod and returns to my side, hugging me tightly. “Thank you,” I mouth to my sister as I tread my hand through his hair.

-

Two days later Daeron and I arrive at Gulltown, a harbor town in the Vale, where Gwayne is waiting for us. Daeron beams with excitement as he spots Gwayne from a distance. “Gwayne!” he calls out joyfully as we close in on him. Gwayne looks up and smiles. Daeron reaches him first and Gwayne wraps him tightly in his arms. “You made it,” he breathes, “I was getting worried.” He pulls me into him and kisses me. I briefly let myself relax in his hold before pulling back.

“I have arranged for a ship to take us to Pentos,” Gwayne tells us, “from there we’ll make our way to Norvos.” “We’ll go that far?” Daeron questions. “We have to, little dragon, we have to go somewhere they won’t recognize us and somewhere remote so that the dragons will be free to roam.” I nod in agreement to the plan, “and the Hills of Norvos are the perfect place for that.” Daeron hesitates, folding his hands behind his back. “But if we go by boat, will Tessie and Mirrax be able to find us?”

I nod, “they’ll find us near Pentos, from there we’ll fly to the Hills.” “Are you sure?” Daeron questions. I move closer to him, cupping his face in my hands. “I’m sure of it. We’re Targaryen, you and I, our dragons will always be able to find us wherever we go.” “Alright then,” Daeron agrees. Gwayne smiles at the both of us and we make our way to the harbor.

“What happened with your sister?” Gwayne asks as he walks next to me, holding my hand in his. I give him a brief rundown of the events. He looks concerned when I tell him of Daemon’s reaction and proud when I mention what Daeron told Rhaenyra. “So he officially renounced any claim to the Iron Throne?” I nod, “he went through the ceremony yesterday, I’ve never seen him so nervous, but he endured it like a true warrior.” I smile and watch as Daeron walks ahead of us, looking with curious eyes at everything there is to see. Gwayne nods proudly, “our son is a warrior.”

-

In the end we find a cozy house in the Hills of Norvos. It’s very different from what any of us are used to, but it’s perfect. There are many caves nearby where Tessie and Mirrax can make a home and it’s remote enough that Daeron and I will be able to fly freely without worry that anyone will see us.

I step out onto the front porch where Gwayne sits in one of the chairs, a book on the Valyrian language in his lap. “Are you really trying to learn High Valyrian?” I ask him. Gwayne nods without looking up and he holds out a hand for me to take. He pulls me into his lap, resting the book on my thigh. “Both my son and wife speak High Valyrian, so I figured that I should know it as well.” I hum, combing my fingers through his hair. “That sounds fair to me.” I look at the mountains stretching around us. “Do you think that we’ll ever find out who will win the war?” 

His hand stills on the page. “Honestly? I hope not, I’m done with that mess.” He admits. “Me too,” I lay my head on his shoulder. “We’re going to need animals if we want to be self-sufficient,” I tell him. “I’ll see if I can buy some in the village tomorrow.” “We’ll at least need horses and chickens.” “Of course, my love,” he agrees, sounding distracted. “And I want a dog and a cat.” “If that’s what you want.” I roll my eyes, leaning back to look at him.

“I’m pregnant.” Gwayne hums in response, then he seems to choke on air and he looks at me with wide eyes. “What?!” I smile, stroking his cheek, “I’m pregnant,” I repeat. “You are?!” His voice goes up a few octaves. “Gods Gwayne,” I laugh, “I thought a knight could never be caught off guard.” I tap him on his cheek to snap him out of his shock. He smiles, love and adoration in his eyes. “You’re pregnant,” he smiles. “That’s what I just told you. Twice.”

“Oh shush woman.” He kisses me deeply. “We’re having a baby,” he mutters against my lips. Behind us the door opens and Daeron steps out. The boy lowers himself in the other chair and stretches out his legs. “Why are you so happy Kepa?” he asks. “Hang on,” Gwayne mutters, grabbing his High Valyrian book again. He flips eagerly through the pages, trying to find the right words as Daeron and I exchange amused looks.

“Your mother is pregnant, you’re going to have a baby sibling,” Gwayne says, stumbling over the words and I laugh at his pronunciation. Gwayne looks at Daeron with a bright smile, waiting for his response. “You need to work on your pronunciation, Kepa,” Daeron tells him as he gets up. He bends down, wrapping his arms around the both of us and I hug him back. “I want a baby sister,” he states, which Gwayne immediately agrees with.

[citrusdarling7]

A Sleepless Night

summary- your cousin Jacaerys has been tormenting you for months now; a never-ending parade of women seem to pour from his chambers each night. Frustrated, you decide to take matters into your own hands.

(inspired by the wonderful piece "Through Shadow and Stone" by landologged on ao3)

cw- 18+, smut, targcest, Jace is a fuckboy, slight vouyerism, making-out, invasion of privacy, fingering, oral (f-recieving), unprotected PIV, choking, some weird incest talk at the end

wordcount- 7, 147

Your cousin Jacaerys was perfect in the eyes of the court. Well-spoken, politically adept, courageous but not reckless, charming but not egotistical. His composure never faltered during Small Council meetings, his chivalry never failed to impress the many foreign ambassadors that came to the city, and his wit was well known by all. But only you seemed to know the truth.

Jacaerys Velaryon was a womanizer, through and through. He was debaucherous, bringing a noble lady to his chambers one evening, and a different one the next. You were certain that he had bedded half the women at court, as well as a fair amount of servants and foreigners as well. From what you had discerned, he seemed to prefer the comfort of his own bedchambers over the walls of any of King’s Landing’s many whorehouses. You knew this because his chambers were directly next to yours.

When your previous rooms on the other side of the castle had been deemed unsafe due to its proximity to a crumbling brick tower, you had been moved to the ones you currently resided in about nine moons ago. The view was rather magnificent, overlooking Blackwater Bay and its fleet of ships, and the wardrobe was larger than the one in your old rooms. The only complaint that you had was with the occupant of the rooms adjacent.

You had never had any issues with your cousin Jacaerys, aside from a few spats during your childhood. He was always cordial to you at feasts, made you laugh occasionally during dinner, and would dance with you every so often at balls. But ever since you moved in next to him, you have grown to hate Jacaerys.

Tonight was a particularly bad one; sleep was rather impossible due to the sheer amount of noise coming from Jacaerys’ chambers. You tossed and turned in your sheets, trying to position a pillow over your head in an attempt to block out the sound of repeated moaning. Lady Stokeworth had entered his rooms nearly two hours ago, and you had hoped that their dalliance would have been completed by now. She was one of the louder ones; rather than just the sound of the bed banging against the wall or skin slapping against skin, you also had to endure a rather vivid image of what was taking place.

Once upon a time, it had made you flush, hearing Jace’s affairs in bed and imagining what such a thing was like. Although you would never admit it, you had even slipped your hand between your legs on occasion and pretended it was you sharing your handsome cousin’s bed. But now that this pattern of disturbance had increased in frequency to every single night, your sleep was being affected and you had grown rather angry. 

After a few minutes of particularly loud moaning, swearing, and even screams, the noise finally subdued. You waited until you heard Jacaerys’ door open with a creak, then waited several more moments before you could be certain that his companion had departed. You pulled on your dressing gown, stormed out of your room, and banged your fists against his door.

“Did you forget something?” Jacaerys mumbles as he opens the door, mistaking you for Lady Stokeworth. Once he realizes his mistake, his head cocks to the side and he raises a brow. “Oh. Cousin. How may I be of service to you at this late hour?” He has had the decency to re-dress, although sweat still beads along his forehead and his cheeks are reddened from the physical exertions he was just engaging in. 

“Yes Jace, it is rather late. How many more sleepless nights will I be forced to endure due to you entertaining guests?”  He should be embarrassed, ashamed even to be called out on his behavior in this fashion. But the prince shrugs his shoulders coyly as he glances over you to examine the empty corridor.

“As I told you the last time you pounded against my door, and the time before that, you are more than welcome to find new rooms if you are so inconvenienced by my recreational activities,” Jace tells you smoothly, as if you are simply discussing something benign such as tax records. His eyes are cold against your skin, noticing that your dressing gown was haphazardly thrown on in a way that leaves your left shoulder bare. Feeling his gaze, you quickly yank it over your exposed skin and cross your arms across your chest.

“I do not want to request new chambers, Jacaerys! The only other ones available are either crumbling or currently flooded! Why don’t you move into one of those?” You snap at him. 

“I was here first,” he tells you plainly, to which you reply with a loud groan and a stamp of your foot.

“Why can’t you just go visit a brothel? Why must you subject me to your promiscuity, night after night? It is improper to expose a princess such as myself to acts of depravity and lust!” You hiss at him. Peeking out from his collar is a bright red mark, blooming into what will certainly be a purple bruise come morning time. 

“Gods, do not act the part of an innocent maiden now! Have you forgotten it was I who discovered upon your dalliance with Lord Darklyn three moons ago?” His smug smile has faded away, revealing a frown as he recalls the memory. He had in fact seen you with Lord Darklyn that time in the library, but it had been the first and only incident of such occasion. “Oh please My Lord! Take me now, fuck me with your big cock and make me scream your name! Hurry, before someone notices we are missing!” His imitation of your voice is rather poor, but it irks you all the same. 

“Fuck you, Jace! You’re such a prick!” You raise your voice slightly, but are careful not to shout loud enough to alert any guards that might be patrolling nearby. “That was one time, not a nightly performance! I have not slept properly in weeks because of you and the excess of noise being produced in your chambers!” This is all true, but it seems to make no difference to your stupid, smug cousin. He takes a step forward, closing the distance between the two of you and making you all too aware of the way he currently smells, strong and musky and dizzying.

“Is it truly the noise that brings you to my door?” He questions, his eyes meeting yours with a new intensity.

“What other reason could I possibly have for disrupting my evening? I have gotten so little sleep this week that I can barely make it through the morning meals without collapsing from exhaustion!” 

“Mmm,” he hums, unconvinced. “I do not think that is the reason.” Jace holds your gaze, luring you into speaking once again.

“Enlighten me, then, since I am apparently too stupid to know my own motives.”

“I think—” He pauses, shifting his hand slightly so that his fingertips lightly brush against your arm. “—my dear cousin, that you wish it was you in my bed receiving my attentions.”

Quickly, almost too quickly, you scowl and step away from him. Yet, you are unable to conceal the flush that is creeping across your face.

“You think much too highly of yourself, Jacaerys,” You tell him with as much restraint as you can muster.

“Perhaps I do. But that does not change the fact that you are here, speaking to me during the hour of the owl, wearing your sheer little nightdress.” He glances down at said nightgown, which you had not realized had been revealed by your dressing gown having slipped to the floor when you pulled away from him. “You know, if you are curious about what causes all of these noises you hear, all you need do is ask me nicely.”

One of his dark curls has fallen out of place, draping over his forehead and sticking to his skin. He is right; it is the hour of the owl, and therefore it is much too late for you to have a reasonable conversation without being overcome with strange emotions. You bend down to retrieve your dressing gown, balling it up in between your fists before rising.

“Fine. You wish to taunt me, cousin? You underestimate my determination in getting what I want,” you tell him. 

“And remind me what exactly it is that you want?” His brow is raised and the corners of his lips have turned upwards into a testing smirk.

“Sleep.” You tell him as you turn on your heel and stomp back into your room, slamming the door loudly behind you. 

Although you cannot see his face, you know exactly what it looks like as you hear him laugh, before the sound of his own door closing follows. 

As you try to sleep, your mind races with the examination of past moments that you previously thought had gone unnoticed by Jace. The way your eyes lingered on him a beat longer than was proper, how you instructed your maids to lace your gown tighter for events that you knew he would be in attendance, and how you had once bribed a visiting lady to switch seats with you during a feast. Surely Jacaerys would have said something earlier, right? 

Moments before you finally drifted into sleep, a sudden idea struck you. What if the increase of visitors to his chambers was because he had noticed? What if he was trying to make you jealous? Clearly, he believed you to be. Jace was a Prince of the Realm who always seemed to get his way, but you were a Princess of the very same Realm, and you would not allow him to think that his tricks had worked.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The next morning, you awoke determined. Although you did not have a restful night, it had certainly been a revealing one. Your eyes were heavy and your limbs stiff, but you instructed your maids to dress you in one of your more extravagant red gowns and braid a portion of your hair into a thick circlet. You chose a short necklace to accentuate the low neckline of your dress, and applied rouge to your cheeks and lips.

“Has a new suitor come to court, Princess?” One of the maids asked as she placed pins into your hair. Lucy was her name, she had beautiful auburn hair and was rather sharp of wit. You laughed at her remark, but shared a knowing smile.

“No, I simply mean to catch the attention of one I may have overlooked in the past,” you admitted to her. 

“Did the Prince’s visitors keep you up again last night, Princess?” She lowered her voice so as to not be overheard, but you were certain most of the staff also knew about Jacaerys’ activities. 

“Oh, this has nothing to do with him,” you tell her quickly, a partial lie. “I have simply decided that I need to reconsider some of the lords at court.” 

Lucy nods but says nothing else, straightening out your necklace before finishing with your hair. You hope that her inclination about Jacaerys is not due to a disheveled appearance on your part. But nonetheless, you are sure that you will be able to achieve your means even if you do appear to be slightly under-rested.

The morning is a rather dull one, seeing as everyone is busy preparing for the feast tonight. A host from Highgarden and the Eyrie have both arrived, a marriage between the heir of the latter to a daughter of the former that hopes to receive the Queen’s blessing before the wedding in a fortnight. You have always found the young Lady Tyrell to be dull and uninteresting, but you have heard some interesting tales about her older brother, who you had met a handful of times throughout your life. Knighted at five and ten, winner of countless tourneys, and the heir to Highgarden, Laurence Tyrell was your target for the evening. 

You could only hope that he was not so honourable that he would refuse a visit to your private chambers. If Jacaerys would not listen to reason, then he would be forced to endure a fraction of what he had put you through as of late. If he could have loud guests in his room at strange hours of the night, then what was preventing you from doing the same?

When the sun finally dimmed and members of court gathered in the Great Hall, you remained behind in hopes of making a grand entrance once the cups were heavy and the dancing had begun. You paced around your chambers for nearly two hours before you finally decided that enough time had surely passed. But to your great disappointment, the feast was so lively that no one noticed your arrival. Over a hundred casks of wine were scattered among the hall, likely a gift from the Tyrells. The music was loud and the sound of roaring laughter flooded your head. 

The first person who caught your attention was Jacaerys. He was dressed in black and red, wearing a sword on his hip and a charming smile on his face. Standing next to him was a Vale girl with thick blonde hair and plump lips, laughing as your cousin leaned down to whisper something in her ear. You scowled, and to your great disappointment Jacaerys’ line of sight was in the perfect position to notice this. He smiled boldly at you, his eyes staring into yours as he said something to the girl that made her shriek and playfully swat at his arm.

You forced yourself to turn away, remembering the plan that you wished to set in motion. You moved through the hall quickly, finding a glass of rich Arbor wine that you drained as you scanned each table and the Lords surrounding them. When you finally noticed a young man with chestnut colored hair and green eyes wearing a golden rose at the fastening of his cloak, you smiled and continued in the direction of where he stood, speaking to a group of knights. 

Right as you stepped in front of him, you purposefully kicked your foot against the leg of a chair, faking a stumble to the ground and allowing the empty wine glass to loudly drop. As any chivalrous young lord would, Lord Tyrell immediately rushes to your aid, stooping down to offer you assistance.

“My lady, are you alright?” You take his arm and rise slowly, trying your very best not to grin. Once he sees the dragon insignia on your dress and recognizes your face, he awkwardly clears his throat. “Apologies, Princess. Have you been hurt?” 

“No need for that, my lord,” you tell him as you straighten out your dress, pretending to examine it for any rips or tears. “I believe I am quite fine, but I thank you nonetheless. It is a pleasure to see you again. Please tell your mother that I congratulate her on making such a fine match for your sister, for I do hope to be invited to the wedding.” You smile at him sweetly and bat your eyelashes. 

“Well, it is to be a lavish affair. I am sure my sister would be honored to have a Princess in attendance on such a special day.” You are unsure if he is aware of how much said sister dislikes you, but nod your head nonetheless. “Your gown is quite beautiful, but I am sorry to say that this is the first time all evening I have noticed it.” 

He continues to flatter you with compliments and you receive each one gracefully. Laurence is quite handsome, with his emerald color eyes, broad shoulders, and deep laughter. But what is most attractive to you is the fact that he seems to be enamored with you, unaware that the ridiculous fall was a ploy to catch his attention.

You spend the next few hours on his arm, accepting every dance and cup of wine and joke that is offered by Laurence. He tells you stories of Highgarden and tourneys as you glide along the dance floor, charming him further with every bite of your lip or bat of your lashes. Although you try your very best to keep all distractions to a minimum, you are unable to stop yourself from noticing that your cousin seems to also be succeeding in his pursuit of the opposite sex.

Every time you glance across the hall, you spot Jacaerys with his fingers brushing against a Lady’s arm, standing closer than he should, tucking hair behind her ear, or running his fingers through his own as he tosses his head back in laughter. He does not stay with any one girl for long, he seems to have made it a mission to speak to every young woman in attendance.

But worst of all, is the fact that he always catches you staring. Even when it is only for a moment, his dark eyes capture yours and force you to look away. It is maddening, but you cannot stop yourself from repeatedly searching for his head of dark curls amongst the crowd. You grow furious at his noticing, becoming even more determined to ensure that Laurence Tyrell leaves with you.

When the night has grown late and guests begin to depart, he is still at your side. He is telling you something about his sister’s intended’s prowess with lance, your hands pressed into his as you giggle. 

“Oh! It almost slipped my mind, but you must see my new map of the Reach. I had it commissioned by the finest painter in all of the Seven Kingdoms,” you tell him as you squeeze his hands. No such map exists, but you need some excuse to lure him back to your rooms. 

“I will most certainly call upon you tomorrow, Princess. I would be delighted to see it,” he assures you. Your smile falters for a moment as you pout your lips. Hours of plotting will not be ruined by a falsehood of chivalry. 

“Come tomorrow, I may have lost all interest in maps. Allow me to show you now,” you insist, squeezing his hands and pushing your bosom forward. “My chambers are in a well-secluded branch of the Keep. No prying eyes would disturb us.” 

Laurence immediately catches your line of reasoning, his eyes widening as he gulps rather awkwardly. He nods, and allows you to lead him out of the ballroom and into the darkened corridor. Your heart is beating as you race through the Keep, breath catching in your throat as you ascend the two staircases leading to your chambers. 

When you enter, you see that Lucy is scrubbing down your windows. She turns to look at you, noticing Laurence in the doorframe. Grinning at you with excitement, she quickly excuses herself and exits the room. You lock the door behind her. 

“Your chambers are lovely, Princess,” Laurence tells you as you approach him. He is unfastening his cloak as your hands reach around his neck. 

“Yes, and the walls are completely soundproof,” you lie before bringing your lips to his in a hasty kiss. He tastes like perfume and his tongue presses against yours too firmly, but you moan loudly as his fingers tangle in your hair. 

You are rather impressed by how little time he wastes, quickly reaching around your midsection to begin unlacing your dress. Your own fingers tug at the hem of his shirt and start to lift it upwards.

But both of your movements come to a sudden halt when a fist begins to bang against the door.

“Cousin! I need to speak with you!” Jacaerys’ voice is immediately recognizable. Laurence attempts to pull away from you, but you grip his shoulders tightly. 

“Go away Jace! I am pre-occupied,” you shout back at him. The man in front of you has turned a shade of deep red, and you can feel your own pulse racing. You had not expected Jace to confront you until after your time with Laurence was finished. 

“Open this door at once!” The handle of the door rattles wildly, giving you almost no time to decide your next move. Within seconds, Jace has pried open the door and you have pushed Laurence away from you. 

“There is a matter of importance that we need to discuss,” he tells you rather gleefully, completely unbothered by the fact that there is a man in your chambers in a state of undress. “How dare you barge into my rooms like this? Have you no decency?” You snarl at him. “Decency?” He chimes snidely, eyes narrowing on the part of your gown that has been unlaced. Jace reaches for Laurence’s discarded cloak, folding it up neatly as he meets your gaze.“Save me the performance, cousin. Surely you are not so naive to think that no one would notice your sudden departure? An unmarried Targaryen Princess leading a young Lord into her chambers is certainly quite the scandal.” You wish more than anything that you had some sort of smart remark to snap back at him, but silence lingers its place. Jace knows that he has you beaten, an air of smugness surrounding him. You notice the reddish mark peeking out from his collarbone, a reminder that these sort of rules do not apply to him.

“Lord Laurence, I suggest that you leave now. I require a private word with my cousin,” he tells him as he hands him back the cloak. Laurence glances at you pitifully, to which you sigh in frustration. 

“Apologies, my prince. Princess,” he excuses himself with a quick nod, and practically sprints out of your room. The door creaks as he exits, and the sound of his racing footsteps can be heard for a mere moment afterwards. Furious, you turn to face Jacaerys. 

“Where do you get the nerve to act as if you do?” You approach him angrily, making no effort to conceal how distraught he has made you.

“Dear cousin, what were you expecting? That your pursuits would go unnoticed?” Jace has taken off his cloak, draping it across the back of your chair as if it was his own. 

“I expected that you would be too preoccupied with luring that Vale girl into your rooms to be concerned with whom I chose to invite into mine,” you snap back at him. There is a slight chill in the air, seeing as you forgot to close your window earlier in your haste to arrive at the feast. 

“It seems as if you spend far too much time worrying about who I keep company with. Are you jealous, Princess?” He is staring you down now, his deep brown eyes piercing into yours, his smug grin setting you aflame. 

“Is it unfair for me to wish for peace and quiet during the deepest hours of the night? I have not had a full sleep in months because of you!” You shout at him, throwing your hands up in frustration. Jace laughs, brushing a stray curl off of his forehead as he straightens his shoulders.

“I have needs, cousin, ones that I will not begrudge me of because you have put up a facade of being a prude,” he tells you rather dismissively as his fingers trace over the back of your chair. The shift of his posture has once again revealed the red mark on his neck, a reminder of the start of your quarrel. 

“Have you never considered the idea that I also have needs?” You take a step closer to him, and you immediately notice the heat that is radiating from him. “Wants and desires that I have been forced to push aside due to the nature of your nighttime activities! Do you imagine how difficult it is for me to entertain suitors, when they must be subject to the sounds of a Prince having his way with half the women in the castle on a nightly basis?”

 Jace’s gaze becomes steadfast as his demeanor shifts entirely. Rather than smirking at you, he stares with curiosity. 

“You should have come to me. If it was truly desire motivating your actions, why not cross the hall and ask for my assistance?” 

You are speechless for a moment— he has brought to surface a feeling that has long been nestled deep inside of you. Jace is the handsome Prince of Dragonstone, of course you had desired him, just like all the other ladies of court did. You had always believed him to be taunting you with his thinly-veiled offers and crude jokes. But what if he truly wanted you as you wanted him?

“Such a thing would scandalize all of King’s Landing, Jacaerys. You are the heir, and I your cousin. We will both be betrothed to others sooner rather than later,” you tell him, an attempt to re-direct. 

“But dragging Lord Tyrell into your bed is not a scandal? Do not lie to me, cousin.” He steps closer to you, pressing his palms into the table as he lowers his face to meet yours. “Will you finally admit that you desire me? Or will you allow petty grievances and little embarrassments to get in the way of taking what you want?” 

He has posed a challenge, one that he knows you are unable to back down from. Jace’s jaw clenches as he gazes upon you, his face sculpted by the gods of Valyria themselves. You glance downwards as his hands, thick and hardened by hours in the training yard. Imagining the way that his fingers would feel against your waist, around your neck, and in between your thighs makes your mouth water. Why does it feel so wrong to want him so badly?

Before you can stop yourself, you close the gap between the two of you and press your lips to his. Immediately, he kisses you back with the maddening hunger of a starving man. You latch your fingers onto his dark strands of hair, closing your eyes as he claims you with his mouth. 

The kiss is sloppy and desperate, his spit mixing with yours as his hands find your waist and pull your torso flush against his. As expected, he is quite skilled with his mouth. A few minutes of kissing leaves you practically dripping, your fingers stumbling for the buttons of his doublet. 

Rather than allowing you to undress him, Jacaerys breaks from the kiss and swivels you around, positioning your back to face him. He begins tugging at your laces, removing your gown with ease and allowing it to puddle at your feet. His intentions are clear in the way that his hands now trace against your skin and lips nip against your ear.

“Tell me, how many unassuming lords have you let have you? Was Darklyn the only one?” His breath is hot against your neck, sending shivers down your spine. You should lie— tell him that there have been dozens, if only to provoke him. But he has seen through your earlier fib, and you are certain that he would know if you were to do so again.

“He has been the only one,” you tell him truthfully. Jacaerys brushes your hair over your left shoulder, giving him full access to the bare skin of your neck. A soft caress of his fingers against the divot of your neck causes your breath to catch.

“How many times?” His other hand remains steady against your waist, the ruby ring on his index finger pressed against the fabric of your petticoat. 

“Once. If you do not count the time in the library.” Jace hums in response, blowing hot air against your neck. You feel incredibly vulnerable in this moment as he holds you, your usual sharp wit seeming to have vanquished completely. 

“Was he good?” His voice seems to drop a full octave as he raises this question, and you pray that he stays positioned behind you, not wishing for him to see how deeply your face has flushed. 

“I suppose so,” you tell him quickly, thinking back to the night that you had given your maidenhead to the young lord. In truth, it had been rather painful, the affair only lasting a few minutes and leaving you rather disappointed. 

“You suppose so?” Jace’s grip on your waist tightens, his fingers firmly pressing your midsection backwards so as to rest against his chest. His other hand leaves your shoulder and begins to trail down the front of your undergarments. You nod your head slightly, biting your lip as he begins to bunch up the fabric of your skirts, exposing your legs to the breeze that sweeps through the room.

“Well, that means you have much to learn.” His lips finally press against the skin of your neck as his hand slips between your thighs. When he feels you stiffen, he gives you a softer peck. “Do not fret, cousin. I promise I will take good care of you.” 

You open your mouth to respond, but all that leaves your lips is a gasp. Jace drags the pad of his finger across your entrance, tracing your outline before firmly pressing against your bundle of nerves. You feel his teeth scape against your ear, nibbling it in a way that practically makes your spine twist. 

“Jacaerys— “ You start, but are silenced by the sudden sensation of his finger drawing circles against you. Your body instinctively presses deeper against his chest, and you can feel his growing erection prodding at your lower back. The air has become thick with the smell of Jace, a mix of smoke and pine that lingers whenever he is near.

His mouth begins to trace your neck as two of his thick fingers enter you swiftly. The whimper that leaves you is pathetic, and you practically mewl once he begins thrusting them in and out of you. Wanting to preserve a bit of your dignity, you bite down on your lip in an attempt to stifle the sounds leaving you.

“Poor little Princess, all alone in her room at night. How many times have you wished for me to slip into your bed during the hour of the wolf?” His voice is deep and raspy, yet it feels like honey against your ear. Jace’s fingers continue to stroke your insides, making you twitch and mewl against him.

You suddenly feel an overwhelming urge to kiss him again, turning your head over your shoulder so quickly that it pains your neck. His eyes have darkened greatly since you last looked upon his face, and one of his brows raises as your hips pull away from him. 

“You don’t like what I’m doing?” He asks, a curiosity taking control of his sharp features. His fingers now drum against the inside of your thigh, and you have begun to clench at the loss of sensation.

“No, I just wish to kiss you as well,” you admit. Without missing a beat, Jacaerys  brings his lips to yours and kisses you hungrily. Both of his hands abandon their posts to grab the edges of your hips, and he guides you several paces backwards so that you are pressed to the wall, kissing you all the while. 

Jace uses his body to re-direct yours, pushing against your inner thigh with his knee to raise your left leg. His fingers are inside of you in an instant, causing you to cry out as he begins to pump them once again. Your noises are swallowed by his wet mouth and strong tongue. Instinctively, your hands steady themselves onto his shoulders as he begins to nibble at your bottom lip.

The pleasure is unlike anything you have ever felt before. The Daklynn boy certainly had not made you feel this way, nor had your own fingers. Jacaerys seemed determined to make you explode beneath his touch. When his thumb starts rubbing circles in tandem with his other fingers stroking the inside of your walls, you cry out his name.

“Gods, I have wanted to fuck you for so long,” Jace mutters in between kisses. “Saw you watching me all night, Princess.” He bites down on your lip and you whimper at the sensation. “Couldn’t keep your eyes off me, could you?”

Unable to form a coherent sentence, you whimper in response and desperately try to kiss him once again. Your mouth lands just below his ear, and you quickly begin kissing and sucking the spot fervently. Jace seems to like this, a low growl forming in his throat that causes every hair on your arm to stand up straight.

 The pleasure has begun to build rapidly, a burning in your stomach that makes your thighs shake. You are so close to rolling over the edge when Jacaerys suddenly ceases his movements, drawing his fingers away from you slowly.

You pout at him, tears threatening to spill from your eyes at the sudden loss of content. Jace presses a kiss to the side of your jaw as one of his hands gropes at your backside.

“It’ll feel even better if you have to wait a bit,” he assures you. “Go lie on the bed,” he instructs as he begins to unlace his trousers. You quickly obey, wanting to have his fingers inside of you again as soon as possible. Jace peels off his shirt and tosses it to the floor as he approaches you. Expecting him to lay down next to you, it comes as a shock when he instead kneels at the foot of the bed. 

You sit up, giving him a rather puzzled look. Does he wish to take you on the floor? You go to plant your feet on the ground, but Jace quickly presses a hand to your lower belly. 

“Stay on the bed. But take this off,” he tells you as he tugs at what little clothing remains on your body. You quickly pull the layer up and over your head, exposing yourself completely to him. His hands trace your bare skin, fingers running against the curve of your breasts and your hips. Although it is a chilly night, you are overwhelmed by the heat of his touch.

“Please, Jace. I need to feel you inside of me,” you plead with him, lips pouting as you do so. The corners of his lips turn upwards, his hands find your thighs once again.

“Patience, Princess. It would be rather unfair if I do not taste you first.” His eyes burn into yours as he suddenly lowers his mouth to your center, planting a kiss against your bundle of nerves. 

The sensation causes you to jolt, and Jacaerys chuckles. Fingers squeezing your thighs, he pries them further apart and brings them to rest on his shoulders. He drags his tongue against your folds, the wet muscle eliciting an entirely new type of pleasure. Your left hand grips the sheets tightly, your right one gripping Jace’s curls in the same fashion. His tongue continues to flick against your most sensitive area, making you cry out his name as your legs tremble. Jace’s eyes remain fixed on yours for a moment longer, before he slips a finger inside of your cunt. 

It is sinful, the way that your cousin is bringing you a type of pleasure that you had only ever imagined. When you glance down at him, you see that Jace’s thick hair has become quite disheveled, dark ringlets cascading down his forehead and over his ears. A second finger joins the first, causing your back to arch as you begin to moan his name. 

You are desperately kicking at his shoulders, the sensation becoming too much to bear. Expertly, Jacaerys remains steady as his free hand presses down on your lower stomach, pinning you to the feather mattress. His tongue continues to circle your core as his fingers fuck you steadily, the low grumbles he is making sending shivers through your entire body. The pleasure coiling in your stomach threatens to bust as tears begin to leak from your eyes.

You finally are struck with an intense wave of pleasure that causes your toes to curl and your cunt to clench around Jace’s fingers. The moans you make are certainly loud enough to be heard across the hall, if not the entire Keep. Dutifully, Jacaerys continues to lick at you until you roughly yank his head away, the aftershocks of your peak becoming maddening. He nibbles at your thigh for a moment before finally raising his head to address you.

“I gather that Darklyn did not manage to please you in such a way?” He is smiling again, like a child on their name-day who has just received a grand present. His lips are wet with a mixture of your slick and his spit, puffy and pink. The sight of him is rather addictive, and you cannot bear to imagine that this will be the only time you get to see him in this way.

“I grow tired of speaking of him,” you whine as you tug at his arms, attempting to direct him off the floor and into the bed with you. Jace obliges, stripping off his final article of clothing before climbing on top of you. He immediately nudges your thighs open with his knee, eyes trailing up and down your body as he does so.

“How do you want it?” He asks you sweetly, fingers tracing the divot of your hips. Now that he is fully naked, you take note of two additional marks that have been placed on his collarbone and chest. Just last night, another woman had her lips against his skin and her hands all over his body. The idea of such a thing would fill you with rage, if not for your distraction at the sight of his large and leaking cock.

“How do you usually fuck the girls that you bring to your bed?’ You dare to ask him, ensuring not to look away from his ember-rimmed irises. 

“Mmm, that is a question meant to trick me,” he tells you with a chuckle. “I have yet to fuck you, Princess— or any, for that matter.” Wisely, Jace re-directs by lowering his mouth to yours, kissing you deep and slow. You can taste on his lips and tongue, and he hums in delight as you press your fingers into his shoulders. One of his hands reaches between your bodies, grasping his cock and guiding it towards your entrance. But just as his tip begins to press against your folds, you break away from the kiss.

“No. I wish to be on top.” 

Jace raises a brow, but releases his manhood and shifts his hips away from yours. He lays on his back and releases the tension in his legs, allowing you to notice the V-shaped outline that runs between his pelvis and stomach. 

You position yourself on top of his lower half, straddling his pelvic bone and steadying yourself by gripping his hips. Jacaerys lets out a noise that reminds you of a dragon’s growl as you finally lower yourself onto his cock. The intrusion is sharp, causing you to wince as you attempt to take him. You remain still for a moment, then begin rocking your hips in order to slide down his length.

Jace watches without movement, although a smirk tugs at his face when he realizes how you are struggling. Leaning forward and placing your hands on his hardened chest, you are able to feel him fully inside of you. 

You set a slow pace, bouncing up and down on his cock and grinding your hips against his. The stretch is a considerable one, but any discomfort is quickly forgotten by the sound of your skin slapping against his. Carefully, Jace places his hands against your hips.

“Fuck, you are irresistable,” he mutters as you ride him. His face is tinged pink and the veins in his neck are pulsing. 

The tip of his cock enters you at an angle, stroking at a particularly sensitive spot inside of you that causes your entire lower half to quiver. You desperately try to seek out that same sensation, but struggle to do so. Jace immediately picks up on this, and begins to thrust into you. His pace is much faster than yours, and you find yourself quickly unable to keep up. Rather than allowing you to fall behind, Jace pushes himself forward and flips your positioning in one fluid movement. 

Your breath is caught in your throat for a moment as your head dangles from the bed. Jacaerys yanks your hips down lower, doing so without allowing his cock to slip from you. 

“Please, Jace!” You moan, and he responds by taking hold of your legs once more and lifting them into the air, pounding into you with a newfound fervor.

“Yeah? You love taking my cock, don’t you?” He teases, his voice gravely and thick. The only response you are able to give him is yet another whimper. He begins to suck viciously at your neck, surely leaving a mark that will begin to bloom and bruise come morning time.

Quickly, you reach your second peak of the night. Even more intense than the first had been, you scream Jace’s name and claw at his biceps as your core pulses and clenches. The smell of him has become even stronger, his sweat dripping onto your skin as he ravishes you.

Soon, his thrusts become sloppy and his breath comes in pants. Jace grips your thighs so hard that finger-tip shaped bruises begin to appear. He closes his eyes before cursing once and allowing his hips to stutter against yours.

Immediately, you feel the warmth of his seed inside of you. This takes you aback, as you had assumed that he would spill onto your stomach or sheets. You wait a moment, taking in the view of him enjoying his bliss before raising a rather important question.

“How is it that you have not sired a hundred bastards, if you do that?” You ask, as he withdraws his cock from you and his spend begins to trickle down your thighs. 

Jacaerys smiles at you, running a finger down your thigh and through the mess that he has created. Then, he takes your hand in his and gives it a squeeze.

“None of the others have ever taken my seed. You are family though, so why shouldn’t you?” 

“I will need to drink Moon Tea on the morrow,” you tell him, and he shrugs.

“If you wish, cousin.” He pauses for a moment, as if the thing he wishes to say next rests somewhere on the tip of his tongue. 

“In the meantime, want me to lick it out of you?”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

a/n- thanks so much for reading! this one was sitting half-written in the drafts for several months, so I was super happy to finally finish it! please leave a like, comment, or reblog if you enjoyed, and send any Jace thoughts to my inbox ;)

[vinnieswife]

through clearer lenses

Harry Collett x costar!reader (4k)

During a rainy Sunday at your flat, the playful banter shifts entirely when you finally convince him to put on his glasses. The adorable look you expected instantly turns into a sharp intensity that completely flips the power dynamic, leaving you blushing. (wr: way to intense kissing?)

MATERIALIST

The smell of synthetic smoke, damp stone, and hairspray always reminded you of how your life completely flipped upside down. You were sitting in a canvas director's chair in the corner of stage 4, wrapped in a massive puff jacket over your heavy gown. Across from you, perched on an upturned equipment crate, was Harry, he was still in full Jace gear, the dark leather tunic and that brooding prince-like posture (s1 whishes) he slipped into so easily. But right now, he wasn’t being the stoic heir to the Iron Throne. He was squinting so hard at his tiny paper sides that his forehead was a map of deep creases.

"Harry, my love you’re going to give yourself a literal migraine" you said, tossing a packet of sour gummies at him. "Just put your glasses on. I promise the costume department won't sue you"

He caught the packet without looking up, showing off his reflexes, and let out a frustrated sigh. "I don’t need 'em," he mumbled, his voice dripping with that stubborn british charm. "The font is just microscopic today. Seriously, who the hell printed this?"

You leaned forward and rested your chin in your hands. "you’ve been squinting at that same paragraph for ten minutes. We have a massive emotional scene to shoot in twenty, and you're going to walk onto the set looking like you just stared directly into the sun"

He finally looked up, his dark eyes blinking rapidly as he tried to adjust his focus to you. A slow, sheepish grin broke across his face, the sharp, serious angles of his character instantly melting into the boy you had fallen completely head over heels for. "you're a menace, you know that? I’m trying to focus. Jace is supposed to be focused."

"Jace is also supposed to be able to see his love interest without tripping over a camera track" you teased, raising an eyebrow. "Seriously, where are they? In your trailer?"

"Yeah, safe in their case where they belong."

"You are actively messing your own vision, and for what? It’s not cute”

He protested, throwing a gummy back at you. "The glasses make me look like a schoolboy. I’m trying to give adult not 'please sir, I forgot my homework’”

You let out a soft laugh, the sound echoing in the high rafters of the soundstage. "Trust me" you said, dropping your voice as a crew member walked past carrying a massive C-stand. "The glasses are a massive bonus point. You're just denying the world greatness."

"We'll see about that," he murmured, his eyes lingering on yours with a warmth that had absolutely nothing to do with Jace and everything to do with Harry.

"Hey, we are ready for Harry and y/n on set" the first AD's voice boomed through the megaphone, cutting your moment short.

Harry stood up, brushing imaginary dust off his leather tunic, and offered you his hand with a reverence. You took it, letting him pull you up from the low chair, for a second, he didn't let go, his thumb rubbing a reassuring circle against the back of your hand.

"Ready to pretend you tolerate me for the cameras?" he whispered, a cheeky spark in his eyes.

"Always my prince” you smiled. "Just try not to squint at me during my close-up. It ruins the romantic tension" You tease him while caressing his cheek.

He let out a quiet laugh, letting your hand slip away as you both walked toward the brightly lit reconstructed courtyard.

The transition from the hectic, stressful environment of the set to your shared London flat was always a breath of fresh air. After months of living out of suitcases and hotel rooms, now having a space that was entirely yours, and his, was the ultimate comfort. It was a cozy, slightly chaotic apartment in North London, filled with mismatched furniture, piles of scripts, a growing collection of vinyl records and a kitchen that was currently being neglected in favor of takeout.

It was a rainy Sunday afternoon, the classic British weather beating a steady rhythm against the glass windows of your living room. You were curled up on the oversized sofa, buried under a mountain of knit blankets and reading a book but not paying much attention to it. Harry was sitting on the floor, his back rested against the front of the sofa, right between your knees. He was wearing a pair of faded gray sweatpants and a vintage band tee that you had definitely stolen from his closet more than once. Spread out on the coffee table in front of him were three different scripts for upcoming films his agent had sent over.

And once again, he was squinting.

"I am actually going to confiscate your eyes if you don't stop doing that" you said, reaching down to gently ruffle his messy brown curls.

"I'm not squinting" he lied instantly, his head tilting back to look up at you. From this angle, his face was framed perfectly by your knees, his dark eyes looking wide and innocent. "I'm digesting the text. It's a very advanced acting technique, you wouldn't understand" He said teasingly.

"Oh, is that what they call it now? 'digesting the text'? Because to me, it looks like you're trying to read a license plate from three kilometres away" You reached over to the side table, where his transparent-framed glasses were resting on top of a stack of books "put them on Harry, literally, what is the issue with them?”

"They're uncomfortable," he grumbled, though he didn't move away as you held them out to him.

"They are literally lightweight plastic, they weigh less than a single wig pin, stop being a baby"

Harry sighed, a dramatic suffering sound, and snatched them from your hand. "Fine, if my nose gets bruised, you're paying for the medical bills."

He unfolded the arms and slid them onto his face, adjusting the bridge with his index finger. He turned his head to look at you, his eyes a little magnified behind the clean lenses.

Your heart did a sudden, violent flip.

It was supposed to be a joke. You had spent weeks teasing him about the glasses, telling him he looked "cute”, like some niche movie boy next door. And he did, he looked incredibly adorable, the frames cutting through his usual sharp features and giving him this soft, boyish charm that made you want to squish his cheeks.

But as you looked at him right now, sitting in the dim, gray light of the rainy afternoon, something shifted.

The frames sat perfectly on his nose, highlighting the sharp, masculine line of his jaw and the dark, thick curve of his eyebrows. Through the glass, his eyes didn't look soft, instead they looked incredibly focused, dark, intense. It wasn't the look of a boy, no, it was the look of a man who knew exactly what he was doing.

A sudden, unexpected wave of heat rushed straight to your chest, settling low in your stomach. Your breath hitched, your fingers freezing in his hair. 

Oh, you thought, a sudden panic rising in your throat. Oh, fuck.

"What?" Harry asked, his voice dropping a register as he noticed the sudden change in your demeanor. He tilted his head, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made your pulse skyrocket. "Why are you looking at me like that? Do I have something on my face?"

"No, no uhm..." you said, your voice sounding a little too breathy, a little too strained, you tried to pull your hand back from his hair, but your fingers felt heavy. "You're... you're fine."

Harry’s eyebrows pulled together behind the lenses. He didn't look away. Instead, he slowly rotated his body, shifting so he was kneeling on the floor between your legs, his hands resting on the cushions of the sofa on either side of your hips. The change in posture was sudden, his physical presence suddenly filling your entire field of vision.

"You've gone completely quiet, do you know how hard it is to shut you up?" he murmured, his dark eyes searching yours. The glasses slid down his nose just a fraction, and he looked at you over the top of the  frames "Are you alright, love?"

"Yeah," you whispered, swallowing hard. "Just-just… tired."

"Liar" he said softly. A slow, knowing smirk began to pull at the corner of his lips. He was too damn observant. Years of studying each other's micro-expressions on set meant he could read you like an open book. He saw the slight flush on your cheeks, the way your chest was rising and falling just a bit too fast, the way your eyes kept darting to his lips and then back to the frames of his glasses.

He leaned in a fraction closer, a faint, comforting scent of his clean skin and woody cologne wrapping around you. "You're acting weird. Is it the glasses?"

“No, no I told you, I think they're cute," you said, trying desperately to play it cool, to cling to the safe, playful dynamic you had spent the last two days establishing. "It's a wholesome look?" You said in a unppropriately unsure tone, your mouth working faster than your brain.

"Wholesome huh?" Harry repeated, his voice dropping into a low, raspy purr that sent a literal shiver down your spine. He leaned forward even more, his chest almost pressing against your knees, his face inches from yours. "Is that really what you're thinking right now love?"

"Harry-"

"Because you don't look like you're thinking about how 'wholesome' I am..." he whispered, his eyes dropping to your mouth before rising back to yours. He reached up, his long fingers wrapping around the side of his glasses, but instead of taking them off, he just adjusted them, pushing them firmly back up the bridge of his nose. The movement was incredibly deliberate, his eyes never leaving yours. "In fact, I may say you look a bit flustered"

Your mouth went completely dry. The agonizingly beautiful tension that had defined your entire relationship, was suddenly back, but this time it wasn't on a drafty soundstage with fifty crew members watching. It was in the quiet intimacy of your living room, completely unchecked.

You realized that you had made a massive tactical error. You had spent weeks begging him to wear them, thinking it would be a cute, domestic aesthetic. But seeing him like this, looking at you through those glasses was doing things to your sanity that you were completely unprepared for.

"I'm not flustered" you managed to say, moving your gaze and finding your ceiling to be the most interesting thing in the world, the squeak at the end of your sentence completely betrayed you tho.

Harry let out a low, breathy chuckle, the sound vibrating through the small space between you. He shifted his weight, his hands sliding from the sofa cushions to your waist, his fingers gripping your hips gently through the fabric of your sweatpants. The touch was warm and solid, grounding you even as your head spun.

"You are...” he murmured, his gaze dropping to your lips again. "your heart is beating incredibly fast I can see it."

"You can't see my heart Harry, it is biologically impossible"

"I can see your pulse in your neck" he countered, his voice incredibly soft, almost a tease. He leaned in, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear, his breath hot against your skin "and I can feel you shivering, so...tell me, do you still think they're just 'cute'?" His lips left a trace of kisses from the spot under your ear to your where your shoulder meets your neck.

You swallowed, your hands instinctively coming up to rest on his shoulders, holding onto him for support. The fabric of his t-shirt was soft under your palms, but the muscle beneath was tense and solid, you looked at him, taking in the sharp contrast of the glasses against his messy hair, the dark intensity of his eyes behind the lenses, the absolute confidence radiating off him.

"No..." you admitted, your voice barely a whisper. "I do not think they're cute."

Harry pulled back just enough to look you in the eyes, a slow grin spreading across his face, though his eyes remained heavy with a heat that made your knees weak. "No huh? what do you think they are, then?"

"I..." You took a shaky breath, your fingers tightening on his shoulders. "I think you look handsome" a small giggle escaped your lips "…and I think you know exactly what you're doing to me"

His grin widened, a soft, triumphant laugh escaping his lips. “Oh, maybe I do" he whispered, one of his hands sliding up your waist to cup your face, his thumb gently wiping across your cheekbone. The plastic of his glasses brushed lightly against your forehead as he leaned in, his focus entirely and completely consumed by you. 

"Maybe I like seeing you like this."

"Like what?"

"completely speechless" he murmured, his lips hovering mere millimeters from yours, "you're always so quick with your comebacks I quite like having the upper hand for once"

"Don't get cocky, Collett" you breathed, though you couldn't help but lean into his touch, your eyes partially closing as the anticipation reached a fever pitch.

"wouldn't dream of it" he whispered.

And then, he closed the distance.

The kiss was nothing like the gentle, sweet ones you shared when you were just waking up, or the playful ones you swapped between takes on set. It was deep, slow, and incredibly possessive, his lips moving against yours with a confident, lazy rhythm that left you completely undone. His hands slid into your hair, holding you close as he deepened the kiss, the slight edge of his glasses pressing against your cheek, a constant, electrifying reminder of exactly what had started this.

You gasped into his mouth, your hands moving from his shoulders to tangle in the soft curls at the back of his neck, pulling him closer, wanting to erase every single millimeter of distance between you. The rain continued to beat against the window, the world outside completely fading away until it was just the two of you, the warmth of the flat, and the electric fire that had finally, beautifully, consumed you both.

When he finally pulled back, both of you were breathless, your lips flushed and your chests rising and falling in sync. Harry rested his forehead against yours, his eyes closed as he took a deep, shaky breath. His glasses were slightly askew from the intensity of the kiss, but he didn't make any move to take them off.

"So" he whispered, a breathless, happy laugh in his voice. "I should... definitely wear them more often? yeah?”

"Yeah... I agree," you breathed, your hands resting against his chest, feeling the rapid, heavy beat of his heart. "but only in the house. If you wear them outside, I might actually have to fight off half of London"

Harry laughed, the sound warm and bright, and kissed your forehead gently, "deal" 

Harry’s chest rose and fell against yours, his hands still loosely draped around your waist, his thumbs lightly tracing comforting patterns over the soft cotton of your sweatpants. He didn't pull away, and honestly, you didn't want him to.

"You’re still staring love," he murmured, his voice a low, gravelly vibration against your forehead. He opened his eyes, those dark brown depths looking incredibly clear behind the transparent frames.

"I am not" you whispered, though your eyes instantly locked onto the way his dark eyelashes brushed against the top of the lenses.

"You literally are, your eyes are practically drilling holes into the plastic" He reached up, his long fingers catching the temple of his glasses to straighten them properly on his face. The casual, effortless motion made your stomach do another completely unwarranted backflip, "seriously, what is the vibe here? A minute ago you were laughing at me, and now you’re looking at me like I’m a three course meal"

"Well," you teased, sliding your hands down his shoulders to tap his chest, "I guess digesting the text takes a lot of physical energy"

"I’m starving actually" he admitted, his cheeks flushing pink, "we've been ignoring those scripts for hours, what are we thinking? Thai? Or should we risk the sketchy noodle place down the street?"

"Definitely the sketchy noodle place. I’ve been craving those greasy spring rolls all week"

"Unreal" Harry said, finally pushing himself up from the floor. 

As he walked over to the kitchen counter to grab his phone, you stayed sitting on the edge of the cushions, wrapped in your blanket cocoon, watching him.

He stood in the warm light of the kitchen, leaning against the counter with his phone in hand, scrolling through the delivery app, he was completely unaware of the effect he was having, his curls messy, his shoulders broad under the vintage tee, and those glasses resting perfectly on his face. He chewed slightly on his lower lip as he searched the menu, his eyes moving rapidly behind the lenses. It was a completely mundane, domestic scene. But right now to you, it was pure torture.

"Do you want the spicy beef noodles or the pad thai?" Harry called out, not looking up from his screen, "and don't say both, because I know you won't finish either of them and I'll end up eating your leftovers for breakfast"

"Spicy beef," you managed to say, your voice slightly tight, "and... maybe some extra spring rolls."

"Standard" he murmured. He finalized the order, tossing his phone onto the counter. Instead of coming straight back, he poured two glasses of water, grabbing them and turning around.

He caught you staring. Again (ups).

A slow, dangerous smirk spread across his face. He walked back to the living room, his steps slow and deliberate, the ice clinking softly in the glasses. He set the water down on the coffee table and then stood right in front of you, towering over you slightly as you sat on the low couch.

"Alright, out with it" he said, folding his arms across his chest, the action pulled his t-shirt tight against his shoulders. 

You pulled your eyes back from his chest just enough to glare up at him, though the effect was completely ruined by the breathless smile tugging at your lips, "you’re literally so smug, it’s actually painful, I created a fucking monster"

"You did" he agreed easily, his eyes crinkling at the corners, he tilted his head, looking down at you through those transparent frames, "but you’ve gotta admit, the monster is kind of eating this look up"

"Honestly, the glasses need to go back in their case, your head is getting too big for this flat"

"Oh, is it?" Harry’s smirk softened into something much more dangerous, he slid his hands from your cheek down to the side of your neck, his thumbs resting right under your jaw, tilting your head up, "I don't think you actually want me to take them off, In fact, I think you're holding onto my shirt like your life depends on it"

You looked down and realized your fingers were indeed tightly fisted in the worn fabric of his vintage tee, when you looked back up, he already moved to lay in front of you in the couch as his eyes were locked onto your mouth, the playful banter died in an instant, replaced by that magnetic pull that always made the rest of the world completely fade to black.

"Harry..." you breathed.

"Yeah?" he murmured, his voice dropping into a low, raspy register that made your stomach do gymnastics.

"less talking"

He let out a soft, pleased hum, and then he closed the tiny distance between you, this time, there was no hesitation, the moment his lips met yours a quiet gasp escaped you, which he immediately drank in. He shifted his weight, pulling you fully onto his lap so you were straddling his thighs, his hands gripping your waist to secure you against him as you tangled your fingers in his soft curls, pulling him closer, completely drunk on the warmth of him and the intoxicating scent of his cologne.

The kiss was deep and slow, a perfect lazy Sunday kind of heat. He tasted like the sweet tea he'd been drinking earlier, his lips soft but demanding as they moved against yours in a rhythm that made your head spin, every time you thought you’d caught your breath, he’d tilt his head, deepening the kiss and sending a fresh wave of electricity straight down your spine.

As you pulled him closer, the edge of his transparent frames pressed gently against your temple, the physical sensation, the cool plastic against your skin while his lips were so incredibly warm.

If the previous kiss had been a lazy Sunday drift, this one was a category 5 hurricane. It was pure, unadulterated passion, the kind of heavy, desperate kissing that made your head spin and your knees instantly give out. You let out a soft sigh into the kiss, your hands sliding down his neck to grip his shoulders, Harry groaned quietly, his hands sliding up under the hem of your oversized t-shirt, his palms warm and slightly calloused against the bare skin of your waist and lower back, his thumbs traced slow, dizzying circles there, pulling you so flush against his chest that you could feel the rapid, heavy thudding of his heart matching yours beat for beat.

He pulled back for a fraction of a second, just enough to catch his breath, his lips brushing against yours as he spoke "still think it's... just a cute look?" he whispered, his voice incredibly thick and breathless.

"I think you need to shut up" you murmured, pulling him right back down.

He complied instantly, his mouth catching yours with a sudden, possessive hunger that made your toes curl, he nipped gently at your lower lip, making a soft shiver run through you, before soothing the spot with his tongue, It was the perfect, dizzying blur of comfort and desire.

You were so lost in the feeling of his hands on your waist and his mouth on yours that you almost didn't hear the sharp, rhythmic buzz of his phone on the kitchen counter.

Harry ignored it at first, his lips sliding down your jawline to press a string of warm, lingering kisses right under your ear, making you gasp and cling to his shoulders. But then, the intercom by the front door let out a loud, buzzing ring, completely shattering the silence of the flat.

Both of you froze.

Harry rested his forehead against the side of your neck, his chest heaving as he let out a long, frustrated sigh. His glasses were completely askew now, sitting crookedly on the bridge of his nose.

"the sketchy noodles" you whispered, your voice sounding incredibly raspy and dazed.

“Fuck…” he groaned “literally the worst timing in human history" as a breathless laugh escaped his lips. He reached up, finally taking the glasses off to rub his eyes, before sliding them back on and straightening them. He looked down at you, his eyes still dark and heavy, a soft, fond smile playing on his lips, "you look completely wrecked love, It's a very good look on you."

"Oh shut up," you laughed, burying your face in his neck to hide your flushed cheeks, "go get the food before the delivery guy leaves"

"Only if you promise not to move an inch from this exact spot" he said, giving your waist a gentle squeeze before you slid off his lap.

"I couldn't move even if I wanted to" you admitted honestly, "my knees are literal jelly"

Harry’s grin was absolutely triumphant as he stood up, adjusting his shirt. "That's what I like to hear", he turned and headed toward the door, throwing one last wink over his shoulder, the transparent frames catching the dim light of the hallway, "don't go anywhere”

I made it pretty obvious that I like guys with glasses right? Also not surgery for my nose everything is right in place now lol

[imnotcryingyouare1]

Maekar is the softest, most gentle when his babies were newborns he just likes to smell them, rubs his cheeks on them and loves his wife, plays with her hair and gives soft touched. HOLD ME BACKKKKK everything is just so soft and gentle and loving. Literally when his quietly speaking to dunk in ep 6 that’s just him. He is still related to Baelor and Dearon, he gets his gentleness from them.

Soft

Pure mush!!!! So cute!

“Can I have my baby back?” You ask smiling at your husband and newborn son. The man ‘offering’ to look after him while you spent some time with the boys before bed.

“He’s my son.” Maekar says rubbing looking down at the cooing babe in his arms, the little boy holding his father’s finger in his little hand.

“He’s mine too.” You laugh, not minding that he’s stolen your baby from you. Happy he loves his children so much, him not always able to show it.

“You got to carry him for nine moons, let me hold him now.” Maekar say turning away from you as if you were going to steal the babe of him. You just wanting to kiss him.

“But-.”

“I’m sure the older boys would love some time with their mother.” He tells you, him having been working all day and unable to be with your sons.

“Would they now?” You ask raising an eyebrow at your husband. Daeron and Aerion both sleeping as it’s late. You having just read Daeron back to sleep. You giving your husband a look. “Stop sniffing him.”

“I’ve missed having a newborn.” Maekar muses swaying slightly with the boy, while kissing his forehead. “You’re already more well behaved than your brothers.”

“Maekar.” You say sternly giving him a look. “It’s time for bed.”

“Wife.” He teases a smirk apart in his face, him at his happiest with you and the children, a newborn babe in his arms.

“You get so mushy when we have a baby.” You say rolling your eyes while you get ready for bed. Letting him cuddle Aemon for a while longer, the babe needing to actually sleep in his crib for a change.

“I love you.” Maekar whispers to you later while you cuddle in bed, your head resting on his chest while he holds you close to him. All the children sleeping in their beds.

“I love you too.” You say kissing his chest softly. Tired but also wanting to spent time with just Maekar.

“Can we have more?” He asks quietly as if saying it any louder would scare the idea away.

“Isn’t three enough?” You ask, happy with any amount of children you have.

“Just a few more?” He whispers kissing the top of your head, already picturing a future with more children.

“We’ll see.”

“Thank you.” He says softly, loving you and the children more than anything in the world.

“What for?” You ask in genuine confusion, not knowing what you’ve done to warrant being thanked.

“Making me happy.”

[vinnieswife]

Cowboy! Jace

Cowboy!Jace x fem!reader (3,6k)

Okay so I saw the bull riding video, kinda late ik, and I have been reading @jacefiles modern au scenarios like a madman, so like a completely normal person would do I made a fic pls if anyone has done the same let me know so I can also give you credits!! Also my only cowboy knowledge is Brokeback mountain soo bear with me.

MATERIALIST

The dust in the barn always looks like floating gold when the late afternoon sun hits it just right. You find Jace exactly where you expected, leaning against the worn oak partition of his horse’s stall, a leather halter dangling from his hand. He is not working, not really. He is just staring out the open double doors toward the eastern ridge, where the borders of the Targaryen and Velaryon territory meet the Hightowers’ newly fenced pastures.

"You are going to burn a hole through that fence if you keep staring at it like that" you teasingly say, stepping into the cool shadow of the barn.

He does not startle. He just turns his head, a slow, lazy smile breaking across his handsome face. It is the kind of smile he reserves only for you, one that completely erases the hard, serious line of his jaw and makes him look like the boy he is when the weight of a massive ranching empire is not resting on his shoulders.

"Is that right? mhm?" Jace tosses the halter onto a nearby peg and steps toward you, his boots clicking softly against the concrete floor of the barn. He is wearing his favorite faded flannel shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows to reveal forearms corded with muscle from years of hard labor. "Maybe I am just waiting for someone to come drag me away from my chores."

"I highly doubt your mother would approve of me enabling your laziness, property heir" you tease, stepping into his space.

Jace reaches out, his large, calloused hands finding your waist with practiced ease. He pulls you gently against him, the scent of leather, cedarwood, and clean sweat wrapping around you like a familiar blanket. "My mother knows I work harder than anyone else on this property. Besides, Aegon is probably passed out in a ditch somewhere near the county line and Aemond is busy playing corporate soldier. I think I have earned a break".

The rivalry between the two halves of the family has been suffocating lately. Since Viserys passed away, the corporate board meetings for the family conglomerate had devolved into a war of words. The Hightower faction was doing everything they could to delegitimize Rhaenyra’s claim to the presidency, and by extension, Jace’s own future. They whispered in the town diners, in the livestock auction houses, and in the boardrooms in Houston, spitting that ugly, old rumor that Jace and his brothers did not have a drop of true Velaryon blood in them, pointing instead to the late Harwin Strong, the family’s former head of security.

But looking into Jace’s dark brown eyes, none of those boardroom battles matter. He leans down, taking off his hat and resting his forehead against yours, his breath warm against your lips. "Tell me you brought the horses, please" he murmurs in a pleading tone, his thumb tracing a slow circle against your hip.

"They are already saddled," you whisper back, leaning up to press a quick, sweet kiss to his lips. "Though I had to convince luke not to follow us. He wanted to show you some new rope trick he learned"

Jace chuckles, a low, rumbling sound in his chest. "I will deal with luke later. Right now, I just want you."

You lead the way out to the hitching post where your horse, a gentle buckskin mare, and Vermax (my poor baby) Jace’s spirited dun gelding, are waiting patiently. Jace checks the cinches with a practiced eye, his movements smooth and confident. He has lived on horseback since he could walk a true product of the rugged town his grandfather built from the ground up.

"You look exceptionally beautiful today by the way," Jace says casually as he adjusts your stirrup leather. He looks up at you through his dark eyelashes, a playful glint in his eyes. "just thought you should know before we head out."

"Are you trying to use your sweet talk with me, Jacaerys?" you ask, climbing into the saddle.

"Always" he says, vaulting onto Vermax with effortless grace. He settles into the leather saddle, checking his reins. "but it also happens to be the harsh truth."

You shake your head, trying to hide the blush warming your cheeks, and urge your horse forward. Jace falls in beside you, his horse stepping out with a proud trot.

You ride past the primary paddocks and out toward the open range. The air is warm and thick with the scent of dry prairie grass and wild sage. The sky above is a vast, uninterrupted canopy of brilliant blue, typical of a summer afternoon.

"How are things really going with the family?" you ask quietly, keeping your eyes on the trail ahead. You know how much the pressure has been eating at him, even if he tries to hide it behind quick grins and sweet talk.

Jace sighs, his shoulders dropping a fraction. "Otto is trying to freeze our assets. He is claiming there is an ambiguity in my grandfather’s will regarding the distribution of the northern acreage, the high country pastures. He wants to hand them over to aegon, even though he could not tell the difference between a Hereford and an Angus if his life depended on it."

"And your mom? How is she?" Rhaenyra had been like a second mother to you and watching the situation slowly consume them tore you apart.

"She is fighting..." Jace says, his voice hardening with a quiet pride. "...she will not let them steal her birthright. And neither will I. I spent all yesterday morning going over the land deeds from thirty years ago. There is no ambiguity dear. My grandfather wanted this ranch to remain whole, under her management. But Alicent is whispering in the ears of the local sheriff and the county commissioners. It is an absolute mess."

You reach across the space between your horses, offering him your hand. Jace takes it immediately, his grip strong and reassuring.

"They are also starting up the rumors again" he adds, his voice dropping to a low, bitter register as he murmured against your interlaced fingers. "they told me that Aemond had the nerve to make a comment at the livestock auction last tuesday. Said something about how strong the calves were looking this year, looking right at me while he said it. I almost jumped the fence to tear his head off."

Your heart aches for him. You know how deeply those whispers cut, even if he carries himself with the dignity of a king. "he is just trying to get under your skin jace. He knows you are twice the man, he will ever be. You dont need to prove your blood to anyone"

Jace looks at you, his expression softening dramatically. The tension leaves his jaw, replaced by a quiet gratitude. He raises your hand to his lips, kissing the back of your knuckles gently. "what did I do to deserve you?"

"You got very lucky," you tease, though your eyes are shining.

"The luckiest man alive," he agrees, letting go of your hand only to urge Vermax into a light lope. "Come on, last to reach the pond (? idk the word) pays dinner!"

"Not fair cheater!" you yell, squeezing your calves against your mare’s sides urging him to speed up.

The wind whips through your hair as the horses kick up dust behind them. The rhythm of the hooves beating against the earth is a comforting, steady song. You watch Jace ahead of you, his body moving in perfect synchronization with Vermax. He looks completely free out here, away from the corporate lawyers, the whispering townspeople, and the heavy mantle of his family name. He turns back to look at you, his laughter carrying over the rush of the wind, pure and untroubled.

You round the bend where the trail narrows, descending into a lush, shaded valley. The temperature drops instantly as you enter the canopy of ancient cypress and pecan trees. In here the dry heat of the open range is replaced by the cool, damp breath of the river.

The horses slow to a walk, their breathing heavy but relaxed. Ahead, the river gleams like a ribbon of silver. It is like a private oasis, tucked away in a deep bend of the property that few people ever visit. The water is deep, fed by a natural spring, and bordered by smooth, flat limestone rocks.

Jace dismounts first, tossing Vermax’s reins over a low branch. He walks over to your horse, offering you his hands to help you down.

"Need some assistance, ma'am?" he asks, his voice dropping into a playful drawl.

"I think I can manage," you say, but you slide down into his arms anyway.

He catches you easily, holding you suspended against his chest for a second longer than necessary. His dark eyes trace the features of your face, full of a quiet intensity that always makes your breath hitch. "You could manage, mhm sure," he murmurs, his lips hovering just inches from yours. "but where is the fun in that?"

"You are incredibly distracting, you know that?"

"That is entirely the point my love" He kisses you then, a slow, deep, bruising kiss that tastes of sweet sun and wild air. His hands slide up your back, anchoring you to him as if he is trying to memorize the very shape of you. When he finally pulls back, his eyes are dark and heavy-lidded.

"Come on" Jace says, his voice a little husky. "lets get in the water before the sun starts to set"

He leads the horses down to a shaded spot where they can graze on the lush river grass, untacking them quickly. You watch him as he works, admiring the broad expanse of his shoulders and the easy confidence in his movements. Jace has always carried himself with a quiet authority, a trait he inherited from both his mother and the man who raised him, laenor. No matter what the Hightowers say, Jace is a Velaryon through and through, loyal to a fault, fiercely protective, and deeply tied to his land.

By the time he walks back to the water’s edge, he has already kicked off his boots and shed his socks. He starts unbuttoning his shirt, his eyes never leaving yours.

"Are you just going to stand there and watch, or are you going to join me?" he asks, a slow, devastating smirk spreading across his lips as he tosses his shirt onto a flat rock.

"I am observing the local wildlife," you reply, crossing your arms with a grin.

Jace laughs, a bright, genuine sound. "Oh is that so? And what is your analysis of the local wildlife?"

"Highly unpredictable, mmm extremely cocky..." you say, kicking off your own boots. "...but overall, quite handsome."

"I'll take it" Jace says. He unbuckles his belt and steps out of his jeans, leaving him in just his dark boxer briefs. He wades into the cool water, his sun-bronzed skin contrasting beautifully with the clear green of the river. He shivers slightly as the water reaches his waist. "Damn, it is cold today."

"Man up, Velaryon" you tease, shedding your own outer layers and stepping onto the smooth stones at the water’s edge. The cool water lapping at your ankles sends a pleasant shiver up your spine.

"Oh, is that a challenge?" Jace asks, his eyes flashing with mischief.

Before you can answer, he lunges forward, grabbing you around the waist and pulling you into the deep water with him. You scream with laughter as you plunge beneath the surface, the shocking cold of the river enveloping you both.

You surface gasping for air, shaking the water from your hair. "Jace! You jerk!" you scream slapping his chest playfully.

He rises up beside you, his dark hair slicked back from his face, water droplets clinging to his eyelashes and collarbones. He is laughing hysterically, his arms wrapping around you to pull you close against his chest. "I had to make sure you got the full experience"

"You are terrible" you say, though you are smiling so hard your cheeks hurt. You wrap your arms around his neck, letting your body float against his. The feeling of the water makes you feel weightless, and the cold is quickly forgotten as Jace’s warmth radiates into you.

"I am the best thing that ever happened to you, and you know it" he whispers, his hands settling on your lower back. He guides you toward a shallower section of the pool, where a flat, submerged ledge allows you both to sit comfortably with the water reaching your chests.

The river is quiet, except for the gentle babble of the current and the occasional call of a mockingbird in the trees above. The dappled sunlight filters through the leaves, creating moving patterns of gold and shadow across Jace’s face.

He reaches up, his thumb gently wiping away a stray droplet of water from your cheek. His playful demeanor softens into something incredibly tender. "but being completely serious now, I do not know what I would do out here without you. Lately, it feels like everyone is waiting for me to slip up. Aegon is just waiting to call me a fraud. Aemond wants to start a physical fight every time we cross paths, and the board... fucks sake, they look at me like I am some kind of charity case."

"Jace" you say softly as you took his face in your hands. His skin is cool from the water, but his eyes are burning with a quiet vulnerability. "you are not a fraud and you have worked this land since you were a boy. You know every acre, every cow, every stream....you belong here more than any of them."

He closes his eyes for a moment, leaning into the touch of your hands. "Sometimes I feel like I am fighting a losing battle. They have the banks on their side, god they even have the corporate lawyers"

"And you have the truth, You have the legacy, and you have me..." you say firmly. "we are going to fight them, Jace, If they want a war for this ranch, we will give them one, but they will not take what is yours"

Jace opens his eyes, a soft, beautiful smile gracing his lips. The heavy shadow of his doubts seems to lift, replaced by the fierce determination that makes him who he is. "You are too good for me" he whispers.

"I know" you say, a playful spark returning to your voice. "But I decided to keep you anyway"

He laughs, a low, contented sound and leans forward to press his lips to yours. This kiss is different, it is slow, lingering, and filled with a deep promise. His hands slide up your ribs, his touch sending a different kind of warmth through your veins. You part your lips letting him taste you fully, the gentle current of the river swirling around your bodies.

You shift closer, draping your legs over his lap as you sit on the submerged ledge. Jace groans softly against your mouth, his hands tightening on your waist, pulling you flush against his chest. The contrast between the cool water and the heat of his skin is intoxicating.

"I love you..." he murmurs against your neck, his lips tracing a path down to your collarbone. "...so much more than this ranch"

"I love you too Jace," you whisper, closing your eyes and losing yourself in the sensation of his hands, his lips, and the quiet security of his embrace.

For a long time, you stay like that, suspended in your own private world. The troubles of the Targaryen and Velaryon succession, the threats from the Hightowers, and the whispers of the town feel a million miles away. Here, in the shelter of the cypress trees and the cool embrace of the river, there is only Jace and you. As the sun begins to slide lower in the western sky, painting the clouds in shades of soft apricot and bruised purple. The light hitting the water turns the river into a shimmering sheet of amber, casting long, dramatic shadows across the limestone banks. You lean your head against Jace’s shoulder, listening to the steady, reassuring beat of his heart. His arm is draped over your shoulders, keeping you anchored against him as the cool evening breeze begins to stir the leaves above.

"We should probably get back," Jace says softly, though he does not make any move to stand up. Instead, he pulls you a fraction closer, pressing a warm kiss into your wet hair. "If we are not back by dark, my mother is going to send a search party, and Daemon will never let me live down the fact that I got lost on our own land"

"daemon would probably join us just to drink a beer and complain about the weather" you laugh, tilting your head up to look at him.

"True enough" Jace admits, a genuine smile lighting up his face. He reluctantly shifts, helping you stand up from the submerged ledge. The cool air hits your wet skin, making you shiver instantly. Jace notices immediately and quickly guides you out of the water and back onto the smooth, warm limestone rocks.

He grabs his discarded flannel shirt and wraps it around your shoulders, the thick fabric still retaining his warmth. "There, better?"

"Much better" you say, pulling the collar tight around yourself, inhaling the rich scent of cedarwood, leather and him. "What about you?"

Jace just shrugs, his chest and shoulders gleaming in the fading sunlight. "I am fine. A little cold never hurt a real cowboy."

"Oh, please," you roll your eyes playfully, though your heart swells at the sight of him. He is so utterly handsome, so completely comfortable in his own skin when it is just the two of you.

Together, you gather your clothes, dressing quickly but lazily. Jace helps you pull on your boots, kneeling in the grass before you with a focused, gentle expression that makes you want to melt. When he finishes, he stands up and offers his hand, pulling you to your feet and right into his chest once more for a lingering, sweet kiss.

"Thank you," he whispers against your lips. "for today. I really needed this, needed you."

"Anytime cowboy" you reply, squeezing his hands.

He smiles, then turns to lead the horses over. Vermax nudges Jace’s shoulder with his nose, demanding attention, and Jace obliges with a soft chuckle, scratching the horse behind the ears. He helps you mount your mare before swinging himself easily into his own saddle.

As you guide the horses back up the winding trail, leaving the river behind, the first stars begin to blink into existence in the darkening blue sky. The world is quiet, peaceful, and solid beneath your horses’ hooves. Jace rides close beside you, his stirrup occasionally brushing against yours.

You look over at him, his profile silhouetted against the dying light of the sunset. He looks calm now, the heavy burden of his family’s legacy finally resting easier on his young shoulders. He looks like a man ready to face whatever storms the Hightowers might bring to their borders. And as long as you are riding beside him, you know there is nothing you cannot face together.

The road ahead is long, filled with corporate disputes and family battles, but you both ride onward in silence, letting the quiet strength of the land wash over you. The cool air of the evening begins to take hold, carrying the scent of pine and damp earth from the valley behind. Every step your horses take brings you closer to the ranch house, where the bright porch lights are already twinkling in the distance like welcoming beacons.

Jace looks over at you, reaching out to clasp your hand one last time before you reach the main gates. His hand is warm, his grip firm and steady. "We are gonna make it" he says, more to himself than to you, but the conviction in his voice is undeniable. You nod, squeezing his hand in return, knowing that whatever tomorrow brings you will meet it side by side.

Luke was the first to spot you. He was perched on the top rail of the corral fence, lazily spinning a loop of lariat rope. When he saw the two of you ride in, his face lit up, and he hopped down jogging over to meet you.

"You guys took forever" Luke said, though there was no real heat in it. He looked up at Jace, a mischievous grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Mom was about to send daemon out on the ATV. He was already complaining about having to turn off the game"

"Tell him I saved him the trouble" Jace replied, his voice slipping effortlessly back into his protective, older brother tone, though his hand lingered on your thigh for a brief, reassuring second before he dismounted. He swung down from Vermax, his boots hitting the gravel with a solid thud. "And what about that new rope trick? Mhm? You better not have been practicing on the barn cats again."

"Ugh that was only once, and it was an accident by the way” Luke protested, laughing as he took Vermax's reins from Jace. 

[vinnieswife]

British Vogue "in the bag"

Harry collet x costar!reader (2,2k)

You showcase an engraved silver cardholder on Vogue, calling it a lucky charm from a dear friend. Your co-star, Harry, later shows the matching custom wallet with the exact same interlocking floral design.

MATERIALIST

Promotion was no longer about surviving a rapid fire battery of local news anchors asking the same three questions now it was about generating curated digital content designed to achieve cross-platform virality. That was how you found yourself sitting on a plush velvet sofa in a beautifully staged, sun-drenched studio in East London, shooting a solo episode of British Vogue’s iconic “In The Bag” series.

It was an exercise in calculated intimacy, engineered to feel entirely spontaneous while in reality it was thoroughly vetted, timed, and monitored by a small army of publicists hovering just outside the camera’s frame. Every item placed on the pristine marble coffee table had been chosen to project a specific persona, intellectual but accessible, stylish but effortless.

Until that moment, everything had been going exactly according to your publicist’s carefully curated, perfectly sanitized plan. You had already gracefully pulled out your favorite luxury lip balm (accompanied by a brief storytime about how it was the only thing that saved your lips during night shoots in Scotland), a heavily annotated copy of 'The Song of Achilles' (sorry I couldn't help it) you claimed to be re-reading for "inspiration," and a thrifted pair of vintage sunglasses. You explained the backstory of each item with a practiced, media-trained charm, navigating the interview with the precise level of warmth that kept audiences feeling included while keeping your actual private life firmly behind locked doors. You were doing a flawless performance of yourself. Then, your fingers brushed against something small and metallic resting at the very bottom of the bag’s silk lining, hidden beneath a stray pack of gum and a handful of loose hair ties.

Without entirely thinking about the consequences, your muscle memory took over. Your fingers closed around the familiar, cool contours of the object, and you fished it out before your internal censor could flag the risk.

You placed it gently onto the marble coffee table, the metallic clink echoing slightly in the quiet studio as the close-up B-roll lens immediately adjusted its focus to capture the detail. It was a crafted, vintage-style silver cardholder. The sterling silver was slightly tarnished around the hinges from daily use, giving it a beautifully lived-in character that contrasted sharply with the rest of the items currently in the table. A highly detailed, custom floral engraving entirely covered the front, swirling in delicate patterns that caught the studio lights. If one looked closely enough, the vines spiraled around two subtly interlocking, abstract initials integrated into the woodwork.

“And then I have this,” you said, a soft, incredibly fond smile slipping past your carefully constructed media guard before you could consciously catch and suppress it. You traced the cool lines of the engraving with your thumb, your eyes softening in a way that had absolutely nothing to do with standard brand promotion or the professional charisma you had deployed seconds earlier. “It’s a custom silver cardholder. A very dear friend gave it to me about a year ago, right before we started filming the new season, and it’s just become my little lucky charm. I never leave the house without it. It holds my life together, basically.”

The off-camera interviewer, tracking the palpable shift in your demeanor, cooed appreciatively. “It’s absolutely stunning. Is there a specific story behind that beautiful gift?”

You blinked, a sudden prickle of heat hitting the back of your neck as your media training kicked back into gear. You realized you were lingering a bit too long on the sentimentality of the object, and that the publicist in the shadows was likely checking her watch. Quickly pulling your hand back from the table, you offered a smooth and practiced deflective laugh. “Oh, it's just a local artisan in London, I believe,” you lied smoothly, your voice regaining its bright, professional cadence. “It was just a lovely bit of craftsmanship. I’m quite a sucker for small business” You quickly pivoted, reaching back into the bag for item number seven, a travel-sized bottle of perfume and finished the remaining ten minutes of the shoot without another hitch. When you left the studio that afternoon, you felt entirely confident that you had kept the details perfectly vague, safely wrapped in the anonymous, completely unassailable blanket of "a dear friend."

Exactly three weeks later, the sequel to your video dropped on British Vogue’s YouTube channel. Because the magazine’s digital marketing team loved capitalizing on the cast's onscreen chemistry to drive engagement, Harry had been booked to shoot his own “In The Bag” segment in the exact same East London studio, sitting on the exact same plush velvet sofa, staring into the exact same cameras.

You happened to watch the video from your own couch on a quiet Thursday afternoon, nothing like supporting your coworker (no one believes you girl). It was a rainy day, and you were wrapped in a blanket with a hot cup of tea in hand, entirely unprepared for the absolute, spectacular demolition of your privacy that was about to occur on screen. Harry was effortlessly charming from the opening frame. He joked easily with the audio technicians and began pulling out an assortment of thoroughly uncurated items, a tangled pair of old wired headphones you wouldn't catch him with a pair of big headphones outside a dj table, a heavily wrinkled shooting script with coffee stains on the cover, and a massive ring of keys.

But at the exact five minute mark, the casual trajectory of the interview broke. Harry reached deep into the small front pocket of his bag, his hand searching for something specific. He pulled out a small, pal-sized object and set it down onto the marble table with the exact same definitive clink your cardholder had made twenty one days prior. Your breath caught completely in your throat. Your tea was instantly forgotten, the mug resting precariously on your knee as you leaned closer to the screen "Oh fuck" you murmured.

It was a custom leather wallet, beautifully crafted from a rich, deep mahogany hide that had darkened and patinated with age. But it wasn’t just a standard piece of leather goods, no. Stitched seamlessly into the bottom right corner of the wallet was a sterling-silver accent piece. It featured the exact same intricate, swirling floral engraving as your cardholder.

The pattern was identical, same delicate baroque vine work, clearly done by the exact same hand. Even through a laptop screen, it was blindingly obvious that if the two pieces were placed side-by-side, the abstract metal initials on his wallet would flawlessly mirror and complete the interlocking pattern on your silver case. It was, without a single shadow of a doubt, the matching half of a highly specific, custom set.

“This is my wallet,” Harry said to the camera. His tone was entirely casual, but you noticed the subtle tell, his index finger was nervously tapping against the edge of the table in a rapid, rhythmic pattern you knew meant he was holding back a secret or trying to steady his nerves. “I actually got it about a year ago. It’s custom made by this brilliant little boutique in Soho. I’m quite sentimental about it, actually. It just... keeps me grounded, I suppose, when we're traveling so much for press and I miss home...”

The interviewer, possessing a razor-sharp memory and clearly recalling your video from prior, paused the momentum of the interview entirely. The off-camera voice returned, sharp with immediate recognition. “That engraving looks incredibly familiar, Harry. In fact, it looks almost identical to a piece we saw on this very table recently. Does it match y/n cardholder by chance?”

On screen, Harry froze for a fraction of a second, he knew he messed up. It was a micro-expression, clenching his jaw, a sudden stillness in his shoulders, before his eyes darted instinctively off-camera toward his publicist in a sudden, visible wave of absolute panic.

His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed hard, trying to process how a routine fashion segment had suddenly turned into an interrogation. Then, he forced a loud defensive laugh that fooled absolutely no one who had watched him act for four years. “Oh, really? Wow. Small world, isn't it?” he said, his voice a pitch higher than normal as he rubbed the back of his neck. “London’s a massive city, but I suppose good design travels fast. Must just be a popular place around here maybe?.” There was no way he was getting out of this one.

He might as well have confessed to a secret relationship on national television. The internet didn’t just notice the glaring similarity between the two items, they launched a full-scale, digital investigation within minutes of the video going live on YouTube. The fandom, armed with high-definition screenshots treated the two Vogue videos like pieces of classified evidence of a murder.

By Friday morning, only twenty four hours after the video dropped, the speculation had completely bypassed the boundaries of standard celebrity shipping. It had become a masterclass in digital forensics.

A viral thread on twitter analysed both videos in a matter of hours. The opening post contained side-by-side, high definition screenshots of your silver cardholder and Harry’s leather wallet, zoomed in to the maximum resolution. Further down the thread, an online graphic designer had taken the two images, isolated the metal engravings, stripped away the background textures of tthe leather and silver, and digitally aligned them on screen in a looping clip.

The animation demonstrated how the abstract, swirling lines of the floral borders easily interlocked, and how the negative space between the two patterns formed your first initial and his. It was undeniable proof that the two pieces were made together from a single piece of silver.

But the final blow, the absolute, undeniable gun that made any future PR denials completely useless came from a dumb TikTok. A fan who happened to collect independent British heritage goods managed to identify the highly specific style of the floral engraving. They recognized it as a signature technique of a tiny, fiercely private silversmith and leather boutique hidden away in the labyrinth of cobblestone back alleys in Soho. It was a shop with no website and a reputation for working strictly by appointment for local clientele.

Three days after Harry’s video aired, the elderly artisan himself, thoroughly bewildered by a sudden influx of thousands of digital notifications, emails, and direct messages, posted a video on his boutique’s official TikTok account. The video was unedited and raw, filmed by his apprentice. The old artisan stood in his workshop, surrounded by the rich scents of tanned leather, polishing oil, and old wood. Heavy magnification glasses were pushed up onto his wrinkled forehead, and he addressed the camera with a warm grandfatherly smile, entirely unaware of the internet culture storm he was about to seal shut.

“Hello to the lovely internet community that has been messaging my shop over the weekend,” the old artisan said, gesturing to his cluttered workbench behind him. “Yes, I can confirm that I hand-engraved those two specific pieces. About a year ago, a lovely man actor came into my shop entirely by himself. He spent nearly three hours with me right here at this bench, sketching out a blueprint for interlocking initials because he told me he wanted a specific, deeply private gift for his costar before they went away to film on location for months. He was very particular about the silver matching perfectly. I had no idea they would end up on Vogue!”

The artisan’s video gained five million views overnight, acting as the definitive confirmation the internet had been waiting for. Your personal phone became an unreadable, lagging blur of haptic vibrations. The group chat with your fellow castmates was a chaotic stream of capital letters, inside jokes, and screenshots of the viral metrics.

Simultaneously, your inbox was filling up with frantic, flagged emails from your management team and publicists, who were currently trying to draft a strategy for a situation that had completely evolved past their control.

The narrative was no longer owned by the studio or the PR firm. It belonged entirely to the internet.

The top comment on the official British Vogue YouTube video, pinned by the channel’s editors to maximize their engagement, captured the exposed reality of the situation perfectly.

“They really thought they were being slick. She called it a ‘lucky charm from a dear friend’ and he called it a ‘sentimental boutique find,’ but they are literally carrying around interlocking pieces of each other’s initials in their pockets every single day. Harry went to Soho, sat with an elderly silversmith for three hours, and designed a piece of his own heart to keep in her bag so she'd never feel alone on set. I am actually crying in a grocery store right now. Amazing way of showing me what I'll never have thank you Harry Collett”

[catbayunthestoryteller]

Kindled Anew (Part 3)

Pairing: Jacaerys Targaryen x f!reader

Series Summary: Having studied Valyrian history and sorcery, you perform a ritual to save Jace's life after the battle of Gullet, except he's not quite who he used to be after he comes back from death's doorstep. See part 1 here. Part 2 here. Warnings: smut, came back wrong Jace, blood, talks of death, killing.

Chapter summary: Even having experienced firsthand how deadly a wild dragon can be, having witnessed they can be claimed, Jace gets a mad idea to try to bond with other wild dragons residing near Dragonmont on Dragonstone. While Rhaenyra, Daemon and the dragonseeds fly to take King's Landing, the couple left behind on Dragonstone cut their honeymoon short, sneak off, and encounter Cannibal and Greyghost.

Jace was insatiable. There was no other word for it. The boy who had been so careful, so restrained, so achingly proper in all the years of your betrothal had vanished, replaced by a man who seemed to need you near constantly. He only left your bed for council meetings, and even then, he went reluctantly, his eyes lingering on you as he dressed, his hands reaching for you one last time before he forced himself out the door.

When he returned, he came straight to you, shedding his tunic and boots before climbing back into bed, his arms wrapping around you. He would not let you go, even in sleep. You would drift off with your head on his chest, and wake hours later to find yourself sprawled across him, his arms locked around your waist, his face buried in your hair. More than once, you had been pulled from dreams by the sensation of his fingers moving inside you, his thumb circling that sensitive peak while his lips brushed against your neck, his voice a low, sleepy murmur of Valyrian endearments. He would bring you to completion like that, his fingers coaxing your release from you before he even fully woke, and then he would roll you beneath him and take you again, slow and deep, his eyes never leaving your face.

"You are mine," he would whisper against your skin. "Mine. Say it."

"I am yours," you would gasp, and he would reward you with a kiss that stole your breath and a thrust that made you see stars.

It should have exhausted you. It should have left you sore, weary and desperate for rest. But instead, you found yourself matching his hunger with your own, your body responding to his touch with an eagerness that surprised you. Perhaps it was simply the relief of finally being together after years of waiting. Whatever the reason, you could not get enough of him, he could not get enough of you, and the world outside your chamber door seemed very far away.

But the world had a way of intruding.

The raven arrived five days after the wedding. You were in bed, tangled in the sheets, Jace's head resting on your stomach while you carded your fingers through his dark curls. He was dozing, his breathing slow and even, his body finally still after hours of passionate activity. When the knock came at the door, he stirred, his arms tightening around your waist.

"Go away," he called, his voice muffled against your skin.

"Your Grace," came the voice of one of Rhaenyra's stewards, high and thin with anxiety. "A raven from King's Landing. The Queen has taken the city."

Jace was out of bed before you could blink, crossing the room and pulling open the door with no regard for his nakedness. The steward's eyes widened, his face flushing crimson as he thrust a scroll into Jace's hands and retreated with a stammered apology. Jace didn't notice. He was already reading, his dark eyes flying across the parchment, his expression shifting from anticipation to joy.

"The city is ours," his voice was thick with emotion. "The gates were opened as Alicent promised. The gold cloaks rose for Daemon. Aegon has fled, no one knows where. The Iron Throne is my mother's."

You sat up in bed, the sheets pooling around your waist. "Then it's over?"

Jace's jaw tightened. "Not yet. The coronation is being delayed. My mother has no council, no Queensguard. Half the lords who should be bending the knee are still in their castles, waiting to see which way the wind blows. And Aemond…" He crumpled the scroll in his fist. "Aemond and Vhagar burned Daemon's garrison near Harrenhal. They've taken the castle. Ormund Hightower is marching with an army from Oldtown, and he has Daeron and Tessarion with him. The war is not over. It's not even close to over."

He began to pace, his naked body taut with frustration. "She wants us to remain on Dragonstone. She says it's not safe yet. She says she needs to consolidate her hold on the city before she can send for us. We are to wait. To sit here and do nothing while the realm tears itself apart."

You rose from the bed and went to him. You wrapped your arms around him from behind, pressing your cheek against the warm skin of his back. "She is trying to protect you. You nearly died, Jace. Everyone saw it. Everyone knows it."

"I know." His voice was tight. "I know, and I understand, but that does not make it easier. I am her heir. I should be at her side. I should be helping her rule, helping her plan, helping her win this war. Instead, I am stuck here, with no dragon, no army, no way to..."

He stopped. You felt the tension in his muscles shift, his body going still.

"Jace?"

"I need a dragon," he muttered. "Without Vermax, I am…diminished. Less than I was. Less than I need to be. My mother has six dragons at her command now, but none of them are mine. I cannot lead armies on horseback. I cannot inspire fear in our enemies or loyalty in our allies. I am a dragonrider without a dragon, and it is driving me mad."

You tightened your arms around him. "I know. I know what it is to lose a dragon. I feel it every day. I miss the sky. I miss the wind. I miss the weight of her beneath me, the sound of her heartbeat, the way she would turn her head to look at me with those great golden eyes." Your voice caught. "She died for me. She carried me all the way from Rook's Rest with Vhagar's flesh still in her claws, and she died on the beach because she would not stop until she got me to safety."

Jace turned in your arms, his hands coming up to cup your face. "I know," he said softly. "I know, my love. And I swear to you, when this war is over, we will avenge her. We will avenge Vermax. We will make Aemond Targaryen pay for every dragon he has killed, every life he has taken, every tear you have shed."

He kissed you fiercely, tenderly, and when he pulled back, there was a new light in his eyes. A familiar light. The same fire that had burned there since the night you brought him back.

"Do you remember what I told you about the Gullet?" he asked. "After I woke? I told my mother about Rhaena. About how she claimed Sheepstealer."

You nodded slowly. Rhaenyra had been furious when she heard, she had proclaimed it a disastrous mistake and sent a search party after her stepdaughter. But Jace had been different. Jace had been impressed.

"She claimed a wild dragon," Jace said. "A dragon that had never been ridden, never been tamed, never bent to human will. And she did it alone. If Rhaena can do it, why can't I?"

Your heart began to beat faster. "What are you saying?"

Jace's hands dropped from your face to your shoulders, gripping you. "There are wild dragons on Dragonstone. Unclaimed dragons, living right here on this island, while we sit in this castle and lament our wingless state. Cannibal. Greyghost. They've been here for decades, centuries in Cannibal's case. And no one has ever claimed them."

"Because they're wild," your voice rose. "Because Cannibal eats other dragons. Because Greyghost is so elusive that most people have never even seen him. Because every fool who has ever tried to tame them has ended up dead, their bones littering the Dragonmont."

"Then they were the wrong kind of fool." Jace's eyes were blazing now, the fire in them so bright it was almost blinding. "I am a Targaryen. I am the heir to the Iron Throne. I have died and come back, and I am not afraid of a dragon, no matter how wild or ancient or deadly. I will claim one of them. I will have a dragon again, or I will die trying."

"Jace..."

"I cannot sit here and do nothing," he cut in frustrated. "I cannot spend the rest of this war waiting and hoping and praying that my mother will summon me. I need to act. I need to fly. I need to be able to fight for what is mine. Do you understand? Do you understand what it feels like to be grounded while your enemies soar?"

You understood. You understood better than anyone. Every day since your dragon had died, you had felt the absence like a missing limb. The sky called to you, and you could not answer. The wind sang, and you could not join the chorus. You were a Targaryen without a dragon, and it was a half-life, a shadow-existence, a constant, gnawing ache that nothing could ease.

But that did not mean you were willing to watch your husband get himself killed.

"Even if you could claim one of them," you said, trying to keep your voice calm, "how would you do it? Cannibal's lair is halfway up the Dragonmont. Greyghost is never seen in the same place twice. The terrain is treacherous, the dragons are dangerous, and if anyone finds out what you're planning, they'll lock you in your chambers and throw away the key."

Jace smiled, and it was a sharp, reckless, beautiful thing. "Then we won't tell anyone."

"We?"

"I'm not leaving you behind." His hands slid down your arms, his fingers intertwining with yours. "You want to fly again as much as I do. You want to feel the wind beneath you and the fire above you. And if I'm going to be fool enough to try to claim a wild dragon, I want you with me. I need you with me. You're my luck. My magic. My heart."

You stared at him, torn between terror and exhilaration. "This is madness."

"Probably," he agreed. "Will you come with me anyway?"

You should have said no. You should have argued, pleaded, threatened. You should have written to Daemon, though Daemon, you suspected, would only be amused by the whole endeavor. But looking into Jace's eyes, seeing the fire there, the desperate, burning need, you found that you could not deny him. You could never deny him. Not when he looked at you like that. Not when he needed you.

"Yes," you said. "I'll come with you."

The preparations took two days. Two days of secret planning, stolen supplies, whispered conversations in the dead of night. Jace threw himself into the task, researching the wild dragons thoroughly.

Greyghost, according to the old records, was a pale grey-white dragon, the color of morning mist over the sea. He was shy and elusive, rarely seen by the inhabitants of Dragonstone, and he had never been known to attack humans unless provoked. He fed primarily on fish, hunting in the waters around the island, and he avoided the other dragons whenever possible. He was, by all accounts, the safer of the two wild dragons, if any dragon could be called safe.

Cannibal was another matter entirely. He was coal-black, with scales so dark they seemed to swallow light, and his eyes were a menacing green that glowed in the darkness of his lair. He was the largest and oldest of the wild dragons, so ancient that some legends claimed he had lived on Dragonstone even before the Targaryens arrived. He had earned his name because he fed on dead dragons, hatchlings, and eggs. His lair was littered with the bones of the fools who had tried to tame him. He had never been ridden. He had never been claimed. He was, by all accounts, untameable.

"We'll start with Greyghost," Jace decided, spreading a map of the Dragonmont across your bed. "He's less likely to kill us on sight. We'll bring fish, fresh fish, still flopping if we can manage it. The records say he's more likely to approach if he's offered food."

"What of Cannibal?"

Jace's expression flickered. "Cannibal will be more difficult. He eats dragons, not fish. But I have an idea." He looked at you. "Your dragon. Her body is still on the beach, isn't it?"

You nodded slowly. "No one has had time to move her. She's too large for a crypt, and a funeral pyre for a dragon…" You trailed off, understanding dawning. "You want to use her flesh."

"Not her flesh," Jace said quickly, seeing the distress in your eyes. "The flesh she took from Vhagar. You said she clawed Vhagar during the battle. You said she carried a strip of Vhagar's flesh back to Dragonstone on her claws. If we can extract it, if we can preserve it somehow… Cannibal eats dragons. He's never tasted Vhagar before. It might be enough to get his attention."

You thought about it. The idea of approaching your dragon's corpse, of cutting into her claws to retrieve the flesh of the beast that had killed her, was deeply unsettling. But it was also fitting, in a way. Your dragon had died fighting Vhagar. Perhaps her last act could help you and Jace claim new dragons and continue the fight she had given her life for.

"There's more," Jace said. "Cannibal might not go for Vhagar's flesh right away. He's ancient and cunning, and he'll be suspicious. So I'm bringing other food too. Chicken. Crabs. The old texts say that's the closest taste to dragon meat that isn't actually dragon. If he won't take Vhagar's flesh, maybe he'll take that."

"You've thought of everything," you said with a note of reluctant admiration in your voice.

"I've had nothing but time to think," Jace replied. "Time, and a burning need to be in the sky again."

The following day, you dressed in riding leathers: practical, warm, easy to move in, and met Jace in the stables, where he had already hitched a pair of horses to a covered wagon. The wagon was laden with supplies: buckets of fresh fish, their scales still gleaming; a covered basket of raw chicken and crabs; and a separate, carefully wrapped package that you knew contained Vhagar's flesh, extracted from your dragon's claws the night before under cover of darkness.

"You're sure about this?" you asked, mounting your horse.

Jace swung into the saddle beside you, his expression set with determination. "I've never been more sure of anything."

The ride to the Dragonmont was long and treacherous. The volcano loomed in the distance, its peak wreathed in smoke and ash, and the road grew steeper and rockier the closer you got. The horses began to grow uneasy as you approached the mountain's base, their ears flattening, their eyes rolling. By the time you reached the lower slopes, they were trembling and snorting, refusing to take another step.

"Damn," Jace muttered, dismounting. "We'll have to go on foot from here."

You tied the horses to a sturdy tree, well away from the mountain, and began to unload the supplies. The fish went into a large sack that Jace slung over his shoulder. The chicken and crabs went into another. The package of Vhagar's flesh, still cold from the ice you'd packed it in, went into a leather satchel that Jace kept close to his body. Then you began to climb.

The Dragonmont was a harsh, unforgiving place. The ground was loose and rocky, treacherous underfoot, and the air grew hotter and thicker the higher you climbed. Steam vented from cracks in the earth, carrying the sulfurous stench of the volcano's heart. You could feel the mountain's presence, ancient and watchful, as if the stone itself was aware of your intrusion.

"We're looking for Greyghost first," Jace said, his voice low. "The records say he favors the eastern slopes, near the sea cliffs. He likes to hunt fish in the waters below."

You climbed for another hour, picking your way carefully across the jagged terrain. The sun rose higher, burning off the morning mist, and the day grew warm despite the overcast sky. Your legs ached. So did your spine. You were beginning to think you would never find the dragon when Jace suddenly stopped, his hand shooting out to grip your arm.

"There," he breathed.

You followed his gaze. Ahead, perched on a rocky outcropping overlooking the sea, was a dragon. He was beautiful, pale grey-white, exactly as the records had described, his scales shimmering like mother-of-pearl in the filtered sunlight. He was smaller than the Targaryen dragons you had known, lean and graceful, with a long neck and a delicate head that was currently turned toward the sea, watching the waves below.

Greyghost.

"Stay behind me," Jace murmured, but you shook your head.

"No. Let me approach him first."

Jace frowned. "Why you?"

"He's shy. The records say he avoids humans. But he might be more willing to approach a woman. And I…" You hesitated, then pressed on. "I've been without a dragon for so long. Let me try."

Jace looked at you for a long moment, and then he nodded. "Be careful."

You took the sack of fish from him and began to walk slowly toward the dragon. Greyghost's head turned at the sound of your footsteps, his pale eyes fixing on you with wary curiosity. He did not flee, but he did not approach either. He simply watched, his body tense, ready to take flight at any moment.

"Rytsas, gevie," you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper. "Hello, beautiful one. I'm not going to hurt you. I've brought you something."

You reached into the sack and pulled out a fish, still fresh and gleaming. You held it out toward the dragon, your arm extended, your body language as non-threatening as you could make it. Greyghost's nostrils flared, scenting the fish, and his head tilted slightly. But he did not move.

"Lykirī," you crooned, taking a step closer. "It's all right. I know you're frightened. I know you've been alone for a long time. So have I. I lost my dragon. She died saving my life. And I've been empty ever since. I think you might understand that."

Greyghost made a soft sound, a low, throaty warble that was not quite a growl and not quite a purr. He took a tentative step toward you, his claws scraping against the rock.

"That's it," you said. "Naejot māzīs. Come on. It's just fish. You like fish, don't you?"

Another step. Then another. Greyghost was close enough now that you could see the individual scales on his snout, the faint steam that curled from his nostrils. He was beautiful.

You tossed the fish toward him. He caught it in mid-air, his jaws snapping shut with a crunch, and swallowed it in a single gulp. His eyes fixed on you again, and this time there was less wariness in them. More curiosity.

"Good boy," you said, and threw another fish.

You spent the next hour feeding Greyghost, tossing fish after fish toward the pale dragon and murmuring soft words of encouragement. He never came close enough to touch, but he stopped flinching when you moved, stopped tensing when you spoke. He even allowed Jace to come closer, though he eyed the prince with obvious suspicion, a low rumble building in his chest whenever Jace moved too quickly.

"He doesn't like me," Jace observed, his voice carefully neutral.

"Give him time." you replied.

But time was something you did not have in abundance. The sun was beginning its descent toward the horizon, and you had not yet attempted to find Cannibal. Jace's frustration was palpable, a tension in his shoulders that grew more pronounced with every passing hour.

"He's not going to come down the mountain," Jace sighed finally. "He's too afraid. Of me, maybe. Or of Cannibal. Greyghost has survived this long by being cautious. He's not going to risk getting close to a human when Cannibal might be lurking nearby."

"So what do we do?"

Jace's jaw tightened. "We split up. You stay here with Greyghost. Keep feeding him. Keep building his trust. I'll go find Cannibal."

Your heart lurched. "No. Absolutely not. Cannibal is too dangerous. You said it yourself, his lair is littered with the bones of the men who tried to tame him. I won't let you go alone."

"You can't stop me." Jace's voice was gentle but firm. "This is something I have to do. I have to try. If I don't, I'll spend the rest of my life wondering what might have been. I won't live with that regret. Not when I've already been given a second chance at life."

"Jace..."

"I'll be careful," he promised, taking your face in his hands. "I'll be careful, and I'll come back. I swear it. I didn't survive the Gullet and your blood magic just to get eaten by a wild dragon on Dragonstone. That would be a very stupid way to die, and I refuse to be that stupid."

He kissed you, hard and quick, and before you could argue further, he was gone, descending the rocky slope with the satchel of Vhagar's flesh and the basket of chicken and crabs slung over his shoulder.

You watched him go, your heart in your throat. Then you turned back to Greyghost and threw another fish.

The hours that followed were among the longest of your life. You stayed with Greyghost, feeding him the last of the fish and speaking to him in a low, soothing voice, but your mind was elsewhere. Every gust of wind, every rumble of the volcano, every distant cry of a seabird made you flinch, your eyes scanning the slopes for any sign of Jace.

Greyghost seemed to sense your unease. He grew restless, his pale eyes darting toward the mountain's interior, his wings twitching as if he wanted to flee. You realized, with a sinking heart, that he was afraid of Cannibal. Even here, on the far side of the Dragonmont, he could sense the older dragon's presence.

"Lykirī," you told him, though your voice shook. "It's all right. He won't hurt you. I won't let him."

But you didn't know if that was a promise you could keep.

The sun sank lower, painting the sky in shades of gold and crimson. The shadows lengthened, and the temperature began to drop, and still Jace did not return. You were beginning to panic, your mind conjuring images of Jace lying broken on the rocks, Jace consumed by black fire, Jace's bones joining the others in Cannibal's lair...

A roar split the air.

It was unlike anything you had ever heard. Deep, ancient, terrible, a sound that seemed to shake the very foundations of the mountain. Greyghost shrieked in response, his wings spreading, his body tensing to flee. You threw yourself at him, grabbing on, holding on with all your strength.

"Daor!" you shouted. "Lykirī! No, don't go! Please, don't go!"

Greyghost thrashed, his head swinging toward you, his jaws open. For one heart-stopping moment, you thought he was going to incinerate you. But then his eyes met yours, and something shifted in them. Recognition. Understanding. He did not burn you. He did not flee. But he trembled beneath your touch, his whole body quivering with fear.

The roar faded, echoing across the mountain. And then, silence.

You waited, your heart pounding, your hands still gripping Greyghost's spine. The silence stretched on for what felt like hours. The sun sank below the horizon, and the stars began to emerge, cold and distant overhead. And then, finally, you heard footsteps on the rocks below.

Jace emerged from the darkness, and the sight of him made your breath catch. His hair was matted with sweat and ash, his skin was covered in soot, and his eyes were wild, blazing with a fire that seemed almost supernatural. But he was unharmed. No burns, no bites, no broken bones. He was whole, and he was alive, and he was walking toward you with a strange, fierce smile on his face.

"I found him," he said, his voice rough and raw. "I found Cannibal."

You released Greyghost and ran to him, throwing your arms around his neck. He caught you, his soot-stained hands gripping your waist, and buried his face in your hair.

"Don't ever do that to me again," you gasped. "Don't ever leave me like that again. I thought you were dead. I thought..."

"I'm not dead." He pulled back, cupping your face in his hands. "I'm not dead. I found him. His lair is deep in the mountain, a cavern full of bones and ash. He's massive, larger than any dragon I've ever seen except Vhagar. And he was hungry."

"What happened?"

Jace's smile widened into a feral one. "I gave him Vhagar's flesh first. He ate it in a single bite. Then I offered him the chicken and the crabs, but he refused them. He just…watched me. For hours. Waiting. I thought he was going to kill me. But I stayed. I didn't run. I didn't flinch. And eventually, he got hungry enough to eat what I offered. He hasn't had much to feed on."

"He let you near him?"

"No." Jace shook his head. "Not yet. He took the food, but he wouldn't let me get close. He's not like Greyghost. He's not shy or curious or gentle. He's a predator. He's death with wings. But he knows me now. He knows my scent. And I will go back tomorrow, and the day after, and the day after that, until he lets me ride him."

Greyghost shrieked again, a high, piercing sound. Jace turned toward the pale dragon, and Greyghost backed away, his wings spreading, his eyes fixed on Jace with obvious fear.

"He smells Cannibal on me," Jace said. "He wants to be away from me."

"Then let him be away." You stepped toward Greyghost, your hand extended. "kostilus, gevie. I'll take you somewhere safe. Away from the big, scary man who smells like death."

Greyghost's pale eyes fixed on you. He was still trembling, still poised to flee, but his gaze that gave you hope. Trust. He trusted you.

You walked toward him slowly, your hand still extended, and this time, he did not back away. He let you touch his snout, his scales warm and smooth beneath your palm. He let you run your hand along his neck, feeling the powerful muscles beneath the pale hide. And when you swung yourself onto his back, he did not throw you off.

"Sōves," you whispered to him. "Kostilus. Just for a little while. I've been grounded for so long."

Greyghost's wings spread. He launched himself from the cliff with a single powerful leap, and then you were flying, the wind screaming past your ears, the sea glittering far below, the stars wheeling overhead. You laughed, a wild, exultant sound, and tears streamed from your eyes, torn away by the wind.

It was not the same as flying your own dragon. It would never be the same. But it was flight. It was the sky. It was freedom. For the first time since Rook's Rest, you felt whole.

Greyghost carried you over the sea, over the black sand beaches, over the smoking peak of the Dragonmont. He flew until his fear of Cannibal's scent faded, until the joy of the flight overtook his caution. But eventually, he descended, landing on sand on the far side of the island. You slid from his back, and he looked at you for a long moment. Then he spread his wings and flew away, vanishing into the night.

"He'll come back," Jace said when you told him, his voice certain. "You've bonded with him. He knows you now. He'll come back."

He was right.

Each morning, before the sun rose, you and Jace would slip out of the castle and make your way to the Dragonmont. You would find Greyghost on the eastern slopes, waiting for you with his pale eyes and his gentle warble, and you would feed him fish, stroke his snout and whisper to him in High Valyrian. And each day, he let you mount him, let you fly with him, let you become more and more a part of his world.

Jace went to Cannibal. Every day, he climbed into the heart of the mountain, carrying offerings of meat. Every day, he sat in the darkness of Cannibal's lair, surrounded by bones, and waited. The coal-black dragon did not trust him, did not let him approach, but he stopped growling when Jace entered. He stopped baring his teeth. He began to watch Jace with something that was not quite curiosity and not quite recognition, but was closer to both than it had been before.

"He's testing me," Jace said one night, his body still streaked with soot, his eyes still blazing with that wild light. "He wants to see if I'm worthy. If I'm strong enough. If I'll break."

"Will you?"

"No." Jace's voice was iron. "I won't break. I can't break. I've already died once. What does a dragon's temper matter after that?"

The days became a week. The week became two. You and Jace grew stronger, your bodies hardened by the daily climbs up the Dragonmont, your bond with each other deepened by the shared secret. You learned Greyghost's moods, his preferences. You learned the sound of his approach, the rhythm of his wingbeats, the meaning of his various warbles and growls.

You learned about Cannibal, too. Jace told you everything, the size of him, the color of his scales, the way his green eyes glowed in the darkness of his lair. He told you about the bones that littered the cavern floor, the skulls of men and dragons alike, the evidence of centuries of predation. He told you about the way Cannibal would sometimes stretch his massive jaws in a yawn that revealed rows of teeth as long as swords. He told you about the heat of the dragon's breath, the sulfurous stench of his lair, the way the ground trembled when he shifted his weight.

"He's magnificent," Jace said with genuine awe in his voice. "He's terrible and beautiful and utterly, completely wild. He has never bent to anyone. Never. In all the centuries he's lived, no one has ever ridden him. No one has ever even tried and lived to tell about it."

"Except you."

"Except me." Jace smiled, and it was that same unsettling smile that you had come to love and fear in equal measure. "I think he's starting to respect me. Just a little but enough."

He brought a whip, at first, as was tradition for those who sought to tame a dragon. But Cannibal was so large, his scales so thick and tough, that you doubted the whip registered as anything more than a firm pat. The dragon barely seemed to notice when Jace cracked it against his hide. He only turned his great head and fixed Jace with those terrible green eyes, as if to say, Is that all you have, little man?

But Jace did not give up. He brought meat every day. He spoke to Cannibal in High Valyrian, tried to teach him, using the same commands that the dragonlords of old had used to bind their mounts. Dohaerās. Serve. Māzīs. Come. Lykirī. Calm.

At first, Cannibal ignored him. Then he began to tolerate him. He would eat the food Jace brought, snapping it out of the air with his massive jaws, but he would not let Jace touch him. He would not let him approach.

Jace was different with Cannibal than he was with you. You watched him during those long days on the mountain, and you saw a side of him you had never seen before. He was firm. Assertive. Unyielding. He did not plead with the dragon or cajole him or try to win him over with gentleness. He commanded. He demanded. He stood his ground even when Cannibal roared and snapped and breathed plumes of smoke that could have cooked him alive.

"I am your rider," Jacaerys would tell the dragon, his voice ringing with absolute certainty.

The difficulty, you soon discovered, was not in bonding with your respective dragons. It was in getting them to tolerate each other.

Greyghost was terrified of Cannibal. Every time Jace returned from the inner mountain carrying the older dragon's scent, Greyghost would shriek and flee, and it would take you hours to coax him back. And Cannibal, for his part, viewed Greyghost as prey. More than once, Jace reported that Cannibal had stirred and growled when Greyghost's scent drifted into his lair, his green eyes fixing on the distant presence of the smaller dragon with predatory interest.

"This isn't going to work," you said one evening, frustrated and exhausted. "If they can't be near each other, we can't fly together. We can't fight together. We'll be two dragonriders who can never be in the same place at the same time."

Jace was quiet for a long moment. Then he said, "We need to introduce them slowly. Carefully. In a way that makes Cannibal understand that Greyghost is not prey."

"And how do we do that?"

"I don't know yet." Jace's brow furrowed. "But I'll think of something."

The breakthrough came from an unexpected direction.

Jace had always been affectionate with you, that was nothing new. But as the days on the Dragonmont wore on, his affection became more demonstrative. He would find a sheltered spot on the mountainside, a nook of warm rock protected from the wind, and he would make a nest for you there. He would gather soft moss and dry grass, arrange it carefully, and then guide you to sit, wrapping his cloak around your shoulders and pressing food into your hands. He would feed you with his own fingers, brushing crumbs from your lips, his eyes soft and warm. He would pull you into his lap and hold you, his chin resting on your shoulder, his arms wrapped around your waist.

It was during one of these moments that you noticed Cannibal watching.

The coal-black dragon had crept closer to the edge of his territory, drawn perhaps by the scent of the food or the sound of Jace's voice. His green eyes were fixed on the two of you, unblinking. But he was not growling. He was not baring his teeth. He was simply watching.

"Cannibal sees how I treat you," Jace murmured in your ear, his voice low and thoughtful. "He sees that you are important to me. He sees that I protect you, feed you, care for you. He's never seen that before. He's only ever seen humans as threats or prey."

You looked up at the black dragon, your heart pounding. "Do you think he understands?"

"I think he's starting to." Jace pressed a kiss to your temple. "And if he understands that you are an extension of me, that you are part of my...territory, my pack, whatever he thinks we are…then maybe he can understand that Greyghost is an extension of you."

It was a wild theory, a desperate hope. But it was the only one you had.

The next day, you brought Greyghost closer to Cannibal's territory. Not all the way in because that would have been suicide, but close enough that the pale dragon's scent would carry. Greyghost was nervous, his wings twitching, his eyes darting toward the mountain's interior, but you soothed him with fish and soft words and gentle touches.

Jace went to Cannibal as usual, carrying his offerings of meat. But this time, instead of simply feeding the black dragon, he made a point of being affectionate with you in Cannibal's line of sight. He brought you into the outer edges of Cannibal's territory, sat you down on a warm rock, and proceeded to feed you dried fruit and bread from his satchel. He wrapped his arms around you, kissed your hair, murmured endearments in High Valyrian. And all the while, Cannibal watched.

The black dragon's green eyes moved from Jace to you to the distant, pale shape of Greyghost on the ridge above. He did not growl. He did not attack. He simply observed.

"It's working," Jace breathed. "Look at him. He's trying to understand. He's never had to think about these things before. He's never had to consider that another creature might be important to someone he's starting to…tolerate."

"Tolerate?" You couldn't help the laugh that escaped you. "Is that what you call it?"

"It's progress." Jace grinned. "A week ago, he was trying to eat me. Now he just glares. That's practically an invitation."

The days passed, and the progress continued. Cannibal stopped growling when Greyghost's scent reached him. Greyghost stopped fleeing whenever Jace approached. The two dragons never came face to face, that would have been too much, too fast, but they learned to exist in proximity to each other, separated by ridges and cliffs and the careful management of their riders.

You were sitting in Jace's nest, your back against his chest, Greyghost dozing on a ledge above you. Jace had just fed Cannibal his daily offering, and the black dragon was lying at the entrance to his lair, his massive head resting on his foreclaws, his green eyes half-lidded. The sun was setting, painting the sky in shades of fire and blood.

"Cannibal has accepted me," Jace said quietly. "I think he accepted me days ago, and I just didn't realize it. He lets me touch him now. Just barely. Just a hand on his snout, for a moment. But he lets me."

"Are you ready to ride him?"

Jace was silent for a long moment. "Almost. He's still wild. He still doesn't fully trust me. But he will. I know he will."

"And then what?"

"Then we fly." Jace's arms tightened around you. "We fly, and we fight, and we win. All four of us together."

Part 4: coming soon... Sneak peak/Chapter 4 summary: Rhaenyra and Daemon are beside themselves once they learn what Jace and his wife have done. Since Greyghost is smaller and can blend into clouds and cliffs like a chameleon, he and his rider are sent to scout the Riverlands, check on Daemon's remaining forces and scour for Aemond and Vhagar, since no one had seen them in days. Aemond, recovered from the stab wound thanks to Alys, now under her influence, mounts Vhagar and burns Riverlands, trying to draw out Daemon. He encounters Greyghost instead, the rider being the girl he had loved as a boy and fought as a man. Having intended to take her as a trophy and make her his wife at Rook's Rest, he is not too pleased to find her riding a new dragon. Or to learn that she brought her betrothed back to life and married him.

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[vinnieswife]

Chicken shop date

Harry Collett x costar!reader (1,8k)

Despite strict orders from his publicist to stick to the script they arranged, Harry completely breaks character to choose his co-star over a lifetime supply of free chicken, leaving Amelia completely speechless.

MATERIALIST

The fluorescent lighting of Dallas Chicken & Ribs in North London was aggressively bright, humming with a low-voltage buzz that perfectly matched the awkward energy vibrating across the formica table.

Harry sat on a bright red plastic stool, looking hilariously out of place in a sharp, tailored jacket over a crisp white t-shirt. He was trying to maintain his best charming, media-trained posture, but his fingers were nervously tearing a paper napkin into tiny, neat shreds.

Amelia Dimoldenberg sat directly opposite him, completely motionless. She was wearing an oversized puffer jacket, staring dead into his soul with a face so entirely devoid of emotion it bordered on a psychological experiment. Between them sat a single, greasy cardboard box containing four chicken nuggets and two lukewarm portions of chips.

You were currently hiding behind camera two, crouched next to a stack of extra mayonnaise tubs. Sarah, your lead publicist was standing right beside you, tapping her foot with a rhythm that suggested she was on the verge of a cardiac event. "Keep him on script," she had whispered before the cameras rolled. "This is a comedy show. Do not let him turn it into a soft-launch"

Amelia slowly reached into the box, picked up a single chip, dipped it into a tiny tub of sweet chili sauce, and chewed with agonizing slowness.

"So," Amelia finally said, her deadpan British monotone cutting through the hum of the takeaway. "Harry."

"Amelia," Harry replied, offering his most award winning smile. "Lovely to be here."

"Don't do that," Amelia said flatly.

Harry blinked, his smile faltering slightly. "Do what?"

"The...thing with your face. The dimples. It’s a lot." Amelia shifted her gaze down to her notes. "So you’re an actor, you play Jacaerys Velaryon in HBO, right?."

"I do, yeah."

“So you ride dragons."

"Yes."

"Do you find that riding a dragon gives you a sense of power that you lack in your everyday life? For example... when you’re being managed by women."

Behind the camera, you snorted softly. Harry’s ears instantly turned a spectacular, unmistakable shade of deep pink. He let out a nervous chuckle, adjusting his collar. “I- uh…well, I wouldn't say I'm managed by women" he let an awkward laugh escape. "I just have a very...efficient support system."

"You do a lot of romantic scenes."

"A fair few, I suppose."

"Do you find that pretending to be in love with people is easy, or are you just incredibly deceptive as a person?"

Harry let out a nervous, high-pitched chuckle, adjusting his collar as his ears instantly turned a faint shade of pink. "I wouldn't say deceptive It’s just... you kind of build a connection with your scene partner. It’s about trust honestly.”

"Trust mhm," Amelia repeated, her voice dripping with profound skepticism. "I've seen the bts footage from the official page"

"Oh, sweet mother of Jesus" Harry muttered, burying his face in his hands for a brief second before recovering. "Which footage?"

"The ones where you look like a Victorian orphan who has just been handed a warm bowl of soup whenever y/n enters the room." Amelia leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand. "The internet says you’re obsessed. Are you obsessed Collett?”

"I’m not obsessed?" Harry protested, his voice cracking slightly as a massive, helpless grin broke through his defenses. He glanced instinctively toward your corner behind the camera, his eyes locking onto yours for a fraction of a second before he caught himself and looked back at Amelia. "We're just... we have a very close working relationship. We're the best of friends”

“Mhm friends, yeah… Im gonna act like a believe that” Amelia said. She picked up a chicken nugget and pointed it at him like a weapon. "I’ve seen how you look at her in interviews. If a man doesn't look at me like he’s trying to memorize my facial structure for a marble bust, then I don't want him" Harry completely disintegrated in his chair, he threw his head back, letting out a mortified laugh. The crimson flush traveled all the way down his neck. “Oh come on” He groaned “I’m just a very expressive person, thats all, I literally act with my face”

"You're an expressive person for one specific individual," Amelia noted, entirely unfazed by his panic. She took a bite of the nugget, chewed, and slowly swallowed. "If in whatever circumstance you had to choose between y/n and a lifetime supply of free chicken, who are you choosing?"

Harry didn't even hesitate. A brilliant, incredibly wicked smirk took over his face, the exact look that usually signaled he was about to drive his PR team completely insane.

"The chicken is great, you know..." Harry murmured, his voice dropping into a low, completely sincere, and entirely unguarded register as he looked directly into the lens. "But…well, who am I gonna film the romantic scenes with then” Behind the camera, your publicist let out a low, physical groan and covered her face with her hands. You bit your lip, your heart doing a strange, fluttering flip in your chest as Harry’s smile softened, entirely giving up on the media-trained lie.

Amelia stared at him for three agonizing seconds of silence. Then, she looked directly into the main camera with an expression of utter, clinical disappointment.

"Well," Amelia said flatly. "That was incredibly sickening. This date is over."

"Can I keep the chips?" Harry asked hopefully.

"No," Amelia said, sliding the box away from him. "Go find your co-star Collett”

-------------------

The heavy oak door of your flat clicked shut, sealing out the damp London evening and the lingering static of the studio lot. In your kitchen, the atmosphere was thick with the comforting, smell of garlic bread and cherry tomatoes bubbling away on the stove. You stood by the counter, quietly adding the rich sauce over a bowl of fresh pasta, finally relaxed. As Harry appeared into the warm light of the kitchen, having already shed his tailored jacket in the hallway. He was just in his soft white t-shirt, his dark curls slightly damp and uncombed. He closed the distance between you with slow, quiet steps, sliding his arms gently around your waist from behind.

He then leaned down, burying his face into the crook of your neck with a long, heavy sigh, releasing all the lingering tension of the media circus right out of him.

"I thought we’d never get back here," Harry murmured, his voice a low, muffled rumble against your skin. His hands rested flat against your stomach, his thumbs tracing slow, familiar circles through the fabric of your (his) shirt.

“I must ask... is pretending to be in love with me easy, or are you just an incredibly deceptive person?"

Harry buried his face in your neck, a helpless chuckle escaping him as his ears flared up to that brilliant shade of crimson all over again. "Oh dear god, please tell me you’re not going to quote the entire interview while we eat."

You leaned back into his chest giggling, letting the wooden spoon rest against the edge of the pot. A small, affectionate smile tugged at your lips. "You did great,” you said softly, giggling as you tilted your head slightly. "Even if you did completely terrify our publicist."

Harry let out a soft, boyish chuckle, his grip tightening just a fraction as he held you closer against him. "She was staring dead into my soul. I forgot the script within thirty seconds." He paused, his chin resting comfortably on your shoulder as he watched the steam rise from the pasta. "Did I really sound that unhinged when she asked about the chicken?"

"Well," you murmured, turning around in his embrace so you were facing him, completely forgetting the pasta behind you, your hands coming to rest flat against his chest. You looked up at him, a tiny, playful glint in your eyes. "You did basically tell millions of people that a lifetime supply of free food wasn't worth losing your favorite scene partner.” You said making air quotes with your fingers. “I think Sarah was praying for a sudden power outage, I literally saw her soul leave her body.”

Harry’s ears instantly flared with a faint, familiar shade of pink, but a soft, dimpled smile broke through his mock offense. "I was under immense pressure. The woman didn't blink love, not a single time in four minutes” He sounded genuinely shocked.

"Mhm," you teased gently, your thumb brushing against the fabric of his shirt. "So it had nothing to do with the fact that you look like a Victorian orphan every time I walk on set?" Harry let out a quiet, breathless laugh, his head dropping into your neck for a second before he looked back down at you, his eyes incredibly soft, filled with a domestic warmth that belonged only to this flat and you two. He lifted one hand, his thumb gently smoothing over your cheekbone, his touch light and reverent.

"Alright, maybe a little bit" he whispered, his voice dropping into that private register he reserved just for you, entirely giving up the joke. "They can edit the interview however they want to make it funny. But there isn't a single situation in which I wouldn't choose this, cooking dinner with you... it’s literally only part of the day that does not feel scripted”

Your heart did a quiet, steady flip, the last bits of playfulness melting away into pure domesticity. You reached up, cupping the side of his jaw and caressing his freckled his cheek with your thumb. "I know," you murmured softly. "I would choose this too.” Harry’s smile softened into something breathtakingly sweet. He leaned down, closing the remaining inch between you to press a slow, deep kiss to your lips, one that tasted faintly of the sweet tomato sauce long forgotten in the stove and felt entirely like home. When he pulled back, his forehead lingered against yours for a quiet beat, his breathing synchronized with your own, a glint in his eyes showing all he didn’t say.

"Right then..." Harry whispered, a tiny smirk returning to his lips as his hands slid down to rest on your hips. He leaned back just enough to look at you, his eyes softening with a playful shine. "Before the pasta gets completely cold... we” kiss “should” kiss “devour it” another kiss  “...damn, almost revealing to the whole internet that we've been dating for over a year has me starving." You couldn’t help but left a loud laugh escape your mouth. “Idiot” you murmured.

I honestly did not know how to turn Amelias interview into something related to a reader but this is the best I could do, hope y'all enjoy it!!

Btw I just broke my nose today??? literally wtf??? and I can barely see the screen so im gonna upload a few drafts bc Idk if I am gonna need surgery :((