timmymyluv
it's a cruel summer.
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All successful manifesters are successful bc they don’t gaf about the 3d and remain true to imagination. They only care about imagination cuz they know the 3d is just an after effect of imagination.
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“my dream college rejected me” … no. you’re already an accepted student.
“she’s ignoring my texts and calls” … no. you’re someone that your sp is in love with & shows it.
“im working a shitty, low paying job” … no. you’re working your dream job.
you see something in the 3d you dont like? reject it, decide the opposite is happening (fulfill) & move on. what you see is not permanent anyway. stop sticking with what you see in the 3d & holding onto it. thats not cute. stop accepting what you dont want, decide what you do want & know its done regardless of everything.
theres no point in continuing to accept the bullshit you see for weeks and months until you burst and start to wonder where you went wrong. shift into the version of you that knows they have what they want. stop trying to control & micromanage the 3d and instead, let it be. change self, not the 3d.
the 3d follows you, not the other way around. so be the change.
reject it
decide your desired outcome
fulfill
its done
you cannot allow yourself to continue depending on physical evidence. reject the bullshit you dont like seeing. you cannot continue to limit yourself and drag yourself down depending on what you see in the 3d. thats a sign that you do not understand yourself as the operant power.
kisses, jani ☆
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I have a request for billy!!! an angst to fluff fic, where the reader gets shot, maybe on the shoulder so its not too severe but billy is just frantic
peace.
masterlist
requests OPEN
a/n: thank you for your request! apologies they’ve been taking long, but hopefully from now on, my requests will be answered more consistently and sooner 🩷
billy the kid x reader
word count: 1.0k workds
summary: Billy fears he may have lost you when you're shot, but he makes it just in time.
You wince every step you make, pulling over your shawl closer over your torso. Only a few more steps, you assure yourself.
Being a schoolteacher at the local school on an abandoned farm house a few missionaries founded a few miles from where you lived with Billy did not make much, but it was honest work. It was what you and Billy deserved running away from the rising tensions in Lincoln, trotting off to a village closer to the Midwest where no one knew who you were and you could start anew.
It was a quiet, idyllic town of under a thousand people, full of very welcoming locals who accepted you both as newly weds, haphazardly making your vows with the priest before you left when it became too violent and unruly. It was that, or more salacious livelihoods, which gave you a shudder.
As a newly married couple, the town came together to help you both choose a new home, a simple but suitable old barn, nothing much but enough for comfort. Billy picked up work as a ranch hand to the farm next door, and you were approached by some nuns to help with the new school due to the growing population of little ones with the families moving in the growing city.
Which is why you did not expect during a lesson of arithmetics, a drunken, fractious vagrant barges in the farmhouse, careless with his firearms. You panic, instinct driving you to huddle and protect the children, until help could come to ward him off. Screams,frantic footsteps, cries for help, until two loggers were able to hunt him down and get him under custody with the sheriff and arrest him for questioning.
You were relieved and grateful all your students were spoken for, but you were not spared, a bullet made its way to your arm before he could be captured. Your headmistress dropped you off on the carriage in front of your home with Billy, ignored her worried look as you strutted home, praying he wasn’t home to see you in this condition.
Just as you opened the door and sauntered in quietly, you stepped on the loose plank that squeaked, alerting Billy who was having coffee and toast at the dining table. As his eyes met you, his eyes widened seeing the blood trail starting to form from your arm.
“What happened to you?”
“I know, don’t panic-”
“How can I not panic, you’re bleeding?! Let me see.” He marches up to you, waiting anxiously for you to take off your shawl and blouse. Billy helps you peel it off, seeing the bullet on your bicep, tugging you gently towards the couch.
Billy agitatedly goes through the cabinet searching for his first aid kit, or the basic stitches, needles, and bandages he could have acquired before you both absconded to the new town.
“We have to call the town doctor, love. I can’t believe they let you walk out like that.”
You looked down sheepishly, realizing he was right. Your tendency not wanting to make a ruckus and stay out of trouble even at the possibility of death or infection would be the end of you.
“Y-You’re right. I’m sorry.” Billy kisses you on the forehead before he runs out your home, calling out for a doctor to help, or at least some learned healer women if they were predisposed. Not that there were many in this small town, at least more than Lincoln.
A doctor and his female assistant ran into your home several minutes later, bag in hand to take the bullet out your arm the best they can, and seal up your wounds.
Billy watches you tensely, feet tapping against the wood floor, arms crossed deep in thought and sweat down his brow as he worries about your well being. You smile weakly at him, even as you grow slightly pale and cool from the pain of the bullet still in your arm.
“I’ll be fine, darlin’. Don’t you worry, I’m not going anywhere soon. You can’t get rid of me that easily.” You assure him, reaching for his hand with your unhurt arm, tightening your grip around his, a teasing undertone to your voice. He chuckles slightly, the worry still consuming him.
He gets on his knees, pleading with a tight grip on your hands. “You’re a fighter, my girl. Please don’t leave me. “
“I won’t, my love, I promise.” You take a deep breath as the doctor begins to operate on you and remove the bullet carefully, the morphine and opioid he gave you earlier beginning to kick in.
Billy is escorted out your humble abode by the assistant, but he refuses to keep his eyes away from you. He refuses to look away ,as if he would lose you if he would.
To both of your relief, the doctor explains the wound will heal, leaving a scar, that the bullet has been removed and you were lucky it was just a graze, because a few centimeters left, it could have been fatal and hit a major artery.
He thanks the doctor and his assistant, handing a small bag of coins into their hands before they leave, before he turns back to you, still worried but relief washed all over him.
“I could have lost you, my sweet. I wouldn’t know what to do without you.” Billy tears up as he caresses your face gently, cradling you close to him in apprehension.
You lean into him weakly, mindful of the newly stitched up wound on your arm. “I’m not going anywhere, Billy.”
Billy sniffles, wiping his tears as he watches you fondly, relieved you were to recover.
“Do you know who may have attempted to shoot at me and my students?”
He nods grimly. “They have, he’s been rounded by the sheriff and won’t cause us any more trouble, darling. I promise, you’re safe, we’ll be safe.” You nodded, tearing up at him as he presses his forehead to yours.
No one would haunt you or Billy no more. No longer would the ghosts of your past, of violence, of instability, of bloodshed haunt you both anymore. Together, you’d find peace in your small town.
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𝐢 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐧𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐝𝐞𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐞
billy the kid x gn!reader
cw // 18+ mdni, smut, unprotected sex, it's really just soft smut
Billy had been waiting hours for a moment alone with you, and when you finally did peek your head into his tent, he couldn’t waste another second. He needed to kiss you like you were the only air for miles, and he was stranded with no way to travel but his own two feet. Even with his hunger for your lips, it’s still slow and passionate as he brings you down onto the makeshift bed, his hand supporting your back. For once, he wants to take his time, not rushing like he had some nights before when his need for a release overpowered his desire to be an honest man. You meant too much to him for that. It’s almost sensual as he pulls away and looks at you, brushing some of the hair from in front of your eyes and seeing your swollen lips before he moves down to your neck, just barely grazing his lips on the skin. Instead, he focuses on blowing soft breaths onto your skin, watching you tense at the feeling.
There was only so long he could smirk at you squirming beneath him before his desire got the best of him, and he attached his lips to your neck. Your back arched off the blankets beneath you before he used his hand to bring it back down, pressing lightly on your ribs.
“B-billy-” but he shushed you quietly, talking against your skin, “I’m right here, darlin’,” his accent thick with the lower register of his voice. His next kiss had you whimpering so quietly as his teeth barely made contact at the end of it. He was teasing you. Even if he wanted nothing more than to take you right then and there, it was as if he was stalking his prey. His tongue flicked against your skin, tasting the salt of the sweat you had been dripping earlier on the hot summer’s day. He took all the time you would offer him to slowly work you up, bringing his hands up to your hair and just barely pulling before you moved your head to the side. You swore you could feel him smirk into your neck at the extra room you had given him before he started to suck on the skin.
You tried to hold onto any part of him you could as your hands came up under the back of his shirt while he bit your neck so gently you swore that you could have imagined it. But he was enjoying every small moan that you let slip past your lips. Each moan only made the tension in his pants increasingly worse, but it wasn’t until your nails accidentally brushed his shoulder blades that he shuddered on top of you. You took it as a sign to keep going, and when he moved his lips to the other side of your neck, you just raked your nails lightly down his back, using barely any pressure. He nearly fell on your chest with the way his arms gave out underneath him.
“Let me focus on you, darling. Just for another minute,” his voice got quieter before adding a soft “please,” and you could hear the plea hidden behind his words. He wanted all the time in the world with you. You nodded in response, replacing the nails on his back with just your palms pressed lightly on his skin, feeling his warmth underneath them. He smiled against your neck, his cheeks raising a little before you felt his lips start to kiss you again. Your fingers applied a small amount of pressure as they curled into his skin when he bit down on the small spot on your neck that he knows makes your toes curl before he dragged his lips across your skin. He pressed small kisses to your jaw and your cheeks to your temples before his lips met your hairline. He left a longer kiss there.
“I’m yours,” he whispered, a soft declaration nearly taking the wind out of you. You truthfully didn’t expect it. All the men in town were so dominant, determined to claim someone as theirs and theirs alone. But here Billy was, saying he belonged to you, nearly begging you to claim him. He didn’t want to claim you. Not because he didn’t want you but because he respected you far too much to treat you like property. He would let you give yourself to him but never take away your freedom like he had watched happen before with others - with his ma.
His fingers helped guide your lips to his with some pressure under your chin while his hips nuzzled between your thighs. Like an instinct, you mindlessly wrapped your legs around his waist, bringing him closer to you with his chest barely touching yours. Your back arched to touch the unexpectedly soft material of his shirt before you brought him back down with you by simply lowering yourself. He felt like you were a magnet; he couldn’t be parted from your touch once he had it. With every moan he pulled from you, your fingers tugged more desperately on the hem of his shirt, begging him to take it off. He only wanted to focus on you; he pulled himself down the bed to lift your shirt and press a kiss to every new area of skin he could unveil. His tongue darted out to lick a stripe across your bottom rib, making you shiver and almost pull away before continuing his journey up to your collarbones.
Your shirt bunched up almost uncomfortably as it sat around your shoulders now, but Billy distracted you so quickly with his teeth tugging on the skin there. He moaned as your hands found purchase in his hair, pulling ever so slightly as he worked to leave a dark mark there, even gentler than he had been doing on your neck. Raising the back of your head with one hand, he pulled your shirt the rest of the way off before tossing it off to the side, mindful of where it landed so that it wouldn’t get too dirty. You took advantage of his distraction to work on lifting his shirt, pressing a long kiss to his shoulder before he took over, pulling it the rest of the way off with a fond roll of his eyes.
“Needy, aren’t you?” his tone was playful, but you just smirked before whispering, “I’m yours, Billy,” and he came crumbling down. A low groan came from the back of his throat before you continued, laying back down.
“I’m yours just as much as you’re mine. I want you. You have all of me. Now give me all of you.” It tore a hole in his chest as he looked down at you. You were his. His to love and to cherish, and he swore if you asked him, he’d kill a thousand men for you. A small part of him thought that should terrify him, the lengths he was willing to go for you. But in that moment, he couldn’t help but love you so dearly. The next kiss to your lips was made with a vigor that took the air out of your lungs. He wanted you to know that he heard you, and the feeling of your skin on his drove him wild. Any cold you may have thought you felt in the air vanished at the warmth radiating off his chest. At that exact moment, Billy decided to test the boundaries that had already been broken the second you two first kissed with a slow roll of his hips into yours, relishing in the sound of your broken gasps at the feeling.
“Is this okay?” he whispered, lowering his head to rest on your shoulder, but when you only nodded, he was quick to raise it, “Words, darling, please,” looking at you so intently before softly repeating, “Is that okay?”
“Yes. That’s more than okay, Billy,” you responded before he kissed you again, his hips resuming their slow roll as his tongue slipped past your lips when you gasped again. He swore being with you was like a dance, a careful push and pull to find exactly what flowed right. It had been since you two met; it was no different now. There was a rhythm to find as your hips rolled together in sync, meeting each other with bated breath that came out in small gasps between kisses.
“Please,” you breathed out. Billy didn’t stop- couldn’t stop. It all felt like a special kind of heaven meant just for him as he heard every small moan that slipped past your lips.
“What is it, love?”
“I want you.”
“You have me. All of me,” he mimicked you, mumbling against your lips. You knew it was true as he worked his way back down to the edge of the bed, kissing down your chest before slowly tugging your pants off. The same way he had when moving your shirt up, he started to press kisses down your legs, smiling as you tried to squirm away from him. He playfully bit down on your inner thigh to stop your movements, and he swears the laugh you let out in reply is one he wants to etch into his brain to remember forever. It wasn’t until he managed to get his pants off that he came back down to you, chest to chest, skin to skin, in a tantalizing reminder of what was to come.
“Are you sure?” he whispered, and you nodded immediately, nearly desperate for him to stop taking everything so slow. As he slipped inside you, your hands almost flung up to wrap into his curls while his head fell to your shoulder, groaning with every slight push he managed before he was fully bottomed out. You two just laid there like that, as close as two possibly could be, your legs wrapped back around his waist and his lips leaving lazy, open-mouthed kisses to your skin. He swore that if the world were to tear him from you earlier than either of you hoped, this moment would be the last thing he ever thought of while the light drained from his eyes. He would remember the smell of your skin, the feeling of your heart beating against his own, and the way your hands fit perfectly into his hair. He swore he would never forget you before, but now, it was impossible.
It wasn’t until your nails lightly scratched at his scalp that he dared to move his hips, knowing you would need a moment to adjust. Every thrust was so incredibly slow, but neither of you cared, taking in each moan you both let out and letting it ring in your ears. It wasn’t until you both started to get a rhythm again that he raised his head to look at you, watching the way your eyes almost fluttered closed with each thrust. It’s slow, and he swears the most sensual sex he’s ever had, but it’s just what you both wanted. Your eyes stayed open to watch his face as you clenched down around him, his nose scrunching ever so slightly as his eyes screwed shut for a moment with a loud groan. Both of your orgasms were getting closer by the second, but neither of you wanted it to end or stop. Your moans are quiet enough that they are just for him, making everything else disappear in his head. As far as he was concerned, it was just the two of you in this world.
“Billy- Billy, I’m-” Your orgasm was near, and you barely had any time to warn him.
“I know, darling. I’m almost there too.” His accent was thick with each groan that slipped past his lips. Your legs wrapped tighter around his waist before you cried out with your orgasm, nearly milking him as he followed shortly behind. He didn’t want to pull out, and you couldn’t blame him. The feeling was addictive; you were sure the two of you would be right back in this position only hours later. It wasn’t just sex to each of you, and you knew that. There was only so much time in the day for affection with the war in Lincoln raging, but this time at night, just the two of you, it was something you would kill for- something you had killed for. He pulled out slowly a few minutes later and wrapped his arm under your shoulders to turn you to lay on his chest after he laid next to you.
“I’ll clean you up in a moment, but can I just- can we lay here for a minute, darling?” you nodded in response, allowing yourself to get more comfortable, tangling your legs in his while he traced patterns on your arm. He focused on the sound of your breathing as it slowed down before he pressed a kiss to the top of your head. Only a few minutes later, he slipped his arm back out from under you and took his time cleaning you up, not wanting to fall asleep before he could. He grabbed the blanket, which he kept off to the side of the bed for colder nights before layering it over you and getting under the blankets himself to bring you close to him again.
“I’m yours, Billy,” you said, looking up at him from your spot on his chest.
“And I’m yours, darling.”
And maybe that was your own way of telling each other, “I love you.”
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🩰🐰CIRCUMSTANCES DON'T MATTER🩰🐰
🩰You are the creator of your reality , you can uncreate or re-create everything in your reality. Your reality is malleable , your circumstances are also malleable.
🐰If you think that you have it ,the circumstances will be diminated. If you affirm that you have the thing / person you want , you can't even fathom the way your circumstances will change. Why ? Because it's the law & the law can't fail.
🩰You don't need to know how it will happen, you just need to know that it will.
🐰It's the law, IT CAN'T BE BROKEN ! IT CAN'T FAIL ! Your thoughts create . If you keep persisting, the persisted assumption must harden into a fact.
🩰When it comes to manifestation, logic doesn't matter , it's completely useless.
🐰As long as you are affirming that you have what you want & ignoring the 3D, the undesired circumstances will be eliminated & your affirmations will harden into fact.
🩰This is your world , it has no choice but to mold itself according to your assumptions.
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Can I get uh…. A social media au of Tom Blyth x fem!rockstar!reader? Just a tad bit of self indulgence, I guess lmao.
But in all seriousness, I ADORE YOUR WORK AND IT IS STELLAR!! KEEP IT UP AND DONT STOP WRITING 🥰☺️👏
Tom Blyth x Fem!Rockstar!Reader
social media au
sorry this took some time but hope you like it! 🥺i’ll try to post more now that i’m feeling better and have some time. please continue to request, as always, my inbox is open.
REQUESTS OPEN.
yourusername
liked by tomblyth, hunterschafer and 500k others
my life nowadays
hunterschafer my angel
↪️ yourusername love of my life when I kiss you again
lilygladstone are you blonde or brunette? 🤔
↪️ yourusername both 🤭I change my mind
paulmescal 🙏
↪️ yourusername glad to see you today brother
gigihadid a rockstar as always
↪️ yourusername love youuu 😘
nuriaavegaa had the time of my life tonight girl!
↪️ yourusername so glad to meet you finally!
↪️ user wait if yn and nuria met..it has to be through tom right 👀she was with him in btk
harrycollettactor awesome show!
↪️ yourusername thanks bud! invite me to your next rave soon
callumhood rock on! 🤘
↪️ yourusername always!
tomblythfiles
liked by userfan76 and others
tom spotted at a restaurant in la yesterday
user he looks so good
randomfan wasn't yn on tour in la yesterday
↪️ ynfan yes she was 👀
user I saw him at this restaurant yesterday and I think he was sitting next to a blonde
↪️user that has to be yn omg
ynfans this has to be taken on a microwave lmao
user y'all better leave them alone if they're having a date if they want you to know they're together they will
↪️ynfan exactly
yourusername posted a story
tomblyth
liked by mayahawke and others
paradise.
russelltovey hope you had the time of your life mate!
↪️ tomblyth sure did thanks man! 🩷
carmenenemmi well deserved rest after a long strenuous shoot!
↪️ tomblyth absolutely! had the best time with you and the crew
nicholasgalitzine ☀️
jonathan.anderson my darlings
↪️ yourusername love you jonathan! had to wear your newest pieces you sent me
lukehemmings have fun!
liked by tomblyth
↪️ user wait yourusername had a song with him last year there’s got to be a coincidence how they know each other
yourusername
liked by ellefanning and others
rachelzegler girl i want you and imma have you 😍
↪️ yourusername oh girl stop it 🙈
↪️ joshandresgarcia excuse me?
↪️ rachelzegler look away 😗
user damn yn your bobbies
↪️ yourusername you like my necklace baby? 🥵
↪️ user always
conangray okay beach girl!
↪️ yourusername missed you so much, you should’ve come! we should hang soon
↪️ conangray wanted to give you two lovebirds privacy dw 😝
user that’s got to be tom blyth her new man
↪️ user yn single era over
↪️ user hot girl summer!
lilyrose_depp my angel
↪️ yourusername that’s you honey
sydneysweeney she’s glowing!!
↪️ yourusername my sunshine twin i love you
tblythfans
liked by user and others
a now deleted story by yourusername with tom earlier today
user theyre so cute
user before anyone calls them a cheater they’ve both been single for a while; y/n broke up with her ex last year while tom has been single for several months
↪️ user thank you
user how adorable for him to come out for her shows
yourusername
liked by billieeilish and others
just got home from vacation but here’s my treat…new single out friday. get him back.
avantika SO EXCITEDD PRE ORDERED IM SAT
↪️ yourusername i love you so much so thankful for you my love
hannahfkdodd 🩷
liked by yourusername
jbayleaf going to be amazing as always!
↪️ yourusername jonathan, oh my god!! ty
tomblyth my angel of music
↪️ yourusername my muse my inspiration
↪️user im so single 😭
charithra17 you’re so talented
↪️ yourusername and so are you!
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ppl say to “just decide” in order to “manifest”. i know we decide al the time. but how do you just decide for instance you’re having this job if you’re feeling shitty and doubt it ? do u have to change the feeling ? idk changing a feeling seems so hard to me I’ve been trying for a week with. O success
yes you’re trying, that’s why you’re failing.
desire and lack is illusory, you actually do have the job but you’ve deluded yourself into believing you are this limited human character YOU have created who “doesn’t have” something and is trying to get it.
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spicy links part 4.
masterlist
previous editions:
1, 2, 3
a/n: you guys always love these, so i updated how id summarize them to give you all a better look on how to imagine these scenarios.
sorry the links were being deleted last time but these are all fairly recent and I checked they’re safe from the recent mass suspensions of accounts.
please send me what you think, which ones you liked, talk to me as my inbox is open for requests, comments, suggestions, and more will be coming.
characters featured:
coriolanus snow
tom blyth
billy the kid
REQUESTS OPEN.
coryo
academy!coryo not wanting to take your virginity yet
president!coryo needing an heir and not wanting to waste a drop
senator!coryo engaged to you but not wanting to take your virginity until your wedding night and says "just the tip"
peacekeeper!coryo dragging you to the woods because you're in trouble
sneaking in your rooms with academy!coryo
tied up by dom!coryo
a good housewife with husband!coryo
tutor!coryo when you get the answers to your homework right
coryo making you come on his fingers and maintaining eye contact
punished by daddy!dom!coryo for being bratty and misbehaving
tom
tom waking you up after a long time away
wedding night with husband!tom
lazy day with tom
tropical vacation with tom
waking you up with head
tom washing you real good in the shower
tom making you squirt and overstimulating
nipple sucking and boob worship
fucking you with your legs up
pretty in pink
handjob and playing with his pretty dick
billy
billy taking his frustrations out on you after a long tiring day
save a horse ride a cowboy with billy
deep throating with billy
taking it from behind with billy
bent over after a game of pool with billy
billy carrying you and fucking you against the wall
fucking you while you play with yourself
riding billys face as he eats you out
billy making you arch your back for him
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ch 1: idyllic
the reluctant empress
jacaerys velaryon x targaryen!reader
previous: prologue
next: updates every friday
summary: Crown Prince Jacaerys Velaryon is set to meet his intended future bride, yet the first meeting does not go as planned.
rated: pg13 (will go rated R/18+ in later chapters)
word count: 2.3k words
masterlist
“How strange, she thought, to be a part of what would surely become history, and yet still worry that she might trip on her heavy skirt.”
― Allison Pataki, The Accidental Empress
Growing up in the placid, tranquil countryside in the crown lands away from the hustle and bustle of King’s Landing, Y/N had learned to appreciate the simpler things in life. While her mother and sister always wished for finer silks and rarer jewelers, she had her sights on something else.
Despite the blood of Old Valyria running in her veins, she was forbidden from claiming a dragon, and there were no unclaimed dragons that were not guarded voraciously by the dragon keepers in the capital, as Queen Rhaenyra fiercely knew to keep dragons only within her immediate family. Only the main line of Targaryens had right to even claim one.
For now, her beloved stallion will do. There is nothing Y/N loves more than roaming around the streets of her childhood castle, of the quiet yet satisfied populace, a close knit community that did not have much communication beyond trade routes.
Her cream hued dress seemed almost mahogany colored after having been submerged in the dirt and waste, almost unwashed as a pig sty like the servants would lament, but she did not care.
Lying on the grass and feeling the sun kiss her skin as she dazes and enjoys the fine spring weather, her peace and serenity is interrupted when she hears the galloping hooves of a horse she knows is not hers.
“Princess! Your mother, Lady Alicent, commands you to return to the palace at once.” The loyal master of arms of your late father informs you and you groan as you stand up, smoothing the leaves and soot that stick to your hair and clothes.
“Alright Ser Arryk, I shall return immediately.” She climbs on her beloved stallion Majesty, as the knight escorts her back home. As you approach the gates of the brick castle, you see your mother and sister Helaena waiting for her by the cobbled steps.
Her identical auburn hair is in a tight knot on the crown of her head, in contrast to your loose, unruly curls down your back, and you sometimes think you are looking at a mirror of yourself seeing your mother, a preview of how she would appear when she aged. The same auburn hair, yet contrasting spirit.
“Where have you been, Y/N? You should have been studying with your septa.” Alicent coldly inquires, disappointed yet not surprised at her wild youngest.
Looking down apologetically, the young princess gulps as she approaches closer with a palm on the leather reins.
“I- I was studying my High Valyrian and etiquette with Septa Dyanna, and when I was doing well, she let me have a break and I got carried away. I explored the streets of our city, and…I’m sorry mother.”
“This will not be happening again. Get washed up for a bath, your things are packed and we make our way to the capital immediately.”
…
The Prince of Dragonstone wiped his brow as he attended his umpteenth council meeting for the day, having lost track of what needed to be taken care of, whether it was the safety stops in Dragonstone, rising crime in Flea Bottom or trade disputes between merchants in King’s Landing.
As he reviewed the notes he made alongside the commentary of his mother, he sighed as his eyes grew blurry in a daze of exhaustion, head rolling back as he rubbed his eyes with his knuckles, hoping to feel some bout of wakefulness.
Ever since he was nothing but a babe, Queen Rhaenyra had a great future planned for her eldest the moment he was born, even when she was just Crown Princess herself under her doting, yet absent minded father.
“You will be nothing like your grandsire. I will make sure of it” She whispered to him as she looked down at his sleeping form, wrapped in the finest red and gold cloth.
As he hears the surreptitious footsteps of his stepfather’s boots, Jacaerys stands up straight, arms pinned to his side as Prince Daemon, Prince Consort to the Queen arrives to meet him with an indistinguishable expression.
“Lad, we have delayed and put up with your mother long enough. You can no longer delay your quest of finding a bride, Jacaerys. I have not forgotten the slight you have made in rejecting any issue of marriage and robbing your sister Baela of her birth right to be Queen.” The silver-haired warrior warns his son tiredly, brow creased and the wrinkles on his forehead growing.
Jace viewing his step-sister and aunt only platonically was not helped by how Rhaenyra was indifferent to marrying him back into the Velaryon line, where his younger brother, the future Lord of the Tides Lucerys, was already well married to her sister Lady Rhaena Targaryen for over a year.
“Daemon.” The younger exasperates. “I know you have not forgiven me for my avoidance of the altar, but you must understand my reasons-”
“You risk putting all the work us Targaryens and Velaryons have put to work with your delay! With you, the family line could end and our house will have no future. Reasons? What reasons? Pathetic.”
Where the avoidance of romantic feelings had been an issue of contention to his parents, Baela remained among his greatest confidants, a dear friend who advised him and objectively was a source of feedback when the matters of the state overwhelmed or confused him.
“I will eventually marry! I never said that I would remain unwed, and seriously accept whatever bride mother dangles in my face!” Jace slams the table in frustration, knuckles turning white as his fist curled tighter.
Daemon’s explosion of anger turns contained, restrained in a cold, expressionless gaze, unyielding and on the precipice of surrender.
“I have given up in the hopes of making Baela queen, but you will marry by the end of the year, by hook or crook, Jacaerys. You are as stubborn as your mother!”
…
“Your Grace.” Jacaerys bows as he enters the throne room, still bothered from his confrontation from his step-uncle.
Rhaenyra smiled at the sight of her eldest making his way as she sat on the Iron Throne, her ruby and amethyst crown glimmering from the sunlight trickling in from the stained window. Dressed in ermine and silks, she was dressed according to her rank, her voluptuous form after several childbirths adorned only in lavish fabrics, alongside the rings, bracelets and necklaces around her.
“Jacaerys, I assume you had spoken to your father.” She raises an eyebrow in slight amusement, knowing the reason of his arrival. The issue of paternity has always been a rocky one for him, with rumours of his bastardry because he did not resemble his late father Lord Laenor Velaryon. Prince Daemon Targaryen, his mother’s true love after both were widowed and her uncle, of course, was the only father figure he truly knew for most of his life.
“Yes, my queen. I have come to announce my intent to marry. I am aware you keep a long tally of eligible Valyrian maidens for me to marry to strengthen the purity of our blood and house.”
The Queen beckons him to come closer, as her trusted handmaiden Lady Elinda Massey unleashes a gold binded book in obsidian velvet titled ‘The Most Illustrious Valyrian Families’, compiled by the loyal Maester Gerardys.
“Our first choice for your bride was the Lady Baela Targaryen, your sister and Daemon’s eldest, but I think I have a better match for you. Do you remember Lord Maekar Targaryen and his wife Lady Alicent Hightower?”
“Yes. Lady Hightower was your childhood companion and he sired two daughters with the lady. Princess Helaena who was widowed by a Lord Celtigar, and her youngest daughter Princess Y/N.”
“I seek to finally connect all House Targaryen back to the main line to prevent any Valyrian blood to enter other houses. You should marry the Princess Helaena, widowed with a child, yes, but she is still young and has proven fertility, something we urgently need.”
Jacaerys was taken by surprise, his usually controlled expression unable to be reined back in but he gulped and nodded in acceptance.
“Of course, my queen. I have heard of correspondence that the widowed Lady Hightower and both her daughters are to arrive in the Red Keep. When is their expected arrival?”
“In a fortnight, the Lady Hightower and both Princesses of Dalston Keep shall arrive. The only thing we need left to seal the match and bring assurance and stability for the realm’s future is you formally ask for her hand at the Grand Ball three nights after. You reassure the kingdom that House Targaryen will continue and an heir will come.”
…
Cramped up in a worn down carriage that had been given to her father many decades ago, Y/N did not find it comfortable cramped up in her frilly, bulky black mourning gown.
Still mourning the loss of her mother’s uncle, Lord Hightower and the Voice of Oldtown, Lady Alicent and her daughters remained draped in ebony, black veils and ribbons everywhere. Packed in another carriage following their change of clothes, they would change to less muted colours once they were closer to the capital.
Yet the rocky path and turbulent weather said otherwise, as they could not change in time and had to reroute to make in time to the capital without upsetting the Queen and the royal family.
“Y/N, if you were not so careless and got lost in the wilderness, we could have already been there and spared the poor weather we have here!” Alicent scolded her youngest, sleep deprived with shadows under her large, brown eyes. Her black bereavement gown still had undertones of verdigris green, with subtle jacquard patterns of the tower of Oldtown with its green flame seen only in some lights.
Y/N awkwardly avoided meeting her mother in the eye while Helaena held onto her hand for sympathy and comfort, as the latter shook in agitation at the presentation that would change her fate.
Little Jaehaera was left in the care of septas, considering the distance was not too great from the castle and Alicent assumed she and Y/N would return briefly after Helaena would formally become betrothed to the Prince of Dragonstone.
Caught up on a slight slumber before their arrival at their destination, Y/N slowly opens her eyes as she sees the sunlight between the curtains percolate, as a gloved hand moves it aside, while her mother and sister are already wide awake, freshening themselves up knowing how close they are to making a match that would improve their stations greatly.
The musty aroma and ghastly sights of the streets of King’s Landing coming into view, the pungent waste from Flea Bottom wafting, and the curious, desperate pleas of starving children and peasants begging to their windows of their carriage left a burning mark on Y/N’s impression of the great, big city.
As they make it to the behemoth of architecture that is the Red Keep, the carriage makes a halt as it stops by the pavement, the crier announcing the arrival of Lady Hightower and her two daughters the Lady Targaryens.
Y/N reaches the handle to open the door but the doormen swings open the door before she even touches it, nearly tripping on her feet on the way down but she salvages it awkwardly.
Smoothening the wrinkles and stray taffeta on her gown, she gets off the carriage first, as the younger sister and the one who will not be queen, they save the best for last. Her mother follows gracefully before Lady Helaena arrives, her pale features adorned in her silver-blonde hair braided up the crown of her head and the veil making her appear as pale as a ghost.
Yet where Helaena is washed out and her features are diluted and contrast in mourning clothes, it only brings out the best of Y/N's burgeoning beauty. And the prince does not fail to take notice.
Crown Prince Jacaerys, The Prince of Dragonstone and Heir to the Iron Throne awaits gallantly, dressed in his full regalia donned in the most formal of ceremonies of the throne. The abdicated King Viserys is too weak and frail, yet mustered the strength to leave his chambers, guided on a makeshift seat with wooden wheels assisted by a handful of servants to see his beloved grandson’s future bride.
Queen Rhaenyra smiles affectionately as she sees her companion in her youth, embracing Alicent after the latter curtseyed at her. Rubbing her shoulder in condolences for their loss, Lady Alicent gathers a smile that does not meet her eyes.
Dazed and distracted by the wonders of the exterior of the castle, a gentle tap against her ankle reminds Y/N to curtsey before the royal family, not wanting her blunder of etiquette to rob them of Helaena’s match that could change their fortunes overnight.
As Jace moves down the escalade to greet the ladies, he stands in front of Y/N, takes her hand and brushes his lips against her knuckles for a peck. “Lady Helaena-”Murmured whispers and panicked eyes abound the court present at the scenario, where Prince Daemon impatiently corrects his stepson, murmurs under his breath.
“That is Lady Y/N, the younger sister, my prince.”
Without missing a beat, Jacaerys nods with an apologetic grin, flashing his charm to make people forget his blunder, before he greets her mother and then his intended betrothed. Like clockwork, he whips out a compliment that all were so beautiful and the Lady Alicent was still so youthful you would think they were all sisters.
Helaena, already skittish and shaken by social events, greets the prince in a rehearsed speel and bow, nails digging into the beds of her calluses until they turned bloody. She, who painstakingly attended each lesson expected for a future queen, in the eyes of the court.
Although expected to marry Helaena, Prince Jacaerys held his breath upon his first impression of Lady Y/N instead. Taken by her wild, independent streak and glaring beauty that was highlighted in their obsidian gowns, he knew he would choose his own destiny.
…
I hope you guys liked it! The story has finally started and drama is just about to start <3 Let me know if you would like to be added to the taglist. Updates will be every Friday night PST time.
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prologue.
the reluctant empress.
(19th Century Imperial Austria AU)
series masterlist
chapter 1 (soon)
jacaerys (jace) velaryon x female!original character
original work: house of the dragon
rating: rated g (will become pg 18+ in later chapters)
summary: this is a dangerous game we play. as rhaenyra sits on the iron throne and the crown lands on her head, she ensures nothing will risk her reign, and that her son, with all his promise, follows after her. and nothing will stop her.
genres: historical, romance, intrigue, smut (to follow)
word count: 1.0k words
Compromise. That was the word Rhaenyra had heard over and over again, uttered until it became repetitive and meant so much until it was empty.
Never had there been an Empress in her own name since Maria Theresa in the Imperial house, and many of her descendants made sure a woman like her could not rise up again whether by inheritance or coup d’etat.
When King Jaehaerys died unexpectedly in the dawning days of 1852, her father Archduke Viserys befell the throne and crown on his head. Long widowed and mourning the loss of his wife and her mother Aemma, Viserys was a peaceful, kind man, gullible and easily influenced, who suffered bouts of melancholy and locked himself away in his room for days and weeks.
After a series of uprisings from the Vale and failed conquests of Dorne, Rhaenyra managed to convince her somewhat feeble-minded and defeated father to abdicate and hand the throne to her, a princess at age of twenty, fresh from having given birth to her third son Joffrey with spouse Laenor Velaryon, who had taken court with her at Dragonstone, at their ancestral home.
Ever since Jacaerys sat on his grandsire’s lap, chestnut orbs full of wonder and curls forming on his head, as Viserys told him that seat would be his one day - it would be her greatest ambition to succeed him on that throne and pave the way for an even greater reign to come in form of her son.
Since the hatchling sat on her son’s chest and crawled over his wooden crib, Jacaerys was meant for greatness and she knew. He, who picked up reading and writing sooner than any babe, who was crawling already when most did not coordinate their spindly limbs together. Whose eyes read voraciously as he was pressed to her breast or a wet nurse’s. ‘Alysanne reborn’ they would call him sometimes - it’s as if she had swallowed texts and candles while she carried him in her womb.
As the scintillating diadem landed on her head full of silver hair up, Rhaenyra was a step closer to making her dream come true. Sapphires emblazoned on her collar, she honoured her mother Aemma wherever she went, avenging all misdeeds done against her, so that she may have the final laugh after all.
Seeing her father all hesitant, appeasing and letting himself be led on by ill meaning snakes who only wished to take advantage of him for their own personal gains had taught her that compromise can only go so far before it eats you up alive. And she won’t let that happen to her. Or to her son.
…
This is the best I can do. Or at least that’s what Alicent’s father told her when he was able to secure a match for her, a second son’s daughter, to a sickly, old Lord Targaryen who was a distant cousin to the conqueror himself. Not as wealthy or influential as the main branch of the family who sat on the throne, but this is the most she can dream for when most lords turned their heads at the sight of her and her brothers.
The old lord, as wealthy as he was, had no great lands but a humble castle in the middle of nowhere in the Crownlands. Loyal and content he was to his family, he had no drive or ambition of his own, after fighting the same war that had gotten Prince Aemon struck with an arrow, returning with maladies that only added to his already delicate health.
Left with two daughters and a granddaughter from the eldest who was now also left a widow, Alicent felt she had no escape, a hole dug so deep there’s no other way but down.
Meek, obedient, people pleasing and content, Helaena was born first, so quiet and unmoving they were afraid she was stillborn and lifeless, answering the prayers of long assumed infertility her husband had assumed from his failure to sire children from his two previous wives. Plump and round faced, her silver hair was nearly pale and had the blue eyes of her father.
Religion was an escape, a soothing balm to her wounds and sensitive nature, to Helaena as it was for her mother. Although Valyrian and raised in Targaryen customs, she was never found without a copy of the seven by her desk, a beloved edition passed down from her maternal grandmother. She married the Lord Celtigar’s second son, a handsome, dashing, brave, rather foolish young man who perished squashing the wars of rebellion in the Vale, never meeting his shy, reclusive daughter Jaehaera.
The second, youngest daughter Y/N - where do we even start? Auburn hair like her mother’s, with dark purple eyes common in the Freehold, was anything like her beloved sister. As close they were, they were opposites in every way. Whereas Helaena was hesitant and shy, Y/N was an accomplished equestrian, loved to hunt and explore the streets of the common folk as her father did in his childhood. Born kicking and screaming, she was nearly double the size of her elder, loud cries so piercing it could be heard throughout the keep.
Her cousins the Lord of Oldtown were aghast to see how her youngest daughter turned out, not made in the image of the Mother, but too Targaryen for their taste’s, yet they could not fully turn away their own kin.
Yet for all her feracious character and restless spirit, Alicent knew from her early age that there was an unsettling beauty to her daughter that she could not fully comprehend. It only seemed to haunt her as her youngest grew, learned to climb and walk and run.
A woman’s household, her father mockingly told Alicent, and although she at first felt humiliated and in despair at her hopelessness, a sense of hope sprouted in her. Draped in obsidian mourning clothes, clinging to the last good lace in her treasury, she receives a letter from her once childhood friend whom she had served as lady in waiting to in her youth, Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen.
The Queen has invited the Lady Alicent to join her royal court alongside her two daughters, especially as she was considering one who may be the future wife of her son and heir Jacaerys, Prince of Dragonstone. This was Alicent’s ticket to salvation and financial freedom that would save her ailing family from despair - making Helaena a future Queen and her blood on the throne.
…
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Can I revise my grades? I think yes, as I’m reading revision success stories but how will it appear? Just randomly one day I will see all A s? My parents would forget being mad at me etc? It probably is a stupid question but I find it hard to believe it’s possible. Also, few days ago I did bad on math test. After revising it in my imagination, imagining that I did it perfectly and persisting at that fact, after getting back my paper will I see answers that I didn’t actually write down?
you’re worried about getting instead of being. this whole ask is coming from a place of wanting to get something in this physical world. and that’ll only set in stone a line of stress and complications because you’re trying to do something you just can’t: get something.
this life, this world, is an experience and we are the experiencers. and we experience (in the 3d) what we are conscious/aware of. and you cannot have, be or see anything in this world without having, being or seeing it in consciousness/awareness first. then, AND ONLY then will you “manifest” (experience) it in this physical world.
so stop worrying about the little details, and just be the one with all a’s.
“how do i just be ?” it’s so simple yall don’t believe it, but you just decide it. choose it. the same way you decided you were actually gonna watch tv for 30 more minutes before doing your homework. or the same way you decided you were gonna stop for breakfast on your way to work.
it’s not gonna be later or in the future when you “get” results. is is done and complete now. everything simply is. you don’t micromanage everything. you just are now aware of the fact.
don’t remember where i saw this quote but it’s been in my notes and i think i actually might’ve shared it before : “the awareness of being is the door which the manifestations of life pass into the world of form” we experience things through awareness/consciousness !
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spicy links (pt 3).
part one
part two
masterlist
asks OPEN
a/n: this has been in my drafts for a while but i don’t want to change it up too much so if any links don’t work i apologize! let me know if you want to be added to my taglist, and again my inbox is open for requests, comments, and any positive interaction as i love hearing from you guys. 🩷
school and moving has been crazy on my end but requests on top of original content from me should be coming in soon!
let me know if you want me to do more of these (with updated descriptions for each character)
-coriolanus snow
-billy the kid
-tom blyth
coryo
size kink
please me
arch
tied up
after school
in his office
stay quiet
arch that back
in the woods
like that
pretty in black
dolled up
costume
size kink
nightgown
missionary
billy
stay quiet
skin to skin
just the tip
red
view
outdoors
mommy
size
back and forth
come undone
from the side
passion
stockings
mirror
contort
tom
feel good
grope
leaking
nice and slow
worship
clean
drink
high rise
lips
slip n slide
ride
intimate
bent over
from the back
take it
selfie
me and you
domestic
pull it aside
multi tasking
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alright i’ve seen a lot of arranged marriages with paul and reader is always the one who’s salty about it but what if PAUL was the salty bitch? never seen that before.
reader just wants to make him happy. she’s been in love with him since they were introduced as kids. Paul, however, ain’t about it and he’s all pissy and what not.
The Death of a Star
Summary: Paul thought he could never love you but when a starts to die, it sucks everything in and in your death, your rebirth, he learns he can.
Warning(s): Cheating! Not the sexual kind but the emotional kind! Toxic marriage, sorta dark Paul, almost sexual cheating, talks of bastards, child birth, violence, arranged marriage, pussy eating, fingering, PinV sex, creaming, use of the voice. Talks of baby making and brief pregnancy mention.
Note(s): I took your ask and shook it all about. And hi, hello, i got this ask basically THREE YEARS AGO! And its been sitting in my docs, brewing, growing longer and longer. This is 12k words. If you want more long fics like this from me and not two/three parters— PLEASE let me know. ALSO, shout-out to @cocoamoonmalfoy bc i bothered her with just random segments of this fic for two years I'm pretty sure 😭 this is so fucking long please don't tell me if there's mistakes im gonna scream.
A little after. (Same universe drabble!)
There is something about motherhood that has changed you.
Of course, there have been obvious changes. You were a girl when you first arrived on Caladan, a girl when they dragged you under the twinkling stars and made you swear to the void you would never stray from your husband. A mere child who wanted nothing more to be happy, to make her family proud, a child who smiled at her husband no older than her and repeated words she truly didn't know the meaning of.
You had become a lady when your husband first laid with you, a woman when the single time was enough to bring forth an heir. It was what your ladies told you at least, bringing a person into this universe was a woman's work and you had done just that. Your son, Oliver Atreides, was born screaming, kicking and crying. The ladies said you were a woman now, covered in sweat, tears, and your own blood but you couldn't bring yourself to agree. You think some parts of the girl you once were resurfaced when they hand you, your babe. You had held him close and wept to him. ‘Oh, Ollie. My little Ollie.’
Motherhood has changed you, yes. It made you harder in spots where you were once soft. But nothing has changed you more than marrying the Atreides heir, Paul.
Once, you had thought he would've, could've, loved you. A child's dream, you realize now. An arranged marriage could never bring forth love, not when it was put in motion by scheming parents who thought of a future long after they were dead. Your marriage to Paul had made sure your family's name would never fade into obscurity, your parents had gotten your weight in jewels and coin’ a thousand times over, your marriage had meant everything to them. To you. But to Paul, to his family?
You had been a punishment. The closest and prettiest broodmare. His parents had thought it would stop his wandering, his rebellion in loving a savage girl who lived planets away. You had looked similar enough, curly hair, brown eyes and brown skin, they thought you enough to quell his hunger. But one can not simply trade swords, sand and love for silk, stars and a willing cunt. They never stopped to think how this would affect you, how his anger towards them, towards the universe would slowly turn to you.
Paul never hit you, never yelled and, somehow, this was a fate worse than any death.
Paul seldom spoke to you. You could count on one hand how many times he looked at you in the past four years. For four years, you had raised your son with the echo of his father, a shadow you caught out of a corner of your eye. You knew he made time for his son, the boy never kept these things a secret, the man dragged his son everywhere and anywhere, they rode horses together, danced and painted. In your eyes, he had gathered all the stars in the sky and displayed them for Oliver and left you in the dark. You both raised your son, never in the same room, never speaking ill of each other or to each other. It was, is, a cruel existence.
“Mama,” Your son's voice is a whine, he pulls at your hand for your attention, letting his body go limp in the opposite direction trusting you wouldn't let him fall. “‘M hungry.”
He's not hungry, you think. He had just eaten an hour or so ago, snacked a few minutes before. He's bored, his coloring forgotten in his effort to bother you and that somehow, worked up his appetite. Ollie whines when you don't so much as move under his effort, you keep your arm locked, your fingers gently wrapped his smaller brown hand. Still, you relent, caving just a bit as you think back to all the times you went hungry in childhood because your mother was worried for your figure. Sure, he wasn't hungry but he was willing to eat. You rather him eat something now than him having an unhealthy relationship with food in the long run. “Yeah? What do you want, Bubba?”
He brightens, drawing closer to you but never letting go of your hand. “Can I haves pie?”
You give him a look, wiggling your fingers in his grasps, he giggles as the tips of them dance under his chin and curls further into your space. “It's ‘can I have’ and no you may not.” You shush his annoyed whine with a kiss to his forehead and you stand from your chair, picking him up as you go. You sulked long enough, motherhood never ends and now your son wants attention and you are eager to give it to him. “But, you can have a sandwich. Do you want turkey or–”
“Can I haves–” Oliver interrupts excitedly then pauses, starting again just as excited. “Can I have the jam one? The one grandma gives me?”
You're already nodding your head in agreement before he even finishes, a short hum leaving you. You haven't the faintest idea what he's talking about, of course, your mind goes to the simple answer: a grape and peanut butter spread, a simple and favorite of yours when you were pregnant with Oliver but then you backtrack almost instantly. Jessica has a taste for the finer, sweeter, things in life. Expensive things. You love your mother-in-law dearly, deeply, but whatever jam she's giving your son is probably from some secret collection she only pulls out for him and with her being off planet, you have no access to it. No matter, you've dealt with worse and Oliver will survive without her expensive jam. You'll just make sure he gets a little something extra with this snack, not a slice of pie but maybe juice… a few candied nuts, even?
You ponder silently to yourself as you leave your room. Ollie talks your ear off— something about his grandfather, about the older man taking him to see bulls and whatnot, you respond halfheartedly, humming in acknowledgement. As you walk from your wing of the estate, servants bow at their waist, greetings of, ‘My lady,’ wash right over you as you pass, you only truly pay mind to the ones who greet Ollie before the greet you, slowing your pace to let the boy twist in your arms and greet them happily. A talker he is, curious and somewhat loud, the various servants respond just as eager to him as he is to them. It's an endearing sight and you find yourself smiling as he converses, a smile that quickly falls at the sound of a familiar name calling out to you.
“Lady Wife!���
Your eye nearly twitches at the title. You dismiss the servant with a dim smile and Oliver squirms out of your arms to rush to his father. You hesitate to turn and face him but having your son out of sight so close to him makes you a bit nervous, you turn only to pause. Paul kneels before his son, running a delicate hand through the boy's curly mass of hair, his green eyes sparkle as he smiles at his son. He pokes at the boy's chubby stomach and smiles wider, brighter, when Ollie giggles leaning into him. He looks handsome today, more present than he ever was for you. His hair looks clean, freshly washed, glossy and swept out of his face— you've grown so used to him wearing ridiculously fancy suits that seeing him wearing a tunic and a simple pair of pants sends your mind blanking.
You only realize you're staring longer than you should when Duncan— has he been standing there the whole time?— clears his throat. There's a slight humor that dances across his face when he sees your own mortification but it's gone quickly as he bows his head towards you, your name leaves his lips in a pleasant, near whisper as he regards you, “Where are you off to?”
“The kitchens.” You answer, smiling when he cocks his head in a silent question. “Not for me, Ollie is hungry and I was going to make him something.”
Paul makes a noise from the ground, a grunt but doesn't rise nor pull away from his boy. “We have servants for that, Wife.”
“And there won't always be servants, Husband.” You reply harsher than you intend and Paul's widen eyes snap away from your son to you in shock. You look away before your eyes can meet and they fall to the other guard by the mens' side. He's tall, taller than Paul but not quite as tall as Duncan; his dark hair is pin straight and slicked back but there are a few strands that purposely, stylishly, hang in his face. His eyebrows raise slightly as he watches you take him in and he puffs up under your gaze. He squares his shoulders, shifts his feet and folds his hands behind his back and when your eyes meet again, he gives you a wink.
Oh, you like him.
You huff a laugh, “Your name, soldier?”
“Emmett, My lady.”
You wave a dismissive hand, “Please, you may call me my name. Only my husband ever calls me Lady.” Duncan snorts and Paul doesn't respond, doesn't care to. He stands and your son is in his arms, still talking but in a whisper. Odd. “I haven't seen you around before, promoted recently?”
Emmett's lips quirk into an easy smile and his lips part to answer you but Paul steps into your line of sight and interrupts him. “I am going to visit a friend, but I must stop to visit my mother first. Oliver wants to go.”
Your brow dips. Your husband, Paul, didn't have friends. Not one. His words not yours, he has his parents, a guard and an advisor; Duncan and Gurney. He has you, his wife and even then you hesitate to describe yourself as much. Your mind racks itself for information and then it finds something. A sand covered, golden skinned, something.
It's been two weeks since he's stepped out on you for her. Two weeks— nearly three, he almost broke his record.
You will yourself not to be sick but the sudden bout of nausea is harsh, hot and it sends a bile creeping up the back of your throat. Your heart can't seem to decide what it wants to do, it tries to thunder— to pound its way out of your chests but it trips, stutters and damn near stops at the idea of him bringing your son to see that woman. You clear your throat and try not to scream; are you not good enough? You have wept for the man before you, bled and produce a fucking heir to continue his legacy. And yet…
You clear your throat again, you can't help it. Years of training fly straight into the sun. You know how to read, to cook and manage estates, you know how to hold a sword and parry a strike, you know because you were trained. Rigorously, endlessly. But it still leaves you unprepared because no one ever, ever trained to be emotionless in the face of the person who was supposed to love you the most. You were married off young to another young person for this very reason, the time spent together as you grew older was supposed to grow your love, to nurture it so by the time you were both older you would be an united front. An unshakable unit.
You wish you could throw the pieces of your marriage at all who thought it was a good idea. You want to roar; is this what you wanted? Is this the front you dreamed of? But the training, that god-damned training kicks in and you steel yourself. For the sake of your son. For the sake of your sanity. “Oliver has lessons he can't skip.”
Paul makes a face and your boy whines in his arms, “I'm sure he can afford to miss one, he's just a boy.”
Your nails dig into your palm and your lips pull up into a humorless grin. “You said that last time when you took him riding. Again when you said painting would be a better lesson. He has missed too many lessons, boy or not, he is a future leader and it is good we do this while he is young.” You unclench your fist and soften, just slightly as you draw closer to your husband, to the boy who pouts at you in his arms. You extend yours and he goes easily, much to Paul's dismay. “Come on, sweet boy. I promised you a snack, leave your father to play with his toys.”
Paul watches you leave with thin lips, his teeth clenching. He doesn't have to be smart to see the insult when you bare it to him unabashedly. Even if it wasn't directed at him, he is offended on her behalf. He lingers in his spot for a moment longer, stewing in a petty anger— how is he ever supposed to try with you when you hate everything he loves?
Duncan calls his name and when he looks at the man, there's a deep frown on his face. The look of disappointment is something he's familiar with, it's an age-old argument between him, between his parents, between her about how he treats you. Well, not you but your feelings. Duncan won't say anything about it anymore, not when he knows he won't listen, not when he knows the exact words Paul will say back to him.
'What of my feelings? Why do I have to suffer in a marriage I did not want— a marriage I protested the very idea of? I gave the family an heir. The least they can do is let me finally be happy.'
The two men look at each other and like always, Paul is the first to look away. He turns on his heels, his shoulder colliding with Emmett's who still stares after you instead of watching the tense moment before him and his oldest friend. He storms down the hall, his steps sure but fast, Paul runs from it all. From his responsibilities, his power, from you. Paul always runs.
Emmett lets out a whistle— he and Duncan linger behind their fuming ward— and Duncan raises a brow at the sound. Emmett smiles, dipping his head in your direction, “A proper one that one is. Real easy on the eyes.”
Duncan's brow drops, annoyed. “She is to command you.”
“Trust me, ser. I'd do anything she asked.”
Duncan resists the urge to roll his eyes. It's not like Emmett is the only one to fall for your looks, he has had to rotate multiple guards because of it— most, if not all, of them never tried anything other than looking but he couldn't bring himself to listen to all the vile things they said and when they tried touching, well. You could handle yourself just fine but Duncan doesn't deny the enjoyment he gets from acting on your behalf.
Still. Still, there are ones that you enjoy. There are some he can't send away and he pretends it doesn't bother him. It's the game, the chase of it all, he sees how you blossom under the attention, his attention. Sometimes, he sees it. The flickering lust in your eyes when a pretty soldier leans in real close or when he cradles your face. But you aren't like your husband, not like Paul because you never give in and while Paul has been stepping out on you for years, this small streak of rebellion only started up a few months ago.
Duncan shakes his thoughts clear and then swallows his annoyance. It goes down like shards of glass and lemon juice; he can't send Emmett away, not yet. Not when he's good at what he does and not when you blossom under his attention. He settles for indifference, a dry indifference as he mutters. “She’d eat you alive.”
He ignores Emmett's cheeky reply of, “Stars, I hope so.”
“How is she?”
Arrakis smells sweeter than he remembers. It's hotter too, the sun set a few hours ago but the heat still clings to the air, to the sand that's almost uncomfortable to sit on. He sucks it up though because it feels like home and the sight is as pretty as it is familiar.
Said sight shifts when he doesn't answer, the fire light is gold against her face and her eyes are sapphire jewels in the night. Her fingers move quickly, steadily as she weaves her basket. Two bowls sit before her, one bigger than the other filled with a liquid that isn't water but safe for enough to handle and thin pieces of wood, the other bowl is filled with beads made of rocks, wood, bone and whatever else the carvers deemed bead worthy. “Muad'Dib,” She says and when he still doesn't answer her, she snaps. “Paul.”
It's enough to pull him from his thoughts, he blinks at her then he frowns. “She’s fine. I tell you the same thing every time you ask, I doubt it will change.”
Chani pauses in her weaving. “You told me she was sad once.”
He had. It was an off comment from years ago, when you cried and cried, and cried. Back then, it was rare to see you dry-eyed, rare to see you outside your room but you had gotten over it. You are fine now, you don't cry, you don't shout or pitch a true fit like he's seen other women do. You're just… fine. He thinks of your face when he told you he was leaving, that practiced control but the twitch of your lips giving you away. You were angry, maybe. But not angry enough to lash out, you were okay stewing in it. And that was fine. To you, to Paul. Everything is fine.
When Chani sees he isn't going to reply, she sighs again. Her fingers start to move again, faster than before and Paul tries not to be awed at the sight. She's a master at her craft, something he so rarely sees nowadays, “Nevermind.” She says and before he can speak, she asks, “How is Oliver?”
The smile that falls on Paul's face is easy. “He’s wonderful. His studies are going well– his tutors say he's picking up reading faster than I ever did.” He looks away from Chani and plays with the fabric of his pants, “I wanted him to come today.”
The thin piece of wood between Chani's fingers snapped. She looks up at him, her blue tinted eyes furious, “No, Paul.”
Still, he tries, “He would love you. If she only gave it a chance–”
“Do you hear yourself?” She hisses and he flinches at the tone. “You want to bring another woman's child to me? Do you hate her so much that you'd go this far to disrespect her?”
“I do not hate her. I could never hate her she is the mother of my child–”
“She is so much more than that.” She snaps. “She is your wife. She is the keeper of your estate, she is a person, a woman, you continuously hurt by visiting me.”
Again. It is always that argument, always the flag they throw up, the sand they throw into his eyes. It's always you, you, you. Why can't it never be him? Why can't he ever think for himself? Want more for himself? Paul shifts where he sits, “You wouldn't understand.” He whispers. Chani wouldn't, couldn't, get it. She's not him, she has never been in his place, she has never loved him as he loved her, she just wouldn't get it.
There is a certain fury that settles on Chani's face. It is thunderous, all consuming, a lightning storm that threatens to strike him thrice over and then, it clears. Faster than he can blink and she's standing, throwing the rest of her weaving into the fire. “Grow up, Paul.”
And he's at a loss for words. “What?”
“Grow. Up.” She says again, as if she hasn't said something world tilting. Paul feels like his chest is collapsing, like the sand around him is starting to swallow him whole. “I have put up with it for years. You complain about things not being fair to you.” She shakes her head, gathering all her finished baskets and her bowls of beads. “You complain and complain and complain. Do you see where I live? Do you see what my people have to do to survive? What do you know of struggle? Of suffering? You cry and whine about loving me, about caring for me but having to suffer a fate of never having me. I am not an object to own. I am not a prize to wave in your wife's face.”
She looks at him then, her face grim, haunting in the fire's light. “What do you know of suffering when you are here with me and she's alone with your son? What do you know of pain when she bled to produce an heir for you? I love you, Paul. As a friend, always a friend. Only a friend and I can't just sit here and pretend like you aren't ruining lives over petty childishness. Go to her, love her, see her as she is.”
“I–” Paul stumbles to his feet, nearly tripping to reach out to her. “I can't– do not do this to me, Chani– please, do not do this.”
Pity. There is only pity on her face. “Go home, Paul.” and she leaves him. Standing alone in the Arrakis' desert, surrounded by sand, stars and the sweet smelling wind, Paul begins to weep.
It is hard to play dumb but…
“Higher, my lady…”
Emmett's voice makes you shiver slightly and you all but let yourself relax in his warm arms. They circle you, his hands on your elbows raising and steadying the bow in your hands. You force yourself to let your fingers shake and smile when his hands leave your elbows to hover over yours. He slides a forefinger over the back of your hand before it hooks under your wrist and holds the bow true. “Release.”
Whoooosh! Thunk.
The arrow misses.
Emmett lets out a polite laugh, his breath brushing against your ear and it's enough to make you bite your lip. If playing the role of the defenseless noblewoman was enough to get him this close, you think you'd do it all the time. “You’re laughing at me?”
“Not at you, my lady.” He chuckles. His warm embrace leaves you as he takes a step forward, a hand playfully gliding past your waist as he does— he goes for the many missed arrows from the previous tries and shoots you a smile. “At the situation, I suppose.”
“Oh?” You ask, coyly. “And what's funny about the situation, Ser Emmett? My lack of skill with the bow or my streak of missing the target.”
He gathers the arrows, his smile growing a tad impish as he picks up the last as twirls it between his fingers. Your eyes follow the movement instinctively— it glides between his nimble fingers, around and under, under and around— Emmett ends the small show with a flip of the arrow, catching it by the small bit of the notch, the dull arrowhead tapping against his lips. “What's funny is… the famed daughter of a very noble hunting family needs help with a bow.” The arrowhead presses into his lip when he smiles, “I heard said daughter used to bring down bucks the size of small shuttles but now she stands before me as if she never handled a bow.”
You tut, annoyed you've been caught but delighted he knew so much about you. “You aren't the only one who can do research.” You say, you move forward with graceful steps, till the both of you are face to face. “Emmett Deacon. That is an old name, you know. But strange as Lord Deacon has no heirs or living relatives besides his wife. Now, it is unbecoming of me to gossip– to listen to the words of those who whisper behind backs but… but I was, am, curious about you, Emmett.”
This close, you notice his eyes are green. They are far darker than the eyes of your husband, Duncan or Jessica. Emmett's eyes are the color of the forest after a thunderstorm; when everything is still dark near black underneath the clearing clouds. Emmett grins at your closeness, his eyes glinting, promising some type of mischief. “Careful now, my lady.” He teases, his voice light despite the subtle redness creeping up his neck, “You walk a dangerous line, some men would take offense to what you are attempting to imply.”
Carefully, you pull the arrow from the man's grasp, your lips quirk up in a humorless smile as you take a step away from him. “Attempting, Implying? Make no mistake, Emmett, I know what you are.” You give the man your back as you face another untouched target. Mentally, you thank yourself for having the thought to scatter them about the training area before approaching Emmett under the guise of needing guidance. This target is much closer to the door, just a few paces to the right.
“Do you?”
Suddenly you are warm. He is pressed right up against you, his hands on your hips pulling you flush against his body and you barely bite back a shiver as you right your posture as if he wasn't there. His breath comes out ragged, fanning against your ear and he holds you so tight he scrunches your silks. Emmett is pretty as he is eager for you, desperate almost. It is not what you usually go for but the men you usually do go far were always so hesitant, reminding you of your husband or the ever watchful Duncan. Emmett fears neither, it makes you like him more but you are not an idiot, Emmett Deacon doesn't exist outside of the Atreides Castle. Lord Deacon has no legitimate heirs, only bastards, hundreds of bastards he refuses to recognize unless they make a name of their own. There is no Emmett Deacon, only Everett Brightwater. Son of a working mother and elder brother to a handful of other siblings.
But in the Atreides castle, the castle of a bastard, those types of things tend to go overlooked. Most like to forget that technically, Paul Atreides was born out of wedlock, that he was legitimized by the former Duke Leto— it is a story all bastards wished for, what Everett wished for. Pity it is you, that always seems to take a fancy to them.
“I have bedded a bastard before, Brightwater. Void-forbid I don't recognize the touch of another.”
The sound that leaves the man is downright sinful, a ragged gasp and his hips damn near hump into you. “And you have made heirs–”
“A singular heir, Oliver has no siblings.”
“But he could,” He rolls his hips against yours backside again and you bite back a grin, “I could give you–”
The door opens and it startles you. Your fingers slip from the bowstring and the arrow is sent flying, hurtling towards the target as Emmett rips away from you like he's touched fire. Your husband stands at the door, his eyes red rimmed and looking downright furious. His eyes never meet yours, staying trained on Emmett who looks everywhere as the arrow hits its mark. Bullseye.
Emmett's voice is choked as he speaks, “Congratulations–” His eyes flicker over to Paul for a brief second as he rasps your name. It makes your heart nearly jump to your throat as you blink absurdly at the man but he pushes forward, inclining his head as Paul prowls closer, “Your talents amaze me–”
“Leave.”
Emmett pauses mid sentence, he blinks once then nods, his lips set tight. He says your name again, lower, sweeter, then his dark green eyes cut to Paul as he gives a shallow bow. “Your liege.”
He is out the room faster than you can blink and it draws a scoff from your lips as you turn to face your husband. “That was rude.”
That makes his face twitch. Like he wants to scowl or even pout down at you but can't decide which one to choose and it settles as a sneer instead. “Was it, now? I walk in on one of my men pawing at you–”
The laugh that leaves you is sudden and sharp, “You are being ridiculous.”
“He was all but humping your leg and you let him!” He hisses. Then takes a breath to blink and shake his head, “It is disrespectful, my son is only paces away–
“Oh, that is disrespectful?” You ask. Your blood is boiling, your heart thundering in your ears. How dare he throw your son in your face? The very boy you put to bed alone, hushing his cries for his father. The very same boy that spent the day talking about his father and his mysterious friend that he insisted Ollie call an aunt. “What about you trying to take my child to see another woman?”
Paul flinches then, just barely, but keeps the sneer on his pretty face. “That is different, you know that is different–”
“What of all the times I've found your letters to her? All the times you've left me for her?” You press, “All the birthdays, my birthdays wasted alone waiting for you, all the anniversaries? What do you know about disrespect, husband?”
He is silent, silent but staring, gaping, trying to muster an answer he knows he can't. But it is strange, odd, that he hasn't tucked tail and ran. In the rare arguments that seemed to happen between the two of you, he'd spit his poison and then choke on yours; floundering for a rebuttal before escaping to his wing of the castle and yet… he still stands before you, unmoving. Then, he speaks. He whispers, “I am sorry.” He clears his throat, “I am, for what I put you through, for everything but I want better for us, I want–”
“She finally did it, didn't she? She finally turned you away?”
He doesn't respond and that's an answer all on its own. You cast your bow aside, not caring how it crashes against the floor and your quiver soon follows. “You’re pathetic.”
You don't look at Paul as you go.
Duncan stands beside you.
It's nothing new, of course. He is always there, whispering into your ear, a guiding hand on your back or teasing Ollie who was usually on your hip.
It's been nearly two weeks since the incident in the training room, since Paul came to you saying he wanted better for your relationship— nearly two weeks since you almost allowed Emmett to fall under your skirts and Duncan no doubt knows this by now and yet, he stands by you.
You're sitting on your bed with nothing but a thin sleeping shift with Ollie curled up into your lap as you gently twist and braid hair away from his face and Duncan watches, his eyes trained on your steady hands. Then, quietly, he speaks to not stir Oliver.
“It’s going to be cold tonight.” He says lightly, his eyes pulling away from your hands, letting them trace over the way the fabric hugs your form.
You don't look up as you finish a braid, using the tip of your nail to section out another braid, a distracted hum leaving your lips, “It is always cold, Duncan. It's Caladan.”
“It doesn't have to be.” He says and he hates how you pause when he says it, he hates the way his voice grows tender for you so he clears his throat, unwilling to unearth something you both ignore daily and plasters a teasing grin on his face, “Shall I call for Emmett? He is rather eager–”
He barks out a laugh when you toss a throw pillow at him, twisting out of the way before it even hits him. “Damn you.” You curse him despite the smile playing on your lips, “Speaking like that to your lady could be considered treason, you know.”
“Maybe on Somnus.” He teases as he slinks closer. He pulls the stool from your vanity and plops down on it next to you, his smiling falling just a bit as he asks, “How are you?”
“Fine.”
He levels you with a look that you don't meet, continuing to part and braid through Oliver's hair. He reaches forward then, to pull your hand free from the boy's hair and simply hold it— to command your attention towards him as he whispers your name, “I worry about you. Truly. I– Paul has told me what he said to you.” He holds your hand tighter when it jerks in his grasp, he searches your face, his eyes soft. “And it was cruel. You waited for him for void-knows-how-long and he comes to you when you finally search for another.”
Stubbornly, you purse your lips and force your eyes away from him. “I don't care.”
“It is not my place to call you a liar.” He says and it's almost automatic, years of training resurfacing as he searches for the right words. “But as someone who is close to you… as someone who cares for you, I think you do.”
You pull away and he lets you, your hands returning to Oliver's hair almost nervously. The boy doesn't even stir, “Your concern for me is endearing but it is misplaced.”
“Don’t shut me out.” He says, his voice tight and it makes your eyes slide back to him. “Your pretty words don't fool me, I know you. I see you, you have been miserable, you have suffered and it is okay to acknowledge that. It is only you, your sleeping boy and I in this room, you do not have to pretend.”
“What would you have me do, Duncan?” You ask, a touch incredulous. “Would you have me pitch a fit? You'd have me disgrace the Atreides name because what– my husband wants to be a husband?”
“I would like it if you cried.”
You flinch back, “What?”
“You haven't cried in years.” He says. “Oliver was born and you haven't shed a tear since, you have not mourned, you haven't grieved.”
“Those are the same things.” You start frowning at him. “Besides, I am a mother, a Duchess to a growing empire. There are whispers that I could be Queen, what do I have to cry about?”
“Everything.” He answers, his voice true. “Yes, you are all those things and more. But you are also young, you may be a woman now but you were a girl when you were wed.”
“That doesn't matter.”
Duncan looks at you like you've grown a second head. “It does matter. The very concept of your love was crafted for you before you ever got the chance to make it yourself. Do you like laying down and taking it or is that what you were taught? Do you like that he walks all over you or were you told to accept that?”
Your hackles rise before you can even stop yourself, “He is your lord.” You hiss, “Watch your tongue.”
Duncan throws his hand out, his eyebrows nearly touching his hairline. “You defend him and call him Lord, you do not call him a husband because that is what you are taught.” He lets his hand drop, “When I was your age–”
“You are not that much older than me.”
He continues like you didn't speak. “When I was your age, I experimented. I built my ‘love’ from the ground, I know how to kiss, how to fuck because I have done so with enough people to know what I like. That is not something that can be taught.”
You flush at the topic, imagine Duncan in such intimate situations would not be a… first for you. There were many lonely nights in your marriage and your mind often wandered. It was natural, of course, Duncan is kind. He is strong and sweet with a silver tongue, it is only natural that your mind went there when your hand traveled between your thighs. It was only natural that you had toyed with him out of pure boredom and curiosity. Moans of his name often left your lips when it was his turn to keep your room guarded. You had left your door cracked, catching his wandering eye once or twice as you… reached your peak. For voids-sake, you are quite certain Duncan has seen you in some state of undress more than Paul has and has not once mentioned it to you, has not tried to close your door or turn his head. Duncan has stood beside you for nearly six years, watched you for the same amount of time. You know you could say one simple word, a plea more than a command and it'd be just as damning and he'd be in your bed.
And yet…
You clear your throat and shake your head. Ollie jolts in your lap but doesn't wake, turning a curling deeper into your warmth. You steer the conversation back on course,“What does this have to do with me crying?”
“You were young when you were married.” He says again, like he truly doesn't understand why you don't get it. “You were young when you had Oliver, it was scary. Traumatizing, even. No one prepared you.”
“Yes they did, my parents, my tutors even–”
“Did you even get to say goodbye to the girl you once were before you were ripped away from home or did you bury her– throw her into this fucking sea the moment your engagement was announced?”
When you don't answer, he makes a noise— it's nearly a scoff but it sounds much too pitying. “I know you.” He says again, “I know that you hurt. I see it in the way you carry that blasted bow— it is all metal and wrong because your planet crafts from wood and vines. I see it in the way you hesitate at dinner because you want a second helping but the teaching of tutors or maybe even your mother told you it was unladylike. I see it when you look at Oliver because you were only a girl when you had him–”
“Do not.” You interrupt weakly, your eyes darting to your son. “I love my son.”
“I know,” He agrees. “You love him more than life itself, I'm sure, but it does not negate the fact that your family, this family, was okay with a child having a child.”
You swallow once, twice, then you blink hard. There is an odd pressure building up in your head, a pounding behind your eyes. You open your mouth to respond but your lip wobbles unsteadily. You struggle to find your words, your breath leaving you unsteadily— pinched as you try to control yourself and Duncan only smiles soft and sad. His hand resting on your knee, he speaks. “I’d have you cry.” He says again, “For the girl you lost, for the woman you became. Cry because you are a mother, a good one and you do it nearly alone, cry because you can– because it's okay. Over spilt milk or broken glass, cry because it feels right and it's a start.”
“And then?” You murmur.
Duncan shakes his head, “I can not teach how to feel better.” He says, “I can not teach you to forgive. I can only give advice— guide you through your tears. I want better for you, My lady. To give Paul a chance, to see if his word is true, if you truly want to stay in a place that caused you nothing but grief.”
“What could I do?” You ask and it hurts to hear how helpless you sound to your own ears. “If I don't want to stay, what would I–”
And for the first time since this conversation has started, Duncan hesitates— then, much quieter than before he begins to speak, “It was Leto who granted your marriage, while your parents drafted the contract– he was the one who allowed it. Therefore, if you were to go to him– if you were to air every grievance you have with Paul, tell him of all the cruel things his son has done to you… he could void your marriage.”
You shift, pulling your son up your body, cuddling him close and Duncan follows the movement.“ But what would happen to me, to Oliver?”
“Nothing.” Duncan answers. “You are the one approaching Leto here. You are the injured party and if you were to separate, you'd get half of the Atreides… well, everything.”
“What?”
“It is an old tradition.” Duncan explains quickly, “It went by many names; dissolution, annulment, divorce. You'd get half of everything– if not more, you'd get to keep your status as Duchess, you'd probably have enough money to build your own castle free and far from all of this.” He sighs. “You’d get to decide if Paul even got to see Oliver–”
“I cannot do that to him, he loves his son–”
“You are the injured party.” Duncan stresses, “It would be your choice, all of these would be your choice. I can not tell you what to do, my lady. But if you were to ask me, I'd cry first. At least once.”
And despite all the training saying otherwise, you let one tear fall. Then another and another and a–
Duncan lets you cry, his hand finding yours as you begin to curl around Ollie and bless the void— the boy doesn't so much as stir— and you sob for the first time in years.
The next few days are… odd.
Paul tries, you give him that. He is there before you wake, lingering just outside your door with Duncan by his side. He greets you with a smile, a kiss on the hand then he offers you his arm— it varies where he leads you. Sometimes it's straight to Oliver, the boy wakes with a big grin and messy hair delighted at the sight of his parents together and other times, he leads you to a hidden alcove; a well furnished cave on a cliff side overlooking Caladans’ main sea. These moments are often spent in silence— you eat a bit and Paul watches you, you spend more time pretending not to notice then actually enjoying it but it is… time spent together and that is good, you think.
Today, however, is proving to be a bit different from most. You eat as you always do, you watch the waves crash on the rocks, you count the seconds between each of your husband’s blinks and take little glances at Duncan when the man sighs whenever Paul clears his throat. He always clears it,you find, a nervous habit only ever shown amongst close family or friends and most times, nothing would follow it, Paul would fall back into silence and the both of you would eat then go back to the castle.
Paul clears his throat and you look at him curiously because that is twice within a minute and as much as you detest him, you wouldn't want to see him choke and when you do look at him, he's fumbling with a bundle of grey cloth wrapped in twine, “Oliver,” He starts, soft and unsure and it makes you strain to hear him over the sea. “He says you like these so–” His fingers are slick because of his nerves and it takes a minute or so for him to unravel the twine but once he does— he places the cookies on the table and slides them towards you with a smile.
You look at the oddly shaped balls and smile— they are obviously handmade. They're big, clumpy and some even sink in on themselves, a few have seeds on them burnt and crumbling but seeds nonetheless and it gives you some pause. Your eyes flicker up, past Paul to Duncan who is giving the cookies an equally puzzled look. This isn't lost on your husband who frowns— he looks between you and Duncan and his brow dips, he fidgets with the edge of the grey fabric, then the skin around his nails, “What?” He asks a bit louder than he should, “What is that look?”
Your mouth opens to answer then it closes just as fast. Paul is trying. You remind yourself that he's spent much of the marriage away from you in his own universe, he wouldn't, doesn't know much about you. He is trying and so are you, trying to give him grace— he has given you cookies, as ugly and deadly as they might be, they are made by his unskilled hand and you can't help but appreciate that.
Duncan, though, is not you. “Were these made with sunflower seeds?”
Paul continues to frown, looking up at the man. “Yes, why?”
“Ah.” Duncan starts, his voice flat as you instantly push the cookies away with the butt of your fork. “Your wife is allergic.”
Paul turns red. From the tips of his ears to the ends of his toes— his mouth drops open and he founders, a choked apology starts to leave him but he only gets as far as, ‘I'm–’ before he stops because you aren't cursing him out or banishing him away from your sight. Hells, you don't even move from the table, you just watch him carefully, your eyes dancing across his face and he wishes that a sun– any one of them, explodes and spares him from this experience, from this life.
Sadly, no exploding sun spares him from this. There is no blistering heat or quick death, just your searching eyes and your cool words.“You wouldn't know.” You say simply, smiling and Paul is shocked that it holds no maliciousness. “Ollie seems to have tricked you because these are his favorite not mine but… I appreciate that you thought of me.”
“I–” He's still red, still choking on his words but his mind spins as multiple things fly through it; he can't be mad at his son because he would have pulled the same trick on his father, he is embarrassed, incredibly so because he had almost killed you because he did not know of a simple allergy but Duncan knew. He is your husband and he didn't know.“Forgive me.” He breathes, pleads.
For once, he wants you to be mad at him but you only frown, your hand carefully intertwining with his. “You didn't know,” You say, “We are… we are only beginning to know each other. We have much to learn. You didn't know and that's okay.”
Paul nods but his head spins. Duncan knew. His green eyes meet his trusted guard and he frowns, he then notices your closeness— even though your fingers are locked with his, you're leaning back towards Duncan and he is standing as close as possible to your chair. You both are sharing the same air and it is not like you and Paul who sits across from you with only a hand connecting you both. You breath out and Duncan inhales– shifting somehow closer, his lips twitching when Paul obviously catches the movement. Paul thumb strokes your hand and any negative feeling that was starting to build melts away when you smile at him, he pushes Duncan from his mind as he refocuses himself on you, a smile of his own forming.
“Well,” He starts and his voice is still shaky from the embarrassment. “Besides sunflower seeds, is there anything else I should be aware of?”
Paul doesn't know how he never saw it before. The warmth in your smile, the light in your eyes. Paul had begged for a Sun to end him, blind to the star burning bright promised to him. These years of neglect had not dulled your shine, your heat— you glow and Paul thinks he'd happily go blind if it meant staring at your light forever. “Well…” You start, smiling wide and warm.
The two of you spend the next five hours talking, laughing and trading stories of food illnesses to embarrassing ones from your youths.
When Duncan is called to Paul's study, he already knows for what. Emmett pesters him with endless questions but the Brightwater man quickly falls silent at the mention of your name, he pales and Duncan clicks his tongue when the bastard excuses himself from the room.
To think you thought that man was bold. You thought him brave and uncaring, Duncan pretends he does not hear him emptying his stomach into the toilets. He knows the man fears he'll lose his job and Duncan does not bother to reassure him.
The route there is easy, quick. It's as if he blinks and he is there, pressing up the door and taking a step inside. Paul is sitting, facing a large window that shows Caladan’s raging sea. The waves crash on the beach's shore and drag the sand out with it, the sky has grown dark since your outing with your husband— a storm raging in the distance. A storm raging in the man in front of Duncan.
“For how long?”
Duncan doesn't bother trying to play stupid, he doesn't sit nor does he take a step further in the room. “Does it matter?”
Paul turns just as lightning strikes the sea. His eyes flash and Duncan is taken aback at the rage that is there. He doesn't not flinch away from it, he bares the storm that spills when Paul speaks. “She’s my wife, Duncan. My wife!”
Duncan blinks. “I am aware.” He then looks away. “She is aware of that too. It is by her hand only that I haven't landed in her bed.”
Paul stands, he is shaking. Duncan is his friend but this— he smoothes a hand over his face. His eyes sting but he does not cry, he did not do so when he caught the beginnings of something with Emmett so why would he cry now? He looks at Duncan and his heart clenches. Duncan is his friend. “And if she said yes–”
“In a heartbeat.” Duncan answers. He is cruel in his honesty but he doesn't care, Paul has been crueler with his own and he can't help the smile that twists at his lips. “Castle Atreides would be filled with more bastards than you, Paul.”
Duncan does not flinch. Paul in all his anger and crashing tides has made his way across the room, his blade to his neck and drawing blood. The cut stings, bubbles with his blood and Duncan doesn't not break eye contact. He has hid his love for you long enough and this is freeing, Paul would not kill him. He knows that because Paul is a trained soldier, trained to kill and his blade shakes against his throat. “You will leave.” Paul says and his voice is shaking. There is a tear threatening to spill from his eyes. “You will leave and you will not return until I call for you.”
Duncan's heart drops. “What?”
“You will not come when she calls.” Paul continues. “And she will call and you will not answer. Not for her not for Oliver. Do you understand?”
Duncan searches his young master's face for some kind of tell but Paul is serious. The blade presses closer and when Paul opens his mouth, it is The Voice that leaves it. It is hundreds of voices all at once, it is his mother's, it is his fathers and it is yours. The commands sinks into his brain, pulling at flesh and his eye twitches as it forces it's will deeper. He is being sent on a mission, he is being sent to Arrakis. The voices dig deeper and there is a dull alarm that coils around his heart, Duncan hopes Paul will not take his love for you away. His lungs tighten and the blade is pulled away from his neck as he falls into a kneel before Paul who still commands his existence. He is to forget this. This confrontation, this moment of insecurity and rage, he is to forget why he never wanted to leave Caladin in the first place.
Please, please, please. He begs when the voice doesn't fade, there is terror building in his blood but as soon as it grows it is wiped away by The voice, by the soft whisper of your voice. He is to bring Deacon's bastard son. The voice fades and Duncan is gasping, clutching at his neck and his fingers slip in his own blood. Paul stares down at him, his eyes blank, the storm raging on behind him and Duncan remembers… nothing. Just his mission.
He pushes himself to his feet, surprised when he stumbles. His blood flows dark and Paul doesn't look away, a thin lipped smile on his face. “You slipped.”
Duncan knows that's not right but he can't bring himself to question it. Paul is moving away from him, back to his desk and fixing his chair. “Best to prepare for your departure and send Emmett to me when you see him.”
Duncan knows his way to Paul's office and he knows the way back just as well. But today, he couldn't help but get lost on his way. He has a headache brewing.
You like to believe you do not know who cries more when Duncan leaves. But Oliver stops crying within an hour, distracted by his grandparents and pulled away for a mini adventures and it is two weeks later when you burst into tears because you think you've smelt him.
It is embarrassing, unladylike but Duncan had told you he had wanted you to cry more and Paul took it in stride. Duncan had been your foundation for so long so for him to be sent away, you are left crumbling but Paul is there and more than eager to get to building. At some point, he had snuck his way into your rooms— he had wide eye amazement as he took in everything, the plants that climb their way up your walls to your blankets and how much thicker they are than his. Paul had smiled when he saw despite everything, you still favored his colors– your house colors. You and Paul sleep together but not sleep together. Your mornings had become shared, whispers and giggles shared the first time you both woke up together— you and Paul had talked into the night, Oliver curled into his side and his hand running through his son's hair.
Still days later, you find waking up next to him, your husband hasn't gotten old. Paul clings to you when he sleeps, he's incredibly warm and you find you no longer need your blanket when he wraps around you in the night. Emboldened by his soft snores, you pull away gently, taking him in the soft morning light. You brush a soft curl from his face and he frowns in his sleep, it strikes you just how pretty he is. He's the makings of every Prince you ever read about growing up, blessed by luck and kissed by beauty and all that. He nuzzles against your hand with a sigh, his frown melting from his lips and you realize you want to kiss him.
You pull your hand away out of pure embarrassment, flushing hot. You shouldn't be embarrassed, you try to reason with yourself. He's your husband— the father of your child, he's touched your naked body before, he's kissed you before but that was years ago and all of that stopped the moment you fell pregnant. You haven't ached for such affection from him in years yet here and now, you wish you could press your lips to his. How embarrassing, you simper trying to pull further away from him but Paul's hold is ironclad, he curls around you tighter, his legs sliding between yours, his hands settling on your back. “What are you doing?” He murmurs, “Where are you going?”
You thank every star that's ever existed that he doesn't open his eyes. He keeps his eyes clamped shut as if protesting the morning sun and he completely misses your fading flusteredness. “Nowhere.” You answer, trying to relax in his touch. He's drawing patterns against your back, trying and failing to lull you back to sleep. He's just so close and it was easier to ignore when you're too tired to be flustered. “I wanted to give you space.”
Paul frowns, blinking his eyes open. “Don’t want space.” Then processing what he said, he offers you a timid smile before he rolls away to yawn and stretch. “Sorry, that was…” He shakes his head and doesn't bother finishing what he was going to say. He gets out of your bed with another stretch, his bones cracking and your mind flounders, rushing to think of a reason to keep him in bed— you never thought a day would come when you wanted to keep Paul near you. Your mouth moves before you can think and through and—
“Oliver says he wants a sibling.”
The moment it leaves your mouth, you're clapping a hand over your lips in pure, unfiltered embarrassment. Paul is still frozen mid stretch, his eyes wide and his cheeks completely pink and you wish a moon would come crashing into the planet and take you out in its destruction. “What?” He asks, his voice is strangely pitched. His arms drop as he turns to face you.
“Nothing.” You say and your voice is a squeak, your mortification growing. What are you? A blushing virgin maiden? You should have stood your ground, repeated what you said proudly but you're suddenly… shy. Your heart is pounding and you pull your blanket up and over your head, “Forget I said anything.”
Paul says your name and you ignore it, pulling the cover tighter and it's a sight that makes Paul's heart soar. His lady wife is shy before him, it is a welcome change that has his own heart skipping delightfully. He can't help but tease you, he says your name again as he rounds the bed, he drags it out, stretches it across his tongue and you shiver under the blanket. His hand touches your covered leg and you jump and he laughs, sitting at your side. “My love,” He starts and he says it like he's sure of it, like you are his only love. “Can you repeat that?”
“No.” You hiss and it pulls another laugh from him. He pulls the blanket from your face and he is smiling like he's never smiled before, his peachy cheeks dimpling.
“Oliver wants a sibling.” Paul repeats and you purse your lips nodding, Paul's smile only grows. “I knew that already.”
You blink. “What?”
“Oliver has always wanted a sibling.” Paul starts casually, shrugging. “But if he told you and you told me that means– you've considered it.”
Your face flushes hot and you go to pull for your blanket but Paul puts his weight on it, stopping you from covering yourself. So you deflect, your lip pulls up in a halfhearted sneer, “I was making conversation. I was trying to be polite.”
Paul hums, slow and soft. “You thought it proper to a conversation by asking me to fuck you?”
You blink rapidly, your mouth falling open in shock. “I-I wasn't– I w-wouldn't–” Paul is smiling and you swallow. “You’re teasing me.”
“A little.” He murmurs, his eyes are searching your face. His hand raises from your blanket and you brace yourself when it caresses the length of your face, his thumb dragging across your bottom lip. “I wouldn't mind.”
Your tongue follows the path of his thumb out of instinct and when it sweeps across it, you swear you see your husband’s eyes flash. “Mind what?”
“Another child.” He says. “Sleeping with you.”
You're nodding and suddenly Paul is on you, his lips on yours as he cups your face to drag you closer. You are clumsy, unsure with how you kiss him— it's been years you remind yourself but Paul is so much more confident, he kisses you and it's nothing like the ones from years ago. Those had been pecks, his lips on yours to shush your moans as he humped into you, it all felt professional— a duty he had to perform but this, Paul is kissing you. It is all tongue, teeth and lips, he's eager with his nips and how his tongue drags across yours but he goes at your pace; or at least he tries, you whimpered and the kiss quickly grew messy— wet as he wraps his tongue around yours and sucks. It's an odd feeling and it pulls a startled moan from you. It is years of programming that has you saying it, your hands clenching at the fabric of his shirt, “Husband–”
“Paul.” He urges, his voice a touch desperate as his hands begin to roam your body. He's squeezing you in places you've never been touched before, his hands tickling up your sides— pushing your nightgown up. You are bare beneath them and Paul lets out an appreciative groan at the sight of your pussy. He barely looks up when he says, “Call me Paul when I touch you like this, please.”
You swallow and nod, you have to ask. You have to know. “Paul, did you ever–” Your voice breaks and you can hear how small you sound. “Did you touch her? While we were together?”
“No.” He says it so quickly, you're blinking but his voice is serious, he doesn't falter but his hands still. “I would never do that, not even if she offered.”
You take a breath. “But you left, Paul.”
“I know.” He murmurs, “I’m sorry. Will you let me apologize?”
“You already–” Your voice catches as he bends, he kisses his way down your body, hot opened mouthed kisses, his tongue dragging across your flesh. Your stomach clenches when he lowers and presses another kiss to your mound, uncaring of the hair there. Your legs try to clamp together but he is quick to keep them apart, his eyes meeting your frantic ones, “You don't– you never–”
“I’m apologizing.” He says simply and then his mouth is on you. There is nothing shy about the way his tongue drags through your folds, he licks and licks, and licks till he's drooling— he's making a wet mess out of you, his tongue dipping in and out of your fluttering hole as moans spill from you. Your legs tremble at the side of his head and you barely catch his eye roll as he pulls your thighs close to his head. He groans when they clench around his head and he licks his way back up to your clit and sucks hard, slurping loudly. Your back arches from the bed, a shrill shriek of his name escaping from your mouth, his head bobs with each suck, his tongue dragging and swirling hard against your dripping core.
“Oh, oh-” A curse he's never heard before explodes from you and your hand is carding through his hair and pulling closer to your cunt. His nose digs into your flesh and he lets out a puff of air before he flattens his tongue and shakes his head, your hand was keeping him centered enough but it loosens when he does this, flying to your mouth instead to muffle the squeal that leaves you. He keeps his mouth on you as he looks up, taking in your teary eye expression— your eyes meet and Paul can barely hold back the smile when he teases a finger against your slit. You moan, arching down towards it and it makes his nose grind against your clit as his finger slips in easily. You're incredibly wet and you would be embarrassed if Paul wasn't the one to blame for it, you could barely tell what was your own arousal or his spit at this point.
Paul presses another finger into you and it goes just as easy as the first, his fingers gliding against your clenching, wet walls. His fingers prod and rub and when they hook against a spot that has you twisting away from him, Paul is fighting to keep your hips from bucking wildly. “That’s it.” He encourages, his voice husky. His fingers bully a spongy part inside of you, pressing and rubbing as his other hand moves, his fingers rubbing tight, hard circles against your clit. It's an awkward position but Paul doesn't seem to care, his wild eyed look is trained on your leaky cunt and the way it clenches and flutters around his fingers. You smack at his hands because something is brewing— your stomach coiling right. He rides the waves your hips rock to, a crooked smile forming on his face. “That’s fucking it, so pretty like this.”
You cum and you swear you've gone blind. You've touched yourself before, you've made yourself cum before but this— this is something completely different, your back is arching off the bed, your moans are choked to a stop as you try to force air to your lungs. Your legs clamp shut but Paul keeps pumping his fingers inside of you, he's cooing like you're something precious and he's riding your high, his hand matching the twitching of your hips. You wheeze his name, your chest heaving and it is only then Paul pulls his hand from you, his fingers wet and creamy and he slips the digits into his mouth with a soft moan.
You're blinking up at him, your breath rattling in your chest and Paul meets your gaze unabashed, his fingers leaving his mouth to rub a soothing pattern in your thigh. “Are you alright?”
You quickly realize Paul can't help but do that. In the next week, Paul pulls you into every dark corner he can find. He'd drop to his knees, his mouth finding your cunt like it was home and he'd licked you till you were quivering, creaming all over his face and pushing him away. Paul licked your cunt like a man starved and again, you quickly realize with an odd twinge of fear that he loved it. Loved your legs clamped around his head, loved his nose buried in your scent at its source. He loved it so much it took nearly another week for him to bend you over his desk and actually fuck you.
“Oh, f-fuck!”
The office is filled with the wet slap of skin on skin, the squeaking of the desk moving forward. Paul has a hand splayed over the curve of your back, keeping you bent over as he rolled his hips into you. You're moaning, cursing really and it makes him twitch inside of you. He loves when you act like anything but a Lady and when you're clenching down on him, choking his dick and soaking his thighs, he thinks he might lose his head. Still, there are guards who roam the halls outsides, servants that go about their duties and you are just so vocal— his hand slips over your mouth and though he knows the damage is done and the outside world has probably already heard your sounds, he feels possessive; he wants to keep your moans and whimpers to himself. He used the hand over your mouth to pull you up and flush against him, groaning when you clamp down on him, fucking back on him without abandon.
His knees nearly buckle when you begin to set your own pace against him, one of your hands holds his hand over your mouth, your nails digging into skin as your other hand flies to your stretched cunt. You're so wet your fingers slip and mess their mark and Paul feels your frustrated groan vibrate against his hand as you try again, your fingers finding your clit and you rub furiously little circles against the sensitive nub. Faintly, Paul thinks you touch yourself a little too rough but you're tightening up on him and Paul moans, you feel so good. Better than his hand ever did and, his hips meet yours— it's almost frantic, animalistic in the way he fucks into you and when he cums, he shakes, a moan spilling from his lips as he continues to roll his hips, fucking his spend back into you and try to get you to finish.
And you do, you always do because Paul refuses to stop until you do. He could be shaking from pure overstimulation and he'd still fuck into you until you're creaming on his dick, his fingers, his face. Later, he tells you that he's glad you don't squirt. You had hit him on his shoulder, tried to hide your face from his lecherous gaze but he had cupped your pussy with a grin filled with heat, “You’d wash away all my work if you did.”
You had hissed his name in warning but Paul was already slipping his fingers back inside of you and you were mortified with how your body just accepted them.
Your recent… couplings had not gone unnoticed by the people of the Castle. While your ladies had more tact in asking you— your Father-in-law and Jessica were not. You had been tending to Oliver at dinner, trying to coax your son into eating his vegetables with Paul watching fondly at your side, his arm curled around the back of your seat.
Leto had cleared his throat, shifting in his chair as he watched the two of you warmly. He has been the more accepting of the recent change, greeting you both with a grin or a chuckle whenever you two stumbled into the room disheveled. “Would it be remiss of me to assume I'll be getting another grandchild soon?”
Paul snorts into his cup of wine, the red liquid spilling across his front and you are no better, the fork holding Oliver’s broccoli shakes and the vegetable falls on the boy who instantly whines in disgust. You are quick to clean him, apologizing in a coo as your face warms, you look anywhere but your in-laws and Paul takes charge. “Father–” He began, his voice warning but Leto showed his palms with an easy smile.
“I’m simply curious.” He amends, Jessica is deathly silent at his side, watching the conversation with an odd look in her eyes. “The castle hasn't been baby proofed since Oliver and I wanted to know if we should start–”
Oliver, hearing his name looks to his grandfather to you with excited green eyes. “There’s a baby?”
Your mouth opens, then closes, your face warm as suddenly everyone turns to look at you. “Well, yes but–”
The adults at the table all sit straighter, Paul's hand curls tighter against the back of your chair. “Yes?” He repeats a touch breathless and you risk a glance in his direction, and he has once again gone pink in the face. Your lips pinch and you look away, it is much easier to admit this to a child, your son, rather than his father.
“Yes,” You begin again, your voice strong but soft, a hand smoothing over his curly little head. “But the baby won't come for a number of months, Ollie.”
Oliver makes a face. “I’ll be five when it comes.”
Paul from your side lets out a watery laugh, his arm leaving your chair and settling on your shoulders. “Yes,” He replies, “You’ll be an older brother, Oliver.”
That has the boy smiling, he turns back to his grandfather already babbling about all the things he'll do as a big brother and Leto is smiling so widely, you think the grin might split his face. Paul uses it as an opportunity to pull you from the table and out into the hallway, his hand shaking in yours.
“Paul, I'm–”
He silences you with a kiss salted with his own tears. You return his kiss a touch confused and he lets out a puff of laughter against your lips. “Do not apologize.” He orders, leaning away, “Do not apologize for making me a father again.”
“I wanted to tell you differently.” You say, your heart pounding. “I wanted to wait another week just to be sure– wanted to surprise you.”
Paul is grinning, teary eyed and peachy faced. “I am surprised.” Then he's kissing you again.
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"The Dance of Ice and Fire"
𝐽𝑎𝑐𝑎𝑒𝑟𝑦𝑠 𝑉𝑒𝑙𝑎𝑟𝑦𝑜𝑛 𝑥 𝑆𝑡𝑎𝑟𝑘!𝑅𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑒𝑟
𝑊𝑎𝑟𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠: female reader/description, canon divergent, possible OOC, profanity, tension, fluff, kissing, cunnilingus, use of Y/n
𝑆𝑦𝑛𝑜𝑝𝑠𝑖𝑠: Lady Stark is enamoured by Prince Jacaerys the moment he arrives in Winterfell, but he seems to rebuke her at every turn.
𝑊𝑜𝑟𝑑 𝐶𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑡: 3485
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A/N: I'm back did you miss me. This is probably the easiest and hardest thing I've ever had to write. DISCLAIMER: I literally just saw another author's work being similar in certain themes but this is 100% my idea which I came up with after I watched the trailer. I would never plagiarise and neither should anyone else.
PRINCE JACAERYS VELARYON WAS BEAUTIFUL. At least that was what Y/n thought. He was not cut from the rough ice of the North like the men she saw each day, jagged at the edges and coarse to the touch. No. He lacked silver in his curls or lilac in his eyelashes, but only beauty like that could stem from the dragon riders of Old Valyria. His lashes could rival hers, his nose long and curved. And those lips, redder in the biting cold, similar to the rosy blush now blooming on his freckled cheeks.
He clambered off his great beast, a brilliant green-scaled dragon. She had only ever dreamed to see a dragon since she was little, the fiery beings that dominated the stories and the histories, and yet now her eyes would not stray from its rider. She looked beside her at Cregan, her brother tall and observing the Targaryen prince with consideration. She turned her gaze back. It was impossible now to look away.
"Lord Stark?" came Jacaerys' inquiry. His sleek leather boots crunched against the frozen mud, his cloak swaying with the wind and the rhythm of his motion. Each step of his approach made her heart race.
When her brother confirmed the prince's question, Jacaerys stood before him and provided a curt nod. Cregan did the same. Y/n inhaled sharply, wishing for naught but the chilly air to distract herself from what she was now feeling. She was a wolf of House Stark and she would not have herself blushing and gawking like a soft-skinned southron.
Apparently she hadn't realised her current countenance, for he had lifted her hand to those soft lips and pressed a brief kiss to it. For all the furs that were piled upon her shoulders, a shiver ran through her body. "Are you quite all right, my lady?"
"Perfectly fine," she replied, all too quickly. Even Cregan shot her a suspicious look, yet ever true to his character, remained in his calculative silence. "It is an honour to welcome you and your dragon to Winterfell, my prince."
"It is an honour to be welcomed," he responded. His words flowed out so easily, such a wonder to hear. He could say such simplicity and sound as clear as the spring streams. "I have heard great things of the North, and especially of House Stark."
He spoke like a minstrel.
"As you already might know I am here to defend my mother's claim," he did not dawdle on flatteries for longer than he needed to. She liked it. "I ask that you not forget the oath your father once swore to my mother when she was named heir."
"Starks do not turn back on oaths," said Cregan solemnly. "Let us have you settled here first. You are our guest."
"It might take time to accustom to the temperature, but we have readied you a fire," she added on, pushing down the giddiness that threatened to creep into her tone.
Jacaerys nodded once again, the barest beginnings of a smile gracing his pretty face. "Your hospitality is truly appreciated. May I ask if there is any plan of accommodation for my dragon? I do not think Vermax particularly enjoys the cold."
"I shall have my men look to it," Cregan promised. "My sister shall escort you to your chambers." He gestured to Y/n, who sent her brother a surprised look. Her eyes were rounder than usual. Was that a smirk on his lips? When a man like Lord Cregan Stark smiled, no matter how small, it was obvious. He was usually stoic, not grumpy, but expressionless.
Y/n nodded dutifully, though she didn't miss to give him a quick head tilt of suspicion, then turning herself back to the prince. She breathed out a small sigh. "Come with me."
"HOW DO YOU LIKE WINTERFELL?" She asked. The prince had been quieter their walk to his guest rooms, and it was unnerving her. Why would he not speak to her? And why did she care?
"I'm afraid I have not seen enough of it to truly enjoy its beauty," he answered courteously. "But from what I have had the pleasure to encounter, it seems like it will grow on me. Though the cold is... an acquired taste."
Y/n chuckled. Jacaerys had a thick cloak on his shoulders, whilst she merely wore her pale blue dress. "It does grows on you."
"I cannot say I trust your words, my lady," he returned her chuckle. The sound was gently and smooth, much unlike the boisterous guffaws that her ears were so accustomed to. "The ice runs through your veins. This is the only home you've ever known. As for me, well I suppose my blood runs hot."
Ah. Of course. Fire and blood, as was his house motto.
They walked on down the hall until they reached a sturdy wooden door with metal hinges and an engraved ring handle. She gestured it to him with a nod of her head and pushed them open.
"It is our finest room, aside from my brother's, of course."
The room itself, for Northern standards, was quite lavish. All of the furniture was made by a rich-coloured wood, brownish-red and carved with designs of vines and leaves. The bed was large with a plush mattress, multiple pillows and a cloth and fur quilt. A large fireplace blazed with orange flames on the wall beside the door. Two comfortable armchairs were placed in front of it over a patterned rug.
"This will be quite comfortable thank you," Jacaerys nodded. He walked over to one of the armchairs and outstretched his palms, faced to the fire. He breathed out a sigh of relief at the heat.
She felt herself smile as she watched his defences lower and let the warmth consume him, but it faded when he spoke again.
"Is there anything you require, my lady?"
Discomfiture settled in the air now and she felt her own embarrassment bloom. One of his eyebrows were raised and he looked expectant. "Oh no, my apologies."
He hummed in acknowledgement and turned away, looking back to the fire. The light glimmered in his sweet brown eyes. She stared, just for a moment longer, and then she walked out.
What is wrong with me? she thought to herself. Y/n had never behaved like this, a maiden feasting her eyes upon the first knight she'd seen. She had overstayed her time with him and he was irritated now. Her face felt hot despite the drafts blowing through the old castle. At that point she decided to speed her pace, much more a run rather than a regular walk. She felt as if the walls were eyes, witness to her awkward moment. She hurried to her rooms.
Once she'd arrived she shoved her door shut and flung herself on her bed, her groans of frustrations muffled by the layers of blanket and mattress.
"My lady?"
Her maid, Elara, was a sweet girl. At her age, she had been assigned as Y/n's ladies maid since they were both three and ten years of age. She tentatively stepped forward to the Stark girl and sat on her bedside, an action some would deem inappropriate. But they were comfortable with each other after years. It was no longer a noble and a servant. They were friends. "What's the matter?"
"Have you seen the prince yet?" she asked, rolling over so now her pitiful face could be viewed by all.
"No, I have not," Elara replied. "Why?"
"Perhaps if you saw him you might understand."
Elara's hand flew to cover her mouth. A laugh dared to escape her throat. "My lady... might you... harbour affections for him?"
"I have known him all but ten minutes, it cannot be affections," she sat up and held the young maid by her shoulders. "Is it?"
"Well I do not thing your feelings are fully fledged but you are certainly drawn to him from what I can tell," Elara giggled. Her stubborn Lady Stark was going mad over a southern boy, the crown prince no less. If she was told that two moments ago, she would've cackled and accuse a lie.
"What am I doing?" she exclaimed. "He is here on the topic of war and I shall not think of him as anything more than a royal envoy."
"Very well, my lady," hummed Elara. "Now let me ready you for supper. Perhaps we may make you pretty for your prince."
The ladies maid earned a shove and an exasperated cry of her name.
SUPPER WAS A TORTUOUS AFFAIR. There he sat, beside her brother at the high table. The two men had been engaged in deep conversation. She miserably picked at the roast meat on her plate and pushed around her potatoes. Cregan and Jacaerys' talk had dissipated now and she was far too unsatisfied by the rest of the regular chatter in the hall.
Y/n finally dared to shift her gaze to the prince. The side of his face was always a sight to behold, the shape of his nose and the sharpness of his jaw. She gasped softly. He was staring before she had looked, intently. His brown irises had pupils blown wide. As soon as he noticed her, he swiftly moved his view and took a gulp of wine from his goblet. She frowned. What?
The entire occasion she felt as if there were eyes burning into the side of her skull, but every time she looked beside her he was quite intently drinking or eating or looking at the rest of the hall below them. It didn’t even stop here, she felt this strange feeling of being watched the whole length of the time Jacaerys resided in the North. She had tried to initiate conversation many times. Sometimes her attempts would prevail and they would fall into easy words, but it always ended the same. Just as she thought she was about to break through his walls he would shrivel up and dismiss her.
Unfortunately, her brother had made fast friends with the Targaryen. They went on hunts, drank together, talked nearly everyday. Cregan was going to accept his terms, it was as clear as day. She did not know what the bargaining chip was, but a week after the prince had arrived, the Lord of Winterfell strode out the doors of his study with a pleased grin. Jacaerys followed, his own face as satisfied until he saw Y/n.
"I take your meeting went quite well?" she inquired politely. Her arms were folded behind her back with her fingers intertwined together.
"We shall be riding for the South soon, dear sister," Cregan explained. "In the name of Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen."
"Am I coming with you?"
"No."
It was not her brother who so hastily nearly cut off her question, but Jacaerys himself. His jaw was tense and he stared at the stone floors.
"Pardon?" she whispered. She took a shaky inhale, her humiliation and his rejection cutting harsher than the winter winds.
Even Cregan seemed to find Jacaerys' word strange and patted him on the back to release the rigidity of the moment. "What the prince means to say, is that Winterfell needs you. Once I leave to fight in the South, the North will lack a protector. I bestow that responsibility upon you, sister. I know you can handle this."
Her? As acting Warden of the North? Her emotions battled within her, pride against astonishment. Ultimately, duty won over anything else. "I am honoured, brother."
"Good," Cregan squeezed her shoulder.
"Excuse me," Jacaerys interrupted, acknowledging only the lord. "I must ready myself for my departure on the morrow."
"Very well."
The two men shook hands and Jacaerys left. Y/n watched him leave longingly until Cregan knocked her out of her trance.
"Should anything happen to me on the battlefield-"
"Brother!" she exclaimed. "My ears shall not suffer the talk of crows, especially regarding you."
"Y/n," he spoke in that tone, his lord voice. It was a tone he only used when ruling, to command. He had perfected that tone over his years in the role. "Should anything happen to me while I fight this war, you will rule the North until Rickon is of age. I trust no one else to do so. Only a Stark will take the seat in Winterfell."
She wished to scream and cry and ring her arms around his neck. The only preparation she'd ever had in ruling was watching him do it and now he expected her to immediately take over if he died. She sighed. She was a Stark and she had duty to her lord and loyalty to her brother. "Very well."
Cregan patted her back appreciatively. "Prince Jacaerys will fly ahead first and I shall leave after him."
Jacaerys. And in a flash, all her mind settled on was him. She had so many questions, and they were going to be forever unresolved as he was leaving the next day. Somehow he managed to be the priority of her concerns.
For all the restraint and ice she possessed it was melted by his fire. She knew she was too far gone the moment she found herself at his door in the middle of the night, the questions she wanted to ask at the tip of her tongue. They would all spill out if she couldn't retain herself. She lifted her knuckles and rapped on the cool wood.
Moments later she was met with the face that she so admired. Jacaerys' eyebrows were furrowed in confusion and his soft lips were pressed into a line. "Lady Stark?"
"May I come in?"
"It is not appropriate-"
"Please."
He finally relented and stepped aside so she could enter. "Why have you come here?"
"My broth- Lord Cregan," she corrected. "I'd assume you've heard, has... I suppose named me his current heir to the North."
"I have heard," he confirmed. "How is this relevant?"
"If I am to be the Lady of Winterfell we might have to work together in the future, as you are the heir to the Seven Kingdoms," she began. "And... well I just feel like you do not like me so much. And I wish to know why."
"I do not not like you," Jacaerys answered courteously. His face was completely unreadable. To her, blankness was thinly crossing the line over to dislike.
"You act that way," she blurted out.
"It is merely the appropriate behaviour that befits unmarried people."
She saw his fists beginning to clench. Y/n winced. "My apologies. I suppose I was overreacting. You are right. It is inappropriate."
She took a shuddering breath and she tore away from his intense gaze to take her leave. Stupid girl. She knew exactly how this would end up and yet she still went through with it.
"And I am constantly on the brink of breaking that propriety every time you are near."
He gripped on her wrist and shut the door, pulling her towards him. His right hand cupped her cheek and his left arm encircled her waist. His thumb circled her soft flesh, his eyes desperately trying to memorise every detail they could set their sights upon.
"What?" Once again, only he could make her this inarticulate.
"I have not been demonstrating appropriate behaviour, I am trying to restrain myself," he admitted. "You have had me entranced since the moment I landed in your courtyard. I feel your eyes on me all the time, I cut our conversations because I discover it is difficult to be in your presence and not want to kiss you."
"So kiss me," she breathed.
"I cannot," his teeth gritted.
"And why is that?" she interrogated.
"It is not proper."
Her mouth lowered into an ‘o’ and her eyes narrowed. His honour was unquestionable and her bane. "You have mentioned propriety a million times in this moment already and yet you are holding me so close by-
"I shouldn't be!" he still hadn't let go.
"Then release me!" she exclaimed.
"I cannot either," he groaned. "Damn you, Stark."
"I have done nothing," she defended. He was being oh so exasperating and yet her stomach burned with desire.
She had no time to register how his mouth attached to her neck and lavished it with urgent kisses and grazes. Y/n tried to silence herself, wrapping her arms around his shoulders. "You have done everything. You have utterly bewitched me. You make me forget the burden I carry, what occurs beyond the North right now. You make me selfish."
She didn't know what to say to him now, so she ripped his head up to her lips. Jacaerys' kiss was pure fire, she had no doubt of his heritage. He kissed so ardously and desperately, clinging to her cheeks, his tongue savouring the taste of her.
They kissed like this even as he roughly pushed her to his bed, until she had to cling on to him so she would not fall. She was made to sit on the bedside, where he pulled himself away from her and descended to his knees. Jacaerys' hands were surprisingly smooth, without any callouses. But they were oh so warm. His fingers trailed from her ankle up until her knees, feeling her skin. Before he rucked up her skirts, he stopped himself. "May I?"
Her head bobbed furiously. "Please."
Jacaerys threw her skirts up so they pooled at her hips, leaving her thighs and her undergarments exposed to him. He kissed the upper part of her calf, then hooking his fingers at the top of her underwear. Y/n's breathing shuddered, her hands gripping into the sheets for some semblance of stability.
He excruciatingly slowly pulled down the flimsy piece of fabric, tossing it aside. He made a reminder to keep it for himself for when he left.
Y/n was already slick and glistening, a sight which instantly affected his breeches. His index finger ran across her folds, making her intake a sharp breath. Then, the prince returned his finger to his mouth, tasting the evidence of her arousal. His pleased groan sent a shiver up her spine.
He hefted her legs over his shoulders, turning to kiss down her thighs. At long last, his tongue made contact with her core. He licked an experimental strip across. She gasped and instinctively she reached to trap her own fingers in those luscious dark curls. "Oh-"
Jacaerys feasted on her like a man starved, devouring what he could, as if he had been denied food or water for years. His tongue delved into her entrance, the pressure building in her belly. She felt his nose, pressed up against her, and she tried so hard not to let the whole of Winterfell hear her. He suckled and tasted, thumb now pressing on her pearl. She cried his name, unable to keep down her wails now. He made his own low noises whenever her hands would further thread through his hair and pull at it. She had no idea that his or her wants could extend to this.
"Fuck-" the pressure built and built. Finally, she could not hold back and her peak washed over her, something incomparable than anything she'd ever felt before. Jacaerys lapped up her release eagerly, only stopping when he heard her defeated whines. He wiped his lips with the back of his sleeve and kissed her once more. Y/n grew flustered at the taste of herself.
"Beauty incarnate," he whispered, pulling her onto his lap. She settled her head in the crook of his neck. His scent was like the early days of summer and freshly burnt firewood. He kissed her temple.
They had only just begun to settle in a comfortable silence, but Y/n could not hold back. "You are leaving for the South."
"Correct," he replied, pushing back any baby hairs sticking to her hairline.
"You are leaving me."
Jacaerys sighed. He sounded ungratified, but he continued to kiss the side of her face and her forehead. "If it were up to me I would bring you with me. But your brother as stationed you at your home and you must fulfil your duty."
"I know," she mumbled.
Quiet again.
"I shall come back for you," he declared. "I will make you my wife, if that is what you desire."
"More than anything," she proclaimed. Daunting it would be to be the wife to a man who would be the most powerful person in the realm, but that was all in title. At the very least, he would belong to her.
"Wait for me, my love?"
His love. "I would wait an eternity for you."
"As would I," he responded, sealing their promises with their last kiss of the night, the wolf and the dragon. Ice and fire.
Taglist: @jacespookiebear @kimm4710 @januarybella @jacesvelaryons
Published: Tuesday 27th March 2024
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Cowboy Like Me (Billy The Kid) 18+
Summary - after you and billy’s chat in the saloon, you went your separate ways. he got a job, and you fixed up the saloon. billy soon became a regular at the saloon, he’d sit and play poker with a drink and end the night with a chat with you.
Warnings - smut, swearing, afab! reader, unprotected p in v (wrap it guys).
word count - 715
pt. 1 pt.2
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you had no idea why people lived in fear of the name ‘billy the kid’, he wasn’t as bad a everyone said he was.
from your chats with billy, he wasn’t the ‘villainous, conniving, manipulator’ everyone said he was. you found him quite sweet, attractive even.
he soon became one of your regulars and you loved seeing him.
then one day, he stopped showing up.
“jesse?” you asked your brother.
“what?”
“where is billy?”
“why do you want to know?”
“answer the fucking question.”
“he’s travelling, he’ll be back in at least two weeks.”
so you waited.
you waited two weeks, and he did show, but not how you had hoped.
it was the early hours of the morning and you had heard the regular racket of drunken cowboys outside, but then you heard a hard banging at your door.
you rushed out of bed. your white night gown bright in the dark, your hair nightly tied up as you walked down the stairs. a lit candle in its stand that flickered as you breathed.
you opened the door and saw billy standing there, blood dripping down his nose.
“billy?” you helped him inside. “are you okay?”
“yeah i’m fine.” he smiled. “just wanted to see you.”
you looked into his eyes, despite the pain he was going through, he still looked happy.
“let me clean you up.” you helped him upstairs. “what happened?”
“i won a poker game and some fucker punched me.”
you grabbed a rag and a basin of water to help billy.
“this is gonna hurt.” you said before wiping at the blood, his nose clearly sensitive, he winced in pain as you dabbed at the blood. “i know, im sorry.”
“s’fine.” he breathed out. “thank you.”
“for what?”
“for helping me. with this. with everything.” he smiled.
“anytime, billy.” you smiled at him. “i’m here for you.”
he looked at you, and then he leaned in.
you gave in. you leant into him and you both shared a kiss. the world went quiet. his chapped lips rough against your smooth lips, his hands on your back while your hands sat on his chest.
and from that moment on, that was how your nights went.
billy sneaking in through the door and you just kissed. but you wanted more, you needed more.
you were gonna do something about it.
billy came in as per usual, and you did your usual routine.
you normally stopped billy before he took it too far. but this time, you didn’t.
“you sure?”
“very..”
billy smirked and ran his hands around your body. you moaned at his touch.
“billy..”
“tell me what you want,”
“you..”
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you guided him to the bedroom, your lips entangled as your hands went to his hair. his boots under your bed as he pinned you down beneath him.
he removed your dress with ease and started squeezing your breasts as he unbuckled his belt, it fell to the floor with a clatter before you unbuttoned his shirt and ran your hands over his chest.
he still had his hat on and removed it, to put it on your head. he removed his underwear and pumped himself a few times before sliding himself into you.
he was big. much bigger than you were used to, he stretched you out and it hurt, but it felt good at the same time.
he started speeding up and your moans got louder, your nails scratching down his back as he let out soft moans.
“fuck, this pussy made f’me.” he moaned out.
his hat bouncing up and down on your head as you lay on the mattress. he pulled out briefly and picked you up, he lay on the bed and set you on top of him.
“want you to ride me,” he whispered, his hands on your hips, guiding you up and down as you bounced, hands on his chest for balance.
“good girl.” he let out, his hand going down to find your clit, rubbing slow circles which made you moan even more.
“billy!” you moaned as your orgasm hit you like a train.
“i got you..” he thrusted up into you as he came inside of you.
—————————————
you lay beside each other in the bed, still trying to catch your breaths.
“will you stay with me?” you whispered
“forever…” he replied.
taglists :
@geminibsworld @slutforsnow @zeglythgf @cynical-one19
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you are always embodying a version of you 🍭
“ive been feeling stuck for 2 years” -> embodying that state
“its not gonna manifest” -> embodying that state
“she still didnt text me back” -> embodying that state
when you assume its nothing is changing, you are simply embodying that version of you who believes that. you are always embodying a version of you out of the infinite versions of you that already exist.
there is no “original” state or “realer” state. even if the state is expressed in the imaginary 3d, it is not “realer” than any other state. we know the 3d is neutral and doesnt mean anything so giving value to something in the 3d makes no sense.
remember that you are the self that occupies states. these states mean nothing without you. states are useless bubbles without you embodying/occupying it. even when you embody them they are nothing bc you always assign meaning.
next time you feel like youre “stuck”, know its all just a state and theres nothing to be afraid of. states are below you, states need you, you (self) dont need states. you are beyond these “im stuck” states. there is no “struggle,” there is only states being embodied. you can simply embody another state (regardless of the 3d). be the desired version of you.
when you feel stuck:
know its only a state, you are always embodying a state (so theres nothing to be afraid of bc its just a state) and identify the state you are currently embodying that doesnt serve you
embody a different, better state via deciding or techniques + fulfill
its so simple. it seems harder because you think what the human self is experiencing in the 3d is the “real” thing when in reality, none of it is real (bc everything is neutral) and you choose what to experience and you are instantly any version if you that you choose.
the funny thing is that while you search for answers “outside” of you, the solution is literally the version of you you are embodying. you are the problem and solution. you see how you always have full control even when you dont realize it? something that helps me is: if i was this desired version of me, would i care about (blah blah)? that helps me embody a more beneficial state.
once you embody a version of you, its done. its already yours. creation is finished yes? remember how i said there are always infinite versions of you? exactly. you arent creating anything, you are only being. so once you become a version of you, everything changes and that is who you are. there is nothing else to do but know its done bc it is. stop falling into the “im stuck” loop and know that is only what youre embodying.
be sexy and change states 💋🍫
kisses, jani ☆
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