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flowerandblood · 1 month

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The Fall from the Heavens (16)

[ dark • Aemond x Strong • niece female ]

[ warnings: sex content, smut, angst, dirty talk, breeding kink, description of wounds and trauma, remorse ]

[ description: A cool distance turns into friendship and more when two children see that they can find refuge and understanding in each other. However, naïve dreams collide with the reality in which every event has consequences and what once could have been love becomes a dark, newly painful obsession. Angst, sexual tension, obsession, violence, madness, very dark Aemond. ]

The story in this series is an alternate reality from the oneshot Stay and love, leave and die, in which Aemond reads the letters his niece has sent to him over the years. They are the same characters and it shows what would have happened between them − I have changed the background story from their childhood slightly for the sake of the plot.

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* English is not my first language. Please, do not repost. Enjoy! *

Next chapters: Masterlist

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He remembered little of their journey back to King's Landing; it seemed to him that his conversation with Daemon, and before that with Aegon, had been a dream, and that it had all not really happened. Throughout the journey, he kept his cheek pressed against his wife's temple, feeling great relief but also fear.

He was sure she would run away.

He was sure she would let him down again, and some part of him wished she would.

Why?

When they reappeared in the Red Keep there were only a few hours left until dawn; he instructed his guards to convey to his brother as soon as he woke up, that he should call a meeting of the Small Council where he would be able to give a brief report of what had happened.

Afterwards, he and his wife both retired to his chamber, stripping out of their riding attire, speechless and exhausted. He watched her out of the corner of his eye, feeling a tightness in his throat, wondering why he felt tense, why he was not rejoicing.

He swallowed loudly as he realised that he had expected a betrayal on her part, because it would make things a lot easier for him.

He could then turn his back on her and her family once and for all, shed his illusions, become who he had been for eight years again.

It frightened him that now, when it was obvious that she had proved her loyalty to him, that she had chosen him at last, so many things remained unsaid, silenced, repressed.

He felt her uncertain gaze on him as she stayed in just her nightgown, heard his bed creak quietly under the weight of her body.

"My love?" He heard her soft voice and grunted, staying in only his breeches and linen shirt.

She twisted towards him as he lay down beside her on his back, placing his hands on his stomach, sighing heavily with exhaustion.

He shuddered when he felt her warm, soft hand on his – their fingers began to trail and rub against each other in the air, just like when she had come to him that first night after many years of separation.

"Speak to me, Aemond. Don't lock yourself in your mind." She said calmly; something in her words, in the fact that she sensed his anxiety made him swallow loudly, opening and closing his mouth several times, unable to get anything out. He finally shook his head, closing his eyes, deciding there was no point.

"Say it. Say all the things you've always wanted to say to me. Even if those words will only cause me pain. I want to know."

He opened his eyes, feeling his heart begin to pound like mad, a shiver ran along his spine.

"I will never understand how could you leave me then." He finally said in a voice filled with regret and venom – he felt her twist next to him restlessly, drawing in air loudly.

He didn't look at her, but he felt her hand tighten on his.

"That was never my intention."

"Then why?"

"My mother then told me to let you rest and calm down. That the guards wouldn't let me visit you anyway by order of the Queen."

"What a nonsense."

"I am speaking the truth. When I wanted to pay you a visit a few days later, Criston Cole sent me away."

He felt his heart stop at those words; his whole body tensed, his breath stuck in his throat as he finally looked at her with wide-eyed expression.

"What?"

He felt her thumb stroke his palm, her eyes looking at him pleadingly.

"I swear, five days after what happened, I came to pay you a visit. I came every day after that, but he always sent me away. He said you didn't want to see me." She mumbled, and he snorted in disbelief and amusement, shaking his head. He looked at her in shock, wanting to see anything in her face that could confirm that she was lying.

He swallowed hard, embittered, leaning the back of his head against the back of the bed.

"It doesn't matter. I needed you when it happened."

"I needed you too. When Criston Cole held my cheeks as your mother's guards poured moon tea down my throat. I wondered at the time if that's how you felt." She said with weariness, sadness and indifference from which he felt an unpleasant squeeze in his stomach; he felt his lips part involuntarily, a hot, overpowering wave of shame surge through his body.

They stared at each other for a moment in silence, just breathing, not moving or saying anything, her hand still on his, warmth and reassurance in her touch.

For the first time in eight years, they spoke honestly about what had happened.

"Why didn't you ever write me back?" She asked at last, her voice trembling slightly, as if the very thought of it made tears of regret rise in the corners of her eyes.

He clamped his eyelids shut, sighing heavily, this time it was his fingers that stroked her hand.

"I've tried. I tried so many times. But I was unable to fill the parchment because no words seemed to describe what I was feeling. I couldn't put my thoughts into sentences. Everything that came out from under my hand was the ramblings of a madman and ended up burning in the fire. Then it was too late. I didn't see the point." He said, not believing that these words had left his mouth; he glanced at her uncertainly out of the corner of his eye, a single, solitary tear ran down the side of her face.

"You didn't even let me explain myself. You didn't give me a chance despite the fact that I've never let you down before." She muttered, and he swallowed loudly, feeling an unbearable tightness in his throat.

"I know."

He took his hand from her grasp and put his arm around her – her body immediately clung to his, entwining with his like a vine, her face sunk into the hollow of his neck, his hand roaming lazily down her back while his lips placed warm, lingering kisses on the top of her head.

They fell asleep for the few hours separating them from dawn in their tight embrace, not like lovers, but like they used to when they were children, holding hands, their foreheads touching.

He felt how, as she awoke, her fingers stroked his cheek gently, her lips placed a warm, soft kiss on his, which he reciprocated with a low murmur of satisfaction, without even opening his eyes.

For the first time in eight years, he felt at peace.

For the first time in eight years, he felt relief.

His closest friend was by his side again.

They were both just dreaming of sleeping on when Criston Cole walked into his chamber announcing that the King had called an immediate meeting of the Small Council in accordance with his wishes.

He sighed heavily, rising slowly from his bed, ordering his servants to prepare a suitable tunic for him. He turned, looking at her over his shoulder, his broad hand stroking her bare calf with a soft, lazy gesture.

"Accompany me. Be by my side."

The sight of her walking behind him as the door of the chamber in which all those gathered sat opened before them did not satisfy his grandfather or his mother.

He pretended not to see their warning glances, instead ordering one of the servants standing nearby to place a second chair right next to his, where he took his seat, placing his sapphire ball in a niche in the stone table.

"Speak, brother." Aegon began without undue politeness or introduction. His mother, his grandfather and Criston Cole were all opposed to their idea, however Lord Lannister and the other houses supporting them were far more accepting of the news that perhaps the whole matter of succession would be resolved without a bloody, kingdom-destroying war.

"Our uncle is as brazen as I remember him to be, however, despite his misgivings, he has not declined our offer. He will certainly pass on our words to our sister. We must wait." He replied truthfully; his mother sighed heavily, burying her face in her hands.

"What if no son is born to you, Aemond? If it is officially the sons of Rheanyra and Daemon who become heirs, they will kill us all for treason." She said with impatience, grief and horror – he opened his mouth to reply, however his wife forestalled him.

"You may have killed the child in my womb who could have been the heir we so need now. We will never know, will we?" She sneered, and he felt an unpleasant shiver run down his back.

His hand clenched into a fist at the mere memory of what had happened and what she had done next. He looked at his wife's face out of the corner of his eye and swallowed hard, seeing in her expression strenght, determination and confidence.

Just what he needed.

Complete silence fell, his mother lowered her head, pressing her lips into a thin line.

"As I said, we have to wait. We have done what we could."

The fact that Aegon had agreed to try to come to an agreement over the succession did not mean that either of them were going to give up preparing for a possible war, so they spent the rest of the meeting discussing what they would do if that plan failed. The King then asked his wife to leave; she rose and left without a word, touching his shoulder with her hand beforehand.

Something had changed between them, he could feel it.

As he watched the door close behind her, he realised that after she had decided to come back with him instead of running away with Daemon, after what he had confessed to her the wall that had been piling up between them since the night he had tamed Vhagar had finally collapsed.

When he returned to his quarters he did not find her there, so he headed for her chamber, informing the guards that no one was to disturb them. As he stepped inside he noticed her figure sitting by the window, bent over the embroidery of the Arryn family crest; the sun was beaming down on her face, he could feel a pleasant summer breeze all around her.

She lifted her gaze to him and smiled in a way he knew, one he remembered well from when they were children; what touched him in that look, in that smile, was the confirmation that she felt the same as he did, that she knew that something had finally changed between them, had set in on the right track.

He approached her slowly, involuntarily extending his hand towards her cheek; he watched as she pressed her face into his skin rough from holding the sword and sighed quietly as her lips placed a soft, warm kiss on his palm.

Gods, how he loved her.

He took the cloth from her hand and set it aside, grabbing her waist and lifting her, seating her in front of him on the top of the old wooden table. She stared at him with her eyes wide open, surprised, her lips parted slightly in an accelerated breath, betraying her uncertainty and excitement; he took a step towards her, so that their faces were almost touching, cupping her cheek in his palms, so soft, so warm.

She smelled of vanilla.

He looked at her, at her bright, warm gaze, at her gentle face, which had so much of that childishness of many years ago in it, while being more mature, more girlish, more tempting; her dark lashes shone in the sunlight as she closed her eyelids feeling his thumb run slowly over her fleshy, moist lower lip.

She was his wife.

What he wanted had truly come true.

She stood before him again, his childhood friend, his lover.

"Rheanys." He whispered and she opened her eyes, looking at him in disbelief; he saw her cheeks flush, her body trembled all over with delight. She raised her hand and he moved away immediately, horrified when he realised she wanted to grab his black eye patch.

"No."

"You're my husband. That's enough." She said regretfully and tiredly, taking his face in her hands. He looked down at her, breathing heavily, his eyebrows arched in uncertainty, in shame, in fear.

"Don't spoil this beautiful day for me." He said at last in a low, hoarse voice. She pressed her lips together as if his words caused her pain, her fingers sliding down his jaw, dropping powerlessly.

"One step forward, two steps back." She said softly, and he swallowed hard, feeling a squeeze in his throat at her words. He sighed loudly through his nose, licking his lower lip with his tongue, fighting with himself.

He didn't know what had happened, what had changed, what had brought him to reach up to his face, to grab his eye patch and pull it off with a sudden, aggressive movement, throwing it impatiently to the ground.

He saw her raise her shoulders high, frightened by his sudden gesture, her lips parted in disbelief, her pupils narrowed as she looked straight at him. He expected her to turn her face away at this sight, to betray herself with a stare full of disgust or fear, but instead her eyes turned red from the tears that had gathered in their corners.

"Come." She whispered, grabbing the material of his tunic with her hand, pulling him closer; he involuntarily took a few steps forward, shocked by her reaction, by her expression, as if what she had seen had moved her greatly, but not in the way he had expected. "Come here."

Her hand lifted higher, to his cheek – he closed his eyes, feeling his whole body freeze as her fingers ran gently over the line along which his scar ran.

"Oh, my dearest, you must have suffered so much. It must have caused you so much pain. For so many, so many months, you must have died every day. Forgive me." She mumbled out in a trembling, breaking voice, from which he pressed his lips together, himself touched for some reason, embittered and grateful at the same time, because for so long he had been waiting for that very look, that very touch and those words from her, just from her.

She kissed him in a way she had never done before – it was neither a child's kiss nor a lover's kiss; it was a caress full of warmth, moisture and care, a tenderness from which he involuntarily closed her in his arms, leaning lower to press himself tighter to her swollen lips.

Their mouths brushed each other lazily, slowly, unhurriedly, as if they had all the time in the world, their hands stroking each other's faces with gentle, calm movements, birdsong all around them, the loud conversations in the courtyard coming from behind the open window and the quiet, sticky clicks of their saliva.

He felt himself shudder each time his lips pressed against hers again, their arms holding them close together, his lungs filling with her scent.

Vanilla.

His manhood slowly began to swell and throb from those wonderfully this innocent caresses full of promise, something they hadn't done before but so desperately needed.

"Make love to me." He whispered into her mouth; she moaned softly, throwing her arms around his neck, pulling him closer, forcing them to join together again in a hot, lazy kiss, which he did eagerly.

Only after a moment did their tongues come out to meet each other, their tips beginning to lick teasingly making them both breathe louder; his hands slid lower to her gown, lifting its material higher, exposing her wonderfully soft, bare thighs.

He let her take care of him, undoing the buckles of his tunic and the tying of his breeches as he kissed with emotion her forehead, her eyebrows, her nose, her cheeks, her temple.

She was his.

It seemed to him that they had gone back in time, to that day when she had kissed him for the first time.

As if what they were doing now was an extension of that moment.

"Do you think we would have persevered until marriage? With staying in chastity." He gasped, sighing quietly in relief when her skilled fingers finally released his desire-sore manhood, his arm drawing her closer as her thighs spread eagerly before him.

He heard her giggle softly, when he lifted his gaze to her he saw pure joy, warmth and love in her eyes, exactly as they had been then, that day.

"If you want, you can believe it, uncle." She replied tauntingly, just as she always did, just as in his fantasies; he snorted at the thought, sinking his hand into her warm womanhood, already leaking with desire. She tilted her head back, sighing with pleasure as his fingertips ran over her throbbing, moist slit.

"What do you imagine would happen?" He continued on, teasing her with the movements of his finger, which slid a little between her tight, wet muscles, pushing them apart, rubbing her rough bud hidden just above her opening. A soft, sweet moan came from her lips as she swallowed loudly, looking up at him from under half-closed eyelids.

"One night, when I would visit you in your chamber, we would begin to touch. Innocently at first, but eventually you would understand what it feels like to clamp your fingers on the soft breast of your beloved woman. You would understand what pleasure lies deep between my thighs." She cooed sweetly; he gasped loudly, embarrassed by how hard his cock pulsed at her words, which did not escape her attention.

"You'd say you wish to feel me just for a moment −" She whispered, with a gentle flick of her hand directing his swollen, hard length between her thighs; they both moaned quietly as he began to push against her and opened her wide on the thick head of his cock with a soft, firm thrust of his hips. "− but we would both know it was a simple lie, spoken only to make us feel less guilty."

A throaty, low groan escaped his lips at that thought; his hands clamped down on her buttocks covered by the material of her gown, with a deep thrust of his hips forcing her to let him inside her. She whimpered, panting heavily along with him, looking at him with her mouth wide open, as if she didn't recognise him.

She put her hand around the back of his neck, the other resting on the table top, trying to catch her balance as he began to root into her with slow, lazy thrusts, sliding out of her almost all the way, only to sink back between her warm, moist muscles a moment later.

"− Aemond −" She mewled, closing her eyes, responding involuntarily with the rocking of her hips to his treatments – it seemed to him that they were both in a state of some kind of ecstasy that nevertheless had more to do with what they had shared when they were children than now, when they were united by fire and blood.

"− and what would you do? − hm? − what would you do if I put it inside you and told you I wouldn't stop until I filled you? −" He breathed out, involuntarily quickening his pace; she moaned pleadingly at his shameless question, her fleshy, hot core clenched tightly around his erection, sucking it inside her, their bodies slapping against each other with loud smacks of skin against skin.

"− I would beg for your seed −" She mumbled out; his hand tightened on her hair at her words, his lips clinging to hers in a greedy, hot kiss full of their tongues and saliva, in a caress not filled with hatred and aggression but pure, hot desire.

"− so fucking beg −" He growled into her mouth between their quick, loud kisses, their lips with a sticky click clinging and pulling away from each other as their bodies found their own pace to pleasure, his thick cock pulsing with desire slamming into her so deep and fast that he seemed to run out of breath, her cheeks and lips all pink with exertion.

"− please, uncle − put your heir inside me −" She whimpered helplessly and that was enough for him – he pressed his forehead against hers, panting loudly, holding her close in a strong embrace in his arms, with a few sloppy, sticky thrusts prolonging the inevitable to finally spill deep inside her. He feel a powerful orgasm shake her body, her head tilted back with a sweet cry of pleasure.

"− yes − yes, oh, gods, uncle, fill me −" She mumbled, her hands drawing him back to her mouth, their lips devouring each other in fierce, moist kisses as the last drops of his spend filled her womb. They both rocked their hips for a while longer with loud clicks of her wetness, panting quietly as they tried to calm their breathing, their hands roaming over their bodies, their eyes closed, focused only on the relief they both felt.

"− this is how I always imagined us − you and me when we were married −" She whispered, and he sighed, understanding what she meant.

Though united by passionate affection, regret, distrust and grief dominated their every approach.

"− my wife begging for my seed is indeed an important part of my vision of a perfect marriage −" He sneered, noticing the amusement in her eyes when she understood that he was teasing her.

That he had returned to her, that she had won him back, that she was looking at the boy she had lost that night.

Her lips parted in disbelief when she noticed that the corner of his mouth lifted upwards, gently, not mockingly, not maliciously.

He smiled.

For the first time in so many years.

He stroked her cheek with his hand as her eyebrows arched in pain, as her eyes glazed over from the tears that ran down her face one by one onto his warm palm.

They kissed again, then again and again, warmly, tenderly, innocently, devotedly, with the affection he had dreamed of for so many years and he thought, hiding this realisation deep in his heart, that this was the happiest day of his life.

The day he got his best friend back.

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netherfeildren · 10 months

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Someone's Wife in the Boat of Someone's Husband .6

Series Masterlist : Moodboard

(Joel Miller x F!Reader)

Content Warnings: Mention of disordered eating; Minor breath play; Light choking; Rough sex; Angry sex; Jealousy; Possessive behavior; Pussy slapping; ANGST!!!!!!!!!! (no one come for me!!!)

Rating: Explicit 18+

A/N: This is my favorite chapter of the whole story :) Art is Talking it out with Bobby by Holly Warburton

Word Count: 6.2K

Read on AO3

We are imperfect mortal beings, aware of that mortality even as we push it away, failed by our very complication, so wired that when we mourn our losses we also mourn, for better or for worse, ourselves. As we were. As we are no longer. As we will one day not be at all.

Joan Didion, The Year of Magical Thinking

You call in sick to work the next day. You can’t function after that, he’s destroyed you, taken a piece of you away with him and replaced it with something of himself. He lives inside of you now, worse than before, worse than anything you could have ever imagined. You can’t say that it was a mistake, letting him fuck you last night, mainly because it was the most amazing thing that’s ever happened to you, but the accompanying guilt collapses your lungs.

When you look at yourself in the mirror after you've gotten home from the party, all you can see is your mother’s face in your reflection. And the thought comes hammering on your mind’s door in the middle of the night, you’re just like her now, an infidel. The poison drips through. Someone that’s taken what wasn’t theirs to take, someone that’s stepped into a space that was not theirs to enter.

You’ve been leaking a steady stream of his come all night. Your cunt, sore and puffy, aching for more. Laying face down on the edge of your bed, arm hanging off the side and gone away to numbness, staring unseeingly out the window. You watch night pass through the sheer specter of your soft, blue drapes, the silver glow of the moon brightening into dawn, and then the light of the sun, sweeping in to reflect across all of your sins. Your head aches a steady constant throb right at the center of your forehead, deep inside your brain, and tears have been a unending salty stream of shame sliding sideways down your face and dripping coldly off the tip of your nose all night long.

You’re a pathetic sight, you’re sure. And you’re scared, frightened in a way you don’t think you’ve been since you watched your mother walk out the front door of your childhood home at ten years old and had turned to look at your father sitting unblinkingly upright on the living room sofa. He’d stayed there for hours, still and silent while you’d sat in the chair across from him, waiting for him to say something, do something. A part of him had walked out that door with your mother that day and had never returned. You remember you were wearing your pink Barbie sneakers, the light up ones that glowed bright at the heels. The memory is very clear in your mind, but you can’t tell which figure you are now, your ten year old self, alone, confused, or your father, comatose, fractured.

You’re frightened.

You think you’re falling in love with him – that you’re already there.

Your greatest fear had always been ending up like your mother, unable to evade her blight of selfishness, of uncaringly hurting the people around her, the people that needed her. But now, now you’re terrified in a way that you’ve never been before, terrified of turning into that sad, broken figure sitting on the couch for years, a piece of him gone away with a woman who’d never return, who’d never really been his in the first place.

How could something you’d wanted so badly, that had felt so good, enshroud you in such desolation now, just a few short hours later? Was it because you knew you shouldn’t have done it? You could only register that peripherally, for there wasn’t any real part of you right now, in this moment, that regretted it, that felt it was a mistake. You’re riding the strange invisible line between guilt and regret, firmly on one side, not yet crossed over to the other, but just right there, balancing on the tightrope. But you can’t even really tell what it is that you might or should regret, specifically. It doesn’t even feel wrong, it can’t, you don’t think, nothing that had ever felt that right, could ever actually be wrong. It isn’t even the pillar of his marriage in your mind, you don’t think. No, what it is, at its core, the place that this pain stems from, is that you know he wants to be with you, and that you want to be with him, and yet, after what the two of you experienced together last night, you’re alone now, separated, and it’s only because of you. It’s all your fault. What hurts more than anything is that you know how he feels, and yet, he is not here, and you are not going to let him be here with you. It hurts because you cannot let yourself have him, and will not ever have him, even though now you know what he feels like inside of you and what he tastes and sounds like. You’d brushed up against something you’d never thought even existed, something perfect, and you will not have it.

It is… it is devastating.

You love him, and you think that there is the very high possibility that he might feel the same way about you too, and yet you will not be together. The fact of your feelings for one another does not erase your history, your fear, the reality of his current situation.

You have to bear the shame of going to the store for the morning after pill the next day. Too stupid and desperate to even think about being careful last night, cunt still puffy and sore, leaving a trail of him in your wake. It feels like you’re walking around with a bruise inside of you in the shape of him, and some cruel and rotten part of you whispers: it was worth it, you know you’d let it happen again, you know you want it to happen again.

Swallowing that little pill is just added salt in the wound – makes your hurt flare brighter within your heart for reasons you can’t even bear to examine right now, except to say that the idea of erasing whatever’s left of what could, very well, be the only time you’ll ever be close to him in that way, makes you want to die a little bit.

And you think: perhaps this will pass, as all things do. You’ve never been religious, but maybe you’ll pray for this – to let go of the memory of him, forget what his hands feel like running along the contours of your body, how your skin felt aflame with his gaze on you. To let go of this want for him you’re scared might send you to an early grave. And yet, at the same time, and despite all this, you also beg the universe to make you remember, to never let you forget.

Hunger gnaws at your belly, sharp and chronic, but you’re not letting yourself have anything yet. Some cruel and masochistic part of you whispers that if you can’t control your feelings, the fact that you’re in love with a married man, then you’ll control this – your body – what you’ll let yourself have. It is a bad habit from your mother that you like to indulge in sometimes. The false sense of power it gives you over yourself, the pain and discomfort it lets you inflict on yourself – it grounds you, makes you feel like if this physical suffering continues then you still belong to yourself, you’re still anchored to yourself, you still hold some sort of autonomy over your body, even if your feelings for him have taken the rest of it away. You’re still real – not something that’s been stolen away by him, that piece he’d robbed you of last night is still there.

Gerri climbs into bed with you, one very bad afternoon, drapes her arm around your shoulders to pull you into her warm embrace. You’ve been existing in a haze for days; and food and sleep and you have gone on a sabbatical from each other for the foreseeable future. There is no peace or rest or comfort to be found anywhere within you. Your mind is just too filled with things too terrible to escape from. Mostly your father – you’ve been thinking about him incessantly the past few days. How much you feel for him now, how much you understand him. You think that it is very easy, you now realize, to lose yourself in the dreams of an unattainable love, to lose yourself in the depths of your own grief. You’d cast him in a weak and pathetic light in your mind for so long, and now you were being faced with the terrible guilt of coming to realize that you understood him better than you’d ever thought you would.

With her cheek pressed against the top of your head Gerri whispers, “It’s Joel, isn’t it?” The reality of how obviously transparent you are is devastating.

“Yes.” You think your voice sounds almost unrecognizable, even to your own ears, so jagged and marred with agony.

“You love him,” she says plainly, and all you can do is nod as you feel your tears slide across the bridge of your nose, down your temple to drip coldly into your ear, slipping over the hand you have pressed over your mouth to hold your own terrible sounds inside. “He loves you too.” Your face crumples, your body wracked with trembling sobs. “It breaks my heart seeing you like this, honey.”

“I can’t help it,” you croak. You are so, so tired of crying. Your eyes ache and burn, your body, your mind, your very soul feels exhausted. You are exhausted of missing him and despairing for him and hurting your own self. You don’t even know why you’re doing it all anymore.

But you can’t find a way to let it all go, to move on… to forgive yourself or your parents. It’s all just too much, too heavy. You think of your mother, all the resentment you hold against her – how do you forgive someone who has no interest in your forgiveness, who’s never cared for it? It’s terribly difficult to be so magnanimous, so emotionally intelligent, you think. One can only exist as the bigger person for so long until they explode. But how can you let go or forget, if you cannot forgive? Perhaps, if it had been someone else, something else, but this was no ordinary thing. This was the crux of all your emotional turmoil, of every issue and grievance that had plagued you your entire life. Your parents, your childhood, the pain of an adolescence alone and unsure and angry. Perhaps, if it had not been all that – if it had not been the thing to shape who you were as a person, who you’d grown into as an adult, you could have just moved on, let it go and forgotten eventually, let Joel in, but the pain of your past had now become inextricably intertwined with the pain of what seemed to be a lost future – of Joel, and so you found it within yourself, now, that you would never be able to forget, if you did not forgive your parents, and then, perhaps, yourself.

But how to do that? You’d yet to figure it out.

After much pleading and coaxing and convincing from both Gerri and her sister, you’d agreed to go on a date with the shiny scarecrow – doctor – who you’re reminded is named Seth. Seth, Seth, Seth. You have to repeat it over and over in your mind to make it stick. And amidst your tears and depression and the overwhelming anxiety you’ve been living with for weeks and weeks on end, you ultimately relent. Too weak and fragile to resist the girl’s onslaught of encouraging suggestions and advice.

He picks you up one Saturday evening, seven o’clock on the dot, to take you out to dinner. Gerri had helped you pick out a pretty soft lavender wrap dress, doing your makeup and hair and wiping away the occasional escaped tear. The silk of your dress is smooth and elegant, and it feels good to wear something so pretty, after weeks of existing like some sort of cave-dwelling-creature, even if that feeling is punctuated by the painful thought that you wish you were wearing it for a different man.

And as poor, boring Seth leads you into the restaurant, a nice Italian place you appreciate the gesture of, his palm, not broad or strong enough, hovering over the small of your back and making you slightly nauseous, you pray for a nice night. Really, you do. You can’t be miserable anymore, you don’t want to be. Maybe Seth will pull something out of you or himself or the both of you consecutively, that will miraculously force you to have a wonderful time, wipe your memory, and never miss or think about one unmentionable man ever again.

And then you hear your name being called from across the restaurant.

It feels, a little bit, like your heart is falling out of your body.

And you’re turning to take in the sight of Joel and Eva, accompanied by another couple, at a table in the corner of the busy restaurant.

You think, in that moment, that you might faint. Or vomit. Or that something, very, equally bad is going to happen to you. Because it’s the first time you’ve seen him in weeks and weeks and all you can think about is the pounding rhythm of his cock fucking into your wet cunt and the sound of your voice crying, asking him what the two of you were going to do after this? How you were going to be able to go on after that?

You do not think that this was the answer – him seeing you out on a date with another man.

His face – his face looks like it’s about to fracture in rage. His eyes are almost glassy, but so dark – burning with anger and shock and hurt. You did that to him. You’ve put that look on his face. And your heart beats so hard and so painfully in your chest, it feels like it’s being ripped apart, like he has it clutched within the embrace of his infinitely strong hand, and he’s squeezing the very life out of you in the middle of this crowded room. You think you can hear Seth’s voice saying something in your ear, Eva, again, calling your name, saying something to you, beckoning the two of you forward, and then Seth’s palm is pressing you forward, towards them, towards this angry, fractured beast you’ve turned the man you love into. You think you might start having a panic attack any moment now, or perhaps, that you’re already there.

The two of you reach their table. They’re with two other people, but your vision is slightly blurry, all you can see are his furious eyes. Seth nudges you and your mind suddenly snaps back into clarity for a second, “Hi, Eva.” You can’t say his name right now, you can’t, you can’t. You’ll die right here on the spot if you have to utter his name out loud right now. “How are you guys doing? This is my friend, Seth.” You introduce them, she says Joel’s name, you register it peripherally, and at the sound of it, you’re pierced with a sudden, blinding arrow of jealousy. Why, why is he here? Out on a double date with her right now? How could he fuck you the way he had, and then just gone on with his marriage as if nothing? You hate him, you hate him, you hate him. You want to scream and rage and throw a fit. You hate yourself, this is all your fault, you pushed him to this. You’ve been emaciating yourself in the infinite pool of your grief, and he’s out on a fucking date right now? It’s insane and unhinged and entirely nonsensical, you’re out on a date right now too, you have no right to these feelings, but you can’t help it. You feel a slight tremble start up in your body, and you think that Seth might be able to sense something’s amiss with you because he wraps a steadying hand around your waist as he chats, and at his contact with your body, you think that Joel’s knee must jerk violently under the table, for the glass and silverware on the table’s surface jumps and rattles, sudden and loud. You startle and turn your face away from them, try and suck in slow, calming breaths through your slightly parted mouth. You think you hear the sound of his deep, rumbling voice, muttering out an apology, and then Seth’s hand around your waist is nudging you again, and prompting you to say goodbye, and the two of you are turning and walking towards your own table.

Away from Joel and his anger and his wife.

A strong hand shoots out, catching the door as you’re about to shut yourself inside the restroom, needing a moment of escape, of reprieve, to vomit or have a panic attack or cry, you can’t really tell. Your body is in overdrive, panicking and shutting down all at once, and then he’s there, pushing the rest of the way in, crowding you backwards.

He’s here, he’s here, he’s here. Everything will be okay now, he’s here.“What the fuck do you think you’re doing? Joel–” you cry, trying to push the immovable wall of muscle he is, back.

You hear the flip of the lock as he reaches behind him, and then his hand comes up to gently circle your throat, and he’s pressing you backwards and up against the wall. Your entire body shakes in a violent, feverish shudder. You haven’t felt him in weeks. Weeks and weeks without his skin on yours.

You hate yourself. You love him.

“You are not here on a date with that little fuck. Tell me I’m seein’ things.”

“Get your damn hands off me.” You try and push him away, but he tightens his hold, fingers administering the lightest pressure to the sides of your throat so that you start to feel that delicious, lightheaded rush. Fuck, fuck, fuck. No.

“Tell me–” he’s seethes, bringing your face closer to his, “Tell me you’re not here on a date with him. Tell me, baby.” His spitting hiss turns into a begging croon at the end. As if by making his tone sweeter, he can make the reality of what you’re doing here tonight different to what it really is.

“I am. I am on a date, and it’s none of your business.” You try to inflect as much spine into your words as you can, but it comes out all breathy and wrong, and your hands are clutching his wrist that’s gripping you, holding on for dear life, trying to bring yourself in closer to him, knees trembling. You’re sure you’re breaking out into a fever. The back of your neck and knees flushing with a cold sweat, flashes of heat spearing through your belly.

“None of my business? Everything to do with you is my fucking business.” And he’s spinning you suddenly, pressing you to the wall so that your breasts and cheek are smushed against the cold tile and yanking your dress up around your hips. You feel him crouch down behind you, and then his fingers are pulling your panties down to your ankles, and he’s burying his face in your cunt from behind, soaking wet already, Jesus fucking Chirst, big hands gripping the meat of your ass to spread you wide for his tongue. You arch your back to let him in deeper as tears start to fall.

We shouldn’t, we shouldn’t, we shouldn’t. Finally, finally, finally, thank God.

He licks from your clit all the way to your asshole, spits a glob of saliva onto your already soaked skin and rubs it in. You let out a broken, devastated moan, almost a wail. Oh, it feels so good, so good. You shouldn’t – you can’t help yourself.

“P– please, please, Joel–”

“I know, I know, baby. Gonna give you what you need.” He gets to his feet, and you hear the drag of his zipper, one hand on your hip, the other coming around to press down on your belly, deepening the bend of your spine, and then the wide head of his cock is there, right where you need him the most, where he shouldn’t be, and he’s fucking into you all the way. Deep, deep, deep, without preamble.

He owns you. You belong to him. How could you ever have been so stupid to think that a date with another man would be a good idea?

You’re whining, stuttering his name over and over again. “We shouldn’t, we shouldn’t, Joel, please, please, please, harder.”

“Shut up. How fucking dare you?” His thrusts are brutal. He brings the hand on your hip up to your throat to yank your head to the side, tongue licking deep into your open, panting mouth. “You force me to stay away, avoid me for weeks, and now you’re here with him? You’re gonna come on my fucking cock now. Remind you who you belong to. Were you gonna let him fuck you? Were you gonna let him have my cunt?”

“Never, never. I promise. Only you.” You’re dizzy, your brain – melted out through your ears, fucked out of you by the relentless onslaught of him inside of you. His grip is almost too tight around your jaw, the palm on your belly pressing down so that you both can feel his cock ramming into you from the outside.

The excruciating pain of missing him – and now this. You hate yourself, you’ll never come back from this. His wife is right out there, but God, God, he feels so good. You’ve missed him so much. You love him. He’s so right inside of you. Tears leak from your eyes, rolling over his hand clutching your face, and he sinks his teeth into the delicate tendons connecting your neck and shoulder. You’re going to come. Now, now any second. The harder he is, the rougher he treats you, the wetter you get, the tighter your pussy gets. You’re so fucked up.

“All this fucking time apart, just to find you here.” He slides the hand on your belly down to your clit, starts a rhythmic little circular pattern that has your eyes rolling to the back of your head and your cunt clenching down hard, sucking him deeper.

“Please– I’m sorry.” Don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop.

“No you’re not.” He gives the top of your mound a quick little slap that has you mewling high and warbled for him. “If you were, you’d have answered my calls, let me see you. What the fuck’s wrong in your head to think you can send me away? To think you can leave and never come back to me? You’re mine, and I’m yours. We belong to each other. Now be my good girl, and come on my cock. Right now.”

“Your wife’s right out there, you fucking asshole!” you cry, inner muscles starting to flutter and pulse around his throbbing length.

“I don’t give a fuck. Gonna stuff you full of my come and send you back out there dripping me.” He kisses you again, and he’s so fucking dirty, so crude and mean and your orgasm hits you full throttle. So wrong.

“Yes– fuck, yes – good girl, such a good girl for me. That’s it,” he presses into your ear, dips his tongue into the soft, little shell. You sob his name, again and again, telling him how much you missed him, how much you need him as he starts to fill you with the searing heat of his spend.

He presses gentle kisses to your neck, your shoulder, your wet cheek, hugs you tight to his chest. So at odds with the savage way he just took you. Your head rolls back onto his shoulder limply. You’re trying to control your sobbing, your face is going to be all red and splotchy when you walk out of here. You probably look wrecked, just fucked. Everyone’s going to know. Poor Seth – he doesn’t deserve to be disrespected like this. His wife’s going to know. Joel’s going to tell her. You can feel it in the desperation of his movements, the tight grip of his hands. He’s reached his limit, and he’s going to tell her everything, and you won’t be able to hide this anymore, won’t be able to stop him, to hide all of your truths and shame.

“Get away from me,” you gasp, breath hitching. Get away, get away, get away. What is wrong with you? You’re just like her, just like her, just like her. You’re just like your mother. Callous and poisoned. “Get away!” you almost shriek, starting to panic now.

“Baby, wait – wait. I’m– I’m sorry. Fuck, I shouldn’t’ve been so rough.” He pulls out and you feel the gush of his come, moaning at the feeling. You brace your hands against the wall, trying not to lose your balance on your shaky legs. You feel his hands hovering around your waist, ready to catch you if you need him.

“Oh God, oh God– what did we do?” You turn to face him, cheeks burning and tear streaked, hands coming up to cup your own face, eyes wide. Your whole body is shaking. “There’s something wrong with us.” He steps up to press himself all along the length of you and you shut your eyes. His gaze is so concerned, swimming with desperation, and you love him so much, you want him so badly, more than anything else you’ve ever wanted in your entire life. This is the worst thing that’s ever happened to you, and you can’t survive this, you can’t, you can’t. He cups his large palms over yours, completely engulfing your small hands and presses his brow to yours.

“Please, please, baby. I’m begging you right now,” his voice cracks, and you pull your hands from beneath his and snake your arms around his neck to hug yourself closer to him. You need to breathe in his scent in these last few moments, you need to imprint the feel of him in your memory, brand it there to keep with you for the rest of your life. “Please, let me fix this. There’s a way to make this better, please.”

“We can’t,” you whisper, rolling your brow over the hill of his shoulder in the imitation of a weakly stubborn shake. You don’t even know why you’re refusing anymore. It’s not like it feels any more right or wrong than what you’re already doing. It’s not like you’re better off for being without him, or he’s better off for staying in his marriage. It’s not like your obstinacy is helping anyone involved in this at all. And yet, you can’t help yourself, something inside of you is forcing you to continue to refuse. And at that he pulls himself away from you angrily. Ripping himself out of your hold and leaving you to stumble.

“No, you can’t,” he spits, teeth bared at you in an almost hiss so that you have to step away from the horrible, painful look in his eyes.

His anger incites your own, “You’re here on a date with your fucking wife,” you say, swiping your hand out in a halting gesture, “What do you care what I’m doing or who– who I’m with?”

He barks out a laugh, ugly and broken, and the sound of it makes you flinch, take another step back from him. “Wanna know something real fuckin’ funny?” No, you don’t think you do. “That’s the man she’s been having an affair with. The pregnancy scare? That’s him.” He jerks his thumb back towards the door, raises his eyebrows, a mocking gesture, a look that has you wrapping your arms around your middle protectively. He nods his head condescendingly. “Yeah…” He’s smiling, and the look in his eyes is manic and broken and full of an ugliness you hate seeing in him. Like he’s on the verge of fracture.

“Joel– What–” you bring up a hand to rub at the ache that’s starting up in your temple, “What are you doing here with them? Why are you doing this to yourself?”

Why am I doing this to myself? He murmurs under his breath, shaking his head. He is so full of painful contempt in this moment, and you think that there is a slightly humiliating edge to this, but you don’t know who it is that’s being humiliated here right now. “You think I give a fuck about being here? About them?” His voice takes on an edge you’ve never heard in him before. No… not on the verge of fracture, you think, this is a man deep into the abyss of dissolution. His brow crumples. “I don’t – I don’t know. I can’t fucking think. I can’t function, you– you did something to me. You–” the words break in his throat, “You stole something from me,” the way you’d felt he’d stolen something from you, “My goddamn sanity or sense or something, and then you’ve refused to talk to me, to see me, and I don’t– I don’t know how to exist anymore, do you understand me? I don’t know how to do this alone – without you. I don’t know what I’m doing, and I– I just–” he squeezes his eyes shut and presses the balls of his hands harshly into his eye sockets, “I just need you to tell me how to do this. How are you doing this? Please, just tell me something that’ll help me, and I’ll do it. I swear, I will.”

He’s breaking right in front of you, here and now, and you’re left speechless, your mind listless, and right before the words leave your mouth you think: don’t say it, don’t say it, please, don’t push him away, don’t hurt him like this again, but instead: “Joel, I can’t. I don’t–”

He cuts you off, “I know. You don’t want to… You don’t want this…” he laughs, another terrible and broken sound. “You don’t want this,” he whispers again, and his face spasms painfully, and then goes suddenly blank. All emotion melting away so that all you’re left with now is a bare, cold canvas. “You’ve never wanted this enough to fight for it… I don’t think. To let go of your fears. I’ve told you that I’d do anything for you, over and over again. And you won’t let me.”

“It’s not that fucking simple!” you cry. “Don’t– don’t say–” He was wrong, he was wrong.

He tucks himself away, still slick and dripping your mingled come, and it registers for one immensely vulnerable second, that you’ve just had this terrible conversation with the both of you bared to each other in the most intimate of ways. He turns to face the door. A terrible curling lance of shame and disgust roils through you. He presses the heels of his hands into his eyes again for one long quiet moment. You watch the broad expanse of his back suck in deep, slow breaths – trying to collect himself. His ribs flare so wide on the inhale, he’s so big. His arms fall to hang limply at his sides. “It’s fine. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that to you. I shouldn’t have been so rough… said all that. It won’t happen again. I’m sorry.” His voice sounds dead.

He turns his head to the side slightly, giving you his profile and whispers quietly, devastating, “This–” he shakes his head a little, a frown verging on confusion crumpling his brow, “This is hurting me?” and the way it comes out, like a question, but yet, so simply, so starkly – it would have been less painful had he struck you, than hearing him say those words so plainly. But still posed so unsurely, as if he doesn’t expect you to understand, or perhaps, as if he doesn’t quite understand it himself.

You wrap your arms around yourself to keep all your blood and pain from spilling out onto this dirty restroom floor. Something has just been irreparably destroyed here. You don’t know what it is. But you can feel it happening, and it hurts.

“I’m sorry,” he says again.

And you want to say, no, you’re the one that’s sorry. You’re more sorry than you’ll ever be able to put into words.

But you stay silent, and he walks out.

You’d always worried that the moment of true fusion with the memory of your mother, of who she was, would come, or better yet, had come, the moment you’d become involved with a married man. You’d thought that nothing after that could enshroud you in her terrible shadow more than that. But you realize, now, as poor Seth drives you home, silent and uncomfortable as silent tears stream down your face and another mans come leaks from your sex, as the memory of Joel’s broken voice and face flashes in your memory, that this is the moment, above all others, that you’ve felt most like the woman who gave you life. Nothing else has ever been like this.

The poison drips through.

You think of your dad. Of the way he died, the way he lived in the years after she left – if that sad excuse of an existence could even be called living.

What a terrible thing it is to love someone so much.

What a terrible thing it is to know someone so well. Well enough to be able to understand them to their very core, to understand what it is that causes their pain, incites their actions. It is a terrible weight to bear.

Seth clears his throat as he pulls the car to a slow stop outside your house. “Uh… are you… are you okay?” Do I look okay? You want to roll your eyes, but he doesn’t deserve your annoyance.

You sniffle, try and control your voice, “Yes,” you whisper, “I’m sorry for– for all this. I… I’m sorry I ruined your night.”

“Look…” he says your name slowly, “I don’t– I don’t know what it is that’s between you and that guy… he’s the same one from the night we met–” you say nothing, “But I don’t think– I don’t think it’s going to work out between us. I’m sorry, but I can’t have all this drama. I’m not really interested in something like that.”

An uncontainable huff of a laugh slips out as you look out the window at the dark street, you shake your head minutely. “To be honest, I’m not so interested in all the drama myself, and yet…” you turn to him now, “I really am sorry, Seth. And I wish you the best.” He nods, stoic, face pointed directly forward, he doesn’t even want to look at you. Uncomfortable and embarrassed by your breakdown and tears and obvious disorder. It’s probably pretty obvious that you’d just gotten the sense fucked out of you.

You step into the dark interior of your quiet house after he drives off. It’s lonely, almost like a shell, an abandoned carcass. None of the comfort you’ve always found here seems to still reside within its wall, and you think that there probably isn’t any place in the entire world, besides by his side, where you’d be able to find any sort of comfort anymore.

Hot guilt churns in your belly – a vile mix of desperation, misery, resentment, wanting. Joel was right about one thing, you don’t know what you’re doing anymore either, what all this is for. None of it makes sense, none of it has a point.

What is the fucking point of all this suffering?

You try desperately to suppress the certainty that lives so willfully within you – that he knows you, that he sees you, that you were made only for him. Something you’ve known for a long time, since the very beginning, probably. That no one, no one will ever intertwine with you, soul fused to soul, as intrinsically as he has. That no one will ever see the muddled shadows of your own self as clearly as he does, as if he was laying his eyes upon the inside of your skin.

You’re in love with him, and you realize that you’ve made yourself into something unrecognizable. A creature out of the very depths of your worst nightmares – the mirror image of the person you never wanted to be.

Your brain feels as though it’s swollen within the confines of your skull, your tears uncontrollable. Your longing for him a spear of fire through your heart, and you are so, so weary of fighting.

Your life had taught you that there were no happy endings. They didn’t exist. A figment in the imaginations of desperate people in need of consolation, comfort, excuses. But there could be grateful endings. Endings that you could thank God, the universe, whatever higher power you used to delude yourself with, for. You could be grateful when a thing ended. You could be glad of it. Perhaps, if you lie to yourself hard enough now, repeat it in your mind enough times, you can feel grateful that you’ve destroyed this. That it seems you’ve finally pushed him away for good – maybe this will help you finally rest, even if the lie of it pushes heavily down on your shoulders.

Chapter .7

Netherfeildren's Masterlist

#someone's fic #joel miller x you #joel miller x reader #joel miller x female oc #joel miller/you #joel miller/reader #Joel Miller #joel miller smut #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller angst #joel miller imagine #joel miller fic #joel miller au #the last of us fanfiction #the last of us fic #pedro pascal #pedro pascal characters

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sunspearesque · 2 months

Text

Nectar

Summary: by the Old Gods and the New, there exists no greater solace than the taste of one's lover following a wearisome day.

A/N: happy happy love day lovergals, boys, gays, and theys :D this is the first smutty smut i’m sharing with you as a treat for v-day and i’m so excited for y’all to read it :3 the idea for this smut dawned on me at work and lingered in my mind like a nagging ghost for a whole damned week ‘til i finally wrote it down lol !!! big thank u to my bestie @palioom for beta-ing <3

Pairing: Oberyn Martell × OFC from WoV

Rating: E (18+ only)

Content: established relationship (marriage); needy!Oberyn; food imitating blood; Wet and Wanting™️; teasing; vaginal fingering; finger sucking; i’m obsessed with his hands and so is she; size kink if you squint; pet names; this man loves to bite, smh; cum eating; a hint of soft!Oberyn

WC: 2.3K

Read on AO3 • moodboard

As night descended upon Dorne, the warmth of the day waned, yielding to the crisp coolness of the evening. Over the past few moons, Oberyn had established a new ritual, one that brought him solace.

Each evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, he retreated to the balcony of their bedchamber, embracing it as a sanctuary. There, he would lounge upon a sumptuous, crimson velvet seat, his eyes fixed upon the vast expanse of the sea unfolding before him—a serene realm of water that seemed to murmur long-held secrets of bygone eras.

This balcony, the largest in the castle, served as a haven of intimacy for Oberyn and Nala. At its center, the aforementioned seat beckoned like a welcoming embrace, bearing witness to the couple's cherished moments. Every night, the chair cradled their forms, offering respite from the day's pressures, while an adjacent table held their favored fruits and wine, a testament to their shared evenings of leisure.

As the hours passed and the weight of council meetings bore down on Oberyn, he would return to their bedchamber, seeking the comfort of her company. There, he would find her already ensconced in the plush chair, her demeanor one of patient anticipation. She was a vision of allure, her raven tresses undulating and cascading down her back as she wore a black chiffon robe. Its fabric was transparent enough to reveal the contours of her body, teasing at the hardened peaks of her breasts and the curve of her ass beneath. Loosely tied at her waist, the robe boasted an open front, offering a drawing view of her cleavage, while its long, wide sleeves added an air of elegance to her form.

As Oberyn drew nearer to the balcony, the lilting melody of her humming reached his ears, and a warm smile crept across his face. There she sat, perched at the edge of the chair, engrossed in the simple task of peeling a pomegranate. The fruit's juices dripped from her hands onto a nearby plate, mirroring the vivid hue of blood beneath the moon's light.

She turned to face him as his presence enveloped the balcony, her eyes alight with warmth and affection. "Greetings," she whispered, a gentle smile gracing her lips as she continued to peel the fruit. His smile mirrored hers, crinkling the corners of his eyes in a display of genuine fondness.

"Greetings, my love," he responded in kind, as he lingered against the balcony wall.

“How did your meetings fare?" she inquired, her attention momentarily on the fruit she was deftly peeling.

"Dull," he admitted with a light chuckle. "I've missed you."

She glanced up at him with a teasing pout, her dark eyes softened. "Oh, my dear husband, ever so eager," she pitied playfully, inclining her head to beckon him closer. "Join me."

With a graceful and somewhat devilish smirk, he accepted her invitation, moving silently to sit behind her. He draped his legs on either side of her, encircling her waist with his arms as he rested his chin on her shoulder, their eyes focused on the fruit she continued to peel.

His lips graced her neck with slow, tender kisses. "I've missed your smell, my sweet girl," he murmured between each caress.

Nala chuckled softly at his words, a warm sensation of desire stirring within her. "I love it when you get this eager for me."

"I'm always this eager for you," he confessed, his breath sending shivers down her spine. His lips found her earlobe, and he sucked gently, coaxing a soft moan from her parted lips.

Her hands still held the pomegranate, its juices slowly staining her fingers. He took her right hand in his, his grip encompassing hers as he lifted it to his face. "I’ve never craved blood as much as I crave it now on your fingers," he confessed. He took her thumb into his mouth, sucking the sweet pomegranate juice clean from her digit. He repeated the sensuous act for each of her fingers on her right hand before moving on to her left. Nala's thighs squeezed together involuntarily as she felt the teasing warmth of his tongue on her fingers, a primal ache building between her thighs. He noticed that, and a quiet chuckle escaped his lips.

Relishing in the intoxicating closeness they shared, he shifted to rest his back against the plush chair. Spreading his legs, he created a welcoming space for her. She moved with grace and settled between his legs, her back pressed to his firm chest. She let out a contented hum, reveling in the sensation of his warm embrace.

His wandering hand traced a path down the light fabric of her robe, slipping beneath the material to cup the tender swell of her breast. He squeezed it gently at first, eliciting a soft gasp from her, before his calloused fingers danced over her hardened nipple.

"Oberyn..." Her voice quivered with pleasure as she closed her eyes, savoring the delicious sensation of his touch, a craving that had consumed her throughout the day.

His voice, laced with desire, broke through the silence of the night. "Why are you wearing this robe?" he asked, hoarsely. He squeezed her breast a bit harder, urging her to answer.

"For you, my love," she breathed, her voice now shaky. "I’m aware it's your favored one."

A deep groan escaped him as he lowered himself down, his strong fingers turning her face to meet his. Their lips crashed together in a passionate, fervent kiss. Oberyn's tongue delved into her mouth, savoring the mingling flavors of wine and pomegranate.

"You wore it for me, my love?" he murmured against her lips, the intensity of his kiss unwavering. "Do you long for me to stretch this sweet little cunt of yours?"

Her moans were muffled as he continued to kiss her with unbridled ardor.

He reluctantly parted from her, allowing her to catch her breath. "Please, my prince," she whined, her lips now blushed and swollen from his relentless ministrations.

"Who's eager now?" he teased, a devilish smile playing on his lips. His hand began to creep down the fabric of her robe, and her thighs instinctively parted, welcoming his touch.

Beneath the fabric, her skin felt warm and inviting, quivering as his rough, calloused fingers delicately traced her inner thighs. He sought to drown in her essence, to immerse himself in her body and her very being.

"My love..." she whispered, her fingers extending to circle his wrist and guide his hand to the heated core between her thighs. He cupped her mound with his right hand, his touch sending waves of desire coursing through her.

Leaning slightly toward her, he brought his lips closer to her neck, which she had willingly tilted back to rest upon his shoulder, offering him greater access. He rewarded her obedience with gentle bites to her neck, a quiet hum escaping his lips. He followed with open-mouthed kisses, tracing a path over the reddened bite marks with slow, deliberate sensuality.

She writhed between his legs, his towering presence engulfing her in his embrace. His shoulders, broad and formidable like a fortress, held her securely from behind, anchoring her in place. His hands, enormous and veined. His veins seemed to grow even more pronounced when he was impassioned or fervent—an occurrence not so infrequent. Yet, even amidst the intensity, his fingers, though calloused from years of training and combat, possessed a gentle touch as if she were a precious gem, and indeed, she was his most cherished gem.

His voice, normally hoarse and commanding as befitting a prince, now softened into a gentle coo reserved only for her. His sharp, dagger-like gaze, which could pierce through steel, melted into a tender look whenever he directed it at her. This shift in his demeanor and temperament had the power to dissolve her resistance, causing her to surrender the control she had always been hesitant to yield to anyone, not even to herself, until she met him.

He smelled like home, like the earth, or burnt wood or warm amber; that enveloped her like a comforting embrace. His scent permeated everything around her—their shared bed, their wardrobe, and the very air their child breathed. His scent was a reassuring familiarity, and the familiar was always a welcome comfort. She adored the moments when she started to smell like him whenever he was through with her, smelling like his skin, his sweat, and his cum; a fragrant reminder of his presence that stubbornly marked her mind, her heart, her skin, and her cunt.

His touch grew firmer on her mound, coaxing a moan from her as he felt her thighs quiver between his legs. Wetness pooled on his palm, a testament to her desire surging with each passing moment. His voice, low and sultry, brushed against her ear like a warm breeze, sending shivers down her spine. "She's weeping, my love," he whispered, his breath hot against her shell, "Open your eyes, Nala, look at her." With a subtle lift of his hand, he showcased his glistening palm, soaked in her slick, illuminated by the pale moonlight. She obeyed, her eyes fluttering open for a fleeting second before lazily turning her gaze towards his ear nestled behind her. "That's what your love does to her," she whispered, "She's aching, my prince." Her words dissolved into a whine that elicited a guttural groan from him. His grip on her jaw tightened, his fingers wrapping around the back of her neck, as he claimed her lips once more, kissing her with a consuming hunger that devoured her moans and left her panting when he finally released her.

His hand continued its sensual caress back on her cunt, tracing the contours of her wet folds with serpentine grace, massaging every ridge of her sex. His fingers moved with purpose, gliding up and down, feeling her clench around nothing each time he hovered dangerously close to her entrance. Veering away from her sensitive clit, a deliberate tease that left her trembling and yearning for more. Tears welled in her eyes as the unbearable ache intensified, her face nuzzling into the comforting crook of his neck as she stifled pathetic whines, murmuring pleas that spilled like a desperate prayer.

"Oh, I know, my sweet girl," he cooed, his lips brushing tenderly against her temple. His fingers continued to work their magic, gently parting her soaked folds, feeling the pool of wetness growing obscenely larger. His voice, muffled by the curtain of her hair, reached her ears as he asked, "What do you want, Nala? Speak to me."

"The teasing, my prince… It pains me," she whimpered.

He pressed a single finger against her hungry hole, a featherlight motion that allowed him to feel the eager embrace of her cunt, drawing him in deeper and deeper. Adding a second finger, he relished in the sound of her gasps and felt the grip of her fingers on his trousers, her nails digging into his thighs with a delightful sting. Her hands marked him as hers, forever claimed by her touch.

"Obery—" her voice began, but it was swiftly overtaken by a strained moan as his thumb finally found her throbbing clit.

Finally, finally, by the Seven, Oberyn.

Her eyes squeezed shut again, and her lips parted as she threw her head back onto his shoulder, her body instinctively spreading her thighs wider, a silent plea for more, an insatiable need that begged to be sated.

His thumb began to draw slow, lazy circles on her clit, all the while continuing his gentle pumping of his digits into her, starting to hear the sultry squelch of her slick.

"I will never tire of hearing your sweet moans when I stretch you," he breathed into her ear. "Do you find pleasure when I stretch you, hm? When I fill you up with my hands, my cock, and my seed?" he purred the question, his skilled ministrations unabating.

Her response was a chorus of "Yes, yes, yes," echoing in her mind and heart, the words unspoken but fervently felt.

He brought his other hand up toward her face, and she eagerly took his thumb into her mouth, sucking on it with a moan. Her lips created a seductive rhythm that mirrored the movements of his fingers between her thighs. Her body tightened around his intruding digits, a sign that her orgasm was approaching. He quickened his pace, adding a third finger and intensifying the circle he traced around her clit, driving her closer to ecstasy with every movement.

"Give it to me, princess," he growled through clenched teeth, the urgency in his voice matching the pace of his fingers. "Give your prince your sweet cum. I want it, I want to taste it, to drink it… Make me drunk on you."

Her grip on his thighs tightened to the brink of pain, and she began to tremble uncontrollably between his legs. Her release washed over her in waves as she came, crying out his name over and over again.

Withdrawing his hand from her throbbing cunt, he bent her forward, away from his chest, until she rested on her stomach, her hips raised and her lush ass presented invitingly to him. From behind, he eagerly lapped up every drop of her cum, his tongue caressing her soaked folds and trailing sensually to her tight, puckered ring of muscles. He drank greedily, savoring the taste of her release as she mumbled incoherently beneath him.

He pulled her back into his chest and turned her within his lap, pressing her chest against his, his rough hand tenderly cradling the back of her head as he peppered her cheeks and temples with sweet kisses. She melted limply in his arms, and he whispered, "I will always be eager for you," as she hummed contentedly against him.

#asoiaf #oberyn martell fanfiction #a song of ice and fire #pedrostories #oberyn martell #game of thrones #oberyn nymeros martell #oberyn martell x ofc #oberyn martell smut #house martell #dorne #pedro pascal #pedro pascal fanfiction #fanfic #fanfiction #fan fic #fan fiction #valentines day #aura’s fics

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nick-web · 1 year

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⠀꯭꯭ ꯭ ꯭ ꯭. ꓝ꯭ꓚ꯭ꓫ⠀ , ꓟ⃕ꓰ̸۪ ⠀ ⚖️⠀䨻̸̸ ! 𝟤͞𝟬𝟬̸𝟭 ꓠꓲꓛ꯭ꓗ

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀:¨·.·¨: 𝟤𝟢𝟢𝟤 ⠀⠀ 덃⠀. 𝗂'𝑚 𝗦𝗔𝗗̸̷

⠀꛱꛱|꛱ ꛱͜͡ |꛱|꛱ ꛱͜͡ |꛱꛱|꛱ ꛱͜͡ | ♡̷̷ ꛱|꛱꛱꛱꛱ ꛱͜͡ |꛱| ꛱͜͡ |꛱| ꛱͜͡ | - 𝗌𝗈 𝖼𝖺𝗇 𝗂 𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗈𝗇𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍?

#messy moodboard #moodboard amino #wugem moodboard #soft moodboard #random moodboard #edgy moodboard #soft icons #edawn moodboard #edawn icons #edawn #dawn moodboard #dawn icons #dawn kpop #solist icons #solist moodboard

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call-sign-shark · 11 months

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Heaven in Your Eyes || Arthur Shelby x Reader!OC

Summary: With the Russians gone and Father Hughes dead, you and Arthur can enjoy some romantic moments together, including a proposal. After talking about your future, you both decide to leave Birmingham to build a family away from Small Heath's filth. But that dawning happiness is soon wrecked by Thomas and his plans.

Words: 6k

TW: tooth-rotting fluff, like really sweet moments, angst, quick allusion to smut, typical canon violence, mention of death penalty, allusions to death by hanging

Notes:

✞ This chapter signs the start of season 4 and, consequently, the end of the first Act of Heaven in Your Eyes. Following this chapter, there will be a two-week pause for the series. Also, parts borrowed from the show are italicized.

✞ The song Heaven sings is a French cover of Bad Guy. You can just click on the French lyrics to open the song and listen to it.

✞ Heaven is OP's original character but written with the use of « you » (Moodboard here).

PREVIOUS || Masterlist || NEXT PART

Arthur let out a long sigh of relief escape from his lips as his body slipped a bit more into the hot and soapy water of the bathtub. The smell of body soap, whose fragrances were those of honey and vanilla, wrapped his mind in a sweet haze. But those pleasant scents were nothing compared to the perfume of your skin his senses could recognize even hidden behind the synthetic ones. Following the last violent and chaotic events of the past few days, this moment of pure relaxation felt like a delightful reward. Everything had happened so fast, in a matter of three days, that none of you really had time to process everything. At least, the worst was behind you.

The oldest Shelby brother was lying in the hot water, his back resting against the bath tube’s edge and your tiny frame snuggled in his arms. You were locked in a tight embrace, with your legs entangled and your bodies firmly pressed against each other. The smile that was etched on your juicy lips widened as the melody of his soft sighs and the water’s lapping lulled you to drowsiness. He looked down to observe you and his mind drifted away. The last time he was in a bathtub with a woman — or with two, to be true — Arthur was snorting a ridiculously dangerous amount of snow and drowning his pain in meaningless sex. It was right after the Peaky Blinders had taken over the Eden’s Club by Tommy’s orders. At this period of his life, Arthur was at his worst and he was still very much ashamed of his past conduct. All he wanted to do back then was to sabotage himself. And yet, here he was, two years later, in the bathroom of his little house — and not in some shady London clubs —, with God’s favorite seraph all nestled in his arms. He had come far. A comforting wave of warmth spread in his soul as he watched you, his heart filled with both pride and ecstasy. Arthur, more than anyone else, was aware of how lucky he was to have you. For sure he strongly believed he did not deserve your love, but if there was one thing he knew it was that he would never let you go. Never. His long fingers softly moved aside one wet strand of your ivory hair, slipping it behind your ear. As he did, he could not help but smile. Life finally made sense to him when he looked at you, half asleep in that bathtub. The truth was, he would go through everything again — the war, the pain, the suicide attempt, the hell of addictions, and the catastrophic wedding — just to hold you like this. Wet lips tasting like honey and whisky gently shook you off your torpor with enamored pecks they sprinkled all over your face. First, it was the corner of your mouth, then your cheeks, and, finally, your forehead. You lifted your heavy lids and looked up only to be welcomed by his ravishing grin and his piercing blue eyes. Those damn eyes you’d die for.

“Yer a cute sleepyhead, eh.”

“Mmm.” You mumbled, slowly emerging from your sweet drowsiness, “It’s your fault.” You teased with a sleepy voice before gently nibbling his earlobe. The light pressure of your teeth on his flesh caused him to groan in pleasure. His grip strengthened on you, long fingers digging a bit more into your porcelain skin.

“My fault?” He raised a brow all the while rubbing his clean-shaven cheek against yours in a sign of both affection and arousal.

“You did not let me sleep that much the past few days.” You replied with a gleam of amusement in your eyes. As an answer, Arthur’s hoarse laugh rose up to the ceiling.

“Can't keep my hands off you eh,” He said with a lower voice before rubbing your nose with his in an adorable bunny kiss. His soft facial hair tickled your skin, causing you to laugh with him, “the urge to make love to you is too fookin irresistible… Ye make me lose me fookin’ mind,” He growled in your ear. You low-key trapped your bottom lip between your teeth as you felt one of his calloused hands trailing up your ribs with a caress as soft as a feather “And speaking about makin’ love…”

“Lord, are you even tired?” A gentle chuckle escaped from your lips. Before he could even react, you stopped him in his tracks and swiftly shifted your body until you sat on his hips and faced him. He looked at you with desire blazing in his eyes and smirked, his mustache slightly lifting as did.

“Not with you all naked in front of me, love.” Arthur brought his face closer, but all his lips met was your index finger you had slipped on your mouth to keep him from kissing you.

“I had something else in mind, chéri.”

“Come on, lemme kiss you…” He complained, the tip of his tongue gently licking your finger in a teasing way. The wet caress sent shivers down your spine but even though you really wanted him, you did not give in to his lust.

“No.” You replied, your smile turning into a sharp grin.

He was about to protest a bit more vividly when you slipped your small hands in his hair and started to massage his head.

“What are you—“ Arthur opened his eyes wide for a few seconds at the unexpected sensation of your fingertips exerting the perfect pressure on his scalp. And then, the whole traits of his face relaxed in an adorable expression, “Oh. Fuuuck—“ He sighed in ecstasy. Shut off by your touch, Arthur squeezed his lids and slightly parted his lips. Enjoying the way he reacted to your touch, you looked at him with a playful smile but what you saw instead almost break your heart. The expression on his face was indescribable — he looked like a beaten dog who had just discovered what tenderness was after a life of abuse and violence. Arthur let out a shaky moan as he gave in under your fingers like a wounded animal finally finding both the comfort and help it needed for years.

Your softness. Your love. Your patience... It all felt so good he could have cried.

Feeling him shivering, you deepened the massage and did your best to relax his poor exhausted body. Indeed, you poured all your love into each of your gestures, hoping your sweetness would sip through the crack of his mind and heal his deepest wounds. And as Arthur melt in your hands, the enchanting melody of your voice filled the room and sent him to paradise.

“Tachée de sang ou d’autre chose, Caché, tu rodes et moi je n’ose Parler, on mets la nuit sur pause Tu te prends pour un autre Des bleus partout sur mes genoux Tais-toi c'est moi qui tient ton cou Cette fois je fais ce que je veux J'ai l'âme coupée en deux.”

His breath slowed down at your hypnotic voice whose tone, feathery and supernatural, hold him in a blissful trance. Curiously enough, the fact he did not understand French only enhanced the impression he was listening to an otherworldly chant. Arthur buried his face in your bosom, his whole being reacting to your voice with goosebumps and shivers. Every synapse of his brain recalled the first time he had heard you sing in this church, lost in the middle of the night.

“Toi t'es un gars dur, tu aime avoir l'air sûr Bien blindée ton armure et défoncer des murs Moi je fais peur à ta mère, à tes sœurs J'ai ton père dans l'viseur Et ta go veut que j'meurs Je suis le méchant.”

Your fingers continued their work, massaging his head and petting his wet hair with utter tenderness, all the while you kept singing. You sang and Arthur healed. A smile appeared through dawning tears he was fighting hard against, for he was convinced he just found gold and even a few stars in your voice.

After the romantic bath, both of you reluctantly left the comforting warmth of each other to dress for the last family reunion. In fact, now that Tommy and Tatiana’s business came to a satisfying end for the two parties, he had organized one ultimate meeting with the Shelbys to give the money he owed them. He, as well as the rest of the Shelby/Gray house, was well aware that Arthur and you took the decision to leave Birmingham to pursue a quieter life. Surprisingly enough, the idea came from Arthur. He had told you about how he would love to open a garage and fix cars, while you had shared with him your inner desire to live near a forest to remind you of the luxuriant nature of your childhood town. Somehow, the smog of Birmingham never made you feel at home. Nevertheless, none of you wanted to do something without the other’s approbation. You were more than decided to face life as you had always done since you met: together, as a unique and vibrating soul. Yet, contrary to Linda, you had reassured him about the family business. In fact, you made clear that you would stick around if he wanted to. In no way you wished to interfere between your man and his family, as long as the risks for him remain tolerable. But Arthur felt the protective need to take you away from Small Heath’s filth. Moreover, he wished to leave his murderous past behind him and focus on the future — a future that was made of you, a house in the forest, and a little mix of both of you running barefoot in the grass.

You let out a cloud of smoke escaping from your lips. Quietly smoking in the garden of Tommy’s magnificent mansion, you looked at the guests coming and entering the house without wasting the slightest minute. They were all eager to retrieve their due and leave. You could have done the same, but you wanted to enjoy the pleasant and soothing feeling of sun rays caressing your frozen skin before locking yourself up in a room with Tommy Shelby and his never-ending speeches. The sound of a car engine made you look to your right: Polly had just arrived with Michael. The poor lad was still under the shock of Father Hughes’ death by his own hands but did his best not to let it show. However, no one could hide something from the witch you were. You took one quick look at Michael and knew something was off. The tiny flame that was burning in his blue eyes when he first came to Birmingham was now extinguished, blown away by the poison of guilt now running through his veins.

Pol greeted you with a warm smile as she passed by you. She was delighted by your presence, and even more by the fact Arthur and you were about to leave the town. She, as well as John, could only thank you for the good you brought upon the oldest Shelby. Regarding Michael, he only nodded to acknowledge your presence before disappearing into the mansion.

“Aunt Heaven!” A little girl, as beautiful as a rose and with a smile as beaming as the sun itself, suddenly rushed to you. Her little feet were hammering the gravel track, ejecting tiny pebbles each time they hit the ground. You stubbed out your cigarette on a small decorative wall and opened your arms to catch Katie, ready to get tackled with her hug. She snuggled against you as soon as she reached you, “Dad says you’re going to leave. Is it true? Can’t you stay? I really don’t want you to leave you know. Who’s gonna play with me now?”

You chuckled, trying to make sense of Katie’s speech because she had talked in such a chaotic and quick pace you had barely understood one word out of two, “I’m not going that far kitty-Kat, you know,” You leaned over her to lay a sweet kiss on her forehead. She reacted with a silky pout.

“But you’re leaving me!”

“Would you forgive me if I braid your hair?”

“Ohhh yess! Yours are always so beautiful — just like my doll!”

“Aw thank you, kitty Kat.” You put your hands on her shoulders and made her turn around to start braiding her hair with your skillful fingers. It was something you had always liked to do to your little sister, back in France. After her death, you kept doing so on yourself as a way to keep her alive. Since then, your long white hair were more than often adorned with a huge variety of braids. “We‘ll still see each other. And you’ll spend some holidays with Uncle Arthur and me, right? So that I could teach you to bake delicious pastries for your family.”

“For my family? No way, I’ll learn only to make myself pastries and eat them in front of my stupid brothers! Serves them right to break my pony figure!” The little one blurted out with genuine mischief, letting you rearrange her blonde hair in one long French braid.

“You’re absolutely right. Oh wait… Stay still, kitty. Can’t braid your hair if ya keep moving like that.” You advised with a caring and patient tone.

Katie tried to remain quiet, but her wonderful children's mind was buzzing with so many thoughts at once it took only five seconds for her to bombard you with questions again. God knew how she managed to stay more or less still despite her overflooding energy. “Dad says living in the countryside is good for babies. Are you and Uncle Arthur going to have a baby?” She asked out of the blue. You snort with amusement at her vivacity. Kids and their tact, you thought.

“I’d love to,”

“When?” She straight off replied.

“That’s quite a difficult thing to know, darling… Let’s just wait for it to happen,” Your fingers were braiding the last strands of hair, “Almost done,” you said — to be true you were quite proud of the result. Even though Katie was such a beautiful little girl you were not sure if the braid embellished her or if it was the other way round.

“But you are a witch. You know everything. That’s what Dad says.”

“Seems like your Dad doesn’t know how it works.”

“And how does it—“

“Katie? Come here, sweetie. Charlies’ nanny is waiting for you!” Esme’s voice called.

It was all it took for Katie to hug you tight, thank you for the braid, and rush toward her mother. Taking into account the importance of this last meeting, Thomas had asked the household staff to take care of the children and not let them interrupt the adults. You looked at Katie’s little swift silhouette disappearing with the nanny with tenderness in your aquamarine eyes. For sure, you were going to miss John and his kids.

When she left, your eyes instinctively searched for Arthur. He had just finished talking with John, who had followed his wife inside not without giving you a wink. You would have chuckled at John’s charming and teasing demeanor if you had not noticed a tint of nervousness in Arthur’s body language. Indeed, he was standing in front of the massive door, playing with his fingers and taking repeated quick glances at you before looking at his own feet, all bashful and hesitant. Your protective instincts kicked in, wondering what was wrong. Finally, he made his way to you with his adorable awkward walk and his arms swinging.

“Are you okay?” You asked, your brows slightly furrowed as you tried to understand the reason behind his anxiety. Once he had reached you, he grabbed your hips to pull you closer.

“Yeah I’m good, me mind was just — Y’know, just thinking about far too many things at once,” He had barely finished his sentence when he fell silent.

“Arthur?”

Arthur’s gaze dived into yours, his steel-blue eyes observing the slightest variations of your irises with a deep focus as if he wished to grasp all the secrets God hid beneath them. He could have stayed like this forever, losing himself in the vastness of the frosted desert that composed your alluring eyes. Yet, he was snatched from his contemplation by the soft sensation of your fingers grazing his cheek.

“What’s the matter, mon amour?” You reiterated, genuinely worried.

The wind blew in the garden, making your wild ivory mane dance behind you along with the petals of the flowers that were surrounding your frames. Arthur remained silent and kept staring at you — and as he did, your ethereal beauty mesmerized him and he felt his hesitation vanishing in stardust.

“Listen angel, I gotta tell ye something. I’ve been thinking about the whole matter for a while, and tried my best not to make things go too fast...”, The gravel in his voice was coated with palpable nervousness. Arthur paused, at the edge of freaking out, but rather took another deep breath. He hated himself for struggling so much to express himself. That was why his strong hands abandoned your hips and cupped your face in his slightly moist palms, “It’s just that… I can’t wait any longer.” That being said, the tall gangster laid a shy kiss on your juicy lips —contrasting so much with the way he usually devoured them in bed— and to your greatest surprise, took a few steps back right after.

You blinked in confusion, not quite following what he was trying to say, nor what he wanted to do “What do you mean?” You asked, your body yearning for his touch when he backed off.

Arthur parted his lips to say something but, once again, he could not find the right words to share his overwhelming feelings. Instead, he decided to go for it. With one trembling hand, he took a little something out of his pocket.

“Heaven — I know I am not the most handsome lad in town,” He started, nervously tightening his fist around the object he was holding in his palm, “nor the most mentally stable man you have probably met. To be true, I am quite pathetic… A fookin trash. Can’t believe you accept me as I am” Arthur looked at the ground for a few seconds, ashamed of his whole being. “You’re a young and stunning little lady, and I am an old and broken dog eh,” He sniffed, trying to keep composure, “But I’m a good man, I really am. And that good man wants to be a good husband for you.”

Husband. It echoed in your soul, resonating in your skull. Was it really happening? It could not be what you were thinking about, right? You swallowed the lump in your throat, hung onto his every move and word.

“I am not perfect — to be true I’ll probably go back home drunk as fook sometimes and fall on my knees, begging you to save me. Cause you’re the only one that can do that, eh” He chuckled nervously and dived into your eyes. This time he managed to keep eye contact. “but I swear to God I’ll do my best to take care of you and make you the happiest,” Joining actions to his words, Arthur’s free hand took yours. His other one, shaking with anticipation and fear of rejection, processed to slowly slip a shiny gold ring around your finger. Your heart imploded in your tight chest as the cold metal touched your skin, “I don’t want another woman ever again — there’s just you. Only you. So I might not be the best, but you can be sure I’ll remain faithful to you, my Angel… And if you ever doubt my loyalty, I’ll build a fookin’ altar to your beauty and pray on my knees,” He freed your hand from his to let you admire the magnificent ring that was now adorning it.

You lowered your gaze toward the precious jewel and your whole body shook at the sight of the ring. It was really happening.

“Heaven Lavey… “ He cleared his throat, “Would you marry me?”

“Bloody Hell, Arthur.” You swore, unable to choke your reaction. All your life you told yourself no one would ever want the cursed witch you were. Let alone the murder charges against you. You have walked through this existence all alone, convinced it would never change. Yet you found him — a man who was not only in love with you but who literally worshipped you like a goddess. You looked at Arthur’s face again, your angelic face covered by a veil of utter surprise. You stood silent for a few moments which felt like an eternity to Arthur. His anxiety escalated for he could not survive without you. And when he said that he meant it: your mouth held the power to destroy him with one simple word… “ Of course, I want to marry you,” You finally said as you broke the distance between you with determined steps and almost jumped at his neck to pull him in a furiously enraptured embrace, “No matter what awaits me in this life, good or bad, I don’t want it if you’re not by my side, Arthur Shelby. You make me feel safe. You make me feel… Holy. And I’m not used to that.”

“Christ!” He exclaimed, unable to hold his joy any longer, “Come here Miss Shelby!” His hoarse and loud voice boomed in the garden. Not minding the rest of the world, Arthur’s arms wrapped around your waist right before he lifted you from the ground. Laughter escaped from your full lips, as well as tears of happiness breaking at the corner of your eyes, “My Angel, come with me to this meeting — not as me lover but as me fiancee.”

Your feet met the ground again but your heart was still floating.

“That’s fine with me.” You replied. Bringing your fingers to your eyes, you quickly wiped the tears away, taking care not to ruin your makeup. When your hand fell back against your hips, Arthur’s slipped his in yours and entangled your fingers together. You exchanged one last look, filled with undying love and hope for the future, before sinking deep into the corridors of the mansion. Here you both walked, unknowingly leaving the eye of the storm.

Not the slightest word came from your tantalizing mouth during the whole reunion. Thomas’ cold demeanor and the few arguments here and there managed to severely undermine the exhilarating joy Arthur’s proposal had brought to you. With one look, you both silently decided to wait for another moment to announce your wedding. As you observe little King Shelby distributing money, his temper short and fallible, a sudden unpleasant feeling broke through your core. It was similar to what you had felt when you had sensed something was going to happen to Charlie, except that the feeling was so intense this time it almost took your breath away. Not understanding where did this sudden unease come from, you clenched your fingers on your own seat and tried to calm down by focusing on Thomas’ speech. However, his words were soon covered by the thundering sound of your beating heart, whose pace had quickened so brutally that your whole ribcage was shaking at each pulse.

Something was wrong. Definitely wrong.

Fortunately enough, Pol’s last interjection about a different future for the Shelby company marked the end of that tense family reunion. Following a brief silence, you got up from your chair and put your left hand on one of Arthur’s shoulders. You were about to discreetly ask if you could leave but words remained stuck in your throat: the truth was you did not want to rob him of his family goodbye. So, you simply gave his shoulder a comforting squeeze before stepping back and waiting, even though the unexplainable urge to get out of this house worsened as minutes passed.

“I’ll be off then, Tom.” He sniffed, “I’ll see you, eh? I’ll see you brother.”

The humble farewell, sober like the rest of the Shelby’s way to show affection toward each other, pinched your heart. No matter the problems in which they got themselves or the endless arguments, there was love in this family. Broken, awkward, and sometimes violent love, but still. You quietly made your goodbyes too in the background — A nod of the head for Finn, Michael, Esmee, and uncle Charlie. A hug for Ada, Polly, Lizzie, and Curly. You thought you could handle it well until it came to John. Your eyes met his saddened pout, and your self-control break down. A single tear rolled down your cheek for the deep bond you had formed with him rendered the farewell more painful than with the other family members. Without uttering a single word, John pulled you in a bear hug so tight the pressure he exerted on your body was almost uncomfortable, but you could not care less. You gently rub his broad back with your hands and, when the moment to pull away happened, you laid a long kiss on his cheek.

“I’ll miss you, little Angel.”

“We’ll see each other. I promise.”

The last thing you did was look away and do your best not to meet his gaze because you know you would probably burst into tears if you did. John religiously followed the same rules, otherwise, he would take you in his arms again and never let you go. Fortunately enough, Arthur’s hand grabbed yours. The warm contact of his skin against yours sent a wave of comfort through your bones — but if it was enough to heal the pain of leaving, it was not to soothe the odd anxiety that was still creeping in your soul. The same anxiety that was screaming at you to leave this damn mansion right now.

You grabbed the door handle, half reassured by your imminent departure when Tommy’s voice echoed through the office with the violence of a guillotine’s blade on a prisoner’s neck.

“You can go, but you won’t get far, Arthur.”

You froze, your heart missing a beat. In a protective reflex, you turned your head in one vivid movement and looked dagger at Tommy. If your jewel-like eyes could shoot bullets, Thomas Shelby would be lying in a pool of blood, dead and cold. What the hell would he make such a snarky remark to his brother? But the more you stared at him, the more the weight of your unease crushed you.

Something was happening, you could feel it. Something awful.

“Ah. All right, Tom.” Arthur, not grasping the meaning behind Tommy’s words, brushed off the comment. You were both about to leave the room when another statement clipped your wings.

“I spoke to Moss last night. He told me that the Chief Constable of Birmingham has issued a warrant for your arrest. Murder, sedition, conspiracy to cause explosion.”

The shocking news crossed your body like a lightning bolt burning every inch of your flesh on its way. Stomach twisting, muscle tensing, you brought your hand to your open mouth to cover it. Arthur blinked in surprise — he had to lean against you for his long legs threatened to collapse at any moment. His whole body started to shake as he realize the awful truth: they were coming to take him away.

And just like a rain of deadly shooting stars, came the long list of accusations against the rest of the family members, all uttered with a cold and placid tone as if Thomas Shelby was reciting a lesson. Your head brutally spun. You felt nauseous.

“Wait a minute.” Arthur’s gruff voice exclaimed, filled with confusion and boiling anger, “What the hell you’re talking…” He commented, his hand still in yours though it was the only thing that could ground him — which was the case.

“And you Heaven… “

You just stared at Tommy with eyes wide open, while the whole world crumbled apart around you. Contrary to Arthur, you did not even shake. Nor you did burst into anger. You were just here, paralyzed by the sound of your dreams and hopes shattering like glass smashed on concrete.

“For the involvement in Hughes’ death and the murder of Simon Conrad, his fellow friend.”

You let go off Arthur’s hand and took a few steps back, until your back hit the wall behind you, “You’ve sold us…” Your voice was merely a whisper. Your heart skipped another beat in your chest, running a race against the panic that was crashing against you like a rogue wave on a boat’s hull. The only thing that kept you anchored to reality was Arthur’s mad screams.

“You’re my brother!”

“Listen to me, I have made a deal — “

“They’ll hang us!!”

“In return for giving evidence against them.”

“We’ll fucking hang!”

And then it happened. You snapped out of your lethargic state, brushing off the petrifying anxiety that had turned you to stone. You broke free from the shock and ignited like hellfire. With furious steps, you rushed to the two brothers and pointed to Tommy with one finger, “Toi, espèce de sale traitre -you damn traitor-,” You started in French. Tommy’s empty eyes fell on your tiny frame, doing their best to hide his emotions. The truth was he perfectly understood what you had just said, “Your own fucking family… You know what?” Your face distorted with disgust, “It was not the sapphire Thomas. It was you. It was you all along.” You spat.

Despite Thomas’ neutral demeanor, the flames that lit up his frozen irises left no doubt about the impact of your words. You had hurt him — not only him but his very own soul, to the point you could almost see the ice of his eyes melting.

“Come here, come here!” Arthur’s powerful hands grabbed you by the shoulders and forced you to follow him, “Come on now, we have to run!” The oldest took one last look at his brother, pain, and rage making his steel-blue eyes glisten, “FUCK YOU!” He roared, hitting the door with the palm of his hand.

Indistinct Screaming. Yelling. Chaos.

You had barely exited the office when a police officer grabbed you and shoved you against the nearest wall. Your hand lost its grip on Arthur and, without his contact, frost settled in your heart

“Arthur!” You screamed. Or at least you thought you did.

“DON’T TOUCH HER! Heaven!”

Brutally squeezed between the wall and the officer’s body, you still extended one of your arms in a desperate attempt to reach Arthur but it was in vain. When the policeman noticed it, he twisted your wrist behind your back. A whimper of pain escaped from your lips. What happened next you could not tell, for the chaos that swallowed you made everything fade to black. All you could grasp was the sensation of the handcuff metal, as shiny as the golden ring around your finger, biting your skin, and the sound of Arthur’s screams in the faraway distance.

They said until Death do us part, but you had not expected it that soon.

“Careful with this one. She’s put two of my guards into hospital. That bitch’s fucking feral.”

“That’s okay.” A feminine voice replied to the police officer in charge of your cell’s security.

The sound of the lock echoed in your small cage, soon followed by the metallic creaking of the heavy door that was keeping you from escaping. When the woman entered the cell, she could not help but frown and look at his colleague with genuine confusion. Police Officer Katlyn Wilson, a tall blonde woman with her hair cut short and her face as hard as her heart, had seen a lot throughout her career. But it is evident she did not expect what was awaiting for her in this cell: right in the middle of the room sat a young woman, in her mid-twenties, on the bed. She had a long white mane that cascaded down her lower back. A marvelous mane, dirtied by the cell’s dust and dampness. Kat Wilson shook her head: you could not be the dangerous inmate they called her for. She sighed, staring at your juvenile face.

“Heaven Lavey.”

You raised your head when she called your name, your aquamarine eyes burning with hatred. Yet, not the slightest sound came out of your mouth. All you did was stare at the officer.

“I am Kat Wilson, and I am here to bring you to the gallows by order of the crown.”

“They took my wedding ring.” You cut her off, your voice sounding a bit raspy after days of not talking. Somehow, you did not care about getting hung high — you were not afraid of death. What scared you though was to be alone, far away from Arthur.

“They did. They told me that was the reason behind your assault on the guards.”

“Only one of them. The other tried to touch me.”

“So you broke his wrist.” She replied straight away.

You fell back into silence, not wanting to talk about the mentioned incident. Officer Kat Wilson shook her head, astounded by the whole situation. As fierce as she was, she took no pleasure in sending a young girl to the rope, no matter the first-degree murder accusations. The tall blonde woman, whose severe traits inspired a natural authority, walk to the bed and sat next to you despite his colleague’s warning. She let out a long sigh and took off a little golden ring from the pocket of her jacket. Your face enlightened when you recognized the jewel.

“Unfortunately, my power vanishes at this prison’s gates. I cannot stop this execution, but I can give back the young bride’s ring.” As she talked, she put the ring in the palm of your hand and watched you close your grip around it.

“Fine.” You finally whispered as you slipped the jewel around your finger. What else could you do except obey? Any attempt of rebellion would result in failure. You got up from the bed, standing on your bare feet with all your little height.

So petite but so fierce, she thought.

“Fine,” Officer Wilson repeated. Gathering all her strength, she handcuffed you with your hands behind your back and, with one unexpectedly strong grip, led you out of the cell and forced you to walk through the long, dark corridors of the prison.

The sound of the guards’ boots resonated against the stone walls, contrasting with your own silent steps. Even if your heart raced in your chest, you managed to stay calm. Deprived of your man’s comfort, you tried to find your peace in small details:, the cold and smooth surface of the wood under your bare feet, the faint summer breeze coming from an opened window somewhere, the muffled sound of birds' whistles... All of these allowed you to keep a semblance of sanity.

Kat Wilson brought you to the gallows, which was in a dark wooden warehouse. You swallowed at the sight of the noose, slowly swinging from left to right as if every fiber of the rope itself shivered with impatience at the idea of tightening around your soft throat.

You climbed the stairs and each step felt like you were dancing tango on your broken dreams. The dull silence that was hovering above the warehouse was chilling, but you preferred it to the vain prayers of priests. No matter how hard they begged God, you knew your place was down there. Dying was bothering enough, there was no need to sprinkle the process with hypocrisy. A muffled cries came from the other room — they were going to hang another woman at the same time.

Polly, you thought.

When they put the deadly necklace of rope around your neck and narrowed it until its burning texture bit your skin, you inhaled deeply through your nostrils and stared right at Kate Wilson’s eyes. Here you stand, powerful even in your last moments.

Boom. Boom.

The deafening sound of your beating heart played the drums of the fanfare that was already announcing your arrival in Hell.

“Go ahead.” You closed your eyes.

You did not cry. You did not beg.

After all, it was always meant to end like this.

✞ Any comment, review, reblog, or constructive criticism is welcome. Your reactions really motivate me and keep me alive, so please don't be shy. English is not my first language.

✞ Gif by the lovely @alicent-targaryen

✞ Each of chapter of this series can be read as stand-alone even though it's far more enjoyable if you have read at least the previous chapter.

Tag: @meowtastick @babayaga67 @sired-to-hybridrid @shelbyssins @kxnnxyasdfg @adaydreamaway08 @theshelbyclan @jomarch-wannabe @esposadomd @woofgocows @abyssal-whispers

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daffi-990 · 6 months

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✨ Inspiration Saturday ✨

Tagged by @jesuisici33 and @911-on-abc. Thank you lovelies for the tag 😘

Today’s snippet is from the Rival Firefighters 🚒 fic and I’ve been having so much fun writing the chapter it’s in. I couldn’t resist making a moodboard for it either cos you know I love a good moodboard.

It’s been a long and hectic week and Eddie is extremely grateful it’s Shannon’s weekend with Chris. He loves his son and loves spending time with him, but Eddie is feeling so wound tight and needs to let off some stream in a not suitable for children kind of way. Halfway through the week he’d caved and opened up Grindr (he doesn’t usually use the app, preferring to make connections in person) and had matched with someone called Firehose. The name was a bit odd, but the guy was flirty and seemed fun and Eddie needed some fun. So they’d agreed to meet up Saturday night for drinks at a local club.

Eddie’s been to this particular club before so finding it isn’t a problem. It’s still early according to club going times, a little past 9:30 pm, so getting a car park is stress free which Eddie is grateful for. He hates not knowing a parking situation beforehand. He parks alongside a dark green jeep (or is it grey? He can’t tell in the crappy car park lighting and why is he focusing on the car’s colour anyway?) and does a quick check of his reflection in the rear view mirror before hoping out and making his way inside.

Firehose said he’d be at the bar and that he’d be wearing a dark grey short sleeved button down and that he was tall. Eddie hopes the guy isn’t one of those guys that says they’re 6 foot two but in reality are only 5 foot seven or something. Not that he’s opposed to short men, it’s just he prefers them tall and with enough muscle that he knows they could man handle him if he asked.

Eddie scans the bar and sees a guy that matches the description Firehose gave him. He can only see him from behind as the guy is turned in his seat watching a boisterous game of pool, but he’s very tall and his shirt is grey and stretching over a well muscled back. The guy’s hair is a dirty blond and looks to have been styled with something that has tamed his curls but has left his hair still looking soft. He has a sudden urge to run his hands through it. Maybe later. Eddie begins to move towards him and just as he’s about 3 feet away, the guy turns back to the bar and Eddie gets a side on view of his face.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

Firehose, no, Buckley, turns in his seat at Eddie’s remark, a wicked grin lighting up his stupid smug face as realisation of the situation dawns on him. Firehose. The name suddenly makes so much more sense. Of course the guy Eddie was supposed to be meeting up with tonight was Buckley.

No pressure tagging: @callmenewbie @hippolotamus @lover-of-mine @wikiangela @thewolvesof1998 @exhuastedpigeon @fortheloveofbuddie @eddiediaztho @forthewolves @athenagranted @callaplums @captain-hen @wildlife4life @eddiebabygirldiaz @loserdiaz @ladydorian05 @rainbow-nerdss @try-set-me-on-fire @spotsandsocks @devirnis @disasterbuckdiaz @giddyupbuck @hoodie-buck @honestlydarkprincess @monsterrae1 and anyone who wants to play and has something they want to share -> consider this your tag ☺️

#rival firefighters fic #buddie #buddie wip #daffi writes #also I have no idea how people on dating apps talk so the Grindr convo in the moodboard is me winging it haha

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munsonownsmyass · 1 year

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Sweet Mornings

Matthias Helvar x reader

Summary: Making waffles with Matthias on a Saturday morning.

Notes: Ericca made this moodboard for me for her 300 follower celebration and I loved it so much I had to make a little something. Hope it's okay I used it for this, @e-dubbc11 ? ❤️

Also, this one is part of the Seasons may change universe, between part 2 and 3.

Warnings: pure fluff. Some allusions to spice, but nothing explicit.

Normally Matthias was up before you, always starting his day early. While you loved to sleep in, snuggling with Röed and Trassel, Matthias was up at the crack of dawn. Getting the fire started, drinking his coffee in silence while looking out over the woods. But not today.

You had set your alarm and were already out of bed and in the kitchen, when you hear Matthias groggily call for you from the bed.

“In the kitchen!” You sing, setting up the rest of the supplies. You had been craving waffles for weeks and Matthias had even offered to make some for you. But you didn’t just want to eat them, you wanted to make them. You used to make waffles with your grandmother as a kid all the time, but as you grew up and she got sick, you stopped making them. It was simply not the same.

Lately though, after you met Matthias, you’ve been feeling happy again. He could always make you smile, make you feel at home. So you wanted to surprise him with waffles, having found your grandmothers old recipe.

“You’re up early.” He muses, planting a soft kiss on your neck, before wrapping his arms around your waist. He leans down, resting his head on your shoulder, looking at your setup on the counter.

“I’m making waffles.” You turn to face him, wrapping your arms around his neck. You kiss him good morning, your fingers gently playing with the hair at the nape of his neck. “I bought everything yesterday. Wanted to surprise you with breakfast in bed.”

Matthias chuckles, his beautiful blue eyes shining as he looks at you. “Let me just get dressed and get a fire going, then I’ll help.”

“Feel free to start the fire, but don’t you dare put clothes on.” You bite your bottom lip, giving him a mischievous grin as you shamelessly let your eyes roam over his exposed muscular body. After another quick kiss, he walks to the fireplace and gets the fire going as you start mixing the dry ingredients.

“What can I do?” He asks, leaning against the counter. Pointing out all the different condiments, Matthias gets to work on prepping and setting the table. As he cuts the different foods, he feeds you blueberries and plants soft kisses on your lips and cheeks. If you hadn’t just burned yourself on the waffle iron, you could have sworn that it was all just a dream.

The smell of the waffles fills the kitchen as you remove another perfectly baked waffle, preparing to pour another cup of batter into the waffle machine. Matthias tries to take one to taste, but you gently smack his hand with yours. “Patience, my love.”

“Unfair to ask me to be patient when everything in front of me is so delicious.” He purrs in your ear, kissing your neck before going back to his cutting board. You take a moment to look at him, just observing him. Mornings like this is precious to you. Matthias’ walls were hard to tear down, but you did and now you got to see a side of him that people rarely saw. The playful, loving and passionate man you’ve come to love like no other.

Before long, you have an impressive stack of waffles. You bring to the table, where Matthias has already set everything up. You sit down and put a few waffles on your plates, both of you adding berries, whipped cream or one of the many other condiments. You might have made a mess in the kitchen, but this was certainly worth it.

You take a bite into one waffle, the sweetness and fluffiness of it filling your mouth. Together, you eat in silence, only sporadic moans filling the air as you devour the first waffle. Matthias looks to you with a wide smile before closing the gab between you to place a sticky kiss on your lips. You can taste the syrup on him and hum at the sweet taste.

“Let’s make waffles every weekend, min hajefetla.” He says with a satisfied sigh, the waffles in front of you all consumed.

“Deal.” You grin, looking forward to this new tradition, already imagining your future Saturday mornings with Matthias. You hoped there would be many and maybe… in time… It wouldn’t just be the two of you. That’s a dream you keep to yourself, though. For now, you just enjoy this. Picking another strawberry, you look at Matthias.

“A shame we have so many left over strawberries and whipped cream. Can we save it for something?”

“I know what we could do with it.” Matthias says seductively, getting up from his chair. Picking you up from yours, you wrap your legs around his waist as his lips claim yours in a deep, passionate kiss. He gestures for you to take the strawberries and cream, before he makes his way to the bedroom, and you already look forward to a day in bed with your Fjerdan.

Tagging: @mindidjarin @realfernmayo @itwasthereaminuteago @thisishellfire @mattmurdocksscars @idrinkcoffeeandobsess

#matthias helvar x reader #matthias helvar fanfiction #matthias helvar #shadow and bone fanfiction #six of crows fanfiction #shadow and bone #six of crows #calahan skogman

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writing-for-marvel · 2 years

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It Started With A Smile (2)

[Bridgerton AU]

< < PART 1 | Series Masterlist

Duke!Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader

Summary: At the start of the new social season, Lady Whistledown predicts this will finally be the year solitary Duke James Barnes finds a wife. After a chance meeting at Lady Danbury’s ball, can you and the Duke overcome all obstacles thrown in your path by his scandalous past and your overbearing mother insistent against your match?

Warnings: strictly 18+, TRIGGER WARNING: threat of non-con/SA but Bucky comes to the rescue, reader has a physical altercation with someone but is not injured - if these themes upset you please do not read this fic! Also includes - violence (someone gets punched), mention of scars, homophobia (not from Bucky or reader), angst, is set in a different AU to the show so no direct spoilers, historical inaccuracy, slight age gap is implied although exact ages are never mentioned (everyone is over 18)

Word count: 10.6k

A/N: it’s finally here! Thank you so much for everyone who read part one & wanted to see more of this AU, and was patient while I wrote it, I hope I haven’t disappointed! Big shoutout to @blackwidownat2814 and @mellifluousmusings who offered ideas which shaped this part, and to @rookthorne who had to listen to me continuously rant about this fic (thank you for putting up with me)

Banners by @maysdigitalarts, dividers by @firefly-graphics and moodboards by me

Main Masterlist | Ask me anything! | Taglist | Library

Dearest Readers,

Now the dust has settled from the dawn of this year's social season, you might be pondering the question ‘where to from here?’

The answer to that is a simple one - the Queen’s diamond, Lady Dorothy Fitzgerald, will be hosting our most eligible bachelors and ladies at her family’s countryside manor for the coming week.

The combination of the Queen’s hasty, prejudicial crowning of diamond and title of hostess will have the soft-spoken Lady at the top of all single gentlemen’s ‘most desirable’ lists.

All except one.

It seems as though after dancing again at the Queen’s ball, the Duke of Brooklyn has his sights firmly set elsewhere - our rare, ravishing flower, who this author still proclaims as the most exquisite and elegant of all debutantes.

Will the Duke’s abrupt return to court also coincide with our first wedding of the season? If the way those two love birds gaze at each other is any indication, a marriage proposal will be imminent.

Yours Truly,

Lady Whistledown

Tears streamed in rivers over the apples of your cheeks and dripped upon the pillow you were clutching onto for dear life. Rays of warm spring sun shone brightly through the curtained windows of your bed chambers indicating the start of a new day, yet you were in no temperament for rising to get dressed and making your way downstairs for breakfast as was your usual routine.

Your mothers harsh words from the night before, as you arrived home from the Queen’s ball, echoed through your mind as you grasped your sheets tighter around your chin.

“You are not to speak or dance or see that man again, do you understand me?” You had never heard your mother’s voice so loud and full of rage. “Stay as far away from the Duke as possible at every gathering for the rest of the season!”

“Mama none of the other gentlemen interest me. They are all pompous, entitled and have treated me as if my only role in life is to give him a son to carry on his family's name.”

“That is your role in life!” Your mother snapped, her thundering voice rattling the walls of your old home.

You could only stare agape at her as she swallowed and composed herself, the facade of the agreeable Dowager Baroness restored as if she had not screamed at you a mere five seconds ago.

“I am only trying to do what is best for your future, and you are making it so difficult.” Your mother shook her head indignantly as a couple of the maids scurried behind her through the entrance hall to avoid being subjected to her irate temper. “You are not old enough to know what is good for you.”

“So I am old enough to get married and bear a child, but not to know what is best for me? Does that not seem like a contradiction to you?” You tried to reason, but all you received in return was a glare which declared ‘do not talk back to me’.

Your mother pinched the bridge of her nose as if she were developing a headache.

“If you are that objectionable to taking a husband, then so be it. I will make it so you do not interact with any men of the court, including your precious Duke.”

Your mama proceeded to send you to your room, as if you were a mischievous child, with the promise of withdrawing you from the social season entirely, and forbidding you from interacting with either the Duke of Brooklyn or his sister ever again.

A part of you had enjoyed the thrill of disobeying your mother, who dictated every moment of your life, however, you had not so much as intended to be rebellious as you had been drawn to the Duke like you were in a trance. And you certainly had not anticipated your mother, who had been so desperate in finding you a match prior to the season, extracting you from it altogether after only two soirées.

But instead of grovelling back to her as you were sure she was expecting, you decided to stay up in your room daydreaming about dancing with James, how your chest heated and heartbeat quickened at your proximity to him, and tried to recall the exact shade of blue of his eyes, rather than contemplating that your dance with him the night before would be your last.

However, a consequence of staying locked away in your room all morning was that the large bouquet of azaleas, which were addressed to you, was intercepted by your mother who instructed for them to be tossed in the rubbish before you could know of their existence, having glimpsed the personally signed note accompanying them and knowing full well that the affectionate nickname ‘Bucky’ indicated it was the scandalous Duke who sent them.

Across town, in a distinctly larger, wealthier home but which was more desolate than your own, the Duke of Brooklyn was waking up from the most peaceful sleep of his adult life. His dreams were exclusively filled with images of you, from intimately dancing together at an indistinct ball, to carnal activities performed in the very bed he slept that night.

Bucky had not experienced such thoughts, nor vivid dreams, since the first time he believed he had fallen in love. That affair, and the repercussions he faced from the ton after its demise, were memories Bucky actively suppressed, but his mind could not ignore now that he could feel himself falling for another member of court.

Looking down at the scars which bestrew the skin of his left limb, Bucky felt a surge of insecurity which rivalled the night his once betrothed first laid eyes on his disfigurement. The same lady who had filled his mind with the notion that he was not worthy of being loved, nor capable of residing over his dukedom, simply because of the way his skin appeared uneven, with grotesque lumps and inflammation he had no control over.

The part of his body he had been taught to loathe since the accident which left his skin in such a state. His parents, when alive, had stressed the importance of covering up, ensuring he had a pair of gloves everywhere he went. That no one must know how repulsive their son truly was.

Because his disfigurement should be considered a weakness. Something to be hidden from the world. Those few who did know his secret had told him so themselves - all except Becca, who had been too young at the time of the event to remember her brother looking any differently.

He had unwisely unveiled his imperfection to the young lady who captured his heart his debut season, only to be met with her complete disgust and prompted the lies spread about him to the ton so her treachery would remain unknown.

Would you react comparably? Would you also leave his heart shattered like glass because you could not bear to witness such ugliness?

Bucky had not experienced any differently, all he had known was disgust directed at his harsh scaring. Nevertheless, there was a small space in his heart that perhaps foolishly refused to believe the person who had so freely invited him to dance in front of the entire court the night prior, despite understanding the ramifications, could be capable of such hate.

He did not need reminding he had only just mended his fragile heart from its first break. Bucky could recall every torturous night where he went to sleep with tear stained cheeks, the self-loathing that settled in the pit of his stomach every time he showed his face in public, and the embarrassment he felt every time the soft silk of his gloves touched the sensitive skin of his maim.

And yet, despite him being highly cautious, he could not help but be drawn in by your kind and alluring smile. He had never felt as alive as when your eyes met his from across the dance floor that first night, and he wanted to chase that feeling for as long as your propinquity provided it.

Though he had every reason to hide away from the gentry in shame and diffidence, one gaze from your dazzling eyes was reason enough to be pulled back into the vexing politics of court.

That, however, would have to wait, as he had not received an invitation to the Fitzgerald’s country home as the rest of the peerage. All he hoped was you did not take his absence for the week as disinterest, and that the flowers which should be arriving at your home that morning would make his intentions perfectly clear.

The following week was pure torture.

Your mother declined your invitation to Lady Fitzgerald’s countryside manor on your behalf, and instead locked you away from society with the excuse that you were ill as punishment for your actions at the Queen’s ball.

Though having a reprieve from the conversations with ghastly gentlemen whose only intention was to use you as means to bear children, the knowledge that all other eligible men and debutantes were free to drink, dance, and be merry, had envy bubbling in your stomach.

Mostly, you longed for the company of Duke James and how his charmingly crooked smile brought a sense of comfort to the ever present worry concerning your future your mother instilled in you.

You had simply never felt so alone and isolated in your entire life.

It was not until the day following the gentry’s return to London from their extended stay at Fitzgerald manor that your mother finally relented on your banishment from the ton. One of your lady’s maids burst through your door at sunrise, waking you from a restless sleep, with instruction from your mother to dress you in your finest formal daywear.

By the time you were bathed and your lady’s maid had secured your corset so tight you could not take a deep breath without tearing the seams, you could hear thudding footsteps and foreign voices echoing from downstairs.

Reluctantly descending the staircase, you followed the sound of voices to the parlour. You plastered on your best feigned smile before entering the room, knowing the only possibility of seeing Duke James again was if your mother lifted your banishment completely, and that would only occur if you were overly agreeable to whomever was waiting beyond the parlour doors.

Setting foot in the room, your attention was immediately caught by two gentlemen standing tall and proud beside your mother. They were busy making polite conversation until the man with blonde hair, who you recognised as Viscount John Walker, a man who was the same age as you and whose family home was just down the street, noticed you in the doorway.

Excusing himself, he took large strides to greet you where you stood.

“My Lady,” the Viscount bowed before you, taking your hand and placing a soft kiss to the back of it, before rising again, “it is lovely to see you again. What a fine woman you have grown up to be.”

Your mind flashed to the night a mere week ago, the last time a gentleman kissed your hand. The spark which passed between you when the Duke’s hand took yours, even through the material of two gloves, was nothing in comparison to the uneasiness prickling up your arm when Viscount Walker performed the same action.

You gave the Viscount a taut, yet polite smile, and dropped into a small curtsy, only because it was customary.

“It is my pleasure to introduce you to a good friend of mine, Baron Brock Rumlow.” The Viscount announced, motioning to the shorter, dark haired man over by the other side of the room. “We frequent the same country club, he is an excellent pall mall player. Perhaps you would be so kind to join us for a game one day.”

The offer did not sound at all appealing, though you knew giving voice to your distaste in front of your mother would be foolish, so instead you provided a politely vague response with the sweetest smile you could muster.

Though you directed your response to the Viscount, it was the beady eyes of Baron Rumlow which made you feel unsettled. Even from across the room, there was a sinful quality to how he observed you - a wicked glint in his eyes as his gaze roamed your frame, as if he were paying far too much attention to how wide your hips were and if they would be deemed suitable for childbearing.

You could not quite explain it, but being under this man’s gaze made the hair on your arms stand on end, and though you were freshly bathed, you felt as though you needed to wash his stare off yourself.

Looking over at your mother, her gleeful smile in response to seeing you interact with eligible gentlemen who clearly were not the scandalous Duke made you believe she was either completely oblivious to how ill at ease you felt in their presence, or did not care.

Your suspicions were confirmed when she invited the two men to take a seat in the parlour as morning tea was served.

Throughout the conversation you spent all your energy attempting not to roll your eyes. The focus remained on your marriage prospects and how as the daughter of a Baron you should be flattered to be courted by a man with a standing as high as a Viscount.

That notion only reinforced your repugnance of the man who you knew had an overly strong sense of self-importance from a young age, and from whispers between maids, you believed to have had affairs with half the servants working in his estate.

Certainly not the type of man you had dreamed of spending your life and raising children with.

You were all too eager to take your leave of the two men once morning tea concluded, though the intense urge to strangle your mother surged as she promised you would reserve a dance for both men at the Bridgerton ball the following evening, without consulting you.

All she desired was to marry you off to a high ranking gentleman who was wealthy enough to provide for you for the rest of your life, especially with the recent passing of your father. That’s what every mother coveted for their daughter.

However, you did not want to settle for a life with a man whom you could barely tolerate, when there was a possibility of a life filled with tenderness and intimacy with a man whom you could see yourself falling in love with.

You did not want to continue the cycle of political marriages in your family as your parents had done, who had scarcely tolerated being in the same room as one another, only long enough to sire a single heir.

Bidding farewell to the Viscount and the Baron, you could only pray that both of them caught ill before the ball the following night so you would not have to fulfil your mama’s pledge.

Your mother overturned your removal from the social season the next morning, with the assurance that if you were seen associating with the Duke of Brooklyn again, she would make the exile a permanent arrangement.

Ominous dark storm clouds threatened overhead as your carriage approached the Bridgerton estate, in what you believed to be a sign for how this night was to unfold.

However, inside the Bridgerton ballroom looked glorious and vibrant, every archway and window adorned with blooming pink roses giving the entire estate a sweet, floral perfume.

You were fully prepared to be disappointed by your return to court - condemnatory stares from critical mama’s and being disregarded by eligible gentlemen due to your association with the scandalous Duke. However, you were surprised to find the gentry had seemingly forgotten the reasoning for their reproachful comments directed at you during the Queen’s ball.

A week and a half was clearly a long time in the frantic and dramatic social season. It appeared other rumours and transgressions were at the forefront of the gentry’s mind, your actions slipping through the cracks of their limited memories.

The sparkling deep blue eyes of Duke James were what drew your attention first as he entered the ballroom accompanying his sister. He was far more handsome in person than the recollection in your dreams. With high cheekbones and a strong jaw, he looked a powerful force to be reckoned with, but when he bid adieu to Becca who scampered off into the crowd, his features softened into an alluring lopsided smile that made your stomach clench with nerves.

He was maddeningly beautiful. And though you knew he was forbidden, every cell in your body yearned for him.

Scolding yourself for being tempted by the charming Duke so early in the night, your body not putting up any defence to your desire for him, you turned away before he could catch you staring.

“My Lady,” you heard from a familiar voice and your body tensed in response, “could I take up your offer of a dance?” Turning around with a feigned smile, the irksome Viscount John Walker entered your view, with a smug smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Knowing that a lady of your standing could not refuse a dance with a Viscount, especially one your mother had promised, regardless of how averse you were to being in near proximity to him, you accepted his offer through gritted teeth.

Although your chest felt lighter at being in the centre of the room without the despising stares and whispers synonymous with having the scandalous Duke as a dance partner, there was also a desolate pit in your stomach at knowing you were not able to dance with the man who made your heart quicken and stomach churn with butterflies.

As the Duke entered your mind again, your eyes instinctively searched for him in the crowded room, only to find him already staring at you. Music started as the Viscount led you around the room, however, your eyes never left James’.

Though you never had anyone romantically interested in you to the extent of actually being envious of your interactions with another man, the vexed expression overtaking Duke James’ face as he watched you glide around the room with the Viscount was what you imagined jealousy to resemble.

You could feel the Duke’s gaze on you even once the dance came to an end and the Viscount let go of your waist, bowing and bidding you farewell as he navigated the room to find another debutant to coerce into a dance. Unlike when you caught Baron Rumlow ogling at you from across the room, where disquiet settled in your stomach like lead, Duke Barnes' stare made you safe, protected.

It pained you to have to distance yourself from him, your only interaction being stolen glances and swift smiles to one another from opposite ends of the ballroom. However, having experienced a week of solitude locked in your bed chambers, you could say with certainty that even with the torturous distance between you, it was superior to not seeing him altogether.

Later in the evening, after failing to avoid an invitation to dance from Baron Rumlow and excusing yourself from his presence as soon as the music ceased, a striking woman, tall and blonde, wearing a deep green dress which accentuated her sparkling brown eyes, made her way over to you by the edge of the ballroom.

“Here, take this.” The mystery lady whispered after a moment of silence, nudging a scrap of paper into your hands. It appeared she was attempting to be as discreet as possible, but you were positive you did not recognise the woman.

“Apologies, do I know you?” You asked, reluctant to take anything into your possession from a lady whom you did not know the name nor title of.

She gave you an earnest smile before responding, though she did not directly answer your question.

“Bucky sent me.”

“I think you have the wrong person.” You remarked, confused as to who she could possibly be referring to. Pushing the paper back into her hand, prepared to disregard whatever nefarious activities she was involved in, the lady caught your arm preventing you from stepping away from her.

“I am referring to the Duke of Brooklyn.” She inclined her head towards the entry doors where the dashing Duke stood, carefully watching your interaction. When your eyes met his, he flashed a soft, reassuring smile which settled all anxieties fluttering in your stomach. “His family call him Bucky.”

“You are related to him?” It seemed a fairly innocent question, however the blonde chuckled in response.

“No, we are not blood. My name is Lady Carol Danvers, I am a friend of Becca. I was sent as a messenger to deliver this.” This time when she placed the paper in your hand, she did not have to force you to take possession of it.

Hastily unfolding the slip of paper, you eagerly read the handwritten note twice over before beaming at James across the room, his eyes seemingly never once leaving you as you scanned the message.

My dearest,

It is agony having to stand idle by as other men get the honour of dancing with you tonight. I must admit I am resentful of those men as they are in a position I crave to be - beside you.

I understand your mother must highly disapprove of any connection to me, and I therefore cannot find it in myself to be vexed with you at keeping your distance.

Though our time together was brief, it is something I fondly reflect back to and has only increased my desire to spend more time in your company.

However, in lieu of being able to converse in the traditional sense, may I suggest we instead do so in writing?

Keenly awaiting your reply.

Sincerely,

Your Bucky

Your heart momentarily faltered in your chest at reading how he signed off the letter. Not the Duke of Brooklyn. Not James. Not simply Bucky. But your Bucky.

Carol elbowed you with enough force to swiftly pull your attention from the Duke and instead to the sharp pain in your side. You were about to chide her for being so forceful, however, she had already opened her mouth to speak.

“Do not make it appear so obvious.” She said in a low voice, pulling you by your upper arm through the crowd of the peerage and out into a small courtyard, Carol inspecting your surroundings to ensure you were truly alone before speaking again. “Surely you do not want your mother, let alone Lady Whistledown, gaining knowledge that the Duke is secretly conversing with you?” She questioned with a hint of playfulness in her voice.

You had become too excited by receiving Bucky’s letter and the prospect of continuing to become acquainted with him to think properly about keeping conspicuous.

Pulling a small quill out from its hiding space in her glove, and a small pot of ink from behind a flower pot situated on the courtyard railing, which made you ponder how premeditated this exchange of letters actually was, Carol shot you an unabashed smile as she handed it to you, informing you that if you wrote on the other side of the paper, she could deliver it back to Bucky.

Though you wanted to keep the note, and cherish his words by reading them over and over again, your desire to provide him a reply was stronger.

You felt slightly embarrassed writing a personal note under the gaze of a lady whom you did not know, however, after a moment to think about what you wanted to convey, you penned heartfelt words concerning your fierce wish to become acquainted with him via this furtive means.

Addressing the message to my darling Bucky, and signing off affectionately yours, you folded the scrap of paper in half in an attempt to conceal the private message from Carol’s eyes and handed her the note.

“Thank you for doing this.”

“You are very welcome. There is not much I would not do to secure the happiness of Becca Barnes and her brother.” The radiating smile blooming on her face made it impossible to disbelieve her. “Wait here for a few minutes after I rejoin the party - it will appear less suspicious.”

You watched Carol skip through the doors back into the ballroom. The thrill of attempting to deceive your mother and Lady Whistledown, as well as your gaiety at conferring once again with the Duke, caused your heart to thump rapidly in your chest as you waited to enter the Bridgerton ballroom.

Though you understood it may eventually be the source of your excruciating heartbreak, you now believed that a happily ever after with Bucky was not entirely out of reach.

Dearest Readers,

Whispers concerning our blossoming debutante have been propagating around the ton after last night’s ball, reporting that the contest for her heart may no longer be simply a one man race.

After neither attended Lady Fitzgerald’s country manor for the week, it seems as though our love birds have fallen out of favour, with the debutante instead dancing with both Viscount John Walker and Baron Brock Rumlow in lieu of the Duke of Brooklyn at the Bridgerton Ball yestereve.

Though his title may suggest otherwise, the Duke’s scandalous past means our rare jewel has the upper hand over him in the game of the marriage mart.

If the notorious miscreant is to truly win her heart, then he must no longer be timorous concerning his intentions for her, as he may lose out to a man prepared to offer her the security of marriage.

I have not yet lost hope for our match of the season, but His Grace must understand that a lady will not wait evermore without the promise of a ring.

Yours Truly,

Lady Whistledown

Bucky slyly smiled as Becca read aloud the latest edition of Lady Whistledown’s society papers. If you both could fool the mysterious lady who managed to know the deepest darkest secrets of every member of the gentry, there was surely no way your mother could know about your confidential means of communicating at last night’s ball.

Becca looked about as happy as Bucky felt, if not more, and he knew that she was elated that the papers did not mention her proximity to Carol as even remotely suspicious.

Though it seemed obvious to him that the twinkle in Becca’s eye when she glanced at Carol indicated her affection for the blonde ran much deeper than friendship, he suspected it was only due to him knowing her so well. In this society, two women would have to be caught with their tongues in each other’s mouths before anyone would suspect romantic feelings instead of pure friendship.

“You are very chipper this morning.” Bucky chuckled as a blush crept over Becca’s freckled cheeks.

“So are you.” Becca returned, not meeting his eye and attempting to hide her flushed face behind Lady Whistledown’s papers. That was the moment Bucky knew Becca had already fallen in deep. His sister, who was always brazen in providing her opinion and the most confident, shameless person he ever met, had been reduced to a shy girl with a crush.

“I have a feeling it’s for the same reason miss ‘besotted with Lady Carol’.” That earned him a spoonful of eggs flung from Becca’s spoon.

Bucky’s teasing of Becca continued throughout the rest of the week, and by the time of the next ball she was no longer bashful in throwing her own teases back at him, as any younger sibling should.

Though on one hand Bucky was cautious about any interaction he had with you, regardless of if that were on paper, as he knew that any association with him now would mean an immediate end to your social season - on the other hand Bucky could not resist in continuing to write you countless letters. Learning anything new about you, sharing memories with you about how he and Becca grew up, and bonding over your favourite stories to read and topics to learn about was far too enticing for him to cease so soon.

Though he could not help the pang of jealousy in his chest whenever he was forced to watch on as you were asked to dance by another gentleman of the gentry, especially when Viscount Walker or Baron Rumlow were the men leading you around the ballroom, every time he had the pleasure of reading your own handwriting in a private letter meant only for his eyes, his heart softened.

Bucky had never formed an attachment so quickly, nor deeply with anyone else before, even his past betrothed, and though the threats to your reputation were vast, you were both willing to take the risk when it allowed you such cherished contact with each other.

This arrangement continued for two weeks. Each of you preparing letters prior to any social function, as well as sneaking in a couple sheets of paper and quills so notes could be passed throughout the evening.

Sending letters to each other via the postal service, so that communication was not limited to only during formal occasions, ensuring the sender was listed as Lady Carol Danvers instead of himself as so your mother would not confiscate them before your opportunity to read.

With the help of Carol you were able to exchange messages during balls without having to be in suspicious proximity to one another. However, Bucky did enjoy those times he was able to watch you from the other side of the ballroom as you clandestinely read his letters. It never failed to bring a smile to his face when you would grin, or even chuckle at something he penned to you. In fact, it was the favourite part of his day, what entered his dreams at night and he longed for every time he entered a ballroom.

That anticipation was what brought him the butterflies fluttering around his stomach as he entered Lord Steven Rogers' ball with Becca by his side, a very important, neatly folded letter nestled in his inside coat pocket beside a family heirloom which he planned on offering you tonight.

Bucky knew he could not wait too long to make his true intentions clear. Your mother had undeniable desires of marrying you off to the first young man willing to bend on one knee, as long as that were not him, and if that were to happen with another gentleman before he himself had the chance, Bucky needed you to know that you could refuse their request as he would be willing to spend the rest of his life with you.

He could feel the desperation deep in his stomach as tenacious nerves.

You were the first person Bucky noticed once he entered the ballroom. Once your eyes found his, a beaming smile overtook your features, and Bucky nearly forgot how to breathe.

He had never doubted that you were the most beautiful woman he ever laid eyes on, but this moment confirmed his suspicions. Wearing a ravishing dress which complimented your eyes, and drew a venereal heat up his neck, Bucky could not prevent himself from staring.

He could imagine waking up beside you every day for the rest of his life, being the cause of your dazzling smile, which he had been bewitched by since your first encounter, and corrupting your innocence with the pleasures reserved for the sanctity of marriage.

Neither he, nor Becca, wasted time in seeking out Carol once they had given thanks to Lord Rogers for hosting the evening's ball. Carol chuckled and held out her gloved hand before Bucky even had the opportunity to reach for the secured envelope inside his coat. With a shy smile and a swell of nerves, he handed the carefully sealed letter to her.

Carol flashed him an encouraging smile before doing a slow, deliberately deceiving circuit of the ballroom prior to making her way over to you.

Tripping over the end of your dress in haste of receiving the letter, Carol had to catch you from falling head first to her feet. An embarrassed smile curved onto your lips as you dusted the front of your gown and Bucky could not help the chuckle which left his own.

Heat bloomed in his chest, his heart racing to a rapid beat as he watched you and Carol giggle amongst yourselves as you opened the letter. Your answer to the question he posed within the note would have profound ramifications to his future.

He had never wanted something so vastly in his entire life. Not even the last time he thought he was in love. The feelings he held for her were nothing in comparison to the overwhelming adoration, devotion and protectiveness he felt when you so much as entered his mind, let alone were in the same room.

He would not waver in his belief that what he felt for you was true love. Now, all he needed was you to confirm you reciprocated those passions and he would not stop in giving you a life full of tender love. Given your willingness to pursue an association with him thus far, despite knowing the extent of his damaged reputation, he suspected you just might.

Feeling as though nothing in the world could dampen his spirits in this moment, the one voice Bucky did not want to hear sounded from behind him.

“Your Grace, may I have a word?” Bucky turned to find none other than your mother standing behind him, a twinkling mischievousness in her eyes. Her ominous words made him hesitant to enter into conversation, however, her tone indicated she would not take no for an answer.

With a brisk nod, Bucky followed her away from the gossipy conversation and lively music, into an elaborate adjoining room, the walls of which were adorned with beautiful portraits he suspected were ancestors of Lord Rogers.

The heavy embellished door closed behind them, dulling the sound of the resonant music and making him feel as though you were an entire world away even though you were simply in the next room. Once she was certain they were alone, the incensed glare your mother shot him had the shame and disgrace your presence had the power to suppress, firing through every nerve in his body.

“You need to stay away from my daughter, and cease sending her those disgraceful letters! Do not think they have escaped my notice.” Even though he was expecting almost those exact words, Bucky’s heart clenched in his chest.

“I understand you do not fancy the match, but I care very deeply about your daughter, and I believe she may reciprocate those feelings. If she were to have me, I would not hesitate to spend the rest of my life with her.” Bucky counteracted before your mother could announce any further disapproval.

Your mother shook her head disdainfully before starting to speak, looking as though she was choosing her words very carefully.

“Viscount John Walker has agreed to marry my daughter. His mother and I are old friends, and as soon as I give my impending blessing, he will propose.” Bucky’s whole body went numb. The thought of you committing yourself to someone else for the rest of your life, taking their last name and giving yourself completely to them, having someone else’s hands on your body, was enough to drive him mad.

Though he supposed once you found out the reason why he was too ashamed to be in public without the comforting cover of his gloves, it would not be his hands you would want roaming your body regardless.

“They have known each other since childhood. He is a wealthy and honourable man who can give her a life you never could. If you truly care about her as you say you do, you will let her go. Let her marry someone she deserves.”

Bucky had never wanted to frantically explain the true story behind his scandal to anyone more than he did in this very moment, though he knew given the years of vilifying speculation, there was no possibility of your mother believing him.

He decided to take a different approach.

“My Lady, I am well aware that I am not deserving of a lady as beautiful and magnanimous as your daughter, though nor I believe are any of the conniving men of the court for that matter, but I would like to make my intentions perfectly clear: I have a ring and would get down on one knee tonight if she so desired.” Shock mixed with appal on your mothers expression at the words confirming Bucky’s very real prospect of proposing.

Raking her gloved hand down her face, shaking her head and mumbling something that sounded very similar to you foolish man, your mother looked back up at him with a derisive glint in her eye.

“This might persuade you then: I have been watching you and your sister very closely throughout this season, and I now know why she is so set against taking a husband - do not try to deny it, I have seen her with Lady Danvers. I am sure that is a secret you want kept from the rest of the ton, is it not? If you want to save your sister's reputation from the same thrashing yours took, you will tell my daughter that you do not love her and instruct her to marry Lord Walker.” Your mother threatened with a malice Bucky had not heard anyone speak with before.

With one final wrathful scowl, your mother stalked out of the room with her head held high, leaving Bucky alone, numb and paralysed in heartbreak.

Becca was the one person who had stuck by him through all adversities. She was the only person who supported him after his broken engagement, offering a shoulder to cry on and believing that he was not capable of the infidelity he was accused of. She was the only person who knew of his deformed limb and refused to believe it was an ugly flaw that needed to be hidden from the world.

He was her older brother. It was his role to protect her.

Regardless of his romantic prospects or his all-consuming feelings for you, he could not knowingly let his baby sister endure the same hardship he had suffered.

It would not be until he stepped back into the ball that he would set in stone his decision to revoke his intentions to pursue you. Even though he knew he could not remain in this gallery forever, Bucky wanted to delay the pain he knew would inevitably fracture the walls of his heart when you became resentful of his perceived rejection.

For a few minutes he wanted to believe in a fantasy where the two of you could live happily ever after before he would need to return to reality where he would need to sacrifice his own prospects for his sister's reputation.

He should have known this bliss was too good to last. That the world would only want to torture him with the possibility of love before obliterating his heart all over again.

How could he have been naive enough to believe he was worthy of happiness?

Bucky felt for the ring box nestled in his inner coat pocket, letting out a shaky breath in attempts to keep the stinging tears from escaping the confines of his eyes. His mothers ring she had gifted him in her will to give to the woman he loved and treasured with his whole being.

But now, you would never know of it’s existence, nor his intense desire to see it on your hand as his promise to adore you for the rest of his life.

Becca’s contentment and happiness came before all else, no one was going to jeopardise that, especially not himself.

If your childhood friend Viscount Walker was willing to marry you and provide you a comfortable life, in time Bucky could learn to be at peace knowing you were looked after. Living a tranquil life his dishonourable stigma would never allow.

With a deep, steadying breath, and a cough to clear the lump which had formed in his throat, Bucky returned the ball.

You were standing by the corner of the room with Carol, near the entrance to the kitchens so you would have the first pick of the food, when you noticed Bucky walking back into the room.

With a newly written note carefully clutched in her hands so that she would not smudge the ink, Carol gave you a friendly nudge with her hip before skirting around the outside of the room to deliver the letter.

The giddiness that had become synonymous with secretly exchanging notes with your beloved fluttered in your stomach as butterflies. This was potentially the most important letter you had penned - earlier in the night Bucky had asked you in writing whether you were willing to overlook the stain on his reputation and allow him to officially court you, with the intention of marriage. Your response, which was an effortless yes, was currently being delivered to him over the other side of the room.

You watched on with a smile as Carol went to hand over the note, as she had done many times over the past couple weeks, however, this time it was met with Bucky refusing to take possession of the piece of paper. He leaned in, whispered something into her ear, before glancing at you with despair and something of resentment on his face, before striding out of the room without the folded letter, causing your heart to sink through the floorboards.

Carol awkwardly turned on her heel, not quite meeting your eye as she scurried to return to your side, the remorseful expression on her face foretelling the agony which would puncture your chest with the words she would use to confirm your heartbreak.

“He said he does not want to receive letters from you anymore.” She gulped, fiddling with the page in her hand as if she was deciding whether or not to give it back to you. “He said it’s over.”

You had not held a greater hatred of the court and the custom of finding a husband more in your life than the week following Lord Rogers ball. Unaware of what led to Bucky’s change of heart, you were all but powerless to keep the doubtful thoughts at bay and stop them from invading your mind.

The main question the taunting voice in your head kept circling back to was what had you done wrong?

Were you not of a high enough standing for him? He was a Duke after all and you were merely the daughter of a Baron. Was he wanting a lady with a wealthier dowry? Someone who was higher in the order of precedence who would help restore his reputation?

Had you not been explicit in stating the affection you felt towards him? Had someone else caught his eye? Were you not proficient at all the duties which made an acceptable housewife?

If you had been thinking clearly, you would have recalled Bucky never once asked about, nor placed any significance on the qualities the other men of the court usually considered when taking a wife, but in your state of anxiety that detail slipped your mind.

You continued to replay the events of that night over the course of the next few days, looking for any reason behind Bucky’s sudden detachment, but with each rehearsal your recollection of the truth blurred even further, only making you increasingly frustrated.

Though he initially held you at arms length, it seemed to have more to do with him being chivalrous in his attempts to protect your reputation, but this time, you could not ignore the grievance in his gaze which was apparently directed at you.

The following ball, held at the grandeur Stark estate, was your hope of seeking clarification for his sudden indifference, however, you were greatly disappointed to find neither Bucky nor Becca were in attendance. Nor were they at the following three events which concluded the week.

Were you truly that abhorrent that he could not be in the same room as you?

Your mind could not comprehend why someone who seemed to cherish every letter you penned him to the extent that he would retain them in a treasured drawer in his desk, would rescind his courtship so quickly.

This tormenting affliction continued for another week. You found every dress fitting, social event and formal ball entirely futile with the knowledge that Bucky would not be in attendance.

Why were you going to the effort of getting all dressed up, wearing your best clothes and having your hair styled to perfection, when it would only be the pretentious men of the gentry you would be presented in front of?

You were hiding in the corner of the Odinson palace ballroom, in an attempt to evade being asked to join the energetic dancing couples in the centre of the room, when you finally saw him again. Bucky strode into the ballroom with Becca by his side, the blue fitted coat he donned made his steel blue irises shine like stars.

His eyes found yours instinctively. The other attendants, the upbeat music and hum of conversation faded into nothing as you stared at the face of the man you loved.

Comparable to the night you first met, you flashed him a sweet smile from across the room, however this time, you were not met with his dazzling smile but instead with a bitter glare.

Tears brimmed in your eyes as you watched Bucky choose to ignore your presence and instead enter into conversation with Lord Rogers as far away as possible from your position in the ballroom.

The man you loved loathed you.

It was as if your lungs and throat filled with thick, sticky tar. Your hand shot to your corset, which was suddenly too tight, squeezing the remaining life out of you which Bucky’s antipathy had not yet eradicated.

Air.

You needed air.

Your lungs did not find the reprieve of fresh, cool air until you burst from the ballroom into the gardens, rushing past bushes and blooming flowers until the music in the ballroom was only a faint hum, and the main source of light was the moon. At the end of the path you followed from the palace was an octagonal viewing pavilion, adorned with a lattice railing and hanging lanterns.

It was there that you gazed out at the beautifully manicured gardens of the Odinson estate and allowed yourself to catch your breath. After the events of the past week you were in no mood to be surrounded by crowds of people, having to fake a smile and pretend that your chest was not perpetually aching in heartbreak.

Your temporary relief from the gentry was interrupted by a monotonous voice behind you.

“I was wondering where you got to.” With a shiver running down your spine, you turned to find Baron Brock Rumlow leaning against a pillar, blocking the only opening to the railing and your only exit from the pavilion. His face was half in shadow, but the uneasiness you always felt in his presence did not fail from settling in your stomach.

“My Lord, I did not realise anyone else was out here.” You tried to suppress the surprise in your voice, but the sly grin tugging at his lips informed you he knew he caught you off guard.

“I saw you fleeing from the ball and desired to know you were all right.” There was a concern in Brock’s words that did not meet his eyes nor his tone of voice as he stepped into the light of the lanterns.

“I assure you, my Lord, I am perfectly fine.”

“If you are indeed fine, I doubt you would be out here, all alone, rather than inside enjoying the party.” His slow, calculated steps made you weary of his true purpose, trying to quickly survey for another way out of the pavilion. “What can I do to cheer you up?” He was now close enough that you could smell the alcohol on his breath.

“My Lord, I am out here to admire the gardens, nothing more. I do not require cheering up.” You attempted to pass by him casually, but his firm hand shot out to the railing to corner you from escaping.

“Oh, but I think you do.” He took an eager step closer, a venomous glint in his eye. “And I know just the way to do it.”

Without any way to get past him, you were vulnerable to his desires, his hand reaching up and caressing your cheek with a greedy possessiveness that had bile rising in your stomach.

“Get off me!” You yelled, thrashing in attempts to push him away, but his strong hands took control of your wrists and prevented you from forming a counter attack.

“Stop resisting you little bitch!” Brock’s voice was low and demanding, scorching fear fired through every neuron in your body. He pushed you against the railing of the pavilion, his weight hindering you from making a run for it.

You yelled out for help into the silent night before his calloused hand harshly covered your mouth, panic rising in your chest at the thought that you were too far from the ballroom for anyone to hear you and that you were not strong enough to prevent whatever devilish intentions Brock had for much longer.

Then, before you could register what was happening, the heavy weight of the Baron was released from you.

Your heart was still thumping rapidly, almost painfully so, in your chest when you recognised the broad man who had intervened.

Bucky.

“I will end you.” Bucky’s threat was dripping in pure spite.

Given that Bucky had managed to pull him off you with reasonable ease, you did not expect Brock’s reaction to these words to be an amused laugh.

It seemed to take Bucky by surprise as well.

“With your dainty little gloves and fragile condition - I’d like to see you try.” The challenge hung in the air between the two men, and though from your position you could not see Bucky’s face, the slump in his shoulders informed you Brock’s words affected him.

“Bucky, let’s take our leave.” You implored, reaching for his shoulder to turn him to look at you. If you could prove to him that you were in truth physically unharmed, then maybe he would not need to engage in the brewing duel.

“No, I will not let him get away with this! What he was going to do to you - he should no longer be breathing.” Bucky’s voice was almost unrecognisable with the rage consuming his tone.

“What are you going to do to me, Your Grace?” Brock asked in a mocking tone. “You cannot even face me like a man.” He continued, gesturing to Bucky’s gloves.

There was a moment of hesitation from Bucky. Though you did not care about the reason he concealed his hands from view, it was clearly very important to him as he never failed to be in public without them.

Deciding that bringing vengeance to Brock’s actions was more important in this moment than concealing whatever secret he had been hiding, Bucky slowly removed his pair of gloves.

The reason Bucky concealed his hands became apparent before the gloves he tossed to the edge of the pavilion hit the ground. Though you found yourself not fazed in the slightest by what you saw.

His skin was severely scarred, profoundly enough to disappear beyond his sleeve, but in your opinion it was nothing to be ashamed of. Having the only man who had ever cherished you and treated you like something worth loving, defending your honour, was what you placed importance on in this moment.

Brock gave a hearty chuckle to the revelation, and you could see Bucky's shoulders tense in response.

In a matter of seconds, Bucky had evaded an attack from Brock and landed a bone crunching punch directly to the Baron’s cheekbone. The sound itself had you wincing, but the sudden panic-stricken look in Brock’s eyes satisfied the part of you which had been terrified of his intentions moments earlier.

Clearly in his own arrogance Brock had not expected Bucky to be able to land a clear punch, and in his now alarmed state was cowering in fear. Before Bucky had the chance to finish him completely, Brock scurried away towards the security of the ballroom, and rather than following him, Bucky turned around to find you. The worry in his gaze almost knocked you off your feet.

“Are you unharmed? Did he hurt you?” The lantern light was dim in the crisp night, but Bucky did not waste time in examining every inch of your exposed skin to ensure you had not been physically harmed. The concern brimming in his eyes softened the ache in your chest which had been present since he declined your letter at Lord Rogers ball.

It was not until he pulled you into his chest did you realise you were shaking. Though you noted the hand which displayed scars was covertly hidden in his coat pocket.

“I am fine, now that you are here.” You murmured into his lapel. Briefly, the thought of how scandalous it would be considered to be caught in this position with a man entered your mind, though the intoxicating rich scent of Bucky’s cologne, and the safety you felt being so close you could hear his rapid heartbeat pushed the notion from your mind.

There was a minute where you merely cherished being close to him, your body relaxing from the anxiety coursing through it earlier. A moment where you could simply enjoy being in the presence of one another.

However, that minute lapsed entirely too quickly before Bucky pulled away from you with a look of determined restraint in his eye.

“I shall escort you back inside.” Bucky declared, however the petrifying thought of returning to a room in which you could potentially encounter Rumlow again paralysed you.

“I cannot return to a party where I could see him.” You announced, wishing for Bucky to comfort you again as the memory of Brock’s vile hands touching you sent a shiver up your spine.

“Then I shall take you directly to your carriage and inform your mother-” Bucky began before you decided to interpose.

“Why are you so adamant to take your leave from me, Your Grace?” It was one of the many questions you wished to ask him. Bucky took a moment before answering to contemplate his words, though once he spoke, his tone was resolute.

“The last lady to learn about my deformity wanted entirely nothing to do with me - she was utterly disgusted at the sight. You must be completely repulsed by me.” Instinctively he pushed his hand further into his pocket, and your heart clenched in your chest.

“Repulsed? Not in the slightest. Bucky, every part of you is beautiful. I have never cared about anyone the way I care about you. Nothing about your appearance could ever change that.” No truer and more earnest words had ever left your lips. You desperately needed him to believe them, for them to alleviate the hate he had been conditioned to feel in response to his injury. To show not everyone thought a scar was something worthy of being ashamed of.

“Truly?” There was a harrowing vulnerability to his voice and you suspected if you were to retract your previous words, the rejection may end him completely.

“Truly.”

His eyes were filled with a mixture of burning adoration and utter disbelief. The corners of his mouth twitched into a smile as the rest of the world melted away, completely forgotten when his stare had heat rising from your chest to the tips of your ears.

You closed your eyes, leaned closer and waited in suspense for the moment his lips would finally touch your own. You wanted to feel him everywhere, have your body meld into his so you could not determine where he stopped and you started. However, you would settle now for a kiss, for his rosy pink lips to caress your own in a demonstration of his desire.

The anticipation in the air was palpable.

So much so you could cut it with a knife.

But you were kept waiting.

It was not until Bucky cleared his throat did you open your eyes again, only to find your vision blurry with tears.

“You do not want to kiss me?” Your voice cracked as you attempted to hide the searing heartbreak ripping a hole in your chest, dejectedly peering down at the cobblestones underneath your shoes.

“There is nothing I want more.” Bucky said with a determination to prove you wrong, tilting your chin up with his index finger so you would yet again meet his gaze, running his thumb feather light over your bottom lip. The forced restraint which had been so evident in his eyes dissolved to reveal the pure guilt behind them. “I am afraid if I do kiss you, I’ll never stop.”

Hope swelled so largely in your chest that perhaps you would have floated away from happiness if Bucky had not been tethering you to the ground.

“But as grateful as I am that you do not find me hideous, this,” he gestured to his arm, “is also the reason I cannot bring you the peace you deserve. I will always look like this, the incident of my debut year will be my legacy and I cannot let it tarnish your life too.” You suspected there was more to his reasoning which he was not divulging - more than simply a deformity you had already declared your acceptance for.

You opened your mouth to protest, to tell him that you did not mind in the slightest about his perceived reputation, which had been falsely tarnished, all you needed was for him to continue to care for you as he had proven tonight he was more than capable of doing. However, before a single syllable could leave your throat, Bucky continued in his attempts to convince you.

“Lord Walker is intending to propose, and you should accept. His family has a relatively high standing in court, he would be able to provide for you in a way I never could.” The despair was clear in Bucky’s voice, and more so than your surprise at the Viscount’s plans to propose, you longed to free Bucky’s mind from the belief that any other man would be a more suitable match for you.

“No, I cannot marry him. I will not marry him.” You firmly refused as you shook your head. Gently taking hold of his left wrist, with light enough pressure that he could pull away if he were uncomfortable with the contact, you brought his exposed, scarred hand up and placed it to the uncovered skin above your sternum, where he would undoubtedly be able to feel every beat of your thumping heart.

“My heart belongs to you.”

Your heartbeat quickened even more so in your chest as he leaned so dangerously close that you could see the way his eyes darkened with desire. Something intangible within his demeanour changed as a result of your gesture that you knew he was about to kiss you.

Any trace of the remaining restraint in his eyes dissipated before his lids fluttered shut and he closed the remaining paltry space between you. His nose bumped yours and his hands grabbed the curves of your waist just before his soft lips captured yours.

The unfamiliar yet perfectly natural feeling of his lips against yours had you completely opening up to him. Instinctively, your lips parted and allowed his tongue to glide against your own, exploring your mouth as your body pressed impossibly close to his, your hands tangling in his lush hair.

A new, foreign heat pooled below your stomach, between your legs. You were not sure what it signified, all you knew for certain was you wanted even more of the man whose hands were currently caressing every swell and dip of your body. To have his bare hands remove every layer of clothing from your form and have his supple lips place tantalising kisses to every exposed inch.

To your disappointment Bucky pulled away sooner than you hoped, leaving your lips hungry and desperate for more. Resting his forehead against yours, he let out a shaky breath as you attempted to catch your own.

You expected him to feel as ecstatically happy as you now did having kissed the one person who you would not hesitate to devote your life to. However, distraught indecision was painfully written on his features, contorting your stomach with nerves.

Then, with an affectionate swipe of his thumb over your cheek, a longing in his eyes as if he may never get an opportunity to be this close to you again, and a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips, Bucky seemingly reached a conclusion to his internal struggle.

You could sense the walls restoring around his heart before he spoke a single word.

“You need to forget about me and marry Walker.” He stated as firmly as possible through an obvious lump in his throat, striking a sharp chisel excruciatingly deep within your chest. His eyes were glassy with tears and it was at that moment he decided to put precautionary distance between the two of you, which made you feel more vulnerable and alone than the entire week your mother locked you away from society. As if to punctuate his instruction and throw a final, killing blow, Bucky spoke one final time.

“I cannot marry you.”

With a helpless, tearful look, which you could have sworn was filled with more remorse than rejection, Bucky raked his fingers through his dishevelled hair before shoving them into his pockets, quickly turning on his heel and striding out of the pavilion.

Your lungs and throat burned, as though Bucky had stolen all your air through his kiss and you were left to die a slow, suffocating death. No sound was able to escape your constricting throat and though your heart wanted to chase after him, your legs felt as if they were made of stone, frozen like a statue, all but powerless to watch on as your life fell apart before your eyes.

Time painfully slowed as you fought back prickling tears, waiting anxiously for the moment Bucky would turn around to look back at you, when his beautiful blue eyes would meet yours and your world would once again make sense.

But that moment never came.

Once you saw Bucky disappear around the side of the palace to where the horses and carriages were kept, all hope of him retracting his actions completely lost, you let the confusion and sorrow swallow you whole as you collapsed to the ground in a fit of sobs.

Your heaving weeps were the only other sound filling the still night air besides the faint, upbeat music played in the main ballroom. Your heart as good as glass shattered into sharp, hazardous shards on the cobblestones in front of you, irreparably damaged and likely to cause further harm if attempting to reassemble.

Because if there is one way to destroy someone who loves you, it is to kiss them once and then never again.

Part three coming soon

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