Lady Arsa Dustin ! who was sent to Dragonstone to be the princess’s lady-in-waiting when she was 15, and the princess was 13. She is known for her renowned beauty in the north and her alluring personality. She instantly found the princess charming and alluring herself, despite her shy and meek personality. The two of them almost instantly got close when Arsa gained the princess’s trust by defending her against a stupid stable boy. Arsa admires the princess very much and is willing to do anything to help and strengthen her for the rough world they live in. 

Sweetling reader ! who was hesitant to get close to her new Lady in waiting, but after several times of Arsa showing her loyalty to her, the two instantly became close. It’s nice to be close with another girl who isn't part of her family, only really growing up with Heleana, Baela, and Rhaena. She’s never really had this type of bond with someone; she’s never really had a friend. They teach each other things. Arsa teaches her about using things to her advantage, how to manipulate physically and mentally. While, Sweetling tries to teach her how to play the harp and how to embroider, but her favorite thing to teach Arsa was High Valyrian. 

Rhaenyra & Daemon ! who weren't blind to how close the two girls had become. They are always attached to each other's hips, smiling and laughing, arms looped together as they whispered in each other's ears, lots of gossiping. Rhaenyra loves to see her daughter happy and have a good friendship, but for the longest time she was very cautious of Arsa because she didn't want her daughter to get hurt like how Alicent had hurt her, but that cautiousness went away as time went on. Daemon enjoyed the fact that Arsa was helping her grow stronger in many ways. Arsa taught her how to use the bow, a skill she was very talented at by growing up in the north. He could also see how much stronger she got mentally, how she was growing thicker skin.

The sky above Dragonstone was a soft, pearl-gray, the clouds drifting like smoke from a distant fire. Salt-laced breezes danced across the shore, carrying whispers of sea spray and the scent of wet stone. The waves lapped roughly against the black cliffs, while the waves brushed against the sandy shores with a steady and calming rhythm. The air was cool but not too unkind for you and your Lady in waiting. 

You wore a gown of soft lavender silk, embroidered with delicate silver threads that shimmered when you moved. The sleeves were long and flowing, the hems embroidered with lace. Arsa wore an equally elegant but more subdued gown, a deep forest green gown with black detailing. Both of you had matching shawls draped over your shoulders for warmth. 

Your sworn protector trailed several paces behind the two of you, close enough to protect you but at a distance where it didn't feel like he was intruding. Silverwing circled high above them—a silvery streak glinting in the overcast light—her wings spread wide as she’d tilt mid-flight just to watch her rider down below. 

The shore stretched before them, a ribbon of dark sand kissed by white sea foam. Your arms were linked together like always as you and Arsa walked in an easy rhythm, shoulders brushing with every step. Your footsteps left faint prints in the damp sand before tidewater licked them away again. 

Arsa leaned into you slightly as they passed a log washed in from the sea, the older girl instinctively adjusting their pace so her princess wouldn’t stumble. The two of you looked natural together. One radiant as dawn, the other warm and steady as earth. Your gowns fluttered like petals in the sea wind. 

Arsa tilted her head towards you, her natural red lips curling into that knowing, teasing smile—the one she wore when the gossip of the real was particularly rich. Her big brown eyes took a moment to admire your side profile as your eyes were turned towards the ocean, a small fond smile on your lips at the sight as you breathed in the scent of the sea. 

“Did you hear?” Arsa murmured, voice low and velvety over the whisper of the waves. You turned your head to her at the sound of her voice, curiosity in your expression. A soft laugh left her lips as she continued, “Another letter came this morning for Jace, from some Lannister girl—she actually sent him a lock of her hair!’ 

You exhaled a soft laugh, the sound curling like smoke in the sea air, which sounded like the sweetest music to Arsa’s ears. You tilted your head closer to her as you walked, your eyes glinting with soft mischief as a smirk tugged at your lips. “Mother nearly had Maester Gerardys faint when he read the letter aloud—Aerion nearly had a fit!” 

“So that’s why he spent hours training with the sword like one of those brooding knights in those horrid songs your bard sings.” Arsa teased in that rich northern lilt of hers that you loved dearly. The wind caught the strands of your silver hair as you gasped dramatically, pressing a hand to your chest like she’d just insulted the entire realm. You cried out, your voice lifting with playful outrage, “How dare you!” 

Arsa’s grin only widened; she adored this side of you: fiery and theatrical, all wide eyes and fluttering lashes with mock-scandalization. Her dramatic princess. 

“Jaskier has the most angelic voice in all the seven kingdoms!” You declared loudly over the crashing waves with mock horror, but your giggles spilling out of your lips and the playfulness in your violet eyes ruined any attempt at faux offense. She watched you with pure adoration, warmth blooming in her chest at how you lit up. 

She couldn’t help but laugh with you, a rich, unfiltered sound that mingled with the sea air. She squeezed your arm affectionately as you continued your passionate defense of your favorite bard. Her thumb absentmindedly brushed over the silk of your sleeve where it was linked with hers, a quiet gesture of comfort amid the playful bickering and gossip. 

From one of the high stone ledges of Dragonstone, two figures stood silhouetted against the pale gray sky. Rhaenyra’s silver hair gleamed faintly in the muted light as she watched her daughter below, arms linked with Arsa like twin vines growing together. Beside her, Daemon leaned casually, his posture relaxed but his sharp eyes tracking every movement on the shore. 

Rhaenyra exhaled softly through her nose—a mother's sigh filled with quiet pride and something else…an ache. Her little girl was growing up so fast. The way you laughed freely beside Arsa made your face glow brighter than any jewel ever could. Daemon nudged her gently with his shoulder without looking away from you both, remarking simply, “She looks happy.” 

His wife didn't answer immediately—just kept staring at how naturally you leaned into your lady-in-waiting’s touch with a knowing glint in her eyes, how easily Arsa adjusted to match your steps whenever a rock or wave got in your way. It wasn't just duty between them anymore; it never really had been since the two of you met as young girls all those years ago. 

Rhaenyra’s fingers curled slightly against the cold stone ledge, her knuckles whitening just a fraction. She had always known—felt it—that Arsa was more than just a Lady-in-waiting to you. The way the northern girl looked at you when no one saw, the protectiveness that bordered on possessiveness, when courtiers tried to get too familiar with you. 

A shadow passed over Rhaenyra’s face—subtle, but there. The memory of her own childhood friendship that had turned bitter still haunted her, of how easily affection could curdle into rivalry or worse under the weight of court politics and royal expectations. Arsa was nothing like Alicent; she had to remind herself of that. And you had a mother here that would protect you; she would never let what happened to her—happen to you. 

She finally spoke after a long silence, not a question—just quiet acceptance spoken into the sea-wind, “She loves her.” 

Daemon’s smirk deepened, that wicked knowing curve of his lips. He turned fully towards his wife now, the wind tugging at his matching hair as he leaned in just enough to murmur in her ear. His voice was low and velvety with mischief, “When do we tell Lord Dustin we’re keeping his niece?” 

Lady Arsa Dustin ! who swore to herself that she wouldn’t let her feelings for you be known. She was your Lady in waiting; it was inappropriate. But it was harder as the years went by and the closer the two of you became. You trusted her with things you didn't trust with anyone else; you yearned for her like how she yearned for you. The soft touches and holds would linger and last longer, not just from her end but also from yours. You were both craving something you knew you shouldn’t. 

Sweetling reader ! who was in the bath after flying with Silverwing. Arsa was washing her hair and asking her about her flight when the soft talk turned more flirty as you told her you wished she would ride with you, that Silverwing enjoys her presence. She teased you and said, ‘Like her rider, I'm sure.’ When you tilted your head to look at her, your faces were closer than you expected; both of you got quiet as you stared at each other's lips.

Lady Arsa Dustin & Sweetling reader ! who kissed for the first time at that moment, and everything for them had never been the same. They became closer; if that was even possible, they had more sleepovers in the princess's bedchambers. Arsa knew that their relationship sadly wouldn't last, but she never voiced that and the truth to the princess; she was too happy…she did not wish to take her happiness away. So she allowed herself to enjoy this happiness, and she took the time to teach her princess important things, things she would need to know when she’s not there anymore.

The soft glow of candlelight flickered across your bedchamber, casting warm shadows on the stone walls and tapestries. The hearth crackled gently with a low fire—just enough to keep away the biting chill without making the chambers too stuffy. The princess’s chambers were luxurious as always, silk hangings in pretty pinks and purples, delicate tapestries woven with silver thread depicting dragons and flowers alike. Always smelling of the finest scented candles and incense, with lingering scents of the perfumed oils Daemon would spoil you with from Essos. 

There you sat on your great four-poster canopied bed that was piled high with the finest silken pillows and furs, night settled over Dragonstone, the castle quiet except for the distant sound of waves crashing against cliffs. You leaned against one hand while your legs were tucked to the side; your body was clad in the softest nightgown, your silver hair natural down your back as you flipped through a book you stole from Aerion’s chambers. 

Arsa was sitting at your vanity, wearing one of your nightgowns, a pale blue one that pooled down to her ankles, which made her look more delicate than she truly was. Her nimble fingers had just finished undoing her hair from her usual braids, spilling down her back in dark waves. Her brown eyes reflected the candlelight as she admired your silhouette through the vanity mirror. 

The way your silver hair cascaded down like moonlight, how effortlessly regal you looked even lounging in your bed, you never failed to steal her breath. 

She turned slowly on the bench, taking a moment longer than necessary to just admire you—the curve of your lips when you focused on reading, how one of your fingers absently traced along an illustration's edge. You looked ethereal, like one of those dream maidens from old songs and stories. Her chest tightened with that familiar ache: this wasn't hers to keep forever…but tonight was. 

She rose to her feet with quiet grace; the hem of the borrowed nightgown whispered against the stone floor as she crossed the room towards where you sat nestled among silks and furs. The bed dipped slightly as Arsa climbed onto it behind you, moving with that quiet grace she always had. She settled right against your back, her legs folding neatly to the side so she could press close to you. 

Gently, she leaned forward and rested her chin on your shoulder, warm breath fanning over your bare skin where your nightgown strap had slipped down slightly. Her arm slid around your waist naturally, her fingers caressing your side as you instinctively leaned back into her warmth. She peered over your shoulder at the book that had your attention so intently; the pages were filled with intricate illustrations of dragons and words written in High Valyrian. 

The scent of your hair—something floral and sweet from the oils she washed your hair with—drifted into Arsa’s senses as she nestled closer, her lips brushing lightly against the side of your neck where your warm skin met your delicate silver strands. Her touch was feather-light at first, just a whisper of a kiss before another followed right beneath your ear that made you exhale happily. 

Her fingers trailed down from your hip to gently curl around your soft hand where it held onto the book. Without breaking contact with you—her lips now lingering along that sensitive spot under your ear—she carefully closed the thick leather-bound book with a soft thump once it was under her fingertips and pushed it away from you. 

Once she pushed the thick book away, her hand lifted up to cradle your jaw and tilt your head towards her. You smiled at the softness in her eyes, leaning forward to softly bump your nose against hers. She scrunched her nose cutely before capturing your lips in a slow, tender kiss—soft at first, like the brush of petals against each other. The kind of kiss you’d shared countless times before, but could never grow tired of. 

Her hands cradled either side of your face as she deepened it gently, her warm mouth moving over yours with quiet devotion. Her thumbs traced the warm kiss of your cheekbones lovingly between kisses. When she finally pulled back just an inch—just enough to see those beautiful eyes leaf-lidded with affection—she smiled before pressing another small peck to the corner of your lips, before closing the small distance between you. 

One hand slid behind your neck to cradle you while the other pressed gently between your shoulder blades, coaxing you down onto the mountain of pillows without breaking your embrace. The bed swallowed both of you in softness, your bodies aligning perfectly like two halves clicking together as she leaned over you on one elbow. 

Arsa hovered above you, her dark hair creating a curtain around your faces as she kissed you, deeper this time, hungrier. The warmth of the firelight painted gold streaks across her cheeks and lashes. She nipped playfully at your lower lip before soothing it with another kiss, murmuring against your mouth in that thick, rich northern lilt of hers—“Mmm…you taste like honey.” 

You had one too many sweet treats earlier with Luke and Joffrey as the three of you watched Jace and Aerion spar with Ser Erryk. You and Luke had played a game of taking a bite every time Aerion got annoyed…the two of you were sick from sweets afterwards. 

Her fingers tangled gently into the strands of your silver hair at the nape of your neck while she kissed along your jaw to capture that spot beneath it—the one that always made you gasp and squirm under her touch. 

Between the kisses she pressed down on every inch she could reach—your cheekbones and your jaw—she whispered teasingly, low and fond like a prayer meant only for these quiet nights where nothing else existed but this bed and each other’s breaths mingling  together, “My princess.” 

Arsa’s lips traveled down the column of your throat, pressing open-mouthed kisses that left tingles in their wake. Her fingers traced idle patterns along your neck as it slipped down from your nape, then grew bolder as she mapped every soft curve and dip through the thin fabric of your nightgown. 

When her mouth found that sensitive spot just above your pulse point, you arched into her instinctively with a quiet gasp—her name nearly slipping from your parent lips before it was stolen by another searing kiss. She swallowed every sound you made like they were sacred. Because they were. Her hand slid down from your collarbone and down your side to your thighs, just barely brushing against your warm skin where your nightgown had ridden up. 

Then suddenly Arsa pulled away just enough, panting against each other's lips. Her dark eyes were filled with affection and something hotter, staring down at your flustered face, memorizing every inch of this moment; she knew it wouldn’t last. 

You whimpered at the loss of her lips against yours, your hands immediately reaching for her and pulling her back down against you. A pleased moan left your lips as they crashed with hers once more, messier now, your tongues moving together in tandem. Your hips lifting up to press against hers, her grip on your thigh tightening. 

The weight of her body pressed down on yours in the most delicious way—just enough for you to feel every one of her curves and her warmth. Between feverish kisses, you whispered a love-filled confession against her swollen lips, “Gods, I could do this forever.” 

The words—I could do this forever—pierced straight through Arsa’s chest like a dagger. For one suspended heartbeat she faltered. The weight of reality crashed hard down on her: you were a Targaryen princess, 3rd in line to the throne. She was just your lady-in-waiting, a northern girl sent south to serve. You would marry a highborn lord, or one of your brothers; she would kill him before you were wed to Aemond. And she would either have to watch it all helplessly at your side until she was sent back to the north. 

She didn't speak. She couldn't. 

Not when you looked at her like that, with those starry eyes full of devotion and love that made everything else fall away. Worst of all, they were filled with hope. 

So Arsa swallowed hard against the lump in her throat—the grief for what they couldn't have—and kissed you again fiercely, desperately pouring every unsaid emotion into it. Her lips slanted over yours with more intensity than before; there was something almost mournful in how tenderly possessive she became as both hands cradled your face while kissing deep enough that breath became secondary only after pleasure itself took priority over everything else, including sadness. 

Her fingers threaded back into your hair while your legs tangled together over silken sheets already warmed from shared body heat between two lovers; only one knew time wasn't infinite…but tonight? Tonight belonged solely to them. 

Rhaenyra Targaryen ! who felt her heart stop when she opened the letter and read the message from Lord Dustin that Maester Gerardys handed her. She knew the day would come when Arsa would have to return to the north, just not so soon; circumstances had changed now that she could see the feelings Arsa shared with her daughter. She sent for Daemon immediately. Daemon was silent as he read the letter after she handed him the parchment, his jaw clenching as he read that Arsa would be sent back to the north with her escort now that Lord Dustin had found the right husband for his niece.

Lady Arsa Dustin ! who had to use everything inside her to fight back tears as she stood in front of Rhaenyra and Daemon, her nails digging crescents into her palms as she squeezed her fists as Rhaenyra read the letter from her uncle aloud to her. She could vaguely remember the name of the man she would marry, but she couldn't even begin to think about her soon-to-be marriage; all she had on her mind was you. Her princess that she had to leave. Time had caught up to them; duty had caught up to them. Her usually strong voice trembled as she asked the prince and princess to let her be the one to tell you. Once they both agreed, she bowed quickly and then rushed out of the room and to her bedchambers before anyone saw her break down.

Sweetling reader !  who didn’t believe it. She laughed at first when Arsa told her that her uncle found her a husband and that she was being called back to the north, but seeing the way Arsa looked at her with so much pain in her eyes made her falter. The nightmare that she’s been having for weeks, the single boat leaving the shores of Dragonstone—the wolf banner that decorated it- it was true. The princess couldn't stop crying once the tears formed in her eyes, the silent tears turning into sharp, ragged sobs as she fell to her knees. She became inconsolable; Silverwing felt it and became restless herself. She flew as close as she could to the castle; the screeches she let out were deafening, and she only calmed down once she saw her rider.

Lady Arsa Dustin & Sweetling reader ! who spent every aching moment together until Arsa would have to leave. Both of their hearts felt like they were slowly getting ripped out. Every night they lay wrapped up in each other's arms, clinging to each other; most nights they didn't know what to say. The days were going by faster, and before they knew it, it was the day Arsa would be returning to her home with her escort. The hardest part was that their last embrace couldn't be one as lovers, only one as a princess and her lady-in-waiting as they stood on the shore. Both of them tried to hold back their tears, whispering their goodbyes before stiffly pulling away. 

The morning dawned gray and somber, as if even the sky wept for the two lovers. The air was thick with salt and sorrow. The wind carried a chill that cut through your silks and furs like knives—cruel in its timing, so cold when you needed warmth more than anything. You stood there rigidly in a soft pastel blue gown that Arsa loved on you, wrapped up in one of her cloaks. It smelled like her. 

The boat cut through the waves steadily, carrying Arsa away from Dragonstone…away from you. She hadn’t looked back at you—not once. She couldn't see you like that, standing there like a ghost, so much pain and sorrow in your face; her resolve would shatter completely. She didn't want that to be the last memory of you she would have of you. 

She wanted to remember your laughter under candlelight, how it sounded when she kissed your cheek with a teasing nip. How safe she always felt with you curled up in her arms during storms, when thunder rattled the castle walls and made everyone else jumpy but never seemed to frighten either of you. Not this silent, shattered version standing on the shore like a statue carved from grief. 

Her hands clenched around the wound railing as tears finally spilled over, despite every effort not to cry. The sea spray stung her cheeks—but maybe that was just another lie she was trying to make herself believe. 

The boat grew smaller and smaller with every passing moment, disappearing into the misty horizon where the sea met sky. You couldn’t move; you couldn't breathe. Your hands were numb inside Arsa’s clear sleeves, your lips stiff from pressing them together to keep them from trembling into full-blown sobs in front of everyone who was watching discreetly. But it was useless; the first tear fell without permission. 

Then another. A shaky breath escaped through your clenched teeth as you stopped yourself from crying further. You wouldn’t let anyone see you like this, even if it was your family, people you trusted. Silverwing let out a mournful cry from above where she circled low over the cliffs, sensing her rider's pain as if it were her own. 

Rhaenyra approached with silent steps, her own heart heavy. She recognized that devastation—she had known it all too well, her own lovers taken from her too soon. The way your whole body seemed to curl inward, the dull numbness of loss that hadn’t yet turned into full grief. Without a word, she slipped an arm around your shoulders and pulled you into her embrace, the scent of her always wrapped around you like armour since you were little. 

She pressed kisses along your temple while she rubbed soft circles on your shoulder—the same way she did when you were a child; the same comfort given now for heartbreak. Her voice was barely above a whisper when she finally spoke, “I’m so sorry, my sweet girl…” 

Rhaenyra’s arms tightened around you as she felt your body tremble with silent sobs against her chest. The wind howled around the two of you, carrying the hushed whispers of Jace and Aerion as they watched you with a knowing look, one held softness while the other carried something much darker. 

Her fingers carded through your silver hair—just like when you were a babe, crying after nightmares or scraped knees. “She loved you,” Your mother murmured fiercely into your hairline, pressing another kiss there before continuing, “More than anything in this world.” 

Daemon stepped forward, his usual smirk absent—replaced by something softer. He wasn’t as emotionally expressive as Rhaenyra, but he had a way of cutting through the pain with blunt honesty that sometimes helped more than sweet words. He placed a larger hand on your head, his touch soft and caressing as your violet eyes met. 

”She wasn't meant for you.” Daemon said quietly—not cruelly—but firmly, like the facts were written in the stars themselves before you were even born into this world. Rhaenyra tensed slightly at her husband's words; it was harsh. Daemon continued, his voice low but steady, “Arsa’s blood belongs to the wolves and winter winds, not dragonfire and courts.” 

Rhaenyra’s grip on you tightened protectively as if she wanted to shield you from the truth of it. It wasn't easy for Daemon to say; he could see how happy and safe she made you feel, and the loyalty she had wouldn’t be forgotten. His hand tilted your chin up gently before his thumb gently brushed away a tear still clinging to your cheek. He spoke in a gentle tone only a father could, “Your path is paved with fire and thrones…hers wasn't." 

Your mind reeled with his words—her path wasn't yours. It echoed in your skull, cruel and undeniable. You remembered all the nights you dreamt of a future with her, the conversations the two of you had—sneaking kisses behind tapestries and hushed whispers of their desired future. The weight crushed down on your chest until breathing hurt too much; she had done her duty by you. 

And now she is gone. 

Your voice came out small and broken. 

“If she wasn’t meant for me…then why does it hurt so much?” Your voice cracked under the weight of your grief, small and shattered, confusion and anger swirling in your wide violet eyes as you stared up at Daemon. Searching for an answer you were too scared to hear, too scared to accept. The pain wasn't just sadness—it was betrayal by fate itself. How could something that felt so right be wrong?

Rhaenyra pressed her forehead to your head, her own eyes glistening—not just from sympathy but because she knew. She knew the pain that came with loving someone you could have felt like. The agony of wanting them despite knowing fate would never allow it. This was pain she never wanted her only daughter to feel, but you were too much like her in many ways. 

Daemon’s jaw clenched at your words; how innocent and broken you sounded. His gaze flickered away from your eyes and to your twin brothers that stood many paces behind you. Both of their eyes were on you; they hadn’t left you since Rhaenyra gathered them along with Luke, Baela and Rhaena to see Arsa off. To be there if you needed their comfort. 

Jace looked like he wanted to rush forward and pull you into his arms, but he kept himself at his twin's side. Aerion looked particularly unsettled, his jaw tight with something unreadable, annoyed at the dramatics of this all. Neither of them hated Arsa really; Jace was friendly when he needed to be, and Aerion saw her as an intriguing thorn in his side. They didn't wish to see you so distraught, but they weren’t blind to the fact that things would be easier now that she was gone. 

Daemon’s eyes found yours once again. 

“Your heart will mend.” He said simply in High Valyrian—not dismissively of the pain you felt, but with quiet certainty. A promise he knew would come true. He’s seen it. He will see to it. Your eyes fluttered close, and you let out a pitiful sniffle as Daemon leaned in to place a soft kiss on your forehead. The kiss lingered before he pulled away. He shared a knowing look with his wife before he walked off. 

A simple commanding nod to the two sets of twins and Luke before he left. Jace and Aerion shared a look before reluctantly following their stepfather. Your step-sisters and little brother looked back at you with a look of sorrow before following along. Leaving you alone with your mother and Ser Erryk, who stood on guard. 

Ser Erryk remained silent in his armored stance nearby—his presence steady but not intrusive. He simply stood guard over his princesses' pain. 

Rhaenyra kept you cradled against her as you wept quietly, rocking slightly as if you were still that small little girl who hid behind her skirts. The wind howled around the cliffs, carrying the scent of salt and sorrow—like a lullaby for grief. Silverwing finally descended from the sky with a mournful screech. Rhaenyra lifted her head and locked eyes with her daughter's dragon, a silent understanding. 

Your mother placed a long kiss on your temple again before murmuring softly into your hair, “Come inside when you're ready.” 

Rhaenyra pressed one last kiss to your forehead before straightening, her violet eyes brimming with silent sorrow. She gave Ser Erryk a small nod—watch over her—before turning away. Her steps were measured as she walked back towards the castle, the weight of motherhood heavy on her shoulders. 

The moment your mother was gone, Silverwing shuffled towards you. A low whine escaped Silverwing's throat—a sound only meant for you in moments like this: grief-stricken comfort from a dragon who loved and protected you fiercely without words or expectations. She nudged gently at your shoulder with her snout affectionately. You closed your eyes as you felt her hot breath fanning across your tear-stained face. 

Silverwing curled around you like a living shield, her massive body forming a protective circle against the wind. Her scales radiated a burning warmth—an anchor in your storm of grief. You buried your face into the curve of her neck, breathing in that familiar scent. 

The castle loomed behind you; safe walls awaited inside where hearthfires burned bright…but for now? You clung to Silverwing and let yourself mourn properly without anyone watching. A single tear slipped down your cheek; you didn’t wipe it away this time; you let it fall freely. The pain was raw and real…but so was her love for you had been. And that? 

That would never fade no matter how far apart distance made them now. 

┊࿐ ❛❛ continue on to my…. 𝙖𝙪 𝙢𝙖𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙡𝙞𝙨𝙩 & sweetling masterlist & 𝙢𝙖𝙞𝙣 𝙢𝙖𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙡𝙞𝙨𝙩 ❜❜

Იᰍ oh guys my heart hurts so much , the angst 😭 I really hope I did this request justice, I was stressing while I wrote this , I hope you guys enjoyed this , Sweetling and Arsa our tragic lovers 💖 BUT MY FIRST TWIN JACE AND AERION FIC 😼 this is a interactive au so your guy’s thoughts, ideas, and opinions are very important and wanted !! comments, reblogs and feedback is very welcomed !! please tell me your thoughts 🤍

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When Peter came home from work, you almost never heard him. It was almost always late into the night, so he quickly got used to the routine of being as quiet as possible so there wasn’t a chance of waking you up. And on those days when he knew you were still up, you only heard him once he called out your name or a sweet, ‘Honey, I’m home’.

But tonight there was nothing quiet about his arrival at home. 

You could hear him before he was even in the warmth of your home, the loud chatter and his drunk giggles as he spoke with his colleague who brought him home from the bar. You were lying on the comfy couch reading one of your books when you heard his dramatic cursing as he struggled to unlock the front door. You couldn't help but giggle to yourself at the sound of his cute cheers as he successfully unlocked the door. 

Peter stumbles through the door, nearly tripping over himself as he clumsily kicks off his boots and turns around to close and lock the front door, wincing dramatically at the thud it makes. You sit up and peek over at him from the back of the couch, smiling at the sight of him. 

His hair was slightly messy from running his fingers through it a dozen times, a habit he always does when he’s drunk. His face was flushed from the cold and the many drinks he’d had; his demeanor was relaxed with that rare drunk looseness that he rarely ever had. Peter wasn't a drinker; he rarely drank, especially with the traumas of his father. But tonight was his friend's birthday, and he wanted to enjoy it. 

He spots your head peeking over the couch almost immediately, a cute, dopey dimpled grin forming on his face at the sight of you. He clumsily shrugged off his jacket as he quickly made his way towards you, as if he couldn't be away from you any longer. He couldn't. He’s talked about you countless times tonight; his friends weren’t surprised or bothered by it. The two of you were soulmates, two peas in a pod. 

He missed you all day and night. So seeing you now, all cozy on their couch, wearing nothing but his sweater and some sleep shorts, the lit fireplace casting a warm glow across your face, was everything. 

Peter practically stumbled towards you, arms already reaching out towards you, eagerness and yearning in his eyes like a puppy who hadn’t seen his owner in years. The second he closed the distance, he collapsed onto his knees on the rug in front of you, leaning down and wrapping both of his arms around your waist. He wasted no time burying his face into your stomach with an exaggerated groan. 

”Mmm…you smell so good.” He mumbled against your sweater—his sweater—the fabric soft and warm against his cold face. He breathed in your scent, his mind going wild with naughty thoughts the longer he held onto you. You smiled as you carefully tossed your book on the coffee table before tangling your hand in his hair, the other resting on his shoulder, giving it a soft squeeze. 

“Hello to you too, oh—“ You let out a small gasp of surprise as your boyfriend lifted his head and cut you off with a sloppy kiss to your lips. He moaned as his lips touched yours. It wasn't graceful; it was wet. A little messy because drunk Peter had zero coordination tonight. You could taste the alcohol on his lips. 

His hands slid under the sweater, swallowing the gasp you let out into his mouth at the feeling of his cold hands pressed against your bare stomach. He tried to deepen the kiss, but you kept it slow, not wanting to get him riled up, but it seemed he was doing that perfectly fine himself. He barely pulled away, panting against your lips as he let out a slurred whine, “Miss you so bad baby, need to be inside you.” 

You softly bumped your nose against him, the soft touch making him melt even more into you. He leaned in—his mouth already parting—for a desperate kiss, only to pout when you stopped him. You moved your hands from his hair and shoulder down to his chest, softly pushing him back. You smiled softly with a shake of your head, “Peter, baby, you're drunk.” 

“Drunk in loveee.” Peter grinned as he sang the popular lyrics, very much off-key, might you add. You laughed softly as you looked up at him; he was so pretty, so carefree with no weight of his father holding him down. Peter grinned and tried to lean back in for a kiss, pouting when he got the same result. 

“Peter, no.” 

“You’re evil.” Peter groaned dramatically as he hung his head low, resting his forehead on your chest. Even drunk, he knows no means no. His hands continued to caress your sides, letting your warm skin warm up his hands. You smiled and tilted your head down to place a soft kiss on his head, your hands slowly moving up and down on his arms and shoulders to help warm him up. 

”Kisses, please.” Your boyfriend dramatically puckered his lips for a kiss once he lifted his head from your chest. He really mastered the puppy-dog eyes as he looked at you, continuing with a needy whisper, “At least?” 

Your eyes softened at the needy look in his face; the look of lust in his eyes seemed to have disappeared. You scooted over to make room for him on the couch despite knowing he’d most likely end up pretty much on top of you. With and without the alcohol in his system, your boyfriend loved to cling to you. You smiled and said softly, “Get up here.” 

Peter grinned and clumsily sat up from the floor, practically lying on top of you once he got cozy on the couch. Your legs were tangled together and your bodies pressed against each other, a feeling Peter had been craving all night. It didn't take long for the two of you to get comfortable, knowing each other's bodies well. You whispered as you felt his warm breath against the side of your face, “You smell like whiskey.” 

”Well, I had a lot of whiskey.” Peter nodded fast with a goofy dimpled grin, his words slurred as he spoke slowly. His head felt heavy and slightly dizzy from nodding so fast; he rested his hand on your hip—his other resting near your head—as if he was grounding himself in your warmth. 

You giggled and softly bumped your nose against his again, finding drunk Peter very cute. You placed a soft kiss on his brow before whispering teasingly, “Yeah? I couldn't tell.” 

Peter’s breath hitched the second your lips brushed against his forehead, that single kiss sparking something warm and giddy in his chest. The alcohol made everything brighter—your smile, your laugh, the way your nose scrunched when you teased him—and suddenly he couldn't stop himself. 

He tilted his face up with clumsy urgency and started peppering kisses all over you. Quick and soft pecks on each corner of your mouth, soft presses along your cheekbones like a drunk artist painting with devotion. His lips wandered up and pressed soft kisses to both of your closed eyelids; you had fluttered them close the moment you felt his lips on you. 

His lips made their way back down with tiny kisses along any inch of your warm skin he could reach. A giggle escaped you as one landed on the tip of your nose—he did it again immediately because god, he loved that sound—and then another to the apple of both of your cheeks. 

“Mmm, you're so pretty.” Peter slurred between every little kiss against your skin, his words immediately flustered you—a bashful smile decorating your face. One of his hands moved to cradle the side of your face while the other slid under your sweater and rested against your lower back, softly pressing you closer against him. 

His mouth found yours again for a short but soft kiss; it was a little sloppy but perfectly Peter. He dipped his head towards your neck as he pressed kisses along your jawline. You hummed happily and slid your hand up his nape and tangled your fingers in his soft hair. A pleased sound left his lips at the sweet affection of you playing with his hair. 

Peter melted into your touch and body like snowfall—soft, weightless, and utterly undone. The way your fingers curled through his hair sent tiny electric pulses down his spine, making him sigh against the crook of your neck where he was now trailing lazy kisses. Each press of his lips was slow and dreamy, sleep quickly creeping up on him as he worshipped you. 

You felt the exact moment Peter’s drowsiness hit him—his soft kisses slowing from eager pecks to heavy, lingering presses. His breathing deepened against your skin, his body growing warmer and heavier where it molded perfectly against yours. With a sleepy smile, you asked him softly, “Are you getting sleepy?” 

Your voice was low and warm like honey, laced thickly with affection. You already knew the answer. You tilted your head slightly, gently brushing a few strands of his hair from his forehead. You studied his closed eyes and the way his breath was growing heavier against your neck. Peter did not answer with words, but his body spoke for him. 

“Goodnight, Peter.” You whispered lovingly with a fond smile as you placed a soft kiss on his forehead, your own body and eyes getting sleepy from the shared warmth and the feeling of his body pressed against yours. This wouldn’t be the first or the last time the two of you passed out on the couch. 

His arms around you loosened—not pushing away but surrendering—as sleep claimed him fully. One hand still rested lightly on your back beneath the sweater, the other hand slipped down to cradle loosely at your waist. A tiny content sigh escaped Peter as he nuzzled unconsciously into the crook of your neck—the place that always smelled and felt like home. 

The quiet hum of the house settled around you—the crackling fire, the faint ticking of the clock in another room. You both lay there, breathing in sync, wrapped up in each other like a cocoon. The book lay forgotten on the coffee table, pages slightly bent where it had been abandoned earlier. 

You adjusted slightly to get more comfortable without waking him, shifting so your head rested against a couch cushion while keeping him curled into your side like an overgrown cat seeking warmth. His weight was comforting, familiar enough that it lulled you deeper into drowsiness. 

The world outside—cold, sharp, full of demands and expectations—faded away completely. Here, in the golden glow of the fireplace with Peter’s steady breathing against your shoulders and the warmth of his arms loosely draped around you like a promise, everything was peaceful. 

This wasn't just love. This was home, the kind that didn't need grand gestures or loud words to be felt. Just this: his soft exhales mixing with yours, the way he instinctively curled closer whenever you moved. Even unconsciously, he held onto you like letting go wasn't an option. 

And as sleep finally pulled you under too, you smiled into it all. 

┊࿐ ❛❛ continue on to my…. 𝙖𝙪 𝙢𝙖𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙡𝙞𝙨𝙩 & 𝙢𝙖𝙞𝙣 𝙢𝙖𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙡𝙞𝙨𝙩 ❜❜

Იᰍ omgee editing this I realized I forgot to mention butterscotch so just imagine the cute kitty is sleeping in his bed but trust that he found a way to wiggle between them (⸝⸝ᵕᴗᵕ⸝⸝) I wrote this pretty fast because I was so inspired but the cuteness 🥹 please tell me your thoughts , ideas, and opinions, they are very important and wanted !! comments, reblogs and feedback is very welcomed !! 🐇

here is their pinterest

taglist : @littledaenyra @pixiebratz @cuntibrina @lovings4turn @tartybleedinghearts @jimhalpertldn @aerangi @animegamerfox @sk1nnylikefel1x @userhotd @qardasngan @princesstiti14 @noone1233nobody @starxs-s @ghostlybfgf

۶ৎ taglist is open

When Peter came home from work, you almost never heard him. It was almost always late into the night, so he quickly got used to the routine of being as quiet as possible so there wasn’t a chance of waking you up. And on those days when he knew you were still up, you only heard him once he called out your name or a sweet, ‘Honey, I’m home’.

But tonight there was nothing quiet about his arrival at home. 

You could hear him before he was even in the warmth of your home, the loud chatter and his drunk giggles as he spoke with his colleague who brought him home from the bar. You were lying on the comfy couch reading one of your books when you heard his dramatic cursing as he struggled to unlock the front door. You couldn't help but giggle to yourself at the sound of his cute cheers as he successfully unlocked the door. 

Peter stumbles through the door, nearly tripping over himself as he clumsily kicks off his boots and turns around to close and lock the front door, wincing dramatically at the thud it makes. You sit up and peek over at him from the back of the couch, smiling at the sight of him. 

His hair was slightly messy from running his fingers through it a dozen times, a habit he always does when he’s drunk. His face was flushed from the cold and the many drinks he’d had; his demeanor was relaxed with that rare drunk looseness that he rarely ever had. Peter wasn't a drinker; he rarely drank, especially with the traumas of his father. But tonight was his friend's birthday, and he wanted to enjoy it. 

He spots your head peeking over the couch almost immediately, a cute, dopey dimpled grin forming on his face at the sight of you. He clumsily shrugged off his jacket as he quickly made his way towards you, as if he couldn't be away from you any longer. He couldn't. He’s talked about you countless times tonight; his friends weren’t surprised or bothered by it. The two of you were soulmates, two peas in a pod. 

He missed you all day and night. So seeing you now, all cozy on their couch, wearing nothing but his sweater and some sleep shorts, the lit fireplace casting a warm glow across your face, was everything. 

Peter practically stumbled towards you, arms already reaching out towards you, eagerness and yearning in his eyes like a puppy who hadn’t seen his owner in years. The second he closed the distance, he collapsed onto his knees on the rug in front of you, leaning down and wrapping both of his arms around your waist. He wasted no time burying his face into your stomach with an exaggerated groan. 

”Mmm…you smell so good.” He mumbled against your sweater—his sweater—the fabric soft and warm against his cold face. He breathed in your scent, his mind going wild with naughty thoughts the longer he held onto you. You smiled as you carefully tossed your book on the coffee table before tangling your hand in his hair, the other resting on his shoulder, giving it a soft squeeze. 

“Hello to you too, oh—“ You let out a small gasp of surprise as your boyfriend lifted his head and cut you off with a sloppy kiss to your lips. He moaned as his lips touched yours. It wasn't graceful; it was wet. A little messy because drunk Peter had zero coordination tonight. You could taste the alcohol on his lips. 

His hands slid under the sweater, swallowing the gasp you let out into his mouth at the feeling of his cold hands pressed against your bare stomach. He tried to deepen the kiss, but you kept it slow, not wanting to get him riled up, but it seemed he was doing that perfectly fine himself. He barely pulled away, panting against your lips as he let out a slurred whine, “Miss you so bad baby, need to be inside you.” 

You softly bumped your nose against him, the soft touch making him melt even more into you. He leaned in—his mouth already parting—for a desperate kiss, only to pout when you stopped him. You moved your hands from his hair and shoulder down to his chest, softly pushing him back. You smiled softly with a shake of your head, “Peter, baby, you're drunk.” 

“Drunk in loveee.” Peter grinned as he sang the popular lyrics, very much off-key, might you add. You laughed softly as you looked up at him; he was so pretty, so carefree with no weight of his father holding him down. Peter grinned and tried to lean back in for a kiss, pouting when he got the same result. 

“Peter, no.” 

“You’re evil.” Peter groaned dramatically as he hung his head low, resting his forehead on your chest. Even drunk, he knows no means no. His hands continued to caress your sides, letting your warm skin warm up his hands. You smiled and tilted your head down to place a soft kiss on his head, your hands slowly moving up and down on his arms and shoulders to help warm him up. 

”Kisses, please.” Your boyfriend dramatically puckered his lips for a kiss once he lifted his head from your chest. He really mastered the puppy-dog eyes as he looked at you, continuing with a needy whisper, “At least?” 

Your eyes softened at the needy look in his face; the look of lust in his eyes seemed to have disappeared. You scooted over to make room for him on the couch despite knowing he’d most likely end up pretty much on top of you. With and without the alcohol in his system, your boyfriend loved to cling to you. You smiled and said softly, “Get up here.” 

Peter grinned and clumsily sat up from the floor, practically lying on top of you once he got cozy on the couch. Your legs were tangled together and your bodies pressed against each other, a feeling Peter had been craving all night. It didn't take long for the two of you to get comfortable, knowing each other's bodies well. You whispered as you felt his warm breath against the side of your face, “You smell like whiskey.” 

”Well, I had a lot of whiskey.” Peter nodded fast with a goofy dimpled grin, his words slurred as he spoke slowly. His head felt heavy and slightly dizzy from nodding so fast; he rested his hand on your hip—his other resting near your head—as if he was grounding himself in your warmth. 

You giggled and softly bumped your nose against his again, finding drunk Peter very cute. You placed a soft kiss on his brow before whispering teasingly, “Yeah? I couldn't tell.” 

Peter’s breath hitched the second your lips brushed against his forehead, that single kiss sparking something warm and giddy in his chest. The alcohol made everything brighter—your smile, your laugh, the way your nose scrunched when you teased him—and suddenly he couldn't stop himself. 

He tilted his face up with clumsy urgency and started peppering kisses all over you. Quick and soft pecks on each corner of your mouth, soft presses along your cheekbones like a drunk artist painting with devotion. His lips wandered up and pressed soft kisses to both of your closed eyelids; you had fluttered them close the moment you felt his lips on you. 

His lips made their way back down with tiny kisses along any inch of your warm skin he could reach. A giggle escaped you as one landed on the tip of your nose—he did it again immediately because god, he loved that sound—and then another to the apple of both of your cheeks. 

“Mmm, you're so pretty.” Peter slurred between every little kiss against your skin, his words immediately flustered you—a bashful smile decorating your face. One of his hands moved to cradle the side of your face while the other slid under your sweater and rested against your lower back, softly pressing you closer against him. 

His mouth found yours again for a short but soft kiss; it was a little sloppy but perfectly Peter. He dipped his head towards your neck as he pressed kisses along your jawline. You hummed happily and slid your hand up his nape and tangled your fingers in his soft hair. A pleased sound left his lips at the sweet affection of you playing with his hair. 

Peter melted into your touch and body like snowfall—soft, weightless, and utterly undone. The way your fingers curled through his hair sent tiny electric pulses down his spine, making him sigh against the crook of your neck where he was now trailing lazy kisses. Each press of his lips was slow and dreamy, sleep quickly creeping up on him as he worshipped you. 

You felt the exact moment Peter’s drowsiness hit him—his soft kisses slowing from eager pecks to heavy, lingering presses. His breathing deepened against your skin, his body growing warmer and heavier where it molded perfectly against yours. With a sleepy smile, you asked him softly, “Are you getting sleepy?” 

Your voice was low and warm like honey, laced thickly with affection. You already knew the answer. You tilted your head slightly, gently brushing a few strands of his hair from his forehead. You studied his closed eyes and the way his breath was growing heavier against your neck. Peter did not answer with words, but his body spoke for him. 

“Goodnight, Peter.” You whispered lovingly with a fond smile as you placed a soft kiss on his forehead, your own body and eyes getting sleepy from the shared warmth and the feeling of his body pressed against yours. This wouldn’t be the first or the last time the two of you passed out on the couch. 

His arms around you loosened—not pushing away but surrendering—as sleep claimed him fully. One hand still rested lightly on your back beneath the sweater, the other hand slipped down to cradle loosely at your waist. A tiny content sigh escaped Peter as he nuzzled unconsciously into the crook of your neck—the place that always smelled and felt like home. 

The quiet hum of the house settled around you—the crackling fire, the faint ticking of the clock in another room. You both lay there, breathing in sync, wrapped up in each other like a cocoon. The book lay forgotten on the coffee table, pages slightly bent where it had been abandoned earlier. 

You adjusted slightly to get more comfortable without waking him, shifting so your head rested against a couch cushion while keeping him curled into your side like an overgrown cat seeking warmth. His weight was comforting, familiar enough that it lulled you deeper into drowsiness. 

The world outside—cold, sharp, full of demands and expectations—faded away completely. Here, in the golden glow of the fireplace with Peter’s steady breathing against your shoulders and the warmth of his arms loosely draped around you like a promise, everything was peaceful. 

This wasn't just love. This was home, the kind that didn't need grand gestures or loud words to be felt. Just this: his soft exhales mixing with yours, the way he instinctively curled closer whenever you moved. Even unconsciously, he held onto you like letting go wasn't an option. 

And as sleep finally pulled you under too, you smiled into it all. 

┊࿐ ❛❛ continue on to my…. 𝙖𝙪 𝙢𝙖𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙡𝙞𝙨𝙩 & 𝙢𝙖𝙞𝙣 𝙢𝙖𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙡𝙞𝙨𝙩 ❜❜

Იᰍ omgee editing this I realized I forgot to mention butterscotch so just imagine the cute kitty is sleeping in his bed but trust that he found a way to wiggle between them (⸝⸝ᵕᴗᵕ⸝⸝) I wrote this pretty fast because I was so inspired but the cuteness 🥹 please tell me your thoughts , ideas, and opinions, they are very important and wanted !! comments, reblogs and feedback is very welcomed !! 🐇

here is their pinterest

taglist : @littledaenyra @pixiebratz @cuntibrina @lovings4turn @tartybleedinghearts @jimhalpertldn @aerangi @animegamerfox @sk1nnylikefel1x @userhotd @qardasngan @princesstiti14 @noone1233nobody @starxs-s @ghostlybfgf

۶ৎ taglist is open