You bit into your bottom lip as you faced him, tears continuing to fall even though the ache in your chest eased some. It shouldn’t have. You shouldn’t have called Bucky. 

The sun was escaping from the horizon behind him, casting an orange-hued blaze reflected in the tall grass beyond decaying gas pumps. It was windy and so hot that the wind didn’t matter, dirt flying up and twirling by his puffing exhaust. 

“I shouldn’t have called,” you finally choked out, taking no action against the slide of his hand against your cheek. “You were busy. I know you were.” 

Bucky only glided his fingers along your skin in gentle shapes, tutted, and tried to catch the tears that met his skin. “Never too busy for you.” 

“This is crazy.” 

“It’s not.” 

“I’m the one who broke up with you.” 

“Aware of that. Unfortunately.” 

You let out a sort of disgruntled moan, mortification mingling with relief inside of you. You leaned into his palm and huffed a sigh, using the lone car traveling on the road as a distraction. With your hands in your lap, it was easy to pick at your cuticles and hide it, a habit Bucky had never gotten you to kick. 

“Tell me what happened,” Bucky tried again. “How’d you get out here?” 

The deteriorating gas station seemed to creak in response to his question, the old building minutes away from collapsing. You’d been surprised to find an older man actually working at the counter when you got dropped here. He’d let you use the phone, and, of course, you had Bucky’s number memorized. You’d had to hand the phone to the old man to get the coordinates of this place straight, and then Bucky had been on his way. 

At the memory of everything that had happened before that phone call, your mouth puckered in a fruitless attempt to keep tears at bay. You brushed Bucky’s hand away in favor of pressing your face into your palms and tucking forward. 

“Aw, c’mon, sweetheart,” Bucky urged, moving his touch to the back of your head. “Couldn’t be that bad.” 

He spoke with a gentleness that you didn’t need—one that would only make you cry harder. 

There was a long pause, and then, “Someone hurt you?” 

You shot your head up at that, the several octaves his voice had lowered warning you of nothing good. “No,” you hurried. “No. Not… physically. Do you remember Josh?” 

Bucky’s hand ran back over your hair and landed on the juncture of your neck. His jaw flexed, and his eyebrow jumped, obviously unimpressed. “Idiot with the bike? The one with the tiny shorts?”

Your lips curled softly despite yourself. “Yeah, that one.” 

“How could I forget?” he smiled back, tucking his hands away from you and clasping them between his bent knees. You tried not to care about the loss. 

“Right, well, we were supposed to go on a road trip. We were going to visit his parents. But… well, he got a text while we were driving, and…” You stared up at the cloudless sky, the sun beating down on your misery. “And he’s been cheating on me. For a few weeks, maybe longer. When I brought it up—started getting angry—he pulled over and just… told me to get out.” 

“Bastard,” Bucky breathed out. “Leaving you here like this? I’ll kill him.” 

“You won’t,” you chastised, wiping your tears once more, sounding congested and sad and over it all. “It doesn’t matter, really. It never matters.” 

“S’that supposed to mean?” 

Another sigh. You edged forward on the stairs, slotting both legs between his crouched ones, creating space where there hadn’t been. More dirt kicked up behind him, and the old man inside was screaming at the TV, banging plastic against old batteries, or something of the sort. 

It hurt to look at him. His eyes were asking so many questions, so much concern etched into the blues, but you never had the answers. Never had the right ones. 

“It was stupid to call you,” you reaffirmed, face inches from his. 

“It wasn’t—” 

“I always call you. It’s always you.” 

Bucky wet his drying lips. 

“And you always come,” you continued. “Do you remember when we broke up?” 

His brows came together, his eyes never leaving yours. “Of course I do.” 

“What’d I say?” 

“That I can’t put you first. That I try, but I need to heal first.” 

“Right,” you whispered, dirt whisking the word from the air. “Then—” you blinked as more tears coated your throat “—why can’t I stop thinking about you? Why does it never work?” 

Bucky’s expression fractured. He brought a knee down and captured your face in his hands, metal and warm skin overwhelming your senses. His eyes flitted between both of yours, brows furrowed impossibly tight. 

“I’m trying,” you stressed. “I’m trying to move on. To see other people. To give you space and time to heal. But it never works. I always—it always comes back to you.” 

“I don’t want you to move on,” Bucky said, desperate hands conveying his words. “The day you walked out the door was the worst day of my life.” 

You shot your gaze down in a plea for any of this to make sense. You had broken up for a reason, but right now, no reason seemed to take form. 

“But—”

“But you were right,” he interrupted, bringing your eyes back up to meet his. He looked so earnest, brows raised and eyes slightly wider to catch your attention. “Okay? You were right. ‘Course, I knew that. My girl’s right about everything, but I didn’t want you to be right.” 

Defeat made your muscles feel weak, deflating your shoulders and sending a new wave of uncomfortable sadness through you. Of course, you knew you were right. All those months ago, you had been so obviously right, but Bucky had fought so hard for you to be wrong. He never admitted to anything—until now. 

He had come to terms with it, then. 

You had dug your own grave. 

“Then why can’t I stop loving you?” you cried, the sound so aching it sent a crack through Bucky’s chest. He shook his head, but the motion was lost behind your blurred vision. You were so tired of crying. “I want to move on. I’ve been trying to but—” 

“Hey, baby, look at me, yeah?” Bucky hushed, repositioning his hands on your face if only to catch your attention. “I said you were right then. I needed the time. I needed to do right by you. I—I’ve been seeing people to help. I’ve been—making friends. The apartment’s got a bedframe now,” he added, tilting his head to offer you a smile. “I’ve been trying to be the man you need. I don’t want you to move on. Honestly, it’s been tearing my heart out to pick you up all these times.” 

Your chin trembled, but tears began to dry on your face. Bucky didn’t say more, but he continued to wipe the wetness from your cheeks and chin and jaw, searching your expression as he went. He looked pained, stressed. His car continued to run behind him and you were vaguely aware that this gas station might not actually have gas. 

“You got a bed frame?” you shakily asked. You grabbed his hands from your face, holding them in your lap instead. 

“Yeah, baby,” Bucky breathed out, looking down at your joined hands. 

“I didn’t know you even had a mattress.” 

“Needed one for when I got you back.” 

Your throat was dry, the wind a vicious attack against your quiet words. “Why haven’t you said anything?” 

“I was just happy you were calling. I didn’t care if it was to get you from these—” He paused, looking down to the divots his shoes made in the dirt before finding you once more. “Baby, I would’ve picked you up from bad dates for the rest of my life if it meant you were talking to me. Don’t stop loving me. Don’t move on.” 

An array of emotions were displayed on your face. You squeezed Bucky’s hands in your lap and leaned forward until your forehead was against his, eyes closing in contentment that didn’t match the scenario. A sign above you buzzed with low voltage electricity that would surely give out soon, the weak neon flickering in a violent sun. 

“Give me a chance,” Bucky pleaded. “Let me show you.” 

You fought the urge to laugh. “Bucky, I would have given you another chance months ago. You never asked.” 

You stayed there for a few more minutes, calming your racing heart in the stifling heat. This felt like starting over, but it also felt like comfort and familiarity and home. Bucky didn’t move until you did, only prying himself away when you leaned back and sniffed, eyeing the car behind him with puffy eyes. 

He looked upon you with a sickening adoration, cupping the side of your head as he placed a quick kiss to your temple. “Let’s get you home, yeah?” 

You breathed out an okay as you stood and nodded your head, the motion dizzying with how much you had cried and how long you had sat on those splintering steps. He noticed—he always noticed, even when things weren’t great. 

Bucky held your face in his hands once more, but it felt different now. He kept you at a distance and stared at your face as he instructed, “I’m gonna run in and get you a water. Wait in the car with the air on.” 

“Hope you have cash,” you briefly smiled. “I don’t think he has a working cash register. Couldn’t buy water earlier.” 

You should just revert to the old version of you. The girl that didn’t ever leave her room. Was too intimidated by the other avengers to spend time with them. The girl who — even though you had been given a warm welcome — didn’t feel like part of the team yet. 

For the first few months you worked with the avengers, they barely knew you. Beyond what you were like during a mission, you were a mystery to them. It was truly marvelous how well you worked with the team and yet there was so little they knew about you. 

Steve would occasionally organize team bonding events. After you joined, Steve planned them more frequently. A subtle way to get you to open up to them. 

Sometimes you would attend. Key word, sometimes. 

Usually, it would take some convincing from a few of them. Like when Sam would crack some jokes about how this week you HAD to be there because they were doing XYZ and so on. At some point you’d feel guilty for missing it and show up only to sit there quietly the whole time. You’d speak when spoken to, but never intentionally join a conversation. 

A majority of the time, you wouldn’t feel up for socializing and gave some excuse as to why you’re not feeling well. Steve never pushed you to show, but his eyes grew soft with concern whenever you told him you couldn’t attend. 

But, at some point, the Avengers noticed a change in you. You stopped turning down bonding events and started actually participating. They would find you hanging out in the lounge more often or sticking around to watch movies. 

After a long and brutal game of Uno during game night, they were all left surprised by how excited and competitive you were. The game ended with a stare down between you and Clint. 

You were still a relatively shy person, just more willing to open up and be yourself around them. None of them knew what caused this sudden change, but few of them had their theories. 

The first time you were tempted to leave your room was about two months after you started living in the compound. 

You were standing on the only chair available in your room which happened to be the swivel desk chair. Was it the safest way to hang up your room decor? Probably not. But you wanted to decorate your walls and this was the only way to do it. 

Your arms were starting to grow tired. One hand was holding up the poster, desperately trying to keep it straight, while the other was trying to rip off a piece of tape. 

Somehow the chair moved just the right way and you lost your balance. You stumbled to the floor and took the chair with you.

“Shit!” You loudly groaned after landing on your side with a thump. 

As you carefully stood back up, you heard a voice from the other side of your door. 

“You okay in there?” 

Your stomach dropped at the realization someone heard you fall. The urge to ignore the voice was strong, but you also knew they were just trying to check on you. 

With a slight limp, you approached the door and opened it. Behind it was a concerned Bucky Barnes. Up until now, you’d never gotten this close of a look at him before. You never noticed how blue his eyes actually were. It was almost hypnotizing the way you were so easily lost in them as he stared back at you. 

“Are you alright? I heard a crash.”

You blinked back to reality. “Yeah I’m fine. I fell trying to put up a poster,” you gestured towards it- now discarded (and thankfully not ripped) on the ground. 

He peeked inside to see the fallen chair and poster. “Want some help?” 

His kind gesture shouldn’t have surprised you. There was no indication Bucky Barnes was a bad guy. He was a great partner to work with in the field and his friends spoke very highly of him. But it did surprise you because outside of that, you never really had the chance to actually interact with him. 

You also heard a notorious amount of grumpy old man jokes from Sam that you didn’t exactly know how to interpret. 

“Yeah sure,” you nodded. 

He followed behind and entered your room. He examined the decorations you managed to put up in the time you’ve been living there. 

There were various music and movie posters of pop culture he mostly didn’t recognize. There were fake plants littered all around the room, scattered on different surfaces. The shelves were also covered with books. Rows and rows of books, that would’ve taken him years to get through. Close to the ceiling were strings of lights that gave the room a soft warm glow.

While he stood in the quiet of your room he noticed the faint music playing in the background. His face grew with curiosity as he looked around for where the sound was coming from. 

“What song is that?” 

You walked to your desk and grabbed the chair off the floor. “I’m not sure. It’s a playlist of old music I found online. Sometimes I like to put on old music from the 30s and 40s to have as background noise.”

You pointed to a YouTube video playing on your computer. 

“You like old music?” He inquired, looking slightly surprised. 

“Yeah, but I don’t know much about it,” you shrugged. “I don’t know what was popular back then or have any favorites.” 

He glanced at the video playing on your computer, “I could give you some recommendations if you want.” 

“Really?” you asked with growing enthusiasm. 

The corners of his mouth threatened to perk up. “Yeah why not? If you wanna get into that type of music. Who better to learn it from?”

“That sounds great,” you said with a shy smile. 

The realization dawned on you that now you were both just standing in the quiet of your room. You grabbed the poster and cleared your throat to grab his attention. 

“Oh right,” he mumbled, looking a bit flustered and ran a hand through his short hair. “Where did you want to hang it?” 

“Up here,” You pointed to the empty space on the wall next to your desk.

He took the poster from you and carefully stepped on the chair as you held it still. He placed it against the wall, following your directions for where to hang it. You handed him a few pieces of tape and he slowly flattened out the poster before sticking it to the wall. When he was finished, he stepped off the chair and took a step back with you to get a proper look at it. The picture hung high above your desk. A starry sky with a collection of different constellations.

“It looks nice. I like what you’ve done with your room,” he complimented. 

“Thanks. And thank you for helping.” 

“It was no problem. Wouldn’t want you breaking a bone from falling off a chair,” he lightly teased. 

You started to blush at the embarrassing reminder. “Please don’t tell anyone about that.” 

Bucky pressed his pointer finger and thumb to his lips and ran them across his mouth, showing you his lips are sealed. 

After he left, you admired the poster on the wall, listening to the music still playing in the background. The image of him still fresh in your mind. 

Bucky was nicer than you expected. Not that you expected him to be an asshole. But he was one of the few Avengers you hesitated to talk to because they were a bit intimidating outside of work. Bucky had a consistent glare or grumpy look on his face that kept you at arm's length. 

The day after the poster situation when you made yourself coffee in the morning, someone stopped near you and waited for their turn to use the coffee machine. 

“Hey, I made that song list I was telling you about.” 

You looked to see Bucky standing next to you and digging something out of his back pocket. He handed you a folded piece of notebook paper. 

“Most of them are from the 30s and early 40s, songs I used to listen to. But I also included some late 40s and 50s songs I was introduced to after the war and … everything.”

When you took the paper from him your stomach swirled with something you haven’t felt in a long time. 

“Thanks,” you replied sweetly, “I’ll give them a listen later.”

He offered you a small smile before filling his mug with coffee.

That was probably the first time you started to see through his tough exterior and he let his real self shine through the cracks. 

_____

After that day you started to pay more attention to Bucky. In the field, in the compound. Just in general. 

While you still didn’t spend much time with the team, in the brief moments that you did, your attention would drift towards him. You were more aware of his presence when he was near.

And you did in fact give the songs he recommended a listen. You listened to them quite often actually. 

You were still listening to those songs weeks later.

You were in the kitchen listening to your new “oldies” playlist. It was late in the night and you needed to focus on something that wasn’t the chaos swarming in your brain. So, you decided to break out the baking supplies and royal icing you bought weeks ago. 

As you flattened out the dough with a rolling pin a figure appeared from the dimly lit hallway. 

“What are you doing?” Bucky asked once he noticed your presence. His voice was laced with sleep.

“Making cookies,” you answered, grabbing the cookie cutters. 

He walked closer to the kitchen island and leaned his forearms on the counter. “Why are you making cookies at one in the morning?”

“Stress baking.” 

There was a pause as he watched you cut flower shapes out of the dough. 

“Can’t sleep?”

You shrugged without looking up, “something like that.” You didn’t feel like elaborating. 

This guy you barely know definitely does not want to be hearing about how you can’t sleep from anxiety. He didn’t need to hear that after the last mission you went on with the team your brain was constantly screaming at you all the things you did wrong and could’ve done better. 

“Do you do this a lot?” he gestured towards your work. "Bake in the middle of the night?”

“I have once or twice. It also helps that no one is coming and going so I get some peace and quiet.” 

Bucky visibly tensed at your explanation, “sorry I ruined it.” 

Your head perked up immediately to prove him wrong. “It’s alright, you didn’t.” 

He looked relieved to hear that. 

“What are you making?” 

“Sugar cookies, but I’m gonna put icing on when they’re done.” You placed the cut out dough on the baking sheet. 

Your stomach coiled with nerves before speaking again. “I could save you some. If you want,” you said in a quieter voice. 

His eyes softened and he smiled at you. “That’d be great.”

As you continued placing cookie dough on the sheet, he walked over the fridge to fetch what he came down to the kitchen for. 

Now that the room was quiet, he could fully process the music that was playing in the background. For a moment, he stared at the inside of the fridge as he listened to the beginning notes of the next song. 

He finally grabbed the bottle of water and closed the fridge door before eyeing you with a quirked brow. 

“Billie Holiday?” 

You looked up from the cookies in confusion. You momentarily registered the song playing in the background was “What a Little Moonlight Can Do” by Billie Holiday. One of the songs from the list he gave you. 

“Oh yeah I finally made my own playlist. Most of the songs are the ones you gave me,” you grabbed the baking sheet and carefully placed it in the oven.

“You liked the songs?” His voice sounded like it had a hint of surprise. 

You nodded as the corners of your mouth perked into a grin. “I do yeah. They’re really good. It’s different from the normal stuff I listen to but it’s really growing on me.” 

Joy inched its way onto his face as he listened to you. “That’s great. I’m glad.” 

You leaned back against the counter and took off the apron you were wearing. “You have good taste in music.” 

The ends of his ears turned red, “Thanks.” 

Silence returned to the kitchen. you both stood there not knowing what to say next. The air between you was thick, like you wanted to say more but couldn’t find the words. 

The song continued playing in the background, almost taunting you. 

You’re in love 

You’re hearts a flutter 

And all day long, 

You only stutter 

How dare Billie Holiday tease you right now with him in the same room. Who gave her the permission to take a peek into your heart and put it on display in front of him. 

The music was disrupted by Bucky clearing his throat, “well, I should go back to my room.” 

You shoved your hands in your pockets, “hope you get some sleep.”

He nodded before making his way out of the kitchen and walking down the hall. 

A few seconds after you were sure he left, you took a long deep breath. You stood there grappling with the fact that you definitely were starting to feel something for him. 

Something strong. 

Something you couldn’t get rid of.

The next morning you stood on the other side of Bucky’s door with a small plastic container in your hands. 

This was starting to feel silly. You’ve stared down countless criminals and kicked the crap out of them. But this was making you nervous. 

With a shaky hand you finally knocked, and hoped that he was actually in his room. 

It took only a brief moment for Bucky to answer. He must have just showered. His hair was a bit messy, slightly damp and he smelled nice. He was wearing one of those black compression shirts that hugged his muscles all the right ways. 

It should be illegal for him to look that good. 

“Hey, what’s up?” He asked, surprised to see you. 

His question paused your ogling and brought your attention back to why you were there in the first place. 

“I saved some cookies for you,” you offered him the tupperware. 

Bucky’s eyes softened as he glanced between you and the dessert. He took the container from you and opened the lid, looking down with a smile at the flower cookies with purple, yellow and pink frosting. 

“Thanks, they look amazing,” he complimented. “Hope you didn’t stay up all night making them.” 

You shrugged, “It’s fine, I ended up getting some sleep. It helped me clear my mind.” 

Only because something else obsessively invaded your thoughts. Someone that cleared away the anxiety from your job. 

_____

As the weeks rolled by, you started to leave the sanctity of your bedroom and brave the common areas. 

Was it because of Bucky? Maybe. 

You found yourself intrigued by the man. And it didn’t hurt that he was easy on the eyes. 

That’s why you slowly but surely started to hang out with them more. You needed an excuse to be around him. 

It was almost embarrassing how much your crush on Bucky was affecting you. You were so worried about talking to the other teammates, yet desperately wanted to talk to him. Even if it was for a fleeting moment. 

The team took notice of your increased presence around the compound. Some were quiet about it, others weren’t, and loved to tease you. 

In a weird way, the teasing made you feel more welcomed. Like you were really part of the team. 

“Well well well,” Sam started with a smirk as he walked into the gym. “Look who’s training while the sun’s still out.”

You froze in the middle of wrapping your hands to look up at him, Bucky, and Steve about to start their workout. 

”I’m not nocturnal Sam,” you joked back.

Usually, you would visit the gym at night before you went to sleep while no one else was there. As of lately, you had a slight change in routine. 

“Could’ve fooled me. I heard that you bake in the middle of the night.” 

Your eyebrows raised at his comment, “How’d you know that?”

“Little birdie told me.” his grin couldn’t get any wider. 

You looked to the only possible suspect. Bucky’s eyes quickly averted from you as his ears turned pink. 

Steve shook his head with a smile at his two friends. He tapped Sam’s shoulder before making his way to the bench, “c’mon quit bothering her.” 

Sam playfully rolled his eyes at Steve before pointing in your direction, “I better see you at game night later.” 

You shrugged, “Maybe I could stop by.” 

“You better stop by. We’re breaking out Uno,” he beamed before following behind Steve.

You smiled to yourself as he left and finished wrapping your hands. Before you could hit the punching bag, you realized Bucky didn’t leave to join Sam and Steve. 

“You want some help?” he offered while pointing towards the bag.

You nodded as nerves turned your stomach. “Yeah sure.” 

He walked closer to the punching bag, held it, and prepared for you to strike. 

You exhaled and prepped your stance while staring at the bag in front of you. Your punches started off weak and hesitant — mostly because of his presence — before you slowly relaxed and drew more of your strength. 

Besides Sam and Steve, another Avenger that always tried to rope you into social functions was Tony. Occasionally he would throw some party for a holiday or even for no special reason, simply because he wanted to. 

The only party of his that you attended was the first one he threw after you joined. Only because he didn’t give you much of a choice. After that, you never attended another Stark party.

Well, until last night.

“I’m going all out for this one. Thor’s coming back to earth and man does that guy like to party,” Tony boasted about his plans for the weekend in the lounge. Or what would soon become last night's party. 

You silently sat in the corner of the couch “reading” a book. Well, you were reading but now you were nosy and listening to the people around you. As part of your attempt to be more social with the team, you bravely chose the lounge instead of your room.

You heard earlier that Thor was returning after being away from earth for a few weeks doing some Asgardian space duties you didn’t know the details of. 

“Don’t set anything on fire this time,” Wanda teased before taking a sip from her mug.

Tony spun on his heel to point at her. “That was not me!” 

A few chuckles could be heard throughout the room, even a quiet one from you. You’d heard the same story from three different people about how Tony swears it wasn’t his fault that his drink spilled and caused a small electrical fire. 

“Regardless, it’s going to be amazing and I better see you all there on Friday,” he then pointed at Bucky playing cards with Steve. “And that means you Barnes. Don’t think I forgot you missed out last time.”

”Looks like I lucked out considering you almost burned the place down,” Bucky quipped back without looking up from his cards. 

Tony pinched the bridge of his nose. “It wasn’t me,” he mumbled under his breath. 

Steve nudged his best friend before placing another card down on the coffee table. “Come on Buck, it’ll be fun.” 

Bucky gave a long stare to Steve. You noticed he tended to do that a lot. Turn a normal glare into a staring contest with Sam or Steve. A few seconds passed before he placed his next card down with a sigh. “Fine.” 

Having sensed that your eyes were on him, Bucky glanced up at you from across the room. Your gaze darted away and back to your book in an instant. 

Tony noticed this and walked closer to the couch, studying you trying to read. He could clearly tell you were listening in and watching. “What about you, wallflower?” 

Your head perked up in confusion. 

You knew he was addressing you because of the nickname. At first Steve was worried about Tony calling you that, but you actually secretly liked it. It was like the teasing, made you feel more included. 

“You wanna step out of your comfort zone? Ready to mingle?” 

You let the question hang in the air for a moment, contemplating your response. After hearing Bucky’s answer, the idea of attending Tony’s party was sounding more and more appealing. 

“I might.” 

You tried to ignore how a few sets of eyes landed on you. Including his. 

“Seriously?” Tony asked, not expecting you to actually accept his invitation.  

”Yes seriously, I’m considering it,” you answered with more confidence. 

Tony excitedly snapped and pointed at you. “That’s a yes! You can’t take that back.” 

You awkwardly smiled in return. 

“Finally! I knew this day would come,” Tony cheered as he left the lounge. 

You attempted to actually read your book now but felt Bucky’s gaze lingering on you. When you met his eyes, they returned to the pile of cards on the coffee table. You then finally went back to your reading. 

_____

You don’t know what feels worse. The pounding headache from last night's drinks, or the anxiety pulling you apart from the inside out. 

While you laid in bed, the lights were kept dim to not aggravate your headache further. You were admiring the poster Bucky helped you hang up. For so long you’d look at it and your thoughts would drift to the man who helped you hang it. Your mood would lift or your heart would flutter making you feel giddy. 

Now, you wanted to rip it off your wall. 

It stared back at you as a reminder of what you did last night. You couldn’t stop thinking about how it only took a little liquid courage and one single brave moment to embarrass yourself. You most likely ruined your chances of becoming real friends with him, or even something more. 

There’s no way Bucky actually wants to be with you. There’s no way Bucky felt the same way, held the same admiration for you that you did for him. He’d probably be nice about it and let you down easily. 

Well, he tried to let you down easily, but your fear interrupted him before he could inevitably ask you to forget about what happened. You couldn’t listen to it. You didn’t want to hear the heartbreaking reality that he didn’t want you beyond a spur of the moment fling. 

You’d rather just let the whole thing blow over. Let Bucky take your silence as a signal to let this pass. Let everyone forget about it and go about their business like normal. Because words always travel fast here. And by now everyone probably fucking knew about you and Bucky. 

As the hours rolled by and the sun was setting, you couldn’t ignore the fact that you ran out of the water and food stashed in your room. 

You have to leave. As much as you don’t want to, you have to. 

It kind of felt weird, spending all day in your room. You’d just started getting used to being around everyone, that now it felt kind of normal. You almost looked forward to the social interactions. Even if you didn’t speak a lot or join in some conversations. Just being around them felt … nice. 

You rolled over in bed and reached for your phone left on the nightstand. After turning off do not disturb, the screen was flooded with notifications. Part of you was surprised that they were checking in on you considering it used to be normal for you to live like a hermit.  

Natasha: Morning sleepyhead, you hungover? Feeling alright?

Clint: I got doughnuts, you better get down here before Thor wakes up and eats them all 

Steve: Hey, you doing okay? 

Let me know if you need anything

And 1 missed call followed by 2 texts from Bucky:

I know you’re hiding in your room 

Can we talk?

You really didn’t want to talk. Because you knew he wanted to talk about last night. You weren’t ready to have that conversation yet. You weren’t ready when Bucky tried knocking on your door hours ago and you still weren’t ready now. 

Maybe later tonight. Depending on your bravery. 

You didn’t answer any of their messages. Just got out of bed and shoved your phone in your pocket. 

You hoped there wasn’t a large crowd or any crowd period in the kitchen. But unfortunately, you weren’t so lucky. As you approached the kitchen you heard voices that only got louder as you got closer.

You stayed behind the doorway while you listened. Not exactly intentional eavesdropping. More like you froze at the realization they were talking about you. 

“What the hell did I do now?” Tony complained, he sounded offended. 

“You told everyone about me and Y/N,” Bucky scolded Tony, his tone sounding bitter and angry.

“Correction, I told two people last night,” Tony countered. “It’s not my fault that the gossip was so juicy it spread like wildfire.” 

“You’re unbelievable,” Bucky grumbled. 

“What’s unbelievable is you and your girl not making out sooner.” 

You heard Bucky sigh and after a pause he quietly mumble, but it was loud enough for you to hear. “She’s not my girl.” 

Those words echoed in your ears as if you heard it up close. She’s not my girl. 

A suffocating ache wound itself around your chest. Your fists clenched so tight, your fingernails made an imprint on your palm. 

His girl. You could only dream of being his girl. 

You almost went back to your room. Almost. But you were already here, and the kitchen wouldn’t be empty for hours. 

During the pause in their conversation, you passed the threshold. The room fell silent. The sound of a pin drop could bounce off the walls. You felt the tension in your bones with every single step you took. 

You didn’t look any of them in the eyes. You couldn’t. Just kept your focus trained on the floor as you moved the counter. 

From the cabinet, you found a large refillable water bottle to stock up and keep in your room. You waited at the fridge for it to fill. 

All their eyes on you made your whole body tense. You couldn’t see it, but you could feel it. Their looks weighed like a heavy blanket and they practically saw right through you. 

Steve was the first to break the silence. “How’ve you been? Are you feeling alright?”

You cleared your throat before speaking. You don’t know the last time you said something, your voice was probably hoarse. “I’m fine. Was a bit hungover this morning, didn’t feel well.” 

The second the water bottle was filled, you tightened the lid and turned back to the counter where you found the box of doughnuts that Clint texted you about. With a nervous hand, you grabbed the last chocolate frosted doughnut. 

You belined for the hallway, eager to leave when Bucky called your name. His voice reached through your chest cavity and squeezed your heart. You didn’t stop walking. You couldn’t speak to him. Not yet. 

____________________________

“And that means you Barnes. Don’t think I forgot you missed out last time.”

Instead of actually acknowledging that he was absent during Stark’s last party, Bucky opted for poking fun at the man. He didn’t even have to look up from their card game to know that Stark was rolling his eyes or pinching his brow in frustration. 

Bucky felt Steve’s elbow nudge his side before he placed another card on the coffee table. “Come on Buck, it’ll be fun,” Steve tried to encourage. 

Bucky stared back at his best friend, trying to silently tell Steve that he would rather Stark actually burn down the building.

Bucky hates parties. 

Actually that's a lie. 

Bucky Barnes used to love parties. Before HYDRA, he used to be the life of the party. He’d be cracking jokes with his pals or going out dancing with dames. The music was loud and the excitement ran through the room and into your bloodstream, carrying you across the dance floor. 

After everything that happened, he didn’t have much party left in him. It left him more reserved, more introverted. His blood ran cold now. 

He always went to those team bonding things Steve organized because, well it was Steve, but they were also smaller, more intimate. He even found himself having fun. Some of the movies the team chose were weird, but some he really liked. During game nights he was more engaged then he expected he would be. 

But the large parties he wished he could avoid. Now, the loud music irritated his ears. The modern music that played wasn’t to his taste and hard to dance to. The very few festivities he did attend, Steve managed to convince Tony to play one or two old songs from the 40s or at least the 50s, but that was it.

Steve stared back at him with an expression he was all too familiar with. It was the same look that Bucky would give scrawny little Stevie back in the day when he tried to convince him to join.

Bucky sighed and placed a card on the table. “Fine,” he grumbled. 

In his peripheral vision, he sensed someone looking in his direction. When he turned away from their card game, he was met with your eyes. But only for a second, before they retreated back into your book. 

Steve's mouth curled into a smile as he put down another card. “Who knows you might like it. And maybe your girl will go,” he whispered. 

“She’s not my girl,” Bucky muttered back. The words tasted bitter in his mouth. He didn’t want a reminder that he didn’t have the luxury of calling you his girl. 

From the moment you met, he knew he needed you in his life. Not just because you were pretty. And God damn it you were so pretty. But because you were enchanting. 

It was like you had some magnetic pull on him he couldn’t avoid. 

He’d worked with you on multiple missions because of course Steve immediately caught whiff of Bucky’s interest in you and paired you guys up. He saw first hand the power you wielded during a fight. The mysterious way you hid in the shadows and snuck up on people rivaled only him and Natasha. He almost got knocked out once because he stood there watching you attack a guard that towered over you like it was nothing. 

Steve wouldn’t shut up about that for a whole week. 

But when you weren’t beating up criminals or sitting in silence during mission briefings, he barely saw you. You almost never showed face at team functions and (more importantly) you never spoke to him. 

He was worried you didn’t like him, or even worse you hated him. Steve and Sam tried to convince him that wasn’t true but it still never left his mind. It was still in his mind when he passed by your room and heard that crash. Bucky remained cautious, scared that you would ignore him or act coldly, but he still felt compelled to make sure you were okay. 

And when he did finally get the small chances to talk to you, to see the parts of you that you often hid, he felt a thousand times lighter. Bucky saw the light in you grow brighter as you became more comfortable with the team. 

In the moments you let your walls down, you shined like a diamond. 

But he never saw you shine like that at Stark’s parties. 

Bucky shook his head as he placed a new card,  “besides, she never shows, you know that.” 

Bucky noticed Stark approaching you to test the waters with an invitation for you to attend. He shouldn’t be eavesdropping, but then again, it isn’t exactly a private conversation. And he had enhanced hearing anyway. 

“You wanna step out of your comfort zone? Ready to mingle?”

“I might.”

His head immediately snapped in your direction. He couldn’t hear what Stark asked you, he was too focused on your response. 

“Yes seriously, I'm considering it.”

As of lately, you had a habit of saying you might go instead of actually saying yes. He noticed this because every single time you said ‘maybe,’ you showed up. It seemed like a way to give yourself an escape. A safety net to land in the roaring sea of anxiety. 

But if you were considering it, that definitely meant you were going. 

He tried to not linger on the fact that his heart rate increased the more he thought about it. 

Stark seemed quite excited at your answer. “That's a yes! You can’t take that back” 

You gave a bright smile in response. Bucky loved your smile. He’d go to hell and back to see you smile. 

He didn’t realize he was still staring until you looked up from your book. He quickly returned his attention back to the cards in his hand. 

Bucky cleared his throat, “is it my turn?” 

“Nope,” Steve tried to hide the humor in his voice as he placed a winning card. 

Bucky sighed while tossing his remaining cards on the table. He wasn’t too bummed about losing the game though. He was still thinking about seeing you Friday night. 

_____

Steve Rogers is a traitor.

Well, at this very second he is a traitor. Because he is on the dance floor, dancing with you. 

Slow dancing with you. 

Bucky was watching from afar. Wait, that sounds creepy when he thinks about it like that. He was observing the party, and naturally his gaze landed on you. How could it not? In every room he entered, he looked for you.

The party had started by the time you showed up. He was in the middle of conversation with Sam when he saw you walk in by yourself, fashionably late. 

He could’ve sworn his heart skipped a beat at the sight of you. The burgundy dress you wore made his head dizzy. 

Bucky had a plan. He originally was going to catch you on the dance floor with a song that was easier to dance to, aka an older song. But you were already dancing with Steve and Wanda when one of those newer Sinatra songs came on. Well, new to him. A while back Natasha gave him a crash course in 20th century music after the war. 

Should he be bitter and maybe just a tad jealous? No, he shouldn’t. He had all night to ask you to dance and yet he stood off to the side. Then Steve swooped in and ruined his plans. 

And now the little punk was dancing with you. 

Of course you wanted to dance with Steve. You were closer with him then you were with Bucky. Steve was the first person you started opening up to. And why shouldn’t you? Steve’s amazing. He’s sweet, courageous, a gentleman, someone to look up to. Hell, Bucky looked up to him. Even when Steve was that scrawny kid in Brooklyn, Bucky admired his bravery and good heart. 

Steve was a good man. Bucky was a broken one. 

“Oh no, who’s victim to your impenetrable stare now?” Natasha asked as she approached him. 

“I’m not staring,” he mumbled, pushing off from where he was leaning on the bar and turned his back to the dance floor.

“Sure, and Tony isn’t drunk.” 

“Got the fire extinguisher on deck?” He downed the rest of his drink and left the glass on the bar. 

She chuckled, “yup.” Natasha walked around behind the counter and grabbed herself a fresh wine glass. “You know, if you ask her to dance, she’ll say yes.” 

Bucky hated it when she saw right through him. For a woman with no enhanced abilities, Natasha sure had a way of reading people. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

“You’ve been watching her all night, Barnes.”

He cringed, “It sounds creepy when you put it like that.”

Natasha shook her head and smiled as she continued to pour herself a glass of red wine. “Then don’t put so much distance between yourselves. Maybe actually talk to her, ask her to dance.” 

“She’s already dancing with Steve,” he answered, looking down at the counter. 

She raised an eyebrow at him in fake confusion. “That’s not jealousy I hear, is it?” 

“I’m not jealous,” Bucky quickly rebutted. He paused while his jaw clenched. “I just don’t wanna bother her.” 

Natasha sighed as she put the bottle away. “You don’t bother her. Believe me.” 

He crossed his arms, “how would you know that?”

She carefully swirled the red liquid in her glass. “The same way I know that you’ve wanted to dance with her all night.” 

Bucky stared at her with annoyance and disbelief written all over his face. Natasha stared back at him with a slight smirk knowing she was right. 

Their staring contest was abruptly interrupted by Thor stumbling towards the bar. 

“Romanoff! Barnes! How are you enjoying the festivities?” Thor beamed. Bucky couldn’t tell if Thor was just that excited or if he was bordering on intoxicated.

”I’ve been having a wonderful night but“ —Natasha gestured towards Bucky— “I don’t think he’s in a partying mood.”

Thor looked at him with a slight pout. Yeah he was probably a bit intoxicated, Bucky thought.

”That sounds terrible. We need to fix that right away.” Thor rushed to the cabinet to grab a fancy looking bottle and two clean short glasses. He set the bottle on the counter across from Bucky and waved a hand behind it to show it off. 

“I brought this back from my most recent trip to Asgard. It has aged for a thousand years. It’s too strong for mortal men, but you my friend” —he patted Bucky on the shoulder— “are well suited for it.” 

Thor poured some of the drink into each glass and pushed one closer to Bucky. “This should help raise your spirits.”

He stared at the honey colored liquid hesitantly before picking it up. “Thanks pal.” He offered a small smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. 

Thor raised his drink to the man across from him. Bucky took another look before raising his drink and clinking it with Thors. He took a sip and found it to be sweeter than he expected. 

It was also much stronger than he expected. 

Thanks to the discount super serum he received, he couldn’t get drunk. Bucky hasn’t been drunk since 1945, the last time he went out to a bar with the howling commandos. 

After two and a half of whatever that Norse drink was, he was starting to get that dizzying buz he hasn’t felt in decades. He wasn’t as drunk as Thor or Tony were, but he was feeling more confident than he had been earlier in the night.  

He wouldn’t bother to hide the glances he threw your way. At some point he got rid of his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. If someone asked if he did that because he was warm or because he wanted to show off to you, he wouldn’t have answered. But it was pretty clear when he noticed you looking at him and he would stand up straighter or flex his arms. 

Then of course when you caught his eyes he winked at you and then smiled when he saw how bashful you looked. 

Bucky was definitely having a better night than before. And it just kept getting better the more he interacted with you. 

His favorite —but also least favorite— part of the night was when he accidentally ran into you. 

He was leaving the bathroom at the same time you were. As he turned the corner he stumbled into your side, not expecting you to be there. As Bucky collided with you, you yelped and almost fell down yourself. 

“Shit, I’m so sorry,” he apologized as he tried to regain his balance. 

You grabbed onto his arm and helped him stand straight. “It’s fine, no worries.” 

His chest ached at the feeling of your hands on his bicep. 

A look of confusion crossed your face before you asked, “are you drunk?”

”No.”

You raised an eyebrow at him; your expression screaming that you don’t believe him. 

“Maybe,” he mumbled. 

You scoffed and let go of his arm, cautiously as you made sure he wasn’t going to fall over. “I thought guys like you and Steve couldn’t get drunk.” 

“We can’t. But Thor gave me this funky Asgardian beer.” Bucky's words slurred together as he explained.

“I think it’s mead.”

He looked baffled, “what’s mead?”

You shook your head amused, “not beer.” 

He scoffed and pointed an accusatory finger at you. “Don’t talk like I can't smell the tequila on your breath,” he joked.

You playfully swatted at his arm away using very little force. “Shut up, it’s the first time I’ve let loose in a long time.”

He loved seeing you riled up. You looked so adorable. 

”You should do it more often.”

”Drink?

“No, come to these stupid parties,” he gestured down the hall to where music was coming from. 

“I will if you’ll be there,” you replied in a sweet tone. You sounded more forward than he was used to. He was a bit surprised but decided to lean into it. 

“Is that a promise?” 

“Maybe.”

“Good,” Bucky smiled as he remembered what it meant when you said maybe to plans.

He hoped you would keep showing up. He’d go to every single one of those dumb parties if he knew he’d see you there. 

“I like seeing you like this. More social, having fun. No more hiding in your room.” 

“I didn’t hide,” you protested, even though you knew he was right. 

“You avoided us like the plague,” he countered. “For a while I thought you didn’t like me,” 

Your jaw dropped at his confession. “You thought I didn’t like you?” Your voice sounded both a bit worried and surprised.

“You never spoke to me!” 

“I gave you cookies!”

“But that was like-“ he paused to do the mental math, “three months after we met. Before that I wasn’t sure.” 

You relaxed as you settled with the information. “Okay, but it wasn’t just you. I didn’t talk to anybody,” you answered with a shrug. 

“And look at you now.” He gestured to you with a small smile of admiration. “Going to parties, spending time with us. You looked like you were really having fun.” 

Your eyes lit up with a look of realization as you leaned back against the wall. “Wow, you were watching me?” You teased him. 

Bucky should’ve known that would come and bite him in the ass, again. 

“I wouldn’t say watching.”

You squinted at him, that glimmer still present in your eyes, “hmm sounds like you were.

“I can’t help it, not when you look like that,” he said in a sultry voice. 

You tilted your head, “like what?” 

Bucky licked his lips as he fully took you in. Even as your makeup took the toll of the night, you still looked perfect to him. Your eyeliner was a bit smudged and your lips still shimmered from the left over gloss. He gazed down at your dress, it had a flowy skirt that hid some of your curves but a slit down the side that gave him a view of your leg.

“Like the most beautiful woman at this party.”

You rolled your eyes at him. “Come on,” you playfully dismissed his compliment. 

Bucky took a step closer to you. “I’m serious, I couldn’t take my eyes off you,” he continued as his voice got lower. 

Your cheeks turned pink and your voice raised in pitch, “you’re such a flirt, Barnes.” 

“Maybe,” he returned with a smirk. “Doesn’t change the fact that you are breathtaking.” 

Now your face was crimson. You tried to bite back a giddy smile but he could see right through you. 

“Stop being so sweet, it’s making me want to kiss you.”

Bucky's heart pounded in his ears and he felt his face start to heat up. He desperately hoped you weren’t kidding. 

He quickly glanced at your lips and leaned closer. “Oh yeah? What’s stopping you?” 

Your eyes slightly widened at his question, like you weren’t expecting him to take you so seriously. He watched the contemplation in your features as you stared back at him. 

Hidden behind his confident exterior, Bucky’s stomach was churning as he awaited your response. Even with the alcohol swimming through his bloodstream, he still had a lingering cloud of anxiety telling him you really didn’t want to kiss him. Telling him that you didn’t want him. 

“Right now?” You whispered. You looked up at him with those doe eyes that made him weak in the knees.

Your gaze darted between his and lingered on his lips. “Nothing,” you breathed before capturing his lips in yours. 

Bucky was taken by surprise at your forwardness, his lips froze for a split second before moving in rhythm with yours. You reached up, placing your hands on his neck and face. He sighed against your mouth as you pulled him down closer to you, desperate to taste him. 

Bucky’s hands traveled up and down your hips, starved for more of your touch. His metal hand settled at your waist while his right hand slipped past the slit in your dress and grabbed at your thigh. You leaned into him, your back arching off the wall you were pressed up against and your leg wrapped around his, pulling him closer. He continued to paw at your thigh, his hand sneaking higher and higher, finding its place on your ass. A soft moan escaped you, trapped against Bucky’s lips. The sound tasted like heaven to him. 

Asgardian alcohol was nothing compared to the intoxicating drink that was you. Bucky was lost in the touch, the smell, the feel of you. He breathed you in like it was his first breath of fresh air in years.

It was like the earth stopped spinning just for you two. Time was put on pause and there in that secluded hallway, you and Bucky were the only people in the world. 

Of course, you were in fact not the only people in the world, let alone that party. While your lips were still interlocked and hands grabbing at each other, footsteps inched closer. 

Immediately you pulled away from each other at the startled gasp of, “holy shit!” 

Bucky and you froze in horror at the man across the hall. 

Neither of you noticed Tony approaching around the corner. He stared at you with shock written all over his face, which then transformed into a cheeky grin. 

“Wow, and to think you two almost didn’t show up.” He pointed at both of you, “If you guys get married, I better get credit in your vows.”

“Stark,” Bucky warned in a sharp tone, staring daggers at the man in question. 

Tony raised his hands in surrender. “Don’t mind me. Please, go back to eating each other's faces.” He chuckled before retreating down the hall back to the party. 

Bucky sighed and ran a hand through his hair. Even after he cut it he couldn’t shake the habit. 

He couldn’t look you in the eyes yet, still too flustered. “He’s such an ass,” he joked, shaking his head. 

You fixed your hair and offered a nervous smile. “Yeah, I know,” you mumbled.

The air in the room wasn’t the same after Tony walked in. The realization of what you were doing had caught up to both of you. Bucky had wanted to kiss you long before now, he just never expected it to be a spur of the moment first kiss. 

That doesn’t mean he regretted it. Not one bit. 

“We should probably return to the party.” Bucky cleared his throat, “listen I know it might be a bit awkward when we get back but, I wanted to ask if-“

”I’m sorry, I um,” you interrupted with a slight panic in your voice.  

“I’m gonna go. Have a good rest of your night Bucky,” you excused yourself with a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. 

Bucky watched you shuffle away and down the hall, in the opposite direction of the party. His posture deflated as his stare lingered from where you left. He tried to ignore the slight ache in his chest but it stayed, infecting his heart like a poison. 

Finally when he had the chance and nerve to ask you to dance, you ran away. 

_____

From when he returned to the party to the next morning when he woke up, that ache didn’t fully go away. It became quieter, more tolerable to deal with. But still present. 

He tried to dilute it with reasonable answers. You might have still been flustered from being caught in the hallway. You might have been more drunk than he thought and didn’t feel well. 

But his train of thought always returned to anxiety and doubt. The voice in the back of his head that told him you didn’t want to be seen with him. You were embarrassed to be seen kissing him. The voice that screamed he wasn’t good enough and you would never have feelings for him. 

For now he would shove down those left over doubts. Try to ignore them the best he could. 

Unfortunately that wasn’t an option when he was hounded at breakfast. 

When he walked in the kitchen, he felt the tone change. It was subtle, but as Sam, Clint, and Yelena’s conversation died down, he sensed multiple pairs of eyes landing on him. 

“So Bucky, how was your night?” Sam asked before sipping his coffee. 

Bucky walked to the coffee machine and grabbed his own mug from the cabinet. “It was good,” he muttered. 

Yelena spun in her chair to face him, “you had fun?”

“Sure, I guess.”

Sam quirked an eyebrow at him. “You guess?”

“Why do you care so much?” Bucky groaned as he poured a fresh cup of coffee for himself. 

“No reason, just wanted to see what you thought of the party.” 

Bucky shrugged, turning back around to face the group. “It was like every other party.”

“You don’t get drunk at every other party,” Sam countered in a snarky tone. 

“I was not that drunk,” Bucky protested.

“Drunk enough to get freaky in the hallway?” 

Sam’s question had Bucky gripping his mug so hard he almost shattered it. Anger seeped into his bloodstream that made his veins hot.

Bucky squeezed his eyes shut and hung his head. “Stark, that son of a bitch,” he grumbled under his breath. 

Yelena's interest was piqued at Bucky's reaction, confirming her suspicions. “So it’s true? You and Y/N kissed?”

“Oh they did more than kiss,” Sam added. 

“Sam,” Bucky warned with a sharp tone.

“Did you see him peacocking? He kept flexing his arm muscles at her and at one point I think I saw him wink. I guess all that paid off.” Clint finally added his thoughts, amusement creeping its way onto his face. 

Yelena sat with a smile, still processing the information. “Wow, I didn’t think you two would get together for another month or more.”

“We’re not together,” Bucky corrected. The words tasted like a nasty poison on his tongue. 

“You will be soon,” Clint insisted. 

“Don’t bet on it.”

“What are you talking about? Sam asked. “You like this girl. You’ve been crushing on her for months!”

Bucky’s jaw clenched before. His stomach boiled over with the feelings he tried to push down. 

He shook his head and waved them off. “Never mind.”

Yelena leaned forward, eager to understand. ”No wait, Bucky what happened?” She asked calmly, voice filled with concern.

He sighed and stuffed his hands in his pockets. His lips sealed shut while he stared at the floor, contemplating how honest he should be with them. 

“It’s nothing. After Stark walked in on us she didn’t exactly tell me how she felt about the kiss.” Bucky nervously ran a hand through his short hair. “I tried to ask her to dance. She left before I could spit it out.” 

“She’s a shy girl. She was probably overwhelmed and embarrassed.” Clint offered. 

Not embarrassed because of you, Bucky tried to remind himself. 

Sam stepped closer to Bucky, his tone of voice much more serious than before. “Just talk to her about it. I’m sure she feels the same way.”

Bucky looked down in his mug, the hot black coffee staring back at him. “Have any of you seen or talked to her yet? It’s still early. I don't know if she’s awake.”

”No, she hasn’t been down here yet,” Yelena answered. 

Clint grabbed out his phone, “I’ll text her-“

”No, Clint,” Bucky cringed. 

Clint held up a hand to him, still typing away on his screen. “Calm down, I’m telling her about the doughnuts I bought.” 

Bucky’s tense shoulders relaxed at the explanation. 

“Let me know if you find out she’s awake. I’d hate to wake her up just to pester her about this.” He grabbed his coffee and a doughnut for himself from the box on the counter. 

“Leave a chocolate frosted,” he instructed as he walked to the lounge. “She only likes those.” 

____

It’s been three days. 

In the last three days, he’s seen you once. When you tip-toed into the kitchen, barely looking him in the eyes.

He already thought about you every day. He’d leave his room with anticipation, eager for the chance to see you. 

Now that same anticipation had a sour taste. Bucky would go to the gym, lounge, or kitchen with hope that he would see you there. And every time he was crushed at the sight of a room without your presence. 

You had gotten pretty successful at staying hidden. After that brief awkward encounter on Saturday, you made yourself completely undetectable. He should’ve known it would be an easy feat for you considering you were a spy before joining the Avengers. The only indication that you were even still in the compound were the clean dishes on the drying rack and the missing food from the fridge. 

Not only was Bucky missing and craving your presence, but he had to sit with the unknown meaning behind your kiss. He had no idea how you felt about him, and it drove him mad.

The lustful look In your eyes and the desperate touch of your hands on him told him that you might feel the same way. But the way you recoiled and shut yourself out said something else. 

One thing he did know was that all this overthinking was going to be his downfall. 

It was past midnight and instead of staying in bed, struggling to fall asleep, he decided to go to the gym and let out some stress. 

Little did he know he wasn’t the only one with that same idea. 

He wasn’t that surprised to see some of the lights on as he approached the gym. Every so often someone was working out late at night. Who he didn’t expect to see was you, laser focused as you striked at the punching bag.

Bucky stood still for a moment, watching you, debating whether or not he should leave you be or talk to you. 

His legs seemed to be moving on their own as he approached you. 

“Want some help?” 

You jumped, startled out of your focus. “You scared the shit out of me!” You placed a hand over your heart, probably felt it pounding. 

“Sorry,” he mumbled. “You didn’t answer my question though.” 

You looked at him with puzzled, furrowed brows. 

“Do you want some help?” He repeated, gesturing towards the punching bag. 

You paused before answering in a calm tone. “No thanks.”

You shifted your weight and prepped your stance, attention returned to the bag. 

“I thought you didn’t work out this late anymore,” Bucky commented with fake innocence. 

You shrugged before you started punching again. “Guess old habits die hard.” 

“Like hiding in your room?”

You hesitated. He watched your jaw clench before you punched again. 

“I am not hiding.”

“I haven’t seen you in three days.” 

Your punches got stronger while your voice stayed calm. “Didn’t feel well. Needed rest.” 

“I texted you.”

“Sorry,” another punch. “Didn’t see it.” 

Bucky exhaled, “Why are you lying?”

“I’m not-“ 

“Yes you are,” he interrupted, a bit of frustration leaking through his firm voice. 

“We’ve barely seen you. And this isn’t like when you first got here, because I still saw you back then. You’re ignoring us.” 

You’re ignoring me, he wanted to say. 

Your attention broke from the punching bag. Your hand landed limp against it as you turned to him. 

“Why do you care?” You asked with more curiosity than you showed on your face. 

“Because I’m worried about you. And I know something’s wrong.” 

You didn’t reply. Just stared at the floor and picked at the wraps on your hands. 

Bucky didn’t want to pester you about it, but he had to stop you from isolating and keeping everything bottled up. He knew better than anyone what that felt like. The desire to hide away and run.

He could see the walls you built up slowly starting to crack, but you held on so tight to that security. Desperate to not let it fall down. 

He was going to get you to open up, whether it hurt him or not. 

“Is this about the kiss?” 

Your eyes squeezed shut and fists clenched. “Bucky, I really don’t want to talk about that right now.” 

“Well when do you feel like talking about it?” He interrogated, folding his arms. “Tomorrow? A week from now?”

“Fine!” You snapped back at him. “We got drunk, flirted a little and kissed. Can we just put this behind us and forget about it?” 

Forget about it? You really want him to forget about the kiss? The best kiss of his life. The kiss that brought warmth back into his cold veins. Forget the kiss that made all the decades worth of tension fall off his bones and disappear for a few minutes. 

He scoffed, “I’m sorry but I can’t just forget about it.” 

Your cheeks that were previously pink from your work out turned red. 

Bucky kept his gaze trained on you. He watched your eyes repeatedly dart away from him, still trying to hide while you stood right in front of him. 

“Why did you leave after we kissed?” He asked, keeping his voice steady even while his insides were twisting. 

“Bucky,” you groaned, pleading with the man in front of you. 

“I gotta know.” 

You looked down at your hands and resumed picking at the wrappings. 

“Did you mean it?” You inquired, deflecting from his question. “What you said that night.” 

He pursed his lips, trying to mentally sort through all the things he said. “Which part?” 

You paused your fidgeting, hands tense as you spoke. “All those nice things you said about me. When you said I was the most beautiful woman at that party.” You finally looked at Bucky, eyes swimming with uncertainty. 

“Did you mean it, or were you just flirting?”

You were trying to hide behind a guarded expression, but Bucky could see the vulnerability in your eyes and hear it in your voice. 

You felt the same way about him. 

But just like him, you didn’t believe your feelings were reciprocated because of the overwhelming fear. Your vision was clouded by fear and doubt. 

He took a few steps closer. You took a half step back. 

His eyes stayed on you. He never wavered. 

”I meant all of it,” he answered softly. “Every single word.” 

Your eyes widened and lips parted. 

“You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met.”

You gave him a nervous grin and shook your head as you tried removing the wrapping from your hands. ”That’s overselling it a bit,” you lightly joked. You fought the hand wrap with a shaky hand, struggling to take it off. 

Bucky inched closer. Before you could register what he was doing, he reached forward and gently grabbed your hands. He separated them and continued undoing the wrapping for you. His touch was soft as he handled you with the utmost care. 

“I’m being serious,” he started, eyes trained on your hand. “Whether you believe me or not.” 

He finished working on your left hand and moved to your right. You didn’t protest. You didn’t stop him. 

“If you really want to forget about the kiss. Go ahead.” But now he knew you didn’t want to forget about it. He swallowed, preparing to place his own heart in the palm of your hand. “I don’t think I could ever forget it. I haven’t stopped thinking about you since Friday.”

He chuckled as a blush crept its way on his face. “Actually, I haven’t stopped thinking about you since the first time we met.”

He felt your hand freeze against his. “Bucky, that was over 6 months ago,” you reminded him breathlessly. 

He finished unwrapping your hand, looked up at you, and nodded. “Yeah, I know,” he muttered. 

Bucky still held your hand, neither one of you moved away from the other. 

You took a deep breath, the expression on your face looked like you were mentally wrestling with yourself. 

“What were you going to ask me before I left?” You asked cautiously. 

“If you wanted to dance with me.” The corners of his mouth turned up into a smile as his cheeks turned pink. He softly caressed the back of your hand, “I’d been trying to ask you all night but never got the chance. Or the nerve.”

Bucky searched your eyes and found wide pupils in a sea of emotion. He wasn’t sure if they shined from the lighting or if they were glossy. 

You licked your lips, “I would’ve said yes by the way. If you asked.” 

He smirked back, stomach fluttering with butterflies. “You mean if you let me ask?” he asked, tone laced with sarcasm.

You rolled your eyes and sighed, “yeah. I was just being an asshole.“ 

“You’re not an asshole,” he countered, genuinely. 

You squinted and tilted your head. “I was a little bit.” 

He chuckled in defeat, his thumb still tracing your skin. 

You peered down at your hand intertwined with his, swallowing down the nerves caught in your throat. “I uh- I was scared and catastrophizing. I thought of the worst case scenario and let it control me. I shouldn’t have run away, I’m sorry.” You sounded small, defeated. 

With his free metal hand, Bucky gently pulled your chin up to look at him. “You’re not the only one who gets stuck in their own head,” he comforted. Your breath shuttered as his touch traveled to the side of your face before brushing your hair behind your ear. “Just don’t shut the world out okay?”

You nodded, with a bashful smile. “Okay.” 

Bucky’s mouth curled up in a way that matched yours. “I love your smile,” he complimented, his voice dripping with admiration. 

You bit your lip as a blush danced across your face. “Don’t say sweet things about me. It’ll make me want to kiss you,” you warned with a teasing hint in your tone.

Bucky's smile turned to a wicked grin. He leaned closer, his lips ghosting over yours as he caressed your cheek. “What’s so wrong with that?” He whispered with desire. 

He felt your breath against him as you whispered back. 

“Nothing.”

Bucky wasted no time and captured your lips with his. He instinctively reached for your waist and pulled you closer, flush against him. 

This kiss was different from the first one. You still tasted the same on his tongue, your lips left the same imprint on his. But the rhythm was different. No rush of passion. No hunger that needed to be resolved. 

It was slower, more delicate.  Like the two of you were absorbing the others' existence into your bloodstream. 

When you separated from him Bucky chased after your lips. You giggled as he pecked all over your lips and cheeks. Your laugh only spurred him on more as he grabbed on to your face to keep you still and smiled against your skin. 

You made him feel lovesick. He felt like he used to, back in the 40s, before everything went wrong. He felt like Bucky Barnes. 

Bucky chuckled as he finally retreated from his kissing attack on your face. He stared at you lovingly, his hands traveling back down to your hips.

“So, hypothetically, if I were to ask if you wanted to go dancing, like we find somewhere in the city we can go to dance one night, what would you say?”

You looked up at him with a sweet smile. “Is this a hypothetical or are you asking me out?” You pondered with a mischievous tone.

Bucky loved it when you teased him like that. You were going to drive him insane. 

“I’m asking you out.” 

You stood up straighter, your eyes pierced him with confidence. “Then do it.”

Warmth stirred in his chest as he finally asked what he’s been meaning to for so long. 

“Would you like to go dancing with me?” 

You wrapped your arms around his neck and placed a soft, quick kiss against his lips. “I’d love to.” 

_____

The lounge was quiet. Yelena sat on the couch with Wanda as a movie played in the distance. Steve sat on one of the chairs ignoring the movie, his nose deep in a small notebook he liked to sketch in. Natasha sat on the other chair, her back and legs against the arm rests as she focused on a book. 

The elevator dinged when it reached the floor. As it opened, Bucky walked out and passed through the lounge with you in his arms bridal style and barefoot, holding your heels in your hands. 

All of their eyes slowly peered away from what they were doing and towards you and Bucky. 

Natasha was the first to comment on the display, “uh, Barnes, why are you carrying your date?” 

“I complained my feet hurt on the way home and now he won’t put me down,” you announced back to her. 

Bucky abruptly stopped in his tracks. “Do you want to walk back to your room?” He asked, voice deep with a teasing tone.

You sunk further into his chest as a blush crept onto your face. “No,” you mumbled quietly.

He chuckled and continued walking. “That’s what I thought.” 

“Awe, what a gentleman,” Yelena remarked.

“Anything for my girl,” Bucky yelled back as he walked away with you in his arms.

“Finally, I’ve been waiting for them to get together for weeks!” Yelena joked as she turned back to the group. 

“Try months. I knew that when she started leaving her room it was because of him,” Natasha added.

Steve looked up from his notebook, a small glint of amusement in his eyes. “Why do you think I pushed for him to go to that party? I had a feeling she would go if she knew he would be there.” 

“Seems like everyone knew but them,” Yelena remarked.

But you knew it. All your siblings knew it purely based on how you treated them. You were the eldest. You were always the protector from the world, and suddenly that posed an issue in Otto's plan once more and you were sent off to Old Town.

To be raised in the way of the starry sept. To be forgotten that you would technically inherit a throne over Aegon. To Ormund.

You thought your days of playing protector were over, but you were wrong. And though your methods had changed, and so had the threats. The goal was the same. You were a shield. For Daeron.

You kept Ormund at bay. You took his frustration and his anger instead of Daeron. He still saw it. He still heard it all, but he never handled the brunt of it. You did, and you always would to protect him.

He was a boy, and most days he felt as if he was your boy rather than Alicent's or Viserys.

Yours and Ormund's son.

Your skirts, whispered against the ground, as your feet moved quickly through the halls. No one stopped you. No man dared spared you a second glance in fear of Ormund. And no woman let their eyes analyze you in fear of you.

A steward had come sprinting in worry, carrying Daeron's quick need of you, and the closer you approached you knew exactly why. You could hear his outburst before you had even pushed open the doors.

You paused, seeing Daeron's frightful expression, listening as Ormund screamed of craven cunt's, lifting his sword before slamming it down against the table. Marking it time and time again.

"Ormund. "

He did not stop, continuing to yell. Striking the table with his blade repeatedly. You closed your eyes letting out a sigh.

"Ormund!" you yelled louder, more sternly finally poking through the anger.

He stopped abruptly, his ragged breaths filling the room as he sheathed his sword. He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. Daeron stared at you wide eyed, and you smiled at him. Your composure remained calm, "Daeron why don't you leave us," you suggested.

The Hightower's wild expression met yours, "He should know—"

You cut him off, "We can tell him afterwards," you held his burning, gaze watching as his face changed slightly.

Before he nodded, "Leave us, Daeron. You as well," he said nodding Jon Roxton. Your brother hesitated, but you smiled at him once more, and finally he left.

The solar was now empty beside the two of you, and your kind smile dropped from your face in a flash, "What has happened?" you asked, calmly.

Ormund's composed demeanor had once returned, "Gwayne has sent word. Aemond will not be joining us after all," he told you, and you watched his jaw clench momentarily.

His eyes swept across your form taking in your appearance. Your dress was the colors of his house, like he preferred. Your hair was styled the way he liked. Every single visible thing about you was the way he liked down to the tiniest aspect and that was on purpose.

"And Gwayne? Are they joining us here?" you asked, taking a step across that line like you did time and time again. It was an invisible boundary and you knew him well enough to know he would make the next move.

He moved toward you quickly now standing in front of you as if the space between you was previously unbearable. You knew he liked to be as close as possible when given the chance. As if you were one whole rather than two individuals. He reached forward gripping your chin. Not harshly, but merely forcing you to meet his eyes.

"We must alter our scheme," he told you.

You hummed, "If anyone can come up with a solution it is you," you fed into his ego, with a gentle smile. "We have time. We have Silverwing, and you know I will do as I must for you."

For you. That was purposeful. Not for Aegon. Not for the Throne, but for you because he mattered more than it all. As if everything in your life was replaceable, but him.

He nodded, letting go over your chin. His large hand moved petting down your hair until it moved to rest against your neck tilting your head upwards. His head then moved to rest against the crook of your neck as he breathed you.

"What would I do with you, my girl?" he whispered.

"You will never have to find," you assured him.

Ormund pulled back, with a smile still holding you, having you meet his eyes as if you would turn away, "You shelter him," he then said, referring to Daeron.

"I want what is best for him," you whispered.

"Are you saying I do not? I have done nothing, but help you both. Saving you from the sully of your kin," he told you, his voice started to rise, but he was still calm. He had not allowed the violence that filled him to fully take over.

Not yet.

You did not reply at first, searching for the correct words, because any wrong footing and you would be in dangerous territory. You had learned how to steer away from that. To control the controller without him knowing.

"Of course not. You are our savior, my love, but Daeron…He needs to be our shining boy, and if you push him before he is ready then he will dull," your hands, moved up his face the way you knew he liked. His eyes closed, moving into your touch, closing his eyes as if you soothed away all the wrath slowly.

It would not kill it completely, but it would be soon enough. When he remembered his favorite ways he liked to use you in dulling the rage that burned inside him. One that would cause your mother to weep, or mayhaps not. What would truly appall her was more that you enjoyed his rage.

"Tell me what you are thinking," you whispered, wanting to know what was going through his mind. Needing to know what you were working with to start formulating a plan, the proper words, and what he needed from you.

"Aegon and Aemond are tainted. They are…"

"Unfit to rule?" you asked, causing him to nod.

"And who do you think shall take their place then?" you asked, treading the line carefully.

You did not want to lead him to a place that you did not want him to go. Not Daeron. You did not want to suggest Daeron. You did not want him to choose Daeron. The sweet boy, who held a kindest that was so often not found in your life anywhere. He was a boy, and a crown would do nothing, but weigh him down.

You would protect him if you must, but—"You are the eldest," he whispered, bringing you from your thoughts. Your eyes met his face, and you watched an idea click into his mind.

Your stomach churned. It was something that you had heard him whisper about in passing. When he rutted into you, talking about breeding you. That he would bring a purity to your blood. His children could sit the throne. Because you were the eldest not Aegon.

You could feel him harden against your stomach at the thought, "You are the rightful heir, and…" he smiled, his lips turning up wickedly, as his hand drifted down resting on your hips, "Oh, my brilliant girl. Think about it now. What we could have…"

You knew this was better. This was what you were meant to do. Take the burden form your younger siblings, and you would do it for Daeron. You would do it for Ormund.

"Do you think I could do it? That they would accept me as a ruler?" you asked, looking away in pretend bashfulness. As if you could not believe the idea.

"Oh, my beauty. I would not leave you in this alone. I will help you, just as I always have," he pressed his mouth to yours, before letting his mouth trail down your throat.

"I will restore your Throne." He kissed at your throat, his teeth grazing against the soft flesh.

"Our children will rule," his hands moved, pulling your skirts up, and you could feel your arousal dripping out of you.

"Then we must be wed finally," you told him, and you could feel him grin against your skin as if he was victorious. As if he had convinced you as if he were in control.

"I will make the arrangements, and our true campaign shall begin."

You smiled softly to yourself as you finally found Daeron despite your shaky legs, from Ormund’s ceaseless breeding “celebration.”

"I knew I would find you here," you called out. His head laid against his beautiful blue mount, whispering reassurance that they would soon be allowed to take flight.

It was what made everything you had done worth it. His happiness. His innocence. His protection.

Tessarion's head snapped up toward you, but she did not growl in warning. If anything she looked almost happy to see you. Your brother turned to face you, "Is he still angry?"

You shook your head. You clasped your hands in front of you as you then approached the pair. Your hand lifted slowly allow the dragon time to react, but she never did. Finally you moved against her scales petting her slowly.

Your own dragon Silverwing, flew constantly around the town. In warning, to your half-sister, to the folks of what laid outside their gates. She was also too big to keep chained up, but you would have allowed that anyways. As it was you were slowly working on getting Terssarion that same freedom.

"Not so much," you told him. You lifted your arm without sparing him a glance, knowing what he needed.

He slipped into your embrace quickly allowing you to hold him as you continued to show his mount affection. "I am sorry you had to witness him like that," you told him pressing a kiss to his head.

"Aemond is not coming is he?" he then asked, instead of replying to apologies.

You let out a sigh, dropping your hand from the dragon as you pulled Daeron from your embrace gently. He stood in front of you as you cupped his cheeks, "No he is not."

He stared at you, with big sad eyes that caused your heart to ache, "What then?" he asked.

You swallowed, "Ormund has decided he wishes to appoint a new Heir… Aegon is thought to be dead…and Aemond has abandoned the throne," you pushed your lips together, "He has decided he wants me to sit the throne."

"What of our brothers?" he questioned, eyes wide in disbelief.

"You know what he thinks of our brothers. Of our family, and this…" You closed your eyes, "This is the best option for all of us. For you. I am the eldest. It is my job to protect you," you assured him.

He stared at you for a moment, before nodding. Because he believed you. That is what you always had done. Protect him. Do what is best for him before yourself. Though he was young he knew this at his very core, because it was all you had ever shown him. Maternal love he never received anywhere else.

"You know I will not let anything happen to you?" It was a statement, as much as question. You wanted him to know how much you cared for him. You needed him to know that you would protect him no matter what. That you would do whatever it took to keep him safe.

"I know."

You smiled, pressing a kiss to his forehead, "Good. Let us get some food into you and then you should sleep. The days that come will be long."

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Daeron's expression turns sympathetic as he sees your mood sour, prompting you to step closer, one hand moving to brush his cheek as you speak, your tone hushed but warm. "Don't give me that look," you scold, but it contradicts the softness of your touch and tone. "There's nothing to worry about." Your thumb smooths over his cheekbone, motherly and reassuring, as you always do when he's putting others' emotions onto his own young shoulders. "Ormund will know what to make of it."

"As always."

Both of you perk up at the familiar voice, watching as your husband enters the tent through the flaps, one eyebrow raised as he assesses the scene, eyes narrowing at the sight of your hand cradling Daeron's cheek, jaw clenching minutely. "Such matters are not for wives," he shoots you a look, "or squires," his voice dips to a firmer tone as he glances at Daeron, "to worry about." Ormund closes the flap behind him before continuing, seeking privacy. "Or talk behind their hands like gossiping mongrels where I cannot hear."

You feel Daeron tense beneath your hand, and your thumb brushes his cheek to soothe, huffing as you hold your husband's gaze. "The boy was just relaying information to me, which I am grateful for." Daeron relaxes under your touch, which makes you hum, sneaking him a small smile before turning your gaze back to Ormund. "As any squire would."

"He is my squire."

"I borrowed him," you counter, lifting your chin, not backing down.

"You cannot borrow someone's squire. It is unheard of."

"And yet you are hearing about it now. Novelties are common during wartime, are they not?"

The corner of Ormund's lips twitches for one moment at your audacity before he scoffs, eyes narrowed as he holds your gaze enough to let you know this will not be the end of this conversation. It sends a shiver down your spine.

"So they say," he responds, stepping closer, motioning with one hand towards the flap of the tent. "Go see what that beast of yours is doing, won't you? There are matters I must discuss with Lady Hightower." Ormund's tone is firm, brooking no argument as he waits for Daeron to obey, the young boy nodding curtly, before turning to do the same to you, albeit a touch more reverent.

"My lord, my lady."

You smile, thumb tracing his cheek once more before he moves, letting your hand fall to your side, watching as he makes haste towards the tent's exit.

The silence he leaves behind is thick for a heartbeat, two, before it is broken by your husband's voice. "You coddle him incessantly," he reprimands, face scrunching in distaste, as if such a thing offended him personally. "Petting him like a cat and cooing at him as if he were but a babe."

Being a touch theatrical has always been one of your husband's most endearing traits, and one of his most daunting, as you sometimes remind him, to his annoyance. You will never admit that poking at that certain flaw of his tickles you greatly, just as it does now.

"He is young," you combat, "and this is his first ever war. A gentle touch would do him well."

"Too gentle of a touch will soften him overmuch and he will not be fit to fight alongside me, as is his duty," your husband counters, tone resolute as he takes slow, measured steps towards you, eyes narrowed, jaw clenched. "You know this."

And you did. The importance of coming out victorious was paramount to your husband, his house, and his cause. Seating the rightful heir on the Iron Throne was the one thing that mattered most, and Ormund was hellbent on seeing it through to the end, by any means necessary.

"I am aware," your tone softens, sighing as you reach for him, hand touching his cheek as you did Daeron, but the difference was stark in the way you offered your affection, thumbing at the cut of his cheekbone with intent, leaning in until your breaths mingled. Ormund frowned, knowing you were trying to appease him, but didn't pull away, instead leaning into your touch, tilting his head into the cradle of your palm, eyes boring into yours. “But someone has to soften the rigour you instill in him, husband, for he shall not be cruel, but just, even in times of war.”

“Being just is not enough,” he protests again, and you can feel his jaw tighten beneath your hand, which you try to soothe with soft swipes of your thumb along the bone, a touch that he welcomes, despite the turmoil in his gaze. “If one needs to be heartless, then the Gods have willed it so.”

Your brows pinch together, the urge to try and make your husband see reason slowly curdling into something acrid. “Since when have the Gods willed a young boy to cruelty, Ormund?” Your tone is no longer soft nor warm, sharpening at the mere thought of Daeron being made into something he was not meant to be. “Is this what the Seven Pointed Star had taught us all these years?”

Ormund’s eyes widen for a fraction, the use of his name in such a cadence from you and the sting of your words halting his breath. He knew how fiercely protective you were of the boy, like a lioness with its cub, even if not yours by womb. Now it was his turn to try and bring back the sweetness in your tone, for he shall never admit it, but having his wife cross with him was a fate he did not particularly enjoy.

“My love,” he murmured, and tried not to react when he saw your expression pinch even more at the fond moniker. “Sometimes, in the midst of war, we cannot abide by all that The Faith has taught us, no matter how much we wish to grace the Gods with our deeds.” Ormund took a breath, trying not to get irritated when your pretty face didn’t soften an inch. “And that boy is fated to sit The Iron Throne, for his blood is pure, and not savage, and his teachings are proper, and not the stuff of legends long past.”

Sit the Iron Throne.

You took a step back, recoiling from your husband as if burned, the warmth of your touch no longer on his cheek as you whispered, mortified. “Sit the Iron Throne?”

Such plans were news to you, for Aemond was to be the rightful heir now that Aegon was gone. But it seems your husband’s ideals reached further than you could’ve ever conjured up yourself. Was it because Aemond was to be sent to Harrenhal? Did your husband believe Rhaenyra’s forces would slay Vhagar and thus leave the throne with no one to occupy it?

“No,” you said, resolute, fingers starting to tremble as you curled them into fists at your side. “I will not have my boy thrown into that den of vipers that we’ve tried so hard to keep him safe from.”

Ormund’s chest rattled with the deep breath he took, as if preparing himself for the onslaught of your dissatisfaction to come. “He is not—”

“Don’t you dare!” Your tone was sharp as steel, voice rising, all pretence gone now that your husband had braved to utter those words to you, knowing how much they would chip at your tender heart. “You know just as well as I that Daeron is more mine than anyone else’s. I have raised him since he was a babe—”

“And you have done so valiantly, my dear, but—” Ormund tries to soothe, but the bitter taste in your mouth from his words is more pungent than anything he could say to save himself from your wrath.

“Do not patronise me so!”

Your chest is heaving, and you feel those damnable pinpricks behind your eyes, moisture dampening your lash line, tears slowly forming, as if already feeling the grief of losing one of the things you cherish most. “King’s Landing is a wretched place, devoid of honour and swarming with enemies, and you want to send our—”

Our son.

But you stop, chin wobbling, not daring to say such a thing now, knowing it will do no good, and only make your husband protest further.

The sweetest boy, who hid his chubby little face into your skirts and clung to them when nightmares came at night, is now sentenced to a life you know he does not wish for. You can already feel your stomach churning with trepidation just at the thought, your gaze unwavering despite the tears brimming in your eyes to shoot daggers at your husband, who stays unmoving before you, looking equal parts irritated and unsure of how to proceed in the face of such strong emotions.

“I cannot, Ormund,” you whisper, voice breaking around the edges. “I shall not let you make a scheme of my boy just to fuel your own ambitions.”

You expect your husband to protest, to scream and rage and rip the very tent you’re in apart in his hands, but he does none of those things. Instead, he watches you, as calculated as he’s ever been, as if devising a plan to turn your sorrow into something for his own gain, or so you think.

What you do not anticipate is for Ormund to sigh, long and suffering, before walking towards you, lessening the distance between your bodies until his sword hilt bumps against your hip. “Do you believe that I am doing this solely for my own gain, my love?”

And you want to argue that, yes, you are certain of such things, for your husband was never one to not think of himself or his family first and foremost. But you don’t get to verbalise that, Ormund’s voice, softer than before, carrying that tone which could melt the marrow of your bones in mere seconds, but now, your impending grief is too great, your sorrow hardening you too much for such mellowness so quick.

“I do it for us,” he says, tilting his head to the side, bringing your faces closer, noses almost brushing. “For our legacy. For the future of House Hightower, which is now in ruins given the death of Otto and the usurpation of the King.”

You wish to protest, but your husband does not let you, sensing the argument on the tip of your tongue before it forms, a habit he picked up after more than a decade by your side, knowing you inside and out.

“Ascending Daeron to the throne will grant us power beyond our imagination, and allow the boy to live in a world of his own making.” The words are just and sound, but they do not go through you; the image of your sweet Daeron sitting upon that blasted throne full of swords and lies is too heavy on your heart.

“He will be in grave danger,” you croak, tears brimming along your lash line, slowly slipping down warm cheeks. “People will seek to harm him, to demand favours he’s not ready to offer, to—”

“And I will be in his shadow, making sure none of that comes to fruition,” Ormund says, tone brooking no argument, his gaze holding yours, willing you to see the seriousness of the matter. “If anyone dares to conspire against our boy, I will have their heads before they can draw their next breath. You have my word, sweet wife.”

Our boy.

You draw in a trembling, wet breath, your husband’s words breaking your heart and putting it back together in one fell swoop, a quiet, choked sob parting your lips as you try to utter a word back, anything to dismantle Ormund’s words, but you cannot.

“Oh, my love,” he coos, and it does not sound as condescending as it should’ve, as Ormund would pity those around him who show weakness. No, not with you. He wouldn’t dare make a spectacle of your tender, caring heart, which has grounded him many a time in his darkest, most turbulent moments. “Come here, sweetheart. Do not weep so.”

And you, powerless to resist, take the small step which is needed to bridge the distance between you, allowing your husband to cradle you in his arms, holding you as gently as one would a flower, but firm enough to make it known he wishes not to let go anytime soon.

One of his broad palms settles along your back, slowly smoothing down from the small of your back to the nape of your neck, the other anchored to the back of your head, coaxing you to rest your face along his throat. “Shh, shh, sweetling,” he whispers, turning his head to brush the words against your temple before pressing a soft, lingering kiss against your brow. “I will never let anything befall you or the boy. You know that with certainty.”

You do.

Gods, you do, but the fear that gripped your heart like a vice at the thought of such a grand plan was more powerful than reason and proof. Ormund had always gone above and beyond to ensure you and Daeron were safe at all times, even when he was away, instructing guards to follow you around like shadows and sit unmoving at your doors while you slumbered.

“I-i know, but the peril that awaits him if—”

Another kiss brushing your skin halted your incoming spiral, the feeling of your husband’s warm, rough lips against your temple melting you further into the safe strength of his arms, a haven in itself as you feared for what was to come. “The peril shall not exist. Our boy will have me, you, and more men-at-arms that I can count to keep him away from harm. In that, you must trust. In me, also.”

Your arms, which have hesitated until now, moved to grip at the back of your husband’s tunic as you embraced him tightly, needing a rock to cling to, nuzzling your face into his throat, dampening his skin with your tears as you sobbed quietly. “I trust in you more than life itself,” you croaked, and felt the pleased hum your words elicited from Ormund, as if the thought of you confiding in him so wholeheartedly brought him immense satisfaction. “But not that place, those people, that damned chair.”

“And you are right to do so, my love,” he approved, slowly putting weight from one foot to another, guiding your bodies into a gentle sway from side to side, meant to soothe you further. “Gods know everything the Targaryens touch is defiled beyond words. But we shall change that. Make it our own. A place where we and the boy can build a world fit for us alone.”

It sounded too good to be true, like a fairytale the septas would whisper to babes as they grew older, but the determined tone of your husband’s voice made you want to cling to this fantasy as well.

“Just us and our boy?” You murmured, fingers curling tighter into Ormund’s tunic, as if you could etch the very hope of such notions into his very bones.

“Yes, my sweet,” he whispered, brushing another lingering kiss to your temple, eyes fluttering shut as he held you close, still swaying. “Just us and our boy.”

Not because he had more duties to uphold to, but simply he could not spend his time doing as he wished. He was right where he wanted to be lounging back against the piles of pillows, a hand tucked behind his head the other resting against your thigh.

You sat up straight, your hair unbound moving slightly as you tilted your head back and forth. Your hands moved widely as you made gestures to follow through with your stories of the day. Both that included you and simply ones you had heard through the line of gossip.

He did not care for gossip. He did not often indulge in it himself, but by the Gods he loved to hear the tales that came from your pretty lips. Of who was partaking in what scandalous activity and better yet your own thoughts about the situations.

This was the best part of the day without a shadow of any doubt. Where the pair of you could simply be two young adults in love, without the constant eyes on you. Where he could stare at you as long as he wished without someone else begging for his attention some important matter.

Nothing was ever more important than you, but alas as a prince and future Heir to the Throne duty always called, and must be upheld.

He had always been regarded as quiet, respectful, and watching. You were on the opposite side. You had always talked, a lot according to your family. To which they regarded as a flaw, but he disagreed.

He loved the sound of your voice. He loved listening to the workings of your mind or simple observations you had picked up on. He would never speak again if that was what it took to hear your voice forever.

You were so bright. So beautiful and filled his world with so much light it brought him peace. That despite all the chaos, all the weights on his shoulders he still had this. He stull had his small moments of solace of being your husband.

It was his favorite title. One he wore with pride and made him peacock around more than the one of prince ever had.

You were his and only his.

He watched you carefully, listening to every word you deemed him fit to be graced with and he took everything in with utmost attention. He even often tried to piece together the ending. Seeing as if he could get it right.

Sometimes he did, and that was his favorite part. Watching your face light up even more realizing how he had listened to everything you had said, and even formed his own opinions on it.

He would always store the expression of your face into a small part of his brain so he could remember just how warm he felt during that moment when things got tough. That despite the duty, despite everything he still had you, and your wonderful stories.

You stopped, and he waited for you to continue patiently, wondering if you had lost your footing or something else had came to mind. He never minded straying course form the original topic. Sometimes you ended back at it, and sometimes not.

Your eyebrows came together as your eyes scanned across his face,"Valarr?" you questioned, causing him to hum in reply automatically You looked half surprised as if you had been expecting him not to listen. You clearly did not know you held his entire attention, his devotion, his heart even. "You look bored, my love."

His mouth opened immediately in shock or perhaps sorrow that you could ever think that. He pushed himself up from his lying position, his hand moving to cradle your cheek, "You could never bore me, ābrazȳrys."

"If you are tired you can rest. I know you have had a long day."

He shock his head in denial, "No. I wish for you to continuing

"Truly?" you asked, the doubt was evident seeping through all your features and it caused his gut to churn. Oh, how could you belie there was anything he rather be doing then sitting here, listening to you.

The Prince leaned forward instead pushing his mouth to yours gently, and he could feel you melting into him. His other hand moved to the side of your neck as he held you to him. Kissing away all the doubt that there was anything more important than you.

You were everything. And he would not trade this nightly routine for anything. No crown, no duty could ever stop him from enjoying the small unguarded moments of life with you.

He only pulled away when his lungs begged for air, and he more so did it for you then himself. His forehead rested against your own as he continued to cradle you as if you were glass, "Truly. I could listen to you talk all day," he assured you.

You hummed in reply and he smiled finally pulling back. He smirked pressing a kiss to your forehead, letting his lips linger to seal his words once more, before settling back against the pillows.

Valarr smiled at you, "Now continue on with your story of Lady Lannister I am waging to see if I can predict the ending."

You laughed, and the sound hit him directly in his chest, a warmth spreading through him, as you continued on with your story. Your hands moving widely once more, your face lit up in the happiness that mirrored his own.

But you knew it. All your siblings knew it purely based on how you treated them. You were the eldest. You were always the protector from the world, and suddenly that posed an issue in Otto's plan once more and you were sent off to Old Town.

To be raised in the way of the starry sept. To be forgotten that you would technically inherit a throne over Aegon. To Ormund.

You thought your days of playing protector were over, but you were wrong. And though your methods had changed, and so had the threats. The goal was the same. You were a shield. For Daeron.

You kept Ormund at bay. You took his frustration and his anger instead of Daeron. He still saw it. He still heard it all, but he never handled the brunt of it. You did, and you always would to protect him.

He was a boy, and most days he felt as if he was your boy rather than Alicent's or Viserys.

Yours and Ormund's son.

Your skirts, whispered against the ground, as your feet moved quickly through the halls. No one stopped you. No man dared spared you a second glance in fear of Ormund. And no woman let their eyes analyze you in fear of you.

A steward had come sprinting in worry, carrying Daeron's quick need of you, and the closer you approached you knew exactly why. You could hear his outburst before you had even pushed open the doors.

You paused, seeing Daeron's frightful expression, listening as Ormund screamed of craven cunt's, lifting his sword before slamming it down against the table. Marking it time and time again.

"Ormund. "

He did not stop, continuing to yell. Striking the table with his blade repeatedly. You closed your eyes letting out a sigh.

"Ormund!" you yelled louder, more sternly finally poking through the anger.

He stopped abruptly, his ragged breaths filling the room as he sheathed his sword. He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. Daeron stared at you wide eyed, and you smiled at him. Your composure remained calm, "Daeron why don't you leave us," you suggested.

The Hightower's wild expression met yours, "He should know—"

You cut him off, "We can tell him afterwards," you held his burning, gaze watching as his face changed slightly.

Before he nodded, "Leave us, Daeron. You as well," he said nodding Jon Roxton. Your brother hesitated, but you smiled at him once more, and finally he left.

The solar was now empty beside the two of you, and your kind smile dropped from your face in a flash, "What has happened?" you asked, calmly.

Ormund's composed demeanor had once returned, "Gwayne has sent word. Aemond will not be joining us after all," he told you, and you watched his jaw clench momentarily.

His eyes swept across your form taking in your appearance. Your dress was the colors of his house, like he preferred. Your hair was styled the way he liked. Every single visible thing about you was the way he liked down to the tiniest aspect and that was on purpose.

"And Gwayne? Are they joining us here?" you asked, taking a step across that line like you did time and time again. It was an invisible boundary and you knew him well enough to know he would make the next move.

He moved toward you quickly now standing in front of you as if the space between you was previously unbearable. You knew he liked to be as close as possible when given the chance. As if you were one whole rather than two individuals. He reached forward gripping your chin. Not harshly, but merely forcing you to meet his eyes.

"We must alter our scheme," he told you.

You hummed, "If anyone can come up with a solution it is you," you fed into his ego, with a gentle smile. "We have time. We have Silverwing, and you know I will do as I must for you."

For you. That was purposeful. Not for Aegon. Not for the Throne, but for you because he mattered more than it all. As if everything in your life was replaceable, but him.

He nodded, letting go over your chin. His large hand moved petting down your hair until it moved to rest against your neck tilting your head upwards. His head then moved to rest against the crook of your neck as he breathed you.

"What would I do with you, my girl?" he whispered.

"You will never have to find," you assured him.

Ormund pulled back, with a smile still holding you, having you meet his eyes as if you would turn away, "You shelter him," he then said, referring to Daeron.

"I want what is best for him," you whispered.

"Are you saying I do not? I have done nothing, but help you both. Saving you from the sully of your kin," he told you, his voice started to rise, but he was still calm. He had not allowed the violence that filled him to fully take over.

Not yet.

You did not reply at first, searching for the correct words, because any wrong footing and you would be in dangerous territory. You had learned how to steer away from that. To control the controller without him knowing.

"Of course not. You are our savior, my love, but Daeron…He needs to be our shining boy, and if you push him before he is ready then he will dull," your hands, moved up his face the way you knew he liked. His eyes closed, moving into your touch, closing his eyes as if you soothed away all the wrath slowly.

It would not kill it completely, but it would be soon enough. When he remembered his favorite ways he liked to use you in dulling the rage that burned inside him. One that would cause your mother to weep, or mayhaps not. What would truly appall her was more that you enjoyed his rage.

"Tell me what you are thinking," you whispered, wanting to know what was going through his mind. Needing to know what you were working with to start formulating a plan, the proper words, and what he needed from you.

"Aegon and Aemond are tainted. They are…"

"Unfit to rule?" you asked, causing him to nod.

"And who do you think shall take their place then?" you asked, treading the line carefully.

You did not want to lead him to a place that you did not want him to go. Not Daeron. You did not want to suggest Daeron. You did not want him to choose Daeron. The sweet boy, who held a kindest that was so often not found in your life anywhere. He was a boy, and a crown would do nothing, but weigh him down.

You would protect him if you must, but—"You are the eldest," he whispered, bringing you from your thoughts. Your eyes met his face, and you watched an idea click into his mind.

Your stomach churned. It was something that you had heard him whisper about in passing. When he rutted into you, talking about breeding you. That he would bring a purity to your blood. His children could sit the throne. Because you were the eldest not Aegon.

You could feel him harden against your stomach at the thought, "You are the rightful heir, and…" he smiled, his lips turning up wickedly, as his hand drifted down resting on your hips, "Oh, my brilliant girl. Think about it now. What we could have…"

You knew this was better. This was what you were meant to do. Take the burden form your younger siblings, and you would do it for Daeron. You would do it for Ormund.

"Do you think I could do it? That they would accept me as a ruler?" you asked, looking away in pretend bashfulness. As if you could not believe the idea.

"Oh, my beauty. I would not leave you in this alone. I will help you, just as I always have," he pressed his mouth to yours, before letting his mouth trail down your throat.

"I will restore your Throne." He kissed at your throat, his teeth grazing against the soft flesh.

"Our children will rule," his hands moved, pulling your skirts up, and you could feel your arousal dripping out of you.

"Then we must be wed finally," you told him, and you could feel him grin against your skin as if he was victorious. As if he had convinced you as if he were in control.

"I will make the arrangements, and our true campaign shall begin."

You smiled softly to yourself as you finally found Daeron despite your shaky legs, from Ormund’s ceaseless breeding “celebration.”

"I knew I would find you here," you called out. His head laid against his beautiful blue mount, whispering reassurance that they would soon be allowed to take flight.

It was what made everything you had done worth it. His happiness. His innocence. His protection.

Tessarion's head snapped up toward you, but she did not growl in warning. If anything she looked almost happy to see you. Your brother turned to face you, "Is he still angry?"

You shook your head. You clasped your hands in front of you as you then approached the pair. Your hand lifted slowly allow the dragon time to react, but she never did. Finally you moved against her scales petting her slowly.

Your own dragon Silverwing, flew constantly around the town. In warning, to your half-sister, to the folks of what laid outside their gates. She was also too big to keep chained up, but you would have allowed that anyways. As it was you were slowly working on getting Terssarion that same freedom.

"Not so much," you told him. You lifted your arm without sparing him a glance, knowing what he needed.

He slipped into your embrace quickly allowing you to hold him as you continued to show his mount affection. "I am sorry you had to witness him like that," you told him pressing a kiss to his head.

"Aemond is not coming is he?" he then asked, instead of replying to apologies.

You let out a sigh, dropping your hand from the dragon as you pulled Daeron from your embrace gently. He stood in front of you as you cupped his cheeks, "No he is not."

He stared at you, with big sad eyes that caused your heart to ache, "What then?" he asked.

You swallowed, "Ormund has decided he wishes to appoint a new Heir… Aegon is thought to be dead…and Aemond has abandoned the throne," you pushed your lips together, "He has decided he wants me to sit the throne."

"What of our brothers?" he questioned, eyes wide in disbelief.

"You know what he thinks of our brothers. Of our family, and this…" You closed your eyes, "This is the best option for all of us. For you. I am the eldest. It is my job to protect you," you assured him.

He stared at you for a moment, before nodding. Because he believed you. That is what you always had done. Protect him. Do what is best for him before yourself. Though he was young he knew this at his very core, because it was all you had ever shown him. Maternal love he never received anywhere else.

"You know I will not let anything happen to you?" It was a statement, as much as question. You wanted him to know how much you cared for him. You needed him to know that you would protect him no matter what. That you would do whatever it took to keep him safe.

"I know."

You smiled, pressing a kiss to his forehead, "Good. Let us get some food into you and then you should sleep. The days that come will be long."

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Prince Baelor was hesitant to remarry. In fact, he was perfectly content to be on his own after his wife's passing. He already had an heir, there was no rush. But then your father had offered your hand and when he'd laid eyes on you he couldn't refuse.

Your inital fears had vanished soon after your wedding. He was older, yes, but he was kind. Stories of cruel kings becoming crueler husbands were common to to noble born girls. Hushed lessons taught by worried mothers in an attempt to save their daughters from a shared fate.

Your wedding day was full of nerves, stomach turning as your maid from childhood dressed you for the last time. You were conscious of each footstep down the aisle, desperately trying to make your way to the alter without fumbling on your dress or your own two feet. Everything had occurred exactly how you imagined it.

Your wedding night? That was completely different that you had been told. Your mother had sat you down the night before and told you everything to expect. She also reiterated that it would hurt, but it was important to smile while you performed your wifely duties. You were not to make too much noise, not to move unless he instructed and to be patient until it was over. Your heart hammered in your chest as Baelor undressed you,

But after your down had slipped to the floor, he'd kissed your shoulder and lain you on the bed. Your whole body stiffened as he spread your legs. But instead of the head of his….member stretching you open his fingers gently pressed into the sensitive skin of your thighs, holding you open as he pressed a kiss to the sensitive bud between your legs. You could feel his smirk against your skin as his tongue ravished your body.

When he did finally push into your entrance, you were pleasantly surprised that it actually felt good instead of the searing pain your mother described. You body was pleasantly loose from Baelor's earlier actions, which helped your body accomodate him.

And after you'd gotten a taste of this new activity, it was hard for Baelor to deny you. There was just one problem-

"Lady Dyanna," your sister in law turns to you as you call out for her. The two of you are enjoying your tea on the balcony overlooking Kings Landing, "Because of my union to Baelor we are now sisters, correct."

"Yes, princess."

"May I ask you a question then? One that may be considered too…vulgar for me to ask another," your face warms.

An amused smile unfolds on her face, "Of course, princess. Though it was a while was many moons ago, I remeber what it was like to be newly married to the son of a king. What plagues your mind?"

"When you are finshed with your relations," you look at the foor unable to meet her eye, "How are you meant to deal with the mess afterwards."

Dyanna chuckles, "A simple cloth will suffice. You may ask your maids to warm the water as well. It well help soothe the ache that sometimes occurs. Though you want to be careful not to wipe away too much or you may be preventing the future heir from settling in your womb."

"This I know," you pause, unsure of how to say your true intention, "I mean moreso - when you are walking around afterwards. How do you manage the…leaking."

The older woman tilts her head, confused, "Well I remain in bed for the rest of the night so that is not as much of an issue."

"You've never had morning relations?"

"Not never," she says, a bit nostalgic as she thinks back to her youth, "Though I can't say I recall not being able to solve that issue with a cloth before I left my chambers."

"W-well I do," you sputter, "But sometimes it's quite a lot and it's uncomfortable when I walk. Especially if we've also had relations the evening before as well-"

"Relations in the evening and the morning? I didn't realize Baelor was quite so ravenous."

"It's not always him who initiates," you murmur, stirring your spoon in your tea, "In fact it's usually not him who initiates."

Dyanna laughs, "Oh, how I miss my youth. Though, I do not blame you. They are a handsome set of brothers are they not?"

Baelor has been busy this past week. He doesn't call you into your chambers until early the next morning. He's sitting at the desk in his room when you arrive. He smiles at you when the squeak of the door on its hinges announces your prescence.

"My prince," you say in greeting.

"My love, I am sorry to wake you so early. I missed your presence while I was away," he beckons you over with one hand as he stands, silver rings glinting in the light, "Did you sleep well?"

Your body follows easily, drawn to him. You shake your head as you fall into his embrace, "My chambers are far too cold without the blood of a dragon near."

"My apologies, my princess," he chuckles tipping your head up, and gently pressing his lips to yours, "The hunt lasted longer than inteded, but I am rested now."

His hands grip your waist firmly to pull you closer before reaching back to peel you out of your night clothes. You hesitate, stepping back.

"My lord, perhaps we should wait until this evening for those activities."

"What's wrong, my love?" he frowns, emphasizing the lines between his brows that you adore.

"Nothing," you shake your head, "I may have embarassed myself during my meeting with Dyanna and I need time to heal my pride, my lord."

"What happened?"

Your face warms, "I'm not sure I should discuss these matters with you."

"I am your husband, and the prince of the realms, you can discuss anything with me, my love," he tucks a stray curl behind your ear.

You sigh, "I had a question for her about…relations and now I fear she may believe me to be too enamoured with it."

Baelor chuckles, sitting on the edge of the bed, pulling you along with him.

"You are aware that Dyanna and Maekar have six children. There is nothing we are doing that they haven't done already."

"I know that," you say with a groan, buried your face in your husbands neck, "You should have seen the way she looked at me when I told her of my problem.

Your husband tilts his head, "Problem? You did not speak to me of any problems. Pray tell, I have not been hurting you have I?"

"No, no," you shake your head, reassuring him, "I have no complaints of our relations itself, husband. It's afterwards that I am sometimes I encounter a nuisance is all."

"I see," he nods, "Care to elaborate on this nuisance?"

You avert your gaze to the wall behind him, "It doesn't concern you, husband."

He smiles, "If it concerns my queen, then it concerns me."

"After we finish," you sigh, "Sometimes when I walk about the castle, I can feel you dripping down my leg. I simply asked Dyanna what she does, but it seems as though she does not have this same issue."

Your husband nods. He's had his suspicions about his condition. He may be king but he has taken part in his share of celebrations after a particularly well won tournament.More than a few of his past acquiantences have brought this very same topic to his attention before.

"My love, I believe I have a solution to your nuisance."

He stands to undo his robes. You lean back on your elbows watching his clothes fall to the floor. You bite your lip in anticipation, pulling his body on top of yours.

Your legs fall open for your husnband, your mouths moving languidly against each other as he his fingers reach the coarse hairs at the apex of your thighs. You sigh when his long fingers skim across your folds, diping into your entrance to spread your slick. He teases your sensitive bud with a light touch.

"Baelor," you whine which makes your husband smile as he kisses your neck, "Do not make me wait."

"I thought you were prepared to wait until nightfall, my love," the heel of his hand stays pushed up against that spot that drives you mad while his fingers slip inside you.

"Changed my mind," you pant, pulling him closer you you, "You would keep your wife waiting, my lord?"

"Never, my love."

Your back arches off the bed as Baelor pushes into you. He grips your leg, hooking it over his shoulder as your hips meet. His nose nuzzles along your jaw making his beard hairs tickle your neck.

"How's that feel, my love?" he murmurs planting a kiss on your collar bone.

"G-gods, Baelor," you groan, "So good."

He moves slowly, watching the way your face contorts in pleasure as he drags his cock inside you. His hand slips between your bodies to slow circles that drive make you moan.

He knows your body well, works it like like an instrument tuntil you're clawing at his back and shouting his name. He manages to stave of his own release but only for a few moments, just enough to drive into you once more filling you to the brim.

Though he tried his best, some of spend starts to leak out of you once more.

"Shh, my love," he coos, as he stands, trying to doge your attempt to keep him close, "I'm not going anywhere."

He sinks to the floor, grateful for the rug cushioning his aging knees. He wraps his arms around your legs, tugging you towards him.

"Baelor!" you gasp out, "What are you-"

"Why do you act as though I have not done this before," he chuckles, pressing a kiss to your mound, "This is my favourite place to be while unwind at the end of the day."

"But you've already...finished."

"I am quite aware, darling, worry not about me."

He spreads your legs apart, groaning at the sight of his seed leaking out of you.

"Wish you could see how we look together, my princess," he teases, leaning forward kiss your inner thigh, "Perhaps we should move the mirror to the bedroom."

He doesn't wait for your response, too entranced by the sight of you. He licks broadly, moaning at the taste your joined mess. You squirm in his arms, still sensitive from your release. He chuckles, digging his fingers into your thighs, holding you in place.

"We're divine together my love," he groans, licking at your entrance, "Want a taste?"

He meets your eye, grinning when you nod hesitantly at his words. He uses his tongue to scrape at your walls, collecting your shared juices with an obscene slurp and gently holding your ankle in the air to keep you from kicking his head.

He crawls up the bed to where you await with wide eyes, anticipating his neck move. He holds your head in place and forces your jaw open his thumb.

You don't even flinch when he spits into your mouth. You close your eyes, licking your lips with a moan when you swallow.

You're summoned into the Princes chamber later that night once more. Baelor is already in his bedclothes atop of the covers. You rush over, settling yourself on his lap.

"How was your day, my prince," you greet with a smile, running your fingers through his hair.

He preens, "Much better now that you're here, my love. How was yours?"

"Much better now that you're here," you laugh, repeating his words.

"And tell me, how was my solution to your nuisance today?" he chuckles. His hands start to lift your night dress, exposing more of your tanned skin.

"It worked," you smile, toying with the hem of his shirt, "Though I must admit I missed the reminder of you."

"Oh?" he quirks a brow, "How so?"

"I felt…" you pause, tilting your head trying to think of the right word, "empty today."

"Empty,?" Baelor repeats. You giggle, feeling the start of his interest poke you in the thigh.

You nod, "I missed the feel of my prince leaking down my leg during the day. Though I did enjoy what we did this morning-oh!"

Your yelp turns into a moan when Baelor flips you over and your back hits the mattress.

The entrance of your pavilion flies open, revealing a rather angry Lord Baratheon.

"He's not coming to Storm's End with us." propped up on a makeshift crutch, he limps towards your shared wooden trunks. He rips his cloak off and throws it on a nearby chair.

"Perhaps he has his reasons to refuse, there's no need to-"

"Yes, something about bringing pain and suffering to the people close to him," he scoffs and turns to you, "all this moping for that Prince."

"That Prince died for him Lyonel." you try to reason.

"So have Beesbury and Hardying! I don't see him whining about them." he let's out a sigh, "The only good dragon-"

"Is a dead dragon, yes Lyonel, I heard you the first hundred times you've said it in the past few days we've been here" your remark catches him by surprise, "But Dunk knew him better than you did and he says Prince Baelor was a good man, have some respect."

"Have some respect..." he mutters under his breath, "You should go with him you know," he points a finger at you, and then to the exit of the pavilion, "you two... like-minded."

"You're throwing a tantrum over a man you met a couple days ago, I cannot begin to imagine the torture you'd put your poor people under if your wife left." you try not to sound offended, after all Ser Duncan is a good man, he's just, he has honor, but he can be quite... naive.

Lyonel starts limping again, towards the bed this time. He sits down and let's the crutch slide to the floor. "Oh I'd go mad." immediately taking back what he said moments before.

"Would you?" you ask amused, trying to fight a smile.

"Yes, and in my madness I could kill a man."

"Just one? You must not like me that much."

"A hundred then."

"A hundred?! You're just saying things now." you step in his direction until you're standing between his legs and bring a hand to his cheek, "What's up with you, mm?"

He gently grabs your free hand, bringing it to his lips. "I wanted a man I met a couple days ago to come with us to Storm's End." his eyes lock on yours and he leaves another kiss on the back of your hand.

"You're hurt."

"Terribly." his hands crawl up your thighs, then your waist, and wraps his arm around your hips, pulling you into him and burying his face in your breasts, "But I can think of a few ways you could cheer me up with." voice muffled by your skin.

You smirk, tugging his face off of you, "You know what the maester said: complete rest."

"That maester," his voice low, " is incompetent, he told Dunk he's dying."

"Dunk is dying?!" you panic, "Why didn't you say something sooner, we need to find him help!" you try to wriggle out of his grasp, but, even injured, your husband is far stronger than you.

"I said he's incompetent! Duncan's in better shape than me."

"Then why would you say that?" you hit his shoulder, "I thought my heart was going to jump out of my chest."

"I-" he has to stifle a laugh, "I apologise, alright?" he runs one hand up and down your arm in a soothing manner, "But since you want to take care of a wounded man, I have to let you know there's one sitting right in front of you."

He flashes a toothy grin, the one you love so much, that made you fall for him all those years ago. You lean down, pressing your lips to his. Lyonel doesn't waste a second to slip his tongue in your mouth, his hand finding the back of your head to keep you close.

"I am scared I will hurt you." you tell him in between kisses.

"I'm sure you won't, but if you do, I'll tell you."

His free hand slides down your leg, gathering the fabric of your dress until he reaches the hem, fingers slipping under it, quickly finding your center and collecting your wetness.

"All those protests and you're as eager as me." it's his turn to smirk.

His thumb circles your pearl slowly while his middle finger slides inside of you, pumping in and out, causing you to let out a shaky sigh.

"Let's get rid of this, mm?" He winks at you, the hand on the back of your head descends, pulling at the ribbons on your back keeping your dress together.

Your bodice comes loose, letting you slip your arms out of the sleeves. Your husband attaches his mouth to one of your nipples, humming in approval.

As you hold his head against you, you decide that he's still far too clothed.

"Let's get rid of this too." clearly hinting at his shirt as you pull on it.

He detaches his mouth from your tit, fingers slipping out of you before bringing them to his lips, sucking them clean and moaning around them.

You shimmy out of your dress while your husband, never the patient man, rips his own clothes off his body.

"I am ready to be taken care of, my Lady." as he says this, he plops down on the mattress, arms spread on both sides.

You take him in your hand and spit on his tip, letting your saliva coat him before stroking up and down his length, thumbing at its head.

"As much as I appreciate this," he raises his head and sucks in a hard breath at a particular flick of your wrist, "I need you to hop on, dear."

"As you wish." a smile on your face.

You straddle his hips and guide his cock to your entrance, slowly sliding onto him, feeling every ridge. He fits snuggly against that particular spot inside you.

Both of you let out a content sigh before your hips start to lazily grind against him.

"I'm already starting to feel better, I'm telling you," his hands skim all over your body, stopping to squeeze your breasts and pull at your nipples, making you shudder, "This is the best kind of medicine." he gives a harsh slap to your ass, signaling to go faster.

Leaning on his chest, you shift your weight on one knee, raising the other to plant your foot on the bed. The new position allows you to slam your hips faster on his, hitting that deep spot inside of you that makes you see stars.

"Don't you ever leave me." he groans.

His hair is disheveled, head slightly rising from the mattress as he stares at where the two of you connect, a glint in his eyes.

"I don't intend to." you answer, loud moans escape you, completely forgetting there are no walls muffling the sounds you and your husband are making, letting every passerby know what's happening inside the tent.

Lyonel brings his thumb to your clit, rubbing at it roughly, hips bucking into yours as much as his injury allows him.

He brings you to your peak way faster than you'd like to admit, thighs shaking against him and nails digging into his chest. Your breathing is erratic as you try your best to keep riding him through the waves of pleasure that hit you.

It doesn't take him long to spill his seed inside you, coming with a loud groan that subsides in a low laugh. He reaches up, tugging a strand of hair beind your ear. There's still a glint in his eyes, but it's different now, it's not lust, just pure adoration. Gently squeezing your cheeks in his hand he pulls you to his lips.

"Shhh!..."

.

.

.

There was a difference between Kings Landing and Dragonstone. Although both had kept Targaryen ancestors safe for hundreds of years, Aegon the Conqueror first commissioned the Red Keep to be the future official house of his blood.

His son, Maegor the Cruel, had seen through with the plan.

Heirs, and even second sons got to inherit Dragonstone by right. Baelor II Targaryen, heir and hand of the King had inherited the island when he was still young. He would one day pass it on to one of his two children after his crowning.

Valarr knew this just as well as he knew his grandsire's keep. It was quieter, less populated, and filled with just as much history.

However, wedding plans had taken off across the bay. Kings Landing had welcomed many Lords and Ladies just a few days prior.

As heir to the heir, Valarr had been required to wed his Lady love on the rambunctious land. The Great Sept of Baelor bore witness to such a union, just as it had done for three generations after its creation following the death of Baelor the Blessed.

The young couple had not yet left the main land, remaining in the chambers Valarr had claimed when he was just a babe. First ever grandson, and grandchild in general.

The Prince had long since familiarized himself with halls and rooms, no matter how hidden they were.

He shushed you with a smile on his face, one that matched your own. Your hands were intertwined while you avoided handmaidens and knights alike.

Mere days ago, the two of you had reached a breaking point. Mere days ago, the two of you were united after years of waiting. Mere days ago, Valarr took your maidenhood.

Years of shared feelings came bubbling up. Betrothal had been lengthy, but it was all made worth it the second Valarr draped his Houses cloak over your shoulders, declaring you as his before the Seven.

You had joined as one in many different ways because at the end of the night, he eased himself into the spot between your legs and spilled his seed.

A new door had been opened after that night.

"We must be quiet, my love." Valarr laughed lightly right after a similar noise slipped past your own lips. The gardens were abandoned during the hour of the bat. No courtesan's were wandering, not like their prince was doing with his wife.

Pleasure came in many forms, and your husband was eager to learn the different ways that bodies ticked. It was a whole new world for the both of you. A lifetime of chastity had been broken, and desire was something neither of you were short on now that you had experienced bliss.

The sound of your combined footsteps on the cobblestone path would be suspicious if anyone was to hear. The waves sounding from the bay hardly did anything to cover noise, but the spread out walkways and tall cypress trees offered cover.

Giddiness flooded your being, tightening your chest. Or, perhaps it was adrenaline that made your heart beat so.

"This will be perfect." Your husband whispered, slowing down as he led you down another side path, guiding you with his hand on your own. He would not settle for anything that would just 'do'.

Valarr's gaze was softer, filled with affection despite how unusual this was for him. The prince was nearly as phlegmatic as his own father, and to stumble across the inevitable sight of him and his Lady Love exploring not just the gardens, but each other would be a shock to anyone.

He led you down to a stone bench, hard and cold even through your layers.

"Comfortable?" Valarr asked, finally letting go of your hand once you were situated.

"For now." You responded, bracing your hands on the carved seat. It would serve you, but that did not stave the apologetic look Valarr gave you.

"We will return to bed before you know it." The prince leaned down to kiss your brow before pulling back to look into your eyes. "Unless you wish to go back now? Just say the word and I will walk you to your chambers."

Your lips curled up once more, endeared by his worry. "All is well for now, husband. I wish to remain with you."

He softened, nodding his head wordlessly and exhaling a quit sigh. His hand met the side of your neck, resting there for a second when he pressed another kiss to your skin. "Good."

Valarr's knees met the pavement slowly, pressing into the stone under your feet in a way that he would surely regret later.

It was an odd sight to see a prince of the realm kneeling in the gardens. Especially when it came to him being an heir to the throne. One would think that he should kneel to no one for anything, and yet here he was, on the ground with his hands trailing up the calves of his wife.

He started slowly, just grazing your ankles when he slipped under your dress. Your stockings were smooth and dark, covering you from foot to knee.

Valarr sighed silently, pressing one of his thumbs into the side of your calf so that he could lift your leg slightly, ducking his head down to press a kiss against the fabric held up over your shin bone.

"Thank you." He murmured with reverence in his tone. His lips followed the seam alongside your stockings, raising your dress to the edge, but never going past that.

"Might I?" He whispered, looking up at you with his double colored eyes. His kisses did not pass your knees, remaining a great distance away from where you had not granted clear approval yet.

Your heartbeat raced, mimicking that of a small birds fluttering wings. This was an unexplored corner of a map, discovered by only two people who weren't meant to be outside. "You may..." You breathed.

Valarr's lips ghosted over you like a feather landing, never quite pressing hard, just tickling you with his affection. His head was spinning at this point, nearly matching your own restlessness. Your consent made his hands travel higher, groping your thighs like he often did when overtop of you. Only this time, he was below.

"I am honored to have been granted such an opportunity." His words mingled with the wind, getting carried away by the breeze. "You flatter me, my love."

"It is not flattery." You told him, leaning back on your palms a little more when he began inching your dress past your knees, bunching it despite not wanting to crease the fabric. The layers of your kirtle were scooted upward, ending with your chemise flipped. White covered black, and nothing covered you.

"Right..." Valarr eased your legs apart, glancing up at your face for half of a second before his mismatched eyes darted back downward.

"Yet it is still the most wondrous gift."

Another breath escaped from his lips, which parted as if anticipating what exactly they should be doing. He pulled you forward slightly, making you all more accessible to him, keeping them spread in an awkward position as he sat between.

"Might I just—" You trailed off, lifting up one of your legs to rest over his shoulder.

The prince nodded, finding it to be easier for him. He even guided the other one to do the same on the other shoulder. "That would do well." He grinned, trailing his fingers over the smooth skin bracketing his head, running over the curve of your knees.

"Are you ready?" He asked next, glancing back up towards your face. You nodded at first, resulting in a pointedly from him. "My love..."

"Yes!" You answered, swallowing down any of your last minute nerves. "Yes... I am."

"If you wish to—" Valarr began to go over the terms again, making your hand leave the stone bench so as to lace into his neat hair.

"Please, Val." Urging him forward, you begged. "As of this moment, I wish for anything but stopping."

He stared, gaze lingering before blinking once. "If that is what my love wishes for, then who am I to deny her?"

A prince.

Yet a devoted husband above all of that. At least, that was how he saw it.

He listened to your silent beckoning, leaning forward to nose at the soft space where your thighs often rubbed together. His hands had explored the area before, but never had his face.

He inhaled where your musk was the strongest, tilting his head towards the thatch of hair above your slit. It was then that his tongue darted out, seeking the one spot that he knew would make you preen.

Valarr groaned at the same time an exhale escaped from you. He worked to explore every syrupy turn, swiping through your labia.

You tightened your grip on his hair, mimicking the way he pawed at your thighs, squeezing the flesh between his fingers.

"Valarr—" His name slipped past your lips with ease, having gasped it more and more ever since the wedding.

He nearly grinned from his spot between your legs, scooping through your cunt with the muscle before retreating, only to do it again, delving as deep as he could go. Your hips shifted, attempting to press closer to him.

It was all so foreign.

Never had anyone lavished you with their tongue. It was vulnerable, perhaps more so than a normal coupling.

Valarr seemed to revel in it, making occasional noises while pressing open-mouthed kisses to your flesh. All of which put his previous ones to shame.

"You are the sweetest." The prince rasped, breaking away for only a second. He let go of one of your thighs, bringing his hand under his chin so that his tongue could seek your pearl again, all while his fingers could dive in.

He started with only one, slipping his middle finger in with ease. Your willingness made it easier because his index soon joined in soon after.

Valarr had a usual rhythm, often remaining purposeful and slow when he would twist his wrist or shift his fingers to spread as much as you would allow.

Though, he was not overtop of you tonight. He was not grinding into you. He did not have to worry about grasping or pressing too hard. He just had to worry about whether or not his teeth scraped your sensitive sex.

The action was typically used to open you up, but now it was just to bring you to the brink.

He felt your spongey walls cradle his insistent digits, just as you oftentimes squeezed onto his cock. It was reminiscent, but now experienced with newfound vigor.

In fact, Valarr found himself already liking this all too much.

Both forms of stimulation proved to be successful, working you up to a point where your stomach tightened in warning. It was easier than when the two of you would lay together in the traditional sense.

Valarr often had to angle himself to find the perfect spot while also rubbing your swollen and sensitive nerves. At the moment, his fingers were much more dexterous, finding euphoric bliss much quicker.

A choked noise fought to escape, but with the absence of privacy in this public garden, a moan was not a luxury that you could afford, no matter how how badly your husband longed to hear your sweet sounds.

"Valarr!" You hissed in a hushed but desperate tone.

"Mmm?" He hummed, still glued between your legs with his tongue out. He only stopped to swallow, and his eyes— which had long since slipped shut— fluttered open. He was graced with the sight of your flushed face illuminated by only the full moon overhead.

In that moment, he felt every bit like a man worshipping the God's.

"I am nearly there." You spoke breathlessly, pulling on the brunette locks grasped tightly between your fingers. It created a stinging ache on the prince's scalp. Some things were meant to be endured he decided in that moment.

Your peak was his goal. The one thing that he knew he must work you up to tonight.

He never did like making you wait for it.

His fingers curled upward, filling the garden with wet squelches caused by your own slick. Instead of just laving his taste buds over your clit, he pressed his lips flush against you and sucked. And then he stopped, and then he did it again, and so on.

Your jaw clenched at the same time as your abdomen squeezed the hardest. The pressure inside of you always tightened in one familiar spot while also taking your breath away.

Just as your body braced to let go, Valarr switched the spots in which his mouth and fingers had been. Once more, he pushed his tongue into your hole all while his thumb glided over your pearl, rubbing tight circles.

It was then that your composure broke.

A near scream ripped out of your throat, too loud when it pierced through the calm night. Your back arched, driving your hips forward against the prince's face.

Each press of his finger sent a jolt up through your body. Your orgasm crashed through you, and now the waves had to calm. They couldn't just stop entirely.

Valarr lapped up your spend while you caught your breath, suddenly all too aware of the cold coastal air against your hot skin. His free hand rubbed your leg, offering a comforting touch when he finally pulled away, sitting back on his haunches to look at you.

The bottom part of his face glistened, wet from a combination of your arousal and his spit. He breathed with you, though less labored.

"Was that well, my love?" He asked you, voice but a mere whisper. The question came from his own concern, as well as his need for your approval.

Your nod arrived a second too late, but you answered him regardless, waiting for your racing heart to ease up while you let go of him.

"It was... wonderful." You revealed, resulting in a grin from your kneeling husband. He made quick work of situating your dress so that it covered your shaking legs, granting you the return of your decency.

Valarr did not force you to recover quickly, he just continued to rub your covered knee and lifted himself up off of the ground, moving to sit beside you.

His unsullied hand reached your own, lacing your fingers with his.

"It is peaceful out here." He observed, speaking to you in a gentle tone.

There was a heat between your legs that would soon be snuffed out entirely after a brief rest, only to re-ignte once stoked again. For now, though, you remained with your husband, growing weary due to the energy that had been drained.

Valarr took note of this and moved your head to rest on his shoulder, listening to you take in breaths while sitting peacefully. It was a sort of scene he often yearned for on busy days.

With the moons glow shining down on Kings Landing, the two of you remained beside one another, basking in the quiet night.

"Might I get my chance to return the favor soon, husband?" Your voice broke through the silence, filling the space with your ask. It was equally as scandalous as what had just taken place.

Valarr hummed under his breath, all too aware of the pressure behind the front of his breeches, fighting to be acknowledged.

"Mayhaps once you are well rested."

A/n: And then he dies.

Much love!

(P.s. I still dont really know how to feel about this.)

The afternoon had settled over the Red Keep with a gentleness seldom afforded to King's Landing, the summer heat yielding at last to a cool breeze that wandered through the open casement windows, stirring the pale curtains and carrying with it the distant cries of gulls circling Blackwater Bay.

Sunlight splayed lazily across the polished floor and upon the length of the elegant settee upon which you reclined, its graceful frame fashioned by the most celebrated craftsmen in the capital at your husband's insistence.

Every inch of it spoke of princely extravagance, from the smooth dark timber painstakingly carved with winding vines and dragons to the sumptuous cushions upholstered in crimson velvets from Qohor and lace so exquisitely woven in Myr that they flaunted their vivid hues whenever the light caressed them.

It had been but four moons since your marriage, and though your union had begun, as so many noble matches did, beneath the careful guidance of politics and family expectation, companionship had blossomed between you with astonishing ease. There had been none of the uncomfortable distance whispered about in courtly gossip, nor the tedious obligation that burdened so many newly wedded couples. Instead, you had found in Prince Valarr someone whose quiet temperament mirrored your own, whose fondness for histories, poetry, and philosophical discourse often kept the two of you awake in dark hours of the night.

He possessed a thoughtful, gentle and kind soul hidden beneath the dignity expected of a prince, and you had come to cherish the peculiar earnestness with which he approached even the smallest matters.

At Prince Baelor's urging, Valarr had ridden for the Riverlands accompanied by his cousin, Prince Daeron, to strengthen ties with several houses whose loyalties were ever worth tending. They had returned only yestermorning, weary from the long roads yet successful enough that the Hand himself had appeared quietly pleased.

Now, scarcely a day after his return, peace had once more settled over your shared chambers. Everything returning into its mundane course.

Curled comfortably upon the luxurious settee, one slipper discarded upon the carpet beneath you, you had become hopelessly engrossed in a particularly fascinating volume detailing the rise of Nymeria's ten thousand ships.

Until a peculiar sound began.

A soft thump. Then followed by another. Wood meeting leather against the floor in a steady rhythm.

You frowned faintly without lifting your gaze, convincing yourself the distraction would soon cease. To your chagrin it had not, and you found yourself reading the same line a second time. When the fifth thump came, you released the softest sigh imaginable and lowered your book.

Ordinarily, Valarr's return from his afternoon drills followed an almost sacred routine, one so familiar you could have recited every motion without looking. He would enter dressed in fresh clothing after washing away the dust and sweat of the training yard, quietly remove his boots by the door lest they dirty the carpets, cross the room with careful footsteps, and press a chaste kiss against your temple before uttering so much as a greeting. Knowing well how easily books carried you into another world, he never sought to interrupt unless necessity demanded it, and he often confessed he found your complete immersion endlessly endearing. Only afterward would he loosen his rather large leather escarcelle (bag), drape it neatly across the carved bedpost, stretch out upon the immaculate bed, and indulge in a brief nap before servants arrived to summon the two of you for supper.

Today, however, the ritual had been forgotten, much like the Old Gods of Valyria.

Rather than resting upon the bed, Valarr wandered the length of your chambers with deliberate, unhurried steps. He paced like a scholar wrestling with an impossibly stubborn question.

Back and forth he walked, hands clasped behind his back, each measured stride accompanied by the gentle rhythm of boots against the floor. The singular streak of silver running through his otherwise dark hair remained impeccably in place despite the afternoon bath, while shafts of sunlight caught within his mismatched eyes, making one appear almost molten amber while the other glimmered somewhere between pale blue and deep indigo depending upon the angle. His thoughts held him captive enough that he failed to notice you watching him.

"Husband," you called softly, careful not to startle him from whatever labyrinth his mind had sauntered into. "Is something the matter?"

He stopped so abruptly one might have believed he had forgotten you were present at all. Turning toward you, remorse immediately softened his sharp, handsome features.

"No... Seven, no," he answered hastily, shaking his head. "Forgive me, my love. I had not realized I was disturbing your reading."

"No harm has been done, my dear."

Offering him a reassuring smile, you lifted your book once more, intending to lose yourself again among Nymeria's fleet. You had scarcely reached the bottom of the page before his voice dragged you ashore.

"I was wondering..." He stopped. "...No." Another pause. "On my journey through the Riverlands, Daeron and I happened to discuss... certain matters."

His hands, which had remained folded neatly behind his back, finally dropped to his sides before one rose to cradle his chin while the other folded across his chest.

The unusual hesitation in his speech, together with the faint crease between his brows, convinced you that whatever occupied him deserved your full attention. Resting the book upon your lap, you lifted your gaze to give him your undivided attention.

"What matters, my love?"

Valarr lowered his gaze to the floor.

"My cousin informed me..." he began before stopping yet again. To your considerable astonishment, a delicate flush began to creep across his pale cheeks.

"...that within a certain Inn in the Riverlands..." Another pause followed, his embarrassment deepening visibly. "...the Pussywillow... certain men enjoy drizzling honey over the lady's.... pot... before licking it clean off."

Silence settled between you as you stared at him in disbelief. For a moment, your face rendered emotionless due to your husband's unexpected lewdness. Then ever so slowly your brows slowly drew together.

"...What did you just say?"

"I have never visited the establishment," he blurted before you could gather another thought. "Nor did I accompany Daeron to any. I swear it before the Seven. I would never betray or disgrace you in such a fashion."

Crossing the room in two hurried strides, he reached for both your hands with such earnest urgency that the suddenness of the gesture startled a quiet laugh from you.

"I believe you."

His shoulders loosened by a fraction.

"Go on, then."

"I merely wondered..." he said carefully, choosing every word as though navigating a field strewn with hidden snares. "Not because I possess any particular interest in the practice itself. When Daeron mentioned it, I simply found myself wondering what you might have thought."

The flush upon his face deepened until even the tips of his ears had surrendered to it.

"I am not asking that we attempt such debauchery," he hurried on, his hands now accompanying every sentence in increasingly animated gestures.

"It simply occurred to me that if, hypothetically, I were to place honey upon your.... pot... would you find the notion absurd? Would you think less of me? Would it upset you?"

He hesitated one final time. "...Or would you perhaps find yourself... interested?" His brows lifted in subtle hope.

You considered his question for a long moment before gathering your thoughts. A similar hush of pink tainting your cheeks.

"I do not believe it would upset me," you replied slowly. "Nor do I imagine it would alter my opinion of you."

The smallest victorious smile threatened the corner of his mouth before disappearing beneath his princely composure.

"Precisely," he said with entirely too much enthusiasm.

"You see, the Tyrells sent us carriages of jars of spring honey. An extraordinary amount, truly. It would be terribly wasteful to leave it untouched."

Your expression flattened. "So that is the argument you intend to present?"

"You understand, then?" His eyes brightened at once. "Such generosity deserves appreciation. It would be deeply discourteous to allow so fine a gift to languish upon the pantry shelves. House Tyrell has shown our family remarkable support throughout the years. It would border upon an insult."

"I see." You feigned a serious nod.

"We ought to use it."

"Is that truly what you wish?" You questioned regarding him with an exasperated smile.

"My love," he answered with the utmost dignity, clearing his throat despite the unmistakable colour still lingering upon his cheeks, "I assure you I have no desire whatsoever to lick the liquid from your.....pot" Another pause. "It was merely... an inquiry." He shifted awkwardly. "...Unless.... you are interested." Another pause. "But truly, it was only an inquiry of the heart."

A smile escaped you despite your efforts to supress it.

"Very well, my love." Satisfied that the matter had concluded, you reached once more for your book.

"'Very well' as in... you wish to?" His head snapped towards you. He crossed the room in three swift strides, eyes suddenly impossibly wide, his larg hands pressing your book back down onto your lap.

You laughed softly.

"No, Valarr. I meant only that I understood you were only asking."

"Oh."

The single syllable carried enough disappointment to shatter your heart. His shoulders sagged with unmistakable resignation as he turned away and wandered toward the bed with all the forlorn dignity of a knight returning from a lost tourney.

You watched him for several long moments before releasing a defeated sigh of your own. Closing your book, you placed it carefully upon the polished mahogany table beside the settee.

"I would like to try, husband."

The transformation was immediate. Where moments before stood a dejected prince now stood a delighted boy scarcely capable of containing himself.

His entire countenance brightened with irrepressible excitement, his mismatched eyes sparkling with unconcealed triumph as though he had just been informed his petrified dragon egg had hatched.

"Well," he declared, striving, and failing, to sound composed, "if my precious wife should happen to desire such an experiment, who would I be to deny her?"

Without another word, he strode purposefully toward the leather satchel he had carried into the chamber.

"Perfect. It is as though the gods intended it."

From within it, he triumphantly withdrew a neatly stoppered large jar of honey.

"I happened to have one here."

You stared at your husband once again. Speachless.

"Come on then, wife, lie on the bed. I also have silverware prepared."