spilling the tea

26 y/o she/her at this point I'm just here for the thirst and writers who have the guts to publish REBLOGS OF GREAT PEOPLE

[rileyrabbit]

domestic rabbot getting it on after working the night shift together (Robby pulls a double or something) and he’s exhausted, bone deep exhaustion. The thing is Jack has been teasing him all day, little touches here and there, Robby swears Jack even groped him a little while passing through the hub trying to get to the bathroom. So he’s both keyed up and can barely stand on his feet. He can lean on Jack though, he hears his murmuring in the shower as they both wash the day of themselves, and it ends with Robby being fed, washed, and thoroughly fucked. (can u tell i just wanna see Robby pampered 👀)

Double Shift

4k of Robby being tired and pampered

The on-call room was dark with the only light bleeding in from the crack beneath the door. Robby laid on the narrow bed, still in his scrubs, one arm thrown over his eyes. He'd been trying to sleep for what felt like hours. Trying and failing, his body thrumming with a dragging tiredness that refused to let him actually rest. He'd worked a full day of trauma cases, difficult patients, and the endless paperwork that multiplied like rabbits in the dark corners.

Then the call had come, perfectly aligned with the new policy of double attending coverage, and could he please cover? Please? They were short staffed. Per usual. On top of Shen catching the flu. Robby had agreed because saying no felt like admitting he couldn't handle it, and Michael Robinavitch didn't know how to do that.

The door opened slowly, letting in a sliver of fluorescent light from the hallway, eating the dark sanctuary of the room. Robby didn't move, refusing to acknowledge its existence. He knew those footsteps that followed well enough, the slight unevenness of the gait, the way Jack moved through the world with a practiced ease that belied the missing part of his leg.

"Michael." Jack's voice was soft, barely above a whisper, as the door clicked shut behind him. Plunging them back into near total darkness. "Time to wake up, sleepyhead."

"Fuck off," Robby mumbled into his own bicep. "S'not time. I just closed my eyes."

Jack laughed. "Can't do that. Your night shift started ten minutes ago."

"Cover for me."

"I already am. That's the problem." He felt the mattress dip as Jack sat on the edge of the bed and then warm fingers were brushing the hair back from his forehead. "Come on. You’ve missed rounds already."

"This is cruel and unusual." Robby muttered, his voice rough.

Jack hummed, that low warm sound, that always seemed to find its way into Robby's chest no matter how tired he was. "Cruel and unusual? You're the one who said yes to pulling the double."

"Pulling doubles was a lot easier thirty years ago."

"I'm sure you'll find a way to keep up. But for now..." Jack's fingers traced over Robby's cheek, down his jaw, then the column of his throat. His hand drifted lower, palm flattening against Robby's chest, feeling the steady thump of his heart beneath the scrubs. "We've got a shift to work."

Robby's eyes were still closed, but he was more aware now. Jack's touch had a way of cutting through the fog and pulling him back to his body. He let out a slow breath, feeling himself start to stir despite the exhaustion.

"Jack, your hand is on my chest."

"I'm aware."

"And you're... moving it lower."

Jack hummed, as his fingertips found the waistband of Robby's scrub pants, dipping just beneath the elastic. "Am I?"

Robby's hips twitched involuntarily, as his body tried to keep up. "You're supposed to be waking me up, not... this."

"This is waking you up." Jack's mouth was suddenly at his ear, warm breath ghosting over the sensitive skin. "I can feel part of you waking up, in fact. Very... clearly."

Robby's face flushed. "You're an ass."

"You like my ass."

"That's—" Robby started to protest, but Jack's fingers had found what they were searching for, curling around his soft cock through the thin boxers. He could feel himself hardening and the wet spot of precum blooming where Jack's thumb circled his tip. The remaining words died in his throat.

Jack stroked him slowly and lazily. "You never take care of yourself," he murmured, lips brushing Robby's earlobe. Jack's voice was low and intimate, the kind of tone that usually preceded very nice things. "But not tonight, yeah? Tonight, you're going to let me take care of you."

Robby's breath hitched. He wanted to say something, wanted to make some snide comment about how Jack was taking care of him. Jack's thumb was circling the head of his cock, and he was already so tired, and—

And Jack pulled his hand away, leaving Robby half hard and gasping for air.

"Jack," Robby finally moved his arm, blinking up at Jack's face in the dim light. Jack was fully dressed, clearly ready for his own shift, dark circles absent from beneath his eyes. The bastard had actually slept.

“Fuck." Robby's voice cracked. "Jack, you can't—"

"Can't what?" Jack stood, all innocence, adjusting his own scrubs. "Can't remind my boyfriend what he's got waiting for him when we're done saving lives?" He was already at the door, hand resting on the handle. "Come on, sleepyhead. Night shift's waiting."

Robby stared at him for a long minute, something hot and frustrated coiling in his gut, fighting the tiredness in his bones. He wanted to grab Jack, pull him back, and demand he finish what he started. Robby was too groggy to fight it.

"You're an ass," Robby said, forcing himself to sit up. The room swam for a moment and he blinked rapidly until it steadied. "You know that, right?"

"I've been told." Jack opened the door, flooding the room with light. "Coming?"

Robby groaned, swinging his legs off the bed. "Apparently not."

Jack's laugh echoed down the hallway as Robby stumbled after him, still half hard and fully miserable about the whole situation.

The night shift in the ED was a different beast than the day shift. Quieter at times even though the same chaos still churned beneath the surface. Fewer administrators wandering around and fewer families filling up the waiting room. Just the steady hum of the machines and the nurses moving through their rotations. Robby should have been grateful for the relative calm. He moved on autopilot, his body running on caffeine, spite and the occasional jolt of adrenaline when a trauma came in. Jack, naturally, was thriving in his environment. He was everywhere, running the desk, handling borders, popping into rooms to check on patients. And without fail, every time he passed by Robby, he found a way to touch him.

It started small. A hand on Robby's shoulder as they passed in the hall fingers squeezing just a little too long. A brush of shoulders as Jack reached past him for a chart at the hub. The warmth of Jack's body pressed against his back for just a moment too long as they both stared at the same monitor. Robby gritted his teeth and tried to focus on his work.

Another trauma came in inevitably, a motor vehicle accident, possible internal bleeding. Robby threw himself into it grateful for the distraction to keep him alert. He took over the primary assessment, his voice steady and calm, despite the way his body was still humming. He could do this. He'd done this a thousand times. Except this time Jack was right there, working alongside him, handing him instruments before he even asked for them. Their fingers brushed, and Jack's eyes met his, and Robby felt something hot flare in his chest.

"Good catch," Jack murmured, low enough that only Robby could hear. "You're doing great."

Robby's face flushed beneath his mask. "Focus," he managed. It’s dumb really. It’s not like he hasn’t worked plenty of times alongside Jack with a patient. They’ve known each other’s rhythm perfectly long enough for none of this to be surprising.

Jack's hand found the small of his back, a brief, grounding pressure that lingered even after Jack fully passed behind to help with the intubation. Robby watched him work. That deceptively strong body moving with the practiced ease of threading a needle. Robby tore his eyes away, focusing on the patient, this was not the time nor place to focus on Jack’s thick gloved fingers.

The trauma was quickly stabilized and transferred up to the OR. Robby stood in the hallway, letting out a long breath, his shoulders sagging with exhaustion as he stripped off his PPE. He'd been on his feet for nearly too many hours now. His sore back ached. His eyes burned.

"Robby."

He turned to find Jack approaching with a mug in hand. Jack held it out and Robby took it gratefully. The coffee he'd drunk hours ago had long since worn off.

"Thanks," he said, and Jack smiled.

"Just doing my job."

"Your job does not include making coffee."

"It includes taking care of people." Jack stepped closer, close enough that Robby could smell him, as he leaned against the hub beside him. "And you're my favorite person. So."

Robby shook his head, but there was a warmth in his chest that had nothing to do with the fresh-ish coffee. "That’s excessive."

"You love it." Jack's fingertips found his hip, holding on for a lingering moment, before pulling away. "Go sit down for a few minutes. I'll keep an eye on things."

"I'm fine."

"You're running on fumes." Jack's eyes sharpened with a gaze that missed nothing. "Go take a break. That's an order."

Robby opened his mouth to argue, but the words died on his tongue. He was tired, edging towards bone deep exhaustion, and he wasn't doing anyone any favors by pushing through it. "Fine. Fifteen minutes."

"Good boy."

The two little words sent a shot of liquid heat through Robby's body. He turned away before Jack could see the flush on his cheeks and retreated to the break room. But even sitting down, he couldn't relax. His body was still keyed up from Jack's constant teasing, the little touches and suggestive comments that had been peppered throughout the night. He was hard again, just from the memory of Jack's hand on his back, the way Jack's eyes had raked over him at any opportunity.

The night dragged on, more cases, more patients, It went on like that for hours. Every time Robby started to flag, started to feel the bone deep exhaustion creeping back in, Jack would appear. With another whispered comment about how good Robby looked. They were passing each other in the hall near the bathrooms when it happened. Jack's hand found his ass, a quick, firm squeeze that made Robby's feet stumble.

“Jack—"

"Just going to take a leak," Jack said innocently.

"Bathroom's the other way," Robby trying to sound annoyed and not like his face was flushing.

"I know." Jack didn't even look back, just tossed a grin over his shoulder. "Just wanted to get your attention."

"You have all of my attention."

"Promises, promises." Jack then disappeared not towards the bathroom, leaving Robby to stand in the hallway, aching and desperate for more again.

He made his way back to the main hub, trying to focus on anything other than the way Jack's hand had felt on him. It was impossible. Every touch, every look, every word had been building toward something all night, and Robby was going to combust before he ever made it home. By the time 7 AM rolled around Robby was a wreck.

His double shift was officially over. The familiar faces of day shift were filtering in, taking over the cases, as morning rounds circled around him. Robby stood in the middle of it, staring blankly at the board, unable to remember what he was supposed to be doing.

"Robby." Jack's voice was warm at his ear. "Time to go home."

"Yeah." Robby blinked, trying to get his bearings. "Yeah. Okay. I just need to—"

"I've got it already." Jack's hand held out Robby’s backpack and helmet. “I’m going with you."

"Go where?"

"Home. Your place." Jack's eyes were warm, but there was something deeper there too, a flicker of concern rather than heat. "You can barely stand. You're not riding home alone."

"I'm fine. It’s a ten minute ride. Take your truck, I’ll meet you there.”

"You're swaying."

Robby opened his mouth to argue, but the truth of it hit him at that moment. His body was operating on pure stubbornness, and even that was starting to give out. "Fine, you're on the back. I’m not letting you drive.”

Jack's smile was slow and devastating. "I can work with that.”

They left together, out through the ambulance bay doors, walking through the quiet morning air to where Robby's motorcycle was parked. The sun was just starting to rise, painting the sky in shades of pinks and yellows. Robby barely noticed. He swung onto the bike, and Jack climbed on behind him with familiar ease, his arms wrapping around Robby's waist. The engine roared to life, and then they were moving, the wind whipping past them.

The ride home was a blur of wind and exhaust and Jack's body pressed against his back. Robby's motorcycle roared beneath them, the vibration thrumming through his body as Jack pressed flush against his back. Jack's arms were wrapped around Robby's waist and his mouth at Robby's neck. The wind eating any words he might have tried to whisper. And every time they hit a bump or took a turn, Jack's hips ground against his ass. Robby could feel the unmistakable press of his hard on.

"You're doing this on purpose," Robby shouted over the roar of the engine at the next red light.

Jack's laugh was breathless against his throat. "You have no idea how long I've been waiting to do this."

Robby could feel Jack's mouth on his neck, open and hot, and he almost swerved when Jack’s hand cupped his dick. The bike wobbled dangerously before he got it under control.

"Jack. Hands on the gas tank."

"I'm holding onto you."

"Not—" Robby's voice cracked. "Not like that."

Jack's laugh was wicked. "You're no fun."

It was a wonder they made it home at all. Robby kicked off his shoes, dropped his bag by the door, and immediately felt the full exhaustion crash over him. He'd been running on adrenaline and spite for the last few hours, and now that he was home, all of that energy was draining away.

"I'm done pulling doubles.” Robby announced, leaning against the wall.

Jack laughed, as he took off his own shoes, his movements careful as he balanced against the wall across him. His hands found their home on Robby's hips after. "Working with me all night was really that bad, huh?”

He kissed Robby then, tender and slow, the press of his lips a light apology. Robby sagged against him, letting Jack take his weight, and letting his eyes fall closed. Jack's mouth was warm, and his hands were steady, and for the first time in the past twenty-four hours Robby felt something like surrender. Until Jack's tongue swiped across his lower lip and the surrender gave way to heat.

"Bed," Robby managed. "Now."

"Shower first." Jack's hands were already sliding under Robby's scrub top, palms hot against his soft stomach. "You smell like the hospital."

"Don't care."

"I care." Jack nudged him back toward the bedroom, stripping Robby's shirt up and off as they went. "You get in that bed like this, and you're going to pass out before I even get you open. I know how these things work with you."

Robby wanted to argue. He really did. But Jack was already working on his scrub pants, and Robby's dick was painfully interested, and the idea of Jack's hands on him under hot water—

"Fine." Robby conceded, hating how breathless he already sounded.

Jack stripped them both as they walked with none of the teasing from earlier. They ended up in the bathroom as Robby’s boxers were pushed down his legs. Jack turned the water on, then bent to remove his prosthesis, propping it against the wall. Robby watched, as he always did, noting the careful way Jack managed his balance. They stepped into the shower together, the hot water sluicing over their shoulders, and making Jack’s curls flatten out. Robby groaned as the heat hit his aching muscles and he leaned his weight against the wall.

Jack soaped up a washcloth and Robby watched through half lidded eyes as Jack washed him. His chest, his arms, and his back. The cloth was gentle against his skin and each stroke was a small act of devotion. When Jack washed his hair, Robby let his head fall back, a soft moan escaping his parted lips.

"Good?" Jack hummed.

"Mm. Keep going."

Jack laughed, but he obeyed. His hands were deep in Robby's hair now, working the shampoo through the strands, massaging his scalp. Robby was putty in his hands as all of the tension slowly washed away down the drain. Eyes fluttering closed as he leaned his weight into the warmth of Jack’s chest. Jack’s mouth found him in a kiss that was slow and deep. Robby tasted the lingering traces of coffee on Jack's tongue, felt the scratch of his stubble, and let himself be pulled under.

Jack kissed him until he was breathless and then pulled back with a soft smile. "There you are. I was starting to think you'd fallen asleep."

"Almost," Robby admitted. "You're very warm."

"I know. But I'm also very hard, and I've been thinking about this for twelve hours." Jack's hand slid down, wrapping around Robby’s cock making his hips jerked forward. "So I need you to stay awake for me. Can you do that?"

Robby’s answer back was a whimper.

Jack laughed and kissed him again. "I'll take that as a yes."

When Jack's fingers found his ass next, Robby jerked awake with a shuddering jolt. "Jack—"

"I've got you." Jack's mouth was at his throat now kissing the hollow beneath his jaw. "I've got you, baby. Just let me take care of you."

Robby's head was spinning. The steam, the heat, the water pressure, and Jack's hands on his body. It was too much and not enough. He could feel himself getting hard again despite the bone-deep exhaustion. Jack's fingers were slick with soap, sliding across his skin, dipping between his cheeks with maddening slowness.

"You're so good," Jack murmured, lips brushing his ear. His fingers circled Robby's hole making him gasp. "Keep being good for me."

Robby whined. It was an embarrassing sound, high and needy, and he couldn't bring himself to care. He was too tired to maintain his dignity. Too keyed up to pretend he didn't want this after being teased all night long.

Jack turned Robby, with a hand on his hip, pressing him against the wall. The cool tile was a shock against Robby's overheated skin as his hands braced. Jack's fingers were sliding into Robby, two of them, stretching him open with practiced ease. Robby’s hips bucked back against Jack's hand. It felt so good, Jack's thick fingers working him open, curling against that spot inside him that made him pant.

"Jack," he gasped. "More. I need—" Robby couldn’t handle another pointless edging.

"I know what you need." Jack was pressing a kiss to his shoulder, the spot he'd bitten a bruise into two days ago. "I'm getting you ready, baby. Don't rush me."

But Robby couldn't help it. He was so close, so desperate, and Jack's fingers weren't enough. They weren't Jack. They weren't filling him the way he needed to be filled. "Not enough. It's not enough."

Jack's fingers slowed. "What do you need, baby?"

"You. I need you. Please, Jack, I need you."

Jack's laugh was soft, but in no way less endeared. "Okay. Okay, Mikey. Let's get you to bed."

He turned off the water, and Robby stood shivering in the rapidly cooling air, watching as Jack reached for a towel. He dried them both off with a quick rub down.

"Bed," Jack ordered with a gentle swat to Robby’s thigh with the towel. "Go lay down. I'll be right there."

Robby obeyed without question, which should have been a sign of just how gone he was. He stumbled into the bedroom, not bothering with anything, just face planting into the cool sheets. His dick was hard against his stomach, pressing into the mattress, and he rutted against it mindlessly trying to find friction.

"None of that." Jack's voice came from the doorway, Robby hadn't heard him approach, hadn't heard the crutches tapping against the hardwood. "I told you I'd take care of you."

Jack climbed onto the bed, his body settling over Robby's back, the weight of him was solid and smothering.

"Still with me?" Jack asked, lips brushing Robby's shoulder blade.

"Mmph."

"That's not an answer."

Robby turned his head, just enough to catch Jack's eye. "Don't stop," he managed. "Please. Don't."

Jack's expression softened. "I wasn't planning to."

He shifted, maneuvering Robby's hips up, onto his knees. Robby went willingly, letting Jack position him like a doll. It should have been embarrassing, but with Jack, it felt like safety. To just turn everything off and let himself be handled.

Something cool and wet touched his entrance, Jack had grabbed the lube from the nightstand, and then his fingers were back sliding inside him.

"You can come," Jack murmured, teeth scraping against Robby's nape. "Whenever you need to. I've got you."

But it wasn't enough. Jack's fingers were thick and his mouth felt incredible against Robby's skin, but Robby needed more. The exhaustion was pulling at him, threatening to drag him under, but he couldn't let go, not yet, not like this.

"Jack." His voice cracked. "Please. Need—"

"I know, good boy." Jack pulled his fingers out, just as quickly as they had been inside him, and Robby whined at the loss. "Shh, baby. I've got you."

And then Jack was pressing inside his thick cock head sliding into Robby's body in one smooth thrust. Robby’s breath caught in a gasp, his fingers gripping the sheets, and his body weakly arching back to meet Jack.

"Ready?" Jack asked.

"Yes. Fucking—"

Jack pushed all the way in, slow and steady, Robby's brain went white. The stretch was perfect, exactly what Robby needed, and he came in a sudden, overwhelming rush. His body clenched around Jack's dick, pleasure arcing through him like lightning, and he heard himself make a high and desperate whimper.

"Good." Jack's voice was strained, but he didn't stop. "That's it. That's my good boy."

"Keep going," Robby managed, because Jack was trying to pull out and Robby wasn't done with him. "Don't stop. Don't you fucking dare—"

"Bossy." Jack thrust back in, and Robby moaned, the oversensitivity curling into something raw and new. "You get what you want, don't you."

Yes. He did. Tonight, with Jack, he did. Jack fucked him through it, the rhythm steady and deep, each thrust sending jolts of pleasure through Robby's overstimulated body. Robby's mind floated somewhere above them both, drifting on the warmth that had settled into his bones. He was vaguely aware of Jack's breathing speeding up, of Jack's hips stuttering—

And then Jack pulled out, jerking himself off over Robby's back, and Robby felt the thick warmth of cum paint his skin.

"Fuck," Jack breathed. "Robby. Fuck."

Robby hummed, too far gone for words. His body was a puddle on the bed, his mind somewhere in the clouds, and all he could manage was a satisfied wriggle.

Then Jack was moving, reaching for a cloth, cleaning Robby's back with slow circles. Robby didn't move. Couldn't move even if he wanted to. His body was wrecked, boneless, floating somewhere between consciousness and sleep. Robby heard him tossed the dirty cloth towards the hamper and the thunk of it hitting the floor instead in a miss. Robby curled into him further, pressing his face against Jack's chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart.

"Going to make dinner," Jack murmured, fingers carding through Robby's damp hair. "I’ll wake you up in a bit to eat. Don’t get too comfortable.”

Robby hummed in a response, already half asleep, too gone to argue.

"Love you," Jack whispered, and Robby smiled into his chest.

"Love you too," he managed, the words slurred with exhaustion.

Jack was still talking, something about food, but Robby couldn't follow it. The words washed over him like waves, pulling him under, and then he was gone.

[r4bidabbott]

I love the yearning men thing you got going on and wanted to run this idea by you: super independent woman reader who just does stuff for herself and thinks nothing of it because that is how it always has been. Pair her with acts of service Jack Abbot. She is a brand new attendant on nights and he is smitten at the first trauma. He can’t get an in because she is just too competent on her own. What do you think?

oh how i love you jack abbot

you had only been the attending at PTMC for a little over a week, transferring from a different hospital due to cuts in staffing. it didn't bother you that you were forced to move, just a change in scenery that you were more than capable of handling. the night shift crew adored you. you were quick to help, fast on your feet, and always prepared. someone didn't bring any food? you packed extras. room needed cleaned for an incoming patient? you had a minute to spare even if it wasn't your job. someone needed an iv placed asap? you were already gloved up and doing it.

you were jack abbot's dream woman. he loved your intelligence, always quick to correct a resident or help whenever they were stuck. he loved your determination, tongue always slightly poked out when you were extra focused on whatever task was at hand. he loved your humor, not afraid to crack a joke when things were tense. you were a total package. what he loved a little less was your independence. it was getting in the way of him making a move. the first instance of your independence getting in his way was your second day. you were getting ready to transport a patient to a different room, the man on the bed a hefty size. "i can do that," jack blurted out as he watched you begin to slowly push the man. you raised an eyebrow at him, a smile spreading across your lips. "i'm already going this way. thank you though," you spoke, walking right past him to continue on your way.

the next time was during a rather busy shift. patients were in and out, chairs were filled, and rooms were taking longer than necessary to strip. he had moved to stand beside you as you looked over a chart at the nurses station, eyes glancing to a room that had a dirty sign on the door. "i'll clean that," he spoke, moving to walk towards the door. "already done. you can take the sign down though," you hummed, shooting him a quick smile before you were turning to head to another room. it had been like that everyday. jack would try to do something to make your life easier, but you were always 5 steps ahead of him. you were never rude about it either, a smile on your face as you told him that he was too late. it drove him crazy.

it was the end of shift, and he had fought with himself all evening about how he was going to make a move on you. you were younger than him, gorgeous, and stupidly smart. it was only a matter of time before someone was going to make a move. he had to do it first. he was busy in conversation with ellis, glancing every now and then to make sure you hadn't left yet. he wanted to walk you out to your car. dr. ellis was busy rambling, sucking him into conversation that he hadn't even noticed you walking out the door. "god dammit," he grumbled, running a hand over his face as he caught the tail of your ponytail swinging out of sight. "you look miserable. rough shift?" robby came up beside him, setting his bag down before looking over to jack. ellis couldn't help the snort she let out, jack shooting her a death stare. "am i missing something?" robby questioned, leaning against the counter as he looked between the two. "it's the new attending," ellis spoke, wiggling her eyebrows at him.

jack was quick to roll his eyes, shoving his things into his bag with annoyance. "you don't like her?" robby questioned, making his way to look over the screen of patients. "i can't do anything for her," jack mumbled, running a hand through his mess of hair. robby was quick to snap his head to look at him, eyebrows furrowing together. "why is that a problem?" he asked confused, ellis continuing to snicker. "because i like to do things," he shot back, throwing his bag over his shoulder. robby raised an eyebrow, his gaze moving from jack to ellis. "because he has a fat crush on her," ellis finally let out, a loud laugh leaving her lips causing jack to quickly shush her.

all he needed was word getting out that he was head over heels for the new attending. enough gossip went on around here, there didn't need to be more. "i don't. shut up would you?" he grumbled again, glancing around quickly to make sure no one heard. "you literally reorganized the entire supply closet alphabetically because she couldn't find something the other day," ellis shot back quickly, robby letting out a low chuckle. "completely unrelated. goodbye," he mumbled to the both of them before he was rushing out. he didn't understand. you weren't refusing his kindness, you just never looked for it, never waited for it. if something needed done, you just did it. and you continued doing it.

it was 2 more months of absolute torture for him. it was like he was swinging, missing, and striking out at every opportunity that presented itself to him. you knew he was trying, it gave you butterflies. but it wasn't what you wanted. you wanted him to be straight up with you. ask you out to dinner. make a move. not try to impress you or do things for you. he was exactly your type too which made it so painful to not allow him to try to play superman. it always made you smile, the way he would fumble over his words around you. it kept you up night thinking about his embarrassed smile whenever you caught something he had missed.

the energy in the emergency department that night was.. calm. no one would say that though out of fear things would get hectic. you were busy working on a chart, going to take a sip of your coffee when you realized it was empty. a soft sigh left your lips as you made your way to the break room, pushing open the door to reveal jack stood there making coffee. "you beat me to it," you hummed, leaning against the wall as he turned to face you, a small shrug of his shoulders as he smiled at you. "i needed some. surprised you didn't have it done already," he spoke, moving to pour himself a cup before turning back to you. "you needed some or you noticed i was almost out so you made more?" you teased, moving to stand next to him. you could see his cheeks turn a light shade of pink, a loud laugh leaving your lips. you caught him.

jack decided then and there that he would make a fool of himself everyday if he got to hear your laugh again. "y'know i have a confession to make," you started, turning to face him as you leaned against the counter. he raised an eyebrow, taking a small sip of his coffee before setting it down, leaning against the counter to match you. "i've been waiting," you spoke softly as you looked up at him, a much softer look on your face than he had seen on you before. he almost choked on his coffee, his hand moving to mess with his cup. "you've what?" he asked, eyebrows furrowed together. "i've just been wondering when you would stop trying to help me and realize i don't need someone to do things for me," you hummed, a smile tugging at the corner of your lips. his cheeks were now a bright red, skin feeling hot.

he swallowed hard as you took a step closer to him, not being able to spit any words out. "i need someone who wants to be with me. not save me," you spoke, your arms crossing over your chest tightly. he felt fireworks going off in his stomach, his bottom lip sucking between his teeth. he hadn't felt butterflies for a woman in years. "so are you going to actually ask me out?" you spoke, smiling up at him still. his whole body felt like it was on fire. he nodded, his hands moving to rub over his scrubs. was he nervous? you cocked an eyebrow up at his silence, nudging him with your elbow.

"would you like to have dinner with me?" he finally spoke, feeling like he was choking on his words. "i'd love to. when?" you questioned immediately, a small chuckle leaving jack's lip. he felt like all the nervousness had melted off of him at your acceptance. "you know.. for someone who is so independent, you're awfully impatient," he teased, causing you to immediately roll your eyes and laugh. "impatient? i have been waiting two months," you mumbled, grabbing your coffee from the counter. "fair enough," he chuckled, leading you to the door of the break room. the sound of your pagers went off, alerting to an incoming trauma. "dinner will have to wait," he smirked to you, grabbing the door handle before you could to open it. "it will be worth it," he winked, following after you out the door. you finally let him do something for you.

[permanent-fire-hazard]

Robby is welcomed home to the sight of his husband bent in half, completely nude.

"Jesus, Jack," he laughs. "All the curtains are open."

"No one can see me from here," Jack says. He slides forward into a lunge. "And shouldn't you want to show me off anyway?"

"Not like this." Robby slaps the jiggle and laugh it gets out of Jack.

"Knew you liked it."

"Never said I didn't. I'm taking a quick shower; wrap this up, we need to be out the door in thirty minute."

"Sir, yes, sir."

Half an hour later, Robby reenters the living room to find Jack, graciously, dressed. His collared shirt stretches around his shoulders handsomely; Robby kisses him as a thank you. "You clean up nice, Dr. Abbot."

Jack hums. "You're one to talk." His hands fall around Robby's waist and pull him closer. They share a languid kiss. Or at least that's how it starts, it doesn't take long for Jack's hands to start worming their way downward.

"Mm, no," Robby shakes his head. "Not this time."

"Oh, come on. It's just dinner."

"'Just dinner' at the most booked restaurant in the city," Robby argues, though it's half-hearted. If he weren't so hungry, he'd be tempted to give in to Jack's offer. "Besides, this is the second time I've had to make a reservation with them. We missed the first time because you got your way, remember?"

Jack gives him another squeeze. "Boy, do I."

"I swear you get worse with age."

"It's better than age, baby. Like a fine wine."

"Well, I'd like some actual wine tonight, and if you're good, maybe we can have dessert at home."

Jack's mouth hangs open, offended. "I'm always good."

Robby scoffs. "Sure." He makes it one step out the front door when a swift hand lands on his ass. "Jack!"

"Your pants are so well tailored, and I was getting you back for earlier."

"Jack."

"I'll be good at the restaurant, I promise."

Jack's wide smile shimmers in the sunset. The pretty lines on his face highlight the gleaming joy in his hazel eyes. Robby sighs, he'd have to be a much stronger man to resist another kiss.

[belleeebelleee]

Tommy Shelby (Peaky Blinders) x fem!reader

You're the new librarian in Birmingham, stubbornly refusing to be intimidated by the gangsters who wander into your building. Tommy initially notices you because you tell him to stop smoking inside. He falls harder when you continue treating him like an ordinary man rather than the feared leader of the Peaky Blinders.

The first time you met Tommy Shelby, you took the cigarette right out of his hand.

Not because you knew who he was.

Not because you were brave.

Simply because smoking wasn't allowed in the library.

The library itself was one of the few quiet places left in Birmingham. A tall brick building with narrow windows and worn wooden floors that creaked under every footstep. It smelled permanently of old paper, dust, and rain-soaked coats.

You had only been working there for three weeks.

Three weeks of organizing neglected shelves, repairing damaged books, and trying to convince local children that reading wasn't a punishment.

Three weeks of being told exactly who the Peaky Blinders were.

Everyone seemed determined to warn you.

The butcher. The baker. The elderly woman who sold flowers. The young constable who came in every Tuesday.

They all spoke about the Shelby family with the same mixture of fear and fascination.

And every single warning went in one ear and out the other.

You had moved to Birmingham specifically because you were tired of being told how to behave around powerful men.

You weren't about to start now.

Which was why, on a gray afternoon in October, when a tall man in a dark suit wandered into your library and lit a cigarette between the history shelves, you marched directly toward him.

He looked up as you approached.

Blue eyes. Sharp cheekbones. A face that somehow looked both handsome and dangerous.

The sort of face that made people nervous.

You weren't nervous. You were annoyed.

"You can't smoke in here."

The man stared.

For a moment he seemed genuinely confused. As though nobody had spoken to him that way in years.

The cigarette remained between his fingers.

"What?"

"You can't smoke in here."

His eyebrow lifted.

"Why not?"

You pointed directly toward the sign hanging on the wall.

NO SMOKING.

He followed your finger.

Looked at the sign.

Then looked back at you.

And something strange happened.

The corner of his mouth twitched. Almost a smile. Almost.

"Right."

To your complete surprise, he extinguished the cigarette.

You nodded.

"Thank you."

Then turned around and walked away.

Leaving Tommy Shelby standing alone among the shelves.

Watching you.

When Tommy returned two days later, he wasn't entirely sure why.

He told himself he needed information. Research. Business.

An excuse. Any excuse.

But the truth was far simpler.

Nobody had treated him like that in years.

Most people either feared him or wanted something from him.

Even allies approached him carefully. Politely. Cautiously. Like men standing too close to an unexploded bomb.

You hadn't.

You'd looked directly into his eyes and scolded him like an unruly schoolboy.

The memory kept making him smile.

Which irritated him.

Because Tommy Shelby did not smile over librarians.

Yet there he was.

Walking through the front doors again.

You looked up from your desk.

Immediately recognizing him.

"Back again?"

His mouth twitched.

"Seems so."

"No smoking today?"

"No."

"Good."

The smile escaped before he could stop it.

A genuine one.

Brief. Dangerous. Beautiful.

You stared.

Tommy noticed. "You find something funny?"

"No."

"You looked amused."

"I was just surprised."

"About what?"

You shrugged. "I didn't think gangsters smiled."

The silence that followed was spectacular.

Nearby readers froze.

One woman nearly dropped her book.

Tommy simply stared.

Then laughed. Actually laughed.

The sound startled everyone in the room.

Including himself.

After that, he started visiting regularly.

At first once a week.

Then twice.

Then almost every day.

Always under some excuse.

Returning books. Asking questions. Requesting recommendations.

You eventually realized he didn't actually read half the books he borrowed.

"You haven't opened this one."

Tommy glanced down.

"How can you tell?"

"The pages are still stuck together."

"Hm."

"You forgot to pretend."

His eyes gleamed.

"You caught me."

"You should feel ashamed."

"I do."

He sounded completely unashamed.

The rest of Birmingham noticed before either of you did.

Especially the Peaky Blinders.

Arthur noticed first. Because Arthur noticed everything when it involved Tommy.

"Why are you always at that bloody library?"

Tommy didn't look up from his whiskey. "I'm reading."

Arthur stared.

"You're what?"

"Reading."

"Jesus Christ."

John nearly choked laughing.

Arthur looked genuinely concerned, like Tommy had developed a serious illness.

Tommy ignored both of them.

Though he couldn't entirely ignore the truth.

He wasn't going there for books.

Not anymore.

He was going because of you.

Because you spoke to him normally. Because you rolled your eyes when he was difficult. Because you challenged him. Because you never looked frightened.

Not once.

Even when you learned exactly who he was.

The revelation happened accidentally.

One evening you were locking up.

A customer mentioned his name.

The realization struck immediately.

Tommy Shelby. The Tommy Shelby. Leader of the Peaky Blinders. The man half the city feared.

You found him waiting outside.

Leaning against the brick wall.

Cap tilted low.

Cigarette glowing in the darkness.

You walked over.

He watched your expression carefully.

"Something wrong?"

"No."

"You found out."

You nodded. "Seems I did."

Silence.

Tommy prepared himself.

For fear. Distance. The usual reaction.

Instead you said, "You still can't smoke near the entrance."

Tommy blinked. Actually blinked.

Then laughed.

Again.

That warm, rare laugh that only appeared around you.

And something shifted inside him.

Something dangerous.

Because in that moment he realised he was already falling in love.

The problem was that Tommy Shelby knew exactly what happened to people connected to him.

He'd seen it. Lived it. Buried it.

The world around him wasn't safe.

Violence followed him like a shadow. Enemies followed him too.

You deserved better than that.

Better than him.

So he tried to stay away.

For nearly three weeks.

Three miserable weeks.

The library felt emptier without him.

Your days felt longer.

You hated how much you noticed.

Hated how often you glanced toward the door.

Waiting. Looking. Hoping.

And every day he didn't come.

When he finally returned, he looked exhausted.

Dark circles beneath his eyes. Tension in every line of his body.

You didn't greet him.

Didn't smile.

Just crossed your arms. "You're late."

His eyebrows rose. "Late?"

"You disappeared."

"I've been busy."

"That's a poor excuse."

Tommy stared.

Then laughed quietly.

"You tellin' me off?"

"You deserve it."

Maybe he did.

Because hearing you complain felt absurdly wonderful. Like coming home.

The confession happened months later.

On a snowy evening.

The library had already closed.

You were shelving books.

Tommy was pretending to read.

Neither of you acknowledged the fact he'd been sitting there for nearly two hours.

Finally you sighed. "You haven't turned a page."

"I know."

"Then why are you here?"

Tommy looked up.

And suddenly all humor disappeared.

The room became very quiet.

Very still.

"I come here because of you."

Your breath caught.

He stood slowly.

Never taking his eyes off yours.

The distance between you vanished.

"I come here because when I'm with you, I remember who I was before everything happened."

His voice was rough. Honest. Dangerously honest.

"You treat me like I'm just a man."

"You are just a man."

The look on his face nearly broke your heart. Because it seemed nobody had told him that in years.

Tommy reached for your hand. Tentatively. Like he wasn't certain he deserved to touch you.

"I don't know how to do this properly."

"Do what?"

"This."

His thumb brushed your knuckles.

The smallest touch. It felt enormous.

"I know business."

A pause.

"I know war."

Another pause.

"I know how to hurt people."

His voice softened.

"But I haven't the faintest idea how to court a librarian."

A laugh escaped you. Something wonderfully affectionate.

Tommy smiled.

Then you stepped closer.

Close enough to feel his heartbeat. Close enough to see every scar. Every burden. Every lonely piece of him.

And finally, after months of stubborn friendship and careful affection and feelings neither of you could hide anymore, you rose onto your toes and kissed him.

Tommy froze. Just for a second.

Then his hands found your waist.

And suddenly he was kissing you back. Like a starving man. Like someone discovering hope after years without it. Like someone who had spent too long convincing himself he didn't deserve happiness.

When the kiss finally ended, neither of you moved far.

His forehead rested against yours.

Breathing uneven.

Eyes closed.

You smiled.

"So."

"So?"

"You still can't smoke in my library."

Tommy laughed.

The sound warm against your skin.

And for perhaps the first time in years, the notorious leader of the Peaky Blinders looked completely at peace.

"Yes, librarian." His arm slipped around your waist, holding you closer. "Whatever you say."

[affabletimelady]

very cute luv 🩷💚🧡

[silv3rswirls]

Afflictions

Summary: Desperate to secure an heir, Gwayne turns to the one man arrogant enough to say yes.

Warnings: Smut, breeding kink. Biting, no infidelity; everyone communicates like adults. Gwayne loves his wife so much (Just Not Like That)

Note: requested by anon: Reader married Gwayne—however, our dear Gwayne isn't exactly fond of women. Yet, reader needs to produce a Hightower heir; what choice does Gwayne have but to ask his cousin Ormund for help? Ormund would certainly be willing to do this favor to ensure House Hightower prospers.

I hope you like it!

Requests are always open!

Your marriage to Gwayne Hightower was not an unhappy one. 

You grew up alongside him under the shadow of the Hightower. Wasting countless afternoons walking the gardens, debating history, and finding a piece of quiet refuge from court obligations. It was only natural that Otto and your father spoke of betrothal. Otto gained closer direct relations to an old and useful family among Oldtown, while your father gained the relief that you would be sworn to an honorable and kind man.

You accepted, of course, without a second thought. To build a life with a man you already knew and trusted, admired even, was perhaps the best outcome you hoped for. Gwayne accepted not long after it was brought to both of you. While you giddily thought of wedding details, Gwayne struggled to feel the true pull of romance take him as he hoped it would.

He loved you deeply, though maybe just as one would love a lifelong friend.

Gwayne was everything when it came to being a husband. Attentive to your wants and needs, though not suffocating or controlling. Generous, considerate of your comfort. Most things you wanted for were gifted quietly, with kind smiles and words. He accompanied you whenever he could, a stroll in the gardens or through the market.

Never once did he speak harshly to you, nor did he leave you wanting for any affection, save for just one thing.

When night fell over your house, and you settled in your shared chambers, it seemed a wall was put up. He would kiss your forehead and settle beside you. He would hold you if you desired, spoke about your day, until settling into the dark silence and drifting to sleep with you pressed in his arms.

You waited patiently for when Gwayne would desire more of you. You had lain together once on your wedding night, but as the many moons passed, Gwayne showed no desire to do so again. 

“You do not find me attractive?” You ask one evening, sitting at your vanity. Quietly plucking your jewelry off for the night. Gwayne was behind you, changing to something more comfortable to sleep in. Your quiet, nervous question left him stopped in his tracks. 

“Why do you say that?” He asked carefully.

You scoffed, “It is obvious; you have not lain with me since our wedding night. What is so undesirable?” You turned to him, lips pressed thin to a frown. “You are perfect in every way, husband, but I cannot keep ignoring this- I have desires and needs- what of an heir? You father asks often of when we will bless the house with one.”

“It is nothing like that,” he breathes, flustered. “You are not undesirable at all, love; you are kind and beautiful. Cleaver, to talk to you comes with such ease; you are very desirable.”

"You've never once made me feel unwanted," you continued quietly. "Yet I cannot help but wonder if you find me... lacking."

"No” He jumped quickly. "No," he repeated, softer. "Never think that."

"Then why?" He took a long time to answer. "I've waited because I thought perhaps you wished to take things slowly. But I can’t help but wonder if I have somehow failed you."

"You have never failed me." His voice cracked. “You are more patient than I deserve." He reached to take your hands. “The fault is mine and mine alone.”

The guilt weighed on him heavily; it grew with every passing night. Unspoken glances of servants, harsh questions from her father. Gossip from court and smallfolk: why hasn’t Ser Gwayne given his wife a child?

You deserve a husband to give you everything- companionship, devotion, children- but it remained painfully, impossibly beyond his reach. 

Gwayne runs his thumb over your hand carefully, seemingly unsure of what to say next. He draws you closer to the bed, sitting down beside you and sighing. “I had hoped to grow fond of you when we married; I thought that with time I could bring myself to give you children. However much I care for you, love you dearly, I cannot bring myself to lie with you again.”

Your brows knit together. “I don’t understand. If you love me as much as you claim, how can you refuse to lie with me?”

“I’m not…fond of women.” He admits quietly, hand still clasped tightly with yours. “I have never been very fond of women…However, I know that I cannot openly reject them; my father would never allow it.”

"...Oh."

It was the only word you could manage. Your shoulders dropped as the truth settled over you. "So..." you whispered. "It was never me?"

"Never." He insisted. “I cannot bear that you have believed yourself unworthy because of me.”

A stray tear rolled down your cheek. “You should have told me.”

"I know."

"I thought..." Your voice grew weak. "I thought perhaps you looked at me and wished for someone prettier. Someone smarter. Someone who knew how to be a better wife."

"I have never wished for another wife." He frowned, “I have only wished myself to be a different husband.” 

You sniffled, more tears slipping from your eyes as you took him into your arms. “You're foolish,” you laughed weakly into his shoulder. “You’ve kept this burden to yourself this whole time?”

“It’s not yours to bear.” He murmured, “If you wish to leave this marriage, I won’t stop you.”

"No."

"It would be deserved."

"It would not."

"You deserve the chance to marry a man who can give you everything."

"And you deserve someone who doesn't ask you to become someone you're not." A faint, weary smile curved his lips. "Do you wish to leave this marriage?"

"No." He admitted softly. “I love the life we’ve begun. Our morning together, our walks. Even how you cheat at cyvasse-”

“I do not cheat!” You laugh through wavering tears. 

"You absolutely do." He smiled softly, bringing a hand to brush away the drying tears from your cheek. 

You stare at him, holding his eyes for a long moment. “Gwayne,” you sigh, “you’ve been trying to make this marriage fit what you believe it should be; perhaps it’s time to accept it will never be what others may expect from us.” The truth of Gwayne’s desires put to rest the restless twists in your stomach. “I wish for us to remain partners; we are happy and kind to one another. I see no reason for annulment.”

“What of the rest? What I cannot give you?” He asks, voice uncertain as he watches you.

"The rest..." you said carefully, "may have to come from elsewhere."

"You would truly consider such a thing?"

"I would consider whatever solution allows us both to live happily." You brushed a loose strand of hair from his face, hand moving to settle at the side of his face. “We will do this together, honestly, carefully.”

Your arrangement settled a few days after that night. You would remain married and happy as you had always been. Still, his family questioned why it was taking so long to provide a child. For now, their worries settled; you claimed that it was not for a lack of trying; you simply were having a hard time conceiving.

So of course, Otto ordered everything to be done to help your condition.

The Maesters visited often. You sat through their lectures and tips to conceive, only half listening as they went on and on. Gwayne always attended with you, the both of you hiding faint smiles as they drummed up every possible solution to help put a child into you.

“I don’t think your father will give up.” You comment one night, giggling as you fall back onto the bed. “He demands it.”

“He can demand all he wants; it will not change a thing.” He sighs, exhaustion weighing heavier on him. “I’m sorry I can’t give you a child.” He looks down at you with a frown. “Maybe we should try…I got through our wedding night well enough-” “No- no,” you hush up, sitting up immediately. “I don't want you to do anything you won’t enjoy. I can bear our family’s expectations.”

“They speak ill of us.” He admits, “I hear the gossip every day.”

“I don’t care. Are we not happy the way things are?”

“I am,” he smiles, “you are my most trusted friend.”

“And you mine.” Gwayne’s smile falters a bit; he puffs out a small breath as he turns to pace the room. “I don’t like how to speak of you.” He admits. “As if you’re doing something wrong, or that you're cursed to be barren, when it is not true. When the blame is solely on me.”

“Don’t listen to them; I can take harmless gossip.” 

“Your family pressures me; they are angry.” He admits, “So I have been thinking.” You tilted your head, watching him pace before the hearth. He rarely wore such a troubled expression. 

"That is never a reassuring way to begin a sentence." You tried to laugh to lighten his mood, but only a breathless laugh escaped him, though it lacked its usual warmth.

"I cannot continue allowing you to bear the burden of my shortcomings." You fell silent; he stopped his hands behind his back, eyes watching the flames of the hearth dance. "My father grows more impatient with each passing moon. Your family asks about heirs as though they might appear if they simply inquire enough." He sighed. "They look at you with pity."

"I've survived worse than pity."

"But you should not have to." His voice softened.

"You have given me nothing but kindness since the day we wed. You accepted a husband who could not love you as husbands are expected to love their wives, and never once did you resent me for it.”

"I have never had reason to."

"You should have."

"I could never."

"I love you," he said quietly. "Just... not in the way this marriage requires."

"I know."

"And because I love you..." He swallowed. "I would rather endure any shame myself than watch them place it upon your shoulders."

"What have you been thinking?" He turned, for a long moment; he searched your face, as though weighing whether the words should ever leave his lips.

"When we married," he began carefully, "we promised there would never be deceit between us. I have no intention of breaking that promise." His jaw tightened. "If House Hightower must have an heir..." He paused, choosing each word with painful precision. "Perhaps... we ought to seek a solution together.”

The room grew quiet, save for the soft burning of the fire. "There is... one possibility," he finally sighed, seemingly unsure if he should continue his thought.

“Finally going to tell me what’s troubling you?”

A weary smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "I've spent the better part of a fortnight trying to convince myself it was a terrible idea."

"And?”

He exhaled slowly before crossing the room to sit beside you. For a long moment he simply studied his hands, as though the words refused to come. "If House Hightower must have an heir," he began carefully, "perhaps that heir need not be mine by blood."

You frowned, uncertain whether you had heard him correctly. "I don't understand."

"You know my cousin Ormund?”

You laughed, a surprised shrill in your tone trying to bring some kind of levity to his dead serious tone. “I do. What does he have to do with this?”

"I find him impossible. He is vain."

You nodded. "Insufferably so."

Gwayne sighed through his nose, almost reluctant to continue. "Unfortunately, beneath all that arrogance is a man fiercely devoted to our house."

The amusement faded from your face as his words slowly began to settle into you. "Gwayne..."

"I have considered every other solution." His voice softened. "An annulment would only punish us both. Pretending the gossip does not exist has accomplished nothing. 

"They're only whispers!”

"They call you barren. They pity you. They speak as if you've failed me, when the truth is that you've done nothing wrong. If..." He hesitated, choosing every word with care. "If you were comfortable with it... I could ask Ormund."

You stared at him. "Ask him... for what?"

"To father our heir."

The air seemed to leave the room. He watched you, allowing the weight of his proposal to settle over you.  "The child would still carry the Hightower name," he continued gently. "They would resemble our family well enough that no one would question it. The rumors would end. Our fathers would have the heir they demand, and no one would dare cast blame upon you again."

"You've truly thought this through." You finally breathed.

"For weeks."

"And... Ormund?"

A tired laugh escaped him. "I dislike admitting this more than you know, but my cousin possesses an unbearable amount of confidence."

"Arrogance." You corrected. "You think he'd agree to father a bastard to us?”

 "Ormund's pride is matched only by his devotion to our house. He would never acknowledge the child as his own. He has too much ambition to willingly father a bastard or embroil House Hightower in scandal. Whatever else he may be, he understands discretion."

You lowered your gaze, trying to gather your thoughts. "Gwayne..."

“You do not need to rush to answer me.” Gwayne hurried closer to you; he took both your hands in his own. His thumb brushed gently across your knuckles, his eyes drifting from your hands to your face. "I would never ask you to sacrifice your comfort. If this plan upsets you, then we shall figure something else out.”

“I will think about it.” You whisper, smiling slightly and lifting your hand to cup the side of his face. 

"Take all the time you need," he murmured. "Whatever we decide, we decide together."

You had never truly looked at Ormund Hightower. You had seen him often around Oldtown. He occupied every feast, gathering, and anything else of importance. He lingered with confidence that bordered on being insufferable. If praise was to be earned, he always found himself standing closest to it.

You had long ago decided he was impossibly arrogant. He was an exhausting man. Forever smirking and teasing Gwayne. The gods had been especially gracious when fashioning him, he would comment. You rolled your eyes each time he said such things. He thinks far too highly of himself- that opinion had not changed.

However, ever since Gwayne’s proposal, you had found yourself noticing him more and more. Innocently enough, your eyes lingered on him longer now. When he entered rooms, crossed the courtyard and gardens. His voice caught you when he spoke with Knights and lords.

He was, unfortunately, handsome. There was no honest way around it. Tall, broad-shouldered, and tidy. Tunics impeccable, hair carefully kept, no matter what he was doing. He always looked as how a Hightower lord should look. You could not help but think that if a child held his features, they would resemble a Hightower no doubt. There would be no questions of parentage; there would be no more whispers that dared to suggest you were barren. No one would look upon you and Gwayne with disappointment and pity anymore.

You disliked the thoughts that clouded your mind. To think of the man that way, though it was practical. The strength of his bloodline was no doubt.

So, as the days passed, you began to pay closer attention.

For all the arrogance, he had never been viciously unkind to you. He teased everyone, favoring Gwayne when he was around. His barbs were more irritating than hurtful; he truly expected everyone to laugh along with him in such moments. In the rare moments that you spoke to him, he was pleasant. Asked about your day, exchanging idle conversation when Gwayne attended to matters elsewhere.

He had a habit of making even the dullest stories entertaining, embellishing them with dramatic gestures and expressions until, despite yourself, you laughed and he flashed an unbreakable grin.

“There,” he would smirk, “I knew I could make you smile.”

Perhaps there was some redemption for his unsavory traits. And, as Gwayne said, he was unmistakably loyal to House Hightower. Enough to keep such a secret…

“The servants have been taking wagers.” Ormund’s voice floated through the study. “Half believe you to be impotent, the other half…” His voice trailed, eyes moving to where Gwayne stood unamused at his desk. “Find you to be selective.”

“Have you finished yet?” Gwayne sniped.

“Not remotely, you know; you truly have managed to find the one duty expected of every lord that you cannot stomach."

“Shall I resend my proposal?” Gwayne turned to leave, brow furrowed and scowling. 

“Shall I thank you? You’ve found me a spouse without any of the tedious marriage vows.” He snickered.

“Don't test me today, cousin.” 

“Ah, a bit late for husbandly possessiveness, isn’t it?”

“Ormund,” Gwayne bit out with a sigh, “this is a matter of preserving our house and stopping any shame from falling upon my wife. The gossip, I know, has been bothering her even if she claims otherwise. It is not her fault.”

“Why marry then?” Ormund questions, leaning back in his chair. “Why not refuse and allow her to pass to the next?”

“I care for her deeply; there is no denying that.”

Ormund raised his brows, nodding slightly. “It seems you do. You care for her enough to ask me such an… unorthodox favor.” Gwayne remained still, his expression unmoved.

“She has agreed to this, but you will not pressure her or charm her into anything she doesn’t wish to do. You will not make light of what I am asking.”

"I may be arrogant, Gwayne, but I'm not dishonorable. For what little my word is worth to you," he said, straightening his back. 

"And the child?"

"The child will be yours." Ormund spoke plainly, “Yours and hers- never mine; I have no desire for it. It will bear your name, title, and your legacy."

"Thank you."

Two nights later, you found yourself sitting in Ormund's room alone. Waiting for him to come to you, finished with whatever business he needed to tend to before retiring. Gwyane had snuck you in without anyone seeing, and he would remain in his chambers, pretending as if he did not exist. Gwyane was to be believed in bed with you for the night, neither of you to be disturbed for any reason. Ormund would retire alone per usual, not to be disturbed.

You looked about his room, nerves weighing your stomach as you waited for him. You were trying to stop yourself from counting every second that ticked by

"My lady." Ormund's voice was smooth and quiet as he entered his chambers. Locking the door behind him and stopped just a few steps before where you sat on his bed. "You look disappointed."

"I was hoping someone less insufferable had knocked." You breathed, watching a grin spread across his face. He looked around the chamber, taking in the quiet fire and the untouched goblets of wine waiting on the table.

"You know," he said eventually, "Gwayne has given me many lectures leading up to this night.” You smiled faintly; you knew he had. He had given you similar talks, that you could back out whenever needed, not to feel like you had to do this for him, etc., etc., etc. 

"I've been ordered to behave." Ormund stepped closer, slipping his coat off and tossing it aside. “It wounded me deeply, his mistrust.”

"I somehow doubt that.” You tutted, watching him swipe a cup of wine and take a sip. You took the other that he offered to you, though you wanted it more to occupy your hands than to drink. "He also informed me," Ormund continued, "that if I so much as upset you, he'd likely throw me from the Hightower."

“I’ll throw you off myself.” You laugh. “He worries.”

“Only because he cares for you.” 

"I know."

Though I confess, I still don't understand it. You deserve a husband who looks at you and forgets the rest of the room exists." His brow furrowed. "Forgive me, but I cannot understand how he could..." He trailed off, watching you purse your lips slightly.

"He can't help who he is." You spoke, “But he has loved me since we were children. 

"Then why stay?"

"Because he is my husband."

"That cannot be the only reason."

"It isn't. Believe it or not, I love him. He is my dearest friend. He has never spoken cruelly to me. Never raised a hand or his voice. He knows when I'm troubled before I do. He remembers every little thing that brings me joy." A fond smile touched your lips. "He cannot love me in every way, but that does not diminish the love he gives."

Ormund nods, but you know by the look on his face that he still can’t quite understand. You drop the subject, though; there is no need for him to understand the unique bond you and Gwayne shared. Truthfully, you thought there was no need to talk at all.

"If, at any point this evening, you wish for me to leave..." His voice was calm, stripped of its bravado. “Just say the word.”

Ormund moved to sit beside you now. You stared down into the goblet of wine, nerves suddenly getting the best of you. "I'd almost forgotten how many words a man can string together when he's determined to remind his cousin to behave." Ormund comments, tilting his head and watching you smile into the cup.  "He carries an awful lot of guilt."

Your smile disappeared. “He shouldn’t.”

"No." Ormund took another sip of wine. "But we all carry our own afflictions. One man has a weak knee from the tourney field. Another cannot read. Some are born with tempers that ruin every friendship they make." He shrugged. "Some are vain. My point is this—everyone is lacking in something. Gwayne's burden just happens to be one the realm refuses to ignore."

“I expected more mockery from you.” You commented, “You seem to love to poke at him.”

“Oh, I intend to mock the man until death.” He laughs; you glare at him with a pout. 

“You will not.” 

Ormund hums, and suddenly becomes painfully aware of just how close he had gotten. It feels natural, yet so unnatural as he leans in to kiss you. He presses his lips to yours, careful and slow.

“I overheard you the other day,” he murmurs, “tell Gwayne that I am handsome?” 

“Handsome enough.” You reply quietly; he’s still close enough that his nose nearly brushes yours. His eyes lidded as they search yours. This time you lean to meet him with a kiss, and he moves to cup the side of your face. 

“Has he touched you at all?” He asks breathlessly.

“None of your business,” you mutter. 

Ormund hums; his hand slides from your cheek to your neck. Resting heavily upon the side of it, he leans in and kisses you again. Slowly, his lips find the corner of your mouth, trailing to your jaw. You sigh gently in content. Oh, how you loved Gwayne- but how badly had you craved such affection as this?

Ormund's lips tickle your neck; his teeth nip at your skin gently. Your breathing picks up a bit; he smirks into your neck. “Breathless already?” He asks, “We've scarcely begun.”

“Our wedding night was the first and only time we…” You trail off, face beet-red. 

“Oh, my poor needy dove.” He teases as you feel his hands run over your bare arms. Your nightgown, nothing special or particularly pleasing to the eye, was loose against your body. The straps are thin and ruffled; Ormund picks at them gently but doesn’t push them aside just yet. “Do you want me to satisfy the hunger biting at you?” He asks, “I can tell- you need me, do you not?”

“Ormund-” You suck in a soft breath; his hand skims up your side. “Do you ever stop teasing?”

“It is the best part,” he murmured, lips coming to brush against your ear. His warm breath bit shivers down your spine. You lean closer to him. “You need me?”

You pause, the feeling of his breath against your ear. His fingers skim delicately at your waist. Your mind swirled; words left your mind in that moment. “I need you,” you finally muster out. It is all Ormund seemed to need to hear. His grip on your waist tightened, pulling you closer. His lips returned to your neck, his teeth scraping and nipping at it. One of your arms wound around him, hand coming to rest at the back of his neck to encourage him further. His hands bunch up the fabric of your nightgown as they run back up your sides and stomach, meet your breasts. You shiver at the sudden warmth of his touch, your nipples already hard and brushed against the silk. You squirm as he lets one hand drop back down to your waist, the other envelopes your breast. Kneeding the soft flesh absentmindedly.

“Did he touch you like this?” He asks, voice almost feverish as he demands details from you. His hand had dipped lower, raising goosebumps over your thigh as he slipped past your undergarments. You gasp at the sudden feeling, the pads of his fingers rough and cold against your heat. “Eager for me?” He laughs; your thighs shake slightly as a finger brushes from your clit down your entrance. “Dripping already, just from light kissing? You needy you are, how pent up you must be.” Slowly, he presses his finger into you; your walls flutter and twitch around him, the feeling briefly unfamiliar as you suck in a breath to calm yourself.

The room suddenly felt too hot. The feeling of his strong hands gliding over your body overtook your senses. His touch was so different than Gwayne’s; his fingertips dripped with desire in a way you had never experienced. You could feel his erection prodding against your thigh as he settled you on his lap. 

“You seem eager as well,” you breathe.

“I have shown tremendous restraint thus far.” Your arms wrap around his neck, your thighs ache from the slight stretch to settle over him. His head dips back to the junction of your neck and shoulder; slowly, he adds another finger. Your back arches slightly, your breasts press against him. You shudder at the feeling of your nipples pressing rough into this clothing. He seems only content with sinking his teeth into your shoulder; he bites hard momentarily. 

Your body jolts; his thumb finds its way up to your clit, his fingers pushing inside of you as he presses rough at your clit. “That’s it,” he murmurs, watching your body tense and jump for him. Your eyes squeeze shut, brow knit as pleasure takes your body and mind. You whimper as he continues to circle your clit and you come undone on his fingers. “Good girl,” he breathes, fingers digging harder into your soft skin as he tries to hold you in place over him.

He gives you little time to recover, your body slick with sweat, your chest heaving as you come down from your high. He moves you off of him; you settle into the mattress, arms propped up to watch him begin to undress. “There’s no turning back after this,” he chides, “if you wish to stop, say it now.”

“N-no.” Your breath catches in your throat at the sight of his bare body. Chest broad, stomach strong. Your eyes trail down as his hands begin to undo his pants. “No,” you repeat, lifting your gaze back to his. “I need you- need more.”

“Of course you do,” he snickers, “finally getting a proper taste of how a man should treat his wife.” You bite at the inside of your cheek, his cock springing free as he tosses the last of his clothing aside. Flushed red and hard, you peel your eyes away from it reluctantly as you notice Ormund’s smugness grow. “I’m going to fuck you,” he begins, slowly crawling onto the bed and over you. “Fuck you good, until you forget whatever half pleasure my cousin may have afforded you on your wedding night.”His words pinch the air from you, unsure of what to say other than “yes.” Your pussy clenches around nothing, greedily. The absence of his fingers long forgotten as you eagerly await the feeling of his cock. 

The first push is slow, deliberate, the thick head of his cock stretching you inch by inch. You gasp, nails biting into his biceps, eyes stinging.

“Gonna fill you up,” he grits out, the words tumbling free like he can’t hold them back. “Gonna stuff you full of my cum, I want to see you so full of me you can’t take another drop.”

“Please,” you whispered. It came out desperate. His eyes darkened. He shifted his hips, and his hard cock dragged between your thighs as he settled over you. He takes in the scene of you lying beneath him. Nightgown bunched and hardly concealing anything, hair a mess against his sheets, face flushed and chest heaving- he groaned at the sight. Your eyes flutter close as you feel the tip of his cock slide against your wetness, bumps against your clit a few times. You squirm, a tight coil of heat in your body spreading all over.

“Look at me,” he groans. “I want to watch you take my cock.” You struggle to keep your focus on him, as your mind goes into overdrive thinking of how badly you needed a cock in you. It had been so long; you had convinced yourself that you did not need such tedious pleasures, to spare your husband, you supposed. But as you felt the head of Ormund's cock slowly ease into you, you could not help but realise how badly you had longed for such intimacy. Whatever filth Ormund is spilling to you goes in one ear and out the other; all you can think about is the comfortable stretch of his cock within you.

His hips rock into yours, and you meet each thrust with eagerness. Your fingers twist into the sheets as he fucks you; your eyes cannot help but fall closed as you writhe for him.

“Would you like everyone to know who’s fucking you tonight?” He bites out suddenly. “With how loud you cry for me, the whole wing may hear you.” You shake your head half-heartedly, unaware of the crude whines and moans filling the room.

“I can’t help it,” you moan again, his cock sunk deep inside you as he grips you. 

“You’re made for this,” he groans, “perhaps your union was a blessing in disguise- such pretty noises just for me- fuck.” His thrusts grow unsteady; pleasure takes his movements with eagerness. You moan, pussy clenching around him greedily. “I’m going to fill you up-” he manages to get out. “That is all you want, right? For me to make a mess of you? Fill you up-” He hisses. You cling to him, nails scraping into his skin without care.

“Give it to me,” you cry, “now- please- Ormund!” His hand is quick to press over your mouth.

“Am I fucking you too good? Can’t even keep discretion?” His hips stutter a moment, his face twists, he’s close but desperately hanging onto the moment. You cry out one last time, moan muffled as Ormund fucks you through it, chasing his own pleasure wildly.

He his swift to get off you once he’s finished. He takes just a moment to trace your body, his eyes soaking in your heavy breathing and shaky legs. His cum slowly leaks from you; he is quick to use his fingers to stuff it back inside of you before it can make a mess on his sheets. 

The night grows quiet after that. He allows you a few moments to rest, to catch your breath and come down from your high. He cleans you up carefully, watches as you redress and try to regain your composure. 

A self-satisfied smile tugs at the corner of his mouth the whole time. You're ready to leave, to return to your chambers for the night unnoticed by anyone. “Do you still find me insufferable?” He asks, moving to grasp your hand and help you center yourself on still weak legs.

“I will never stop thinking that,” you laugh, “though, I may be more tolerable to it…after tonight.”

“I would hope not,” he hummed. “I quite like proving you wrong. Gwayne warned me you wouldn’t tolerate my ego, though you seemed ever…responsive to it.” 

You could only roll your eyes. “No, he was right to warn you. But… perhaps it is only tolerable when I am getting something out of it.”

Ormund's expression softened for the briefest moment before his ever-familiar arrogance returned. "He was wrong about one thing."

"What's that?"

"He seemed to think I'd fail to put you at ease."

"You don't have to prove anything to me," you say, tutting as he moves to lift your chin to him. 

“No, I don’t.” He thumb brushes carefully over your cheek, “but I do intend to prove something to every gossip that dares to whisper your name cruelly.”

“Oh, don’t grow so attached to me, Ormund.” You tease, “I need you only to do this one task.”

“I know; you so eagerly await our next night together.” He laughs, “No need to worry; I have every confidence House Hightower will have its heir soon enough."

tags: @lukanasky (happy birthday!! I finished it just for you <3) @kelppsstuff @exxotiic

[affabletimelady]

this might be my new favorite trope...

🧡💚🩷

[sansaorgana]

— THE SECOND DAUGHTER (VIII)

THE SECOND DAUGHTER MASTERLIST

PAIRING — Lord Ormund Hightower x fem!Reader // Princess Daenyra Targaryen (OC)

SUMMARY — You visit King's Landing to receive instructions from Ser Otto Hightower regarding the upcoming war.

AUTHOR’S NOTE — As always, I want to thank everyone commenting on Tumblr and on AO3. 💚 Your comments motivate me so much. 🥺 I wasn't posting for a few days but it was too hot to write. 🥵 Reader finally visits King's Landing in this chapter. I know many people wanted to see her with her siblings. 💗

🚨 I am not answering any more anons about this fic being tagged as both "x Reader" and "x OC". I do not feel like answering the same thing over and over while the people I talk to do not care either way, they just want to send a passive aggressive message to a writer for one reason or another. I have been a fanfic writer for over ten years and recently I have noticed the growing problem with the lack of manners towards content creators within fandoms. That is why all the nice comments and feedback mean even more to me now and I remain extremely grateful to people who read this story and understand the concept behind it. 💚

WORD COUNT — 5,540

ENGLISH IS MY SECOND LANGUAGE.

THE SECOND DAUGHTER (VIII)

To Princess Daenyra of House Targaryen, Lady of Oldtown, His Grace, King Aegon, Second of His Name, has received your letter and was heartened by the loyalty you have shown to both his person and his rightful claim. The days before us promise little peace, and there are matters that are best entrusted to no raven. For that reason, I would ask, if it pleases you, that you come to King's Landing at your earliest convenience. Mounted upon your dragon, the journey need not keep you from Lord Ormund and your children for long, yet the counsel to be shared is of such consequence that it is best spoken face to face. May the Seven watch over your flight. By my hand, Ser Otto Hightower Hand of the King to His Grace, Aegon the Second of His Name

You finished reading the letter as you were seated by Ormund’s desk in his study. You sighed and looked out of the window before glancing at Alwyn who was sitting on the carpet in the middle of the room with his small dragon Myrax. Ormund hated to see the little beast around his books and letters but Alwyn could do whatever he pleased most of the time.

“Why are you staring at me, mummy?” Alwyn asked you as he raised his eyebrow. It made you laugh because he reminded you of your husband.

“Because I love you,” you told him. “Do you know that?”

Alwyn blinked a few times. Eventually, he moved up and approached you to hug you. You wrapped your arms around him as you closed your eyes and kissed the top of his head, struggling not to cry.

You had a feeling that turbulent times would be coming. That you would have to leave him here. Or worse – that you would not be able to protect him or everything you had built over past years in Oldtown. Your family, the trust of your subjects, your home, your legacy.

After the news of Prince Lucerys’ death, you couldn’t stop thinking of the possibility of any of your children dying. For the first time in years you felt bad for Rhaenyra. You were not able to even imagine how your sister must have been feeling to lose her child.

“Mummy will have to fly to King’s Landing but I won’t be gone for long,” you told Alwyn and he looked up at you. “Will you be a good boy when I’m gone?”

Alwyn looked away and pouted, which made you chuckle.

“I will try my best,” he promised.

“You have to listen to Daeron and daddy. And be nice to Aelora and Uncle Gwayne,” you instructed and the boy rolled his eyes.

“Alright…”

“Very well then. I’m glad I can trust you,” you kissed his forehead.

“Why are you going?” He inquired.

“To do something I should have done a long time ago,” you smiled at him. “Visit my siblings.”

The Dragonpit of King’s Landing welcomed Vyrmora quite warmly. It was visible that your dragoness was happy to be back as she purred. It had been her home for a very long time before you finally had arrived to claim her.

You patted her snout and left her there before being escorted to a carriage waiting outside. It felt odd to be back in this city and to sit inside a royal carriage. You were a Princess – rightful daughter of The King – yet it had been such a long time since the last time that now it felt unnatural as if you were living somebody else’s life.

It was early morning when you arrived after flying all night and you were exhausted. You hoped that after greeting everyone, you would be allowed to go to bed. That part – greeting everyone – was also making you quite nervous. Would they even remember you? And if so – would they not remember the version of you that was no longer true?

The carriage stopped and the doors opened. You smiled immediately at the sight of a familiar face.

“Ser Nestor!” You squeezed his arm. “How delighted I am to see you again.”

“Your loyal servant I remain, my Princess,” he nodded and you patted his cheek once as if he was a little boy.

But he was not. The man had aged and your heart clenched inside your chest at the realisation.

Ser Nestor guided you through the old halls you had grown up running around. They seemed to be so familiar yet so distorted as if your memories of them were false.

Then, in the middle of the way towards the throne room, you spotted Ser Otto. At the sight of him, you hurried your steps while he opened his arms to greet you. You hugged him and he squeezed you back.

“My Princess, thank you for coming,” he nodded at you.

“Of course I came,” you assured him. “Of course.”

“I am so sorry for your loss,” he let go of you and you furrowed your brows. “Your father, I mean,” he explained.

“Oh,” you chuckled nervously. “True.”

There was lots of sadness in his usually cunning eyes. You realised he probably was more hurt by your father’s death than you were. After all – despite everything – they remained friends.

“Where is The King?” You inquired.

“Still asleep,” Ser Otto answered. “We should not disturb him. Queen Dowager and Queen Helaena are ready to see you now, my Princess.”

“Oh, I can’t wait to see them,” you took him by his arm and allowed him to walk you to their chambers as you were looking around all the time.

“It must feel odd,” he noticed.

“It certainly does,” you admitted.

“And how is my granddaughter Aelora?” Otto looked at you and you glanced at him with a smile.

“She is perfectly fine. Very spirited. You would like her temper,” you laughed. “And I wish you could meet Alwyn. He is going to be a fine Lord of Oldtown one day.”

“So I have heard from my son,” Otto laughed. “He keeps writing to me regularly,” he added and you nodded. “And Daeron? What of him?”

“Daeron is our pride,” you beamed at the mention of your brother. “There is not a single bad thing I could tell you about him but there are hundreds of his good traits I could write songs about.”

“That warms my heart,” Otto said and let go of your arm to nod at the guards as they opened the doors leading to the chambers where the Queens were sitting. You cracked a bittersweet smile when you realised those were the same ones your mother had once resided in.

Helaena looked up first from her embroidery work as she blushed and looked away immediately. After her, Queen Alicent glanced up and smiled. She stood up and urged her grandchildren to rise as well. Two sweet twins of Helaena and Aegon were playing on the carpet – Prince Jaehaerys and Princess Jaehaera.

“My Queen,” you nodded at Alicent.

She had become even more beautiful with age. Just like your husband. It had to be a Hightower trait.

“My Princess,” Alicent nodded back.

You could see Helaena was a bit awkward, so you did not want to push her. Instead, you crouched down and hugged the children. They trusted you immediately, probably because they recognised you as their family. Princess Jaehaera grabbed a silver strand of your hair and compared it to hers.

“My Queen,” you eventually stood above Helaena. She looked up once more with a scared expression. “It is me, your sister.”

“I know who you are,” she mumbled out. 

“She is not yet used to being called the Queen,” Alicent explained.

“Oh, sister,” you sat next to Helaena and caressed her cheek. “I remember when you were a tiny babe on my lap. It makes me so sad that you do not remember it yourself.”

“I remember,” Helaena surprisingly admitted, putting away her embroidery. Then she cuddled into you as if she was a child again. You squeezed her tight and kissed the top of her head.

“It makes me glad that you do, my sweet girl,” you told her. “You’ve grown to be such a beautiful woman and the most extraordinary Queen,” you told her and rubbed her back. “I am proud of you.”

“Thank you,” Helaena whispered.

“There is no need to thank me for speaking the truth,” you assured her.

“Not for that,” she answered mysteriously as you furrowed your brows.

“For what then?”

“For keeping the rats away,” she explained as her eyes widened even further. Alicent chuckled nervously.

Helaena went back to her embroidery work and you stood up while caressing her head soothingly.

It was nothing new to you that your family was weird.

“My Princess, I know you are tired but I must ask…” Queen Alicent looked at you. “My son, Daeron… Is he alright?”

“Very much so,” you assured her with a smile. “He sends his love to his beloved mother.”

“Bring my love back to him, please,” Queen Alicent’s eyes filled with tears.

“I will,” you assured with a head nod.

You often wondered why she had made this decision to send him away. You could never send Alwyn or Aelora away. At this point you would never even let Daeron leave Oldtown for long. 

But you could see she loved her son, therefore her decision had not been easy but it had to be what Queen Alicent had believed would be the best for the boy.

“My Queen… Alicent…” You squeezed her shoulder and her big brown eyes found yours. “He is loved. We love him like our own son,” you told her.

“I know,” she nodded but the tears streamed down her cheeks. “I know, Gwayne wrote to me in the letter.”

You smiled once more at her and fought the urge to wipe the tears away from her face. You were tempted by it however, most likely because she reminded you so much of Daeron himself.

The doors opened once more and you turned around to see another man walking inside. This one was tall with long silver hair. He was wearing an eye patch over his eye and black leather clothes.

“Aemond?” You asked with a smile.

“Sister,” he greeted you without any facial expression whatsoever. “I did not think you would come.”

“Princess Daenyra is by our side,” Ser Otto interrupted him.

“So we are told,” Aemond commented. “Rhaenyra is more of her sister than any of us are.”

“You are speaking to the Lady of Oldtown, brother,” your smile dropped. “And in the eyes of gods we are of equal blood and title.”

“Princess Daenyra is as much a Hightower as you,” Ser Otto defended you.

“I am a Targaryen,” Aemond insisted.

“Then she is more of a Hightower than you,” his grandfather scolded him. “I am sorry for him.”

“It is alright,” you chuckled. “I have a son who is nine years old. I am used to young boys’ tantrums.”

Aemond gritted his teeth.

“Have you seen our beloved King yet?” He asked you with sarcasm.

“I do not want to disturb his rest.”

“Rest!” Aemond scoffed. “He is laying half-drunk and half-alive, snoring between one whore and another. That is the King that we are bowing to.”

“Aemond!” Alicent hissed at him.

You glanced at Helaena. The poor girl was pretending to be focused on embroidery but you could see the way she winced.

You approached her and caressed her head. 

“Aegon is a man now. It is his business what sort of life he is leading. Besides, he is the King. The title comes with burdens but also privileges to make it sweeter,” you told Aemond.

“Aegon was always your favourite,” Helaena whispered.

“It is true, I had a soft spot for my baby brother who loved sweets and mischief,” you told her. “But it does not mean I loved you any less, my sweet.”

“Princess Daenyra was often spending all nights by your crib, Helaena,” Alicent told her and the girl looked up with big eyes at you while you smiled.

“I remember,” you nodded. “And I was imagining how sweet it would be to have a babe of my own.”

“It is sweet,” your sister nodded, “to have babes.”

“It is,” you caressed her cheek and leaned in to kiss her on the forehead. “Now, I know our King is asleep but I would love to see him before I rest after my journey.”

Otto nodded and led you out of the chambers. He took you to the part of the Red Keep where Aegon resided. You knew it very well because it had once belonged to your father.

“Your Grace,” Otto opened the doors. The room was very dark inside. “Your sister has arrived.”

You watched a young man with silver hair move slightly underneath the covers. Then he sat up and rubbed his violet eyes with dark circles under them. He looked exhausted – too exhausted for a man his age.

“A-Aegon…” You whispered as memories of him as a little boy flooded your heart. “M-My King.”

“Daenyra?” Your brother smiled widely and moved to the edge of his bed. “It is you?”

“Yes!” You hurried to him and pressed his head to your chest. “Yes, my King. It is me.”

“Please, don’t call me that,” he mumbled out.

You looked at Ser Otto as he glanced away. It was a bit worrying how both Aegon and Helaena did not want to be addressed as the monarchs.

“How can I not, brother?” You asked. “You are my King now,” you smiled down at him and brushed his ruffled hair before leaning in to kiss him on the forehead. “I am so proud of you.”

“Are you really?” Aegon asked with sparkly wet eyes.

“I am. Really,” you assured him and caressed his cheek. “I know you are scared and overwhelmed but we are all with you. Listen to your grandsire for now and you will be alright,” you hugged him again and he clung to you nearly desperately.

“Princess,” Otto interrupted you two, “you must be exhausted,” he pointed out.

“I am indeed,” you nodded.

“Let me escort you to your chambers and we will speak in the evening,” he proposed.

You kissed Aegon’s forehead once more before leaving with Ser Otto.

He took you to the chambers that had been yours back in the day. You cracked a smile when you realised no one had been living in them since then.

“Ser?” You glanced at him one last time before walking inside.

“Yes?”

“Can you send Ser Nestor to Oldtown? He deserves to spend his old days in peace, watching over my children like he once watched over me. Far away from the war that is coming,” you asked.

“Of course, Princess,” Ser Otto nodded, visibly surprised to hear what your request was.

But despite everything that you were now, one thing remained. You were awfully sentimental and you were known for rewarding loyalty.

In the evening you felt much more refreshed as you walked down the dark halls to reach Ser Otto’s study. He greeted you with a smile and handed you two sealed letters.

“One of them is for my son’s eyes. The other is for your husband,” he instructed and you nodded before hiding them in the pocket of your dress.

“Of course,” you assured him. “Are there any instructions for me?” You inquired.

Otto squinted his eyes as he looked at you from head to toe and then all the way up again. 

He saw your proud posture, your green dress, your braided silver hair, cunning violet eyes. He saw the pendant of a seven-pointed star on your chest and golden earrings in the shape of small watchtowers hanging from your ears. He saw the little bump around your waist under the dress where your dagger was hidden. 

“You are my Princess, Daenyra, my overlord,” he explained. “You will do as you please.”

“Of course I will,” you snorted. “But what is expected of me?”

“You shall follow your husband’s lead but if you’d rather stay in Oldtown to protect it and your children, you shall do so,” Ser Otto smiled at you.

“And if I would rather do something entirely different?” You teased and he looked away. “I am jesting, Ser. Do you want to take a walk with me?” You proposed and he nodded.

You left his chambers alongside him and you two strolled down the hall in the direction of the courtyard. You walked peacefully and the palace was quiet except for the distant sounds of laughter coming from the throne room where Aegon was sitting with his friends. You smiled at that. It felt good to hear him laugh.

“You once were like a second father to me,” you admitted. “Perhaps you were more of a father than he was. You were paying attention to me when he was ignoring me. I know you were watching me to plan out how to use me but I hold no grudge, Ser. You made my life beautiful and you made me powerful,” you told him. “I trust the counsel you give my brother is wise and just.”

“I am trying my best, Princess,” Ser Otto assured you, ignoring the first part of your speech but you knew very well that he was listening. He was always listening.

Meanwhile, two common looking men passed you and you winced immediately.

“Who are they?” You inquired, looking back. “Why are these people roaming freely at night?”

“They are rat catchers,” Ser Otto explained. 

“Ah,” you nodded. “Ormund and I would never let them walk so freely around The Hightower. In fact, we fired them all. All they do is stink and steal,” you said.

“How are you dealing with rats then?” Otto raised an eyebrow at you.

“When Moonfyre was little and lived with us, she was eating them. When she became too big and moved to the pit, I adopted many cats from the streets and they dealt with the rats perfectly. Now we have Myrax as well,” you informed him.

“Hm,” Otto hummed to himself. “Cats sound like a good idea. They cost less.”

“Exactly,” you chuckled. “Besides, in the dangerous times that are coming, do you know how easy it would be to dress up as a rat catcher and sneak inside the palace? All staff should be chosen carefully amongst Aegon’s supporters,” you pointed out. 

Ser Otto froze in place when you said that.

“Forgive me, Princess… I would love to take a walk with you but I remembered I am needed elsewhere.”

“Of course, Ser,” you nodded with a smile and watched him walk away quickly.

You chuckled and rolled your eyes as you went to your own chambers.

The very first thing you did after getting there was sitting by the fireplace and opening the letter meant for your husband. You broke the wax seal and rolled out the parchment.

To My Nephew, The hour we long feared has come. Princess Rhaenyra gathers her banners upon Dragonstone and His Grace, King Aegon, Second of His Name, now looks to those whose loyalty has never wavered. I have instructed Ser Gwayne to bring a portion of our strength to King’s Landing. I ask that you grant him leave to do so for every sword may soon prove the difference between victory and ruin. As for yourself, call your banners without delay. Once your levies are assembled, begin your march. The Reach must not be left to indecision whilst others move with purpose. I have no doubt that House Tyrell will weigh its course with great care. See that its judgment falls where duty and reason alike demand. Should it be your wish, bring Prince Daeron with you. Tessarion is young, yet every dragon that answers His Grace's call strengthens our cause. I would not presume to command Princess Daenyra, yet should she choose to ride beside you, the realm would be well served by the presence of such a mighty dragon. The Princess has declared herself for His Grace and I do not question the sincerity of her oath. Yet blood is a bond not easily severed and this war asks much of every family it touches. I would ask only that you bear this in mind should fate place her upon the same field as her sister. Such trials weigh heavily even upon the strongest hearts. May the Seven guide your hand and preserve you in the days to come. Your Uncle, Ser Otto HightowerHand of the King to His Grace, Aegon the Second of His Name

You smirked to yourself. Still, after so many years, he was seeing you as weak.

You were already supposed to go back to Oldtown in the morning. Ser Nestor would join you in a few weeks as he refused to fly on a dragonback alongside you. 

You were saying goodbye to everyone while the carriage waited to take you to the Dragonpit.

You smiled at the sight of young Prince Jaehaerys holding a cat as you looked at Ser Otto.

“We fired all the rat catchers last night,” he admitted. “Can you believe that two of them were carrying a weapon?”

“We hanged them already,” Prince Aemond added. 

“Good,” you nodded and caressed Jaehaerys’ hair. The boy smiled up at you.

Suddenly, Helaena threw herself at you as she squeezed you tight. You hugged her immediately.

“Thank you,” she whispered once more. “Thank you, sister.”

“I have no idea what you are thanking me for, sweetheart,” you laughed softly and kissed her cheek. “But I love you so much.”

Aegon was the last one to say goodbye. His big eyes were wet as if he was a small little boy again. He had been bawling his eyes out on the day of your departure to Oldtown many years before. And now it was nearly the same.

“It is not the last time you are seeing me,” you assured him. “As the King, you should visit Oldtown. And my children are big now, we can pay you a visit as well,” you assured. “My King, be brave,” you lifted his chin.

His lower lip trembled as he nodded. You patted his cheek lovingly.

“I wish you were forever that little rascal I was feeding with cakes in secret,” you winked at him and it caused him to crack a smile.

“Can you…” Alicent approached you. “My Princess… Can you… Can you give this to Daeron?” She handed you a handkerchief with an embroidered letter A.

“Of course,” you nodded and folded the handkerchief to hide it in the pocket of your dragon riding costume. “Farewell for now,” you bowed at everyone.

You went into the carriage and rode to the Dragonpit as you watched the city through the window. Many things had changed over the years but some had stayed the same. Perhaps some things would forever remain.

Vyrmora roared happily at the sight of you. You couldn’t wait to be home so you saddled her up and ordered her to fly away as soon as possible.

You were nearby Bitterbridge and the sun was already set. The sky was dark but you knew the way and so did Vyrmora. Riding a dragon at night could be boring because there were no views to admire and even the most beautiful moon could start looking plain after a while.

Your surroundings were extremely quiet but when you realised your dragon was getting uneasy, you immediately realised something was not right. You straightened up and looked around but there was nothing you could see.

Then a roar of another beast reached your ears.

You knew that roar.

It was Syrax. Your sister’s dragon.

Your hands became sweaty instantly and your heart grew heavy. You had not expected to see her again.

A dragon much smaller than Vyrmora emerged from the darkness. Her yellow scales sparkled in the moonlight. And on top of her sat your sister. Older, more mature, beautiful as ever… And angry.

You nodded at her and ordered Vyrmora to land in the middle of the forest below you. Her huge legs crashed the trees as she groaned. Syrax landed nearby. Vyrmora hissed.

You slid down and so did Rhaenyra. 

“Sister!” She called for you. It felt so odd to hear her voice again.

“How did you know I was there?” You asked.

There was no way it was a coincidence. She had to be hunting you and you could not blame her after the meeting you had shared with Daemon before.

“Vyrmora was spotted two nights ago around King’s Landing,” Rhaenyra answered.

You stood in the middle of the way and so did she with only a few steps between you two. You could see her very clearly despite the nighttime. Your hair was braided in a similar way to hers, shimmering in the moonlight. Her violet eyes were just like yours, staring into the depth of your own.

The same little girl your mother had been putting to bed with you. The same girl you had been learning how to embroider with. The same young woman whose hand you had been squeezing in front of your mother’s funeral pyre. The same woman you shared your blood and legacy with.

Yet she was a stranger.

“What do you want of me?” You asked her. “How dare you ask anything of me?” You added.

“I need you, Daenyra,” Rhaenyra confessed.

“There were many times before when I needed you,” you revealed. “Yet you were never there for me.”

“We might have overlooked you, father and I, that is true,” your sister agreed. “But it does not mean we loved you any less.”

“It means exactly that,” you snorted.

“And who do you think loves you? The Hightowers?” Rhaenyra asked. “They are using you.”

“Allow me to judge for myself who loves me more,” you tilted your head. “I am loved in Oldtown.”

“Daenyra, please… You know this is not right. It is not what our father would want,” Rhaenyra pleaded.

You found it nearly funny how she was trying to convince you by mentioning the man whose mention was not doing anything to you.

“Perhaps this is exactly why I am doing this,” you taunted her.

“Think of our mother then! She would not want us to stand against each other,” Rhaenyra added and you froze at the mention of Aemma. “Did you not love her?” She asked.

“I did,” you swallowed the lump forming in your throat. “I still do,” you assured her. “But she is dead now and I am a mother as well. My children love me, too,” you told her, taking a deep breath in.

A short silence occurred during which Rhaenyra was looking all over your face, trying to find something – anything – she could apply to. A small crack in your new image that would reveal the weak younger sister you had once been.

“I would not harm your children,” she said.

“I would not harm yours either. Neither you,” you nodded.

“Yet my son is dead,” she pointed out.

You did not know what to say, so you changed the subject instead.

“I am not against you, Rhaenyra. I am simply supporting Aegon. It does not have to mean war.”

“You pleaded to me!” Rhaenyra finally shouted. 

“Our father himself became the King because the Realm did not want our aunt Rhaenys to be their Queen even though she was first in line,” you reminded Rhaenyra. “It is the way of this Realm whether you like it or not.”

“Yet you rule in Oldtown as if you were a Queen yourself, so I’m told,” Rhaenyra scoffed.

“In the humble shadow of my husband,” you explained with a fake innocence in your voice.

“You are the Princess of this Realm, Daenyra. No one can take it away from you,” your sister reminded you. “You are your own husband’s overlord.”

She had a point, of course. It was true. Technically, he answered to you. But a title like yours meant little. You were the second daughter. He was the Lord of the eldest city in Westeros.

And you loved him. You could not imagine turning against him. The weight of the letter from Ser Otto felt heavy inside your pocket.

You swallowed thickly as tears pricked your eyes. Now, instead of being haunted by the memories of Rhaenyra from the times she had been your childhood companion, you were haunted by memories of your husband.

The very first time you had seen him and his annoyed face after landing in the middle of Oldtown. The way he had been teaching you how to rule over the city so big and important. Your quiet mornings in the sept while you prayed together. His favourite smell of lavender, the smile he was granting you with when you pleased him and the meaningful looks you were sharing whenever someone said or did something you two were very judgemental about. The way he spoiled your children with gifts, affection and the overwhelming feeling of safety. Just like he had promised you – your children did not know what it meant to be unloved by their father.

“I love him,” you finally looked deep into Rhaenyra’s eyes. The corners of her lips dropped as she realised she lost already. “If he decides to join the fight – and we both know what he will do – I will march with him. Till death if I must,” you swore.

“Your death is not my wish,” Rhaenyra assured you,

“And yours is not mine,” you shrugged. “How easy life would be if you ruled over Dragonstone in peace and I could stay in Oldtown. I want you to know that you have nothing but your blind ambition to blame for the situation we are all in now,” you said with a sad smile. “Farewell, sister.”

Rhaenyra did not say anything. She was standing there and watching you crawl onto Vyrmora’s back. When you looked down at her, she seemed to be so little compared to the world outside. And her dragon was so small, too, barely able to protect her from what was coming.

“I wanted to be like you once,” you admitted from the top of your saddle. “Now I thank the Gods they spared me your spirit.”

Even though your heart was breaking to leave her behind, you knew you had to. Because if you stayed any longer, you could start getting too sentimental.

Perhaps it was the most difficult decision you had ever made.

But it was entirely yours to make.

Vyrmora allowed you to slide down onto The Hightower’s courtyard before flying to the pit. It was early in the morning when you arrived but you saw your husband approaching already as you smiled at the sight. It had only been two days but you missed him dearly.

“Daenyra!” He called for you as he approached with open arms.

“Ormund, I stink,” you tried to warn him when he hugged you.

“You are back,” he squeezed you tight. “I was worried. The times are uneasy and such a ride is dangerous,” he looked at your face, trying his best not to wince or gag, which was both funny and a bit adorable as well.

“I have a letter from your uncle,” you handed him the parchment from your pocket. “And one for Gwayne.”

Ormund glanced down and raised his eyebrows at the sight of the broken seal. Then he gave you a questioning look.

“Did it break during the ride?” He inquired and you snorted.

“What do you think, Lord Husband?” You teased. “Anything addressed to you is also addressed to me,” you patted his chest and walked away to allow him to read the letter and breathe some fresh air since you truly were stinking of a dragon. “Where is Daeron? I have something for him, too.”

“In the training yard,” Ormund answered. “What is he like?”

“Who?”

“Our new King,” he inquired as he was fidgeting with the letter in his hands.

You hesitated for a moment.

“He is… Young. And burdened with the weight of the crown,” you bit your lower lip. “But in my eyes he remains the little boy he once was.”

“You love him,” Ormund pointed out.

“Of course I do. I love all of my family,” you nodded.

“Even that bitch?”

Perhaps under different circumstances you would only sigh, perhaps you would not react at all, perhaps even laugh.

But hearing that right after seeing her face, her broken expression, her aged skin and tired eyes… You felt hurt and angry.

Because, despite everything, you still loved her beneath all the grudge, jealousy and judgement of her actions.

“That bitch remains your Princess and so does your wife, Lord Hightower,” you reminded him and continued your walk.

Ormund was left speechless at that reaction.

“Daenyra, what has happened?” He followed you, demanding answers.

“It is Your Grace to you,” you barked at him as you did not even spare him a glance while entering the watchtower and leaving him behind.

MASTERLIST

[affabletimelady]

i feel a conflict of concious coming 😱😏 i wonder if she will see aegon as the idiot he is...

such a good chapter, luv 🩷💚🧡

[targaryen-dynasty]

Nesting Instincts

Ormund Hightower x female Targaryen!Reader

“After two years of marriage and countless disappointments, you and Ormund have learned to lean on each other more than ever. But during your sister’s stay in Oldtown, a quiet moment with baby Aegon makes Ormund realize that perhaps your prayers have finally been answered.“

Words: 2027

Warnings: fluff, hurt/comfort, implied fertility struggles, female Reader, Targaryen reader

Notes: It's very possible, that this is the prelude for another (and steamier) part featuring Ormund and his Targaryen wife. 😈

The Hightower has never been louder. 

Servants hurry through its halls carrying trays of food and wine, maesters whisper among themselves, and somewhere in the lower courtyards, the laughter of princes echoes against the stone. The arrival of Rhaenyra and her sons has transformed Oldtown into something your husband hardly recognizes—a place filled with silver hair, dragons overhead, and far too many people too eager to remind him that the blood of Old Valyria has found its way into his halls. 

As if he can’t see that himself. 

Ordinarily, Ormund would find an excuse to disappear into council meetings or the training yard, but today, he has retreated to your shared solar, seeking refuge from the endless procession of courtesies expected of him. 

The afternoon sun spills through the tall windows, casting a warm light across the room as your husband stands besides one of them, looking out over the Whispering Sound. Below the Hightower, the city bustles as it always has, blissfully ignorant of the royal chaos unfolding above their heads. 

Behind him, resting in a cradle near the hearth, sleeps the newest addition to House Targaryen—little Aegon, no larger than a bundle of blankets and somehow already the center of everyone’s attention. 

Ormund tears his gaze away from the harbor, and turns towards you, who has escaped the festivities only moments before. You sit in a chair next to Aegon’s cradle, rocking it slowly as you can’t tear your eyes off of him. 

“Tell me truthfully,” he says, the corners of his mouth lifting into the faintest hint of amusement. “How much longer must we endure your sister’s court before Oldtown returns to its senses?”

He crosses the room, and reaches for the goblet of wine that rests on the table beside you. “I have spent the better part of the afternoon being lectured by maesters and your nephews alike about dragons. Another hour, and I may throw myself from the top of the Hightower.”

You still glance down at the sleeping babe, your lips softening into a smile that seems to belong only to him—so untouched by courts and politics, and the endless expectations placed upon noblemen and noblewomen. 

Being far too engrossed by the babe, you don’t notice how his expression softens as he looks at you, and much less how the sharpness in his voice fades in a way it rarely does around anyone else. “Though I suppose you have enjoyed having them here so far,” he says, studying you for a moment while he puts the goblet back down. “Your sister, your nephews… the babe.”

The words linger between you, carrying a meaning neither of you needs to speak aloud. Two summers of marriage, two summers of hopes raised and dashed, of whispered prayers and polite assurances from maesters. 

Ormund reaches for your hand, absentmindedly tracing his thumb across your knuckles. “You’ve been smiling all day.”

His touch is what seizes your attention, and you crane your neck to meet his gaze. “Mhm, your suffering has been truly heroic, husband,” you reply with a smile. “First dragons, then children, and now maesters discussing the same. I shall ask my father to have songs written of your endurance.” There is mischief hidden beneath the sweetness of your voice, though you deliver the jab with all the grace expected of a princess. 

You slip your hand from Ormund’s grasp to rise to your feet, leaning over the cradle to lift little Aegon from it. He is cradled against your chest, stirring only slightly with his tiny fingers curling around the neckline of your gown as you rock him absentmindedly. 

“I enjoy having them here,” you admit quietly, your eyes never leaving the child. “It reminds me of the Red Keep when we were younger. Before everything became so… complicated.”

The laughter from the courtyard drifts through the open windows, and for a moment, you stand there, bathing in the afternoon light with an expression your husband has come to recognize all too well—the look that always carries hope, no matter how many disappointments have come before it. 

Behind you, Ormund says nothing. You just hear his footsteps cross the floor, and a moment later, his presence settles at your back. He’s close enough for the warmth of him to reach your shoulders, close enough for his breath to fan across your skin, and close enough that you can feel his gaze linger on the babe nestled in your arms. 

You sigh softly. “He is beautiful, isn’t he?”

Aegon’s other tiny hand has escaped the blanket, curled loosely around your fingers. You smile at the sigh, and brush your thumb over his knuckles. 

“He has your sister’s nose,” Ormund murmurs softly, not looking away from Aegon. “Poor thing.”

But the joke fades into the quiet between you, and by the tenderness in his voice it’s evident he’s just as mesmerized by Aegon as you. 

Ormund’s chin hovers near your temple. His silence seems deeper now, more thoughtful. He has spent his entire life studying people—the subtle shifts in their expressions during council meetings, the tension in a knight’s shoulders before a tournament, the exhaustion hidden behind polite smiles. 

And lately, there have been changes in you. 

It’s been little things; the mornings you linger in bed longer than usual, or the evenings you grow tired before supper has been served, the way your gowns sit slightly differently upon your frame. Changes so subtle, that anyone else might have missed them entirely. 

But Ormund has never been anyone else when it comes to you. 

There even is something different about the familiar scent of lavender and sea air that clings to you—a sweetness beneath it that he can’t quite place, something new and strangely familiar all at once. 

“You have been strangely quiet this afternoon,” you murmur, a smile tugging at your lips as you turn your head just enough to glance back at him. “Should I be concerned?”

He remains silent.

Then, slowly, his hand comes up to rest against the windowsill beside you, caging you in without intention with his gaze fixed on the curve of your neck. Beyond the windows, the bells of Oldtown ring in the distance, mingling with the cries of gulls drifting in from the harbor below. 

“You’ve changed your perfume,” he mutters, almost in disbelief. 

You let out a soft laugh. “I have not.”

“No.” His brow furrows slightly. “No, I suppose you haven’t.”

He turns his head just enough to look at you properly now, his eyes tracing the curve of your cheek, the silver strands that have fallen loose from your braid and the shadows beneath your eyes that have become more pronounced these last weeks. 

“You’ve been sleeping later,” he points out. 

But you are quick to object: “I have guests to entertain.”

“You hardly touched your supper three nights ago.”

“I was tired.”

“And yesterday morning, you nearly sent the maids into hysterics when you fled the table.”

Blinking slowly, it’s evident you’re caught somewhere between amusement and confusion. “My lord, are you keeping an inventory of my habits?”

“I keep an inventory of everything,” he replies matter-of-factly, and adds more softly: “especially yours.”

Heat rises to your cheeks. You look back down at Aegon, carefully tucking the blanket beneath his tiny chin. “And what conclusion has Lord Hightower reached after this thorough investigation?”

Ormund’s gaze has fallen onto the child in your arms again, studying the slight part of his lips and the faint flush on his cheeks, before your eyes meet once more. “I don’t know yet.”

It’s perhaps the most honest thing you have ever heard him say. 

His composure seems to crack, if only slightly. His hand leaves the windowsill, and hesitates before it sets carefully at your waist. 

“You've been different.” The words are barely louder than a whisper, almost as if he’s suddenly too afraid to wake the sleeping child in your arms. “And before you accuse me of imagining things—as I know you are about to—I would like to point out that I have spent more than two summers watching you more closely than I’ve watched anyone else in this world.”

The silence between you stretches long enough that you almost look away again, until he very slowly lowers his head towards yours; not to kiss you, gods be good, not even to speak to you.  

He simply breathes you in. 

Now that he is this close, your scent suddenly is unmistakable. It’s still mostly lavender and the sea salt from the harbor breeze that drifts through the open windows, but beneath it is something softer, warmer, honeyed. 

His hand comes to rest lightly against your belly, and you feel the hesitation in him, the rare uncertainty that almost never surfaces beyond the privacy of your chambers. And with his hand now splayed over your stomach, his words echo within your own thoughts. You weigh them carefully, and begin to gather the scattered pieces you have ignored for days.

“Ormund…”

“Tell me I’m wrong,” he murmurs, almost afraid of the answer. “Tell me this is merely another one of my absurd conclusions.” But even as he says it, his gaze drifts to his hand on your stomach and to the life he is beginning, against all reason, to suspect you carry. 

“You smell different,” he continues.

It prompts you to laugh softly, because although the possibility might be there, you remember the days after the last disappointment. You have memorized them with such careful precision, as though the recollection of them alone might protect your heart from breaking again. 

“That–That is a remarkably romantic thing to say to your wife,” you say, “but we have been wrong before.”

His thumb barely moves against the fabric of your belly, while the rest of him remains still. “I mean it.”

The amusement fades from your expression, and you turn a little more in his arms to search his face. “You are frightening me,” you admit. 

Ormund looks down at the sleeping child and then back to you. There’s not the hint of the usually stern, perhaps even arrogant, mask he wears around court, no, there’s only a man that stands too close to a dream he has taught himself not to trust. 

And that’s what frightens you most. It’s not the possibility itself, but the look in his eyes. You have seen people around you wearing hope before—the maesters delivering remedies, the septas offering prayers, some ladies speaking kindly after another moon’s disappointment. Their hope has always felt light enough to brush aside, but his does not. It settles heavily in your chest. 

You can feel your throat tighten at the sight. “Don’t,” you whisper, the plea escaping your lips before you can stop it. “Don’t look at me like that unless you are prepared to be wrong.”

A part of you wants him to laugh gently and tell you he is imagining things, that this is only another false alarm, a passing fancy born by seeing the babe in your arms, because that would be much easier and safer. 

But he doesn’t laugh. 

“My love,” he says quietly, a name you hardly hear him say. “If I am wrong, I will grieve it with you. But I would rather stand here hoping beside you than spend another summer pretending I do not.”

The words undo something in you, not having realized how lonely your fear has become until this moment. You close your eyes briefly, leaning into the hand that rests against your stomach, and feel him step closer until the warmth of him surrounds you completely. 

For the first time, you allow yourself to think the forbidden thought without immediately pushing it away. What if?

The question is so small, yet it fills your entire chest. 

Aegon stirs softly in your arms, and you both look down at him at the same time. 

When you lift your eyes again, they immediately find Ormund’s, watching you with the same tenderness again as though he is waiting for you to decide whether the dream is allowed to exist or not.

And this time, you don’t ask him to stop. 

[affabletimelady]

Wow, this is precious. 🧡💚🩷

[permanent-fire-hazard]

Part 1 Part 2 And this is the third and final part of this Hanahaki AU

They postpone the wedding. Jack can’t stomach the thought of someone other than Robby being his best man. His stomach churns; Robby would’ve agreed and swallowed his misery as he watched Jack profess his love to someone else.

Amy strokes his hair and kisses his forehead. “It’s not your fault,” she whispers. “It’s no one’s fault. Do you blame yourself for falling in love with me?”

“You’re not killing me,” Jack cries.

Six months later, Jack gets a call from an unknown number, but he knows exactly who he’s talking to from the first breath.

“I’m looking for Jack Abbot.”

“Mikey?”

“Uh, yes. Hi.” Robby clears his throat. “Sorry to bother you.”

“You’re not a bother,” Jack rushes out.

There’s an uncomfortable pause. Jack never used to have those with Robby. “I’m in the process of moving,” Robby says eventually. “And I found a box labeled ‘for him,’ it’s really tightly wrapped. I think it’s got multiple layers, and well, you’re the only person I could think it would be for.”

Jack swallows. “You can open it. If it’s for me, I give you permission. If it turns out not to be, whoops.”

A rhythmic clacking comes through the speaker as Robby taps the back of the phone. “I think it’s wrapped up so I don’t open it. If I’m remembering right.”

“You don’t have any idea what’s inside?”

“No fucking clue. Which usually means it’s you.”

Of course. Because Jack is no one to this Robby. Nothing but a scary, old box hidden in the depths of the past. “Well, I’ll give you my address and you can send it my way.”

Jack comes home everyday for the next three weeks hopeful and dreading the possibility of the package arriving. When it finally does, he sits it on the counter and debates whether or not he should open it at all.

“You should,” Amy encourages. “Worst case scenario we throw it out.”

“We” holds a lot of Jack’s fear for him. Together, they open the box, layer by layer, until all that’s left is a shoebox with an envelope taped on top. Jack breaks the seal with shaky hands, the paper is crinkled and tear-stained.

Jack,

I’m sorry I have to write this. I’m sorry I didn’t have the courage to tell you, but I need you to know that this isn’t your fault. I know you’re blaming yourself, just like I’m blaming myself, but there’s no point.

I wish there was a way to do this without forgetting you, but I know this is what’s best for both of us.

I sincerely wish you a long and happy marriage. Truthfully, if you weren’t getting married I may not have had it in me to go through with this, but I know if she loves you half as much as I do, you’ll be well taken care of.

I’m sorry. I miss you already.

—Mikey

Inside the box is every photo Robby ever had of them. Jack flicks through them with blurry vision, and tells Amy as many stories as his trembling voice can handle.

Eventually, he does marry Amy. It’s the best day of his life despite an obvious missing piece. And then he endures Hell for the next fifteen years.

He loses his leg, his wife, damn near his mind, and somehow winds up applying to an Emergency Department in Pittsburgh.

Jack barely makes it two steps out of his interview before he collides with a broad chest.

“Oh, shit. Sorry,” a terrifyingly familiar voice says.

Jack’s heart sinks. “Mike.”

Robby’s eyebrows hit his hairline. “Oh, um.” He squints. “Jack! Jack, hi. How have you been?”

“Been better,” he admits. “Was hoping for a fresh starts, but…”

“Are you applying here?”

“I was, but I can find somewhere else.”

“No, no. I mean, obviously, I understand if it’s uncomfortable for you, but I wouldn’t mind.”

Jack’s heart thuds. “You wouldn’t?”

“No,” Robby shrugs. “No reason to avoid you anymore.”

If Jack had two good knees instead of one finicky one he’d fall to the ground and thank God for finally showing some mercy.

Working with Robby is strange. He’s so different than the Robby Jack knew, and not just because of the grey hairs and new wrinkles, but there’s also the faint remnants of Jack’s best friend in him. Enough that Jack asks if they could spend time together outside of work.

After a moment of silence, Robby nods. “Don’t see why not.”

Hanging out with Robby is eerily similar to how it was twenty years ago, but there a few, undeniable, difference that sting.

Robby still has the same taste in movies, but they don’t sit close enough to touch. And he blushes as easily as he ever did, though Jack is careful not to tease him for it.

Over two years they grow closer and closer, and just when Jack thinks he might have his best friend back Robby sits him down. He keeps his eyes low, and uses the same voice he does when delivering bad news at work.

“Jack, I— I think I might be falling in love with you again.”

Jack’s not really sure what to say to that. They’re sitting in the corner booth of their favorite bar, and all Jack is certain of is that their game of pool won’t be happening tonight. “Oh?”

Robby sniffs, cold and embarrassed. “I’m really sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Jack says. He reaches across the table and pats Robby’s hand, retreating the second he sees Robby flinch. “Emotions happen, man. We can’t help it.”

“Right, but what happened last time—“

“We were young then. And you’ve caught it early, so we can handle it this time.”

Robby huffs. He looks up with big, sad eyes. “I am handling it. I don’t think we can be friends.”

Jack’s throat closes.

“It’s not that I don’t want to be,” Robby continues. “I like spending time with you.” He laughs. “Obviously. But, I clearly can’t handle being around you without wanting more.”

“That doesn’t mean we have to ignore each other.” Jack’s eyes dart around the bar as if a solution might jump out at him.

“I don’t want to ignore you, but I don’t think stuff like this is a good idea.” Robby’s chin trembles. “We can talk at work or if there’s some event with a lot of us, but the one-on-one time has to stop.”

“What if we dated?” Jack blurts out.

Robby blinks. His eyes are pathetically red. “What?”

“We could date. It’s not that different than what we’re doing now anyway. I might fall in love with you too, or you’ll realize you’re too good for me and get over it on your own.” Jack smiles, but even without seeing his reflection he knows he looks more manic than comforting.

Robby fiddles with his fingers. “Do you like men?”

Jack deflates. “First time for everything?” Robby scoffs and sinks lower in his seat. “Do you like men?”

“Yes, Jack. I thought that was obvious.”

“You date women all the time. I thought maybe I was special.”

Robby’s knuckles graze over his sternum. “Clearly, you’re special.”

Jack leans forward, he forces his hands to dig into the table instead of lunging at Robby the way he wants. “Let’s just give it a shot. What’s the worst that could happen?”

A mean, barking laugh erupts from Robby. “I develop Hanahaki, again, and no one has ever survived a second surgery.”

“It won’t get to that point,” Jack pleads.

“It might.” Tears drip down Robby’s face. “I don’t remember how it felt the first time I fell in love with you, but I do remember the flowers.” He shakes his head. A voice, more feeble than Jack has ever heard in his life comes out of Robby, “The pain… I can’t go through that again, Jack. I just can’t.”

Jack’s own tears fall. A heavy coil twists around his heart. “I don’t want you to either.”

He slides over to Robby’s side of the booth and holds him close. They cry together in a pitiful lump under the warm light of the bar.

“I’m sorry,” Robby whispers.

“Don’t be,” Jack murmurs. “I’m glad I got to be your friend again for a little bit.”

“I am too.”

For weeks, Jack spends his free time crying. He makes himself sick with tears, pouring over the box of forgotten memories.

One day, about an hour before shift change, a late stage Hanahaki patient bursts through the ambulance bay. There’s nothing they can do for her, the disease has progressed too far. She lays lifeless in the ED covered in blood and peonies.

Jack crawls his way up the stairs and lands on the roof. He looks to the horizon and debates leaving Pittsburgh; he looks at the concrete and debates jumping.

It’d be easy. Just one more step and he’d be back with his wife, or at least away from Robby. No longer killing someone he holds dear with his mere existence.

The door creaks open behind him. “What are you doing out here?” Robby calls.

Jack could take one more step and be free, but if he did, his friendship with Robby would die with him. No one would ever know that they were once happy, that there was a brief moment in time where they could be attached at the hip with no risk of death. Not even Robby.

He steps back, and turns around. Robby stands before him. Fifty years old, greying, wrinkled, a miserable with age, but alive. He made a hard decision to make sure of it, and now Jack will too.

“Enjoying the view.”

[bullet-prooflove]

Sick Day: Brendon Park x Reader

Summary: Brendon Park doesn't need anyone... until he gets sick.

Set After:

Rockstar - Brendon Park meets his match against PTMC’s fiery new attending.

Pussy Wagon - A spilled drink leads you to see a different side of your nemesis Park The Shark.

The First Time (NSFW) - Fireworks aren’t the only explosive thing happening at Jesse’s Fourth of July party.

A Loaded Gun (NSFW) - Hate sex has never been so fucking hot…

This Is Not A Love Story - Brandon tries to set a rule after a ‘sticky’ situation.

The Game - Brendon finds himself breaking his own rules when it comes to you.

Set Before:

Tell. Me. To. Stop (NSFW) - Jealousy is not an emotion Brendon Park is accustomed to.

Surrender (NSFW) - Brendon Park isn’t a sub… at least not until you coax him into a pair of leather cuffs after a bad day.

Both Ways - Brendon and Jesse discuss a surprisingly intense experiance with you.

Pittfest -Brendon comforts you when you fall apart after the events of Pittfest.

Is He Prettier Than Me? - Brandon gets curious when he learns you have other plans.

Confetti (NSFW) - Brendon Park doesn’t do night clubs…

The Drawer - Brendon realises your relationship may be shifting when he discovers he has a drawer at your place.

Scrunchies - Scrunchies… they’re the downfall of Brendon Park.

Love Games (NSFW) - Brendon and you love to play games, especially with each other.

An Exquisite Form of Torture (NSFW) - Brendon continues to turn up the heat as he holds you captive.

Authentic - You and Jesse discuss your situationship with Brendon after you see him with another woman.

THAT Guy - Brendon is forced to face up to his feelings for you when he finds out your meeting up with an ex.

Seven Days - Seven days is far too long to go without you…

Save It - A thirty six hour shift leads to another admission about your relationship with Brendon.

Doctor Dick - Brendon’s day takes a turn when Whitaker gives him some critical information.

A Manipulative Fuck - You and Brendon discuss what happened with your ex.

The Call (NSFW) - Brendon decides to put a stop to David’s calls once and for all.

The One That Hates The Ravens - David’s attempt at revenge backfires spectacularly.

The Lovin Spoonful - You wake up to an unexpected surprise.

Delete, Block, Rinse, Repeat - A series of cryptic messages force Brendon to confront a secret he’s been keeping for almost a decade.

His Father’s Son - Brendon reflects on the past as he debates taking that first sip of whiskey.

The Cost of Dignity - Brendon’s greatest secret comes with a cost.

A Kiss For Luck - Brendon struggles to navigate working at the hospital after the release of THAT video.

The Craziest Fucking Thing - You take matters into your own hands after receiving bad news from Brendon.

Ride Or Die - You wake up to the sound of an angry blender after Brendon discovers what happened with Rowena.

Baby Shark - Once a year Brendon always ends up back at the aquarium.

Diamonds (NSFW) - A bet leads to naughty shenanigans in a five star restaurant.

The Call Out - Brendon’s focus on wedding planning is disrupted when he’s called out to the scene of a multi-car pile up.

Good Hands - Abbot reminds Brendon you’re in good hands as they proceed with the amputation.

Flayed - Brendon’s world crashes down as he learns the truth about the accident.

Ten Things I Love About You - Brendon discovers a pink envelope in the pocket of the jacket you were wearing at the time of the accident.

The Parent Trap - Brendon faces your parents, leading to a surprise revelation.

Sledgehammer - Brendon struggles to cope in the aftermath of everything that’s happened.

Et Tu Marianne? - Your mother throws Brendon under the bus after you wake up from surgery.

Roses - Brendon is forced to deal with a vindictive POS when a dozen red roses are delivered to your door.

The Fucking Patient - Abbot has some harsh words for Brendon regarding your care.

Chemistry - You and Brendon finally have a moment alone to talk.

A Serial Absconder - Your habit of disappearing leads to a healing journey Brendon doesn’t expect.

The Best the Ravens Have Ever Looked (NSFW) - Brendon has a real problem with your shorts.

Home - Brendon introduces you to your new home after the accident.

The Change Up - When you struggle to reacclimate at home Brendon realises you need a change up.

The Body Pillow - Brendon and you settle in for your first night at the new house.

Rae Days - You’re forced to navigate your new limitations when Brendon returns to work full time.

The Liberator - Brandon asks Abbot’s for advice with a very particular problem.

Grounded - Brendon gets a surprise when his brother turns up on his doorstep unexpectedly.

Watermelon Sugar (NSFW) - Brendon uses your favourite song against you when the sex cushion comes out to play.

Suck (NSFW) - Brendon’s dommy side finally comes out to play for the first time since the accident.

Bad Girl (NSFW) - You tempt Brendon into having sex for the first time since the accident.

Brendon doesn’t get sick.

He keeps his body in peak physical condition. Going the gym daily, watching what he eats and now its betraying him in the most vicious of ways, leaving him sprawled out on the couch, dying.

The flu comes for everyone, Jesse had told him when he’s dropped by before his shift with as much cold medicine as he thought Brendon could handle. Even narcotic gym bros like you.

Chills, sniffles, nausea, and a fatigue that makes the climb up to the bedroom insurmountable, Brendon has never suffered anything like it.

It’s early evening when the doorbell goes. He’s spent most of the day wrapped up in blankets, lingering somewhere between consciousness and unconsciousness with the sports highlights playing in the background. He drags himself out of the cocoon, keeping one blanket wrapped around his shoulders to ward off the cold that vibrates through his bones as he opens the door.

He doesn’t expect to see you standing there.

This thing between the two of you isn’t serious. He didn’t think you’d even notice that he was absent from the hospital today, let alone turn up here with takeout.

“I heard you were out sick.” You say, holding up that brown paper bag you have clasped between your hands. “I brought chicken soup, crackers… Jesse said you were struggling to eat.”

He’s never wanted to murder anyone more than Jesse Van Horn at this moment. He knows Brendon struggles with vulnerability, that he hates people perceiving him as weak and now, he’s sent his arch nemesis and current hook up to play nursemaid.

He gathers up every single ounce of his strength as he straights his spine, throwing his shoulders back. “I don’t need-”

But you don’t give a shit about what he’s about to say. You’re already over the threshold, ducking under his arm and sweeping into his living room. He twists around, shame creeping through his body as you take in the bundle of blankets, used tissues and empty water bottles on the coffee table. He’s usually a neat freak, controlling his environment in a way that’s practically OCD but today he just doesn’t have the strength.

“Rae, you don’t have to-”

But the trashcan is already in your hand as you cover your hand with your sleeve and shovel the mess into the receptacle.

“Sit.” You respond, jabbing your finger at the couch. Every instinct in him tells him to bark back, to rebel but his exhaustion wins out and he finds himself propped up on the sofa while you re-drape those blankets over him. “Are you ready to eat something?”

He shakes his head. “My stomach it’s a mess.”

“OK.” You say taking the crackers out of the bag. You open up the packet, placing them on the coffee table. “Small bites often is better than nothing. They’re ready when you feel like you can manage something.”

You sit down on the couch, picking up one of his grey cushions and placing it over your thighs.

“You don’t need to be here.” He attempts half heartedly as your arm, drapes over his shoulders. It feels like a comfort residing there, like he’s wrapped up in warmth and a safety he’s never felt, not even as a child.

“I know.” You say softly, guiding his shoulders down so that his head comes to rest in your lap. He nestles in close, his gaze fixed on the TV as it plays at a low volume. “But I’m not leaving you to fend for yourself.”

Jesse… he knew exactly what he was doing, Brendon realises, as your fingers start to comb through his hair, lulling his body into a state of relaxation. His muscles unfurl and he feels his eyes fluttering closed as your fingertips lightly massage his tender scalp.

“That’s better, isn’t it?” You murmur, leaning over, your lips brushing his temple.

“Yes.” He mumbles as sleep starts to take him. “Yes, it is.”

Like My Work? - Tip your friendly fan fic writer here! Or be a sweetheart and drop me comment or reblog.

[r4bidabbott]

babydaddy!pope who is still in love with his baby mama

your coparenting arrangement with pope was interesting to say the least. you had your daughter majority of the time. not that you didn't trust pope with her, he was an amazing dad. you didn't trust his family with a tiny kid around. them being majority of the reason you two were not together. whenever he wanted his time, he would just show up at your house trying to play house. when you first had gotten pregnant he was over the moon and ready to drop everything when she came, until when she was born he became more hesitant to let go of the lifestyle he lived. he begged and pleaded you not to leave, but it was something you just weren't able to get behind. you leaving didn't deter him from constantly hitting on you, following you everywhere, and always keeping tabs on you.

you never tried to take him to court for money or custody. no reason to when a hefty amount of cash would be left in your mailbox each week with a note that always read 'for my two most beautiful girls' sure you missed pope and were still ever so in love with him, but you hated his mother more than anything. you couldn't stand the idea of your daughter being alone with that woman.

your phone rang early that morning, causing you and your daughter who was laid next to you in the bed to wake. she let out a sharp cry, your eyes closing tightly before opening to see who was calling at this ungodly hour. a small sigh left your lips as you saw it was pope. "what andrew?" you hissed more harsher than you meant into the phone as you picked up your crying daughter, making your way down the stairs of your apartment. "why's my baby crying?" he said immediately hearing the sounds of her cries. "our baby is crying because you called at the ass crack of dawn and woke her up," you muttered, laying her down to begin to change her. "did you need something?" you finally sighed, slowly getting her to calm down.

he never usually called, just showed up unannounced. when you were home you would invite him in, let him sit for a while. if you weren't home, you'd come back to find him sat on the doorstep waiting for you. "can you drop sunny over here today? smurf is having a party and no one ever gets to see her," he hesitated to speak, worried he already knew your answer. you hated smurf and she hated you right back, always claiming that you 'made her son soft.' which wasn't a complete lie, you broke down pope's walls like no one had ever been able to do before. "you think that i am going to leave my daughter there without me?" you scoffed, setting her in the highchair and putting your phone on speaker as you began to make your coffee. "baby you know you are always welcome to come over too. would love for you to be here," he spoke, his words giving you butterflies even though you refused to show it.

your thoughts were going a million miles a minute. being a single mother was one of the hardest things you ever did. of course, pope was there when he wanted to be but majority of the time it was just you and your daughter. normally you would shoot down his request immediately, claiming you were busy. he always knew you weren't. he would sit outside and wait for whatever plans you claimed to have but they never seemed to happen. "im taking that silence as a yes. it's a pool party. wear that red bikini," he finally spoke, ending the silence. you could hear the smirk in his voice which caused a slight smile to spread across your lips, reaching to hang up the phone without saying another word.

you sure as hell did not plan on arriving any earlier to the cody's house then you had to. you took your time that afternoon getting yourself and your daughter ready. you had dressed her in the red bathing suit pope had got her for her first birthday, a little hat and sunglasses on her face. yeah, you and pope weren't together but you still liked to dress up and look pretty for him. sue a girl for wanting to sleep with her baby daddy again. the red bikini he spoke up still fit you as perfect as the day he bought it for you, the bottoms a little tighter only due to the fact you gave birth and your ass and hips never seemed to forget that. you just pulled a large t shirt over yourself that was pope's that you had refused to get rid of before heading out the door with sunny.

the drive to the cody's felt like you were about to drive into an ambush. you hadn't seen them since probably a month before you gave birth, and it was the most freeing time of your life. you could see the large amount of cars outside of the house, your stomach doing backflips. maybe this is a bad idea, maybe you should just go home. too late. there stood pope at the end of the drive, his shoulders seeming to untense at the sight of your car. you parked, taking multiple deep breaths before stepping out. "hello beautiful," he mumbled, kissing the side of your head quick before moving to the backseat. it made your heart melt as he cooed to your daughter, being quick to unbuckle her and pick her up, pressing kisses all over her face which caused her to squeal loudly. a small smile crossed your lips as you watched the two before his gaze turned back to you. "that my shirt?" he smirked, hand reaching forward to tug at the hem that sat just at your mid thigh. you shrugged, trying your best to be nonchalant as you reached in the back to get her diaper bag and your purse.

he was quick to grab the bags from you, placing sunny back in your arms. "what kind of man would i be if i made the mother of my child carry all the bags?" he spoke, closing the door before nodding for you to follow him. "you trying to impress me or something, andrew?" you teased, following close behind him as you both made your way to the house. you could hear the music, hear the people talking and laughing in the back and it made a chill run down your spine. "am i impressing you enough that you'll let me put another one in you?" he asked, stopping at the door to turn back to look at you, a hint of hopefulness in his voice. you laughed loudly, his smile only getting wider at the thought of getting you pregnant again. your laugh quickly quieted as you made your way into the house, eyes scanning the room quickly.

"the lady of the hour!" you heard a voice boom, causing your head to snap in the direction of the kitchen. craig hadn't changed a bit since the last you saw him, the large man making his way over to way you stood holding your daughter tightly. "oh hi, y/n. didn't see you there," he teased, causing you to blush a little as he reached a finger to poke your daughter's cheek. he raised his hands up to try and hold her, pope immediately moving to stand in-between him and you. "no. no one is holding her," he muttered, your cheeks now bright red. the butterflies went crazy in you at the sight of him being protective of your daughter. what would be the problem if you did let him give you another kid? craig only rolled his eyes before looking back to you, patting your shoulder gently. "good to see you," he mumbled, an almost smile on his face before he made his way back out to the pool.

pope led you both up to his room, a room you hadn't stepped foot in in almost two years. it was still the same, organized nicely, bed always made. the only new additions were two picture frames on his nightstand. one of him and your daughter the day she was born, and one of you and him when you had first gotten together. it made your heart break a little, hating to think about what you used to have and how good it was. "can put your bags in here. ill lock the door," he mumbled, reaching to grab your daughter from you again before sitting down on the bed. you nodded, walking around the room a little to take in everything. it smelled just like him. "hasn't changed much in here," you spoke softly, moving to the window to look down at the party that was happening in the backyard. he just chuckled, laying your daughter down to tickle her before turning his gaze back to you. "you gonna swim in a shirt?" he mumbled, eyeing you up and down as you slowly turned back to face him.

a sigh left your lips as you moved to stand in front of him, your arms crossing over your chest. "you can let your family hold her y'know. i dont want them hating me more than they already do," you mumbled, a deep pit in your stomach. you didn't mind his brothers, they were always friendly with you whenever the two of you were together. it was smurf and her wickedness that you couldn't stand. "i know. i don't want them to. don't want anyone touching my girls," he mumbled, reaching forward to pull you towards him so you were now stood between his legs. another sigh left your lips as you stared down at him, his hand rubbing your hip gently. "not your girl anymore andrew," you spoke quietly, tears threatening to leave your eyes. he just chuckled, shaking his head as he grabbed your hand, bringing it up to his mouth to press gentle kisses to it. "you'll always be my girl and you know that," he spoke quietly, moving your daughter to sit on one knee before he pulled you to sit on the other. you couldn't help but chuckle, relaxing into him as you smiled down at your daughter. "whatever you say," you muttered, a hand moving around to rest around his shoulder, head resting against his.

it was moments like this that you missed. you missed the family you had. you knew you could have it back in a heart beat too. but there was just one thing that worried you. "i heard my grand baby is here!" smurf's voice called from down the stairs, your head immediately dropping. there was that one thing that worried you.

pt. 2

[r4bidabbott]

pt 3 of baby daddy!pope trying to get his family back

prev. part

the drive back to your apartment was like deja vu, except now instead of being heavily pregnant and crying, you were sobbing along with your daughter scream crying from the backseat. your phone was blowing up from texts and calls from pope, begging you to come back and begging to talk to you. you had enough, shutting your phone completely off once back home. it was like you couldn't stop crying the whole time, silent sniffles as you fed your daughter and gave her a bath. you hated crying in front of her because you knew she fed off the energy that you put out so you always tried to put on a brave front for her.

once she was finally asleep in your bed where she really liked to be, you made your way into the bathroom. it was then that you finally got a good look at yourself in the mirror and holy shit did you look like a nightmare. hair a wild mess from the pool, makeup streaked all down your cheeks, and eyes bloodshot from the nonstop crying you had been doing. you couldn't help but laugh through the tears a little, knowing how insane you looked. again, it was like deja vu to the night you left the cody's for the last time, except pope was banging on your door begging to be let in.

it was like you were asleep, the banging ringing through your ears like a bad dream. except you weren't asleep. it wasn't a bad dream. someone was actually banging on your door. you sprinted through the apartment to your front door, not even crying anymore but pissed because you had just got sunny to go to sleep. you flung the door open without even checking through the peep hole, a sigh leaving your lips at the sight in front of you. there stood pope, looking like a beat puppy. "did you shut your phone off? i thought you were dead," he spoke immediately, his heart breaking at the sight of you standing there looking so disheveled. "don't bang on my door like that ever again. i just got her to sleep," you mumbled, going to shut the door but he was quicker, putting his foot in to stop it.

all you could do was sigh, turning to walk away because trying to win a fight against him seemed almost impossible most of the time and you were exhausted. his hand wrapped around your arm, forcing you to turn to face him. "you don't get to keep walking away from me. you've done it too many times," he spoke, his voice a bit shaky. he wasn't one to cry ever but you could tell he had been. the red of his eyes, the slight pink hue of his cheeks, and his curls a mess from running his hands through it so many times gave it away. a scoff left your lips, arm pulling from his grasp. "you're right, i have. you stood there and let your devil mother call ME a bad mom and didn't say a single thing. i have bent over backwards for our daughter, i let you see her whenever you aren't doing smurf's dirty work, i take her to all her appointments. i do everything for this child and still let you have your time with her," you hissed in a whisper, finger jabbing into his chest over and over as you made your points. you hated speaking to him this way, hated trying to make him feel bad, but the ship of protecting his feelings had long sailed. "sure, you pop in and play daddy once or twice a week at most. you give us money thinking that will keep me happy. but guess what andrew? im not happy. i want you doing these things with me but you're always too fucking busy," you spat with one final poke to his chest, arms coming back to cross over your chest as you finally looked up at him.

in your whirlwind of anger, you didn't even notice the bag he had brought with him now sat at his feet. the sight of it caused you to start laughing, probably looking like an insane person as you laughed and the tears began to stream. "you think you're staying here? think you're sleeping in my bed?" you smirked up at him, your foot moving to nudge the bag at his feet. he scratched the back of his neck, staring at you for a moment before reaching to pick up the bag and moving past you. he knew you had a hard time saying no to him, especially when it came to involving him being around sunny. "i won't sleep in your bed. i will sleep on the couch. let me stay for a few days. will get an apartment and out of smurf's," he mumbled as he moved past you to the couch, setting his bag down before he began to take off his jacket, turning back to look at you.

"oooo mommy is gonna be mad," you snorted at the thought of smurf waking up in the morning to realize her precious pope was gone. yes, it did warm your heart a little to know he was finally going to be out of her place, but he wasn't just out of the blue yet. "you don't get to waltz in here and think everything is just fixed. your family is what ruined us in the first place and it is happening all over again, pope," you spoke finally after a few moments of silence, turning to lock your front door. he hated when you called him pope. the entirety of your relationship he was always andrew. andrew, andy, my andy. he missed it so bad. the thought of him staying for a few days did excite you a little, sure, but it was only a matter of time before smurf was begging him for his help for a job that had a chance of him ending up either in jail or dead. "you and sunny are my family. you come first from now on. i want my family back," he spoke, his voice cracking as he spoke quietly to ensure he didn't wake your sleeping daughter who was just up the stairs. you shook your head, still standing at a distance from him. "we should have came first to begin with. this is our fucking child we are talking about. you have missed out on so much with not being here all the time," you hissed, your tone still sharp and mean. he finally sat down, hands running through his hair over and over to try and stop himself from letting any tears fall.

"i know that. i know. i beat myself up for it every day. you don't have to keep reminding me that i miss out, okay? i know that. i love my daughter more than anything in this entire fucking world and im going to prove that to you. i love you more than anything in this entire fucking world and im going to prove that to you," he said as he forced himself to look up at you, the tears finally falling down his cheeks. you were such a sucker for his puppy dog eyes and tears. a sigh left your lips as you moved to stand in front of him, frowning down at his teary face. all you wanted to do was wipe his face and hold him so tight but you stopped yourself. "i will let you stay. but that woman is not to step foot on this property. i swear to god, andrew if i find out she is even on this street i will kill her," you mumbled to him, your arms crossed tightly over your chest. he couldn't help but chuckle a little, knowing you couldn't hurt a fly let alone a grown woman. "don't laugh. im serious. you have to be out by the end of the week too and in your own place. a place that smurf does not have any reign over. i don't even want her knowing where you live," you continued on, fingers toying of the sleeve of his shirt you still wore.

in all your sadness and anger of the night, you hadn't even got the chance to eat or clean yourself up. suddenly you were so conscious of the state of yourself that a wave insecurity rushed over you and you could tell he took notice of it. "no smurf. i promise," he nodded, wiping his tears away as quickly as they fell. "i will be out by the end of the week. just please please do not walk away from me again. i can't take it anymore," he begged, his voice still in a whisper as he continued to stare up at you. a sudden cry from upstairs that came from your daughter snapped you both out of conversation, a small sigh leaving your lips as you turned to make your way up the stairs. he was quick to stop you, hand grabbing your wrist. "go get cleaned up. ill get her, yeah?" he spoke, rubbing your arm gently where he had just held it. you hesitated for a moment, looking up at the stairs as sunny's crying continued before back to him. all you could do was nod, a barely visible smile on your lips before he was pushing past you and making his way up the stairs.

your shower was spent silently crying, basically praying to whoever was listening that pope wouldn't go back into his ways. that he wouldn't disappear for days on end then return like nothing was wrong. all you wanted was your family back. when you finally got out of the shower, the apartment was eerily quiet, your daughter's crying no longer heard. it sent a chill down your spine. he wouldn't just run off with her would he? this wasn't a whole plan made by smurf to kidnap your daughter was it? you were slipping from your wet feet as you wrapped yourself in your towel, rushing to your bedroom where your daughter last laid. you pushed through the door, adrenaline racing as you swung the door open. there, like two perfect angels, slept pope with your daughter on his chest in your bed. all your nerves seemed to melt away at the sight, a small smile on your lips. you crept around your room not to wake them, quietly getting dressed. you were going to stick with the words you said to pope, you were not going to sleep with him. you had tip toed down the stairs, baby monitor in hand as you made yourself comfy on the couch.

you couldn't believe you actually gave your bed up to him and forced yourself to the couch. if that was what it took to get him to stay, you would sleep on the couch every day for the rest of your life. you knew he would probably throw a fit in the morning at the sight of you asleep downstairs but you didn't mind. he had never got the chance to sleep with sunny so you were finally going to give that to him. you wanted him to get the chance to see what he could have had these past two years. you wanted him to feel that guilt because maybe then it would get through his thick skull that his mother tore your family apart. the tv played softly as you dozed off on the couch, finally being able to fall asleep. you were already deep asleep, a phone buzzing and lighting up on the coffee table in front of you. the exhaustion from the day kept you asleep through the constant buzzing. your phone had still been shut off though so it had to be pope's. text after text continued to come through. it could only be from one person.

if you aren't back here by 10 in the morning i am coming to find you.

next part

[r4bidabbott]

pt 2 of baby daddy!pope still loving his baby mama but now he thinks he's lost her forever

prev. part

the sound of smurf's voice was like nails on a chalkboard. it scared you, it irritated you, most of all it made your blood boil. "i know i said anyone can hold her. your mother is not in that group," you muttered, immediately standing up off of pope's lap to scoop your daughter up, holding her tightly to your chest. "you know she's going to try," he muttered as he stood up, turning to hide your bags in his closet. his words pissed you off to no end, your hand shooting out to grip his jaw tightly and force him to look at you. "and you are not going to let her. i have been nice enough coming over here. you can do this for me," you mumbled, hearing her continue to call out from downstairs. his eyes stared into yours, a smile threatening to cross his lips. he just nodded, his hand coming up to cup your hand on his face before you yanked it away.

once he had everything hidden, he took your daughter back from you and rested her on his hip, leading you both out into the hallway. "just be cordial," he spoke quietly, handing coming to rest on your lower back as he ushered you down the steps and to the kitchen where smurf and a few others stood, her eyes immediately landing on your daughter. it was like every hair on your body stood up at the sight of her, still as eerie as ever. "there's my chunky monkey," smurf cooed to sunny, andrew pulling you gently closer to his side, pulling your daughter back a little as smurf tried to reach for her. "don't do that pope," his mother mumbled, trying to reach for your daughter again, and again he pulled her back. it made your heart warm at him protecting not only his daughter, but you from his mother. "she doesn't like strangers," he finally spoke, sunny's chubby face burying into pope's neck, his hand rubbing gently circles on your back. "i wouldn't be a stranger if someone would bring her around," she spoke with a fake smile, turning to eye you up and down before noticing her son's hand on you.

"you two back together?" she all but laughed, an eyebrow raised as her arms crossed over her chest. it made you let out a snicker, leaning in to andrew a little more. you knew the sight of any of her son's with women irritated her, but the sight of her precious pope with you drove her mad. "and if we are?" you challenged back, your daughter making grabby hands to you. "fine with me. guess ill see my baby more then," she spoke through a gritted smile, pinching sonny's cheek not hard enough to hurt her but hard enough to confuse the baby. you were quick to take your daughter back into your arms, moving past smurf and towards the party that was going on in the back. you could hear the two bickering quietly as you walked away, pope shushing her before he was back at your side, hand returning to its spot on your back. "trying to get on my good side, andrew?" you asked quietly, him leading you to a shady spot. he just blushed a little with a small nod, taking sunny from your arms. "go mingle. swim," he spoke, grabbing the sun lotion before setting your daughter onto a chair, beginning to lather her up.

you couldn't help but stand and admire him for a moment and how your daughter smiled up at him so adoringly. yeah you definitely needed your family back. he would glance over at your every so often from the corner of his eyes, waiting for you to rid the shirt so he could get a glimpse at your body he dreamed about since the day you two first met. you scanned the party a little, finally taking a deep breath before ridding yourself of the large shirt. you felt self conscious for a moment, looking down at your body. of course you still carried some weight from your pregnancy but it was just a constant reminder that it gave you your beautiful daughter. "god you look so good," pope mumbled from behind you, your daughter now in his arms as he looked you up and down. you couldn't help but smile, a blush creeping up on your cheeks. "gonna swim with me?" you asked him softly, raising an eyebrow up at him. he didn't usually enjoy getting into the pool at these parties, would rather just sit and drink on the side. how could he say no with you looking like that?

he hesitated for a moment, continuing to admire you before passing your daughter back so he could slip his own shirt off. "don't look to bad yourself," you mumbled with a smile, your bottom lip going between your teeth. you could see smurf out of the corner of your eye watching the two of you, pretending to be involved in a conversation with some people. he just shook his head, grabbing your hand gently to lead you to the steps of the pool. he walked right in with ease, turning to look up at you where you stood with your daughter. you slowly made your way in, sunny squealing loudly as the warm water hit her legs. you laughed as you dipped down a little, the water up to your chest and hers. pope moved closer so he was in front of the two of you now, splashing a little bit of water which caused her to squeal even louder. "daddy is so silly," you spoke softly, pope's lips immediately curving into a slight smirk. "will never get tired of hearing you call me that," he spoke quietly to you, causing you to roll your eyes playfully at him.

that's how the two of you stayed for a while, splashing in the pool with your daughter with quiet back and forth flirting. you could tell she was getting tired, her head resting on your shoulder while her eyes tried to fight closing. "let me take her inside for a little yeah? ill sit with her im too hot right now," deran, who had made his way over a while ago to catch up with you. you had always been closest to him out of his brothers, staying connected for a while after you gave birth before smurf got after him about talking to you still. you glanced over at pope who was already shaking his head, but you were tired and never got a minute alone with him. "it's fine, andrew. just dry her off a little then take her in, yeah?" you spoke softly to his younger brother, slowly handing your daughter over to him. you watched as the dirty blonde climbed from the pool and did what you said, drying sunny off before carrying her now sleeping self inside.

you were knocked out of your trance by two large arms sneaking around your waist, pulling you back into him. "10 minutes and we go inside, yeah?" he mumbled in your ear, the anxiety radiating off of him. "it's fine. he will come get us if she wakes up or he doesn't want to watch anymore," you spoke, head resting back onto his shoulder. you missed being flaunted around and touched by him. the few times he would come to your house, of course he would always plant a kiss on your head or give you a quick hug before leaving. never anything more. "i miss you yknow," he mumbled in your ear as he continued to hold you in the water, a small kiss being pressed to your ear. a small sigh left your lips as you closed your eyes, trying to find the words to say to him. your eyes were quick to shoot open at the sound of your daughter screaming.

you weren't sure how you moved out of the water so fast, pope passing you quickly as you both ran inside the house soaking wet. it felt like your heart fell out of your ass at the sight in front of you. there stood smurf holding your now awake and screaming daughter, the older woman rocking and hushing her. "what the fuck are you doing," you spat angrily, ripping sunny from your arms and splashing water everywhere. "she was getting fussy and deran doesn't know how to calm a baby. was just getting her back to sleep," she laughed, deran stood scratching the back of his neck as he looked at the both of you. you could feel the blood boiling, andrew immediately going off on his younger brother. "she just grabbed her while she was sleeping," you could hear deran mumble to his brother, smurf shooting him a death glare. you couldn't help but scoff, immediately walking in the direction of pope's bedroom where all of your things were.

you were about to slam the door behind you when he caught it, closing it behind him as your daughter continued to scream and cry. "what are you doing?" he asked, watching as you laid her on the bed and began to dig through everything looking for your bags. your ears were ringing, eyes burning, and hair sopping wet and dripping all over his bedroom. "we are going home. i knew this was a bad idea. you know i dont want her around my daughter," you hissed at him, finally finding your bags. of course, you left your shirt down by the pool. it wasn't his fault that smurf got her hands on sunny, he was outside enjoying you after all. he was just close enough to be at the receiving end of your anger. "our daughter," he corrected, "i told you not to give her to deran," he shot back, moving to pick your daughter up and hold her close while trying to soothe her. "it doesn't matter! i don't want her around that woman ever! this could work if we wouldn't have to be around her!" you were yelling now, digging through his dresser to finally find shirt to cover yourself up with.

it broke your heart as your daughter cried more from your yelling. you and pope had never fought when you were together until the moment you broke up and it was explosive enough to have you hyperventilating as he cried and begged you not to leave. "give her to me," you muttered, throwing your bag over your shoulder as you held your hands out to him. you could feel the tears falling from your eyes as he pressed a long kiss to the side of her now red face, hesitantly placing her in your arms. "never again will i be here," you muttered, pushing past him to make your way to the front door, pope hot on your tail and still dripping wet. "real good mother you are. yelling in front of her and taking her from her dad," smurf spoke from where she sat on the couch, both you and pope's heads snapping to look at her. "you've done worse in front of your children," you spat back with an almost evil laugh, walking straight out to your car. "go back inside and console mommy, pope," you continued to laugh back at your child's father as he followed, half a step behind you.

the angry tears continued to stream down your face as you buckled your screaming child into her seat, moving to get into the driver's seat. you were just about to slam the door in pope's face when he stepped between your seat and the door. "move, andrew," you mumbled, trying your hardest to not totally break down in front of him. he didn't say anything, just reached forward to wipe the tears from your face. "you aren't driving our daughter home like this," he mumbled, a sob now leaving your lips. "you did this," you hissed between your cries, swatting his hands away from your face. "all you had to do was distance yourself from her and you couldn't! you just have to be there for me and sunny and you can't without listening to her telling you how im alienating you from her! i have given you so many chances!" you continued to sob, face now red from crying and yelling.

he couldn't say anything, he didn't know what to say as he watched you cry. it just brought him back to the night you left him, your face looking the exact same and his heart breaking all over again. he did everything he could over these past two years to get closer to you and get his family back, and now it was being flushed down the toilet right in front of his eyes. he grunted as you pushed him back and slammed the door shut in his face, starting your car before driving off. he was silent, fists clenched tightly at his sides as he watched your car turn off his street. he stood there for a few moments, hoping you would have a change of heart, hoping you would turn around, but it never came. he knows what he has to do.

pt. 3

[drowningintheshower]

Because @permanent-fire-hazard wants to be kill me. Here is my retaliation to this post.

It took Jack an embarrassingly long time to realize what happened.

The way Michael held him like he was trying to memorize the exact indents he mad against his skin. The subsequent months of nothing. At first he was afraid for a different reason. He’s seen it with some of his guys, felt it for a while after coming back.

God.

Robby felt.

He felt for an elderly person who sat on a park bench with the ghost of another. He felt for a young child racing through the park fully trusting the world to be kind to them. He felt for dogs that rambled along with their owner even as their body sags with exhaustion.

It was something Jack could never fully comprehend. How a man who bleeds every emotion could somehow be a doctor, an emergency doctor, of all things.

And he might’ve always feared that one day Robby would feel just a little too much of the wrong thing.

He nearly cried with relief when he heard Michael’s voice. It was calm and even and completely unaffected after hearing Jack’s voice. That was the first hint. One that Jack couldn’t even see until hours later after pulling himself out of a spiral.

I’m sorry, sir, but I really don’t know you. Sir. Robby called him sir.

Sir is for E-1’s who sound like their balls haven’t dropped yet. Sir is for random civilians who see him in uniform. Sir is for cheeky assholes like Martinez. Sir is not for Michael Robinavitch who knows him too well to ever have that distant respect.

I hope you find who you’re looking for. But it’s Robby. He was looking for Robby. He’s always looking for Robby.

Why does Robby sound like he doesn’t know him?

He’s not the type to pull some elaborate cruel prank.

Some part of his brain—the doctor, the person that looks at twenty injured men and determines who’s actually got a shot at surviving—pieces it together. The wedding. The sudden disappearance. The apparent lack of memory.

But he’s a soldier, he doesn’t leave a man behind. He doesn’t abandon his battle buddy, and Robby’s been his since they were twenty one with brains melting during Physiology.

Charlotte find him manically trying to call Robby back.

She doesn’t try to stop him once he explains. She holds him when realty hits and his calls aren’t even going through anymore.

~~~~~

The world has some fucked up sense of humor. Truly, cruelly.

Dr. Robinavitch is in front of him. Ten years older with a beard and the implication of crowsfeet. He has his hand out to shake Jack’s. They’re on the same panel, how to handle trauma in unprecedented events. The aftermath of a hurricane and an active battlefield respectively.

Dr. Robinavitch looks good, healthy with a slight bounce in his step. He mentions a boy, Jake. The way he sounds…it’s like he’s his own son.

Jack notices Dr. Robinavitch mindlessly rub his chest. Right between his ribs.

Jack makes sure to stay clear of Dr. Robinavitch.

~~~~~

Jack comes to Pittsburgh to die.

He promised Charlotte after the convention fiasco to never look up Michael Robinavitch. Not professionally and certainly not personally. She demanded this for his own sake and that’s why he was resistant. It wasn’t until she started to sound bitter that he finally acquiesced. He was always better at doing right by others than by himself.

Charlotte’s dead now. He laid her to rest a month ago. Most everything was sold or given to various family members. Jack certainly wouldn’t need it.

The only thing he keeps is his ring.

He slides into the emergency department without any resistance. He’s not planning on staying too long but he doesn’t wish to go out on that bad of a note.

He’s placed on nights which is inconvenient because Robby’s a day attending. But it’s so poetic Jack can’t find it in himself to try and change shifts. It’ll just mean his plan will take a bit longer. Which means more suffering. More penance.

He doesn’t fall in love with Michael, he woke up to it. Something latent turning over and coming back into conciousness. Jack doesn’t immediately try to befriend him, but they’re about the same age, unmarried, and in the same nightmarish job.

It starts with dragging their feet during handoff, the evolves to drinks at the bar, then mutates to going over to Robby’s. His town house leaves Jack hollow, every room is shifted 2.5 inches to the left. Almost in the form of home decor.

It’s the same hybrid of classic wood, mid century modern, and esoteric mad scientist. There’s no pictures of Robby during med school.

Jack starts to insist they go to his, citing accessibility. Robby is needlessly apologetic about being ‘inconsiderate’. Jack figures he needs to buy a coffee table and some plants to not seem suspicious.

It’s easy, loving Michael Robinavitch. It’s easy to love his compassion, his dedication, his loyalty.

The flowers remain stubbornly dormant.

Years past. Adamson dies. Jack starts therapy and greatly minimizes his reason for coming to Pittsburgh. Robby continues to decline. There’s still no damn flowers.

Neither of them say anything.

Pittfest is another type of beast. One that everyone handles with depressing efficiency. Over worked, over stretched, under paid, and not protected. They still do their damn jobs.

He finds Robby on the roof on the wrong side of the barricade and Jack thinks, “This is it. If he goes I go. One way or another.”

Not exactly how he planned it all those years ago, but it would hurt. It might be enough for absolution. No it won’t. Nothing will.

But he can’t let Michael die.

The leave that night and for a moment Jack can imagine what life might’ve been like if they weren’t cowards. If Robby fessed up. If he just reached out during those eleven months. If he tried to explain during the conference. If he confessed now.

Maybe they never would’ve been lovers, maybe they’d always just be brothers in arms. But there would’ve been this comradery and some delusional part of Jack thinks it would be enough.

By the time the 4th comes around everyone’s lost and nothing is okay. Jack’s finally watching his oldest Robby fear come to life. Robby feeling too much of the wrong thing.

It’s ugly.

He’s mean.

He can’t even look Jack in the eye.

Jack’s never left a man behind. He doesn’t plan to now.

“It’s you and me.” A vow and a curse and the only thing keeping either of them here.

Robby rides off and Jack wonder for the nth time why he doesn’t have and flowers.

He loses his mind quietly in the peds ward (thankfully void of children and corpses). Why are there no flowers. He loves Robby. Probably had for much longer than he was ever aware of. And Robby can’t love him. Because that’s the whole point of the surgery and Jack hates him for making that call and loving him for doing what he must to survive and hating himself for being the cause of all this and maybe hating Charlotte because if not for her he would’ve figured it out eventually. Right? Would he? He would have to. Because the alternative is he would’ve just forced Robby to suffer permanently and what kind of friend, doctor, person would he be?

Thankfully Pittsburgh’s kind and Jack’s spiral is uninterrupted.

He gets back to his house and he notices a motorcycle.

He practically trips through the door. Would crawl over glass of that’s what it took because what if he’s too slow and Robby decides to leave?

There, on his couch, wrapped in an old sweatshirt of their Ala Mater, Michael looks like he did thirty years ago.

Jack doesn’t wake him. He brews some tea, black tea with honey just the way Robby’s Bubbe makes it.

Michael wakes up only because his body isn’t so exhausted that it can’t sense another presence in the room.

Jack’s sitting on a chair. There’s the tea on the coffee table he scrounged from a garage sale because it was only meant to be needed for two years.

Jack and Robby know each other fairly well in this life. Jack knows Robby’s coffee order; Robby knows Jack’s IPA preferences.

Jack shouldn’t know Robby prefers black tea but doesn’t drink it as often because he can it reconcile his job with its caffeine to liquid ratio. He definitely shouldn’t know he prefers it brewed on the lighter side with only half a teaspoon of honey.

Robby look and Jack and something nudges closer to it’s correct place. The switch precariously tilting to the correct side and closing the circuit.

He sounds like he’s testing out the name.

“Jack.”

[permanent-fire-hazard]

Follow up to yesterday’s Hanahaki post

Jack makes it through one sleepless night before he’s turning a six hour drive into four and a half.

Was Robby injured? Have some sort of psychotic break? Is he being held at gun point and was trying to get some secret code to Jack?

Robby’s house looks fine. His car is in the driveway, and the silhouette moving behind the curtains looks vaguely like Robby. Jack pounds on the door.

“Mike! Mike, open up!”

The figure stands, a bit apprehensive, but moves toward the door. It cracks open and Jack almost collapses in relief when he sees Robby.

“Oh, thank God.” A humorless laugh bubbles through Jack. “I thought— I don’t know what the fuck I thought, but you scared me.”

Robby’s eyebrows knit together. “Can I help you?”

“You can tell what the fuck was going on with you on the phone.”

“Oh.” The word stretches, long and terrifying. “You’re the man that called yesterday.”

“This isn’t fucking funny, Mike.”

Robby opens the door fully. He looks good, whatever flu he had when Jack last visited isn’t lingering. “Come inside,” he offers. “I think I know who you are.”

Jack practically lunges into the house. “I would fucking hope so.” A rock settles in his stomach. “I’m your best fucking friend.”

“Right.” The word does nothing to comfort Jack. Robby ushers him into the kitchen and offers him a drink. Jack perches himself on one of the bar stools. Nothing feels the way it should; Robby is hosting him like Jack is some unwanted salesmen rather than his friend of ten years.

“So, um…” Robby grimaces and holds up a pleading palm. The fear in Jack’s gut twists like the knot of a noose.

“Jack.”

“Jack, yes. Sorry.” Robby runs a hand through his hair. “This is a bit awkward; I’m not really sure how to go about this, so forgive me.”

“Were you in an accident?” Jack rushes out. “Do you have any other injuries? What—“

Robby holds up his hand: pause. Jack clamps his jaw shut and gulps down half of the ice water Robby gave him, Jack never has ice.

“This is probably going to be more uncomfortable for you than me, so sorry in advance.” Robby sighs. “I had late stage Hanahaki and ten months ago I got surgery to remove the growth.”

Jack becomes nauseous. No. No, no. That can’t be right. Robby had the flu. He always had the flu. His immune system was shot, that’s all. He wasn’t terminally ill.

“You probably know it better as ‘broken heart disease,’” Robby continues. “You see it in movies all the time, but—“

“I know what it is,” Jack says. A haze forms in the corners of his vision, this can’t be real. “I’m also a doctor.”

Robby perks up. “Oh, cool. Is that how we met?”

Jack nods stupidly. Of course that how they met. Robby knows, he was there.

“Well, I’ll spare you the gory details then,” Robby says. “I don’t know who I was in love with, I wrote myself a letter for after the surgery, but I purposely left out a name. You’re the first person I’ve met that claimed to know me that I haven’t recognized, so I figure…”

Jack’s head throbs and his eyes sting. “You were in love with me?”

“Seems like it.”

This Robby is too cool. Too laissez-fair. His Robby would’ve been blushing and stuttering while trying to avoid the conversation all together. But what’s the point? Jack is a stranger. There’s no reason to save his pride when Robby doesn’t plan on ever seeing him again.

Hot tears stream down Jack’s face. He doesn’t try to hide them, and is pathetically hurt when Robby doesn’t offer any comfort. His Robby would’ve pulled him close, but this one stands five feet away with a pitying expression. Like he’s in the Emergency Department breaking the news to Jack that his loved one has died.

In some ways, he is.

“I wish I had more I could tell you,” Robby tries. His voice is cruelly delicate. “But, I don’t know anything else.”

Jack’s chin wobbles. “You don’t remember anything?”

Robby’s face scrunches in the same way Jack has seen a million times before; not that he knows that. More tears well.

“You don’t remember meeting in class? Or when we won trivia night at the bar? Or when that big group of us went skinny dipping?” All of Jack’s favorite memories contained Robby. Every story he buzzed to tell people, Robby was there, standing next to him, so close their shoulders brushed. “Or fucking living together?”

To Jack’s misery, guilt is added to the breadth of emotions on Robby’s face. “I remember, but it’s, I don’t know. It’s not like a real memory. A normal one, I mean,” he corrects sheepishly. “It’s like remembering a dream. I can tell it’s not quite right, and there’s a gap, which would be…”

Jack swallows a mouthful of sand. “Me.”

Robby nods. “I think so.”

Hard, unflattering sobs shake through Jack. He bends over the counter and hides his head in his arms. A stiff, unfamiliar hand pats his shoulder, which makes him cry harder. It’s like Robby has been body snatched, or died and his corpse is dancing around with the soul purpose of shredding Jack from the inside out.

That’s it. Robby’s dead. Jack’s best friend died while he was off on deployment and his ghost is the one breaking the news.

Once Jack’s tears subside into hiccups he lifts his head up and takes in Robby’s face. He’s being stared at like some stranger.

“I am sorry,” Robby says. “Even though I don’t remember you, I know I loved you. I’m sure this isn’t easy.”

“I love you too,” Jack cries. Pride be damned, he wraps his arms around Robby and buries his nose against his chest. The barely raised scar pushes against his cheek. Jack’s throat burns. “I’m sorry it wasn’t enough. I’m sorry I don’t love you the right way.”

“Oh, no…” Robby strokes his head awkwardly. “I don’t blame you.”

Jack wishes he did. He wishes the flowers had been painful enough to turn Robby’s love into hate. At least then the greatest friendship Jack has ever known wouldn’t live alone in his mind.

Feeling like a kicked dog, Jack wipes his face, apologizes and trudges back to the front door. He takes one last look at Robby, there’s deep sympathy on his face, but an emptiness that comes with dealing with strangers. “You never want to see me again, do you?”

Robby gapes. His cheeks tint pink, and for the first time, Jack can’t stand it. He used to love teasing Robby about how easily he blushed; he wonders how often doing that made the flowers grow. Jack hates himself.

“It’s not… no, but, I mean…” Robby stammers.

Why would he? Robby has as much of a reason to want to see Jack again as he would some rando having a break down in the middle of a grocery store.

“It’s okay,” Jack mutters. The tears a starting again. “I understand.”

“I bet we had a lot of fun together,” Robby offers.

A cavern expands in Jack’s chest. “You’re my best friend.”

“I’m sure you were mine too.”

Robby waves goodbye, and Jack soaks in every second of it. When the door closes behind him, part of Jack gets trapped with him, not that Robby will ever find it.

The drive home drags on forever.

[permanent-fire-hazard]

Jack is Robby’s friend.

That’s it. Robby knows that’s all they are, or ever will be, but his heart still begs for more.

Part of him wants to blame Jack. If he wasn’t so kind, so funny, so smart, so understanding, so perfectly tailored for Robby to fall in love with, then maybe he wouldn’t have. But Jack is all those things, and Robby is in love with him.

Has been since they were randomly assigned as lab partners during pre med, but Robby only admitted it in his own mind after a drunken night in MS4 when one of their classmates dared them to kiss. Robby had gone rigid and was two syllables into his excuse not to when Jack wrapped an arm around him and planted one on him. It’s was sloppy and tainted with the leering cheers of the people around them, but it still made Robby’s heart sing.

Jack’s friendly arm stayed locked around his shoulders for ten minutes after and Robby spun in and out of a fantasy where Jack loved him back.

The next morning, the hangover pounds in Robby’s head, but there’s an extra sickness with it. It starts trapped in his chest, then hacks its way to his throat before spewing his hopelessness into the toilet in the form of bloody petals.

Over the years, Robby has had the displeasure of watching Jack’s string of girlfriends come in and out of their apartment. As much as it hurt then, Robby never worried it would actually kill him, but that becomes more likely by the day.

Hiding his illness is a challenge. Jack is a gentle, attentive soul who notices something is off with Robby almost immediately. He offers support, but backs off when Robby denies it. He’s perfect.

Being in love with Jack is easy; Robby just wishes it didn’t hurt so much.

After they graduate, Jack leaves to repay the military with his life and Robby wanders south to hide his shame. The distance alleviates the pain, Robby can go weeks with only a few odd coughs until Jack calls him. He always erupts into disgusting bloody fits after they hang up.

One day, Jack is extra giddy during their call. “I’m coming to visit,” he says. “Clear your schedule. I’ve got big news.”

Robby does as he’s told and practically trembles with anticipation. What news? Stupidly, he daydreams of Jack kissing him again, saying he’s fallen in love with Robby and wants to be together. Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell be damned.

When Jack arrives, he does so with the biggest smile Robby has ever seen. He wraps Robby in his arms and squeezes tight. Warmth transfers between them and for a brief moment the flowers suffocating Robby wilt. Then Jack speaks:

“I’m getting married!” The joy on his face rivals the sun.

A thorny vine scrapes its way through Robby and clenches around his heart. Blood and petals pool at the base of his throat, but he forces it down. “That’s great,” he chokes. “Congratulations.”

“I couldn’t believe she said yes! Oh, Mikey, you have no idea how nervous I was—“

He prattles on happily while Robby wonders when Jack got so serious with this girl, he hardly ever mentioned her name to Robby and now she’s unknowingly signed his death sentence.

His weekend with Jack passes painfully. Robby frequently has to make excuses to pull fully grown flowers out of his mouth and cry alone in the bathroom.

“Ceremony is happening when I get home from the deployment,” Jack says. He’s halfway in his car, unknowingly saying goodbye to Robby for the last time. “It’ll be a few months, but Amy will send out the invitations. You’ll be there, right?”

“Of course,” Robby lies.

Jack gives him one last hug. Robby does his best to savor it, but the metallic threat creeping up his throat makes it difficult. That night he prays this girl loves Jack enough for both of them, and that one day Jack will forgive him.

—

Eleven months later, Robby is watching nonsense TV alone in his living room when the phone rings.

“Hello?”

A man’s voice comes excitedly through the speaker. “He lives! I was starting to worry.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Don’t be. Your RSVP got lost in the mail; do you want the steak or chicken?”

Robby frowns. “I think you have the wrong number.”

“Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten my beautiful voice already, Mikey,” the man laughs. “It’s Jack! I got home about a week ago.”

“Uh…” Robby racks his brain, but it comes up empty. “I don’t know a Jack.”

There’s a pause. “This is Michael Robinavitch’s number, right?”

“Yes,” Robby says carefully.

Another pause followed by an uncertain chuckle. “I don’t know what this game is, man, but, it’s me. Jack. Jack Abbot.”

The long scar running between Robby’s ribs begins to tingle, though he’s not sure why. He drags his knuckles over it to soothe the ache. “I’m sorry, sir, but I really don’t know you.”

“What? Mikey—“

“Sorry,” Robby says again. “I hope you find who you’re looking for.”

The man, Jack, starts to yell something through the line, but Robby can’t help him. He hangs up the phone.

[brightflamer]

to be alone with you

- ser gwayne hightower x rhaenyra’s daughter!reader

synopsis. Ser Gwayne Hightower is tasked with escorting you, the sole daughter of the newly anointed Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen, across the Reach and into the Crownlands as part of a deal securing amnesty for House Hightower. Along the way, you realize you do not hate him as much as you thought. contents. smut, angst, slowburnish, reader is rhaenyra’s eldest daughter (around the same age as aegon) and silverwing’s rider and is so spoiled that she has never seen a baby chick before, enemies to lovers, mutual pining, grief, show elements but also canon divergence, sex pollen, oral (f recieving), fingering, p in v, loss of virginity, multiple orgasms, cum eating, bath sex, reader is comically oblivious at some points, gwayne needs you so bad a/n. 13.5k words wow big day for me, spoilers for the show?, inspired by a request i got (thank you very much anon wherever you are), inspired by the film lady chatterly’s lover at some points, takes place directly after jace dies and rhaenyra takes the throne

part two

It was a glum day, the day you were told your brother was dead, and you were alone with the usurper’s uncle. The dread—that feeling that something was just wrong—settled deep in your stomach before the words came out of his mouth.

The Hightower army had found you many months prior, nearly deceased following an attack on your dragon, Silverwing. You had told her to fly home to Dragonstone, to leave you, and you have lived off of the hope that she made it back safe.

They took you as prisoner that day, and in spite of all you thought of them, they did not treat you too horribly. You believed it was like preparing a pig for slaughter, though, so you never wavered in your loyalty to your mother. You would die as a Black. It was not going to take the threat of death to let a word of the Green agenda come from your mouth.

Surprisingly, it was your cousin, Daeron, who offered you the most kindness. He was the only person you could yield to in the entire Hightower base. You could only pray he wasn’t relaying every conversation you’d had back to the Lord Ormund Hightower.

Everyone else treated you like you were common. Specifically Ser Gwayne Hightower.

He was rude—and vain—and arrogant. He was irritating. When he would try to make conversation, you would always end up in a fight. And it was just your luck for him to be the one instructed to take you on a multiple-week-long journey from the Reach and back to your rightful home in the Red Keep.

He was the one to tell you that your mother had taken King’s Landing back. You assume your mother saw it fit to have the Queen Dowager’s brother be the one to accompany you, because maybe she has something in store for him when you make it there. Perhaps a beheading? He could do without the ability to speak.

Then he was the one to tell you that you would join her in King’s Landing. That you were finally going home. It was the only thing to come from his mouth that made you joyful.

You overheard chatter that by you departing the Reach as soon as the letter was received, and by you making it back unharmed, House Hightower would be granted something close to immunity for their role in the war. You knew it was something a lie. Your mother and stepfather would never let the Green beasts live with what they had done—not only to you, but to her son too. To your mother herself.

The thought of what your mother might be doing to the Dowager Queen now gave you anxiety from being excluded. You should expect that they’ll be calling for Daeron’s capture too, though perhaps you will be able to put in a good word for him—get him sent to the Wall instead of hanged.

Speaking of Daeron, he was already somewhere distant when you had finished gathering your belongings, even though the things you owned in the encampment were scarce. You had said your goodbyes to each other not long ago—he claimed he had to prepare for something with Lord Ormund, and that he would not be available the next morning, for your departure.

You were, as expected, ready to leave. You had wanted to lie down and rest so that the next morning would come sooner, but Ser Gwayne had called you into his tent for one final word.

“There was something else written in the letter. Something I believe should have been saved for a calm moment, such as this,” he begun, and held up the refolded parchment which illustrated the clemency that would be provided to House Hightower upon your safe return to King’s Landing. “Would you prefer to read it, or shall I?”

The glint in his eye was one of compassion. You did not like it.

You shifted uncomfortably under his gaze. “Proceed.”

He raised his brows, pressing his lips together before giving a heavy sigh and opening the parchment back again. The fingers that gripped either side of it seemed to waver. His eyes quickly found the line he had so desperately wanted to read.

He inhaled a heavy breath. “The Prince of Dragonstone and heir to the Iron Throne Jacaerys Velaryon was slain in battle against the Triarchy Fleet. He was struck down by crossbow fire alongside his dragon, Vermax, in the waters off the Gullet.”

Gwayne let his hands drop slowly, and he sealed the parchment back. He looked back up at you.

Your head was shaking back and forth. Denying his words, maybe. The movement had come naturally, and you could not stop it.

“Is this a jest?” you exhaled a small laugh, hoping it would work to quell the distress already coursing through your veins.

You knew it was not a jest.

You knew if the war did not end soon then he would die in some violent, gruesome way, but to hear it confirmed was something entirely different. To hear it confirmed by a Hightower was something worse. The primal need for the man before you dead, perhaps in such a way your own brother was killed, washed over you in an instant.

He remained silent at your question. "It pains me, though your brother's death does not alter our course,” he said instead. “We shall depart at first light.”

It pains him?

You will show him something that pains him.

There was a lengthy distance between the two of you already, but you quickly closed it as you rushed across to smack him across his cheek.

Your hand stung, yet you did not wait for his reaction. Instead, you turned on your heel and left the tent.

Jace did not hit you until the fresh air did, and you let yourself shed the tears that you had pushed back into your sockets. The tears that you could not—would not—let fall in front of the enemy.

day one

You never liked Gwayne. He was arrogant, and he would treat you as if you weren’t the daughter of the Queen—or more importantly to them, the granddaughter of King Viserys, and the niece of their usurper.

The ride up the roseroad so far had been silent. He had tried, but you did not speak a word in response. It pains me, he had said, and then he practically told you to get over it and go home! He is moronic, and conceited. It pains you that you have to make this journey with him.

If need be, you could be doing this by yourself. You’re fierce enough to ride alone—gods, you’re essentially already riding alone, Gwayne’s useless self.

Your brothers taught you to be fierce, in spite of their age. Jace had always insisted on letting you spar with them in the yard of the Red Keep, and you learned quite well from it. You certainly couldn’t beat a knight with your skills, but it had helped you gain a certain confidence that princesses tend not to have.

Aegon had never liked you practicing with them. Neither did Ser Criston. You did beat the usurper once—caught him off guard and swept him out from under his feet—which must have bruised his ego in the process, as he felt it just to push you to the ground when your back was turned right after. That earned him a clout in the ear from Ser Harwin.

You chuckle to yourself recalling the memory—specifically Aegon’s stupid face when he realized who had hit him, and more specifically when Ser Harwin did not get in trouble for it—and you notice Gwayne looking at you in your peripheral. The smile is wiped clean off of your face.

“Does something amuse you?” he mutters.

When you look over to see him, he is glowering at you, his upper lip lifted with judgment.

“I understand you may not have many fond memories to look back on when times are tiresome, but I do.” You look forward at the road ahead.

He scoffs out a laugh. “I have many fond memories.”

“Tell me one,” you counter.

All you can hear is the wind blowing through the trees. Ser Gwayne Hightower, the parentless knight, no recollections to look back on fondly.

Gwayne sucks in a breath. “I do not have to.”

“That is what I thought.” You smirk to yourself, and lightly kick the side of your horse, forcing it forward and ahead of him.

day two

You were unsure if you should speak the words you did, but they had just slipped out at a certain point.

“I take it you did not care much for Jace.” Your gaze had already been trained on the head of your horse. It seemed hard to look anywhere else.

You and Gwayne had been mindlessly trekking forward all morning, both of your eyes still heavy with the slumber that you had lacked, sleeping in an inn on top of stiff beds.

“What makes you say that, princess?” he asks.

“You are a Hightower. Your sister is the Dowager Queen. Your nephew is the usurper. You kill for them—” you look over to him. He has been staring at you the whole time, and he looks quite furious.

“I believe you will find I do not have much of a choice in the matter,” he interjects sharply.

Your head shakes. “Everyone has a choice.”

He huffs. “What do you reckon I do? Desert my army? Get caught and hanged for treason?”

“I would.” You look back at the road ahead. “I should.”

Gwayne sighs, and returns his attention to the road as well. “We both have duties, my princess. Duties one cannot simply run from once they get to be too demanding.”

“Essos is said to be nice this time of year.”

A short laugh escapes him. “Essos is said to be nice all times of the year.”

You let out a heavy, deflated sigh. “Would it not be nice? I’m sure they don’t care about who we are there. We could be free. You could be a sellsword, and I…” your thought trails off. You cannot think of what you would be somewhere like Essos.

“You could be a scribe,” Gwayne says sincerely.

You nod. “I could.”

The idea of a life in Essos, perhaps with Gwayne, seems appealing at the very moment. The lack of sleep much be getting to you.

It does seem nice. Abandoning your name, as much as you are loyal to it, could be the best decision that you have made. He seems to want the same, if you convince yourself his words weren’t just tactical, some way to earn your empathy so that you will convince your mother to spare him once you reach the Red Keep.

If the war would not come to an end with her taking of the throne, you would have to escape there yourself. And if Gwayne wanted to come with you, if he was still alive by the time you left, you might just be willing to take him with you. Silverwing—who had surely made it back to Dragonstone—was large enough to saddle two.

day three

The inn you would stay in tonight would be much worse than the last. Not only because of the stiff beds, but because of the lack of them too.

Gwayne knew of the ones that would not ask any questions while not costing all the coins in his possession. So far they had been shit, but they had been true to their history of keeping quiet with matters that did not concern them, as far as you both knew.

You would remain outside with your cloak hood pulled tight over your head and your body facing a wall until Gwayne would come fetch you to take you to the room.

He would refer to you as his squire to the innkeepers and guests who questioned your presence. If they had questioned your demeanor, he would call you reserved and paranoid. Nobody had asked anything past that, but if they did, he was prepared to tell them that you had been tormented by some childhood event.

When Gwayne had taken you to your room that night, you had not expected to be faced with a singular bed.

“Have you gotten your own room?” you had asked, not realizing until you had drawn off the cloak from your head that there was only one mattress before you.

Gwayne only shrugged. “It was all that remained. The innkeeper told me that puppeteers are traveling in town, and all seem to be staying here.”

You could not contain your fury at the thought of sharing a bed with him. Or making him sleep on the floor. “How many fucking puppeteers are there?” you demanded, body tense with unreasonable anger.

He scoffed out a laugh. “My princess, it isn’t exactly the largest inn.” He had already begun shucking off his armor, as well as ridding himself of his gambeson and chausses. “You will live. I will sleep on the floor.”

“Are you sure? Can’t you speak with the innkeeper?”

“There is no need to draw any more attention to us. And what, princess, will you be sleeping on the floor in place of me?” he mocked, already in knowledge of the answer. “Do not fret over it. I have slept in worse places.”

You were silenced at that, and had called him for help with undoing your dress. The whole ordeal was strangely impersonal. He had done it the night before, and you felt nothing. Perhaps it be the exhaustion both of you had carried.

The two of you had retired to your respective sleeping areas shortly afterward, both clad in just your smallclothes.

Later that night, you found yourself wide awake, shivering in the relentless cold that seemed to break in past the shut windows.

Gwayne had been sleeping on the floor furthest from where you were lying on the bed. You assumed he was sleeping as well, but it was strangely silent. You had expected to hear the soft breathing of someone consumed by their slumber, though all you heard was the whistling of wind outside.

And your heart still held unpleasant sympathy for where he had been forced to rest. If your thoughts were true, he was not sleeping at all.

“Ser?” you whisper.

“Is something wrong?” you hear from below.

You smile at his voice. No, at being right. You do not smile at his presence, you smile because you like being right. You rolled over then, the mattress groaning beneath you, to stare at the dim expanse of the side where he lay.

“Are you comfortable there, on the floor?” you question, smile piercing through your words.

He scoffs. “You jest, princess, but I have no doubt that this floor is just as soft as the mattress you lay on.”

You were hit with a flurry of breathless laughter at his words. It must be your lack of sleep. You could hear him chuckle too after some point, but both of you had been slowly silenced as the seconds passed until you could only hear the commotion outside again.

Perhaps you should invite him to sleep alongside you. You are not without mercy. Of course, it would be strictly unromantic, not like how a wife and her husband might find one another on restless nights such as this one.

“Would you like to put that to the test?” you say without a second thought.

Gwayne clears his throat. “I would not want to invade on your solace, princess.”

“There is plenty of room for you.” You crawl across the bed to see him.

Your eyes find him as he thoughtlessly fiddles with the edge of his chemise, and as he freezes once he meets your gaze.

You beam down at him again. “And it would bring me solace, knowing you were sleeping the slightest bit easier.”

“Are you sure of it?”

“I am.” You think it is the sleep deprivation deluding you. You would never act like this normally. He can sense it too.

He slowly rises from his position on the ground, and multiple bones crackle once he stands.

You roll back over to your side of the bed, watching as he joins you. He seems tense, especially as you join him under the covers.

The two of you lie in bridled silence, neither one of you able to fall asleep. A chill runs through you from the temperature, and Gwayne’s head swivels to look at you.

You turn over on your side to meet his gaze, expecting him to say something. He does not, and looks back up at the ceiling instead.

Your brain, clouded by the fact that you are simultaneously freezing cold and devastatingly fatigued, opens, then pauses as you search for the words.

“Are you cold as well?” you mumble.

Gwayne shrugs nonchalantly. “Slightly.”

You chuckle mirthlessly. “I am.” The sheets suddenly feel rough against your skin. “More than slightly.”

“I can ask the innkeeper for another quilt.”

His earlier words flash back to you. “There is no need to draw any more attention to us,” you repeat.

You see the corner of his lip turn upward. “What do you reckon I do, then, princess?” he asks, and you reach out to touch his arm.

The muscle quickly tightens under your hold.

“You’re warm.” You move closer to him. “If we lie close together, we might just make it through the night.”

That is how you ended up huddled next to Ser Gwayne Hightower for the rest of the night.

You were unaware of the fact that he was lying frozen next to you, and that he did not get a wink of sleep, especially as you mindlessly slung an arm around his middle in your slumber. And as your nipples, solid from the cool breeze that had seeped in through the windows, brushed up against him as you shifted throughout the night.

day four

Gwayne had stopped to relieve himself when you heard them.

The myriad of chirps from some kind of birds had caught your attention, and you had jumped from your horse in an instant, following the sound.

You found yourself on the edge of an open field, behind some bushes, as you looked down to some small yellow birds that weren’t flying away. You deduce that they must like your presence.

It wasn’t long before Gwayne anxious voice interrupted your calm, calling your name just moments before stumbling upon you.

“What are they?” you whisper.

“Chicks,” he responds, in a normal tone. At your silence, he continues, “baby chickens.”

“Truly?” you question, head cocked to the side, watching them.

Gwayne stares at you. “Have you… never seen chicks before?”

“No, only…” you turn your head to him, “chickens.” You shrug.

He shakes his head with a theatrical sort of despair. It would have seemed real if the corners of his lips were not upturned.

“You truly are a princess,” he mutters, and crouches down to the ground.

You stoop down alongside him, watching as the chicks run past one another, chirping quietly.

“Can I touch one?” you mumble.

He gestures with a chin toward the chirping bunch. “Go on, then.”

You reach down to one of the animals, but you can’t quite seem to get a good grip on it. You don’t really try to grip it. You do not find the chance to. Instead, your hand just lingers hesitantly above the crowd of them.

Gwayne’s hands come down to meet yours. He grabs one of them, effortlessly and gently, cradling it in his hands.

Your hand is still lingering beside his, still in a motion as if you were going to grab one, as he did, so he brings the chicken in his hands to yours. You bring your free hand to join the other and cup them together.

He lets one hand release the chick into yours, and it comes down below the two of your hands as if to hold it steady. The other covers the chick to prevent it from jumping out of your hold.

The hand that is under yours touches it, and urges it to close. “Gently,” he murmurs, and you’re holding the chick on your own now, gently and effortlessly, just like he was.

His hands withdraw from yours. He watches as your lips curl up, a pure joy that he had yet to ever witness fill your face, do exactly that. His own mouth mirrors something similar.

You shudder nervously as the chick twitches around in your grip. It comes out half in the form of small chuckles and half in struggled exhales.

Your brows draw together. It seems impossible to relax them, and you feel a panic settle in at nothing in particular. Perhaps it be that your brothers are dead, maybe because you are with a man that you have such complicated and mind-boggling feelings for, or that you were just held as a prisoner for the Greens, and that man is a Green, he is the Green, the Hightower Green you have been conditioned to hate—

Gwayne has stopped smiling. You feel tears running down your face. The chick flies out of your grip once you try to see it closer, and you try your hardest to catch onto your breath, to catch it as it runs from you, but you cannot. You are sobbing before you get any sense to stop it.

“My princess?” he leans closer to you, a wavering hand inching dangerously close, and you push yourself from off the ground. He follows.

“I’m sorry,” you manage through heaving breaths, smoothing down your now wrinkled dress. Why are you apologizing? You do not know why you are apologizing. He is a Green. He should be apologizing to you, for being on the side of the war that killed your brothers—oh, gods, your sweet brothers. Your sweet, young, desperate, dead brothers.

“It’s all right,” he mumbles. His hands, still, are reaching toward your arms, yet not touching. Never touching. Just hovering near yours, always, like he wants to touch you, but he doesn’t.

You wipe your eyes, but the tears keep falling. You mutter something again. Sorry, you hear yourself say again, and then your body moves for you. You wrap your arms around his neck in an embrace so tight you might be strangling him.

He stumbles back slightly, arms still hesitating beside you, and then finally you feel it. He folds them gently around your waist. As gentle as he held the chick.

“Don’t cry,” he comforts.

You do not obey. You would if you could, but for now, you remain in his hold. You, regrettably, enjoy it.

day five

Gwayne did not like to see you cry.

He had first seen it the moment you realized you were captured by the Hightowers. You hadn’t been conscious enough when they found you to care about where you were being taken. He hadn’t enjoyed the sight then, not as his belligerents did, and he does not like to see it now.

He was the one to convince his fellow commanders to spare your life and to instead take you as a hostage. He was the one to have you held in a tent next to his own in the encampments with his two most upstanding soldiers posted outside, and not in those grimy cages fit for animals. He was the one to have you ride your horse directly next to his when on the road with the rest of the army—much to your dismay—as to prevent any dishonorable conduct from occurring. He would never tell you these things, of course, but they live with him.

Gwayne would tell himself that he did all of these things because it was right, that he would do it to any other female prisoner-of-war, given the shocking lack of honor among his knights who vowed to defend it. He had done a good job separating the wheat from the chaff when he became a commander, but there were only few he truly trusted to never harm the young, an innocent—and those who cannot protect themselves. Like you.

You liked to put on a front. And it somewhat worked with others, but not with him. He wishes it would, for some odd reason. Maybe he would not see you the way he does, if it did. He would still treat you with mercy, but it would not be to the level it is. He would never have accepted your hug. He thinks he would have pushed you away.

He wouldn’t have, but he believes he would have.

Since he had finally felt your touch the afternoon previous, the road to the Red Keep had been as quiet as the first day of your journey together. He suspected you had been embarrassed after letting him see your emotions, as you had been combative toward him every day since you had woken up from your comatose state.

He had expected it to come at some point, the unveiling of your feelings, but not in that way. He had expected to hear you sniffle from beside him while on your horses. He would have stayed silent, and he would have let you cry. He believes he would have let you cry on your own if you hadn’t come to him for comfort first.

The fact that you did had brought him joy. It made him hopeful, in some strange way he did not feel himself familiar with.

“You are betrothed to Lord Samwell Blackwood, are you not?”

You look at him, puzzled. “He has been with the Stranger since the war begun.”

Gwayne nods curtly. “So I’ve heard.”

“Then why have you asked?”

He inhales a heavy breath. “I feel it my duty to tell you of this.” He clears his throat. “Before your mother took the throne, there was word among our commanders to betroth you to your cousin, Prince Aemond.”

“You jest.”

“I do not.”

You cock your head to the side, wetting your lips. “And what did you have to say in the matter?”

“That is unneeded for you to know.”

“Why? Because you encouraged them to?”

His voice picks up immediately where you left off. “No, because I fought against it.” He scoffs a laugh. “The One-Eyed Prince is… he is mad.” At your gawking laugh, he turns his head to you. “You must know it too. He is simply and utterly mad.”

“You are his uncle.” You would never tell of his treasonous words to any other, but you feel you must remind him.

“Are you going to betray me and inform my army of the fact?”

“I do not have loyalty to you, though I will not speak of the words to another.”

“Good. Now you tell me something in confidence,” he presses.

You shake your head at the sheer audacity of him. “Why would I do that, ser?”

“What else will we converse about? It is a long and arduous road ahead of us.” His eyes peer into yours, and you feel a sudden urge to tell him everything you have ever kept from him.

“Alright then,” you look to the sky in mock ponder. “When I was young, I would pray to the gods each and every night for a gallant and true knight to take me away from the Red Keep and off to some distant land. There was this one knight, he had belonged to our Kingsguard, who I absolutely adored.” You sigh on the memory, oblivious to the fact that a true and gallant knight was riding right alongside you. “I was just a girl then. It was a silly dream. And the gods do not always play in my favor.”

Were you jesting? Or were you truly so oblivious?

“Do you remember his name?” he asks.

“It has lost me. But I remember his face. He was gorgeous, that one, and very gentle, too. Back then he was the same age as my brother is now.”

He does not let you sit with the fact that you mentioned your brother as if he were alive. “That’s quite young, isn’t it?”

You nod. “Indeed. He was the youngest of every knight in the Keep. Perhaps the youngest in history.”

“What happened to him?”

You exhale a breath, and look down to your horse’s head. “He was in the fire that killed Ser Harwin. I do not know why he had been called to Harrenhal, and I suppose I shall never know. Are you yourself betrothed, or married, ser?”

He huffs. “Gods, no. I was, and remain, of little use as a political pawn for House Hightower, my father being the second son.”

“Therefore if you were to wed, you would do so for love,” you state.

“I suppose so.”

day six

The hood of your cloak was pulled tightly over the upper half of your face, seemingly ritual for whenever you made it to inns, and you felt a tap on your shoulder.

You turn, expecting to see Gwayne, but in his place stood a knight in armor, donning a Hightower sigil on his gambeson.

It is your luck to see Gwayne rushing up from behind him to fetch you.

“Squire, let us retire to our room, yes?” he says, and you nod eagerly, pulling the hood further over your face. The two of you attempt to move forward, and you make it past the knight—

“That is no squire,” the man interjects, grabbing onto your wrist, stopping you. “That is a girl.”

Gwayne steps in between you and the knight, forcing him to release your joint from his hold. His gaze flicks down to the man’s gambeson.

He takes a step closer to him and lowers his voice. “If it pleases you, she’s my distraction for the night, ser. Not worth your notice.”

The knight clears his throat, and Gwayne steps back.

“Blessings upon King Aegon.” He smiles, turning back to the inn entrance.

His hand guides you forward, lingering on the small of your back, surely for the sight of the knight behind you. And then it trails down, over the curve of your back end, and you feel the slightest grip onto it before the door behind you closes, and his hand immediately falls away.

The walk to your room is silent.

Gwayne swallows painfully once you make it to your room.

“I’m sorry—” he begins.

“How may I distract you tonight, ser?” you interrupt, smiling stupidly at his lie, and he sighs one of relief at your lack of offense.

He breathes out a laugh, and swiftly moves to shed himself of his armor. He has been struggling on his own each time he has done so. You only noticed it the last night, and offered help, but had been rejected.

You would not ask this time, you would simply do. Your fingers were desperate and untrained in their efforts, but they did the trick in time for him not to deny you, and he was rid of the metal captivity.

You turn as he does, ridding yourself of your heavy cloak and pushing your hair out of the way of the laces of your dress. He pulls them loose without a word, and the warmth of his body behind yours would surely prove the most effective thing of the night, you decide as you gaze at the thin quilt on your bed.

As your gown slides down your body, you can hear the shuffling of Gwayne removing all but his linens behind you. If you took just a step backward, you would be touching him.

“It is a terrible coincidence, the Hightower army resting here,” you mumble, your hands fiddling with the light cloth around the your wrists.

“It is,” he agrees solemnly.

You retreat from his warmth and sit on the edge of your bed, your back up straight and your fingers clasped together in your lap. You weren’t particularly tired this night. Maybe it be from the surge of adrenaline at the knight outside, and it had already raged through your limbs, rendering them restless the moment the door to the inn had shut behind you.

Gwayne’s hand was close to you then, to an area you regarded as most private among you, a maiden. The memory of it twinged deep in your stomach. It was an unfamiliar feeling.

He had joined you in sitting on the edge of a bed, albeit his own. His own stature had mirrored yours. All tense and surged with the possibility of a fight.

“It is rather cold this night,” you mutter.

Gwayne nods curtly. “It is.”

Your gaze lowers to watch your fingers be relentlessly picked on by those of the other hand. “I fear one of those knights will bust through the doorway, and take me away with little fight, you being so far from me,” you whisper. The night was silent enough for him to hear it.

“I fear the same.”

You look up at him. “If he were to do so, it would certainly raise suspicion if your whore was sleeping in a bed adjacent to yours.”

He takes a turn to meet your eyes. “If you wish to sleep in the same bed as I, you need only ask.”

Your tongue darts out to wet your lips. “May I sleep in your bed tonight, Gwayne?” you muster.

“As you wish, my princess.”

day seven

Your horse stops before you instruct it to.

In the distance lies a field of flowers, pink and purple, some yellow, and all illuminated by sunlight. It was nearly time for it to set.

You cannot still be in the Reach, you think. It has been much too long, but thank the gods if you are. What a sight to see.

You want to see it closer. Gwayne will be okay with it, you declare, and you hop off of your horse and begin walking in the direction of the field.

“No, princess,” he says, exasperated. “We cannot go off trail again.”

“The flowers,” you breathe. “It is beautiful.”

The scent in the air is intoxicating. It is rather pungent, the closer you get to it, and the air seems more sultry than just moments before.

You remove your cloak from your shoulders, letting it drop behind you as you continue forward. It is the slightest bit relieving from the heat, but your body quickly acclimates to it again, and the sweat begins beading. It is no wonder. The sleeves under your dress are long. It makes you question why you decided to wear such a stupid thing, in this climate.

Once you make it to the field, it envelopes you. The fever. It starts in your lower abdomen in a heavy thrum and travels up the rest of your body.

Where is Gwayne?

You turn around. He is just a few steps behind. He has been trailing behind you the entire time. It was hard to notice, with the pull of the meadow, but now that you are here, he is all you can think about. All you can focus on. You do not like that.

His hair illuminates in the sunlight, much like the flowers. Your skin tingles.

He froze in his movements the moment you did. You continue further into the field. His feet fall in step with yours, and you think you can hear his breathing, all shaky and uncertain.

You make it to an empty patch of the meadow, and stop once again.

“Ser?” you turn back to face him. The scorch of the sun worsens with each passing second. Sweat gathers on your brow. “My dress... please… help me get it off.” You raise a timid arm to your back, accepting defeat once you find yourself unable to reach the laces.

Gwayne’s thumb twitches toward you. His forehead glistens. He must be burning too.

You spot the clench of his jaw, and take a wary step toward him.

“Stop—” he holds a hand out, body turning away from you. “Do not move. Please. Just stay there.” He avoids your gaze.

“What is it?” you ask. You know what it is.

You know what he is feeling, because you feel it too. It presses hard and deep in your abdomen, and it just wants to be relieved. You want to be relieved. And Ser Gwayne Hightower looks rather handsome in this light, surrounded by the pink and purple—and was it red?—flowers. He seems close to pouncing on you like a wild dog. Gods, may he?

He had always been alluring. May it be your frustration that you could never have him in the way you wanted that made you so combative, or the fact that he is a Green—it is probably both, but neither seem so important now. Not when you feel the heat of a thousand suns burn through you, all the way to your core, and then all over again.

The man himself looks close to releasing in his braies just by looking at your face. It brings you some ease, yet also further discomfort, to know that he feels the same as you. You had blocked out the idea, seeing yourself as delusional and unrealistic for thinking he would ever show any form of attraction toward you.

“Gwayne—” you exhale, though it releases itself in the form of a groan. “It is sweltering.” You bend over to clutch the end of your dress, and you are close to pulling it off yourself, if fate was willing. Something halts you.

“Please, don’t.” His voice sounds pitiful. It is all low and whiny. “I do not know if I can handle that. Not now. Not when… fuck.”

You want to keel over and die.

You release the cloth from your grip and let the dress fall back down. You rise back up, slowly, and flatten down the wrinkled fabric of your middle with your hands.

Your lips tremble. “What do you want to do?”

“I am unsure.” He still cannot look you in the eye. “It is impure, and unchivalrous for me to be thinking of you this way.”

“I am all right with it.” It is then that you realize how you sound. Desperate for a Green, as if you were a common whore, which is probably what he thinks of you as. At least he tries to fight it. You should fight it too. You are fierce enough to fight whatever it is that is welling up inside of you.

Your eyes are squeezed shut, and the shame tries to conquer the hunger—but the hunger wins in the blink of an eye. The blink of your eye, in fact, as you look back at Gwayne.

“We cannot,” you mumble. “We should not. I am a maiden. You are the opposition. We cannot.” You repeat the words to yourself, over and over, like a mantra. If the shame did not prevail, perhaps distraction will. Your eyes shut tight again, and you repeat the words. We cannot. We should not. You are a maiden. He is the opposition.

We cannot, we should not, you are a maiden, Ser Gwayne Hightower is hard by simply standing in your presence—

Your eyes snap open, and you find that you are standing directly in front of him. You must have been inching closer to him with each sentence you repeated.

Your gaze flicks down to his crotch. Sure enough, your thoughts did not lie to you. Perhaps your dragon blood has given you the gift of prophecy.

He finds it appropriate to look at you, finally, and you realize how close you are to one another.

In specific—how close your lips are to one another. So, so close, yet so far. You almost want to give in, and you lean just a little closer. He stays still, though when you stop moving, his head moves closer too, close enough that you can almost feel his breath fanning into your own mouth.

Your noses are touching, that is how close you are. You could just slot your lips right onto his. It would be so easy, so incredibly simple, if you would just move forward, just a little—

His hands reach up to cradle your face in his hands, thumbs on either side grazing your cheekbones. They move down your face, down to your lips, and one of the thumbs strokes over the bottom lip. And he closes the gap.

You feel his lips envelope yours first, and then you feel his tongue inch into your mouth. Your lips close over one another’s, and he moans. Ser Gwayne Hightower is moaning into your mouth, and it feels like you have been sent to each of the seven heavens and back again. Your head is pushed backwards with the force of his kiss.

Your hand reaches around to brush over his nape. His hands travel further down your body, one finding itself wrapped around your waist, the other petting your breast over your dress. It seems that the true touch of it pacifies him, as it allows you to push deeper into the kiss, letting your tongue slide into his mouth.

You only break away to lower yourself to the ground. He follows, as though the answers to every challenge in his life were held on your lips. He hikes your dress up your legs, your smallclothes with it, until they both pool at your waist.

He lifts two fingers to his mouth, coating them in spit before reaching down to your bare cunt and thrusting them inside. You let out a shrieking moan, letting your head press into the dirt below you and thrashing back and forth in pleasure.

“Look at me,” Gwayne instructs. You let your eyes lock onto his, you try, but the deep press of his fingers inside of you makes it hard to focus. His lips, hanging open, hover just above yours, and he moves forward to bring you and he together again.

It is breathing moans into each other’s mouths and pathetic, desperate mashing before you finally get the hold onto his lips, or perhaps him onto yours. His fingers cease, and slip out swift enough for it to go unnoticed for a single moment.

He breaks apart from your mouth, and wastes no time in sliding himself down your body. The disappointment at the loss of his fingers does not last long, as his lips lock onto your cunt.

Gwayne snakes his arms under your legs and he yanks your body closer to him. Your fingers curl in his hair, and he only laps harder at you.

“Y—yes, ser—” you cry, your thighs squeezing his head, clit pulsating under the assault of his tongue.

He breaks away for just a moment, big blue eyes locking onto your weak ones. “Not ser. Gwayne. My name is Gwayne.”

And he dives back into you, gathering your wetness on his tongue in a torturous swipe from bottom to top, one that earns a sweet little whine from the depths of your throat. It reminds him, in that moment, of the sounds you would make when you did not get your way back in Oldtown—the sounds he would shamefully think of as he fucked his fist late at night, the sounds that he would repent about for thinking and acting on with such humiliating vitality, and more importantly, for not regretting any of it in the slightest.

The sheer relief you get from his mouth onto yours is unlike anything you have felt before, because you have not felt it before. You had heard word of the act in song, and in gossip spread around by your ladies-in-waiting, but to experience it was the greatest decision you ever made. A true, gallant knight between your legs, satiating the hunger that spread in your loins and his alike, yet he is only focused on your release now, latching his tongue on your clit and sucking hard.

His fingers graze your folds and glide around the edges, already slick with your wet. One finger probes, just the slightest bit, and you shudder at the contact.

You let out a loud cry as it presses itself fully inside, without warning. Perfection, you think you hear him say. The words vibrate on your clit, agonizingly so.

His finger pumps in and out of you, and his mouth works on your cunt all the same. The fire in your veins only grows stronger as your climax approaches.

Your fingers tug and pull on his hair, and somewhere in the middle of your gratification a second slim finger of his joins the first, pressing deep into your cunt as they allow him.

The sounds coming from your mouth you do not think you have ever made before. They approach from deep in your lungs and are hoarsely ripped from your throat.

It creeps closer, that unfamiliar thing called release, and your walls tighten around his fingers. Gwayne only sucks harder, and pushes his fingers further into your cunt, his knuckles pressing into your folds.

The feeling floods your body in an instant. It feels prickly, for some odd reason, and it nips your limbs, but blissfully so. Your brain feels fuzzy, and you cannot think of anything but him. It is a way that makes you crave for it immediately once it ebbs.

You let out a little sob once his fingers slip out from inside you. You didn’t know you were crying, and a few stray tears fall from your eyes before you realize.

Gwayne licks a stripe up your cunt, collecting whatever fluids he procured down there into his mouth and swallowing them with the gulp of a man who might just be dying of thirst.

He is up your body and has his wet lips on yours by the time you tear yourself away from the sight. It is then that you feel how truly hard he is under his linens. His cock presses against your spent core, and he nearly jerks back at the contact.

“Gwayne,” you breathe, and his head shoots up to look at you.

“What is it, sweet girl?” he mumbles, suddenly winded by the sweet sound of his name on your tongue.

“I want you to fuck me.”

He is frozen solid at your ask. Your arousal on his mouth glistens with each slight twitch upward. “You’re sure of it?”

You nod, but it is not enough.

“Tell me,” he commands.

“I want you to fuck me, Gwayne, how else must I tell you?” you reply impatiently, and grind your hips up to feel his hardened cock brush against you once more.

Both of your hands come up and intertwine themselves behind his neck, preventing him from straying any further—pulling him down to you, in fact, so you can grind up on him some more.

You lift your head from the ground to try and capture his lips into a somewhat calculating kiss, but his strength prevails, and his head softly twitches back before your mouth can get hold on his.

You fall back, defeated, but his hand comes to hold your wrist, and he comes down to close the gap. He chuckles into your mouth at your desperation, and you only kiss him harder, as if you were trying to become one with him.

His hand rubs up and down your wrist for a moment, before he reaches down to release his lower half from his linens.

You take a hand from off his neck and reach down to meet his own, searching around for his cock. You get a firm grip on it, stroking it up once. He lets out a shuddery moan, and his hand finds your wrist once again—not stopping you, but guiding you, perhaps.

He pumps himself with your hand, and you let him for only a moment, before overpowering his gentleness and guiding his length to your cunt. The tip of it glides on your folds. You could die right here, and it would be okay.

Gwayne pushes into you with a wounded groan, his jaw hanging wide open. You, on the other hand, nearly shriek.

He rocks himself out of you slowly, then back into you almost sluggishly.

“Is this all right?” he manages through strangled breaths, and you nod fervently, using the hand still on his neck to push his head closer to yours.

You mean to kiss him, but his forehead lies on yours instead. You’ll take what you can get.

He presses swift pecks on your cheeks, on your nose, and on your lips as he gains momentum. Your eyes flutter shut, but his hand comes up to press a few light smacks to your cheek.

“I said to look at me,” he grunts. “I want to see your eyes—“

You open them back up at that. They’re glossed over again, with tears, and you’re glad that Gwayne does not take it as pain. There was pain, but it is long gone. He kisses the droplets as they fall from the corners of your eyes.

It is utterly intoxicating, the drag of his hips. He seems to lose himself in the feeling too. Wave after wave of constant pleasure washes over you with the somehow gentle slam of him into you.

You babble incomprehensible speech, just as lost as he is as he, slack-jawed as he fucks you. His eyes are focused on your face, your face saturated with sweat, for a single twitch of anything at all, yet he finds nothing. Nothing but rapture, as he believes it should be. He brings his hand back down to your clit and strokes it so delicately, but it brings you sweet relief all the more.

You feel it cresting again. Up your spine, down your legs, dumbing your brain into mush, prickling at the back of your neck. “Gods, Gwayne—Oh, gods, I’m gonna—“

You don’t finish the sentence. It hits you, you cum again, so hard around his cock, and it isn’t long into your perfect bliss before he is pulls out, spilling his seed onto the bunched-up cotton of your dress.

You feel as though you are one with him. It is like your flesh melts into his. Your sweat certainly does, especially as he joins his forehead with yours again, all sticky and damp.

“I am deeply sorry—” he says in between quick kisses, “to have taken your maidenhood.”

You shake your head softly. “If it shames you so, I can raise a proposition of marriage to my mother once we get back to the Keep.” He laughs at that, unknowing you were not telling a joke.

Still, you breathe out a chuckle.

day nine

The communal bath that you had found yourself in was satisfyingly empty. Since Gwayne had taken your maidenhood two moons previous, you had been desperate for it to happen again, and again, and perhaps a thousand times more, though you resisted the urge to ask outright while in the inns.

Now, though, seemed like the perfect moment to do so. You could clean yourself properly for the first time in weeks, and then dirty yourself all over again with the satisfaction of your mutual sin.

He had already undone the laces of your dress for you, and you stepped out of the gown that dropped to your feet, eager to feel the warmth of the water envelop your skin. And for him to join you. So that you could see—and feel—his bare body, properly. You had already shed your linens by the time you made it to the water.

You had retreated to the further side of the bath, so that you could watch as Gwayne undressed himself. It was nicer like this, being able to take in his body for the first time, as he stripped off his gambeson, then his chausses, and then, finally, his smallclothes.

His figure was very unsurprisingly robust. The light of the countless candles surrounding the baths set for quite the intimate atmosphere.

You bit back a smile as he inched closer to the bath, stepping inside with a heavy sigh of relief. The Hightowers did seem to prioritize cleanliness. Perhaps they place it next to godliness. Gwayne certainly does not seem to mind, given how keen he was to eat your cunt until you came undone on his tongue.

He threw his head back with a shuddering sigh once he finally sunk into the water. You watch as the grime expels from the surface of his body in one fell swoop, becoming one with the rest of the stream.

“Have you something to say?” he questions, a brow darted upward at your uncharacteristically blissful expression.

Your cheeks flushed, a harder, content smile crossing over your face. “Just observing.”

“Must you observe so far?” he mutters.

“I must,” you sneer, giving a firm nod.

His eyes flick down to your bare breasts, sat warped on your chest under the soft wave of the water.

He quickly averts his gaze to the center of the bath once you perk them forward with your arms.

“I am truly apologetic,” he starts. “For taking your maidenhood. ‘specially in such an unclean place, where anyone could have seen us if they had simply come to probe into the noise.”

You scoff. “Would you have preferred it happen inside the walls of some dull inn?”

“I’d have preferred you comfortable.”

“I was comfortable. I am comfortable.”

At his silence, you push yourself off of the wall and glide over to him. He sits frozen as your chest brushes against his arm.

“Are you a maid, ser? Well—were you a maid?” you question, feigning a look of innocence.

“I haven’t been a maid for a long time, princess.” His head hangs low.

He lets you grip his arm and guide it between your legs. “Are you ashamed of the fact?”

“I am ashamed that I am not,” he mutters, seemingly unfazed as you grind your cunt against his wrist. You let out a low moan, your breath wavering before you realize his lament.

So you release his arm from your hold and straddle his hips, placing your hands on each of his shoulders. Your chest is eye level with his face. It seems to be the only thing that can bring his head back up.

You can feel his cock hardening below you as you rock back and forth against him. He watches your face that stares down back at him—both of your jaws are slack, and you breathe heavy pants into each others mouths, gaining some semblance of pleasure from the act.

But it is not enough, no. It is never enough.

You take a hand from his shoulder and reach down to grip his length, guiding it into your walls at once. You push down unto him with a sweet little cry, one quickly silenced by his lips on your own.

His kiss is just as tender as you remember it being, amorous flowers aside, and you hum into him. A hand cups your cheek and he tilts his head, his tongue breaching the plush of your lips, just exploring.

Your fingers curl around his nape as you thrust, up and down, up and down, and he concurrently rolls his hips back and forth.

“Fuck—sweet princess—” he moans once he breaks apart from your mouth.

You gasp and shudder, and he reaches his head up to kiss all over your face. Your eye, the brow bone above it, down to the highest point of your cheek on the side of your face, then to the corner of your lip, and then he cranes his head down to kiss you on your neck. You throw your head back to allow him access.

Once he reaches your sternum, he darts his tongue out first when attaching his lips to it. “Oh, gods,” you whimper into his hair.

“Ser? Gwayne—” you can't quite speak, the words near dying on your tongue. “Are you mine, Gwayne? Tell me—” your hips slow, and his only speed up. He begins fucking up into you, and another moan rips through your throat.

He nods fervently against your neck, lifting his head back up to see you. “I am yours, princess. Fuck—” his hips stutter, though he relents.

It does not give you solace. If he is yours, how long shall he remain so? Until the gods rip him from your grasp—which would be soon now, with each tread of your horses closer to the Red Keep.

His hand slides up to your ribs as if to stabilize you, and he wraps it around your middle. His forehead drops to your shoulder, raising with each jolt of your body upward, the constant slam of his cock up into your cunt and then out again.

You know few things now, except for him. Your walls clench around him, and he nearly ceases at that. You continue in his ministrations, rocking back and forth onto him, savoring in the way his length hits you in the spot that makes you feel near the brink of climax.

“I love you.” You think you hear yourself say. And he just watches you, as you chase your peak, so blissfully unaware of the words that just came from your mouth. Your sweet mouth.

Gwayne reaches a hand to cradle your head, and push it closer to his, so that he can take your sweet mouth into his. It is less of a kiss and more of two mouths pressing against each other, but you accept it either way. The two of you pant raggedly against each other, and you feel your core tighten with each deep press of his cock inside of you.

He can feel it too. It is more of threat than satisfying, the idea of spilling his seed inside of you, but you seem to not care. You might just not know. If you were true to your word of your maidenhood—he does not care if you were or not—you must be pitifully unknowledgeable on the subject.

He remembers word of you being betrothed to some high lord widow who had died on the frontlines of battle when the war first broke out, fighting for the side of your mother. Then, once you were captured, there was word of you marrying one of his two younger Targaryen nephews. The thought of you being kept as a prisoner for Aemond sends a shudder through his body, and he rids himself free of the idea as his orgasm approaches closer.

“My princess—” he tries. You do not notice. You persist in your pursuit of release, and he grips your jaw gently, catching your attention. “Look at me.”

You nod at nothing in particular, mouth hanging open and mewling needy whimpers as you oscillate on his cock.

“I cannot—I cannot cum inside.” He lets out a strangled moan as you begin grinding faster than just moments before, as if encouraging him to do so.

“Why not?” you breathe.

His head nearly lulls back as he staves off his own release. “You could get with child.”

You grip his hand and lead it to your breast, and he lets himself fall for your entrancement, kneading it between his fingers. Your nipple is caught between two of them, and he presses them together just the slightest bit too hard, earning a wince from above him. It makes him realize he has been regrettably neglecting them this entire time.

“My breasts are sore.” You inhale sharply. “I shall bleed soon.”

Ah. In that case—

Gwayne dips his hands back into the water, finding your hips to guide them, delighting in the way your moans grow more and more fervent as his cock drags against your walls.

It approaches swift, and you do not have any time nor stamina to warn him of it. You wonder if he can sense it.

Just as quick as it came, it washes over you in an instant. Your muscles clamp down around him, and he moans loud into your shoulder—you soon feel a warmth deep in your womb, the warmth of his seed. A minuscule part of you hopes it will take.

Shortly afterward, he lifts your bodies from the water, carrying you with your legs wrapped around him. His cock has slipped out of you, but the kiss he places on your lips distracts you from the loss.

You push his chest, separating your mouths, and wrap your arms around his neck. “Let us leave together, Gwayne. Silverwing is large enough to saddle two. You could be a sellsword, and I a scribe—I your wife. I shall give you children, if it is what you desire. We can spend our days in rest and tranquility, like this.” Your breath still hasn’t caught.

It is a moment of silence before Gwayne finds the words. The dubious words, though the ones that provide enough hope to settle you. “Perhaps, my princess. Do not worry yourself with eventuality.” And he sets you down on the marble just above the bath. Your calves dip back into the water, and it is then you realize that they are aching.

He kneels down into the water and takes your legs over his shoulders. You feel the stretch in your thighs, equal parts from their growing soreness and the length of his shoulders. His release begins seeping out of your cunt from the pressure of it all.

He presses a kiss to the inside of your knee, then to the inside of your thigh, and then finally to your clit. His head dips down to your opening, and he sucks.

It becomes more like he is kissing, or eating you, at some point. You cannot tell. The pleasure has already gotten to be too much, and you are writhing under him.

His arms wrap around your thighs and he pulls you closer to his mouth, and you loudly and embarrassingly moan, your fingers rake through his hair, gripping it tight when his nose brushes against your clit.

You haven’t discovered his objective, but thank the gods for him. It is somewhat relaxing and simultaneously frustrating for him to be lapping away mindlessly at your cunt.

“Please, Gwayne, let me cum—” you beg, all breathless and crestfallen, and his eyes flick up to you. He finds you are the most spoiled thing he has ever met, yet also the most beautiful. He thinks, in that moment, that he truly should consider being taken as your husband.

He nods once. “As you wish.”

And his mouth is replaced by his fingers. He pumps them into you, a relentless pace, and his lips find themselves back onto you, but now on your clit.

He laps at you and rocks his fingers further inside, getting your folds all slick and glossy with both your own and his own arousal, as well as his own saliva.

He curls his fingers deep in your cunt, in that spongy spot that once sheathed his cock, and it is enough to bring you to climax before you realize it.

You swear your vision goes black for a moment as you cum, and the bliss fills your body over the irritation. It was embarrassingly fast how quickly he brought you to absolution, but you did not have enough might to let it wash over you the way your orgasm had.

Gwayne looks up at you with those big blue eyes of his, now glossed over. The lower half of his face is sheen with your cum—his cum—and he pants and lifts himself up to join you on the marble, his strong body glistening with the damp of the bath.

You think you might faint.

day fourteen

Tonight’s inn had been the nicest of all fourteen. You and Gwayne had jointly decided for it to be the last of your stops, and that you would make the journey the rest of the way there without sleeping.

It was not long to King’s Landing. As much as you had longed to see your mother, and to be home again, the thought of what would happen to Gwayne in the coming days was a thought too harrowing to bear.

But it had lingered in your mind since the field. Certainly he could not leave you, having taken your maidenhood. Your mother would find a way. She knows what it is like to be infatuated with someone you should not be infatuated with. She knows Gwayne. As a soldier for the opposition, yes, but she knows him all the more.

If she has held mercy for his sister, she would certainly hold mercy for him, especially given the situation at hand. The situation of you being in love with a Hightower, and him having bedded you—well, fucked you in a field, then in a bath, a few scattered moments along the road of him lapping at your cunt, or sticking his fingers there to cull your nerves the nights you were too tense to sleep. Your mother coddled you enough before you were taken hostage, and she would certainly do more once you are back with her.

Gwayne seems to sense your restlessness. You have resorted to single bed rooms in the inns, given the underestimated lack of coin he decided to bring with him. He has been able to pick up on your behavior for the last few days—noting to himself how much you lack sleep the closer you get to King’s Landing—and he has always been able to get you to talk about it. Tonight, you seem not wanting of his perception.

He turns over to face you. “Are you feeling well?” he asks.

You look to him for a moment. “I feel fine.”

Propping himself up on one arm, he maneuvers himself closer until he is hovering above you, as he stares down at where you lie. “You mustn’t need to lie.” His voice is soft.

Your lungs expand with a heavy breath of air. “I do not wish for you to leave when we return to the Red Keep. You told me that we would talk about it, and we never have.”

He brushes your hair behind your ear with his free hand. “What would you like to talk about?”

“I want us to wed.”

Gwayne stares into you. And then hangs his head low with laughter.

“I am serious, Gwayne. If you swore fealty to my mother, the rightful queen, she would show you mercy. I have no doubt she has shown it to your sister, and to your niece and her daughter too.” His smile was wiped from his face sometime as you spoke.

“You cannot be certain of that, though, can you princess?” he mumbles, raising his head back up to cock it to the side.

“I cannot.” You begin picking at the skin around your fingernails.

Gwayne places a hand over them, stopping you. “The agreement was for me to bring you, unharmed, to the Red Keep. And then I would leave, or they would have my head.” His hand envelops one of yours.

“My mother would not let them have it, if I simply tell her.”

“You speak lightly of a heavy thing, my princess.” He squeezes your hand a bit tighter. “If you so much as suggest that the Hightowers are anything less than treasonous vipers, your mother’s council will smell a captive who has learned to love her cage. You are her only daughter, yes, and she adores you. Therefore, if she discovers how thoroughly I have failed to keep my distance, amnesty will be the last thing she grants my house. It will be fire and blood, starting with my head on a pike.”

“She knows what it is like to love someone forbidden to her.”

Gwayne grins at your words. “She also knows she must satisfy her council,” he says softly.

As much as it pains you, you realize he is right. Yet he still remains as handsome as ever in the dark, and his lips are glossed over, looking so plump and lonely.

“Will you kiss me?” you mutter, and kiss you he does. His mouth is just as soft as you had imagined, and he is still so tender and hesitant in his ministrations you almost feel a want to take over.

Your lips are pliable, though, and part for him almost instantly. The hand that held yours comes up to cradle your cheek, and your legs open up a spot for him to slot himself into.

You are grateful for the loss of layers in spite of the outdoor elements—which have been terribly cold nearly the entire journey—as they give you easy access to the growing length in Gwayne’s linens.

He breathes a low groan into your mouth when you reach a hand under the fabric cuff of his waist to grip his cock. You pump him in a slow rhythm, and he nearly falters completely, the arm propping him up above you buckling and lowering him to his elbow.

The hand cradling your face moves to your own core, and he hastily hikes your shift up your thighs. His fingers find your cunt, pressing his thumb to your clit and stroking it.

The two of you breath and pant into one another’s mouth, the speed of both of your caresses increasing as your moans do.

“Would you—” Gwayne pants, “like me inside?”

You nod eagerly, and pull your hand from his cock. His own hand ceases motion on you, and he uses both arms to gather your body and flip you onto your stomach. The featherbed mattress bounces with the movement, and you reach your hands behind you to pull your shift up entirely to your middle, perking your ass up toward him.

Gwayne has already rid himself of his smallclothes in the meantime. He places a hand right above your backend, stabilizing both you and himself, and lines himself up with your cunt.

He leans his body over yours and presses soft kisses along your spine, pushing himself inside of you with a long groan. You let out a needy one all the same.

“Keep moving—” you beg, letting the top of your head fall to the pillow below you. He hums in response, and begins thrusting slowly, still hesitant.

It is a stretch, but a welcome one nonetheless. It is easy to lose trail of your thoughts with the drag of his cock in and out and the press of his chest to your back, the song of his pretty little grunts and groans singing in your ear.

He wraps his arms around your middle, one hand gripping a breast through the soft cotton of your shift. You flick your hair away from your neck, and his lips quickly find the spot, tipping you into absolute bliss.

One of his arms, the one not clutching your chest, sneaks down to your core, and he begins rubbing your clit with a seemingly endless vitality.

The other pushes the two of you up so that you are both standing on your knees. Your hands extend to his head behind you, pushing it closer as you awkwardly crane your neck so that you can join your lips with his in what may be the sloppiest way they have ever met each other.

His fingers continue their assault on your pearl, and his hips rock into you, and it all feels so much. So good, yet so much. Your chest rises and falls rapidly with each slam of his cock into your cunt, the strength of which also makes his head bob slightly into your kiss, coating the area above and below and beside your lips with his own spit.

There is little surprisingly little build-up to your release. It comes quick, like the tide coming in to take away a shell from the shore. It seems to tear through you, lighting up every nerve in your body, pulled straight from your breathless lungs and your racing heart and illuminating your frenzied brain with nothing other than euphoria.

He is still pumping in and out of you, seemingly chasing his own release. You feel a warmth deep in your overwhelmed cunt, and you know he has come, his body slowing entirely. He breaks away from your lips with a soft little cry, and you simply look at each other for a moment as your breath returns to the both of you.

In this moment, you think Ser Gwayne Hightower is the most beautiful creature in the world.

“You are more than a beauty,” he says in turn. You grin at him, still breathless, and join your lips together once more.

day sixteen

When you arrive at the gates of the Red Keep, Syrax and Caraxes are posted on the battlements.

You look over, and Gwayne seems as if he might just curl up and die. You scoff out a laugh at the sight, and he immediately straightens his back.

Open the gates, yells some guard from behind the wall, and the gate begins to part, grinding against the gravel below.

You will see your mother today. For the first time in months, you will see your mother. Will she be different? Is she a different person now that she is on the throne? More importantly, will she be a different person now that her eldest son is dead? You wonder if they have burned the body yet, or perhaps even set it out to sea. He could not become a Targaryen, as he would never become King—the gods would not allow it, so history will remember him as a Velaryon. It would only be fitting for his body to be released into the water.

You should tell her about this. She must be so overwhelmed with all of her recent duties, she may have forgotten about the fact. Is little Joffrey still in the Vale? Surely, mother must have sent for his return by now. He is too vulnerable there on his own, no matter who he is with.

When you blink hard in an attempt to settle yourself, you realize your horse has been guided inside the walls of the Keep, and Gwayne is helping you off of your horse. His hands are on your waist, and you jump down with a grip on his wrists to stabilize you. Yet your eyes are not on him—they are on any entrance, every door where your mother could come out of.

He sighs, and you finally glance at him. His hands hesitate to leave their spot on your middle. “You are home, and you are safe, my princess.” And then his arms drop back to his side, as if ashamed he let them linger for a moment too long.

“Must you go?” you breathe out a chuckle, trying to lighten the mood that seems to deepen with each passing moment.

His hand reaches for yours, and his voice is lower now. “It is the deal.”

For some reason, your heart seems to shatter. It feels odd and disheartening, knowing that he in this moment has a harsher effect on you than anything before.

Your expression has dropped, and Gwayne must be able to see it. His hand grips yours tighter, and he sucks in a breath, his head dropping to avoid your gaze. Your gaze, which quickly wells with tears. You are confused as to how this would have been the outcome of your journey together—and you are unsure if you are glad of it, or instead disappointed in yourself for not realizing that this is what would always happen.

You lower your voice too. “I do not want you to go,” you say, and your hand finally reciprocates Gwayne’s affection. You clutch it, tight, hoping it may get through to him.

It does not. His head does not lift, not even a single bit. You think you can see his brows furrow.

“I have done my duty, my princess,” he mumbles.

Hundreds of solutions flow through your mind in an instant. He could stay, swear fealty to your mother, and he could be yours. He could be your sworn shield and protector. He could be yours, if he would only say yes.

You open your mouth to say it, but nothing comes out. The words die on your tongue.

“Stay,” is what you can manage. “Please, Gwayne.”

His head tilts up, but he still averts his gaze from yours. Something else, something in the distance, catches his attention. It catches yours too. Two heads of familiar lengthy silver hair—your mother and her husband—inch closer to you and Gwayne.

The hand that held onto his was already back at your side. You must have done it without thought.

“Mummy,” you mumble. And she smiles.

She inches closer to you, seemingly dumbfounded that the sight before her is real. “Sweet girl,” she says, and you feel close to crumbling.

You want to step closer, to close the gap between the two of you, but you cannot bring yourself to leave his side.

But Gwayne is by your side one moment, and gone the next. He is pulled away by the gold cloaks, and it is with little struggle. He lets himself be pulled away. He lets himself be pushed out of the walls of the Keep, and he watches as you stand and stammer all bewildered and reaching to plead his forgiveness to the queen.

The gate closes on him once his horse is by his side.

day thirty five

You have not found much use for yourself since you have returned to the Red Keep. Neither has anyone else.

The war still rages on. It reminds you of the promise you had made to yourself, to leave if it did not end, to leave with Gwayne to Essos. He would be a sellsword, and you a scribe, under the protection of Silverwing.

It seemed a better life, a freer life, you and he on the road together. Being locked away in your chambers of your own volition, anything seemed better.

But Gwayne had abandoned you that day. He had let himself be carried away, and your mother had ignored your pleas of his fealty. It seemed nobody was on your side.

You had only wished for peace. Whatever had grown in place of it had taken your brothers away from you, and Gwayne, too, in some way.

If the war had not gone on, perhaps you could have met him another way. Perhaps he would have been your betrothed. And you could love him the way you wanted to, the way you should have since you woke up in the encampment with him by your side.

He had protected you all those months ago, you had come to realize. The violence of the men who fought under his command would have harmed you more than the words that came from his mouth when defending himself in your stupid fights, the ones you would feed into when he forced you to ride alongside him as the soldiers would march further into the Reach. The words that you replied with when he would anger you, when he would attempt to get close to you.

You should have let him get close to you when he tried. Your need for survival had prevailed then and you took every attempt as some sort of tactic to manipulate you to his side.

But Gwayne had no side, as you swiftly figured out. He wanted out of his cage seemingly as badly as you did, but he did the intelligent thing—the thing he warned you he would always do—and returned to his people, to those he swore loyalty to.

These days, it feels you have no people. Your mother is always off attending to her royal duties, your stepfather and cousins assisting her. And you have no brothers left to bond to. Joffrey is still too little, and too shy, to converse with. The others, your half-siblings, are just a few years young.

If the Hightowers had left you for dead that day, you think you would be more comfortable in the arms of the Stranger than you do in this seemingly haunted home. Your maidenhood would be untainted, and your memory would live on as tragic and loyal. You had left to fight for your mother’s cause after all and you would have died for it then, gods willing.

A piece of you wants to hurl yourself from a window for the treasonous thoughts you have had, but you just want peace. You want peace and freedom. Most of all, though, you want Gwayne.

You can only hope he wants you too, wherever he is. You will wait, and you will bide your time until the war is over—if you live until then. And you will take Silverwing and fly to him, and you will be with him, and you will exile yourselves to Essos. You will dream of that outcome until it happens.

Something deep inside you says it will.

[imnotcryingyouare1]

hwy!!

If you're still writing to Gwayne, I have an idea: she's Daemon's daughter, and she's already married to Gwayne. Daemon still has a certain attachment to her because she's his first daughter, so he still wants to believe she's a angel, but she and Gwayne get pregnant very frequently (she's quite similar to Alyssa, so think about when she tells Baelon she'd give him twenty children).

By this point they already have at least seven children (and Daeron, their first child ♡), Daemon simply refuses to believe that this is his baby

And Rhaenyra keeps teasing him nonstop because they are best friends!! and she likes to tease her husband

If you don't like it or simply don't want to, I'll understand! Do whatever is comfortable for you! But I really love your stories ♡♡♡

The children

sooo, what do you think about Gwayne and reader having several children? In other words, you can rest assured that you don't need to worry about the Hightower lineage; they've secured heirs for future generations (yep, Daeron counts too, I need that little boy with siblings), imagine if she were a Targaryen and allowed all her children to receive dragon eggs in their cribs, Ormund would certainly have a fit! - Anon

Hope you don’t mind I’ve combined them, the second request came through and I thought it would fit well with this one. So it’s been written a bit backwards. Also really sorry for how long this has taken as you’ve seen this has been over half done for a while I just need to add some more.

“You’re bringing all of them?” Ormund checks, you and Gwayne going dragonstone to visit your father and Rhaenyra. Your best friend with child and wanting your support as she gives birth.

“Yes Ormund we’re bringing all of them.” Gwayne responds with an eye roll, finding his cousin ridiculous. Willing to put up with your father’s comments to have a brake from his cousin. “All the children and their dragons.”

“Including Daeron and his beast?”

“He is my son is he not?” Gwayne says, referencing the rumours of Daeron being you and Gwayne biological child. You both not paying it any mind, Daeron is your son anyway.

“Brilliant, it shall smell nicely again, even if only for a while.” Ormund nods already planning on having the dragon enclosures deep cleaned while you’re away. “Don’t hurry back.”

“We’ll miss you too.” Gwayne says sarcastically as his cousin walks off, already planning all the cleaning that can be done with you all gone.

-

“Daughter, Ser Gwayne.” Daemon greets, nodding to your husband and giving you a hug with a kiss to the cheek. Him having missed his eldest daughter. Him meeting you outside to lead you in.

“My prince.” Gwayne nods back, holding your two youngest children. Daeron holding Rhae while Baelor, Alerie and Lorcas stood to the side waiting for their grandsire to greet them.

“Who’s this?” He asks, noticing another child from last time you saw each other two years ago at the birth of Bryden. The man staying for a few weeks to spend time with his grandchildren, Aerion loving the man.

“Oh, Kepa meet Layton, your grandson.” You say smiling, knowing he’s just being annoying as you and Rhaenyra write often and your father likes adding bits to the end of some of her letters.

“What number is he?” Daemon asks giving Gwayne a look that the man doesn’t notice to focused on the children.

“Pardon?” You ask, your father deliberately being a dick.

“How many children do you have now?” He asks clearly already knowing the answer and disapproving.

“Nine.” You say smiling, knowing he won’t be happy when he finds out your with child again. You and Gwayne having found out a few days ago, your husband having suspected for a few weeks before you finally agreed to see the maester.

-

“Right little hatchlings time for bed.” Gwayne says to the children, daemon choking on his wine at what the man called his children. “Daeron, Aerion and Lynesse you can stay up a little longer.”

“Why do they get to say up?”

“Because they’re older.” Gwayne responds picking up Baelor and Rhae, the two clearly tired, you already having left to put Bryden and Layton to bed.

“That’s not fair.” Lorcas complains, him being two years younger than Lynesse the boy having just turned 6.

“Yeah not fair!” Alerie agrees, her and Lorcas not liking they’re younger than the ‘big kids’. Your eldest three allowed to stay up later and the boys both old enough to start riding their dragons.

“You can stay up, but you won’t get any stories.” Gwayne say, used to this argument.

“No stories!” Both children exclaim in disbelief, story time being the most important time of day.

“No stories.” Gwayne confirmed, knowing that Lorcas and Alerie love story time. “Come on hatchings.”

“Can we have three?” Lorcas asks trying his luck, them normally getting two anyway.

“I’ll think about it.” Gwayne says leading the children out, lorcas listing off all the stories he wants as they go.

-

“So Daeron, how do you feel about having so many siblings?” Daemon asks his eldest grandchild once Gwayne has left with the young children. Daeron playing cyvasse with Jace and Aerion, both boys having to team up against Daeron so they have a chance. Luke and Lynesse playing a card game on the floor with Baela and Rhaena. Baela occasionally helping Jace and Aerion.

“I like it, I do get a bit nervous when the labour’s start but I like having a big family. It makes me feel wanted.” He say moving a piece on the board.

“Oh, Aerion what about you?” Daemon asks, knowing his second grandchild is more opinionated than Daeron.

“Well Rhae is annoying she keeps hiding my toys.” The silver hair boy responds, looking at Baela for help. Him and Jace not sure what to do next.

“That’s because you do the same to her.” Lynesse says giving her brother a look. Knowing that he loves teasing his younger siblings, Rhae being his favourite.

“I don’t see what that has to do with anything.” He says innocently, smiling at Baela when she moves a piece for them. Jace telling her ‘thank you’.

-

“He calls them hatchings.” Daemon vents to Rhaenyra later that night as they get ready for bed. All the older children having a sleepover in the library. All knowing that they won’t sleep to exited to all be together again.

“Who?” Rhaenyra asks, taking off her jewellery knowing this was going to happen. Daemon always complaining about your husband, not liking that he’s a Hightower.

“Hightower, he calls the children hatchings.”

“Well they are.” She responds raising an eyebrow at him, the man doing the same with their children.

“He’s defiling my poor girl.” Daemon scoffs moving to help Rhaenyra untie her dress, him having dismissed the servants. Wanting to complain to his wife in peace.

“What?”

“Hightower, he won’t get off her.” He stresses, loosening the dress before dramatically flopping on the bed. “Nine children!”

“Well it’s only nine if you include Daeron.” She smirks, knowing that your with child again. You two having spoken after putting the children to bed.

“So Nine!”

-

“I’m with child.” You announce to your father a few days later. Rhaenyra asking you to tell daemon before she gives birth. You and Gwayne planing on telling the children soon anyway.

“Again?” Daemon asks in shock. You only having given birth 10 moons ago. Him hoping you were done with babies.

“Yes again.” You reply rolling your eyes at your father.

“But, that’s baby number ten.” He says as if you didn’t know.

“Well done Kepa you can count.” You respond sarcastically, knowing a part of his dislike is after what happened to Laena but finding his reaction annoying. Him only being happy when you announced you were having Aerion and even then he glared at Gwayne as he congratulated you.

-

“He’s corrupted her.” Daemon complains storming into his and Rhaenyra’s chambers. The woman laying in bed reading, her needing a rest after flying with you some of the children.

“I think you mean she corrupted him.” Rhaenyra corrects closing her book knowing she won’t get the peace she wanted.

“What? No, before him she was a perfect angel.”

“A perfect angel who would drag Gwayne out of balls to kiss him before they even announced they were courting.” She says, knowing daemon ignores all the scandalous things you got up to, blaming most on Gwayne.

“What?” He asks, shocked at the thought. “I didn’t know that!”

“That’s because you had already snuck out to kiss or fuck someone.” Rhaenyra responds, knowing that once him and Laena married it was her he was sneaking off with. “And before you go fight him, Gwayne refused to have sex until they wed. Not from a lack of trying on her part.”

“Stop talking.” Daemon says flopping on the bed and covering his ears, not wanting to hear about what you and your husband got up to.

“So is it not the best time to mention the times that Harwin and I would join them?” Rhaenyra asks smirking, deciding it best not to mention that you don’t know who Lorcas’s biological father is. It being a toss up between Gwayne and Harwin. You only knowing that Joffrey is harwins given the boys looks.

“Rhaenyra!”

-

“Hightower, we need to talk.” Daemon say cornering Gwayne while you are with Rhaenyra and the children.

“Of course my prince.” Gwayne responds with a sassy tone, daemon not picking up on it. “What do you want to discuss?”

“Get off my daughter.”

“Pardon?” Gwayne asks voice dropping in anger but not showing it, clenching his fist to calm himself.

“Stop fucking my daughter, she hasn’t had a brake in years.” Daemon hisses, trying to intimidate the man. But failing.

“She wants it.” Gwayne responds tightly, trying to control his anger.

“Of course she does.” Daemon say rolling his eyes giving Gwayne a disgusted look. “I know you’re religious but I didn’t expect you to force her to have so many children.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Gwayne snaps, furious at the accusation.

“Stop mounting my daughter!”

“She’s the one who mounts me!” Gwayne shouts back going to storm off. “Talk to your daughter, but you even accuse me of forcing my wife to do anything again I will hurt you. I don’t care if you’re a prince and her father, you don’t get to disrespect us like that.”

-

“He what?” You ask furious, no one allowed do disrespect your husband like that. Your father included. You storming off to find your father before Gwayne can even attempt to stop you.

“Father!” You shout, making his stop in his tracks. The man on his way to the dragon pits. “There’s some thinks you need to know.”

“What is it?” He asks impatiently, wanting to go for a ride to clear his head.

“I’m the one who’s ’mounting’ my husband all the time. The reason we have so many children? I want them. I love all my children and I also love when my husband fucks them into me!” You shout grateful that the children are all in the library with Rhaenyra so they can’t hear this conversation.

“Daughter-.” He tries, you interrupting him fed up with is treatment of your husband.

“No! I’m fed up with your attitude! I’m a grown woman! And if you keep disrespecting my husband I won’t speak to you again!”

-

“I fucked up.” Daemon says later on after his ride, even sliverwing upset with him as she grumbled when he flew past her and Vermithor.

“I know.” Rhaenyra replies having just spoken with you about everything.

“What do I do?” He wines, wanting things to go back to normal.

“Have you tried apologising?” She offers, knowing that he’ll have to make it up to Gwayne before you even think of speaking to him.

“I’ll apologise to her tomorrow.”

“Not just her.” Rhaenyra tells him firmly, wanting you all to get along. “Daemon, she loves him. She won’t forgive you until you apologise to him and start treating him with respect.”

“Do I have to?”

“Do you like having her as a daughter?” She counters raising an eyebrow at the sulky man.

-

“Gwayne, come walk with me.” Daemon say the next day, finding you and Gwayne sat cuddling by the fire. Some of the children playing around you. Jace and Aerion practicing Cyvasse Daeron having beaten them once again.

“Father-.”

“It’s fine, my love.” Gwayne says reassuring you that all will be well. Kissing your cheek before standing up and flowing the man out.

“I’m sorry.” Daemon say a while later, gwayne fine walking in silence.

“Thank you.” Your husband responds, not bothering to say anything else.

“Is that all you’re going to say?”

“What would you like me to say? You disrespected my wife and children.” Gwayne tells him, willing to put up with the comments made about him but drawing the line at you and the children being insulted. Even if it was meant to just insult him. “I don’t like you. I know you love her and worry about her safety but all your comments just push her away.”

“I don’t like you either.” Daemon agrees. Not liking the man entirely because of the man’s father.

“I know you’ve made it obvious, the difference between us is that I keep my comments to myself for the sake of the women I love.” Gwanye says, not caring about insulting the man anymore and just deciding to speak his truth. “I don’t like you, I never have and never will but I know that my wife loves you and my children deserve one grandparent in their life so don’t fuck it up.”

“What about Otto?” Daemon asks, having assumed that the man was active in your lives. Him still believing that Otto orchestrated your whole relationship.

“We don’t talk.” Gwayne says simply him having cut contact with his father a few years before. Him only speaking with Alicent every so often to update her on Daeron.

“Why?”

“He called my wife a whore and Lorcas a bastard given the boys hair.” He responds still angry about it.

“He has his grandmothers hair.” Daemon says in slight confusion, the boy having dark hair like your mother.

“We know that, but he thinks he’s Harwins.”

“Is he?” Daemon asks curiosity, having been wondering since Rhaenyra mentioned you all sharing a bed.

“Is that important?”

“No.” Daemon relents, Lorcas being his grandchild either way. “How many times have you slept with my wife?”

“I’m not answering that.” Gwayne says, smile appearing on his lips when he sees Joffrey and Lorcas playing hide and seek together.

-

“Are you alright?” You ask as soon as Gwanye appears back in the room. The older children having run off to get food from the kitchens. The younger playing on the floor, not paying attention to you and Gwayne.

“Stop panicking my love.” He says joining you on the large chair, arm going over your shoulders to bring you closer. Kissing your head as he does so. “He’s apologised.”

“Really? My father apologised?” You ask, not believing the man. Daemon only having apologised to 3 other people you included.

“He did, he also asked how often we’ve slept with Rhaenyra.” He whispers into your ear, smirk on his lips, finding the question hilarious.

“That doesn’t surprise me.” You sigh before looking into your husband eyes. Not feeling like you show him you love him often enough despite you telling him daily. “I love you.”

“I love you too.” He says giving you a soft kiss placing his hand on your stomach. “Now, what are we going to name this one?”

-

Bonus

“No!” Ormund shouts Gwanye having just told his cousin the news. You all arriving back home a day ago, Rhaenyra having a little boy a few days before that.

“Ormund.”

“Eleven dragons!” Ormund interrupts, having enjoyed his time without smelly dragons and sticky children. “Eleven fucking stinky dragons! That’s not even including the other one that comes to see your wife’s one! I was happy you’re continuing the Hightower line but I refuse to have more dragons!”

“Is it a bad time to mention the maester thinks it’s twins?” Gwanye asks with a smirk, lying for the fun of it. Wanting to see his cousins reaction. Not expecting the man in question to faint. “Oops.”

[affabletimelady]

OMG yes. this was so much fun, would you consider writing like 10 more?

Good writing luv 🩷💚🧡