summary: you run from the weight of society and take to the road in order to escape. along the way, you are protected by a hedge knight who never asks who you truly are, only who you choose to be beside him. when at the tourney at ashford, what grows between you two is quiet and fleeting. something born of trust, and the understanding that some things are meant to be felt, not claimed.
author notes: you can look any way in this fic I’ve only determined hair color. all I can say about this chapter is: challengers between lyonel, the reader and dunk when? also thank you for all the love on the prologue and all my new followers it makes me so happy. making a pinterest board and playlist for fic soon. happy finale day!
warning: language
word count: 12k+
Masterlist
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The “final stretch,” Dunk said, but your mind was too heavy to follow. You were still pretty damp from last nights rain as you swayed with the horse’s gait. Half-listening as he muttered about something, the words drifting around you like wind through leaves. You nearly slipped off, and he cursed softly, steadying you with strong hands.
Then you woke or half-woke against him, feeling the solid weight of his arm and careful steadiness. He moved around you quietly, as if your presence made the world fragile. Even the horses seemed to sense it, answering only to his soft commands.
It took him a second for him to place it, the faint scent of flowers clinging to you like something you didn’t even realize you carried.
Your eyes fluttered closed again, the roads and towns sliding past like painted scenery. You leaned against him he was just so.. big. You felt at peace when wrapped in the quiet rhythm of his steady breathing. When your senses returned, light and warmth pressing in, you whispered a soft apology. He only chuckled, brushing your hair back gently that clung to him. He didn’t mind. Being with you seemed to make him… lighter, somehow.
“Just a little more,” Dunk urged. “It shouldn’t be far now.”
Instead of answering, you gasped.
He startled briefly, half-thinking something was wrong. That was until he followed your gaze. To him, it was only another stretch of land. Wide, yes. Green, sure. Familiar all the same. Just earth and sky doing what they always did.
To you, it was everything.
The road had finally fallen away. No more narrow paths clawed tight by trees. The grass rolled endlessly, uninterrupted, and the sky stretched so far it felt like it might swallow you whole. Sunrise washed over the fields, turning everything gold. Making the world soft and unreal, borrowed from fiction instead of reality.
“It’s…” you began, eyes wide, leaning forward in the saddle as though you might spill straight into it.
“Beautiful,” Dunk finished, reaching out on instinct to steady you.
You barely noticed his large hands. You were already somewhere else. You knew then that you would never tire of Westeros. Not when it still held places like this. Not when it kept opening itself to you, for you to gaze upon. It felt designed for you, as though no one else were watching.
As you rode down the long slope, the land finally revealed what it had been hiding.
The tourney grounds.
They sprawled farther than you would have thought possible. Rows upon rows of tents. Banners snapping in the breeze. People moving like bright flowerbeds scattered across the grass. Music drifted faintly. Laughter. Life everywhere you looked.
Dunk watched you take it all in. Your wonder was so open it almost hurt to see. He had not expected how much it would move him to be there for that first look. Even feeling a small pang, the realization that your awe belonged entirely to this moment, not to him.
Then the thought came, uninvited. It pained him.
This was where it ended.
His mouth tightened slightly.
You felt it too, though you did not look at him. He had done what you asked. He had brought you here. After this, there was no reason to stay. Even if you wanted him to, you would never keep him from the tourney.
You could not help him. You were no squire. And you had no courage to ask.
At the edge of the grounds, Dunk reined in. “This is it,” he said lightly. “Told you. More people than you’d like.”
You swallowed. Then whispered, “What do I do now?”
The question was honest. Almost bare.
“Well,” he said, eyeing you with a grin meant to hide his frown, “first you find somewhere to sleep. After that—” He shrugged. “Explore. Find whatever it is you’re chasing.”
You nodded, then reached for your coins. Your fingers brushed the leather of the coin pouch, feeling the small weight of it, proof that you could give something back, even if only a little.
He shook his head.
“Please,” you said, pressing it toward him. “I want to.”
“No,” Dunk said immediately. “I can’t take that.”
“You taught me. You sheltered me. You kept me safe,” you insisted. “I won’t leave you with nothing.”
He hesitated. “You weren’t a burden,” he said quietly. “Truth is, I learned some things too.”
That earned a smile from you as you put it back into your bag.
It made him shift, restless, like he needed to move before the moment settled too deeply. He let himself watch you, a quiet pride swelling that he rarely allowed himself to name.
“Well,” he said, stepping back, “best I go.”
“I’ll be cheering for you,” you said. Because that was the only thing you could say.
He smiled, broad and boyish, then looked away before he could think better of it. A moment later, he was gone, swallowed by the crowd, his three horses trailing after him.
Yours stamped once in protest.
“I know,” you murmured, patting her neck. “Me too.”
Away from the noise, Dunk found comfort in his horses again. They moved slowly, stubbornly, dragging their hooves. “Enough,” he muttered. “We couldn’t stay forever. I’ve got a tourney to enter. No, she was not the first woman I’ve ever seen!”
The words rang hollow. He had thought, stupidly, that maybe you would keep walking together. That there would be more roads. Instead, you were probably already gone, blending into the sea of strangers, beginning something new without him.
He exhaled and rested his forehead briefly against his horse’s neck. “But she was lovely,” he whispered. And he could still feel the echo of your wide eyes, the tilt of your smile, as though you had carved a little space in the world just for him, and he had no claim to it.
You tune out the crowd, and the clamor around you dissolves into a deafening silence. Sharp and grating as it leaves a silent screech pressed against your skull. With every step, you drift away from the crowds. Leaving behind everything until they become a distant hum behind you. The space that Dunk left behind pressed heavily on your chest. Half expecting him to come back, you kept turning around. Hoping to feel a sudden sense of purpose in his trail, but always finding nothing.
People pass you in groups, each step certain, each path clear. You stumble behind them. Joy should fill your empty heart; this is what you have longed for. The bustle, the color, the noise, they should mean an easy future. Yet, you are not happy.
Your mare huffs for a break, and needing a break also, you find yourself at the nearest wooden post.
Your silence is torn apart by the sound of angry, sad tourney-goers who enter and exit a purple tent. It was a dark color, almost like a frequent bruise. It appears to blow out fire as smoke coils from its entrance in twisting spirals, carrying the scent of herbs, ash, and something sharper. More people stand by it in a line, waiting for their turn to go in with fated breaths.
Pleasure has never looked this painful, you think.
“Excuse me, Ser.” You wave down a man in line. “What goes on in this tent?”
“A fortune teller,” he says, “the best, this side of the Reach.”
Although the far future was never the first thing on your mind, you were more interested in living to see the next hour, but the idea being presented to you was something you’d never experienced. Before you knew it, you had joined the man in line.
It only took a few minutes until you were next up in line. Your body exhaled all its pressure from before and regained the uncertainty of what this woman could say to you. It could not be true at all, but then again, she could always predict everything perfectly. And of course, there was much room in between.
When you entered the tent, the smell of burning sage flooded your nose, clogging it for a while to come after. The room seemed never-ending on the inside, either in terms of how big it was or in terms of witchcraft. It was filled with candles for moody lighting, books of every kind, and artifacts that were only sold in the back alleys of towns. Like crystals, animal parts, and dolls made for cursing.
This was just like in the books you used to read as a child; the woman even had a crystal ball on her shelf.
“Hello,” you say softly to announce yourself.
The woman barely lifts her eyes from the table where she played with cards. But her dark and piercing eyes could still be placed as she watched you enter her space. Her head was almost fully covered by the hood of her robes. Her look felt as if it was carried by the air of lands far away, across the Narrow Sea, where people traded in knowledge and fate.
Her voice is disgruntled and choked, with a heavy accent that you could not understand at first.
“I’m not surprised you stumbled in here. It was only a matter of time,” she says while looking you up and down in the same mimicked critical eyes of others before. “With or without this disguise, I see you.”
A chill coils in your chest when she speaks as she sees right through you. It was jarring. Is this what all fortune tellers are like?
“What is it that you are wishing to know?” She beckons you over with a wave of her hand to the seat directly in front of her. “Speak it now and clearly.”
You hesitated. Not realizing that when you joined the line, you would already have to know what you want to hear. “I’m not sure…”
“I know you do not know, but what your heart desires is different. You would like to know what's in store. After the tourney.” The woman says this casually, like it's just another thing.
“How do you know that?” You gasp.
She smirks when pushing through her cards. “Is that not what everyone wants to know?” Her smooth fingers land on one card in particular, before pulling it out to show you.
This card showed a princess in the middle, happy and beautiful. But above and below her showed two fates. Freedom and death.
Your hands gripped the chair beneath you. “Why do you show me this?”
“I told you already, girl, I see you.” The woman pauses and then drops the cards on the table, putting her full attention on you. She leans her head into the palms of her hands and takes a shift closer to you. “How does it feel to live such a life? I am but a woman from humble beginnings; I would not know.”
Your mouth opens, but only air comes out.
“You feel as if you are being pulled apart, living a life that is not your own choosing, as the world watches and laughs when you fail again and again. To want what is forbidden and grasp nothing, no matter how hard you try?” She continues.
“That’s not—” you start, but your voice falters.
“Quiet,” she interrupts. “Remember this, do not turn from this path. Forget your place at your peril. No one escapes what the gods and fate have set before them. Even girls like you.”
She stands up, leaving no room to argue about the validity of her claims. Her body moves like a shadow and stalks towards a small brazier. Without warning, she lights a fire with flames that leap higher than you expected. You shrink back into the chair, but the heat presses tightly against your skin.
This was more than warmth; it moved with you. Bending and curling with each of your movements as if it were alive. The flames twisted and reached, almost recognizing something in your blood.
Leaving you no choice but to lower your gaze to your lap to get away.
“This fire,” she says, voice low, “is like the fire in your heart. It follows you. Wherever you go, whatever you touch, whatever you love, it will find its way. Smother it if you dare; it will not die. It will wait. It will follow. But you already knew that didn’t you.”
“Now you may leave if you wish. Or learn more.” The woman hypnotized you more than the fire could ever dream of. First, she says she knows you, then aligns you with this fire and gives no more answers. This would not be over until you’d had your true fill.
When you stayed seated, the woman smirked once again. “Thought so,” she returns to her seat and her cards. When you looked back at them, gone was the princess card. Now they reflected each of the gods. Seven cards with illustrations of their fate.
“How do you know?” you manage, voice trembling. “How can you know any of this?”
She studies them, tilting her head. “I have walked many roads, child. In the Free Cities. I have learned to read hearts and cards, fear in the bones, desire in the eyes. It is not magic. It is seeing. Even you can see the way I see.”
You stare at her, trying to catch up as if she’s on the other side of a mountain. A stranger from the Free Cities speaks as though she has followed your every step. Somehow, you believe her cryptic words.
“For all, paths will split, many. Some lead forward, some to ruin, some to survival, never as you hope, but they always reach an ending.”
“For you, you will walk them all, and the fire will follow. The blood that burns inside you will shape more than these roads, it will never let you forget who you are.”
“And when is this supposed to happen?” You squeak
“As for when you walk down these paths, that comes later. For now, you came here alone.” She adds. “You belong to no one’s story yet. You stand at the edge of many endings. None of them clean, none of them easy.”
Every instinct was telling you to leave it at that, yet the woman’s gaze held you fast.
“What do these paths entail? And why so many?” Infinite questions flood your brain.
“Some paths will offer you violence dressed as protection,” she says. “Others will offer devotion that costs more than you know. Whether you survive to the next is up to you.”
“Do I get to choose?” you whisper.
“You already did,” she says. “You simply do not yet know which choice will shape you most.”
“Soon enough, everything you care about… everything you think is safe, will be taken,” she hums, finger hovering over a card. Shadows curl across it. “Not tomorrow. Not soon enough to prepare. But soon enough to break you.”
Your chest tightens. You think of Dunk, the one who gave your life direction, the quiet moments that kept you steady, and a cold panic twists in your belly.
“Why me?”
“The gods have chosen you,” she replies, calm and unyielding. The fire flares in the background, shadows twisting across the walls and your own face. It stil moves with you, alive, insistent. You cannot escape it. You cannot outrun it in the room.
She finally reveals her last card. “The dragon.” But does not explain. It makes you shudder.
Then, she speaks again. “You will leave this tent soon. The world awaits. But remember this: no place, no crowd, no path, no decision can make you forget the weight of the fire. It follows. Always.”
“Now run along, I’m certain I'll see you again.”
You nod, though you are not sure whether you understand. Slowly, shakily, you rise from the chair. The fire bends toward you one last time, flickering and curling alive. You step back into the tourney grounds. The noise crashes over you again like it never left, banners bright, crowds moving in certainty. But nothing feels the same. The world is larger, stranger, heavier. You are still alone. And in the depths of your chest, the fire waits.
“My lady.” A voice called out to you. It was dark now, and you were very hungry, lost in thought.
At first, you did not respond, but the voice stirred recognition. It was the older knight from your travels. Adorned in the same red cloak and worn armor, he was alone this time, no horse in sight.
“It seems the roads and the fates favor us. To what do I owe this pleasure?” he added.
This time, you really took him in. Before, anger and the need for justice had clouded your vision, but now you saw him clearly. Golden blond hair barely brushing his neck, a lion clasp on his armour.
Fuck. “You're a Lannister?” you breathed out.
He grinned. “Indeed. I am surprised you did not notice before, when you put yourself between my men and a blade.” He held out his hand for you to shake.
“Must have not noticed,” you said slowly, shaking it. His rough fingers almost refused to let go.
“I’ve seen men triple your size never put themselves in tough situations. I'm afraid a moment like that will not escape my mind for some time,” he said, then paused. “Speaking of triple your size, where is that knight of yours?”
You let out a deep sigh. “I am not sure.”
The Lannister hummed. “Interesting. He’s left you by yourself. Is he entering the lists?”
“Yes, and he's going to win,” you added, pride brightening your expression at the mention of Dunk.
“Now that, I’d be interested in seeing. But I must get back to my tents; the hour grows late. Where are you staying, my lady?”
Despite almost making an enemy of one of the greatest houses, the man seemed calm. It was clear he meant no harm.
“I–” You started to form a lie, but your attention was pulled elsewhere. A tall man was being called over by another, their conversation deep, serious.
You had finally found him.
“Deepest apologies, Ser. I have found him, just that way.” You pointed. “It was lovely speaking to you again.” You shook his hand once more and turned to walk toward Dunk.
In that brief moment, the Lannister barely had time to respond. “I hope I’ll run into you again,” he called out.
No, you thought, I really hope not.
As you rushed toward Dunk, the fortune teller's words echoed in your mind. The fire follows, yes, but with him, you have direction, a tether to reality in a world that threatens to swallow you.
“Duncan!” you yelled, startling both men. Dunk’s head whipped toward you, his previously blank expression melting into a surprised grin.
You stop short of the men, with your horse, blocking the way of the man dressed in red. Dunk stared down at you. “M’lady! I did… I did not expect to see you again. I thought you’d be far gone.”
“Well, you’d be wrong,” you smiled. “I hope I’m not interrupting knightly talk.”
“No, no, no… absolutely not.” He coughs, eyes going back to the shorter man in front of him. “M’lady, this is…”
Finally, you come face-to-face with the brown-haired man who had been all smiles and sunshine when you walked over. But his face suddenly drops, and he staggers in his movements. At first, you think the worst when he does not speak.
“Uhm. This is…” Dunk egged on.
The other man’s eyes lingered on you as though you were some long-lost treasure unearthed, and he could scarcely tear his gaze away. Face turning a nice new shade of red, like an apple.
“Geez, man, are you alright?” Dunk patted him on the back. That seemed to wake him up. “As I was saying, this is Raymun Fossoway.” He gives him your name back.
Even though he was back to talking, his eyes stayed very wide. “I apologize,” he coughs. “Aye, that is me.”
You give him a polite, cheerful look. “Hello.” He looked like he could combust when you spoke back to him.
Dunk looked at you two. “What is it that you were asking me before?”
“What? Oh! I was trying to ask if you were hungry?” Raymun stammers.
You and Dunk exchange a look. “Always,” you reply in unison.
The jumpy man, you soon learned, was the squire to his cousin Steffon Fossoway. By proxy, he had been introduced to fellow houses during the starting days of the tourney, including The Laughing Storm, Lord Lyonel Baratheon.
That was whose tent he was leading you to.
He only stopped to talk to you. “My lady,” he started, “it would be an honor to unburden you from this horse and tie her up to a post. Where I give you my word, no harm will befall her.” He put his hand on his heart to show his utmost seriousness.
“Alright…” you trailed off as he walked away with your white mare.
Dunk could not believe this turn of events. Raymun had known you for less than five minutes, and already he was clearly smitten. A tightness coiled in Dunk’s chest.
He was the one who journeyed with you, shared quiet moments and dangers, and yet here was another man, entranced by you so quickly. He shook his head, forcing the feeling down, keeping it buried.
When Raymun returned, the three of you entered the Stag’s Den. Not only decorated to the extreme in drapes of gold and black accents, but it was also filled to the brim with tons of people, doing all sorts of things: drinking, eating, dancing, playing instruments. It was almost impossible to go noticed in the crowds, and it was also extremely difficult to find a seat at the tables.
Eventually, the three of you squeezed in directly in the middle of one of the tables. You sat facing Dunk as Raymun stood up to pour ale in his goblet. When he offered you some, you politely declined with a smile, sending the man spiraling.
A large boasting of laughter broke Raymun’s gaze. It traveled the room like wind, deepening into every crevice of the tent, before reaching you. The three of your eyes followed the noise back to the man himself, Lyonel Baratheon, who sat with fellow lords and ladies at a higher table in the back of the room.
“I thought he’d be bigger…” Dunk stated.
“He is awfully… flamboyant,” you added, watching him point his antler crown at a man like he was going to hit him with it.
Before he even went noticed, Raymun patted Dunk on the back and took off, sparing you one last look of admiration, then disappearing into the chaos of the room. Dunk’s face displayed fear and confusion. “Where is he going?” but there was no answer available.
Despite the loudness of the room, you could hear Lyonel’s voice as he started to go off on a tangent. “Four thousand years ago…” He loses his train of thought. “Four thousand years… ago.” Lyonel lets out a deep sigh. “Cunts. I can’t hear myself.”
The lord throws his hands up in the air as if he were a child, then raises his voice, halting all other sounds. “I’ve had a profound thought, if anyone would care to listen.” Everyone looked up at him, almost eager to know what he had to say, like he was a septon preaching.
“Four thousand years ago… our ancestors gathered in that big field outside to blood each other with sticks. And have a little bit of gay fun… and they say it was this country’s first-ever joust. Well, I say…” The man prolongs the end of his speech when he moves in closer to his guests, slightly leaning off his chair as he prepares for the final blow.
Then, all the momentum… stops. “Uh, the fuck was I gonna say?” It was clear to you that the man was quite drunk already.
Dunk took this moment to pour himself more of whatever Lyonel had been on. Once again, you were offered some, but you just shook your head.
“First ever joust. Ah.” Lyonel mutters. “Ah! Men could not have devised such a joy… so who was it?”
Your attention is brought back to Dunk as he interrupts the man-made silence by slurping on his ale. You give him a sideways glance. He immediately sipped lower.
“Huh? Who was it?” Lyonel addressed the room. His patrons all looked at him with high praise, awaiting his answer.
But nobody had an answer. He shrugs and laughs before continuing, “Fuck it, a hundred gold to the man, beast, or god who sticks me best.” He yells out, flipping a bag of coins onto a table, which makes everyone in the tent erupt in joyful shouts. “Now, eat your birds so we can dance!”
The two of you were mistakenly out of place when everyone started cheering. All you could do was look at one another and realize what you’d gotten yourself into.
Plates of bird were smashed into each section of every table, ready and awaiting to be consumed for the benefit of the lot. You watch as Dunk’s eyes fall onto a ginormous turkey leg, which even in his large hands still looks too big. He carefully digs in with the rest of the people. You find one that’s maybe a bit smaller but still bigger than your hands, and take a few bites at a time, giggling as you watch Dunk’s turkey leg go in almost in an instant.
By the time the two of you moved on to desserts, no one had stayed seated. If they were not continuing the music, they were dancing and clapping. It was foreign, the wild display in such a place as a tourney, but you still liked it, in fact, you even clapped along.
In a split second, Dunk was gone from your side, too, leaving you all by yourself as you twirled around with others. You could not look for him as you were too busy dancing and talking to everyone in the room.
Making friends was easy in this space.
That was until you noticed Lyonel’s loud voice again, joined by Dunk’s softer one. You excused yourself from the ladies you were with and walked all the way to where the Lord’s table was.
“Is there a problem, my lord?” You barged in, interrupting whatever spew of words Lyonel was saying.
“Now you bring someone else?” Lyonel accuses. “Who are you?” He slurred.
You puff your chest. “We were brought in by the Fossoways, tis all.”
“Fossoways? Now, who is—does this woman speak for you, man?” The lord looked you up and down, trying to piece together a connection with his brain.
Before Dunk could utter a word, “No, any knight can speak for himself. But I give you my word that it is the truth. If you do not believe me, I can fetch a Fossoway now and have him answer.” That was a straight-up lie; you had no idea where Raymun was.
Lyonel looked peeved. “Are you here for my head?” He gasped. It was like he did not hear anything you just said.
The way he spoke was as if he had all the confidence in the world. Sure, he might have had a certain appeal to his nature and good looks, but you could not stop yourself from wanting to roll your eyes.
“What!” Dunk choked. “No, no!”
“Then, why are you in my fucking tent?” This was a lost cause, you deemed. Knowing that you should just get going, you turned around to get in one more sway to the music and grab more food.
Before you could make it, Dunk’s frail words reached your ear. “S-supper.” He stuttered.
Time stopped for a moment; all the lords, including Lyonel, went silent. You for sure thought that this was the end, no tourney, no more food. The Baratheons were sure to hang you for treason, or even worse.
Instead, Lyonel gaped at the taller man like a fish and started chuckling; his volume even made the whole table join him in laughter.
“Alright. Actually, that makes sense.” Lyonel muttered to his fellow lords. “What are your names, then?” You thought he had forgotten about your lingering presence.
Dunk responded quickly. “Dunk—Ser Dunk.”
“That’s ridiculous.” Lyonel furrowed his brow. “And you?” he asked.
You introduced yourself shortly, just like Dunk.
Lyonel waited for something to happen. “Of house…?”
“I am.. I am not a lady.” The men looked surprised, even Dunk.
“Really?” Lyonel leaned in.
“Aye…” You squinted and leaned in, also.
“Well, answer this: do you two fancy some wine?” This man had gone from saying you were trying to kill him to becoming your best friend. “Not the horse shit of Ashford. Some real delicacy from Dorne herself.”
Dunk responds sharply to upset the Lord any further. “Yes, we’d be delighted,” he squawks.
“Oh no, I do not drink.” You added. The men fell silent once again.
“You're not a lady, and you don’t drink… now I believe you're trying to trick me.” Lyonel sneers.
“I’ve just never drank, my lord. My father would not allow it.”
Lyonel stood up with the highest degree and yelled over the crowd. “The first person to get this woman a drink will be a richer man for it!” He shouts. You opened your mouth in pure terror. Everyone instantly went from drinking and partying to shoving drinks in your face, some even their own.
“Go ahead now, girl. Even a sip won’t kill you. Trust me, we’ve all had more than a sip.” The room chuckles, now awaiting your first taste.
You begrudgingly grabbed a drink from the nearest woman and took a small sip. Your face crumpled from the taste. “This is disgusting.” You cough.
“M’lord, she did not mean that. I’m sure it’s amazing!” Dunk scarcely adds, fearing him and the mob.
Instead of the lord banishing you, he takes the drink in your hands and downs it himself.
“Let’s dance!” He belches out. Every able body in that space got up and cleared the floor for dancing. As if this could not get any stranger of a night. The Baratheon man sheds himself of his cloak and links arms with you and Dunk, while dragging you two over to the dancing.
Bodies swayed in every direction, prancing around like peacocks showing off their feathers. They were being egged on by the beat and the clapping of others. You flourished dancing with all, but could not stop glancing at Dunk, who seemed to be having a bit of a harder time finding the rhythm.
When switching partners you made your way over to him, to make sure he was alright. He only flustered in response. Full of ale and warmth.
You had never seen such a man of equal stupidness and chaos like Lyonel Baratheon as he mucked about. His dancing became more sporadic as he took hold of the room.
At this point, you had even shed your own cloak to let the wind flow through your dress. The blue dress clung to your figure, and the white puffy straps that were a size too big for you bobbled around your arms with every bounce you took.
You only sat down that night when you became too tired, and your feet too sore from your cramming boots. You gazed at the two large men in front of you, doing some type of dance that required stepping on one another. It was stupid, but hilariously funny when you started cheering them on.
All the hollering of the night left your throat very dry. Seeking a water basin, all you find is the same stuff from earlier, which you nearly choked on. Without seeing any other options, you drank the whole thing against your better judgment.
Before you knew it, you had drunk two, four, and then six while singing out and joining drinking games with others. Maybe you had lied about the taste being so bad, because now you could barely taste it at all as you continued.
Somehow, someway, as the party progressed, you found yourself on top of a table. Men and women alike crowded near you, anxious to hear whatever drunk thing you were gonna spout next. First, you told them that men and women should all be allowed to be knights, lords need to get off their asses and do the things they claim, all women should all be allowed to wear pants without scrutiny, and many more. Those were the only things that made sense. The room let you say anything, and they held onto it like gospel; you thought yourself to be the new king of the party.
Dunk was sitting with Lyonel, the two of them blissful in each other's presence. But, without your noticing, Dunk would sneak a spare glance at you now and then, he said to himself, it was to make sure nothing bad was happening to you.
“That girl is no..” Lyonel coughs. “Common folk. Trust when I say I will find out.” The drunk man made it his personal mission.
“Find what out.” You batted your eyelashes at him, stealing his antler crown and sitting on their table to get the best view. Dunk winced when you put the crown on your head, fearing it would make the lord mad. He only looked at you with amusement.
“Nothing to fret yourself about.” He smirks. “Are you enjoying yourself, my queen?”
You grabbed his drink. “Why, yes, I am.”
Despite how drunk he was, Dunk looked at the two of you with a tightening in his chest. Perhaps it was your personality or just how you always spoke your mind, but it seemed to him that you clashed better with Lord Baratheon than you did with him. It even made him a bit sad, as he thought back to his title and what he was.
What woman would ever find company in a hedge knight when she could do just as fine with a lord?
Your voice ripped him out of his head. “Are you ready, Serrr?” You trailed on. “For the tourney.”
Dunk took a moment to think. “Aye, I think so. But I keep agonizing, you know? I'm quick and strong, sure. But so are you.” He gestures to Lyonel, who had taken a hammer to crush his food. “Plus, you’ve trained sword and lance with the finest masters-at-arms in the realm. I mean, what chance do I have truly?”
After finishing his feelings, he looks back at the two of you. He should've realized then that it was a losing battle trying to talk to people, so in their own world, they could not fathom paying attention.
He watched as you and Lyonel traded food and kept drinking.
“I’m sorry, what did you say?” Lyonel actually looks confused. Dunk sighed with a hearty shake of his body.
You placed a hand on Dunk’s chest. “No, no.. I heard you, Ser. And you need not worry.” You balanced yourself on the ground when you got up. Finding a better place on the armrest of Dunk’s chair. “You will become the best champion there ever was. You know how I know? Its cause you have my blessing.” You nodded.
Dunk did not know to look annoyed or rejoice. “Really?” He muttered.
“Yes!” You raised a cup, which in turn made the rest of the room look at you. “To Ser.. Duncan, Ser Duncan the Tall. The greatest knight in the seven kingdoms!” You spewed. The room was too loud to know what they were cheering for, but they all cried out the same.
He actually quite liked that title, and he would not mind having your favor either. The three of you continued conversing till Lyonel decided it was time for more dancing, and carried you off to the floor of the tent. Dunk sat there, contemplating something, before looking up to find the man he had been looking for all the second half of the day.
He looked for you before springing up out of his seat. If he could talk to the man for a second or two, it would put an end to his worries about getting into the tourney. And if it was only a second, he did not need to be worried about leaving you.
You, on the other hand, had no idea he even left until he came back. A look of slight frustration graced his beautiful blue eyes when he told you that you two would have to make your leave.
“Now? You whispered to him.
“Aye, the hour has gone on long past nightime, and your horse has been waiting,” Dunk claimed.
“But-”
“There will be more parties in the future, I'm sure of it.” He continues.
“Well-”
“Let’s go.” He wraps his warm hand around yours and tugs lightly. You feel the cold air on your face without even realizing you were already outside.
“What am I doing out here?” You whisper out into the air.
Dunk gives you a disappointed look. “If that was truly your first time drinking m’lady, you have overdone it.”
“Pssshh, personally, I do not think I drank enough my Ser.” You swat at him, barely missing.
Your vision finally cleared to see that you were walking towards the forest with Dunk by your side, holding onto your mare with careful fingers. His other hand was still around yours.
Regaining your cheerful feeling, you start to skip and chant. Increasing your speed and running circles around the extremely tired man.
He calls out your name with a groan. “You're going to trip and fall, you're not coordinated, m’lady.”
“Psssshhh.” You continued bouncing around, your boots hitting the hard concrete without care for how loud you were being. Doing all of this despite the numbness of your body and mind.
“M’lady…” he warned again, his voice low, almost cautious, like he was testing the sound.
“Ser Duncan, do not jest. I told you I’m not a lady.”
“Aye, mayhaps,” he said slowly, letting his gaze linger on you for just a heartbeat, “but you are… in the ways that matter.”
“You speak in riddles,” you replied, narrowing your eyes. “You mean I’m… courteous, or refined, or boring?”
Dunk shrugged at your disdain, almost imperceptibly. “Not that. You’re… You hold yourself… like someone who ought to be called m’lady, even if you say otherwise.”
You blinked, caught off guard, and muttered, “You’re ridiculous.”
“Sure,” he conceded, voice rough but softening. “But the word… it fits, m’lady. In my eyes.”
Your cheeks warmed, and you looked away, trying to hide the effect his words had. “I… suppose I could allow it, for now,” you said quietly, half teasing, half unsure.
Dunk’s lips twitched in the faintest smile, and he inclined his head. “That’s all I ask, m’lady.”
Then, just like he feared, you slipped on a patch of mud. But before you could tumble, Dunk acted instinctively, his arms shot around your midriff, catching you with ease.
“That’s it,” Dunk huffed, still holding you tightly. Slowly, he let go of your horse for just a moment and wrapped you securely in his thick arms as the two of you continued toward his makeshift camp.
“Excuse me, Ser!” you cried, your head bobbing like a feather in a storm. “Do you know who I am?”
“No, actually, I do not,” he replied, steady as ever.
“I am the… I am…” You froze mid-step, your body stiffening. “I am…”
And just like that, you were asleep.
Immediately, you shifted a little, letting out a tiny groan, one leg swinging forward, the other kicking lightly, as if your subconscious was still trying to keep pace with your dramatic monologue.
Dunk’s eyebrows rose, and he muttered under his breath, “By the Seven.” He adjusted his hold, one arm under your knees, the other around your shoulders, rocking you gently to keep you from toppling.
Despite being frustrated with many things, he could not help the small, fond smile tugging at his lips. He was not annoyed. This was his duty, after all, to serve and protect.
But somewhere deep inside him, he wished you would just reveal who you were. So he could finally get over wanting something he knew he could never have.
Once you guys reached the camp, you almost tumbled out of his grasp. Dunk steadied you and laid you down on a bedroll, still grasping onto your hand.
“Safe now,” Dunk whispered, brushing a stray lock of hair from your face. He could feel the slow, even rhythm of your breathing begin to settle, yet your lips kept moving, soft words and laughter spilling in fragments:
Dunk listened quietly, his chest tightening at your vulnerability.
The small boy had wandered off a little earlier, telling the horses he was going to catch some fish and make a fire. Now he returned, humming to himself as he approached the campsite.
Dunk blinked a few times to make sure he was seeing correctly. “You!” he hissed.
The boy did not even flinch, though his face twisted into confusion.
“What... what are you doing?” Dunk questioned. “Going to cook some fish,” the boy perked up. “D’you want some?”
“No, I mean, how’d you get here?” Dunk twisted back and forth as you stirred slightly in his grasp. “Did you steal a horse?”
Egg ignored his question entirely. “I see I am not the only person to accompany you. Who’s that?” He asked with childlike wonder.
To anyone older, this scene would have looked more sinister. A woman unconscious in a secluded area next to a man, Dunk grimaced at the implication. “She’s… she’s… don't worry about it. You'd best be answering my questions now.”
“I rode in the back of a lambcart.” The boy replied. He didn’t get a clear look at you, just brown hair tangled and wild across your face.
“Well, you'd best find another one.” Dunk huffed.
The boy shook his head. “You can't make me go. I’d had enough of that inn.”
Dunk pointed his finger in the air, feigning sternness and failing slightly, being a bit drunk. “Now, listen, I’ll have no more insolence from you, boy. I ought to throw you over my horse and take you straight home.”
“You'd have to go all the way to King’s Landing.” Egg smugly replied. “You’d miss the tourney and your lady.”
“You're from Fleebottom?”
“No.”
Dunk squinted at the boy, then glanced back at you. What in the Seven Hells had he gotten himself into?
“I washed the clothes of yours I found, made the fire, caught the fish, and groomed the horses,” Egg continued proudly, holding up your satchel. “I was just about to comment that it is strange you had a bag full of...” He digs his tiny hand inside. “Womanly things, but it’s all starting to make sense.”
Dunk nearly gasped. “Give me that! Did no one teach you not to go through other people’s things?”
Egg ignored him. “I would've raised your pavilion, but I could not find one.”
“A tree is all the pavilion I need,” Dunk said, hands settling on his hips. This was true; in his mind, he did not wander into inns as much as sleeping outside. He made that exception for you.
As the night wore on, they conversed quietly enough not to wake you. Egg had formed his opinion of the knight. This man needed all the help he could get, yes. But he did think more positively of him. Dunk was neither cruel nor dull. He meant to enter the tourney, and he had even said Egg could stay.
This could be good. This could be his life…
When the two men finally lay down, they watched a shooting star glide past them in the night sky. And they carefully listened to the world around them, the horses, the trees, and the fire cracking.
when ser duncan sneaks into your fathers tent, an unlikley freindship is formed. and when Ser duncan saves you from the wraith of a jelouse prince, a tale of romance follows
Ser Duncan the Tall x Baratheon!reader
Word count: 6,324
CW: MDI, 18+, smut, protective dad lyonel baratheon. drinking and swearing. Aerion being Aerion and cannon typical violence! Dunk is such a gentleman but hes also a little lovesick horn dog! As always only half proofread! fluff, minor angst. virigin!reader.
Authors note: a lot of the dialouge comes direclty from the show! i love dunk! he's so fun to write for! i might write more in this universe!
You had always been told you had a sense of whimsy about you, the kind of whimsy that often meant your head was in the clouds, your mind stuck in the land of books and fairytales. You had always adored tales of knights and princesses, tales of a lady stuck in a tower awaiting the day a knight came to save her. Your father had adored it, your whimsy, your love of tales. You would always listen to his tales and stories for hours, goaidng him on with his endless speeches and tales of tourneys and knights. He had always loved your eagerness, your thrill for tales and your desire for adventure. Always happy to attend whatever event he dragged you to in case you were there to witness the stuff of legends.
The Ashford toruney was no different. You had happily joined your father and attended the tourney, and though you had yet to see one of the great tales you had read about, you were sure this time it would be different.
Tonight, you sat in your father's tent as he prepared to entertain you, or you supposed his guests, with one of his many tales.
“Four thousand years ago…” he began, though the loud chatter of the tent failed to quieten as he began to speak, he sighed when they did not silence at the mere motion of him opening his mouth, you looked at him eaglery, awaiting whatever tale he would tell “Four thousand years…” he tried again, and yet the silence did not stop. “…ago… cunts. I can’t hear myself. I’ve had a profound thought, if anyone would care to listen!” You laughed at his frustration, and the room finally silenced at the boom of his voice.
You banged your fist on the table for him to continue, and in warning for the few chatters that remained, “Four thousand years ago, our ancestors gathered in that…” he motioned aimlessly, his throat clearing “big field outside to blood each other with sticks and have a little bit of gay fun. And they say it was this country’s first-ever joust. “ he sipped his wine “Well, I say… Uh, the fuck was I gonna say?” he looked at you, thinking hard to regain his trail of thought.
“First-ever joust,” you repeated, grabbing your knife and jabbing it into the air. You had little idea of what your father had planned to say, you knew he himself had little idea of what went on in his head most of the time”
He snapped his fingers at your jabbing, suddenly remembering his train of thought “Ah. Men could not have devised such a joy. So, who was it?” He looked towards the people, waiting for someone to respond.
“Huh? Who was it?” he motioned to you to answer.
You shrugged your shoulders, reaching for your wine, “No clue, father”, you replied. He hummed in response, his gaze snapping back to the many eyes watching him.
“Fuck it. A hundred gold to the man, beast, or god who sticks me best,” he declared, his loud laugh booming across the tent. The tent cheered at his words, most already too drunk to know what he was speaking about. “Now, eat your birds so we can dance!”
A mountain of food appeared before you, and wine was drunk in bucketfuls.
You scanned your eyes across the room, snagging on a giant man stuffing his face. You made eye contact with the man, a small smile gracing your lips. You motioned for him to come over with your finger, a bashful smile full of food gracing the man's lips as he stood, a blush covering his face.
Your father, ever protective, followed you to where your finger motioned, a smirk gracing his lips, as he approached you. You opened your mouth to speak, but your father beat you to it: “You ever been punched in the face before?”
The man who had been staring at you, as if in a trance, spluttered at your father's words, “I beg...” he began his eyes that had been locked with your flickering to your father, “I beg your pardon, Ser Lyonel?”
“Big men get punched more than little men. Did you know that?”
“ No, but… but I believe it,” the man spoke, his eyes flickering between you and your father still.
“That's why you slouch? So you don’t get punched?”
“I… I don’t slouch,” the man spluttered.
“Father! Stop your teasing,” you tusked, your gaze fully locking on the tall man, a full smile gracing your lips.
“I'm not teasing anybody, my darling girl,” he tusked back at you, taking a large swig of wine before carrying on his teasing, “so why is it you’ve been cowering since you arrived, like a maiden on her wedding night?” he chuckled, his laugh booming as always.
“Father!” you nearly shouted, slapping him on the shoulder, “he jests, I assure you” You smiled softly at the man as he stood awkwardly.
“I… I meant no disrespect, ser, honest. Where I grew up, you… You learn to go unnoticed, is all.”
You tilted your head at his words, curious to learn more about the half-giant.
“The seven above gave you tallness. So, be tall,” your father declared “Or I will name you a heretic and burn you,” he spoke, “Drown you. Drop you off a tall pl… I don’t know. W-What do they do to heretics?” he asked, turning to you for a response.
“They burn the father”, you reassured, “but we will not burn you, ser, “ you reassured the man. “What -” you went to ask him your name, but your father interrupted you once more.
“What have you brought me?” he asked, “or my daughter? You have at least brought her a gift i assume?”
“No i- uh, my lady i am sorry, beggin’ your pardons. I… I didn’t realise,” he apologised, the blush spreading from his cheeks to cover his whole face.
“Father, he is my friend, he needs not curry your or my favour, for he already has it”, you declared, speaking so softly, “isn't that right, ser…” you trailed off, waiting for him to answer with his name.
“Dunk… Ser Dunk” he replied, nodding a small, a real smile replacing his nervous one.
“Dunk”, you tasted the name on your tongue “, short for Duncan?” he nodded, “Ser Duncan the tall!” you declared.
Your father had a curious look in his eyes, a large smile on his lips, “ your friend?” he asked, “ and how is it you” he motioned with a butter knife up and down dunks body “are “friends” with my sweet daughter?”
“I..uhm i” he looked at you, his eyes wide with panic.
“You always tell me to make more friends, and a large and tall knight would surely make the best of friends”, you teased, as both you and your father released a booming laugh.
“So…if you already have my daughters' favour, that means you have mine. I can assume you're not here for my head then?”
“What? No! No.”
You laughed at the horror on Dunk's face and your father's own smirk. “So, ser Duncan, why are you in my father's tent then?” you asked, sipping your wine “To admire me?” you jested, but from the blush and smile on his face, you suspected it was half true.
“Supper”, he stuttered.
Your father bellowed, “Alright. Actually makes sense.” The bard began to play your fathers faviourte tune “Your name is ridiculous by the way”, he stood, slapping his hand on ser Duncan's back, his eyes eying him cautiously, jealous that he was no longer the tallest man in the room.m, “Do you like dancing?”
“Doesn’t everyone?” he answered, smiling at you, as you joined tostand. Wanting to dance with your new friend.
You laughed as your father dragged you both to the floor, his feet stomping on Duncnas as he danced.
You grabbed duncnas hand, guiding him away from your father's dancing and clapping.
Dancing with him, it was clear he was nervous, where your movements were practised and measured from years of lessons, his were awkward and far less measured, nonetheless, you had fun as he danced with you and spun the night away.
Dunk thought that you must be an angel sent by the gods themselves. You, the most ethereal thing he had ever laid eyes on. So beautiful and kind, and your voice, gods, your voice and your laugh. He could die happy after hearing you laugh espially after he had made you laugh, not at him but the joke he had made.
His eyes had been glued to you the second he walked into the tent. He had never expected you to notice him, let alone call him over and yet here he sat, you leaning against the frame, your father's antler crown on his head as your father recanted tales. His eyes were drawn to you as you rested against his body. You had placed his arm around you, snuggling into him as he spoke to your father.
His face had a permanent blush, and the smile on his face refused to leave, even more so when you began to play with his fingers, even attempting to place your fingers on his fingers, and the small frustration that ticked on your face when his fingers proved to be too big.
“And I’m quick and strong, sure,” he spoke, still gazing at you as he continued to speak to Lyonel. You hummed at his words, your hand moving to grab his bicep.
“You sure are,” you agreed, “I'm sure you could carry me all day and not get tired at all,” you hummed whistfully.
Your father bellowed a laugh at your words, his drunk form moving to boop you on the nose.
You reached for your wine, sipping loudly, before leaning back and offering the rest to Duncan. Though you ended up with your head falling completely back into his lap and the wine across his face. You giggled at your actions, and Duncun ever bashful, laughed, stopping his conversation with your father.
“Oh, you have no chance,” Lyonel concluded, whether that was about the conversation with him winning or losing at the tourney or whether he was talking about the hopeless, lovesick look on his face.
“Right!” your father bellowed, standing up, barely steadying himself as he did, the wine too far gone to his head, “help me carry her to bed!”
“Ser..that would be improper,” Duncan whispered, his eyes drifting to your form as it snoored on his lap.
“Huh!” Lyonel asked, confused “I am her father, a man too drunk to stand! How do you suppose I take her to bed myself?” he questioned, wagging his finger at Dunk.
He had never carried a lady or any woman that mattered, as she lay drunk and half asleep and mumbling something he was desperately trying to understand as he walked you to your tent.
Lyonel stood in the entryway rambling on about horses and knights. He lay you down gently on your bed, your arms clinging to him as he lay you down.
“Good night, sweet lady” he whispered as he removed your hands from his clothes.
“Good night sweet dunk” you replied, kissing his hand before passing out on your feather filled bed.
You hadn’t left Dunk’s mind, he fell asleep with your name on his lips, and his dreams were filled with you, your face, your voice, your laugh. He could still feel your body pressed to his, and the sweet kiss you had placed on his hand lingered.
He was sure he would have spent the whole day dreaming with you had he not awoken to the smell of fish cooking.
The small bald boy he had met in an inn had somehow tracked him down and found his camp, and ridden in a lamb cart to find him, or whatever it was he came to the tourney for.
He reluctantly spoke to the boy, sitting down beside him and eating the fish the boy had cooked for him.
“What’s your name?” the boy asked.
“Dunk”, he answered, thinking of the last person who had asked for his name. You.
“Ser Dunk. That’s no name for a knight. Is it short for Duncan?” You had assumed the same.
“Yeah”, he answered, clearing his throat, “Ser Duncan the Tall.” The name and title you had granted him. He blushed as he thought of you, how perfect you had been. He also thought of the dream he had about your perfect-”
“Never heard of him,” the boy remarked, snapping him out of his thoughts of you.
For somereason he had allowed the boy, Egg, to be his squire. Had had the boy follow him around, and though he made himself useful, what was not useful was the fact that the boy followed him close to everywhere, meaning he saw everything Dunk did. Including the longing stares he sent whenever he saw a glimpse of you.
He saw you now sat outside your tent, a canvas and brush in hand as you painted a tree. His steps faltered as he saw you. Egg stopped his chatter as soon as he saw you pause, a small smile on his lips as he recognised you. “That's Lady Baraethon, Ser Lyonel’s daughter”
“I know who she is,” his eyes still drawn to you as you painted, unaware of your admirer, “she’s my friend”
“Your friend?” Egg questioned, his eyebrow perking in question.
“I..uh, yes, my friend”
You perkeds you head up your head as youfeelt two pairs of eyes watching you. “Ser Duncan!” you exclaimed, standing up at the sight of him.
Dunk smiled at the recognition, his hand moving to rub the back of his neck. “My lady”, he greeted. “how - how are you, my lady?”
You tusked your lips, insisting he call you by your first name, “you promised you wouldn't use my title anymore when it came to me, Duncan” Your eyes locked with his, but the sound of Egg clearing his throat, waiting for his introduction. “And who might this little man be? Your squire?” you spoke, your voice kind as you stared at the boy, though he could have sworn a flicker of something akin to recognition in your eyes, “oh arent you-”
Egg cut you off, “I'm Egg, his squire,” he introduced himself, bowing.
“Egg”, you repeated, “is that short for something?” you asked, but before the boy could answer, Dunk chose to interrupt.
“You paint?” he asked, pointing to your canvas. A sheepish smile crossed your lips as he turned your easel to face him.
“Not very well, Dunk,” you replied shyly.
Dunk scoffed, “I -i apologise,” he cleared his throat “, it is very good, my lady, in fact”, he pulled his shield out from behind his back, “could you paint something for me?
You smiled, reaching for his shield, “Of course,” you agreed, “What would you like?”
“Um…” he began, clicking his tongue. He had only just been told he needed his own sigil, he had little thought on what it should be “I don’t actually know. I, uh…” he rubbed the back of his head nervously “Sorry, you must think me a fool. “
You shook your head, “No, not at all” You smiled “, Are you in need of your own sigil?” you questioned, and he nodded shyly “Have you thought of what colours you would like?”
“Aye, um, Yeah, the field should be the colour of sunset ’cause the old man always liked sunsets and, uh…” he trailed off, staring at you and the kind smile that never left your lips.
“An elm tree. A big one. Like the one by the river with the brown trunk and the green branches.” Egg continued for him, noticing the way Dunk acted the fool in front of you.
“Aye. An elm tree that would serve. But with a shooting star above. Could you do that? Please?” he asked, no-pleaded.
“Yes, of course, I can have it done by the end of the day for you” You nodded, moving to take your canvas off your easel and replace it with the shield.
Dunk turned around abruptly, prephas expecting the dismissal to come, and yet instead he felt your hand reaching to tap him on the shoulder, a nervous smile on your lips.
You cleared your throat, “You can come and collect it tomorrow at dinner, “ you nodded to the boy “, you can bring your squire too if you’d like”“ Too dinner? Like the other night?” he asked, unsure if the boy should attend a party.
“No, I mean - “ you stuttered nervously, “dinner with me, just me.” You smiled, your hand reaching to nervously play with the rings on your fingers.
“Oh uhh-” he stuttered, “is that proper?”
You laughed, “eh i- uh i can invite my father if you are uncomfortable being alone-”
“No! I would love to attend,” he interrupted, straightening his back and clapping egg on the back of the head as the boy started to laugh. “The boy- uh he-”
“I have plans,” the boy dismissed, before wandering off and heading back to the puppet show he had talked nonstop about.
You both laughed, both a bit awkwardly. “I shall see you at dinner then,” you smiled and nodded, before heading back to your stool to start on his shield.
He had chased Egg down later on, having suffered the teasing from the boy about his crush on you. Now they stood watching the starting tilts of the tourney.
He had seen you seated in the stands, a wide smile on his face as he watched you walk to sit beside Prince Baelor, as he was told by Egg.
“Why is she sitting with the prince?” he asked Egg, the boy sitting on his shoulders.
The boy sighed, noting the jealousy in Dunk's voice, “There are rumours of her and a betrothal between one of the princes”
“What?” he asked, confused. You were meant to be having dinner with him tomorrow, and yet you where bethrothed to another man?
“It's just a rumour, besides, she was warded in King's Landing when she was a child, it's probably just because her father's jousting and she doesn't want to sit alone” Egg dismissed, before motioning to get off his shoulders.
He hoped it was just a want for company and nothing more.
His eyes drew to yours for the whole of the tilts, mesmerised by you and how everyone around you seemed to light up as you spoke.
The next day, after watching the tourney, where you spent another day sitting being admired by Dunk from afar, he had dismissed Egg shortly after the tourney to go watch the puppet show as he dined with you. He hated that he did not have finer clothes to attend the dinner. His nerves ate at him as he waited for your guard to let him into your tent.
“Duncan!” you greeted with joy as he dunked through the entrance to your tent. A table was set for two, a meal grander than anything he had seen before was placed on it, and a bottle of some fancy wine was on the table.
You were dressed in a fine golden dress, with a necklace resembling stag antlers around your neck.
“Come sit! You urged, motioning at the table. He saw you glance nervously in the mirror, your hand reaching to smooth your hair.
You smiled when you turned around, noting how Dunk's legs bashed against the table from his size. Apologise, I should have gotten a higher table.”
“It’s no worry, none at all”, he reassured as you sat down.
“Would you like some wine?” you asked, pouring yourself a glass, “oh and help yourself to the food”
“Thanks and yeah- yes please”, you started to pour his wine, stopping suddenly.
“Your shield!”You stood up quickly, reaching to bend down to where it lay beside your bed. Dunk knew he shouldn’t look at you, or your perfect arse, but hecouldn'tt help but stare. He averted hieyesys when you turned to look over your shoulders, a blush painting your face as you realised the position you were in. You cleared your throat as you stood up, presenting the shield to Dunk, “I hope you like it!”
“It’s perfect!” he declared, grabbing the shield from you, his hands brushing yours. “I, how much do I owe you?” he asked, bashfully.
“Oh, nothing, it’s a gift truly.” his hand still lingered over yours.
You both shared a smile, your hand loosening from the shield as you both moved to sit and eat.
Though both awkward and bashful at first, it was a comfortable evening, filled with laughter. Until it wasn't, and Egg came bursting in. “Ser! Ser Duncan! You have to come! Quickly!” he charged out of the tent, both you and Dunk hot on his tail.
He had led the puppeteers' tent, where the Prince Aerion stood about to snap the fingers of one of the puppeteers.
“Aerion,” you screamed as you walked, walking towards him and pulled him off the girl. Dunk followed after you. “What are you doing?” you asked, reaching to see if the girl was okay.
Aerion sneered, “What do you care?” he spat, pulling you up by the hair.
“Aerion, stop it!” you screamed, clawing at his hand. His loose hand went to punch you in the stomach, but Dunk stepped in, punching Aerion cold in the hand, “Get off of her!” he demanded, but before he could lay another punch, two guards moved to hold him down.
“Why did you throw your life away for this whore?” the prince spat, looking at you, “not that I blame you” he laughed, reaching ot tug your hair to have him look up at you, “though she is rather stupid for wanting to throw her life away for that whoreish traitor!” he alughed looking t where the tall puppeteer lay.
He rubbed the side of his mouth “Why did you throw your life away for this whore? She’s scarcely worth it”, he spoke calmly, loosening his grip on your hair. Your eyes flickered to Dunk, tears welling in your eyes as you looked at him.
“No! Don’t touch him!” Egg shouted as he barged into the tent, guards following close behind him.
Recognition clicked across your face, “Oh!” you breathed, and finally realised who Egg was.
“You stupid boy! Hold your tongue, or they’ll hurt you.” Dunk lectured.
“No, they won’t.” Egg deflected. Dunk looked over at you, as if for reassurance. Your eyes hadn’t left his, not once “If they do, they’ll answer to my father. Let go of him! Wate, Yorkel, do as I say.” the boy ordered.
Aerion stepped away from you “You impudent little rat. What’s happened to your hair?”
“I cut it off, brother. I didn’t want to look like you.” after that Dunk was dragged away, your shouts that he was innocent going ignored.
Dunk did not see you again until the trial of Seven. Egg had reassured him you were fine, the maester had given you a calming drought and some soothing balm. But other than that you were fine. He regretted nothing, only that he did not punch Aerion more for what he did to you.
He had thought of you all day an dnight, hoping you were truly okay. He didnt know if you blamed him for what happened you you. He prayed you did not and still wish to be his friend.
Gods how he wished you would be his friend, his friend he could kiss, hug and fu- “Ser Duncan” Ser Lynoel spoke as he walked up to where Dunk stood.
He felt great relief to see him, not only for the fact that he now had four fellow knights, but also for the fact that his very repsence meant that you were not angry with him. “Ser Lyonel, I cannot thank you enough.” he nodded, “Nor Ser Steffon for bringing you.”
“Who the fuck is Ser Stevron? Your… boy found me” Lyonel dismissed.
“Ah,” he nodded his head in thanks to Egg, straightening his back “, is she is she-is, is she okay?” he asked, stuttering, his eyes tracing the stands to see if you were sat amongst the crowd.
“Ask her yourself?” Lyonel laughed, his head tilting to where you sheepishly approached.
He whispered your name, like a prayer “Are you okay?” he breathed. You smiled, reaching to squeeze his hand.
“Thanks to you i am”, you nodded, your hand giving his a squeeze, your free hand reached into your cloak pocket and revealed a golden silk ribbon, “my favour.” You presented to him, “for luck,” you kissed the ribbon, moving to wrap it around his arm
“I did not know one would tell me what became of you, until my father agreed to join the trial in your honour” You smiled at your father in gratitude.
Your father, who stepped away to give you both privacy, rejoined the conversation “Hasn’t been a trial of seven for a hundred years. I wasn’t about to miss a chance to bloody up the Kingsguard in their pretty white gowns,” he dismissed your gratitude, though from the squeeze your father gave your shoulders, Dunk could tell the man was doing it more for his daughters happiness than the glory that came with winning a trial of seven.
“I wish you great luck, both of you” You smiled, rising to you to tip of your toes and placing a kiss onhis cheek, bidding him farewell as you went to take your seat.
You felt your heart stop in your chest.
Your knight lay on the ground, out cold, as the page prepared to blow the horn and name Aerion the victor. Egg sat beside you, his hand gripping yours as you watched the trial.
“NO!” you screamed, standing up and pulling Egg or Aegon, you supposed, up alongside you. “Get up, Duncan, get up!” Egg ordered, before screaming “Wait!” as he pointed to where Dunk was now moving to stand.
Your heart was still, frozen as you watched Dunk fight and beat Aerin to a bloody pulp. Aerion fell to his knees, and Dunk pulled his head back, yelling at him to speak. “I yield. I yield.” Aerion nearly begged before Dunk tossed him to the floor and grunted.
You allbut ran from the stands the second the trial was over, following after where Dunk and the newly knighted Fossway boy had headed.
“Prince Baelor”, you greeted, as you saw the prince walk the same way as you, “are you okay?” he stumbled a little in his steps, you surveyed him for injuries, taking note of the fact that he wore his son's armour.
“Quiet,” he smiled at you, “your scream stopped my brother from landing a blow to my head, I must thank you.”
“You can thank me by promising not to marry me off to Aerion,” you japped, though Baelor could tell you were serious.
“Worry not, after today you will never have to worry about that again”. You smiled, taking his arm to steady him as you walked to where Duncan sat.
“Ser Duncan”, you greeted, tears in your eyes as you took in his injuries.
You knelt before him, taking note of the wounds on his body and face, “Raymun, is it?” you asked the nervous knight. He nodded. “Go fetch a maester, and do not come back without a bucket of water, salve and plenty of clean clothes…oh and boiled wine”, you ordered, squeezing Dunk's hand with yours.
Despite himself, Dunk leaned forward, his head leaning against yours as he placed a soft kiss to your forehead, before moving to stand and kneel before Prince Baelor.
“Your Grace,” he grunted, “I am your man. Please. Your man,” he pleaded.
“I need good men, Ser Duncan. The realm is in need of good men” Baelor spoke, accepting Duncans pledge, “and though hous etargayren shall happily take you into its service, i would not take you away from your lady.” he nodded at you “i am sure she is need of a sworn knight more so than me” Baelor watched as Duncan stared at you and him share a sweet smile, “Rise ser Duncan”
The maester came soon after, with Raymun carrying everything you had told him to.
Ser Duncan was in much better shape than you thought his wounds were patched up, and the worst of it all was his swollen eye, though it would take only a few days before it would swell down.
You had overseen the master work to heal Ser Duncan, not leaving his side not once.
“I am so glad that you are okay,” you said, placing a soft kiss on the hand you held, the second the maester left.
He smiled, blushing at your kiss, “As am i” he breathed, staring at you.
“You know…I always dreamed of the day a knight would come and save me, and I would become the stuff of fairy tales” You scooted your chair closer to the bed, “I had never dreamed my knight to be-”
“A lowly hedge knight?” he asked. Regretting it immediately in case it was true.
“So brave.” You placed another kiss on his hand, “so chivalrous.” You stood from your chair, placing a kiss on his cheek, “so perfect”, you whispered, placing a kiss to the corner of his mouth, your mouth was so close to his, your breaths mingling “So handsome”, you placed a kiss against his lips, soft and perfect. Everything Duncan knew you to be.
Duncan groaned into your mouth, his hand reaching to grab your face, pulling you closer to him. The kiss melded from soft to passionate, his tongue parting your lips with a messy groan.
The hands that held your face moved to grab your hips, pulling you onto the bed and straddling his lap. He let out a groan as you moved to get comfortable in his lap.
“Dunk,” you sighed against his lips, “I don't want to hurt you,” you breathed, his hands still placed on your hips, squeezed you softly.
“You won’t, love”, he reassured, his hand leaving your waist to grab the back of your neck and pull you back to kiss him.
You moaned against his lips, his tongue entering your mouth, a groan vinbrating though him as his tongue mingled with yours.
You felt slick grow between your thighs, a need for friction, for something more than kisses building inside you.
As the kiss grew more heated, you began to move your hips against his, chasing some friction, some sense of release. “Please,” you begged against his lips, not sure what exactly you were begging for.
He groaned against you, his hands flying back to your hips, guiding your movements. You began to feel a hard bulge grow beneath you. He broke the kiss, a trail of saliva threading between your mouth and his. “What do you need?” he asked, eager to give you the sun and the moon should you ask.
“I-, I don’t- ’” you shook your head, unsure what it was you needed “I need you”
He smiled, a full toothy smile at your words. He reached up and pecked your lips, “You do?” he asked, his hand tracing circles on your hip. Your smile was nervous as you nodded, pecking his lips in return, “Have you ever?” he asked softly, noticing the nerves on your face.
“No,” you admitted, a blush overtaking your features, “have you?” he nodded sheepishly.
“Will you let me…let me make you feel good?” he asked. His hands still circling your hips.
“Please”, you pleaded, reaching down to kiss him again. He kissed yousoftlyy in turn, before moving to sit up, his hands moving to your back and playing with the binds of your dress.
You stopped him, moving to stand. Your eyes locked with his as you got of the bed, and began undoing the binds of your dress yourself and revealing your chemise. Dunk groaned at the sight, “Come here,” he begged, reaching to take off his own clothes, revealing his bare chest. Your eyes were glued to his body, his muscles. You were sure you were drooling at the sight.
You reached to grab the bottom of your chemise, slowly pulling it over your head, and revealing your bare body to him.
He swore he could cum on the spot from the sight of you alone. You walked towards the bed, ready to straddle his hips once more, but before you could, he grabbed you, flipping you over and laying you flat on the bed and beneath him. His breeches hung loosely above you, half untied, and the outline of his manhood prominent.
He took your lips in his once more, his tongue minglinglin giowht your once more as his hands caressed your body. One hand propped him up, the other reaching to grab and squeeze your breast. Your chest rose as he did, a soft moan gasping from your lips as he pinched your nipple. You whispered his name, pleading for more. His mouth trailed from your mouth to your jaw, down to your neck, nibling sofltey but careful not to leave any marks.
He towered over you, shadowing your entire frame, as most of it hung over the ned of the bed. His kisses cascaded down to your chest, his mouth kissing your breasts, teasing your nipples before he slowly kissed his way down to your heat. You bucked your hips as you felt his hot breath against your core. His mouth feasted on you, licking your core, as his large hands moved to squeeze your breasts and pinch at your nipples.
Moans racked through you, pleasure like nothing youve ever experienced washed over you, your hands reaching and clawing for anything, your hands ended up tugging at his hair, a groan vibrating through your core as you did so.
“Dunk!” you moaned, “please,” begging as you felt a delicious heat build up in you. Your leg kicked the air as your peak washed over you, sighing softly as you collapsed into the mattress.
“Oh, Dunk,” you moaned. He crawled back up your body, or more, stood up a little as he shadowed your frame.
Your eyes were locked with his, “I need to prepare you more, love” his voice was filled with desperation. He took your lipsonce more, loving the feel of your mouth against his. His hands caressed your thighs, spreading them wide as his finger dipped through your folds. His finger edged towards your entrance. He broke the kiss, looking for permission. “Yes, please”, you pleaded.
His finger entered you slowly, the sting lasting a few moments as he pumped in and out of you. His thumb moved to rub at your bud, your kiss broke as you threw your head back and moaned. You had liked the feeling of his mouth between your thighs, but this. Gods, you loved it.
Another finger entered you, Dunk's head leaned against yours, “you're so tight”, he mumbled, your fingers clenched around his, another peak rsing inyou, “I need to stretch you out more” he mumbled, worried you wouldn't be able to take another finger, let alone his cock.
You opened your legs more, allowing Dunk more access to your heat. A third finger prodded at your entrance, stretching you out more. “Gods!” you moaned, you felt so full. So good and full. Your peak washed over you faster than either of you expected.
“Dunk…Duncan, please, I need yo,u, you pleaded, pulling him to kiss you as he withdrew his fingers, undoing the rest of his breeches and pulling them down. Gods, he was big, thick and long. God,s you had no idea how he would ever fit.
He gripped his cock, swiping it between folds, gathering your slick. He teased your whole, pressing in sowly it pained him.
Your whole body felt like it was on fire as he pressed into you. He stilled when his entire length had entered you, his breath hot and heavy above you, his face bruised itself in your neck, kissing and nibbling at it as he waited for you to adjust. It was pure torture for him.
“Move, please, Dunk”, you begged, your arms wrapping around his body. He leaned over you again, his hands bracing either side of your head, his hips thrusting forward slowly, testing your reaching, you moaned, your head falling back against the pillow. Dunk leaned his head against yours, kissing your face softly as he continued to thrust in and out of you. Slowly, he began to move faster, in more measured movements.
His pace slowly got faster, your arms wrapped around his neck, his mouth pressed against yours.
Your bodies were on fire, pleasure filling your entire body, your nerves were on fire. Your hips began to move, matching his movements, your body adapting to his size, and the now familiar coil of pleasure taking you over once more.
“Oh, dunk” you moaned, his movements getting faster as he began chasing your mutual pleasure, his hand reached between your legs, rubbing your bud.
Your peak washed over you, dunks not far from joining you, his eyes locked with yours, his breath rapid, “my lady…i where should i finish?” he groaned, as his peak drew closer.
“Outside” you groaned, your peak still washing over you in waves, as Dunk pulled out you and came into the bed sheet.
He collapsed next to you, his hand moving topull you into him, his head buried in your neck, his hands squeezing your breast.
Soft satsified sighs left you both.
“Come with me to Stormsend?” you asked, turning to face him, lying on his chest.
“I’ll follow you anywhere,” he pledged, kissing your lips once more, as sleep overtook you both.
I think that when you're overstimulated you should appear kind of grayed out and no one should be able to interact with you like a locked character in a video game
hi first and foremost the way you write jason is. spectacular. i just. have no words like. wow. could i please request more loverboy/domestic/fluffy headcanons with gn! reader? literally whatever you want— cuddling, cooking, flustered jason (or reader) you name it! you write jason so beautifully :D
AHH THANK YOU 🫶🫶 hope you like it!!
Pt 1 • Pt 2
Loverboy Jason who doesn’t like crowds—and hates them even more when you’re in them. Gotham’s got him hovering near you, holding your hand tightly, his stance always defensive toward anyone who brushes past you too closely. It’s more than instinct; it’s something that was slowly built into him, pushing him to the edge until losing you becomes the only nightmare worth worrying about.
Loverboy Jason who’s a pathetic, grumpy drunk. He’s stumbling home with Dick keeping him upright with one arm, the other arm busy recording Jason for future blackmail material.
“Jaybird—”
“Fuck off. Where’s my love?” he mumbles, glaring at the pavement.
Dick sighs. “At home. They’re safe.”
“This is all your fault, dickhead.”
Once Dick gets Jason home, the former makes his escape. You’re holding back a smile at the sight of your boyfriend staggering toward you.
He kneels in front of you, burying his face into your stomach.
“Missed ya. Everyone’s so fuckin’ loud.”
You hum, hands moving up and down his shoulders. “Did you have fun with them?”
“No. They aren’t you.”
Loverboy Jason who lets you dye the white strands of his hair black. He’ll sit while you stand behind him, carding your fingers through his hair, telling him how soft and nice it is. He finds comfort in these quiet moments. It’s normal. Safe. Even when you playfully tug on his hair, making him bite back a groan.
Loverboy Jason who cooks for you on days he has time before patrol. The kitchen is lively, with yellow light cascading over the room and old music playing in the background. You’re sitting on the counter, eyes fixed on his concentrated stirring as if one wrong move will ruin the soup.
He grabs a spoon, scoops some up, and holds it out for you.
You grin, wrapping your lips around the metal, the soup warm and sweet on your tongue.
“Think it needs more salt, babe,” you say after tasting it.
He takes the spoon and tries it for himself. His brows furrow. “It’s fuckin’ tomato soup—why the hell is it sweet?” he grumbles while adding some salt.
Loverboy Jason whose cuddles can be a bit suffocating. He’s a big man who likes to be on top of you while he sleeps. His arms hold you tightly around the waist, his head on your chest, mouth slightly open, brows smoothed over by your presence. He’s so unguarded like this that you never complain.
Jason Todd loves to sleep with his arms around your waist and his head on your tummy.
He says that it's the best spot where to get lost in: it's warm and, most importantly, a very vulnerable spot— he really likes that you feel so comfortable with him.
Regardless of its shape, softness, tightness, bodily hair, etc, he will make it his personal pillow, snuggling his face against it and kissing it every chance he gets.
He likes it best when you run your hands through his hair or (even better!) speak to him while he slowly falls asleep. Your presence reminds him that he is safe: you are his shelter and his solace.
It's usual for him to want it after a particularly long and hard night, trying to make Gotham a better place for its most defenseless citizens. He doesn't want to wake you up if you're already asleep, but... he needs it more than anything.
Jason will lower himself down on the bed as gently as he can, pull your clothes up, and put his head where it belongs: on you. And if you wake up, he will apologize in whispers, his rough voice a clear indication that he wants to be pampered.
"I know that it's late... still, would you, please? :("
You'd think that what is only a small gesture is actually a panacea.
If you say no, then that's... fine.
Yeah, it's fine.
He'll take longer to sleep, but it's fine: it is always your choice. You might have a difficult day, too, so he gets it. But! He will ask for it again in the morning. And if you don't want to in the morning, he'll back off and then make you breakfast instead because he loves you very much!
If you say yes, he's quietly thrilled, already feeling his eyes falling closed. Jason associates your touch with security; it gives him a cozy feeling, so it's no wonder that he is soon out like a light.
You will wake up with a beautiful man looking like he is in Heaven, at ease, for once.
( summary ) when harry potter said he wanted a reason to skip potions, he didn’t expect to wind up developing a kinship with a portrait of a young witch by the kitchens, but how can he complain when her smile is just as welcoming as her stories?
( pairing ) sebastian sallow x female!reader (mc), platonic!harry potter x female!reader, small mention of ominis gaunt x anne sallow
( notes/warnings ) set during the philosophers stone and the end of the deathly hallows! part of the ‘the house of the rising sun’ universe! this was supposed to be a mostly seb/minorly harry fic but it kind of inverted because i love harry potter and want to wrap him in a warm blanket and keep him safe forever. also!!! this is the first proper fic i’ve written in over a year so pls be kind 🤍. angst but mostly fluff! reader assuming a motherly role with harry! low-key sebastian assuming a fatherly role with harry too! canon-compliant violence mentions! minimal usage of y/n! not proofread!
Harry Potter had known torment like no other. Stood little over 5 foot tall, he had felt blistering rage poured from callous hands and the bitter loneliness nipping at his guts. But none of it, not the broom cupboard, not the scar, would be worse that enduring another double potions class.
And so, the boy who lived took a left turn down a spiral staircase instead of carrying on to the dungeons and followed the candlelit corridors until he found himself facing a dead-end. It was, he thought, maybe the most peaceful part of the castle he’d seen in his two months of admittance. There was no cobwebbed ceiling corners, no scathing suits of armour, no ghastly ghosts taunting his every breath. The walls were barren except for a lone portrait frame displayed on the far wall. Harry walked closer.
It was an empty frame, holding only a background of red curtains and a plush sofa. He wondered who that frame was meant to home and worried his footsteps had frightened them off. He turned to walk away, to find a shadowy area by one of the far courtyards where he could waste the rest of his two hours. But just as he did so, back already to the wall, he heard a gentle voice.
“Are you lost, sweetheart?”
Harry’s head whipped to the frame once more with such speed he wouldn’t be shocked to feel a sharp pain in the morning. Sat on the sofa was now a witch who looked to be older than him, if only by a few years. She wore a white collared shirt with a red tie and a long grey skirt beneath dark brown overcoat. There was a scar on her left cheek that Harry believed he’d find intimidating on anyone else, but something in the way she smiled at him, the softness of her eyes, told him he’d struggle to find an off-putting thing about her.
He hadn’t even realised he’d been staring, lips parted, question ignored, until she let out a small laugh. Harry Potter had been laughed at before, he’d been laughed at before he’d even been born, he knew what it meant for two people to share a look and a giggle when you speak — or, more aptly, don’t speak. But the insult he was accustomed to never came. He felt no wave of shame, no cheeks reddened with embarrassment. In a strange act of fate, he found himself laughing with her.
“I’m Y/n Sallow. Pleased to make your acquaintance…” She paused and nodded for him to introduce himself.
“Harry. Harry Potter.”
“Ah.” She nodded. “I’ve heard many things about you. It’s good to put a face to the name. So, Harry, my question still remains; are you lost?”
“I have double potions.”
She laughed again and so did he. “I see. You know, I remember your professor when he was about your age. Terribly frightened boy, but wildly genius.”
“He hates me for something that isn’t my fault.”
“People tend to channel anger when their other feelings are too confusing. It’s easier for them. But I know how you feel, love. Believe me.”
“Nobody knows how I feel.” Harry didn’t like how self-effacing he sounded, but to him it was mere truth. Nobody else had lost in the same ways he had and been forced to live with its guilt, nobody else was thrust into the war of a world they didn’t understand.
“You only say that because you haven’t taken History of Magic yet.”
Harry looked at her quizzically. “What do you mean?”
“Get comfortable.” The boy took off his robe and folded in the floor, sitting atop it and crossing his legs, elbows resting on his knees.
For the next three hours, Harry paid no need to the fact he had missed a charms lesson, as he found himself immersed in the stories she told. Of long-dormant repositories of ancient magic, of goblins, and poachers, and graphorns, and plight, the scale of what he faced seemed not dwarfed, but levelled by that of her own.
She told him of the fears she felt as she entered the Great Hall, how lonely she was on her first day, and Harry felt his heart swell at the fortune of meeting Ron as early as he did. When he said this, she smiled and said Ron reminded her of an old friend, a former Hufflepuff and renowned magiczoologist.
“She said she didn’t have many friends before I arrived, which caught me by such surprise, because I believed her to be one of the kindest witches I had ever met. One of the bravest too. In fact, she led me on one of the most remarkable adventures of my life…” She said, a melancholic smile on her face as she talked of Golden Snidgets and centaurs.
As their second hour drew to a close, she brought her storytelling to a sudden halt. “Enough of me. Darling, how has Hogwarts been for you?”
Harry paused, having barely reflected on the question himself. “It’s been good.” A moment of silence. “I think.”
“You think?”
“It’s just…” His breath caught in his throat, as millions of thoughts came to mind but to words followed suit. “I just feel so out of place. I found out about magic two months ago, and suddenly everyone has these big expectations of me because of what happened when I was a baby.” She nodded in understanding and felt her heart break in her chest.
When you looked at him, you saw him not as a prodigal son or a budding star, but as the child he was. His glasses slightly crooked, almost hanging off his nose, his cheeks red and rosy, his eyes downcast. He looked a mirror of you, and you hated it with a ferocity you hadn’t felt in years.
It was supposed to end with you, the torment of children, the horror of destiny. You still remembered the terror you felt when you first touched that portkey, when Fig told you more of those iron-clad knights would follow, when the fate of a world you knew naught about was thrust upon your fifteen-year-old shoulders.
When Ranrok was defeated and you were told you’d be safe, you were lied to. The poachers still came in droves, angrier, smarter, fit to kill with the taste of your blood in their mouths. More loyalists subscribed to Ranrok’s ideals and strived off the image of your head mounted on a wall. There was always new monsters to fight, new people in need, new reasons to run away and forge a new life.
But you never did, you never took the bait. You knew that if you left, if you abandoned your responsibilities that eventually they would fall onto another you. Another child born with your gift, and they too would know true loneliness and fear and you could not let that happen.
You graduated and became a freelance cursebreaker. If people felt unsafe, you were the first port of call. You risked your life with the sole mission of preventing another child from filling your shoes. You did all this, and it meant nothing. It meant nothing because now, over a century later, a young boy is being punished for actions he didn’t commit, tormented for events out of his control.
Harry Potter was cut from the same cloth as you, and so, you listened.
The bell tower tolled and sent a shock down Harry’s spine. Was it lunchtime already? He stood up and dusted off his cloak. “Do you ever get lonely?” He asked. “All the other portraits have others around them.”
“I rarely dwell in this frame, to be honest. I have a few others around, there’s one by the Magical Theory classroom on the fourth floor of the Astronomy wing. That’s where I spend most of my time, but I’ve got two in Hogsmeade, another in a run-down hamlet southwest of here, even have one in America.” You gave him a sweet smile. “The portrait of the old potions professor, Aesop Sharp, sends word for me whenever he sees someone come down this hall. Say hello to him when you pass, will you?”
He nodded his head, halfway down the corridor before he turned around and hoped you hadn’t gone yet. “Thank you for this. Is it—” he paused again and took a deep breath, “is it alright if I come here again? If I can talk to you again?”
His heart pounded in his throat, caught with a fear of you saying no. Of laughing at him for finding such comfort in a mere conversation. Harry Potter had long since accepted that he’d never truly know the feeling of being cared for, being heard. He had made his peace with such a thing. He was a child now, but he’d grow. He’d grow in his own and he’d grow to be a kind man who cared for others with kindness never afforded for him. He was okay with this, but now that he’d met you, he knew he couldn’t live that way anymore.
He’d never had enough material things to be selfish over, but he’d be selfish now if he needed to. He needed this again, this feeling of being truly seen and understood.
Ever since he came to the wizarding world, Harry had been told he had his mother’s eyes, her kindness and warmth. Looking at you now, he figured you were the closest to her he’d find. In the softness of your gaze, he shed the weight of his worries.
You smiled again and nodded. “Tell dear Aesop to send word whenever you need me, darling.”
His feet felt lighter as they travelled up the steps, eagerly searching for a portrait he hadn’t noticed before until he was outside the potions classroom and read the golden plaque. Aesop Sharp.
The man had a gruff face with rugged stubble and scars on his chin. His lips quirked up with a thin veil of remembrance. “I take it she arrived on time?”
“She said to say ‘hi’. And thank you.”
“She thanked me?”
“I’m thanking you.” Aesop only hummed and nodded.
“There’s nothing to thank me for, boy. Other than the fact that your potions professor will be kept uninformed of your detour.” Harry’s cheeks flushed a deep red and Aesop let out what could almost be considered a laugh. “It’s best you run along now. The rest—the first—of your classes will drag on an empty stomach.”
“I was wondering when you’d return.” Sebastian teased from the frame. “Almost four whole hours on my own with only Weasley for company.”
As you joined Sebastian in the portrait, settling comfortably on the sofa he’d been sprawled across, his arm found a comfortable place around your shoulders, holding you close.
Garreth, whose portrait was on the corner wall to the left of yours by his request, let out a hearty laugh at that. “You say that as though you weren’t the one recount all the old days, Sallow. No need to try impress the lady, you fooled her years ago.”
“Don’t be rude, Garreth. It’s sweet he cares so much after all these years.” Poppy chided from her frame beside his, appearing just as Natty did across from her.
“Where’s Ominis?” You asked, expecting a quip from your dear friend.
“He went to visit Feldcroft. Said he missed the place and wanted to see how ol’ Victoria is holding up.” You smiled as Sebastian mentioned Ominis and Anne’s great-great granddaughter.
“It’s is sweet that they stay in such close touch.” You smiled. “We must visit again soon. Adam is still in London, I think. His daughter is starting Hogwarts next year. Same with Sarah’s son.” Your heart swelled at the thought of the family of your own.
“It’ll be nice not to be the only one here with family visits in the castle.” Garreth said.
“My boy will be nothing like your Percy.” Sebastian defended.
“If he’s anything like you, he’ll be exactly like the twins, though.”
“I heard Imelda gave them an earful last week after they almost blew up her frame by the Trophy Room.” Natty laughed. “They’re definitely Weasley’s.”
“There’ll be more of them than there is Ravenclaw’s with the way things are going.” Poppy commented. “A young boy this year, and a girl next?”
“What can I say, we’re family people! I heard Ron’s befriended the Potter boy.” At this, your ears perked up.
“Harry?”
“Uh-oh.” Sebastian taunted, toying with a stand of your hair. “Something tells me you’ve taken someone under your wing again.”
You pinched his side as the others chuckled joked between themselves. “You say that as though it’s a bad thing. I thought you liked when I cared for people.”
“I do.” He smiled, putting his hand on the back of your head and pulling you close to press a kiss to your temple. “Just find it a bit funny is all.”
“I want all of you to keep an eye on him. I was talking him today and I could feel this— this— this loneliness hanging around him. He was talking to me and it felt like I was talking to myself at fifteen.”
A silence washed over the portraits. They’d seen you through it all. They saw you when Lodgok passed, when Fig passed, when everything worked against you and there was nothing they could do to help. Sebastian’s grip on you tightened, guilt stirring in the pits of his stomach.
It had been almost two centuries since everything with Anne’s curse had come to pass. He’d apologised countless times, kneeling before you with his head hung his shame and your hands held tightly in his, tears staining your skirts. You’d forgiven him just as many. You cradled his face and kissed his cheeks and told him that what happened then mattered no more than what you had for dinner the night prior. He was still your love, and you were the lone focus of his devotion, that was what mattered.
But time does not heal all wounds, and there would always be a part of you that remembered how he had to mean Crucio and how he didn’t write to you at all that summer, just as there would always be a part of him that yearned to go back and beat sense into the younger version of him who saw you as only a means of rescuing Anne.
They all knew how important the safety of the boy would grow to be to you, and made a silent pact to follow through with whatever you asked.
“I still remember when James and Lily were in first year.” Lamented Poppy. “She knew how to put a boy in his place. Could’ve learned a lot from her in our years.”
“She was so lovely, too. I always knew she’d become Head Girl. She reminded me of Amit. Always so smart but just as kind.” Natty sighed. “How’s Amit doing anyways, Y/n? You were the last to visit the library.”
“He’s well. Apparently a seventh year recognised him from his books the other day, he’s just as bashful as ever. Got red even recounting the story.” You grinned fondly.
“I remember how jealous Sebastian was on your first Astronomy lesson when Professor Shah volunteered Amit to share a telescope with you instead of him.” Garreth laughed, a deep laugh that came from the back of his throat.
“I was not jealous!”
“You were.” It seemed Ominis had a penchant for arriving just when Sebastian needed to be put in his place. “I couldn’t see it but I could sense it. You weren’t exactly subtle.”
“I couldn’t tell, if that makes you feel better.” You attempted to console.
“He professed his love to you for a year and you couldn’t tell. That’s no consolation.” It seemed he had a penchant for catching you out as well.
“Easy, Gaunt.” Sebastian warned. “Let’s not forget five years of pining for Anne. Makes our thing look like a breeze.”
Your friend halted and shook his head, a breathy laugh escaping him. “You have me there, Sebastian.”
“How’s Vic?”
“She’s good. Really good. Asking after the lot of you, Poppy especially.” The former magiczoologist furrowed her brows. “Said your research papers on mooncalves have been an invaluable asset to her work on rescuing and rehoming them.”
“I always knew she’d do brilliant things.” Poppy beamed. “It was a guarantee given who her family is.”
You settled further into Sebastian’s embrace as the conversation rolled on, head on his shoulder and relishing in his warmth. This was the kind of peace you so desperately longed for in your girlhood, this was the home you fought so hard to protect, safe in the arms of your love and the company of your family.
You could only pray Harry found the same someday.
It became routine for the boy to visit your portrait over the months that passed, so much so that Aesop no longer needed to send for you when Harry passed because you’d be there already, waiting.
You felt a kinship with him that you could only compare to the bond you had felt with your own children all those years ago. You loved your great-grandchildren dearly, but they had inherited your wanderlust and seemed nearly impossible to get a hold of, a feat made even more difficult given your inability to do… anything, really. But Harry was here, in need of guidance, a service you were more than willing to give.
When you heard he won quidditch matches, you’d leap from your sofa and nearly wept with pride, just as you did with every assignment result he relayed to you. Harry seemed to preen to your praise.
You quickly became his confidant. He told you of his years with the Dursleys, his troll encounter at Halloween (where you had laughed at another similarity between the pair of you), his fears of Voldemort, and, eventually, his plans to find the Philosopher’s Stone.
“You must promise me you’ll be careful, Harry.” You warned. “It’s no small feat you’re about to undertake, do not underestimate it by any means. Without a doubt, you’ll be trialled before you find the stone, you have to keep a clear head. Do not let yourself get distracted, if only for a moment.”
There was a taught crease between your brows and your shoulders were tensed with worry. The boy seemed almost apologetic as he nodded. “I swear it. Ron and Hermione will help me too. I won’t be alone.”
You remembered how happy he was when he spoke of his friends, so similar to how you did. He seemed to glow with the joy of being accepted not despite being know, but because of it instead. “You keep an eye out for them as well. I don’t want to hear any stories of a first year sent to the Hospital Wing.”
An authoritative edge laced your voice that set Harry’s spine straight, heart clenching at the protectiveness you showed over him and those he held close.
“Harry,” your words were gentler now, softer, “you’re a brilliant wizard, destined to do great things, but you do not have to do them now. Not if you’re not ready.”
“I am ready. I have to do this. If I don’t, who else will?”
In a humbling moment, you realised there was nothing you could say to the boy that wouldn’t be wholly hypocritical. “Just—” you sighed, “promise me that you’ll come visit when you’re done, let me know you’re safe, tell me of your adventure.”
“I promise.” He smiled.
Later that evening, when curfew had long been set, you found yourself visiting the Trophy Room for the first time in many months. You smiled at Imelda as you passed through the portrait across from her.
“Hello, old friend.” You grinned warmly, stepping into the portrait of Eleazer Fig, tucked away behind the Goblet of Fire.
The man seemed to melt in your presence, a bright smile taking over his face as he pulled you into a tight embrace.
“It’s been far too long, sweet girl.” He said in your ear, still holding you close.
“I fear an apology is in order.” You said almost feebly.
“What ever for?”
“I believe I now know the torment you felt in our year together.” A laugh escaped you. “I’ve developed a friendship with the young Potter boy.”
Fig nodded his head in understanding. “You worry for the child?”
“With every dawn. To know he’s in such danger and I am unable to help— it’s a cruel torture.”
“I know.” His hands found your own. “No child should have to face what he will — what you did. But if you stand by him whenever he calls, know that is the help he needs. The support of someone who has seen what he has and come out to lead a better life will give him the hope he needs to persevere.”
You hadn’t realised there were even tears in your eyes until they dropped onto your cheeks. It was one of Fig’s many talents to draw the rawest, most powerful emotions from within you.
Over the years, you’d gone to him when the slightest problems left you upset. You’d run to his portrait whenever you didn’t want to sit through History of Magic and sit on the floor and tell him everything there was to tell, from your breakfast that day to the deepest fears in year heart.
“Believe me, child. If he is in any way like you, he will shock you with abilities. I know you shocked me.” He moved to cradle your face softly, resting his forehead against your own.
“I feel so helpless. None of what he stands before is fair. He’s only a boy.” He knew the truth of your words, for they’d been said to him before Harry Potter had even been born. I am so helpless. None of this is fair. I’m only a girl.
“All you can do for him is let him know that you will always be there, never to judge, only to support. The boy needs comfort and normalcy, so that is what you must remain.”
“You’ve always known just what to say.” You smiled at him, face wrought with melancholia.
“It has always been easy to speak with you, friend. You were the closest I’d ever gotten to a child of my own.” His own eyes shone now. “Miriam truly would’ve adored you. The pair of you would’ve driven me mad.”
You let out a watery laugh and pulled him into another tight embrace, your chin tucked over his shoulder, anchoring you to him as you stayed that way for an indiscernible about of time before making your way down to your lone portrait to anxiously wait for Harry’s arrival.
The end of the school year drew close faster than any of the others had, you were sure of it, and soon Harry was sat before you, still shaking with the excitement of winning Gryffindor the House Cup, telling you of how happy the last year had made him.
“I’ll miss you, though.” He frowned. “Don’t suppose you have any portraits near Surrey?”
“I’m afraid not, sweet one. But I’ll be here when you return, eagerly awaiting your stories of summer. Maybe I’ll have some new ones myself too.”
A comfortable silence passed through you both, Harry pulling at him fingers and you looking down at him warmly. “I’m so proud of you, Harry.” He looked up at you quickly, a flicker of shock on his face.
“You’re so brave, so strong, so kind. You’ve dealt with more danger this past year than most wizards do in their lifetime, and you’re still here to tell the tale, still smiling while you do it. It’s a remarkable thing. I hope you know that.”
A tear caught the light trickling in from the corridor’s high windows as it dropped from his eyes, irises swimming with gratitude and remnants of pain he was not yet willing to divulge. He thanked you once more with an earnest sincerity that was so rare to see, and then left to pack his things, swearing to visit you again on September 1st.
As Harry sat staring out his window in The Leaky Cauldron at the dull night sky, knees pulled to his chest and hands clasped tightly together, he wondered how it was possible for him to feel more alone than ever, exiled from the house he grew up in, waiting anxiously for his thirteenth birthday to come.
He wanted to be back in Hogwarts. People cared for him in Hogwarts. You cared for him in Hogwarts. Here the bed creaked and the pipes clanged and the wind whistled as it came through the windows and his loneliness made him feel sick. So Harry did what he always did when he needed a distraction, he went for a walk.
The floorboards groaned beneath his weight, a small sound seeming so mammoth when laid before a silent hallway. If he listened hard enough, Harry could hear the quiet drone of conversation and drunken laughter from lingering patrons downstairs, but he carried on his path away until it was just him and his steady breaths.
“Are you lost?” A portrait asked making the boy jump from his skin. A masculine voice, deep and authoritative but complete with a soothing edge Harry likened vaguely to Arthur Weasley or Dumbledore.
Harry turned to face his frame. It was a simple model, nothing fancy enough to seem out of place in its dwelling, but polished enough to know it was revered. The man was beautiful, Harry thought. With freckled cheeks, big brown eyes, and a slightly flattened nose. He smiled at Harry’s hesitation, a small, kind thing, as though he were welcoming an old friend or coaxing a fawn from hiding.
Sebastian Sallow. Auror. 1875-1938. The golden plaque beneath him read. The last name made Harry’s breath hitch. Sallow.
You’d told him stories of your lover many times, of how you found each other just as you needed it most, how you stayed by him when no others would and how he returned the debt in kind. Harry had almost been able to fall in love with the man through your words alone.
“You’re Y/n’s husband.” He blurted without thinking, and Sebastian’s small smile grew to split his face, a deep laugh rumbling from his chest.
“It is one of my grander accomplishments.” A confident content that could almost be confused for smugness settled on his face. “And you’re Harry Potter. I’ve heard many things about you. Seems you’ve managed to quite entrance my wife.”
A dark red flooded Harry’s cheeks. “She’s very kind.”
“She is indeed. Though, she’d kill me if I didn’t ask what brings you here.”
Harry paused. “I couldn’t stay home any longer.”
Sebastian clicked his tongue, humming in acknowledgment. “I understand. Are you alright?”
It was a simple question, one he normally would’ve brushed off without second thought, but Sebastian seemed to share your ability of coaxing out Harry’s deepest truth. “I don’t know.”
A tense beat passed between them, neither knowing exactly what to say, both knowing you would if you were there, until Sebastian eventually broke the silence. “I remember when I felt like that.” Harry looked at him inquisitively.
“Christmas in our fifth year, I had… a falling out with my uncle and sister. The thought of going back home made me feel ill, so I didn’t. For the first time, I spent the holiday in the castle, just as she did.”
December 22nd, 1890.
A grey cloud seemed eternally settled above Sebastian’s head and the sight of your friend’s unspoken torment made your skin crawl. Ominis had just departed for Gaunt Manor, making hushed comment on the fact he’d likely be back within a week. You wished he hadn’t left at all.
Your worry for Sebastian had been gnawing away at you ever since the events surrounding Salazar’s Sciptorium. You feared for the path he threatened to follow, the darkness settling into the far corners of his mind. His nose was always stuck in the damned book you found in that room, reading, searching, and scouring for anything that would help Anne.
A small part of you knew he would give his own life to absolve her of that pain, a larger part feared he would give yours too.
“Have you eaten?” You asked him, taking a gentle approach with deliberate steps towards his hunched-over frame, careful not to startle him.
“Hm?” He hummed in half-acknowledgment.
“I said, ‘Have you eaten?’” There was a smile evident in your voice as you pulled out the chair beside him.
“Oh— Uhm, not yet.” He brushed off your concern. You thought Sebastian was clever, but if he truly was, he would’ve known you wouldn’t let up that easily.
You sighed, standing up again and patting his shoulders. “Up.”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me. Up. You’ve been sat here every day this past week from dawn till dusk and I will not let it carry on any longer.” He hung his lead low and shook it slightly and you could tell he was fighting a smile. “If you won’t move for the sake of yourself, do it for the sake of chivalry. I intend to go to Hogsmeade and don’t wish to go alone. For safety.”
“You and I both know you’d best any opponents that cross us before I could even ready my wand.” He laughed, but he was slowly gathering his things and tucking them beneath his arm.
“Not if my opponent is loneliness. Come on, Sebastian. Entertain me.” You didn’t even attempt to hide your smugness as he stood by your side, holding his arm out for you to take. “How charming.” You commented, your hand resting on his elbow as he guided you from Hogwarts.
After spending almost every day of the past three months in your company, Sebastian had come to think nothing of mindless affection.
He noticed it first in your interactions with Natsai. How you pulled her into a tight embrace after she won a round of Crossed Wands, only letting go when it was your turn to duel.
Then it was with Poppy. How the pair of you always seemed to sit or stand close enough to each other to touch in some way. How she’d place her head on your shoulder and you’d rest yours on top of hers.
Even with Anne, who you had only just met, you placed your hands on her shoulders ever-so-softly as she told you of her strife. It seemed to natural for you to touch those you cared for.
He realised you were more hesitant to show affection to your male classmates. You’d hold Garreth’s arm as you laughed at a joke, but always retracted after a few seconds. But the Scriptorium changed everything.
In the moment, he supposed it was mere adrenaline, that the way you tightly squeezed Ominis after his parseltounge display was a mere product of high tensions. But when he cast Crucio, he saw Ominis react in a way he never had before. Ominis grabbed you and held you close as you cried and thrashed in his arms, hands shaking as he fought every urge in him to leave you alone and fend off him own haunting memories.
After that, you and Ominis became more freely affectionate than ever, sparking more than a few courtship rumours that made Sebastian’s heart race more than they should have. The blond boy would let you lead him through crowded areas where his wand might have failed him. You’d let him lean against you in History of Magic.
Your closeness with Sebastian was forged from a moment of weakness on his end.
A week prior to the Christmas break, the day Sebastian decided not to return to Feldcroft, you’d caught him sat on a bench by the greenhouses, watching the wildflowers billow in the moonlight. His hands were clasped before him, his knee kept bouncing, and his brows were furrowed into a deep line.
You approached him just as you had in the library, with a soft tenderness, inviting him to the Room of Requirement for some space to clear his mind.
He took his anger out of conjured training dummies and yelled so loud you had to move your diricawls to a different vivarium so they wouldn’t get scared until, eventually, he collapsed onto one of the sofas you had set up in the middle of the room. The last thing he remembered of that night was your fingers combing through his hair. And then he woke up, his head resting in your lap, your hands still in his tresses. He sat up quickly, instantly aware of how compromising such a position could be.
You were fast asleep, head tilted back on the sofa in a way that must’ve been most uncomfortable. His cheeks warmed at the thought of you sitting through that for his sake. He took off his robe and draped it over your frame, smiling as you subconsciously curled around it.
From that night on, it felt like a barrier had been broken between the two of you. Sebastian’s hand would seek yours beneath tables, his touch would linger on the small of your back in Hogsmeade.
“She always made me feel welcomed.” He said to Harry, eyes glazed over as he stayed half-distracted is his reminiscence. “She did that for everyone.” A laugh bubbled out of his mouth. “I remember all of our daughter’s friends wanted to come stay at our home just to see her. No matter how busy she was with work, she’d make them food and sweets and entertain whatever stories they had to tell her.”
Harry found himself laughing too, a sense of longing rooting him in his spot. He watched Sebastian, who he’d read about as a formidable curse-breaker unafraid of anything, turn to nothing more than a smitten schoolchild at the recollection of your younger memories and wondered what it would’ve been like to hear such stories from his own father.
“When she passed, it seemed as though the world itself stopped to grieve. Our Annie didn’t know what to do and I didn’t know how to help her. I mean, how can you tell a child her mother is dead?” Sebastian was vaguely aware that he was preaching to the wrong choir, but he so rarely got to wallow in the pain he felt all those years ago and found himself swept into its storm all over again.
The word ‘child’ caught Harry’s ears and made him look at Sebastian in confusion. “How could Anne be a child when Y/n passed? She said you had her at thirty.”
Sebastian’s mind cleared, shock melting to realisation on his face as the fact you’d kept your death from Harry dawned on him. “She was thirty-eight when it happened.”
“How?” Harry found himself asking without care for how insensitive it may have come across.
“It was supposed to be her final mission before retirement. She’d been worked to the bone for over twenty years, and if I carried on in my post, we’d have had more than enough money to carry on comfortably while she minded Anne. She was promised an easy case to finish it off, something about a loose canon in the south of France. She insisted to bring me along for ‘aid’ but I knew it was because the year prior I’d made comment about wanting to visit.”
“The case itself was fine, an old witch had written a barely legible spell book centuries before our time and passed it down from generation to generation as nothing more than mantle decoration, but it fell into the hands of a reckless wizard. Between the two of us, he was contained easily, but he had a wife who didn’t know the full story. She saw none of his wrongdoings and only us defeating and detaining him. She cast a killing curse on me whilst my back was turned and—” His breath caught in his throat.
“Her valiance had always been both my most and least favourite trait of hers. She pushed me out of the way before anyone could blink.”
A heavy silence settled over them both. A pit weighed in Harry’s stomach, stoking a fire of anger at the injustice of the Wizarding World.
His mother was a kind woman. His father was a kind man. You were kind. And what kindness was afforded to you in return? A cold death by an uncaring wand? Is that what truly came from devotion? Is that what would come to him?
“I’m sorry.” Was all he managed to say to Sebastian.
“There’s no need. I’m with her now.” The man smiled back. “It’s funny, when we were younger, I would be so annoyed every time an artist requested to commission a painting of her because it took away from the time I could spend with her. But once she passed, I couldn’t have been more grateful for them, because it gave me infinite chances to speak with her again.”
It wasn’t long before Harry felt the gentle temptations of sleep crawl to the forefronts of his mind and he bid Sebastian adieu after making the portrait promise to say hello on his behalf.
Decades had passed now since that first fateful day in the potions corridor. Harry had grown from a feeble and uncertain boy to a man weathered by grief but uplifted by the love he gave and received in turn.
He recalled you saying once how you wished for him the same family you made with Sebastian and he liked to believe that he now did. His eldest son radiated a nervous energy as he hovered by the front door of his girlfriend’s parents house, his other children stood behind him, giggling at their brother’s anxiety, Ginny stood by his side and smiled up at him with a knowing look.
It was the first time they were meeting the girl’s family, having met her once or twice in passing when they dropped James Sirius off at 9 3/4, and Harry couldn’t have been more excited if he tried. The way his son seemed to glow at the mention of the girl put him in mind of how he did with Ginny, how Rob did with Hermione, how Sebastian had that night in the Leaky Cauldron.
He wondered how the two of you fared in the years since he last spoke with you. It seemed as he travelled for auror work, he found less and less time to spend in the Three Broomsticks speaking with a painting over a few too many firewhiskeys. He hoped you were well and that you’d be proud of what he managed to accomplish, that he carried on the ‘chosen one’ lineage with a happy ending just as you had before.
Before he could wallow any longer, the door swung open to reveal a woman with a warm smile and brown eyes. “Hello!” She beamed.
“Amelia?!” Ginny exclaimed with a bright before introductions could be made. The woman’s jaw dropped in shock.
“Ginny Weasley?!” The redhead ushered her children inside to give the other woman a tight hug. “Merlin, you’ve changed since Hogwarts.” She let out a breathy laugh, holding Ginny by the shoulders.
“We were in the same year.” Ginny explained to her husband while Amelia told the children her daughter was just ahead in the front room.
“Lovely to meet you officially, Harry.” Amelia smiled and shook his hand. “My husband’s just popped down to the shop to get some wine and I’m finishing up the dinner, so make yourselves comfortable. Food should be ready in about ten minutes.”
Ginny went inside to greet the girl her son was so besotted by while Harry stayed back to hang her coat. As he walked toward the front room, he took his time in admiring the artwork lining their walls. They were all nice pieces, although nothing seemed to grab his attention until he saw the plaque on the last one before the door.
He could hear the fire crackling and his family laughing, but there was only one thing he could focus on. Y/n and Sebastian Sallow.
He dared not look up for fear he’d somehow misremembered the name of the woman who saved his school time sanity and raised his hopes for naught. He kept his eyes firmly in the plaque until he heard that same soft voice once again.
「 ꜜsummary,, you two stay in a hotelroom to get some good shut eye, but instead you find yourselves finally working through the heavy tension the only way you know how to. 」
「 ꜜcontent,, unprotected sex ⋆ rough sex ⋆ creampie ⋆ knife kink ⋆ cutting ⋆ blood kink ⋆ blood consumption ⋆ slight overstimulation ⋆ Cooper might eat you whole. ꜜwc,, 1k. 」
"oh fuck-" you moaned, eyes rolling back as he plowed into you relentlessly. the cold metal of the sharp knife pressed to your throat and the cold counter you were seated on only adding to the pleasure somehow.
you tilted your head up a little, almost subconsciously trying to get away from the knife— despite knowing he wouldn't harm you with it. he wouldn't, would he?
the way his half lidded eyes are fixed on the knife against your throat, you weren't entirely sure. but the way his cock was slamming into you blurred any fear you had— you felt like you could die fine like this, with his cock bullying your insides, and a rough hand holding your waist bruisingly.
"come on darl'," he rasped against your ear. "bet your blood tastes as sweet as your lips." he grins sickly, his yellow teeth on full display.
his voice almost makes you want to give in— lean into the knife as he slits your throat, fucking you into hell as he laps at the fountain of blood— the way he's fucking you almost has you dreaming for it to happen.
your back arches as his aching head brushes against your cervix, throat pressing ever more into the knife. a whimper leaves your lips as you feel the knife ever so slightly slice your skin. blood almost immediately starts to slowly drip down, his eyes practically lighting up at the sight.
"would you look at that, want me to taste you that bad sweetheart?" he groans, his pace faltering slightly.
you whimpered, clenching around him erratically— you didn't want to be this turned on, but my god did you want to give him anything he'd ask for.
you nodded, the knife only digging into the small wound more, more blood dripping from it and dripping onto your breasts. he has never seen a more beautiful sight than that.
he groans, eyes still glued to the wound, reluctantly pulling the bloodied knife from your throat, dropping it beside you as his now free hand grabs the back of your neck, pulling you in closer by it. you let out a high pitched moan as his pace slows down and gets deeper.
you're almost embarrassed by the sound that escapes you when his radiation thinned lips attached to your chest, sucking up the the spilled blood. you're almost even more embarrassed of how much the moan he lets out turns you on— the sound so pleasured, as if he's just tasted the best thing in existence.
"if only you could taste yourself darl', sweet 'n rich. you might be my new favourite flavour." he moans against your chest, tongue lapping up the small stream of blood all the way up your throat until he reaches the source.
you didn't even see your climax coming until it hit you— the sensation of his cock rearranging your guts and his almost none existent lips painfully sucking on the wound like his life depends on it have you crashing over the edge so violently you almost see stars.
"that's it darlin', mm that's it." he coaxes in a groan, hips stuttering from the way you're pulsing around him.
he's not far behind— the way your walls are suffocating him and the way your blood drips down his throat has him fucking into you in a frenzied state. hip bones thudding into yours in a dull, almost pleasurable pain.
"i wish i could taste you all day, suffocate in your sickly sweet taste, drown in it." he rasped against your throat, his voice strained as he plows into you.
"please Cooper," you cry, thighs trembling and your head feeling light headed. "please please please," you didn't even know what you were pleading for at this point— your head swimming with pleasure and overstimulation as tears rolled down your cheeks and joined the blood on your chest.
"aw, look at my darlin' cryin' so sweetly for me," he groaned, thin bloody lips kissing the tears away— leaving bloody lip stains across your skin. if only you could see yourself like this— bloody lips all over your cheeks like a sick painting.
his hips stuttered and you knew he was close. your fingers digging into his scarred biceps as he his pace sped up, pathetic whimpers and cries leaving you as you shook against him— clinging on to him.
"gonna fill you up, fuck i might suck you dry while i'm at it my sweet sugar." he lapped at your throat, his hips stuttering before they come to a halt— slamming into you for the final time as he cums.
his thin lips wrapped around the wound as he paints your walls white with his cum, slowly fucking it into you as he laps up the blood around his lips as he savors it.
he pulls away from your throat and you fall over into his arms, head laying on his shoulder as you both try to catch your breath. he holds you against him, savouring the blood on his teeth as he breathes in and out deeply.
the hotelroom is almost entirely silent besides the sound of heavy breathing, you've collapsed almost entirely against him, panting and fighting the slight lightheaded feeling.
after some time he pulls you off him, holding your face. "darlin'?" he asks, angling your face to look at him. "we doin' okay?" you blinked slowly, sluggishly nodding. he leans in, pressing his mouth to yours. you tiredly moan at the coppery taste invading your senses as his tongue swirls around yours.
he pulls away, thumb rubbing circles into your cheek. "let's get cleaned up, yeah?" you nod, your head swimming as you're trying to focus on him.
he snakes an arm around your waist, the other resting under your ass when he picks you up— walking over to wnat looked like a bathroom with some rags for towels still hanging around, your blood smearing across his thickly scarred chest in a way he hopes to never forget.
You attack Jason with love because you're overwhelmed with how much you adore him.
warnings: pure fluff, Jason gets a little emotional about being loved
an: how I wish I could treat him frfr
Jason knows you're watching him, even if he can't see you out of his peripheral vision.
It's a little unnerving, to know someone is watching you silently without knowing why they're doing it. But alas, he reckons it's okay.
It's you after all, you wouldn't harm him. You're the safest person he's ever been around.
He can pinpoint the exact moment you begin to walk—no, stalk—towards where he's seated on the corner of the couch.
You round the sofa, carefully avoiding the edge of the coffee table and before he can look up from his book to greet you, you're plucking it gently out of his hands and lay it to the side.
The next sequence of events is a blur in his mind, because one moment he's holding a book and next thing he knows? He's holding your waist like a life line while you're straddling his lap, peppering kisses across his entire face and neck.
His chest heaves with the effort it takes to not pass out right there and then, and really, he should get a medal for not collapsing under the strain you're putting on his poor, thundering heart.
Without being able to get a single word in, he's subjected to having you cradle his face and lift it whichever way you please. First you're kissing his forehead, trailing feather light touches across his brow down to the bridge of his nose while muttering to yourself.
"God you're so lovely," smooch.
"And so goddamn kind to a fault," smooch.
"I can't believe you're real," smooch, "so so pretty and sweet," smooch.
It is in that very moment that Jason realises something grave.
You're not giving him a casual dose of affection, oh no. You are drowning him in so much love and appreciation he fears his brain might actually give up trying to process.
It overwhelms him—to absolutely no one's surprise—enough for him to feel his traitorous brain turn off and become one big pile of useless mush.
He knows this feeling very well, it's a fairly regular occurrence with you. Sometimes, you just overwhelm him with comfort, love and safety his brain can't handle it, so it just turns off.
His blinking becomes slower, his breathing heavier and his entire body moves more sluggishly. Instead of words, he can only let out embarrassing whines while he writhes in an attempt to counter the affection overdrive.
You just make it worse by running your hand through his hair and shushing him lovingly. "It's okay my sweet boy, just let me love you, 'kay?"
Does he have a choice? No, not really.
So, Jason Todd—all 6'4 and pure muscle—tries to be very still like an obedient puppy while you shower him in praise.
Your tone is so sugary sweet, he can't really believe you could think someone like him deserving of these honeyed words. And the way you start simplifying your speech because he knows he can't really think? Very offensive to his poor heart, your honour.
You deliver your final hit by guiding his head into the crook of your neck, patting his back while you keep sneaking kisses to the side of his face. "You deserve so many good things, Jay," you sigh dreamily, "and above all, you deserve being loved for who you are, broken shards and scars too."
That is what does it for him—that's what breaks him.
His eyes fill with tears while his hands fist the material of your shirt tighter. He can't put it into words, but somehow he believes you.
In this moment, he fully and wholly believes that he deserves you. And that is a miracle in and out of itself, only possible because you didn't leave when he pushed you away.
He will forever be grateful you saw something worth loving in him, and even more so for teaching him to see it too.
short | smut | size difference | big ol’ beefy boy
jason todd bulks so easily.
he doesn’t even have to be super strict about it, like his body listens to him without much restriction. his muscles fill out and his stomach gets just a little pudgier.
you can tell when it makes him insecure, when his shirts that were already straining against his huge muscles start to barely fit over the extra pounds he gains. you try and convince him that it’s nothing to be ashamed of, that you know he’s just maintaining his physique. he tries to shrug it off, tell you that you’re being nice. still you kiss him extra, wrap your arms around him when you can and work around his diet with him so you can both eat together. he loved you for it.
but when he’s doing his meal prep on saturday morning, shirt nowhere to be found and his back muscles working in tandem with his huge biceps, you fight the urge to tackle him to the floor. you can smell the coffee he’s brewing you and normally that would wake you up entirely. though right now, all you want is to drag him back to bed. you stand there in the doorway, watching him move, admiring the layer of sexy pudge he put on for the winter months.
the way his thighs were bigger than ever and you gawked at them, imagining him over you. you knew he’d been hitting legs harder, training his glutes with hip thrusts and kickbacks that he upped the weights weekly. you were practically drooling at how his pants fit his perfect ass and tilting your head at it like something you wanted a bite out of.
without even turning, the heat of your intense gaze was enough to burn his back, he calls your name.
“you gonna stand there and stare all day babe?”
like a magnet, you pad over to him, drawn by his enormous stature. smaller arms wrapping around his huge frame like a ribbon around a gift. god, he was so hot.
warmer, bigger, and softer.
so when he fucked, it was way more intense.
as if every part of him had grown, he laid his weight just over you, not crushing but enough that you could feel the difference. his heavy palms pushing your legs over your shoulders, pressing down like he belonged there. his lips trailing over the shell of your ear, praising you for taking him like this. for letting him in so deep. grabbing at your thighs and just pushing them higher and higher. he always loved a mean mating press when he was bulking. and fuck, so did you, mewling when he buried himself to the hilt. scratching at his back when he folded you just right. crying out his name with every movement he made because it was just so damn good.
the first time, he looked at you wide eyed, pulled back a little just to make sure he wasn’t hurting you. repeatedly asking, “is that painful?” and “i’m so sorry sweets, we can stop.”
to which you immediately wrapped your legs around his waist, his stomach slightly poking out and hugging your chest. looking up at him with tears in your eyes, but definitely not because you wanted him to stop, “no! it’s good, it’s really…really good,” biting your bottom lip.
he still looked at you sideways and decided to let you on top, thinking giving you a little more control might be nice. then you straddled him, holding onto his big beefy shoulders, and struggling to take him all inside without his help. you let out sharp involuntary whines. bouncing and squeezing him tightly within your slick walls. he cups your ass and keeps you still.
“baby, are you sure you’re okay?” he asks again, ever the sweet man he was.
you nod again, leaning down in exhaustion and slight humiliation for being unable to handle him on your own.
breathing his name out softly, “it’s perfect, you’re perfect. i just need your help.”
he knows it too, nodding and helping you back onto the mattress. taking his time at first, slowly easing you into it. then when he finally gets you under him again and he realizes that you really couldn’t fit him all on your own, he smiles. he doesn’t just give you that same charming and cheeky smile, but he gives you one reminiscent of the devil that finally gets you to give in to temptation. when he finally sees how much you like him like this, he’s entirely feral.
“fucking love this don’t you?” he groans out, heavy and tender in his thrusts, “you’re so sexy, fuck, i’ll bulk all the time if you like it this much,”
lips attaching to your jaw, kissing and sucking harder than he usually does. one hand kneading your breasts like damn stress balls and you can’t help it, moaning out like a pornstar.
he laughs at your neediness, “feel good sweetheart? feels good when i’m riiight,” dragging his palm up your stomach and touching the spot he repeatedly hits over and over, “here.”
then he’ll manhandle you onto your stomach, pulling you up by your hips and have you arch just right for him. he used the opportunity to slip back inside with ease and drive himself back home. his groans are even more animalistic, panting harder and gripping tight in a way that you knew would leave bruises. but you didn’t care. you couldn’t care less if anything and all he wanted was to make you feel good, repeating what he notices you like.
when he pulls you up so your back is to his chest, you mewl his name and wrap his arm around your neck. he understands it immediately, keeping you in a headlock and fucking into you deeper. watching your face contort into blissful pleasure and moaning with you because all it did was drive him wilder.
it’s too much and not enough at the same time. you have nothing to say, no words to express how he was making you feel. all you could do was claw at his forearms and push back into him, chanting his name like prayer, over and over.
he hisses dirty words just by your ear, leaving open mouthed kisses along the side of your face, “gonna fuck you so dumb, you know that? imma ruin you pretty baby.”
It starts with boredom one fine evening, which is already a bad start for you and Jason.
He wasn't patrolling today—a small miracle in itself—yet the joy of his day off quickly dampens by the absolute shit weather that took ahold of Gotham.
Truly, it's like the city's polarising nature decided to express itself through the weather—one moment it's all sunshine and blue skies, the next moment the wind is howling at about a hundred kilometres a minute while rain patters violently against the windows.
So instead of going out like you'd originally planned, you both decided to have a relaxed day together. You slept until late into the afternoon, lazing around in bed while exchanging soft kisses until your necks and backs began to ache.
Afterwards, you tried just about every single thing to keep yourself occupied. From deep cleaning your apartment, reorganizing your shelves, labeling your entire book collection, catching up on bills and even baking a cake together—you did it all.
And by the end of it? The clock had merely struck five in the evening.
Now you find yourself back at the start—in your shared bedroom, cuddled into each other while you both doom scroll in sync.
"I'm never ever taking a day off again," Jason mutters above you , half the sentence muffled by the way his face is squished into the crown of your head.
He smells good—his particular shampoo and a lingering note of the cologne you'd gotten him for your anniversary last year.
The scent, coupled with his warmth and the idle patterns he traces onto your arm almost lull you right back to sleep.
"I distinctly remember you complaining about not wanting to patrol ever again three days ago," you tease, though the remark loses impact with the way you yawn.
Jason—bless his ostentatious theater kid self—gasps dramatically at the accusation, supporting himself up on his elbow to look you better in the eye.
"Baseless accusations your honour, that never happened!" He exclaims with the scandalised expression of a Victorian wife catching her husband's affair with their maid.
"Sure it didn't, I just have half an hour's worth of voice messages as proof."
"Those were taken under duress, obviously."
Jason sounds so self assured, entirely too confident in himself, it has you rolling your eyes so hard you're worried they might get stuck like that. Still, you can't help the surge of affection that blooms in your chest at the tender moment you both share—even if you're still bored out of your mind.
Just as you open your mouth to add something else, your attention is captured by a video playing on both your phones—your explore pages miraculously syncing at the very same time.
The first few seconds are of a man setting what you assume to be his phone down on the ground and sprint up the stairs of a building. A woman waits for him—radiant, smiling and wearing an elegant white dress. Usually, the dress would be considered casual, but the way she wears it with so much confidence and love makes it rival any gown out there.
The man turns to her, arms encircling her waist in a display affection. Just as the soft music drops into a dramatic pre-chorus beat, the guy dips the woman at the waist and kisses her passionately. The screen blurs before an elegant script appears on screen.
'Fuck weddings, get eloped instead.'
For an entirely too long moment, you could vividly see yourself and Jason doing the same. Wearing something white and semi formal, marching straight to the court house downtown and getting married without fuss—something small, simple and completely yours.
You notice the silence, the lack of sound from Jason and your eyes snap up to see his attention glued to the screen. He's seen the video, his eyebrows knitted in deep thought. When he glances at you, there's something in his eyes—a sort of hopeful glint that mirrors the buds blossoming in your chest.
You want to say something, but the music playing fills the silence instead.
Jason wets his lips, a nervous tick he displays when he's about to ask something that he thinks he shouldn't say out loud because it's too vulnerable. Too risky.
"Do you-" he begins, only for you to cut him off and finish the thought for him. "Do I want to do that? Yes absolutely, let's go get married."
He looks at you like you just grew a second head—which, knowing him, he might find more plausible than you just saying you want to marry him. "Are you being for real?" He asks bewildered, as if he can't fathom the thought of you wanting to spend the rest of your life with him.
With each passing moment, the prospect of marrying this maddeningly amazing man becomes not an want but an absolute must. You already can't imagine anyone else in your future but Jason, so what difference does it make if you get married now? It would suit you well, something spontaneous and uncharacteristic that reflects your relationship perfectly.
Unconventional, free and so very intimate.
"Hell yeah I am," you say sitting up. There's renewed vigor in your body that you didn't know yourself capable of having in the first place. You grab his hands, trying desperately to stop the stupid grin you know will be plastered on your face. "Let's go get married, there's no one else I'd want to spend my life with but you Jason."
This is how you end up browsing throug a thrift store downtown for a suit and a dress—both of which you surprisingly find quite quickly. In the process, you stumble upon a pair of rings that are too gorgeous to not buy. Two bands with intricate details engraved skilfully into them, turning them into something both timeless and magnetic.
You walk out of the store about eighty bucks poorer but far richer in terms of emotional fulfilment before you sprint across the street in the pouring rain to the court house.
The entire time, Jason holds your hand as if he can't remember what it ever felt like to not hold you.
The process of getting married is surprisingly straight forward and quick—so quick in fact that an hour later, you walk out with matching smiles, matching rings and matching certificates that officially declare you as married.
You celebrate your marriage by getting ice cream. The store is devoid of any customers beside you two, so you have a blast sitting in the cramped booth with your gigantic veil—Jason insisted you buy it for the 'plot' which is a sound argument to get you to agree to any stupid idea he has—and his white suit. The employee gives you a vaguely confused look but shrugs when you ask them to take pictures of you on Jason's old digital camera.
You stuff your faces full with ice cream and cake, laughing the entire time while your wedding bands remind you of the commitment you just made.
On your walk back home, it no longer rains but the sky is just as cloudy and gray as before. Still, it's almost like Gotham held its breath as way to congratulate you. You swing your intertwined hands back forth while Jason keeps glancing at you with that stupid smile you can't help but kiss.
"What are we doing next, dearest husband of mine?"
Husband. Jason Todd is now your husband. God, this is the best day off ever. You don't think you'll ever have a day as epic as this one.
He hums thoughtfully, his eyes scanning the streets like he's trying to find your next adventure just so the day can last a little longer. "How about we take some wedding pictures in that dingy photo booth near our place and then we go to karaoke?"
You beam at him, your grin matching his own satisfied smirk while you pull him forward. "Excellent plan, let us proceed husband."
Summary: Red Hood kidnaps someone for intel, only for them to sass him so relentlessly that he starts to question his life choices mid-interrogation. Somehow, it turns into coffee at 3 a.m. and a reluctant partnership.
requests are open
dividers by @cafekitsune
Jason Todd had kidnapped a lot of people in his career as Red Hood. Drug dealers, mobsters, corrupt cops, and the occasional arms dealer. He'd gotten pretty good at it, the intimidation, the interrogation, the careful balance of violence and restraint that got him the information he needed.
What he had not gotten good at was dealing with people who wouldn't shut the hell up.
"So, just to clarify," you said from where you were zip-tied to a chair in his safehouse, "your whole aesthetic is 'what if a motorcycle had a gun'? Because I have notes."
Jason stared at you through his helmet, genuinely at a loss for words.
"I mean, the red is bold, I'll give you that," you continued, apparently taking his silence as encouragement. "Very 'I'm angry and I want everyone to know it.' But the bat symbol? Feels a little derivative. Like you're in your Batman phase but trying to be edgy about it."
"Are you... " Jason started, then stopped. "Are you seriously critiquing my costume right now?"
"Someone has to." You shrugged as much as the zip ties allowed. "That helmet's doing you no favors. Very 'I raided a motorcycle shop and made poor choices.'"
Jason had grabbed you three hours ago from your apartment in Crime Alley. You were a low-level information broker, nothing major, but word on the street said you had connections to the new gang trying to move in on his territory. He'd expected fear, maybe some bravado, possibly some begging.
He had not expected this.
"Let me remind you," Jason said slowly, pulling out one of his guns and checking the magazine with deliberate menace, "that you're the one tied to a chair in an undisclosed location. Maybe show a little self-preservation?"
"Oh, I'm terrified," you deadpanned. "Really shaking in my boots. Can't you tell?"
"You're not wearing boots. You're wearing duck slippers."
You glanced down at your feet. He'd grabbed you right out of your apartment, hadn't given you time to change, and then looked back up at him. "I stand by my footwear choices. They're whimsical."
Jason pinched the bridge of his nose, which was a pointless gesture since he was wearing a helmet. "I'm going to ask you some questions... "
"Let me guess. 'Where's the shipment?' 'Who's your boss?' 'Why won't you take this seriously?'" You tilted your head. "How am I doing?"
"If you don't start cooperating... "
"You'll what? Shoot me? Please. You've been waving that gun around for twenty minutes and haven't fired once. You're all bark and no bite."
"I have literally killed people."
"Sure, Jan."
Jason stared at you. "Did you just… who's Jan? What does that even mean?"
"It's a meme. You know what, never mind. Not important." You shifted in the chair, trying to get comfortable. "These zip ties are really tight, by the way. I'm losing circulation."
"That's kind of the point of restraints."
"Is it though? Because I feel like the point is to keep me in one place, which... " You gestured vaguely with your tied hands. "Mission accomplished. The cutting-off-circulation thing just seems like overkill."
Against his better judgment, Jason found himself moving closer to check the zip ties. They were tight, but not dangerously so. "They're fine."
"Easy for you to say. You're not the one losing feeling in your fingers." You paused. "Although, real talk? If you're going to kidnap people, you might want to invest in better restraints. Zip ties are so 2010."
"What would you suggest?" Jason asked before he could stop himself.
"Personally? Handcuffs. More secure, reusable, and less likely to cause nerve damage. Also, they make you look more professional. Less 'improvised kidnapping,' more 'I planned this.'"
Jason realized he was having a genuine conversation about optimal restraint methods with his hostage and decided he needed to regain control of this situation.
"Enough," he said firmly. "You're going to tell me about the Scorpions' shipment coming in next week. Location, time, what they're moving."
"No."
Just that. No begging, no negotiating, just a flat refusal.
"No?" Jason repeated.
"No. I don't know anything about a shipment."
"You're lying."
"I'm really not." You met his gaze, or where his gaze would be if he weren't wearing a helmet. "I'm an information broker, not a gang member. I hear things, sure, but I don't know anything about Scorpions' operations. That's not my area."
"Your 'area' is Crime Alley. The Scorpions are moving into Crime Alley. You expect me to believe you don't know anything?"
"I expect you to believe me because it's true." You sighed. "Look, Red Hood, can I call you Red? The whole name is a mouthful."
"No."
"Cool, I'm calling you Red. Here's the thing: I deal in gossip, rumors, and low-level intel. Who's cheating on whom, which cop is taking bribes, what buildings are fronts for what operations? I'm not exactly in the inner circle of major criminal enterprises."
Jason studied you, using every tell-reading skill Batman had drilled into him. You weren't sweating, your breathing was steady, and your body language was relaxed despite being tied to a chair. Either you were telling the truth, or you were the best liar he'd ever met.
"So you're useless to me," he said.
"Wouldn't say useless. Just not useful for this specific thing." You brightened. "But hey, since you went through all the trouble of kidnapping me, I could point you toward someone who would know about the shipment. Professional courtesy and all that."
Jason didn't move. "Why would you do that?"
"Because the Scorpions are bad for business. They're aggressive, violent, and they don't respect the existing power structures. If they take over Crime Alley, people like me are out of work." You shrugged. "Enemy of my enemy and all that."
"You expect me to trust you?"
"No more than I trust you, which is currently sitting at about negative fifteen." You smiled, and it was sharp. "But we both want the Scorpions gone, so maybe we can be temporarily useful to each other before going back to our respective corners."
Jason considered this. It was logical, which was somehow more unsettling than if you'd been hysterical or defiant. You were treating this like a business negotiation, not a kidnapping.
"Who's the contact?" he asked.
"Uh-uh. Not how this works." You nodded toward your restraints. "You let me go, we go get coffee like civilized people, and then I'll tell you what you want to know."
"You think I'm going to just let you walk out of here?"
"I think you're going to realize that I'm more useful as a cooperative source than a hostile hostage." You tilted your head. "Also, it's 3 AM and I'm betting neither of us has eaten dinner. There's a diner two blocks from here that makes excellent pancakes."
"How do you know where we are?"
"Please. I've lived in Crime Alley my whole life. I know every safehouse, every warehouse, every place someone might take a person they don't want found." You paused. "Including this one, which, no offense, is pretty obvious. You're in the old Thompkins building. Everyone knows about this place."
Jason's hand moved to his gun on instinct. If you knew where you were, if you could identify his safehouse,
"Relax, Red. I'm not going to tell anyone." You rolled your eyes. "Bad for business, remember? You're one of the few people keeping Crime Alley from becoming a complete war zone. Why would I want to compromise that?"
"You're very calm for someone who just admitted knowing a crime lord's identity."
"Crime lord? That's generous. You're more of a crime... entrepreneur." You grinned at his silence. "What, not a fan of the title? Fine. Crime middle-manager. Anti-hero with anger issues. Vigilante with questionable methods. Take your pick."
"I could still shoot you."
"But you won't." You said it with such certainty that Jason actually believed you believed it. "Because I'm right about us being useful to each other, and you're practical enough to recognize that."
Jason stood there for a long moment, gun in hand, trying to figure out when exactly he'd lost control of this interrogation. It had probably been around the time you'd critiqued his helmet.
"Pancakes," he said finally.
"I'm sorry?"
"You said something about pancakes."
Your face lit up in a way that was frankly unfair given the circumstances. "So we have a deal?"
"We have a temporary arrangement," Jason corrected. "You give me intel on the Scorpions, I don't throw you off a building. Very simple."
"You're really hung up on the threatening thing, huh?" You wiggled your fingers. "Zip ties? Any time now?"
Jason pulled out a knife and cut through the restraints, stepping back immediately in case you tried anything. But you just rubbed your wrists, stood up, and stretched like you'd just woken up from a nap rather than been held hostage for three hours.
"So," you said brightly. "Your place or mine?"
"What?"
"For the clothes. I'm not going to a diner in pajamas and duck slippers." You gestured at yourself. "I have standards."
"We're not going to your place. You could have a weapon stashed, backup, a silent alarm... "
"Or I could just really not want to wear pajamas in public." You headed for the door like you owned the place. "Come on, Red. If I wanted to betray you, I wouldn't do it before getting pancakes. I'd at least wait until after. I'm not a monster."
Jason found himself following you out of his own safehouse, which was definitely not how this was supposed to go.
Twenty minutes later, he was sitting in a booth at the Bluebird Diner, still in full Red Hood gear because he wasn't about to reveal his identity to a hostage-turned-informant, while you perused the menu like this was a normal 3 AM hangout and not the weirdest night of his vigilante career.
"I'm thinking waffles," you announced. "No, pancakes. Actually, maybe French toast. What are you getting?"
"Coffee," Jason said flatly.
"That's not food."
"It's all I need."
"Spoken like someone who's never had a food-based epiphany." You flagged down the waitress, Doris, who'd been working the night shift for fifteen years and had seen weirder things than a vigilante in her diner. "Hi! I'll have the chocolate chip pancakes with a side of bacon, and my friend here will have the breakfast special."
"I didn't agree to... "
"He's shy," you told Doris. "Bring him coffee, too. Black, I'm guessing? He seems like a black coffee person."
Doris looked at Jason, looked at you, shrugged, and walked away.
"I could have ordered for myself," Jason said.
"But did you?" You propped your chin on your hand. "So. The Scorpions."
"You're really going to give me intel? Just like that?"
"I'm really going to give you intel while eating pancakes at 3 AM in a diner with a crime lord. This is called multitasking." You pulled out your phone. "Okay, so the person you want is named Marcus Webb. Mid-level Scorpion guy, loves to brag when he drinks. He'll be at the Harbor Club tomorrow night."
Jason pulled out his own phone and started taking notes. "How do I find him?"
"Tall, white guy, bad tribal tattoo on his neck. Usually wears too much cologne." You made a face. "Fair warning: he's going to hit on you."
"I'll be in my helmet."
"Trust me, that won't stop him. He's very determined." You paused as Doris returned with coffee. "Thanks, Doris. You're a star."
Jason waited until the waitress left before continuing. "What's his weakness? What's going to make him talk?"
"Ego. Tell him you're impressed by the Scorpions' operation, ask him to explain how they're so successful. He'll tell you everything just to show off."
"That actually works?"
"You'd be surprised how many criminals just want someone to acknowledge how clever they think they are." You added cream to your coffee with the focus of a scientist. "It's like they're all desperate for validation but chose crime instead of therapy."
Jason snorted before he could stop himself.
You looked up, grinning. "Was that a laugh? Did the Red Hood just laugh at my joke?"
"No."
"That was definitely a laugh. I'm counting that as a laugh."
"It was not... " Jason stopped as Doris returned with your pancakes and his apparently ordered breakfast special. "I didn't ask for this."
"You need to eat," you said simply, already drowning your pancakes in syrup. "Can't fight crime on an empty stomach."
"I've been fighting crime on an empty stomach for years."
"And how's that working out for you?" You pointed your fork at him. "You're tense, aggressive, and you kidnapped an innocent information broker. Sounds like someone needs a Snickers."
"You're not innocent."
"Fair. But I'm also not wrong." You took a bite of the pancakes and made a sound that was frankly inappropriate for a public place. "Oh my god. These are amazing. You have to try them."
"I'm not taking off my helmet in front of you."
"Right, the whole secret identity thing." You considered this. "What if I close my eyes?"
"What if you don't, and I don't eat the pancakes?"
"Your loss." You stole a piece of bacon from his plate. "More for me."
Jason watched you eat his bacon, his bacon, that he hadn't even agreed to order, and realized he was having the most surreal conversation of his life. And he'd died and come back, so that was saying something.
"Why are you helping me?" he asked suddenly.
You paused mid-bite. "I told you. The Scorpions are bad for business."
"That's not the whole reason."
You were quiet for a moment, and for the first time that night, your expression turned serious. "You actually give a shit about Crime Alley. Most people, cops, heroes, whatever, they write this place off. Too dirty, too dangerous, too far gone. But you actually try to protect people here."
"So?"
"So some of us notice. Some of us appreciate it." You went back to your pancakes. "Also, you didn't shoot me, which I feel like deserves recognition. Really showed restraint there."
"The night's not over."
"Ever the optimist." You grinned. "I like you, Red. You're like a very angry, heavily armed golden retriever."
"I'm going to shoot you."
"No, you're not. You're going to eat your eggs and then we're going to plan how you're going to approach Marcus Webb tomorrow night." You pushed his plate toward him. "Come on. I ordered it specially for you."
Jason looked at the food, looked at you, and made a decision that was definitely going to come back to haunt him. He reached up and pressed something on his helmet that loosened the seal enough to eat while still keeping his face mostly covered.
"Oh, we're doing this? We're having a moment?" You tried to peek. "Do you have a jaw? I feel like you have a jaw."
"Stop trying to see my face."
"Can't blame a girl for trying." But you did look away, focusing on your own food. "For what it's worth, I'm sure you're very pretty under there."
"I'm not pretty."
"Handsome then. Ruggedly attractive. Whatever you want to call it."
Jason ate his eggs in silence, trying to figure out how this had become his life. An hour ago, you'd been his hostage. Now you were giving him intel, buying him breakfast, and complimenting his hypothetical jawline.
"This doesn't make us friends," he said finally.
"Obviously not. We're professional associates with a shared goal and a mutual appreciation for breakfast foods." You finished your pancakes and started eyeing his bacon again. "Are you going to eat that?"
Jason pushed the plate toward you without comment.
"See? We're bonding." You took the bacon triumphantly. "Next thing you know, we'll have inside jokes and matching friendship bracelets."
"That's not happening."
"You say that now, but I'm very persistent." You pulled out your phone. "Give me your number."
"Absolutely not."
"How else am I going to text you updates about the Scorpions?"
Jason considered this. "I'll find you when I need information."
"By kidnapping me again? That's so inefficient." You waved your phone. "Just give me your number. I promise I won't send you memes. Okay, I'll probably send you memes, but they'll be good ones."
Against every instinct, every lesson Batman had taught him about operational security and maintaining distance from assets, Jason pulled out his phone.
"This is a burner," he said, reading off the number. "I change them regularly."
"Cool, I'll just keep asking you for new numbers." You typed it in and immediately sent him a text. "There. Now you have mine too."
Jason's phone buzzed. He looked down at the message: This is your friendly neighborhood info broker. Reply 'RED' if you're actually Red Hood and not some other heavily armed vigilante.
Despite himself, Jason typed back: RED.
Your phone buzzed, and you grinned. "Excellent. Now we're in business." You stood up, throwing money on the table for both meals. "My treat, since you provided the entertainment tonight."
"I didn't... "
"The kidnapping. That was very entertaining." You headed for the door, then paused. "Same time next week?"
"Why would we do this again?"
"Because the Scorpions aren't going anywhere fast, and I have more intel you'll probably want." You shrugged. "Plus, the pancakes are really good, and eating alone is depressing."
Jason stood there, watching you walk out of the diner in your duck slippers like you owned the night, and realized he'd just made a deal with the most frustrating person he'd ever met.
His phone buzzed again. Another text from you: thanks for not shooting me. You're my second favorite vigilante now.
Jason typed back before he could stop himself: Who's your first?
Orphan. She has better taste in costumes.
Jason snorted, then caught himself and looked around to make sure no one had noticed.
This was a bad idea. You were unpredictable, irreverent, and far too comfortable around someone who'd literally kidnapped you. You were a security risk, a potential liability, and you'd somehow managed to steal his bacon.
His phone buzzed a third time: see you next week, red. Bring your appetite and your listening skills. I have thoughts about your motorcycle.
Jason stared at the message, then at the diner where you'd just been sitting, then back at his phone.
He was definitely going to regret this.
But as he grappled back to his safehouse, stomach full of breakfast food he hadn't planned on eating, with your number saved in his phone and the intel he needed, Jason realized that maybe, just maybe, regret wasn't always a bad thing.
His phone buzzed one more time: PS - you totally laughed at my joke. I'm counting that as a win.
Jason smiled under his helmet, then immediately stopped.
You were in the backyard of the manor with your boyfriend, his siblings, and a couple of their friends, sitting in a circle around the bonfire. You were sat next to your boyfriend who had a joint in his hand, passing it back and forth among his friends.
You were quite used to Jason smoking in your shared apartment’s fire escape, you even smoked with him once, though it had only managed to make you cough up the bitter taste and you had never tried it again. You did eat edibles with him –on the rare occasions he chose to forgo smoking and eat a hash brownie instead.
What surprised you was that Dick, Tim, Wally, Roy and even Kory (who only took a drag) smoked. Jason had told you they only ever smoked weed and that too on rare occasions. Bruce being out of Gotham on a mission and leaving the manor to his kids while Alfred accompanied him just gave them an open opportunity.
The martinis you had been sipping on –that Barbara had prepared for herself, Cass, Steph and you– were beginning to make your eyes feel heavy.
You shifted in your seated position, grabbing ahold of Jason’s bicep and rested your head on his shoulder as you stared silently at the crackling fire.
He leaned down and pressed a kiss to the top of your head and let his head rest against yours as he took another drag.
“Pizza’s here, who’s getting it?” Tim asked, glancing at his phone.
All of them said Damian’s name in unison.
“You’re the youngest that’s the rule,” Dick chuckled.
Damian huffed and stood up, making his way inside the manor to get the pizza.
“Jay, I wanna try,” you said, watching Dick smoke a drag and pass the joint to Kory.
He looked at you for a beat too long as you stared back into his blue-green eyes, perfectly framed with long black lashes and currently shaded with redness.
“Let’s try something,” he mumbled, “Come here.”
He cupped your cheek with one large hand and took a long drag with another, holding it in while rubbing his thumb on your lower lip as a gesture for you to open your mouth.
You had seen and read about shotgun kisses multiple times in your life but had never tried it and the thought of an audience being present around you while he transferred smoke in your mouth was enough to make you blush and rethink your proposal. But one look around the circle made you realise that no one was looking at your way.
You obliged and opened your mouth, letting Jason lean down and blow the smoke directly into your mouth and before you had the chance to cough, he sealed his lips against yours.
His other hand traveled to your waist as he sucked in a harsh breath and pulled you even closer to him until you were perched on his thighs.
You were starting to believe that the weed was already getting to his head because he always got just a bit more clingy and handsy every time he got high.
You were guessing the joint was now in someone else’s hand because Jason was holding you with one hand on your waist and the other on the back of your head, pulling you in. Like he would combust if he didn’t have a death grip on your whole body.
He let out a shaky breath as his tongue teased the seam of your lips, making them part. He took the opportunity and shoved his tongue in your mouth, rubbing against your own, at the roof of your mouth and your lower lip, making you let out quiet whimpers.
You felt his sharp teeth tug at your bottom lip and bite enough to draw blood before he licked it clean. You gasped and felt Jason’s lips curl into the kiss like he was enjoying this way too much. You grasped his bicep, digging your nails as if to ground yourself while he devoured your mouth like he would die if he stopped.
Behind Jason, you heard Dick let out a whistle. “It’s those damn shotgun kisses I’m telling you,” he commented, making Steph laugh loudly before you felt something soft hit the side of your head.
“Jason let the poor girl breathe,” Roy huffed out a laugh but Jason didn’t budge, only kissing you harder as if to prove a point.
“Jay!” Cass snickered as you felt yet another marshmallow hit your head.
You pulled away from Jason but he leaned forward as if he could catch your lips with his again but you put a finger on his lips, backing him away. His mouth red, swollen and glistening. His cheeks flushed red while his hair looked tousled like he had just gotten out of bed.
“Thanks for the free porn Jason,” Tim commented, throwing more marshmallows at Jason’s head.
“Thought I’d do you service since you don’t get any,” Jason replied, giving Tim a tight smile.
Beside him, you were still flustered. You were doing your best to hide your face in his shoulder because Jason wasn’t big on pda, he barely even kissed you when out in public so this surprised you to say the least.
“What’s wrong?” Jason checked, looking down at you when everyone else once again got busy with their conversation.
“Nothing,” you replied.
He put his finger under your chin, making you look up into his eyes that were filled with amusement. “Are you blushing?”
“Stop,” you huffed, pushing his face away, making him snicker.
“Babe it’s okay, I’ve walked in on Dick and Kory multiple times. He mostly doesn’t care where he is it’s horrible.”
“I’m fine really,” you replied. “I just wish we were alone right now,” you murmured, fiddling with the hair at the nape of his neck.
“We can go upstairs, my childhood bedroom with a twin bed is really sturdy believe me,” he offered with a wink that shouldn’t have been as attractive as he made it look.
“No you freak,” you giggled, flicking his forehead.
“I have a situation, help me out here,” he groaned lightly and shifted in his seat to make you feel the situation he was talking about.
“Jason!” You hushed, covering his mouth with your palm.
He chucked again as you felt him kiss the palm of your hand before you pulled away and another joint miraculously made its way into Jason’s hand.
You rested your head ln his shoulder while he held your waist with one hand and brought the joint up to his lips with the other, taking a drag.
You stared at his perfect side profile, his button nose, his rose coloured lips, his deep eyes that you could drown in, his beautiful tuft of white hair that you brushed away from his face every morning because it had got long enough for him to scrunch up his nose as the strands tickled him.
You wanted to groan at how pretty he was.
You looked even closely at the freckles dusting his nose and cheekbones. You loved tracing them with your eyes, drawing constellations out of them every time he fell asleep with his head on your lap. You loved pressing light kisses on the little heart shaped freckle that was right below his lower lip.
You let out a sigh, making Jason look at you with a raised eyebrow.
“Do you want more?” He asked.
“No,” you replied, still feeling flushed.
He kissed your forehead and went back to the conversation he was having with his brothers.
“On second thought,” you began and he looked at you again.
“Let’s go see how sturdy your twin bed really is.”
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