summary: where it all began.
pairing: ormund hightower x ex-wife!reader
content/warnings: social media au, modern au, criston cole jumpscare
A/N: guys i have genuinely never felt as inspired as i am now doing this series. i've been a bit burnt out on traditional chapter writing and this has been so fun. will need a few days after this one to decide what next installment should be but hoping you all are enjoying it!! and for context, this is 6 years before the divorce, and also that puts us at 2020, so...we're all going to pretend COVID didn't happen in this AU and theatre was alive and well :)
MASTERLIST
People assume a lot about Ghost. Everyone knows he keeps his private life secret and that he doesn't like to show his face. So people assume he is one of those broken soldier types who only lives for the mission and hates taking breaks and all that.
They would be surprised to find out that he takes all his vacations and they somehow always align with school holidays and such. People rarely notice though, because they are busy with their families themselves. Soap tried to invite him over Christmas once, but Ghost declined.
But it just happened that one of Soaps sisters moved to a new city and since the team is on leave Soap offered to help. It's a beautiful street, single houses, family friendly, quiet part of the town. Peaceful in a way that reminded Soap of everything he wanted to protect.
He is in the middle of assembling a cupboard when there is a knock on the door. He can hear his sister opening the door and immediately there is chatter and the sound of children.
"So sorry they insisted they wanted to help and show you the neighbourhood. I told them you already know your way around and that you chose to move here because you like it already, but they are so excited. Oh and I brought a meat pie for later, you said your brother is helping? If he is anything like my Simon he will eat whatever you set in front of him."
That must be the neighbour his sister had talked about a sweet middle aged women with three children, who happened to be married to military. That's how they bonded, but she seemed to be the unofficial ruler of the street as well, according to his sister.
"No worries, the boys can help my brother if they like. Oh, Simon, hello, I really appreciate the help with that. There is beer in the fridge if you like."
He hears a grunt and steps and then a voice he knows too well.
"Happy to help, m' angel told me you wanted everything up before your wife comes back from the business trip. Hope you are aware that you will be the talk of the street for a while. They don't mean it but people here are a bit excited when anything happens."
Soap almost drops the hammer and it takes just a second for him to get downstairs to to kitchen where his fucking LT Ghost, the man nobody wants to meet in the dark, is casually leaning against the wall, taking a swing from his beer and smiling at the gorgeous women who must be the neighbour his sister had talked about. He is absolutely sure that this is Ghost, but then it hits him. This isn't Ghost. This is Simon. And Simon is a husband, father, neighbour. A completely normal guy. And for a second he wants to introduce himself as if he was a stranger, but Simon already looks at him.
"No need, I already saw your family picture. Let's have a chat, yeah?"
And this is how Soap learned that his commanding officer has a family and does everything he can to be a normal husband and father whenever he is on leave.
And that he will do anything to protect them. Which includes his sister and her family as well, now that they live across the street.
SYNOPSIS: Damian pushes her head back down to his chest and smooths his hand through her hair gently. "Nothing of concern." He murmurs quietly, in a tone that the others have never heard before. "Go back to sleep, Habibti."
"Oh my God." Dick blinks in amazement.
"I don't think pinching is enough, I might have to ask Jason to shoot me in the foot." Tim wheezes when Dick elbows his chidingly.
MASTERLIST
"Someone pinch me." Tim whispers in disbelief, peering into the living room from the doorway leading to the hall.
The glare Damian fixes him with from his spot on the couch is withering, and if Tim wasn't a bat that was practically immune to his little brother's moods he would've ran for the hills.
Instead, he grins, slow and shit-eating. "Dick!" He calls over his shoulder. "Dick, come here!"
"Quiet!" Damian hisses, voice pitched low. The scowl on his face is fierce, and completely at odds with the entire scene.
He's laying on the couch, his girlfriend nestles onto his chest, fast asleep. There's a movie nobody's paying attention to anymore droning on in the background, his arms around her securely making sure she stays put and comfortable. She is warm against him, soft and soothing. The weight of her makes the thing that's always coiled tense and tight in his chest unwind, the scent of her coaxes his muscles to relax.
Nights like this are his favourite, back at their abode. Soft music playing in the background, the lights dimmed low and those candles she loves lit on the coffee table. It's moments like those where everything slows down and Damian feels, if but for a while, that he can be still and not suffer the consequences.
His first mistake was agreeing to stay over at the manor. It's the middle of the night, and it was a mistake on his part to oversee the fact that half of his idiotic family is practically nocturnal.
It was just so easy to fall back into habits, he'd been cocooned with the familiarity of her body against his before Damian had realised that perhaps this was not the best place to settle down without the intention of being seen.
It's not that he wishes to avoid being seen with her; that would be a lie severe enough to warrant cutting his tongue out in punishment. No, if Damian had his way, they'd never be apart. He'd have her with him always. It's more that...he's naturally a private person. It had taken an entire year for him to bring her over to the manor itself. These little things, the little pockets of contentedness, Damian finds himself protective over them. He wants every shred of her kindness, wants to keep it close to his chest where it'll be safe.
By the time his oldest brother enters the room curiously, Damian's ears are a little red, but he refuses to let anything but disdain show on his face.
He does not understand why they are treating this like such a monumental sight. He loves her. They live together. They have been each other's for two years now and yet the sight of them together like this is still enough for Dick to laugh in glee and pull his phone out.
"Grayson, I will eviscerate you." He threatens as the flash goes off. "Put that away, this is childish." Automatically, his hand covers her eyes to shield it from the burst of light, and Grayson at least has the decency to look apologetic.
"You're gonna have to move out from under there first, Dami." Dick snickers, looking through the photos, barely holding back a coo. "This is adorable." He grins. "I'm getting this printed; it's going up on a wall here somewhere."
"You will do no such thing!" His face prickles with heat. "As if I-"
He cuts himself off when she stirs against his chest with a soft sound, eyes fluttering open, half lidded. "Hmm?"
Tim and Dick watch in amazement as their brother, regal and cut from stone, softens into something quieter. The hard lines smooth over, the determined glint in his eye ebbs away.
Damian pushes her head back down to his chest and smooths his hand through her hair gently. "Nothing of concern." He murmurs quietly, in a tone that the others have never heard before. "Go back to sleep, Habibti."
The trust between them is obvious, because all she does is answer with a sleepy hum, and push herself a little higher on his body so she can tip her face into the crook of his neck. Damian's arms tighten around her, and he adjusts to make them more comfortable.
"Oh my God." Dick blinks in amazement.
"I don't think pinching is enough, I might have to ask Jason to shoot me in the foot." Tim wheezes when Dick elbows his chidingly.
"We can go to our room." Damian is not startled when she whispers against his neck. Perhaps if he was younger, more brash and easily riled up he would have agreed. Maybe he would have even pushed her off, or been vigilant enough to never let himself be caught in this position to begin with.
But he's grown older, and being here with his family has chiselled down his sharper edges into ones that are still rough, but don't cut as easily. He wouldn't call it 'going soft', because at the end of the day Damian is still inherently the same person. But he understands more now, he knows that beneath their teasing, their intentions are innocent. Their eyes are warm with something like pride and happiness for him. Grayson exudes it as the telltale ping on his phone on the coffee table tells him those pictures have just been sent to him.
"We have no obligation to move." He answers, taking her nuzzling into him as agreement. He's tuned his brother's out, but eventually Tim steps out when his phone rings, and Grayson takes his leave shortly after with a wink and a grin.
And it's peaceful.
They lay there for a moment until he notices fondly that their breathing is in sync.
Carefully, he feels around the back of the couch with one hand and grabs the decorative throw Alfred introduced to the rotation last month. Damian shakes it out and adjusts it to cover them, knowing by the soft exhale against his skin that it was the right choice.
"Wake me up if we do need to move." She says sleepily, lips brushing against his jaw chastely. "Love you, Dami."
Fondness seeps through him, cements itself in the cracks of something he had always felt was missing before she came into his life. A balm, cool to the touch, healing to his soul.
"Ya Rouhi." is lips press against her forehead, sweet and intense as he always is. "Rest."
He watches her muscles relax, watches the way she trusts him so openly, notes exactly when she falls back asleep with the way her breathing deepens. Damian always sleeps better with her there, holding onto her like this, keeping her against him reassures that part of him that is used to his joy being torn away for a lesson that might have been beat into him regardless.
He feels better knowing she's safe, protected, even if he knows she's the last person that would need it.
Eventually sleep calls to him too, the crackling fireplace ambient noise enough for Damian to let his eyes shut as well. He'd probably resolve to get up after a while, to carry her to the room they're staying in because although it's cozy here, he would much prefer to rest on an actual mattress.
But for now, the moment is his. Theirs.
"What the fuck am I seeing?"
Nevermind.
Annoyance flaring, he holds back a sigh and takes the blanket off of them, manoeuvring to slide an arm under her knees and pick her up.
Jason looks stunned as Damian pushes past him towards the stairs wordlessly.
"Told you so." She smiles against his chest when he grumbles.
MOTHER can we have some quiet sex with arthur + f yn with some of our babies in the next room
⟡ domestic 𝓐rthur taking care of his wife ♡ ࣪˖ ִֶָ🍓་༘. ⋆ two versions
MODERN AU.
⟡ this work contains. ⌇fluff ⋮ smut
⟡ cw. ⌇traditional relationship values; arthur’s a sole provider and reader is a homemaker/sahm. teasing, mild sexting (reader sends him a pic), mating press, squirting mention. implied breeding. mdni.
⟡ wc. ⌇ 1,822.
arthur often comes home with oil-stained hands, a back aching from the long hours spent lying on it, and a stomach in a state of desperation for whatever dinner you’ve carefully cooked for him. he lives a simple and scheduled life; waking up throughout the weekdays, he grabs his lunchbox and the keys to his old pickup truck and heads out to start his day.
he gets to the shop around seven-thirty, clocking in on an old punch card machine; mentioning something before about how the owner’s skepticism sometimes leaves him stuck in the time of the past. he opens the garage doors and gets to work. pulling his tools from his bag, arthur fixes and fiddles with whatever diagnosed, problematic parts were marked on the ordered assignments.
most mornings he’s already eaten his note-packed lunch by noon, taking the shared shop’s break time to grab a cup of coffee. the system was old, one that still spat down a full pot’s worth instead of those fancy ones they have today; only makes a single cup of joe, doesn’t leave any for anyone else.. how modern day american he found it all to be. arthur preferred the taste of the old ways, even if it meant he’d have to put a little work into doing it himself. the switch-controlled, orange light being on meant something to him; it represented community and teamwork, not cooperate greed and cubicle-forced separation.
the mechanic took pride in the conversations he’s had standing here while waiting for the coffee to brew. through these decorative and discount paper cups, he’s come to know quite a few things about the people around him. like how little ol’ mrs. junie was fightin’ a battle not many could see and that kind mr. cooper’s son’s baseball team was throwing a fundraiser for their costly trip to the championship. he found humanity in the small talk, comfort in his social needs. and arthur’d make however many stained-glass and slightly bitter pots of coffee it took to give his peers a small break, if this did something for them like it did for himself. that’s the kind of man he is.
but today was different than his ordinary routine, even though he’d still downed his sandwiches and tucked away his love letter right on time. the boss waited until he was finished, dropping by to tell him to meet him in his office before he picked up the wrench again.
𝚜𝚘 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚍𝚒𝚍 𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚢 .ᐣ his cracked and flip phone screen read. he hated taking the time to type out hindering texts and knew that this was call-worthy information, anyway. arthur dialed your connecting number. the line rang and shortly after, you picked up.
“hi honey.” you greeted him warm and calmly, stirring the browning ground beef in a skillet. your phone was pinned between your shoulder and ear, freeing your hand once again. steadily, you continued to cook as he filled you in, adding salt and pepper into the pan. “uh huh,” you confirmed his question of you know how mr. vic called me into the office, nodding in reply as if he could see you, sifting through the spice rack for more flavors to add.
offered me a raise could be heard faintly through the line if you were listening in in the kitchen. thirty-nine fifty an hour, an’ a lead position. he heard your excited gasp but your husband continued to speak. get double overtime and a few days of pto now, too. can take a vacation, a real one. he paused to contemplate his choice before committing to bringing it up. can finally have another baby, too. he lowered his voice to where only you could hear him. hell, we can start on it soon as i get home.
his words were getting ahead of themselves, his mood fueled by the gratification of fulfillment, for his role has now added another notch of success to it.
“arthur!” you giggled his name in a small laugh, his outpour of words taking you by surprise; and with of course, the aid of a brief thought of how exactly that baby would get here.
oh, don’t do that now he smiled back on the other side of the call. actin’ like you ain’t been beggin’ for it. his voice was thick and husky over the line.
“it’s hard not to.” you sat the spatula’s end in the low-sizzling pan, speaking to him in a sultry voice. “‘specially now that you’re bringing home the real money.” your teeth had a bite of your bottom lip. he laughed and you broke the bit before it could even start.
thank you, baby. “i’m proud of you, you deserve it.” you said sincerely, stirring the contents that were starting to burn. whatchu makin’ .ᐣ he asked, knowing the surrounding sounds of his stovetop’s cookwear. “chili. it’s for later.” arthur’s face scrunched up in happiness and he put his phone’s receiver to his chest to celebrate silently for a second. can’t wait, darlin’. kids must be down for a nap, i don’t hear ‘em drivin’ you crazy. he said. “oh, they are. went down half an hour ago.” you paused only to change your tone. “it’s just me.” you played a damsel in slight distress; huffing dramatically to add to the effect. “all alone.” you sang to him, removing the food from the heat and moving onto better ways you could spend your time.
quit it. he said quickly, already knowing all about your little act. you mimicked a silky and seductive heavy breath into his ear, one that he loves to pull out of you when he’s length deep. you walked into your room, threw yourself onto the bed and spread your legs. “but i miss you.” you said so sweetly, luring him in and tapping the speakerphone button. well, you bein’ all alone an’ missin’ me is how you got those kids in the first place, now hush. he warned you a second time. his denial bred annoyance, leaving you audibly scoffing. they keep you company while i work, that was the deal. don’t start. he sealed it with and his break running shorter by the minute. you tossed the phone to the bed and pulled at your clothes to reveal just what you had needed. all of your lower-halved layers were at your ankles, the colors clashing with the muted toned bedspread. you angled your hips, snuggly shifting around your beat-in mattress before sinking two fingers to split open your slit. “hmm.” you hummed. “i’m sorry.” you said smiling while taking the phone into your hands once more.
ain’t nothin’ to be sorry for, darlin’. i know you miss me. you think i don’t miss you .ᐣ he asked, rhetorically. “not as much as me.” you said, somewhat paying attention to the banter but focused more on snapping the perfect pic. you clicked open the camera app, a yellow square centered your face before it was being held down and in between your thighs. peeking to see if it lined up well enough, you squeezed one of the four buttons on your phone and the screen flashed. you so sure about that .ᐣ arthur asked entertained, the background was rummaging in noise and telling that he wasn’t alone. perfect, you thought. “positive.” you hummed back, sending the naked picture to his phone. you could hear it buzz loudly upon being notified.
hang on. arthur said, pulling the phone down from his ear again. 𝚜𝚎𝚎 .ᐣ ;) the attached message read, sending him a winking face instead of any emojis since they always ended up looking like this on his end: � . his phone took a second to download the image, rendering it in down the screen like it were being scanned into a printer.
that’s what did him in, and that’s what got you here. just you wait ‘til i’m home. arthur finally said after a defeated and long sigh. his words rang through and wrapped up the call in a threat, staying with you well past him opening the door, eating dinner and even bathing and putting the kids to bed. he didn’t mention it once, in fact, he acted like it never even happened at all.
but the truth was was that his second gift of the day stayed with him too, that little stunt you pulled with him of putting him in such a position in front of his coworkers earned you every part of what he was giving you.
your knees were in your chest, folded up so he could shove his dick down deeper into your soft and wet cunt; milking him, like how it was so naturally good at.
“’s the matter with you, huh .ᐣ ” he asked, slamming his hips into yours at a quick pace. “doin’ that to me.” he knew his words got you off, and he didn’t want to work too long for it; being aware of his own ticking, timed clock. “gettin’ me stiff in front of those people.” his forearm fit like a puzzle piece in between your bicep and thigh, keeping you still so he could sink further into you. your wordless reply was suffocated in moans as he took his free hand to press down onto your lower stomach slightly. his southern half of his happy trail’s hair was wet from the mix of clear liquids, your pussy soaked streams of squirt onto his hot skin in the mere moments earlier. your breasts bounced with every thrust, arthur pushed both of your hamstrings down to tilt his cock in the deepest it could go.
“ohh, fu-uck!” you couldn’t help but yell out. you felt his hand fly over your mouth but his hips never let up. he kept the rhythm in harmony and after he’d spent all that time finding it he was certain he wouldn’t let go of it now.
“can’t wake ‘em.” arthur reminded you gently, his own tone going to a soft whisper. “and i don’t need ‘em thinkin’ i’m in here hurtin’ you.” still his thrusts kept going, growing more spaced out from the last. “now,” he said, his toes pushing into the bed to strengthen his shove. a bead of sweat fell from his forehead and down onto your chest. “are you ready for another one .ᐣ ” he asked quietly, swelling in size at the sight. his palm still shielded your mouth in the act of you shaking your head to tell him a very desperate but elated yes. and he knows just how much you love it.. the feeling of him drain his white and warm seed into your walls, understanding how rare it is for him to have the chance to do so, but now he’s been told that he can try to make it count .ᐣ he was done for, and you were in danger until he did.
⟡ this work contains. ⌇ smut ⋮ light angst
⟡ cw. ⌇ part-time partnering / part-time parenting. light abandonment aspects. arthur refers to himself as d**** once. mdni.
⟡ wc. ⌇ 393.
here’s how i think arthur could be like in his own setting; he’d return for a few days at a time; finally setting apart from dutch’s camp for a while. he has the deed to a place that he can call his, a small cottage in the center of strawberry. that, and a secret wife and two kids. the doorknob turns, knowing only one other person has the key. he’s home, you knew, you were sure of it. his youngest is overjoyed in seeing him, arthur was around enough for him to remember his face. he’s getting big now, he’ll notice and say upon picking him up. his daughter comes around the corner, smiling a trembling and toothy grin as she reunites with her father. he’s picked something from the communal garden, or so he saw it as, for both of his girls. he has two sets of several stems of assorted and pretty flowers to give out.
you’d make him hot meal without a fuss, still caring enough to fulfill the duties he’d bestowed upon you; even if you did question his long and difficult absence from time to time. he’d went as far as putting a ring on your finger, and doing all of this for you. it was an alright life, better than the reality of a lot of other alternatives. he still sits at the head of your small table, not seeing the irony in the value of the lesson. he struggles with the morality of the situation day and night, excusing the behavior by thinking of how if josiah could get away with it, why couldn’t he .ᐣ
but he makes up for it when he’s sending you into a daze, bliss-filled and fucked bubbly. guess that’s what makes it so easy to forgive. he doesn’t feel so far away when his slick and salvia seeping sack is so slapping into you; your arms wrapped behind your back with him pushing your face into the bed. he uses your upper half for leverage, clinging on to you to keep you still. ‘shh, shh, shh.’ arthur’ll breathe out heavily, pacing himself not to cum just yet. “i’m right here.” he’ll say, letting you go only to grab you again and lower himself to where his chest met your back’s flesh. “i know you feel me, darlin’.” he’ll say right in your ear, voice thick in sex. “and daddy ain’t goin’ nowhere.”
credits; divider used can be found here ♡. pics by me ⊹ ࣪ ˖
⟡ essie speaks ⌇ i dont really dip my toes into modern au stuff too often, as well as use ***** a lot so i wrote two options for you all to choose between reading if you all wish to do so. but thank you for this ask 🤭, this was so much fun to try and branch out with so ty ty ♡ 𑣲⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖
alright party people, this is my first ever series!!! based on this request by @gingin3-blog 🖤 (ty for the req and letting me get a little lengthy with it!)
NEXT PART
warnings: husband!frank x wife!reader, angst, comfort
w.c: 2.8k
It’s been almost a year since you and Frank had moved out of the city into a quieter suburb. You’ve both settled in fairly well for the most part, its not too far from your friends but just far enough from the temptations that lead Frank down the path he so desperately was trying to get away from. You adored your neighbours and they were equally as fond of you guys, particularly Mrs Ramy, your next door neighbour who you thought was hi-larious.
You both had managed to fall into a nice little routine, Frank was doing well at the construction company he was at - making site lead in a few short months. Which meant you we're able to stay at home more and work on the little fixer-upper house you both had. Weekends were for Frank to do the heavy-duty renovations and during the week was when you'd be coming up with all your bright ideas that he would magically make work every time.
For the first time in a long time Frank felt like he had a 'home'. He loved coming back to you. Whether it was you making dinner in the kitchen, sprawled out on the couch or humming away as you were organising or cleaning - it made his chest swell every time he walked through that front door. He was so proud of the fact that he was in a position to be able to provide for you and give you a life like this - and he doesn't let himself be proud of much. And just like he was able to provide for you, you had also given him a life that he could want again in return - one where he could actually see a future where he existed in it, with you. So, it was safe to say he was very protective over it and especially you.
It's all pretty domestic in a way you thought Frank would have had more trouble with, but as you kissed him goodbye one morning you realised he was actually content, dare you say - even happy?
Though, he would always be Frank and that would never change - nor did you want it to - always protecting and ever vigilant but that craving for violence and vengeance that was always been bubbling beneath him had reduced from a rolling boil down to a simmer. You thought the boxing gym that he started at had something to do with it. The training, the sparring, you guessed just hitting something or someone was enough - you'd hoped.
One morning after waving him off from the front door you head back inside to start your day. Finishing off your coffee before heading into the shower. You planned to work on the garden today so after getting ready you jump into your car and head to the garden and hardware store. Frank was sorting out the soil on the weekend but you just needed to get some pots, potting mix and a few plants.
After an hour or so you're finally satisfied with your purchases. So you stack the bags of potting mix in your trunk and place the pots and plants carefully in the backseat so they don't fall as you drive back home.
As you pull up to your home you notice a moving truck in the driveway of your neighbours house. The house had been empty since you and Frank had moved in. You had seen a few people in and out with the agents but unfortunately, no one ever bit. As your car groans to stop in your driveway, weighed down in the trunk with the bags of soil you see pieces of furniture and boxes along the driveway to the house.
When you step out you're met with a smile. A man on the other side of the fence, he looked a little older than you, mousy brown hair swooped back on his head and piercing blue eyes.
"Hi, I'm Robert.. or just Rob - just moved in, I guess we're neighbours?" he says kindly, offering his hand forward in greeting. You walk forward, meeting him at the division between your driveway and his. Extending your arm forward you introduce yourself "Hey, welcome to the neighbourhood" you say with a smile.
"Is it just you here?" you ask "yeah, just me" he laughs awkwardly "my wife passed away, fresh start I guess" he shrugs. "o-Oh I'm so sorry!" you begin, grimacing at your little foot in mouth moment. "oh no no, don't be, she was sick so.. you know at least I had a little time to prepare" Rob dives in quickly trying to put you out of your misery. "hmm, I guess it doesn't make it hurt any less though right?" you reply, eyes softening in sympathy. "yeah.. guess so" he says a little more softly "well I'd better finish this, gotta return this before 5" he gestures toward the truck. "Oh sure!... hey listen if you ever need anything don't hesitate! It's just me and my husband here but I'm usually home during the day" you smile. A little flicker of something you can't recognise flashes across his eyes but it's gone just as quickly as comes. "Yeah thank you, 'preciate it" he nods before you turn to open your back door and start lugging out your purchases
After you haul the new potters and pot plants to the back you open the trunk of your car and look down at the sacks of heavy potting mix. Pinching the top two corners of the bags you drag it out of the trunk, carefully trying not to rip a hole in the plastic. Unfortunately, you miscalculated how far you needed to drag it out before holding underneath it and *thwack* the bag falls to the pavement of your driveway and splits open.
"shit" you hiss out staring at the open bag of soil.
"d'ya need a hand?" you hear Rob's voice call out from behind you.
You jump a little, turning to face him "oh-no I've got it, thank you! plus you're on a time limit!" you laugh a little exerted.
"ah no it's no trouble" he waves you off, already rounding the fence and meeting you at your car.
He's taller up close you see the tired hollows beneath his eyes and the patchy scruff of a beard that had been shaved a few days before. He smiles at you before crouching down to pick the bag up "where do you want it?" he asks with a small huff as he hauls the other bag over his shoulder.
"Just through to the back, the side gates open" pointing towards the metal to the side of the house. You pick up the last bag and follow him through to the back. He twirls the closed bag over his shoulder and places it down next to your pot plants and carefully places the other down, split side facing up "guess you can start with this bag" he gestures with a smile. "Yeah, guess so" you laugh bending forward to place the bag in your hands down - he takes a step forward, closer to you, the hint of coffee on his breath stronger now as he reaches under the bag, grazing your arm that you instinctively move away. "there you go" he says lightly, setting the bag down for you. "Thank you... I swear I'm not this hopeless" you laugh awkwardly. "I don't think you're hopeless at all" he says, with a tone a little more intense. Your head darts up to look at him, before he breaks out a smile.
He dusts his soil covered hands and looks around your backyard "Could I wash my hands real quick?" he asks "oh yeah sure, just through the back door" you start walking in front of him, leading the way.
"sorry for the mess, we've been here for almost a year and we're still fixing it up" you offer in apology looking back at him. He walks behind you, taking in your house, studying the photos on the table. He stops at the photo of you and Frank from your wedding "your husband?" he asks tone flat "Oh yeah, that's my Frank" you say brightly, smiling at the photo.
"Shame he's got you doing all of this yourself" a little bit of tightness in his voice. Your eyebrows arch up "i'm sorry? he doesn't make me do anything. He works very hard so I CAN stay home and do this because I LIKE doing this" you bite back defensively - what an odd comment to make to someone you've just met you think to yourself.
Rob's hands come up in apology "oh I'm sorry I-I didn't mean anything by it.. I just.." he sighs "ah my wife always used to tell me I gotta work on how I say things" he smiles meekly like a toddler who's just been scolded with a hand raking through his hair.
His comment almost makes you feel bad at how you reacted... I mean you would never not defend your man.. especially when people made assumptions about him. "its.. it's fine, kitchens around here" you sigh pointing towards the sink.
The air's a little thick as he dries off his hands and heads to the front door. "sorry again" he says before heading out the door "don't worry about it" you say with a tight lipped smile.
Over dinner you tell Frank about your new neighbour... though you decide to omit the comment he made. Sure, he didn't mean anything by it - but if you reacted the way you did then you didn't want Frank to get worked up - even if he said he hadn't meant it like that. Why put a thought in Frank's head before he had even gotten a chance to get to know Rob himself? Hopeful at the thought of Frank maybe making a friend.
"he was in the house?" Frank asks abruptly, in the middle of your recount. "oh-yeah, he just needed to wash his hands baby" you hum, your reply is met with a grunt from Frank and a shuffle of his feet under the dining table.
"don't like some guy being in here when you're alone honey" he hums, shovelling his dinner down, his eyes on you.
"Frank, don't be like that baby - he was just being nice" your eyes pleading softly into his.
"nice? you think everyone's nice" he tries to say with a smile but it comes out more as a criticism.. and it stings.
"what is that supposed to mean?" your spoon frozen in time halfway between your plate and your mouth
"Means you gotta open your eyes baby cant just think everyone you meet is nice when you don't know nothin bout em - you don't even know him" his tone getting sharper
"right. so you're the only person I'm allowed to think is nice? that it?" your chair scrapes along the hardwood as you get up with a huff.
"baby wait-" Frank calls out
Your plate with your unfinished dinner drops into the sink with a clang as you storm off into the bedroom.
"ahhhh shit" Frank groans to himself running a hand down his face.
He knew exactly what you meant, and he felt his heart sink. The thing that he loved about you, the way you see good in everyone, the way you're so kind to people and how you believe that everyone deserves a second chance. His sweet girl, it was that quality that had given him a chance with you in the first place, that quality that allowed him to have another shot at this life and he took that .. and used it as a dig towards you.
"fuckin' idiot" he mumbles at himself as he gets up from the table. Feeling like even more of a jerk when he see's your half finished plate in the sink as he puts his own in. He gets another bowl out and scoops up a little more food, bringing it upstairs with him.
Your head knocks back on the wooden bedroom door with a soft thud after slamming it shut. With a sigh you sink into your reading chair, looking outside. Noticing the light on in the window adjacent yours. The one that had been dark this whole time with the house empty now illuminated.
You hated arguing with Frank, and you knew he was like this just because he cares about you and your safety and you loved that about him. But, it was hard sometimes - you weren't stupid, it's not like you were letting some creep into your home?
After a few minutes the door creaks open, shining a beacon of light from the hallway into the dark bedroom. You're sitting on the chair, knees bent into your chest and tucked under your chin with your toes curling into the plush of the cushion.
"sweetheart... i-i'm sorry" you hear Frank softly as he sinks to his knees in front of you. Placing the little bowl of food on the side table.
"i'm not stupid Frank" you bite out, eyes fixed outside the window, glassy with tears planning their escape.
"I know you're not-didn't say you are baby" he coos
"no but that's what you meant right?" you scoff
"no honey that's not-" he sighs, dropping his forehead to your shins "what I meant was that, I'm a fuckin' asshole, I love that you're so kind baby, I never know how you do it - so damn nice to everyone I just- I know I wouldn't have gotten a chance with you if it wasn't for the way you are - hell I don't even deserve it now" you feel his hands curl around the backs of your ankle as he drops his head down to dot little kisses over your toes.
Your arms curl tighter around your knees as you continue to glare out of the window.
"I just.. what if someone takes advantage of it huh? and I'm not around, what then?..just can't let anything happen to you honey-not you" Frank's voice comes out more timid than you're used to hearing.
Your eyes close with a breathy exhale as a rogue tear trickles down your cheek.
Much like a dog who had been abused and abandoned to a kill-shelter, untrusting with the world and would bite first and think later. But then one day gets adopted by a loving owner and given a new home, it took time for them to trust again. That was how Frank was, but you were patient, you always were. He couldn't help the hyper-vigilance and protective measures but that was your husband. And as protected as it made you feel, this was the other side of it. But this was the thing about loving Frank Castle - and you wouldn't trade it for a single thing.
"baby please look at me, please say something, call me an asshole, yell at me anything please i'm beggin ya" he pleads, his brown eyes swimming with repentance.
you sigh, one arm dropping down to rake a hand through his hair and Frank feels his heart go lighter with relief at the contact, like the elephant that had his foot placed over it decided to take a walk.
"not gonna yell at you frankie.." your voice comes out in a tired whisper. "you know I hate when you say things like that.. I love you, so much and you deserve every bit of it, okay?" you say firmer, looking into his sad brown eyes now as he kisses his way up your shin and meets yours perched atop your knees.
"doesn't mean i'm ever gonna stop trying to earn it" Frank whispers matching your tone as he picks your feet up, placing them down to lower your legs so he can cradle your face in his hands. He looks deeply into your eyes "I'm sorry baby" he says before placing a gentle kiss on your lips and you return it with a sigh.
Frank stands to his feet, hand extended out holding yours "up" he says and you get up, eyebrows furrowed in suspicion. As soon as you stand, he takes a seat on the arm chair and pulls you into his lap.
"Frankie what are you doing!" you exclaim with an airy laugh as you fall into his lap. "gotta finish your food honey ain't goin' to bed hungry - not cos of me" he says firm but eyes still apologising as he brings a spoon full of food to your mouth. He keeps you glued to his lap, spoon feeding you till the metal spoon scrapes the bottom of the ceramic bowl before taking you to bed, so he can show you how sorry he is.
NEXT PART
a/n: Part 1 done! I guess it coooould be read as a one-shot but the story is so far from over hehe. Anyways let me know what ya'll think!!! xx
reblogs, likes, comments are always apperciated <3
pairing : Simon ''Ghost'' Riley x reader
rating : explicit (18+)
word count : 3.1k
tags : arranged marriage, smut, jealous!Simon, possessive!Simon, oral sex (f!recieving), orgasm denial/delay, p in v, creampie, use of ''my wife''
summary : your cold, indifferent husband can't pretend your marriage is just an arrangement anymore. all it took was to make him jealous.
a/n : asks and requests are open!
⋆𐙚₊˚divider by @uzmacchiato
"I take you, Simon Riley, to be my lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, until death do us part."
You look towards the crowd witnessing you signing yourself off to a man you barely know, no familiar face offering you peace or consolation. It's done.
Simon slides a ring on your finger, the weight and flashiness of it reminiscent of a collar around an animal's neck--a proof of being owned for you to feel and for everyone else to see.
Isn't a wedding supposed to be the greatest day of one's life? Or at least that's a fantasy you've been led to believe in as a little girl. The dress is tailored perfectly to your taste, even more beautiful than you imagined it when daydreaming about your special day many moons ago. But it feels suffocating. You look downwards to mask the expression on your face reflecting your solemn mood.
You imagine you look like so many women captured in paintings and those who came before you and had to face the same fate of marrying a man whom they don't love to serve as a bridge to someone else's motives.
"Having proclaimed your love and commitment to one another in the eyes of these witnesses, with the power vested in me by the law, I pronounce you husband and wife."
You look up to find his eyes already on you, never having left your face.
He was beautiful, you couldn't help noticing it. If the circumstances were any different, you may have fallen in love with him and been led down the aisle with a smile on your face. It's a daydream you imagine knowing what's to become of your life, to make it all easier.
"You may now kiss the bride."
He tips your chin up and presses his lips against yours in a cold ghost of a kiss. It's the only one you'll share in your marriage up until that one night that changed everything for you.
⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔ෆ᧓ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔
It was lonely, being married to a man of stone. Cold, emotionally unavailable, his heart hardened by the war.
On your wedding night, he told you he expects nothing of you. You were relieved then, after dreading the moment the two of you will be all alone all of your wedding day. But now you wish he would've taken you then, so maybe you would've felt a sliver of warmth of his body, so you could at lest pretend this relationship wasn't entirely loveless.
Simon was away for long periods of time, it was something you had to get accustomed to very quickly. He always made sure you never wished for anything, just like he promised. If only he knew he was the one you were wishing for. His affection. His presence. Was it so wrong of you to wish your husband showed at least a little care and regard for you if you're going to spend your lives together?
You've practically convinced yourself that, since he didn't want this as much as you, if not even more, he must have a woman or multiple of them on the side. Does he not find you attractive enough or appealing enough? His long time spent away from home only gave more support to your growing suspicions, leaving you on your own with your thoughts in an empty bed, small tear droplets sliding down your face soaking into the soft pillows.
You were his wife. That was all you were now. Yet he couldn't be a husband. Not to you, not properly.
It was what angered you the most about the situation and drove you to what you thought was getting back at him.
If he could treat the marriage as if was non-existent, so could you.
⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔ෆ᧓ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔
Simon didn't think he was a jealous type.
But he was proved wrong when you showed up home two hours late, tipsy and slightly disheveled in that same, effortlessly beautiful way you always managed pull off whenever he observed you going about your day. But he wasn't looking at you with admiring eyes in this moment, not when a smell of another man's cologne lingers on you and fills his senses, not when your lipstick is smudged and your lips are puffy like you've been thoroughly kissed. It's something else.
He felt his chest tighten, a hot, churning sensation building in him. He wasn't one to let his emotions get the better of him, yet his breaths became shallower just at imagining you coming undone by another man's hand.
You look like a deer caught in headlights when you notice him there, yet still trying to put on a cocky, ignorant look. The feeling inside him doesn't let him stay quiet.
''You're late.'' His voice is low, flat as always, but his jaw clenching betrays the cold-hearted facade.
''I didn't realise I had a curfew.'' You slip off your heels, stumbling on your pained feet as you walk by him as if he isn't there. ''What, were you worried? You leave me alone so often, I can fend for myself.''
''Worried isn't the word.''
He stands up from the armchair in which he's been sitting the entirety of his waiting for you, catching your wrist just as you're about to walk out of the room, his movements sharp and reckless.
''Who were you with?''
The touch is charged with something so foreign to both of you, for he hasn't been rough with you, or even touched you purposely at all, really.
''Why do you care?''
''Because you are my wife. Or did you forget the contract?'' He grip doesn't loosen, his pale blue eyes locked on yours, telling you he's adamant. The second time he asks, it isn't a question, but a demand. ''Who were you with?''
''A friend.''
Simon only scoffs. ''A friend left his scent all over you?'' His free hand cups your jaw when you look away in shame or embarrasment, his thumb dragging over the smudged lipstick, smearing it in even more. ''A friend sent Mrs. Riley home to her husband not even bothering to clean up his mess?''
His touch isn't violent nor driven by anger, but pure possessiveness. He spits the words and inspects you for more telling signs that another has had you, a side of him that you've never seen seeping through the cracks rapidly.
It should make you upset, rightfully so. But warmth spreads through your veins and your heart races upon hearing the indirect confirmation that your husband isn't immune to feelings after all.
The tension in his body only builds when you don't satisfy him with an answer. ''Did you do that on purpose to rile me up, huh? Going around doing god knows what with other men behind my back? Or do you just disregard me?''
''If you wanted me to to act like your wife, maybe you should've tried being a husband to me. You're the one that behaves as if our marriage is nothing!''
He falls silent for a moment, realisation settling in.
He releases you from his hold, but only comes closer, his voice dropping.
''Do you know how hard it was holding back? I didn't want to force anything onto you, knowing you didn't have much choice marrying me. And this is what I get for being a gentleman? You could've asked for my fucking attention instead of pulling antics like this.''
He's so close you can feel his breath grazing your skin, and you can't help but feel he's so close but not close enough.
Not close enough to kiss you, to feel you and let you feel him, like lovers do.
''I'm asking you now,'' you whisper, inching closer, ''to stop being a gentleman and take me like you should have on our wedding night.''
Simon's composure shatters right then and there. He doesn't even respond with words, fingers tangling in your hair and pulling you in to meet his wanting, demanding lips. His tongue forces itself into your mouth, overpowering yours with barely any effort, simply claiming you. He angles your head to deepen the kiss, mixing your saliva with his own.
''Is this what you wanted?'' He huffs against your lips after breaking the long wet kiss, your mouths connected with a string of spit. ''For your husband to claim you?''
You let out a weak whine for more, already pouting your lips and standing on your toes to meet his lips again, but he pulls away, stopping you so meanly. ''Words.''
''Please, Simon,'' you mutter, ''this is all I've wanted for a while.''
''Asking me so prettily.'' The corners of his lips pull upwards. He looks down at you almost proudly as he smears the spit off your glistening lips.
''Then you'll have it.''
Ghost pulls on your chin and you part your lips for him just so, awaiting him to kiss you hard again. He doesn't even waste time to build the kiss up gradually, continuing with the same intensity you left off at. His mouth stays locked with yours as he moves to scoop you into his arms bridal style in one fluid motion, one arm against your back and the other under your legs.
You knew he was a strong man, doing what he does, but this display of strength and the way he manhandled you so easily made you clench your thighs together, hoping to soothe the need in you that's growing more and more.
You're carried across the hall that seems to be too long in this moment, over the threshold of the master bedroom. Before you know it, you're thrown onto your marital bed you haven't used for anything but sleeping, splayed out on the mattress.
''Look at you. My wife.'' He whispers between ragged breaths, grinning when you spread your legs for him without having to be told to, your little dress not covering nearly enough for him to stay sane. His fingers trace the edge of your dress, but his gaze lingers on what's beneath it. ''Let's get rid of this, baby.''
You don't even have to follow his gaze down to realise his focus is entirely on your lace-clad pussy fully in his view, for your dress is bunched up at your hips. Like a little tease, you lift your hips for him to pull your lacy panties down. ''This?''
''Eager, are we?'' Ghost smirks, hiking his fingers into the this waistband and tugging them down. They end up thrown to the side, discarded somewhere on the floor, his focus only on the newly bare pussy.
Your teeth sink into your lower lip, watching him lower himself to level his face with your crotch, his hot breath brushing the glistening folds. ''Fuck, should've done this sooner.''
He doesn't waste time on warming you up, throwing your legs over his shoulders for leverage, locking his head between your plush thighs like it's the only place he wants to be. He spits on your pussy then smearing it all over with his tongue, circling your clit with the rounded tip of it. Your breath hitches at the instant, overwhelming stimulation, hips bucking into his mouth uselessly. His fingers dig into the soft flesh of your hips, holding you exactly where he wants you as he devours you.
You try telling him it's too much, too intense all at once, but whenever you try to tell him, he abuses your sensitive clit so your words scramble into whimpers.
One of his arms leaves your hip to tug on the top of your dress, the other putting more force in to hold your impatient hips down. Simon's not letting you escape the pleasure. He still hasn't forgotten your betrayal, and he has an inkling you'll stay up all night to make it up to him.
You grip the sheets and try to make an effort to stay still to let him do his work, yet licks of his flat tongue pleasuring you, even at a languid pace, turn you into a whiny mess who can't stay put and take it like a good girl.
Your agitated husband simply can't have you squirming and distracting him, so it is only fair when he roughly pulls the top of your dress down, ripping a small seam or two. Without even taking a moment, he starts fondling your breast and tugging on your peaked nipple as a warning.
"Si— Simon, it's too—" You attempt, but he shuts you up with a slap to your breast, making the fat jiggle before grabbing it crudely.
He doesn't loose focus all while playing with your breasts absentmindedly and blindly, squeezing, slapping, caressing, as if he's using them as stress relief, an outlet for his hectic jealousy or perhaps just a way to get you to drip more juices in his hungry, awaiting mouth.
Simon presses two of his fingers at your slippery entrance, just resting them there to withhold you for longer, letting the anticipation grow as butterflies, or more precisely, arousal in your stomach.
When he eventually does sink them into your warm, welcoming hole, it's because he felt your walls clenching, a telltale sign you're close. His thick digits stretch you out, the tips of them curling up and massaging that spongy spot inside you. He feels your velvety walls spasming around his fingers, sucking them in deeper, and he hears your little gasps, the biggest smirk on his lips that are sucking your puffy clit knowing he's driving you right to the edge. And that he'll stop right before you get there.
''Mh— n-no-!''
You whine like a brat when he so meanly stops all stimulation at once, his fingers pulling out making an obscene, wet sound.
Simon laughs at you condescendingly, under his breath, the way you're all teary-eyed and frustrated, looking up at him like a baby who got their lollipop stolen, making it even better.
''What are you whining for, hm?'' He straightens up, unbuckling his belt. ''I'm not done with you.''
Your widened eyes are glued on your husband freeing his cock from the tight black boxers, seeing it stand hard and huge, the tip reddened and leaky with a bead of pearly white precum. It's even bigger than you imagined, and frankly, you're not sure the two of his fingers stretched you out nearly enough to make taking it easier.
Ghost lines up with your entrance, rubbing his dick through your damp lips, coating it in the slick to make the slide easier. You twitch whenever his tip bumps your overstimulated clit, making him chuckle. ''Poor girl, didn't get to cum and now you're so jumpy? I wore her out already?'' He coos mockingly, rubbing himself over the sensitive nerves on purpose to make you writhe. ''Too bad. Because I'm not stopping.''
Simon pokes the fat tip in your pussy, just pushing it in and out shallowly to tease you and himself. You just want him to put it in already and make you cum, but he's so mean about it, leaving you whining his name and pouting like a needy little thing.
He amuses himself with it for a little while until he decides you've been held off enough. You've been dulled by the repetitive teasing, not expecting it when he suddenly thrusts roughly, burying himself to the brim, not even letting you adjust to the size gradually. You gasp at the sensation of feeling so full so suddenly, your vision getting blurry from small tears gathering at your lash line from all his teasing and intensity.
''No crying now. That's what you wanted didn't you? For your husband to fuck you hard, hm?'' He rolls his hips slowly to keep you present and talking, pulling out only halfway then thrusting in again. ''So stop being such a little brat and take it like a big girl.''
Ghost is bullying his cock so, so deep into you, reaching spots you never could reach by yourself, the feeling of it dancing around the line between pain and pleasure.
If you weren't drunk on it all by this moment, you surely were now as he pushes your bent legs to your chest, folding you into a position that allows him to reach even deeper. He's everywhere, filling all your senses, consuming you entirely.
He lowers his head to trail open-mouthed kisses on your neck his grunts and huffs so much hotter and louder, more intimate when you hear them so close. You wiggle your arms from between your bodies to tangle your hands in his short blonde hair, pushing him harder down to sign to him you want more of his unrestrained mouth on you.
Simon takes the hint very well, grazing your supple skin with his sharp teeth then soothing the sting with his tongue. ''Like that? Need me to fucking mark you up so you're reminded whose wife you are?''
He mutters before sucking the thin skin of your neck and breasts, leaving pink and purple hickeys and imprinting his teeth just hard enough to make a few bite marks next to the pretty love bites. ''Since this fucking ring wasn't enough, huh?'' He pulls your hands from his hair, tracing your ring finger as the pins your wrists down on the mattress, taking full control and pulling back to look at his work. ''That's it. Let everyone see your husband ruined you like this.''
He rolls his hips while buried inside you, pelvis grinding against your clit with the purpose of making you cum this time around. Your body twitches and your legs kick out while you're climaxing powerfully, intensely, pussy squeezing his cock in a pulsating rhythm. ''Fuck, Simon, I'm— I'm—'' Your back arches of the bed as you ride out the waves of the orgasm, eyes rolling to the back of head. You don't even have the mind to moan or whimper his name or any word at all anymore, unable to stop the unruly, porny sounds leaving your open mouth.
''That's a good girl, that's it. Fuck, you're so tight.'' His hips stutter, thrusts becoming clumsy and shallower, his own orgasm triggered by yours. He paints your wall white with his thick cum, not making an effort to pull out. You seem to not mind by the way you've locked your legs around his waist, breathing heavy and hard and whispering ''Think it's gonna take?''
- ser gwayne hightower x rhaenyra’s daughter!reader
part one
synopsis. You are named Princess of Dragonstone and heir to the Iron Throne upon your return to the Red Keep, following months as a Hightower hostage. Ser Gwayne Hightower, your former escort and secret lover while on the road home, is captured and thrown into the dungeons of the Keep.
contents. smut, angst, reader is rhaenyra’s eldest daughter (around the same age as aegon) and silverwing’s rider, show-canon divergence, love confessions, reader lowkey gets post nut clarity and is still just as oblivious, dry humping, finger sucking, fingering, p in v
a/n. the timeline for this fic compared to the show is so off but lets just ignore that and enjoy the story PLEASE. theres also less smut than the last part so sorry in advance if thats what you were looking forward to - its still there just not as much - i wanted this part to serve as sort of an epilogue and not its own entire thing
Gwayne would like nothing more than to turn his own blade inward and let the steel put an end to his immoral life.
He would have done it weeks ago if you had not been lurking deep in the shadows of his mind—the maddening shape of you standing behind the closing gates to the Keep, forever to haunt him for giving in to the gold cloaks and their command for him to leave.
He should have laid down his sword, got down on a knee, and he should have sworn fealty to your mother. Yes, he might have been prolonging his inevitable demise—a beheading, or a hanging, or perhaps immolation by dragonfire—but anything would have been worth it if it meant he could sit with your presence for just a few moments more.
The rain had come and gone several times throughout the day. It was relentlessly pelting the top of his head now, as his men prepared to continue the march toward Tumbleton. He should not be thinking of your face, but you persist. You have only now just begun to leave him.
He cannot remember the shape of your nose well enough, nor the exact inflection of your voice. It comes to him in moments then promptly slips away. Soon, the rest of your features will be sentenced to the same fate, and if he survives the war, he will only be able to remember you as a fleeting figure deep in the crevices of his mind.
He hopes he does not survive the war.
Worst of all, he cannot escape the dream of a life with you.
You could be a sellsword, and I a scribe—I your wife, you had said. He had brushed you off thereafter, told you that you should not worry yourself with eventuality, and then he had distracted you with his mouth.
His decisions regarding you had only sealed the truth of his character. He cannot escape the fact that he is a coward, and the fact that he deeply abhors himself for what he let happen that day, and for what he did not do—but nothing will change now. He will continue the trek to Tumbleton, and he will continue the loop of war, like the dishonorable man he is.
He will continue to think about you. Of your smile, only brought on by the simplest of things and the most surprising of things, nothing in between. And of your unwavering loyalty to your mother—the thing he would never truly have for his own cause. And the fact that you loved him, you truly loved him—the fact that you said it, and the fact that he said nothing in turn.
He and his men were soon overwhelmed by enemy bannermen wearing black and red before he could cease in his reflections. And just as he had at the gates of the Keep, he had given up without a fight when they tried, letting himself be thrown to the ground without even reaching for his sword.
It had been a small ceremony, your coronation as Princess of Dragonstone. There were no high lords, and none of your siblings either. It was just your mother, her husband, and her council members, as well as the Dowager Queen and her own daughter. It was over quickly.
You begged and pleaded with your mother the day before to choose anyone but you. To choose Joffrey, as he was still young and learning—that you were too old and too overwhelmed with the war and with your duties “as a young maiden” to learn anything about ruling over the Seven Kingdoms.
They were all feeble excuses, but they were all you could think of in the moment your mother proclaimed you as heir. You never wanted to be queen of anything, and your mother knew it, which was why she had named Jace as Prince of Dragonstone despite your precedence over him.
She had apologized, and you could see sympathy in her eyes as you argued against it, but her decision was final. You were to rule as Queen of the Seven Kingdoms someday, probably with some noble house’s lord as your husband. Perhaps the son of your former betrothed—you believe his name is Benjicot. He was young, but closer in age to you than his father was.
Would you get to choose your husband? Perhaps your mother truly would force a marriage between you and one of the Dowager Queen’s younger sons as a way to secure peace. You hope not. One is mental, the other you know nothing of except that he is a Green.
The thought brings you back to many moons ago, when you had committed treachery with one of them. Not just any one of them, but the uncle of the usurper.
You find yourself thinking about him more as the nights grow restless—the day he had taken your maidenhood, the days following, and just how little you regret it. You hate yourself for worrying about him, but the heavy hum of nervousness persists. You have long already loathed yourself for your disloyalty.
The idea that Jace would understand brings you comfort in your dread only for moments before it is overtaken by the fact that he wouldn’t. Just like how your mother wouldn’t understand, nor your cousins. Not even your ladies-in-waiting.
Your kin would probably name you a traitor, and if they would not put your head to the sword, they would marry you off to some elderly lord, and your life would be squeezing out heirs until you died in the pursuit. You believe you deserve as such.
You wonder if he has already taken another lover. Perhaps he is already dead. His head rotting on a pike somewhere, body having been used as meat for hounds. You’d prefer that to it being used in pursuit of another’s pleasure.
If he is alive, he has probably forgotten all about you by now. The only thing on his mind must be survival.
“Open the gate!” a gold cloak had yelled, and the gates screeched against the gravel as they parted.
You had been called forward by your mother to view a gift from some bannermen on the roseroad. She had instructed a different gold cloak called Ser Manfred to accompany you to the King's Gate, the same spot where Gwayne had been taken from you weeks ago.
Something sudden and unfamiliar washes over you, worse than the chill—something indescribably dreadful, as if your entire life as well as your future had flashed before your eyes, and you see him for a split second behind your eyes. Him, Gwayne, the only man you have ever truly loved, there in your head and gone the next.
It comes back to you, in that moment, what you had said to him. You had told him you loved him in the haze of intimacy, and you hadn’t been in possession of your thoughts enough to see how he reacted, if he even reacted at all. Had he said it back? You cannot remember. If he did, you did not notice.
A little voice in your head whispers to you. You will see him soon enough. He will tell you then.
You squeeze your eyes shut a moment, as if to ease the voice away. It works for only a moment.
Two men on their horses amble in. You breathe a sigh, somewhat relieved yet all the more disappointed that he is not with them, and let your head drop to your chin.
He is, the voice whispers again, and your head jolts right back up.
A third horse has trudged in behind them in the time you had been recollecting your scattered thoughts. There he was—your man, Ser Gwayne Hightower, a thick rope tied around his middle and another binding his hands to each other.
He was thinner than you remember him being, and much more disheveled. Prickles of hair had begun to sprout on the lower half of his face. And his limp, restrained body was slipping off of his horse.
“He is going to fall.” You step forward, voice heightening as his frame curls further off the mount. “He is going to fall off his horse.”
At that, his body gives, and he drops to the ground with a heavy thud. It knocks the wind from his lungs and he heaves weakly, using the rest of his strength to try and flip himself over, to no avail. His throat is scratchy and you cannot make out what it is trying to say, but he attempts to speak nonetheless. All that comes out is slurred and nonsensical.
“What is this?” you ask the bannermen, who you now notice to have been letting out stifled chuckles at Gwayne’s peril with wide grins on their faces.
“Well…” one of them glances over to the other, the smile having been wiped from his face as he searches for a good enough answer for the sorry display. “It’s a Hightower, Your Grace.”
The other takes a single step forward, holding a proud finger up to get your attention. “Not just any Hightower—Otto Hightower’s eldest son.”
“And why haven’t you killed him?” you question.
The first bannerman shrugs. “We thought you might want to do it.”
You look back down at Gwayne. He has made it to his knees, torso curled toward the ground, but he cranes his neck up to look at you.
Your brows furrow and your pupils dilate, despite the sight before you. His brows are equally as downturned—more so, even, and you look away.
“I will not have him killed. Ser Manfred—” you turn to face him. “Take Ser Gwayne to the dungeons. Have him fed. I shall discuss the terms of his apprehension with my mother.”
Ser Manfred nods, moving forward to lift Gwayne up to his feet. Your eyes track the pair of them as they trudge across the yard, until they finally pass through a doorway.
“Your Grace—” one of the bannermen says. He clears his throat. “We were hoping—both of us—if there might be a… reward for our services—”
Your eyes haven’t left the doorway which Ser Manfred and Gwayne had disappeared into, and the bannermen’s speech does not draw your attention away from it.
“There shall be no reward,” you state.
You take off to re-enter the castle, heading in the direction of the small council chamber—where your mother had been meeting with her privy council.
Normally you would be with her—since you had been since being named heir—as a cupbearer for the council. You’d assumed they had been discussing something both incredibly important and incredibly confidential, and that was the reason why she had sent for you to attend to the arrival of the bannermen. Now, given who was with them when they arrived, you are unsure of her intentions.
You remember fragments of the day you returned to the Red Keep, but none of it is certain in your mind. You cannot recall the exact words you desperately uttered to your mother as you watched the gates lock you away from Gwayne, but you know whatever they were, they were much too honest. You cant remember what she said in turn, if she said anything at all.
You seem to have buried much of the last few months deep in your head. The fact that you have disappoints you, as most of it includes what happened on the roseroad with Gwayne. All you can recall is what you felt. The feelings you felt for the first time, and those you felt for the last time.
Now he is here. Here, as a prisoner of war, much like you were up until just weeks ago. Surely, you can protect him the same way he protected you. At least for a few moons. Until someone powerful enough calls for his death.
Once you make it to the small council chamber, the few of its members are already pouring out. You peek through the half-opened door, and sure enough, your mother sits at the head of the table. Judging by her strained figure that seeks to push itself further back into the chair than humanly possible, she seems vexed. You can only hope you don’t push her further.
The final council member files out, one you’ve yet to have seen before, and you slip inside. Hushed conversation dies down as the eyes of both her husband and her Mistress of Whispers fall unto you.
You step forward and replace your disconcerted expression with a calmer one. Your brows settle back over your eyes, and the corners of your lips turn up.
You offer her Mistress of Whispers a polite nod, and glance over to the man across from her. “Stepfather.” He nods back at your acknowledgement.
Your mother burns holes into you. She attempts the same, a happier face, but it comes out as a swift breath of air from her nose and a closed-mouth grin which is no doubt artificial.
It depresses with each second of silence on your end. You shake your head once to get the thoughts back to you—Gwayne—
“Gwayne,” you blurt. The faces of the White Worm and the Prince before you curl into something you can only recognize as amusement.
You lift your chin up anyway and clear your throat. “Ser Gwayne Hightower, Otto’s eldest. He has been captured by our men. He is currently held in the keep’s dungeons.”
“He escorted you from the Reach, did he not?” Daemon interjects, a finger pointed up and at you.
You look between him and your mother. She offers you a small nod, so you proceed. “That is correct, my Prince.”
“Wandering back into the dragon’s jaws, has he? The gall must run in the family.” He looks over to your mother, letting a smirk inch over his mouth. At her blank expression, he pushes himself into an upright position, intertwining his fingers together.
She exhales. “As Princess of Dragonstone, the choice is yours to make,” she begins. “The prisoner is yours to dispose of.”
“He must live, mother.” You find yourself wringing your hands together, unable to stop. Your mother leans forward. “To execute Otto Hightower’s eldest son just weeks after you did he, it serves their narrative of you, that you are cold-blooded, and merciless.”
Daemon’s mouth opens before your mother can reply. “Perhaps it serves us better to be seen as merciless—”
His words are cut off by the White Worm very loudly clearing her throat. You notice her head shake gently in his direction.
You clear your throat once more. “Lord Ormund Hightower already believes Targaryens to be a savage race. If we slaughter the Protectors of the Faith to near extinction, that would send a message to the—”
“Okay.” A tight smile strains your mother’s lips. She rises swiftly from her seat.
You think she might be leaving, so you open your mouth again. “We hold him, and let him rot in the cells under our watch, where he can be useful.” It is that last word, useful, that halts her.
Her chin drops to her chest. “If he stays in the dungeons, you will handle his confinement, and you will ensure he surrenders the…” her head shakes as she searches for a good word, “intelligence we require.”
She makes her way around the table and situates herself in front of you. Her hands rise to your arms, and then one brushes your hair from your temple, ignoring how it falls right back into place after. “Does that sound suitable to you, daughter?”
You nod, and she smiles sincerely. Her hand cradles your cheek for just a second more, and she departs. Her husband and the Mistress of Whispers disregard your presence as they follow after her.
The dungeons were empty, save for Gwayne. Your mother had all the prisoners “taken care of” throughout the week she had come back to power, you had soon discovered, the first of which being Gwayne’s own father.
Your loyal lady-in-waiting, Cissy, had told you it was a gruesome sight—one she was not even supposed to see, but she had been looking to see if you were with your mother when she had come to take back the Keep. You hadn’t seen her since the start of the war, as she had been forced to remain in the castle while you were away with your family on Dragonstone, becoming one of your cousin Helaena’s handmaids.
Cissy continued, describing in detail how your mother had been crying as she lifted Dark Sister, and first delivered a strike to his back instead of his head. The second blow had been the one to behead him, and she had ascended onto the Iron Throne, leaving footsteps of his blood on the path to it.
You had always thought your mother to be capable, and hearing the story of how it happened had left you somewhat satisfied. You were proud it was not her husband to do it.
Not only were the dungeons empty, but they were dusty all the more. Dusty, and with the stench of sweat, from the countless other prisoners held for nearly a century-and-a-half before you—the now-dead prisoners.
In spite of all you were taught as a child, even what you were told by the most exceptional of maesters in the entire realm, you cannot recall ever learning of a prisoner who ever survived the dungeons of the Keep. Or, of a prisoner who has ever escaped. Did anyone love that prisoner, though? Did they have someone to feed them hope while they rot?
Two white cloaks stand guard beside his cage. He’s been placed alone in one of the celled blocks, and thankfully not the one with the heavy steel door that truly confines you from any outside life. You recall Cissy telling you that Otto was held there.
“Leave us,” you instruct the guards. They hesitate for a moment, and share a glance between each other, but depart eventually.
Gwayne looks worse in the candlelit dim of the dungeons. He has not touched the food that has been provided to him, and it instead sits as food for insects.
His eyes are shut, you quickly find, and his head leans against the wall. You do not think he has ever looked so peaceful. But his eyelids peel open, and the natural scowl returns to him as quickly as his vision does.
You straighten your back and cease the staring.
“My princess,” he mumbles. His voice is still hoarse, but he can get the words out now. He uses seemingly all of his strength to push himself up from the ground.
You feel an urge to correct him, despite your insistence on the truth being anything but. “Your Grace.”
“Your…” His brows pull together. “What?”
Your hands are wringing again. “Jace is gone. I have been named Princess of Dragonstone. The Iron Throne is my birthright now.” The words feel like glass as they come up your throat. Your head bows to look at the dirt floor, instead of at his puzzled expression.
“I…” he mutters. “You remain my princess.”
You cannot bring yourself to look him in the eye for long. He finds it as easy as breathing. It must be why his gaze seems to pierce through you.
Your pointer finger begins picking at the skin around your thumb. “To be perfectly truthful, I’m not sure what to do with you.” On your other hand, your thumb runs against the backside of all the other fingers. You keep your eyes fixed firmly onto the floor.
He chuckles. “What does the Queen reckon you do?”
“The Queen and her council think it best that I kill you.” You inhale, and the softening of his features goes unnoticed. “Do you believe it? Me, killing you. It is madness, Gwayne.”
“If I must die, I am ready,” he murmurs, leaning his head against the cold metal of the cell.
Your hand has found a place on your sternum, rubbing back and forth, attempting to calm yourself. The thought of killing Gwayne was never certain in your mind—it would never be certain—and it brings you immediate distress. His brows knit together at the sight.
There is offense in your voice, alongside tremble. “I will not be your executioner.”
He looks up at you, genuinely pleading, as if you would not defy the stars to bring about his being. “But if it must be so, let the last thing I feel be your touch.” His fingers curl around the cell bars. “Even if it brings about my death. That is all I ask.”
You take a step closer, gently placing your hands overtop of his. “You will not meet the Stranger as long as you are down here.” Your forehead, wavering in its effort, lies against his. Gwayne shudders at the contact. “Besides, I’ve already discussed the terms of your confinement to my mother.”
You let your eyes shut, unable to look into his.
“I must go now,” you whisper, yet you do not move. Unsurprisingly, neither does he.
When you finally pull back, you see a single tear fall from the corner of his eye. Your hand comes up to swipe it away, and it lingers on his cheek for a moment longer, before you breathe a shuddery breath and push yourself away from him.
You were never particularly close to your grandsire, Lord Corlys Velaryon. You had only strayed further from him since the war begun, in both relations and distance—in fact, you do not think you have had a single conversation since long before you flew off to fight the Hightowers yourself.
It was a foolish decision. You realized that when you hesitated to rain fire upon their army, and directly after when you and Silverwing had been pelted with arrows—and as your body met the ground—and as the Hightower belligerents advanced to your position. It was certain as you watched your dragon fly away on your instruction, and as you began bleeding profusely from a shot to your shoulder.
The next few moons came and went, and throughout most of them, you were not conscious. You remember a man, a kind man, wearing green and protecting you from the danger that are men with fury. His face slips from memory. You remember all but that.
“I will not have her killed,” he had said. “I will not let her be a martyr for the Black cause.” And then you were out again.
You wonder if your sympathy for Gwayne comes only from your love for him, or also as a deeply-rooted need to requite that man for saving you. You reckon it is both. If not, he had certainly taught you something valuable about negotiation. The idea to keep Gwayne alive for such a reason wouldn’t have come to you if not.
Your grandsire was there in the Gullet when your brother was shot down a similar way. Only he did not live, and neither did Vermax. You find that the gods have a curious way of letting someone such as yourself live over someone so brave and steadfast.
Cissy tells you Corlys can be found wandering around the castle these days—that he does not seem to like it on the water very much. It is just your luck to find him in the gardens overlooking the Blackwater Bay.
“Grandsire,” you chirp, and he turns to face you. A smile washes over his face, certainly most curious as to why you are here, instead of attending to some other matters.
He steps closer to you, his hands linked behind his back. “Princess.”
You find it simpler not to correct him. “It is peaceful out here, is it not?” you look to the bay, and he mirrors you. It is not just idle talk. It truly is peaceful. It is enough to make the feigned smile on your face falter.
“Indeed,” Corlys murmurs. “I find myself out here more often than not these days.”
You take a step forward, so that you are standing next to him instead of behind. “I was pleased to hear of Ser Addam’s knighthood. It is most wondrous news.”
He nods. “The Queen does not find it suitable to acknowledge him, nor his brother Alyn, as trueborn seed.” You look to him, and there is a subtle scowl on his face.
Good, you note. You can use that.
You look back to the sea and lessen your tone. “It is a cruel thing, grandsire.” He turns his head slightly toward you. “To watch men fight and die for the throne, just to be slighted by the council in return.”
The words, treasonous to anyone but the two of you, flow naturally. You yourself have been slighted in being named heir, and so has your grandsire with his own bastards—it is foolish of you to think your mother would understand your love for someone forbidden just because she has experienced such herself.
Lord Corlys looks through you to find no traps, but unfamiliar sincerity in its place. It frightens him. “What is it you want of me, child?” he demands.
Your lips press together. There are endless risks to practically unveiling your fondness of Ser Gwayne to the Lord of the Tides. You will give the crown away—no, you will give yourself away if you have made the mistake of telling the wrong man of your necessities.
The risks, however, seem so small over the benefits. Gwayne is the benefit. Knowing you saved an honorable man—one of the few honorable men you have ever known—is the benefit. There is not much for you to lose at this point, except him.
“Ser Gwayne Hightower, the eldest son of Otto Hightower, has been captured by our men.” Your nails dig deep into your palms. “He sits in the dungeons now, where he will rot away unless I do something about it.”
His jaw twitches. “He is the enemy. The usurper’s uncle—” he stops himself, realizing the irony of his words. He does not have to feign in your presence.
“On each side of the war there exists those both principled and unprincipled,” you continue. “Most seem to lose their honor as time goes on, but he has not. I have seen it myself, for weeks on the roseroad and while in capture, and I know I am correct in saying he does not deserve to lose his life behalf of the throne.”
You let your tone soften, as to appeal to the weary man before you. “We have both known many who have died in the pursuit of war. Surely there are those on the opposing side you wish were not our enemies.” Your hand finds a place on his forearm. “If you assist me with this, grandsire, I will ensure that when the crown is mine, Driftmark will have its due.”
He looks into your eyes. Your brows are pivoted upward, and it feels as though they are touching your hairline.
What you see in his are those that have seen death—much death. The lines that etch onto his forehead in defeat have felt the pain of losing a brother, losing his children, losing his wife, losing his grandchildren, all for it to culminate in the ascent of your mother to the throne. You can sympathize with him. He can see that.
He takes your arm into his. “Walk with me, my girl.”
The two of you proceed further into the gardens, to a secluded area, where you will secure Gwayne’s fate as the first prisoner you know of to escape the dungeons of the Red Keep.
You find lingering around the dungeons as your grandsire seems to find himself around the sea. Some days you do not enter, some days you do, and stand out of view of Gwayne, instead settling to bask in his presence.
It is surprisingly difficult to lay under the weight of his heavy gaze. The last time you did, you could not handle it for long, and excused yourself before you could even speak a word to him.
You must inform him of what you have planned. It will take place just two moons from now—a commotion large enough and near to the dungeons will occur, and Gwayne’s newly-replaced guards will be called to help. Someone will guide him through the hidden passages of the Keep, and he will meet Corlys to be escorted to one of the trade vessels that will then be shipped off to Essos. He will survive, and he will live the life you had planned together, with or without you.
You do not know yet whether or not to follow them. You are unsure if you could just leave your life and your kin behind—you think you could, but in the moment, you might stray away like you had in battle.
Gwayne perks up at the sound of your voice, as you order the guards away. Your body, clad in only your shift and a cloak over it, unveils itself. Your hair has been braided—he presumes you have snuck out before bed to visit—and you smell sweet and flowery, a stark contrast to what Gwayne has been used to in the days since his capture.
In turn, he has only grown more unkempt since you have last seen him. You deeply pity him, all while you assume he has anything and everything but the stress of how he looks on his mind.
You hope the news you bring to him will ease the thoughts that must be swarming through him constantly. He is, no doubt, incredibly lonely—especially as he is being guarded by two men incredibly resolute in both silence and dedication.
“Sit.” You point to the pallet hanging by chains to the wall. He obeys almost immediately, watching you as you unlock the cell door, and as you find a place beside him.
In your hands, you hold a bowl of soap, a blade, and a small cloth. You turn your body to him, putting your leg up onto the pallet and letting the other hang, and shift closer.
“I haven’t seen you for many moons, my princess.” His voice comes out hoarse. That seems to be normal for him now.
“I apologize.” You take the cloth into hand, dunking it into the soapy water. “I’ve had many duties to attend to.” A lie. You’ve spent much of your time hovering around the dungeons and considering whether or not to enter and see him, all to decide not to.
The cloth is gentle as it passes over his jaw, which you notice to feel considerably sharper. “Have you been eating, Gwayne?” you mutter, watching as his grime dissolves onto the material.
He sighs, his head dropping and forcing your touch to cease in its ministrations. “What they give me is fit for hounds, not humans,” he murmurs, a faint smirk touching his chapped lips. “So, no.”
You bring a hand to his chin and force it back up, continuing to wipe away at the filth on his face. In spite of it all, he remains as beautiful as the day you realized it such in the flower field. You would tell him, but he seems to not want to hear it.
“You must get your strength up.” Your cloth passes over his cheek, and he winces. “You are a knight, after all.” You find a blueish bruise under all the grime, no doubt from the bannermen.
His brows knit together. “What are they going to do with me, my princess?” he questions, truly concerned and all the more desperate. His self-destructive exterior seems to have fallen.
“I’ve already told you. You will not die here, not under my command.” You swipe the cloth over the other cheek, softer this time.
“But what after?” he says.
You do not falter in your movements. “What do you mean?”
“If you manage to trade me to Ormund, what then?” he begins, voice cracking slightly. “Am I to stand in the Reach and fight a war I do not believe in? Away from you, never knowing if I will see you again?”
“Gwayne, I do not plan for you to be given back to Oldtown.” You take his hand and put the cloth into it. “Wipe your face.”
He obeys, and you ready the blade to shave the stubble from his lower face. You mix the soap and the water once more until it foams.
“What do you plan to do with me, then?” he questions, flipping the cloth over to the unsullied side to scrub his face harsher than you had. Painful as it looks, it is more effective than what you had done, and takes nearly all of the dirt off in one fell swoop.
You lather his face in the foam, and grab the blade from beside the bowl. He flinches back.
“I used to watch my brother when he would have it done by the maesters. I know enough.” You smirk, pressing the blade against his skin. He settles, letting the fine material scratch against his jaw.
“Do you remember what we talked about—escaping to Essos together?” you ask, and his eyes seem to brighten. Yours only falter at his reaction, and at your uncertainty to truly do what the two of you promised. “In two moons, you will. I have planned with my grandsire to get you on a ship headed there. You will be provided with just enough coin to live until you find a suitable trade—”
“What about you?” he interjects. You hadn’t noticed how his gaze has softened into something sad since you have continued speaking—since you have been focused on the scrape of his stubble against blade.
You pause. “As of this moment, I am more focused on your escape rather than mine.”
“I want you to come with me.” He takes your free hand into his. It makes you freeze again.
You shake your head, continuing to shave his face. “I cannot leave Silverwing.”
“She can come,” he pleads.
You scoff. “Gwayne, you’re amusing.” The blade against his skin presses harder as it drags down. “A dragon on a merchant ship—one that just so happens to carry an escaped Hightower?—”
Gwayne suddenly recoils backward, the hand that had just held yours now gripping onto the area you had just shaved down on.
You look at the blade in your grip. The tip is covered in red. “I apologize,” you mutter, nearly curling in on yourself and preparing for him to berate you.
“Nothing I haven’t felt before.” His thumb swipes the blood away. You look back up at him.
He looks like a different person, you realize, being clean and shaved with cuts and bruises all over his face. His eyes, though, are still the same. They still hold that deep, heavy sadness in them, as if he has been holding the weight of the world on his back.
Your head moves forward before you can get the sense to stop. Your lips are on his before you know it and it feels immoral, but you do not stop.
His lips are dry but pliable and they do not fight for power over yours. He lets your mouth almost entirely envelope his, and he lets your tongue find a place in his mouth. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands.
You let your cloak fall from your shoulders and onto the pallet before you, and without releasing his lips from yours, you straddle his hips.
Your linen shift has dragged up to your waist with the movement, leaving your bare cunt to rest on his clothed crotch. The noise that comes from your mouth and rings through him at the contact is humiliatingly desperate, but still, you do not waver.
Your hands come down to the edges of the cloth, and you pull it from your body, leaving yourself entirely bare before him. If the guards were to walk in, you would be in the most compromising of appearances, but it is the last thing on your mind.
You kiss him again. “I’ve missed you.” You kiss him. “So much.”
His hands finally rest on your hips, subconsciously dragging them forward to grind onto his bulge.
The two of you moan loudly together, and your hand comes up to smack over his mouth. Beneath it, he only pants harder as you take over in rocking against him. His head hits the wall once he lets it fall back, and his eyes squeeze shut as you persist.
He brings a hand up to your lips, and two of his fingers brush over the bottom one before pushing inside. You welcome them, sucking down and bobbing your head unto them. The thought of how dirty they must be—what they must be dirty with—does not even disconcert you in the moment.
Your hand covering his mouth comes to grip his wrist, using it to guide his fingers further past your lips. There isn’t much of an objective to it—you simply want to feel him everywhere, to taste him, to love him.
He watches you while you do it, blue eyes all big and glossed over, never moving from your face as you take his digits with such a desperate vitality.
The lack of physical contact you’ve experienced since returning home and the overexposure of it now with Gwayne paired together provide a brisk approach to your climax. You pull his fingers from your mouth and mash your lips onto his once more, all while rocking back and forth onto him, chasing the feeling you’ve forced yourself to forget in fear you’d never experience it again.
But you are feeling it again. And it could very well be the last time. So you let it wash over you, your unrestrained sounds being muffled by his mouth. He begins to grind up into you and you mirror his movements.
It comes over you quickly and washes away at the same pace. Like it does not want you to savor it, because perhaps it would be the last time, and you should be weaned off from his touch. Nevertheless, your body spasms and shakes overtop of his, and you can still feel bliss—even as it leaves your body and replaces itself with something similar to shame—coursing through you.
You pulled away from his mouth at some point, your lips sheen with his own saliva, and let your head drop to his shoulder. He pants against your ear all the same, trying to catch his breath, despite not even reaching his own climax. Still, he does not ask for anything in return.
“You told me Silverwing is large enough to saddle two.” His breath returns to him, slowly, though you still feel his chest jumping up and down when you push yourself from it to look him in the eye.
You shake your head after a moment’s silence. “The arrangements for your departure have already been made.” The floor is cold and rough against your bare feet, attached to weakened legs, but you do not let it show. “They will remain unchanged.”
“Then follow us,” he offers, reaching forward to tug your shift back down over your legs, letting his hands linger there for a moment before pulling back.
“It is not safe.” You grab your cloak, placing it over your shoulders.
He scoffs. “What are men compared to dragons?”
You let a heavy sigh come from your mouth, trying to communicate your weariness to him. “I shall consider it.”
“You must.” He steps forward, reaching a hand out to gently hold your wrist. “You will die if you do not flee your place here, if you do not relinquish your titles—”
“How can I be sure this is not just a ploy to weaken my mother’s rule?” you interject, and let your wrist jerk away from his grip.
His jaw clenches at your words. For a heartbeat, his brows jump to his hairline in pure disbelief. “You do not think my love for you to be genuine?”
You cannot deal with the arguing, not now—so you turn to leave, pulling your cloak hood over your head. Perhaps he can settle his own thoughts in the time you are gone. You might be gone for a long, long time. You might even be gone forever, and he may never see you again, so he’ll be able to do a lot of thinking without you there—
“I love you,” he says, and every muscle in your body hardens, rooting you to the ground which you stand.
From the corner of your eye, you see him standing there, hesitating to take even a single step further. He hesitates even to continue speaking. You notice it, when you finally look back to him, in the way his lip quivers.
“Must I say it a million times? I love you. I have loved you since your dragon fell into our encampment. I will love you until I meet the Stranger, and if there exists a life after death, I will love you there too.”
You move back slightly as you shuck your arms into the sleeves of your cloak. His fingers instinctively twitches toward your hand when it comes back down to your side.
He takes another step until he stands right beside you. “I would like you to live out the rest of your days in rest and tranquility. I shall swear myself as your protector if that is what it takes. I shall swear fealty to your mother. Whatever it is, I shall do it. Just come with me.”
You press your lips together. The glint in his eye that grows the longer you look at him is almost depressing, because you know what must happen.
It takes your entire will to break your gaze away from his, and you shake your head. “It’s too late, Gwayne.”
He does not move. Not as you look back at him just once more before leaving the threshold of his cell block, not when you close and lock the door. He does not move a single inch. His expression remains the same, blank and dissociated, even as you walk off and out of his view.
An entire day had passed since you had last spoke to Gwayne, though it felt more like an eternity. You had not been so impatient since you were a child—since you did not have to be anything but.
You did not want for that to be the last conversation the two of you would share. It very well could be, since you do not have the courage to go down there and break your vow of silence, and because he has metal bars that confine him from doing so.
You’re still unsure of what to do. You do not think you should go with him, but you want to. And you are a princess—so what you want, typically, you get.
There was a small voice in your mind telling you that you did not know him well enough, that you should not go with him, and it would be unsafe, you would not be happy after just a few months, and you would miss home with no way to get back to it—but they were all silenced whenever you were tasked with another “duty” or whenever you had to serve as a cupbearer for your mother’s council.
They were silenced when you remembered how your brothers died—young and desperate and on dragonback. If you went with him, should you even bring Silverwing? She could be killed in Essos. It wouldn’t be the first time they have killed dragons there.
You did not need to add a number to the countless dragon deaths the war has produced already. Arrax, then Meleys, and most recently Vermax. The number should be zero, but battle still rages on. And Vermax will most certainly not be the last. Listening in on your mother’s council meetings has set that fact in stone.
Murders of gold cloaks in the streets throughout King’s Landing. The occupation of Tumbleton by Lord Ormund Hightower and his men. Aemond and Vhagar’s disappearance, a bounty to pay for his head. No word of the usurper’s body. These were only the recent tellings, and your mother has her own worries and petitions to deal with—Cissy tells you that she isn’t dealing with them very well.
Would you die if you did not follow Gwayne to Essos? The odds are higher with each passing day—even higher now that you have been named as your mother’s heir. You would not be leaving just for Gwayne’s sake, but for your own too. Possibly even your mother’s. Perhaps it would ease her to know that if she does not win the war, you would not be dead.
You loved her and you loved Gwayne and you loved the Red Keep to some degree, but above all, you loved living more. Your uncertainty regarding the gods had only grown since your mother had her throne taken from her. Even if there did exist some life after death, you would certainly be cycled through the seven hells, the sins you’ve committed.
You were not interested in the idea of death. Not until you’ve had children, at the most. Until you’ve left some legacy, something other than being Princess of Dragonstone, and even then—who knows? Your name might be erased from history if Aegon takes the throne once more. There is nothing to tell what he might do.
If you died now, your legacy would amount to nothing. In Essos, you could do something. Be something. You might not be remembered in Westeros, but you would be remembered somewhere. That mattered. Gwayne mattered. Your own opinion on what you should do in your life mattered.
You should not rule over the realm. You should not inherit the throne. You should live a life of peace. The life you dreamed of as a child in the Keep.
The night before Gwayne’s departure—and yours as well, you had decided—you find yourself outside your mother’s chambers. It was beyond late, and your body was exhausted, though your mind was restless and prevented you from dreaming.
The white cloak posted outside her door nods at the sight of you and lets you enter immediately.
Ahead, you see your mother lying on her featherbed. You cannot tell if she is feigning sleep, trying to catch it, or if she is truly awake. You step forward until you are beside her, fingertips grazing the quilt lying on top of her.
“Mother?” you murmur. Her eyes shoot open, and you nearly flinch back.
Her gaze softens when it reaches yours. “What is it, sweetling?” she questions.
It takes you a moment to find the words. “I cannot sleep.” You haven’t spoken them for over a decade, not since you were a child.
Instead of sending you back to your own chambers, or fetching a maester to make you some sort of tea like you had assumed she might, she slides over to make room for you.
You scurry under the sheets, her body warm and comforting as it lingers behind you. You pull the quilt up to your chin. Her arms wrap around your middle, and you take her hand into yours, squeezing your eyes shut.
You love her more than anything, in a way that is completely different to how you could ever love a man.
Someday, she will understand why you did what you are about to do. Perhaps she will not accept that it was you who did it, and that it was not some Green belligerent seeking to pain her further. You know what she suspects, though it is up to her to acknowledge the truth.
The words slip out. “I love you, mummy.”
You are so quiet, you do not even hear yourself. It is entirely possible that you did not say anything at all, and your mind is simply playing tricks on you.
Her breathing has already returned to a calmer state. She must have fallen back asleep. Your own fatigue hits you then, enveloped in her familiar hold, and you let yourself fall into dream. When you wake, Gwayne will have already gone, and you will follow him.
You dream about him that night, of him and all his beauty. He is not unclean like he has been the last few days, but polished in such a way one could only be by living a life of peace. The sun rises slow, but it illuminates his skin, and he looks to you.
You hear your mother’s voice somewhere distant. “I love you too, sweet girl,” she says.
Her grip around your waist tightens.
You had snuck from your mother’s chambers early that morning, before Gwayne had been set to leave. The cloak that Cissy had placed unto your shoulders was heavy, but you presume it is the pit settled in your stomach that weighs you down as opposed to the cloth itself.
She had fit managed to fit numerous bags of assorted coins, golds, and jewelry up your sleeves, “in case you needed them,” she had said. Her hands had held to yours for a moment too long, and then she had hugged you so tight and so sudden it nearly knocked the wind from your lungs.
You wrapped your arms around her just as firmly. You had known her since you were just girls, and she was essentially the closest friend you ever had. She let you go at some point, or you let her go. You’re unsure which is true.
The walk to the Dragonpit was long and grueling, but you made it without being spotted. Nobody would notice the Princess of Dragonstone out so early.
Silverwing was more than joyous to see you—to feel your touch against her silver scales.
The idea finds you as you watch her and Vermithor bring their snouts together with something you can only describe as affection.
Who would not notice a dragon as beautiful and luminous as she to be flying the skies? There is nothing to guarantee her safety in Essos. Sure, she could protect you, but it would essentially be torture to force her away from her mate and from her own kind. You are her kind, too, but there would be another with the blood of the dragon, another who Silverwing would accept as hers.
Some dragonriders that had survived the Doom had come to Essos, and then their people killed them and their dragons. There is nothing to say the same would not happen the moment you set foot in their realm. You would be even more of a target if you brought her with you.
You make your choice spontaneously. With a heavy breath, you press a parting kiss to the scale over her cheek, and immediately push back.
You have never run so quickly in your life to the seaside. It reminds you of when you were a child with your brothers, racing to the end of the courtyard and back. You will never be a child with them again, but they will live in your memory. You will live for them because they could not.
Your grandsire was a blur as you ran past him, but you could see for just a heartbeat the shock on his face which froze him in place as he watched you go.
The dock was pungent with the scent of salt and fish. You could not focus on it for too long—only the thought of which ship Gwayne was on, and how you would get onto it. Would he be glad that you decided to come with him? You’re certainly disappointed you cannot bring Silverwing, but the sadness has not hit you yet. You expect it will once you are with him.
You know it is the right thing to do. She would not be safe—you and Gwayne would not be safe. It aches, the more you think about it. You wonder how it feels for her. You wonder how it will feel for your mother once she finds out you are gone. What are you doing?
You’re already on the docks, mindlessly looking around at the countless ships around you. The wind blows your cloak hood from off the top of your head. You scramble to conceal yourself back, but you hear your name from behind you and you turn.
The person calls your name again, and you look up to find Gwayne.
He has his own cloak around his head. When you make eye contact, he immediately breaks it to speak to one of the shipmen beside him. The shipman nods at his indiscernible speech, and Gwayne looks back down at you again.
And he smiles.
You do not think you’ve ever seen such pure delight on his face. As the ship’s ladder is put back over, he does not look at it. There is not anything in the world he would rather look at than you. You are the only thing in the world now. You are his world now. He will protect you with his life, and he will be your husband if you so desire it, he will give you children if it is what you want.
Above all else, you will live a life of rest and tranquility like he had promised you would. He would never break a single one to you again. He will vow anything as long you stay willingly by his side. He cannot bare to see you go—never again.
He meets you halfway, pulling you up onto the ship with him when you make it mostly up the ladder. And he holds you by the waist for just a moment—just a single moment, a heartbeat, to see if you are real, to feel if you are real—and he kisses you. Gently. With chivalry. As an honorable knight should.
Essos was more than you dreamed it would be. You were safer without Silverwing by your side, though that deep emptiness often came to you as if you weren’t your natural self without it, and you missed her so desperately.
You missed your mother, your brothers, your father, Cissy, your grandsire, your grandmother. Sometimes even your cousin Helaena and her mother too. You missed sparring in the courtyard as children, you missed living the moments that are now just stories in your head.
But they are stories. Stories you will remember and cherish forever. You wonder how you will be remembered. If your mother would spread the word that you were perhaps killed, or if her anger would prevail over her devastation and she would tell of how you betrayed her. She would never, but the shame of your disloyalty often prevails over the truth of her character, and you begin to think untrue things.
In spite of all of it, you know it was best for you to leave. You did it to rid yourself of the weight of your mother’s rightful golden crown, to prevent your own and your love’s death, and to live how you hoped you always might be able to live.
Your life now reminds you of one you dreamed of as a child. It reminds you of the songs and stories you heard then, the ones that fed your fantasies of your future—the tales of honorable knights sworn to protect fair maidens, who would fall in love with them against their own vows. They would run off together and live in peace for as long as their hearts should beat.
Gwayne had proven to you that those knights truly exist. He had proven it in his devotion, and in his affection, and in the way he would chase your pleasure before his own—like now, as the two of you stir in the early hours of the morning atop your featherbed.
His lips placed a kiss onto the nook between your jaw and your neck, hands wandering down where they had originally held your body close to his.
He pulls your shift up to your waist, letting the fabric pool there, and his fingers graze the area right below it. You shudder once they find a place on your cunt, cupping and caressing it all while he breathes heavily onto your neck.
Your hips instinctively grind back onto his, and his forehead drops to your shoulder. You crane your neck back and press a kiss to the top of his head, and he lifts it so that he can look you in the eye then join your lips together.
As his mouth mashes onto yours, a finger breaches your folds, and you breathe a sweet little mewl into him. It starts to pump, albeit languidly, back and forth, forcing out gasps and whimpers from the depths of your throat—and he adds another digit.
His other hand glides up beneath your shift to grope at your breast, and his mouth finds its way back to your neck and up to your jaw before settling near your ear.
“What would you like to do this morning?” he drawls. His pace quickens, two fingers in and out, over and over.
You can’t quite make out any words to respond with. You manage to breathe out his name, earning from him a breathy chuckle, and another kiss pressed to the highest point of your cheekbone.
His fingers suddenly curl and press against the spongy spot inside of you. “Gods,” you mewl.
“No,” he murmurs, and kisses your jaw. “It's only me.”
His fingers begin to piston in and out of your cunt and your thighs press together, but the hand you had forgotten was on your breast swiftly comes down to pry them apart.
You feel it come to you, building slowly and ready to break like a gate against a Northern army, and you can’t find the voice to warn him.
He must sense it, though. He’s grown accustomed to your body over these few weeks, just as he had on the roseroad—only this time, there is no castle to return to, no limit to how much time you would be able to spend together.
“I know, sweet girl. I know, let go—“ he says, and you obey.
You’ve felt it many times for the many moons you have already spent together, but it feels incredible nonetheless. The heat courses from your loins up to the tip of your head and back down again, past your cunt and to your feet, and you feel bliss.
You spasm and writhe beside him, and his fingers do not stop—they only slow. Your moans turn strangled as you ride it out, languidly grinding yourself down onto his digits.
You do not notice how his eyes watch you, how his lips part in awe. His brows gently furrow at the sight of you falling apart from his touch. Nothing would take you from him again. Not the gold cloaks, not the Greens, not those pesky figures they call gods.
He was yours, and you would be his. One day you should find something close to a septon, if they have those in Essos, to certify that fact.
Once your body calms, he pulls his fingers from your cunt. You whimper, and he chuckles before rising from the bed.
You reach for him. “Indulge me a moment longer.”
When he turns, you notice the bulge beneath his smallclothes.
“I must prepare us a morning meal,” he utters, seemingly oblivious to how hard he is.
You shake your head. “We can eat later.” You reach for him again, holding out a hand. “Come back to me.”
He seems to consider disobeying you for a moment, but when his hand grips your own, you know you have him.
You pull him back toward you, and smash your lips onto his. Your hands move to hold his face against yours, and his keep him upright over top of you.
He swings a leg over your waist, lowering himself to his elbows so that his body touches yours. He shifts his weight to one of his arms so that he can take your breast into his warm palm once more.
You remove your own hand from his cheek to slide down his covered torso, and beneath his undergarments, gripping the base of his cock.
He inhales sharply at that, swallowing your breaths down his throat. Your lips curl up as much as they physically can.
“I’d like you inside,” you say after you manage to break apart from his mouth. He freezes for a moment, then nods. Sometimes, to him, it is still a wonder that you are real, that you are truly asking him to do these things.
His linens are shed within moments. When he presses into you, you feel it too. Awe, and astonishment, that you are together. That you genuinely made it to Essos with him. That this is only the beginning of the long life you will live together.
It feels odd that just months ago, this was only a dream. A far-fetched and idealistic dream, one that would never come true. Though now, as he thrusts into you and you soon enough feel that familiar tight coil start to unravel inside of you, you can truly accept the fact that it is real.
You truly should marry him. The concept of it does not matter much to you any longer, not when you have this life together in exile, but it seems a nice idea.
He spills his seed inside of you, but it does not occur to you to mind. Perhaps one day you will give him children. Perhaps you wont. You will not worry yourself with eventuality.
mdni there’s something price doesnt understand about having a wife. in sickness and in health, those are what the vows said, and yet when you feel frail, with taking care of your daughter yourself, he barely cares. you’re his wife, you’re supposed to keep the house clean and a nice dinner on the table when he comes home. and a warm cunt for him, that’s. the whole point of you.
he never stays at home, he’s always on base. fucking his secretaries. your daughter grows into her teenage years never having her father around, angry at him, fighting him on your behalf. you’re too tired to deal with him, your life force sapped away with your husband’s lack of care. even before he was a captain, back when you’d married him as a sergeant.
there’s something simon could never understand about having a family. he’s always around these days, especially since he’s gotten that promotion to captain. after your divorce to his former co, he’s around your house much more often, teaching your daughter kung fu in the back garden whilst you chop vegetables and watch through the kitchen. it’s because he’s never had a wife, or a family, and yet he’s the one driving you around. he’s the one taking beautiful pictures of you, he’s the one who you invite on vacation.
you want to marry him, but the third degree burns your ex husband left on your heart match the same ones simon’s family’s death left on his.
⋆.˚ PAIRING ˚.⋆
therapist!rafe x younger!reader (f)
⋆.˚ SYNOPSYS ˚.⋆
fresh out of college and emotionally fried, you escape from nyc to the outer banks for 6 months to figure out what the hell you’re doing with your life. unfortunately, your insomnia, anxiety, and terrible coping mechanisms come with you.
desperate to get your shit together, you make the incredibly sensible decision to start therapy with dr. rafe cameron—the man you blocked 4 years ago and definitely never planned on letting back into your life.
but reopening old wounds is part of therapy, right?
⋆.˚ CONTENT INFO ˚.⋆
vulgar language, angst, emotional distress/spiraling, alcohol and weed consumption, substance misuse, unhealthy coping mechanisms, reckless behavior, heavy intoxication, sexual objectification, and an unsafe sexual situation while intoxicated / implied risk of being taken advantage of
⋆.˚ AUTHOR'S NOTE ˚.⋆
longer chapter this time, but i really wanted to show how things are escalating, so i hope u can still follow along. A FEW screenshots are from rafe's pov, like whenever wheezie is saved as "wheez" instead of "zee <3". enjoy !
(also i had to chuckle when i saw, zya’s hea girl going through the same stuff rn lmfao)
xx ᓚᘏᗢ
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summary; after spotting jack shirtless in a room with a female co-worker, you head out to town with trinity to cool off.
contents; fem!senior resident!reader, reader n jack are dating, alcohol consumption, bad karaoke, misunderstanding/miscommunication trope, kinda follows the same events that s2 had, just in diff timestamps
a/n; based on this request <3
wc; 1.7k
The soles of your feet ached, and your neck felt about as tight as a knot at the moment. It had truly been the shift from hell. Not only is it the fourth of July, but the computer systems were down for half the day, and everything turned to pure chaos.
Your shift was over an hour ago, and yet you were still here. You were trying to find Jack, Shen, or literally anyone who you could hand-off your remaining patients to. It had taken easily an hour to digitize all the patients who'd come in during the computer blackout.
All you wanted to do was maybe get a tight hug from Jack, and then head off home to sleep for the next 12 hours.
"Our little secret.."
Your brow quirked up at the distant comment, the nosiness of your nature unable to hide as you walked towards where you heard it from. So what, maybe you like a little drama? Who cares?
However, the sight upon your eyes was the last thing you expected. Your boyfriend, Jack, shirtless in a room with Samira. Samira, who just murmured about secrets. Samira, who is drop dead gorgeous, and has more empathy than anyone.
It felt like your heart dropped down to your stomach. You'd never worried with Jack, you always thought you two were a solid deal. I mean, between being a SWAT medic and an attending in the ER, you figured he would be too tired to ever even consider being disloyal. But there he was. In the hospital, too. He was barely trying to hide it.
Tears pricked at your eyes, the skin of your knuckles turning white against your grip on the tablet. How dare he?
After walking to a quiet corridor, you take a few deep breaths, and blink away the tears. Because no, he doesn't deserve your tears. He wants to be a cheating jerk? You won't cry about it. Not yet, at least.
Once you've composed yourself, you waste no time in finding Shen, filling him in on the patients you had left, and practically shoved the tablet in his hands. He barely had time to comment back, before you were walking away, straight to your locker. Maybe you'd go home, and drown yourself into a pint of ice cream.
"Today sucked." You heard Trinity's voice from your left, as she fought with the lock on her locker. "Y'wanna go out? I really need to get drunk right now."
Your brows furrowed. It wasn't common for Trinity to go out like that. She liked keeping to her tight group of a few people, and you two didn't hang out that much. Mulling over the offer for a moment, you shrugged.
"Sure. Why the hell not?" You shrugged, grabbing your backpack from your locker. "I'm gonna change, I'll meet you out front. I could really use a drink too."
You heard her let out a scoff-like laugh, before you disappeared into one of the changing rooms. Maybe this is exactly what you need to get Jack off your mind for a moment.
It was...lively. The karaoke bar was fairly full, but not to the point where it felt suffocating. You and Trinity had been sat at a table, downing shot after shot, a few drinks thrown in too. After the initial tenseness from the shift started fading, both of you started letting loose.
Laughs spilled from your lips, as you watched drunk duos hop up on stage and sing horribly into the mic. But hell, everyone in here is drunk, no one is gonna remember this.
Trinity turns to you with a sly grin, and you can instantly tell what she wants. "No." You laughed, putting a hand out, "I am not getting up there to sing with you, Trin. That is not happening."
Not even a minute later, you were stood on stage. Trinity had chosen a song, and the lyrics started displaying on the two little screens propped up. The first few lines were quiet, awkward.
I want you to know that I'm happy for youI wish nothing but the best for you both
Trinity was singing her heart out, and you were slowly gaining confidence. With your free hand, you pulled your hair tie out, letting your hair flow down freely.
An older version of me, is she perverted like me?
Would she go down on you in a theatre?
Your hand was gripped around the microphone a little tighter now, voice smoothing into a more singing tone, as you and Trinity danced on stage. Some others from the hospital had arrived too, laughing at you two with drinks in hand.
Mel was cheering, giving you two a grin and a thumbs-up, while Dennis had his phone out, clearly filming you two. You'd so regret this tomorrow.
Does she speak eloquently? And would she have your baby?
I'm sure she'd make a really excellent mother
At his locker, Jack let out a soft groan, wincing as he shifted the wrong way, and a stabbing pain throbbed in his shoulder. He knew when he got over to your place, and you saw the wound in his shoulder, you'd kill him. Every time he gets hurt on duty, you lose it. He kind of likes it though. Shows you care.
His phone pinged, and he fished it out of his pocket instantly with a small smile. You were basically the only person who actively texted him, so he knew it was you.
His smile then dropped immediately.
Why is Dennis Whitaker texting him?
Dennis: uhhh you might want to get over here
Dennis: [location]
Dennis: [video]
Dennis: what did you do, man
Jack's eyes widened as he clicked on the video. You, on a stage. Singing.
'Cause the joke that you laid in the bed that was me
And I'm not gonna fade as soon as you close your eyes
And you know it
And every time I scratch my nails
Down someone else's back, I hope you feel it
Well, can you feel it?
Jesus. Considering the lyrics, he doesn't see how it could be about him. But then again, if you were singing about another man, he'd hurt even worse.
Without hesitation, Jack grabbed his gear bag, and practically bolted it out of the ER. Whatever was going on with you, he knew it needed to be figured out now. You aren't big on confrontation, so he knew he'd have to squeeze it all out of you. Which he'll do.
It doesn't take long for Jack to get there. He's stepping into the open bar, immediately looking toward the stage, but you weren't there anymore. His head swiveled around, finally spotting you at a table, chatting drunkenly to Trinity and Dennis.
"Sweetheart." Jack hummed, stopping by your side of the table, tilting his head a little to catch your gaze, spotting the unmistakable anger in your eyes. So, he had done something.
You narrowed your eyes, hand coming to shove at his shoulder, only to miss. "No- nope!" Hiccup. "You go away, mister dirtbag. I don't wanna see you!"
Half the bar was looking your way now, and Jack let out a soft sigh, grabbing your purse from the table, "Come on. Let's go outside and talk. You can yell at me all you want over there."
Oh, and you did. Calling him every name in the book, smacking your hand on his broad chest, which only felt like a tap to him. He had no clue what he had done, until you started calling him a cheater, muttering about him and Samira.
"Oh, sweetheart, no..." He chuckled, looking down at you with a small smile, "I wasn't cheating on you with Samira, god no. She was patching up a wound on my shoulder. It was a secret, because I didn't want to fill out a chart, and a police report."
You immediately stopped your rant, face falling. God. He was just getting patched up. And you'd just cussed him out for about 10 minutes straight.
But then it clicked in your brain.
"Why would you need a police report?" You swayed on your feet a little, hand reaching out to grab his arm, efficiently holding yourself up. Jack let one of his hands rest on your waist, keeping you stable.
He had a guilty, sheepish look on his face. You might actually kill him now.
"I uhh..." He cleared his throat, "Just remember that I'm okay now, and love you very very much, okay?"
Seeing the glare on your face, he winced a little. I think his way of convincing you that he's fine wasn't working out how he hoped to. "Uh...well I technically got shot-"
"YOU GOT SHOT?"
"Shh- shit, shh, baby..." He laughed, palm cupping over your mouth, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he smiled. You were unbelievable. "The bullet grazed my shoulder. It was just a little flesh wound. I just couldn't reach it myself, and didn't want to worry you at the end of an already hell-ish shift."
Your eyes softened at that, and he took that as his sign to let his palm slip from your mouth, moving to cup your cheek now. "I really am sorry, sweetheart. I didn't even realize how bad it would look. And I should've told you I was hurt. I'd hate it if you hid an injury from me, and it was unfair of me to hide one from you."
The crease between your brows slowly disappeared, and a tiny, miniscule smile crawled up the corners of your lips, as you nodded. "Yes, you should've told me. It was a horrible thing to witness, Jack. But I am sorry for jumping to conclusions."
"Nonsense." He kissed your nose, giving you a smile. "I would've probably jumped to the exact same conclusions, if I saw you shirtless in a room with a man." A soft laugh left his lips, as he pulled you closer, "Maybe we can learn something from this. Better communication."
You nodded, leaning your head on his chest. "I'm still a little mad, though. You have a lot to make up for."
Jack grinned, cupping your jaw to press a kiss to your lips. "I know, honey." He murmurs, lips grazing yours, "Promise I'll make up for it when we get home."
welcome to: the bwasterlist .ᐟ 18+ minors do not interact.
just a small group of friends who happen to also be bucky writers coming together to present you a world of different buckys. sit back, relax, and enjoy.
be sure to read all content warnings listed on each fic prior to indulging. please remember that fiction cannot hurt you! if you don't like what you see, please exit. as always, you are responsible for your own media consumption.
buckyverse — @firingstars
⤷ welcome to the buckyverse— a collection of bucky barnes au fics written by insane fucking idiots that spent the past two+ weeks gooning in a discord chat. please enjoy!
bwatober! — @houseofhyde .𖥔 ݁ ˖🕸️
⤷ one, two, bwa is coming for you… what’s scarier than one bwa collab? another bwa collab! welcome to our rendition of kinktober/flufftober, a collection of 17 bucky fics featuring select prompts. the only thing more terrifying than our deadlines is the emotional coin-toss you’ll be playing with each fic… so what will it be: dick or sweet?
once upon a time...⏾⋆.˚— the tales of bucky barnes masterlist— @superbassbuck
⤷ “Once upon a time, in a land far, far away, there lived a man named Bucky Barnes. Some say he was a devoted prince, others whispered of a pirate adrift on wild seas, and others claimed he was an ugly beast cursed by ruin. Yet no two tales of him were ever the same, for not every story follows the path as old as time.”
the twelve days of christmas —@chateaubarnes ❆ ͙͛ ˚₊⋆
⤷ 'twas the night before christmas, and all through the house, not a bucky was stirring, not even to pout...
lifting the pink veil — @spdrveil
⤷ bucky writers’ association (2026) × lifting the pink veila duo collaboration starring @pinksplace and @spdrveil .ᐟ with a special bonus feature from @unificsation ᥫ᭡.ִֶָ𓂃
✶ 𝓣AKE 𝓑UCKY 𝓗OME .ᐟ — @superbassbuck
⤷ i, superb ass, and my right hand man, @houseofhyde, are returning to our origins as directioners and bringing you 6 fics, inspired by one direction songs.
spring into stardew — @pinksplace
⤷ After suddenly finding himself the owner of a new (admittedly decrepit) farm located in the quiet recesses of Pelican Town, Bucky Barnes has to face his toughest challenge yet: growing parsnips. Oh! And of course, falling in love.
bwat — @barnesonly
⤷ winter never came for bucky barnes because he's living in eternal brat summer! welcome to a completely new masterlist of fics created by bucky writers' association to make your holidays even hotter. dial 999 in case the temperature gets too high!bwa takes zero responsibility for the horniness or the emotional damage you suffer while reading.
summary : welcome to the buckyverse— a collection of bucky barnes au fics written by insane fucking idiots that spent the past two+ weeks gooning in a discord chat. please enjoy!
warnings: minors do not interact. be sure to read all content warnings listed on each fic prior to indulging. please remember that fiction cannot hurt you! if you don't like what you see, please exit. as always, you are responsible for your own media consumption.
all writing and work belongs to their respective writers. as a collective, the writers tagged in this post do not give their consent for their work to be redistributed to other platforms to be reposted, translated, or re-worked by any means. we do not give consent for our work to be used in any form of artificial intelligence (ai) training.
*also known as bouncy white ass
❝ p*rnstar ❞ by @superbassbuck — 08.30.25
⇢ cam!bucky x reader
you’ve never had sex before, still untouched and completely inexperienced. But when you stumble across bucky’s porn channel—you quickly become his number one fan. you’re always in his comments, always in his chats, and never expecting it to go anywhere beyond the screen.
luckily for bucky, your social media is linked to your account, making it easy for him to find you.
❝ cabernet ❞ by @blowingbarnes — 08.31.25
⇢ virgin!bucky x reader
you decided to raid your mom’s wine cabinet and your feet took you to the fire escape right outside of bucky’s room. when everyone is home.
❝ intoxicated ❞ by @its-in-the-woods — 09.01.25
⇢ stalker!bucky x reader
old habits are hard to break. when bucky finds himself in a new place, looking to start over, he reaches for an old comfort. he thinks he won't cross that line again, won't become infatuated with you. but what happens when you want him too?
❝ white coat syndrome ❞ by @firingstars — 09.02.25
⇢ doctor!bucky x patient!reader
a phenomenon exists where a person’s blood pressure will rise when measured in a clinical setting, but is recorded as normal when measured at home or elsewhere. you’ve never been the type to feel anxious in medical establishments, but with your pcp retiring and transferring your care to her trusted colleague, you end up visiting your new doctor’s office more times in the last three months than you’ve ever had in the past year.
❝ hot to go ❞ by @opheliabbarnes — 09.03.25
⇢ firefighter!bucky x reader
what melts the cold firefighter? hint, it's not the fire.
the brush of a sundress against his arm. maybe even a pool cue hitting his chest repeatedly, held by a woman half his age. it's being seen, not looked at. it's a warmth that doesn't burn, but just thaws, enough to show love can be found in the most unexpected places. the sound of a story about something small and fussy and loved.
❝ the merger ❞ by @chateaubarnes — 09.04.25
⇢ ceo!bucky x reader
thunderbolt records is the number one music label in the country, and bucky barnes is its founder. you, his loyal assistant, have worked under him for years, doing your best to hide your growing feelings for him, which is made harder due to the fact that he spoils you with lavish gifts constantly for a job well done. you try to brush it off as nothing more than a generous boss showing appreciation for his staff, but when the presents keep piling up on your desk, you finally decide to confront him. what you expect to be a simple, professional conversation takes an unexpected turn when he looks you in the eye and says: “you’re my girl. i don’t need excuses to spoil my girl.”
❝ five-oh! ❞ by @barnesonly — 09.05.25
⇢ cop!bucky x reader
small town life always felt suffocating, but nothing could prepare you for sheriff james buchanan barnes showing up at your door. everyone in town knows he owns it—owns you, too, if he decides to.
❝ smoke screens and sweet saccharine things ❞ by @flockoff-featherface — 09.06.25
⇢ mob!bucky x reader
bucky barnes, known mob boss, has been hiding a secret, just a little too long for even his own liking.
❝ sugar tits ❞ by @54nboo — 09.07.25
⇢ chef!bucky x waitress!reader
chef james barnes doesn’t like when the waitress parades around the restaurant for tips, and he really doesn’t like it when she lets the men think they have a chance with her.
❝ interrogation tactics ❞ by @heldbybarnes — 09.08.25
⇢ mean!bucky x reader
bucky doesn’t want mission intel—he wants your secrets. tied up and trembling, you confess every filthy thought as he edges you mercilessly, smirking, “guess you don’t want it that bad.” one orgasm is all he gives you—and you thank him for it.
❝ touchdown ❞ by @earthsmightiestbenders — 09.09.25
⇢ football!bucky x reader
The Liberty Knights—Brooklyn Western Academy's all-star football team—are on a winning streak. Not that you care. Except that you're forced to be at every. single. game. It doesn't help that your lab partner—Bucky Barnes—is the number one linebacker in the state. And that you have to play the school song after every touchdown he makes. And maybe you can't help but stare at his ass when he's bent over…
❝ wild about you ❞ by @wildflowersandvibranium — 09.10.25
⇢ zookeeper!bucky x reader
what’s wilder than a zoo, filled with twenty 2nd graders? the unexpected sparks that arise between their teacher and the charming zookeeper.
❝ operator, put your clothes back on ❞ by @rosesaints — 09.11.25
⇢ phone sex operator!bucky x reader
thank you for calling the stark naked hotline, where discretion is guaranteed and satisfaction is expected. our operators are trained to meet your every need—conversational or otherwise—and our private line is always open, especially after dark.
this isn’t your typical customer service experience. but then again, bucky barnes isn’t your typical employee.
alternatively: press 3 if you’re already wet.
❝ cherry on top ❞ by @iamthatonefangirl — 09.12.25
⇢ enemies with benefits!bucky x reader
you and bucky barnes have always been… complicated, to say the least.
but it’s really not complicated at all: you hate his guts with a passion, and he hates yours.
maybe that’s why you started sleeping together—to take out your hatred on one another in the most efficient way plausible.
it’s just the cherry on top that he’s hopelessly in love with you.
❝ the vocal economy ❞ by @houseofhyde — 09.13.25
⇢ rockstar!bucky x popstar!reader
after a chance encounter at paris fashion week, you find yourself entangled in a web of sex, lies, and watchful eyes alongside the drummer beloved rock band the howling commandos. a problematic boyfriend is a rite of passage for every pop-girlie… but bucky barnes is not your boyfriend, he’s your drug. no matter how hard you try, can you truly quit him?
divider by: @cafekitsune & @strangergraphics & @uzmacchiato
word count: 3.9k
synopsis: Forced into a political marriage, you and Ser Gwayne Hightower can’t stand each other. What begins as a war of sharp tongues and spiteful jealousy slowly unravels into an all-consuming obsession, proving there’s a very fine line between hatred and desire.
warnings: enemies to lovers, jealousy, arranged marriage
As a Targaryen, you were accustomed to getting your way—or fire and blooding your way through those who stood in your path. Yet, here you were, bound by a political decree to marry Ser Gwayne Hightower. A man whose pristine armour matched his equally pristine, frustratingly smug attitude.
The feeling was entirely mutual. From the moment the betrothal was announced, your interactions consisted of sharp glares, venomous masked insults disguised as courtly pleasantries, and a profound, simmering hatred.
Gwayne Hightower was everything you detested: impeccably groomed, insufferably dutiful, and fiercely loyal to a faction that viewed your family as an existential threat. He thought you a reckless, arrogant dragon; you thought him a rigid, sanctimonious knight.
When your hands were joined before the High Septon in the Great Sept, your skin crawled beneath the heavy silk of your gown, the ceremonial ribbons feeling less like a holy union and more like iron shackles. Later, at the wedding feast, when he leaned in to press an obligatory kiss against your cheek, his lips were ice. His jaw was clenched so tightly you genuinely wondered if his teeth might shatter under the strain of his compliance.
"Try to smile, my lady," Gwayne murmured smoothly through a fixed, public grin. His breath was warm against your ear, a stark contrast to his chilling demeanour, even as the lords of the realm raised their goblets in a roaring toast to your long life together. "The court is watching, and you look as though you've just been served a cup of nightshade."
"I would prefer the nightshade," you shot back, keeping your own smile perfectly, deceptively radiant for the court. "At least it would kill me quickly, rather than boring me to death over a lifetime."
Even once the bedding ceremony was announced, the two of you flatly refused to participate. When the drunken lords and giggling handmaidens finally shoved you both into your marital chambers and barred the heavy oak doors from the outside, the festive atmosphere vanished instantly, replaced by a suffocating silence.
The massive canopy bed sat heavily in the center of the room, lit by dozens of flickering candles. Gwayne stood near the edge of it, his hand hovering awkwardly near the fastenings of his breeches, his green eyes cold and tightly guarded.
You didn't give him the chance to speak.
"If you take that cock out, I will cut it off," you hissed, your voice dropping dangerously as you stood rigidly in your rumpled wedding shift. "I want no part of your seed infecting me."
Gwayne’s jaw went slack for a fraction of a second, his eyes widening in sheer shock before narrowing into slits of pure fury. Slowly, he let his hands drop to his sides, taking a single, step toward you.
"Infecting you?" he repeated, his voice pitching up at your sheer audacity. The polite, courtly knight was gone; in his place was a man whose patience had been stripped entirely raw. "You speak as though my blood is a disease, my lady, when it is your house that carries the plague of madness to the realm.”
He leaned down slightly, his face mere inches from yours, his breath hot against your skin. "Rest assured, I have absolutely no desire to plant my seed in a field as barren and venomous as you. You want no part of me? The feeling is entirely mutual. I would rather couple with a pit of vipers."
"Then we are agreed," you spat, refusing to back down an inch, your eyes flashing with Targaryen fire.
You turned on your heel, violently ripping the heavy furs off the mattress and flinging them toward the far corner of the room. “You can take the settee.”
“I will not,” he growled, refusing to be displaced from his own quarters by a defiant dragon. “These are our shared chambers, and I will not sleep on the floor like a dog to appease your arrogance.”
You huffed, climbing onto the mattress and pulling the remaining silks up to your chin. “Then ensure you stay on your side. If any part of you crosses the center line, you will find that part missing by morning.”
Gwayne let out a harsh, dry laugh, watching you adjust the pillows with furious, aggressive movements. "A charming threat for a bride on her wedding night. Truly, the Seven have blessed me with a fortunate match."
He marched over to the opposite side of the bed, ripping off his heavy, embroidered doublet and threw it to the floor, betraying just how deeply you had gotten under his skin. He climbed into the bed fully dressed in his linen undershirt and trousers, turning his back to you.
"Goodnight, wife," he bit out into the darkness.
"Go to the seven hells, husband," you bit back, staring at the canopy above as the candles slowly burned down to ash.
The first weeks of marriage were a silent war of attrition. You occupied opposite sides of the massive chambers assigned to you, speaking only when absolute necessity demanded it. In public, you traded barbed pleasantries; in private, you weaponized a freezing, unyielding silence. But hatred is an exhausting emotion to sustain in isolation. Soon, the cold resentment turned into something far more volatile.
It started innocently enough. Gwayne was down in the training yard, unarmored but sweating through his training shirt as he ran through gruelling sword drills with the City Watch. He was, infuriatingly, a spectacular warrior—fluid, powerful, and possessing a sort of grace that made it impossible to look away. You watched from the shaded gallery above, purposely sitting beside a handsome young knight of the Kingsguard.
You knew Gwayne had noticed you. From below, his jaw clenched as you laughed a little too loudly at a joke the young knight made. Testing the waters, you leaned in closer to the Kingsguard, letting your hand rest conspicuously on his silver armoured forearm.
Below, Gwayne completely missed a parry. His opponent’s blunt training sword struck his shoulder with a heavy, echoing thwack. He didn't even flinch. Instead, his green eyes locked onto yours from across the yard with a burning intensity. The polite facade cracked, replaced by a dark scowl that promised retribution.
Two nights later, at a grand feast hosted by the Queen, Gwayne executed his counter-move. He spent the entire evening in a candlelit alcove, attentively pouring wine for a beautiful, doe-eyed lady-in-waiting from the Reach. He laughed—a genuine, amused sound you had never once heard him utter in your presence—and leaned in close to whisper something that made the maiden blush furiously and swat at his chest.
A sharp, hot spike of irritation flared in your gut. You didn't care for him, you reminded yourself. You hated him. But the sheer audacity of him flaunting another woman in front of the entire court—in front of you—was a direct insult to your Targaryen blood.
You immediately retaliated by inviting a charming stormlander lordling to dance, pressing closer to him than decorum allowed. Across the crowded hall, you caught Gwayne’s gaze. His grip tightened around his silver goblet so fiercely that his knuckles turned stark white.
From that moment on, the silent treatment was replaced by a silent war. Over the next few weeks, the animosity didn't vanish— it simply began to change. the Red Keep became a chessboard of manufactured jealousy.
If Gwayne spent an afternoon openly escorting a beautiful lady of House Tyrell through the godswood, handing her a winter rose with a theatrical bow, you would ensure he saw you the next morning at the tilting grounds. You would be draped over the gallery railing, tying your silk favour around the lance of a dashing young Royce, ensuring you were caught perfectly in the sunlight.
To formal dinners where you knew he would be seated directly across from you, you began wearing gowns with daringly low necklines, only to spend the entire evening conversing exclusively with the eligible lords to your left and right. In response, he would return from the training yards dripping with sweat, purposely unbuttoning his linen shirt to expose the damp line of his chest while recounting, in vivid detail, the flattering compliments paid to him by the highborn maidens in the gardens.
It was madness. It was childish. It was the only time either of you felt truly alive. The original hatred had evaporated, replaced by a thick, suffocating tension that left you both breathless and constantly on edge. You were playing with fire, forgetting that while dragons thrive in the heat, Hightowers were the ones who lit the beacons.
The explosion finally came on a stormy night, deep within the belly of the castle.
You had spent the evening at a private supper, deliberately sitting next to a dashing southern lord who had spent the night praising your beauty. Gwayne had sat directly across from you, acting as a silent, brooding sentinel. His grip remained white-knuckled around his goblet, his entire posture radiating pure, unadulterated malice.
When you finally returned to your shared chambers, the heavy oak door had barely clicked shut before the storm broke inside.
"He was practically drooling into your wine," Gwayne snarled, ripping off his heavy velvet cloak and hurling it onto a chair. The polished, courtly knight was gone; in his place was a man possessed by a seething fury.
"Who, Lord Lannister?” you asked airily, unpinning your heavy collar with practiced indifference, though your heart was hammering frantically against your ribs. "I found him delightfully attentive. A refreshing change from the sour company I am usually forced to keep."
"Attentive?" Gwayne strode across the room, his boots thudding ominously against the stone floor. He stopped mere inches from you, looming over you, his chest heaving with ragged breaths. "He was looking at you as if he wanted to tear that gown off your back. And you let him. You smiled at him. You touched his arm."
"And what if I did?" you challenged, tilting your chin up as your Targaryen pride flared to match his rage. "Are you going to forbid me? You, who spent the entirety of yesterday afternoon letting Lady Tarly press her favours into your hand? I saw the way you looked at her, Gwayne. Don't play the wounded husband with me."
"I don't give a damn about Lady Tarly!" Gwayne roared, the sheer volume of his voice making the candles flicker.
"Then why do it?!" you screamed back, finally losing your grip on your composure. The weeks of built-up tension, the longing disguised as spite, the agonizing game—it all came crashing down in a single torrent. "Why look at them? Why smile at them? Why do everything in your power to drive me mad?!"
"Because you were already driving me mad!" Gwayne yelled, reaching out to grab your upper arms. His grip was firm and unyielding, but careful not to hurt you. His green eyes were wild, dilated, searching yours with a desperate sort of need "From the moment we wed, you looked at me like I was dirt beneath your shoe. I wanted to see you look at me. I wanted to see you care! Even if it was anger, even if it was jealousy—I needed to know I could affect you the way you affect me!"
The admission hung heavily in the air, sudden and shocking. The storm outside lashed violently against the stained-glass windows, but inside, the silence was deafening.
"You..." you breathed, your voice instantly losing all its venom, leaving only a raw, exposed vulnerability. "You want to affect me?"
"You have no idea," Gwayne whispered, his voice dropping to a gravelly, breathless register. His gaze dropped to your lips, his hands trembling slightly where they held your arms. "You sit there, so proud, so beautiful, looking at everyone in this wretched castle but your own husband. It's torture. I hate it. I hate how much I want you."
The last string of your restraint snapped.
You closed the distance between you, fisting your hands into the heavy, embroidered lapels of his doublet and hauling him down into a collision of lips and teeth. It wasn't a gentle kiss, nor was it a surrender; it was a physical extension of the brutal war you two had been waging on for weeks. It was fierce, bruising, and born of a desperate, mutual starvation.
Gwayne let out a low, ragged groan against your mouth. His arms wrapped around your waist like iron bands, lifting you completely off your feet and slamming you back against the heavy, reinforced oak of the chamber door. The impact jolted through your spine, but the pain only fuelled the fire. You wrapped your legs tightly around his hips, anchoring him to you, pulling him closer until there was no air left between you, your fingers tangling into the thick waves of his auburn hair.
His hands were everywhere now, stripped of all chivalric restraint. They tore at the intricate laces of your gown, bruising the soft skin of your hips, tracing the elegant curve of your spine with a frantic, possessive urgency that demanded a lifetime of retribution for the weeks of forced distance. He kissed you as if he were trying to consume you from the inside out, to brand his name into your very soul, and you answered him with an equal, fiery Valyrian ferocity, biting his lower lip until you tasted the faint, copper tang of blood between you.
"You are mine," Gwayne growled against your throat, his voice a primal promise as his teeth nipped at the sensitive skin right above your collarbone, marking you and making you arch into his broad chest with a gasping, breathless sob. "Tell me. Say it."
"I am yours," you gasped, your fingers digging into the muscles of his shoulders, your heart frantic, your mind finally clear of any future schemes. You pulled his face back up to yours, your eyes flashing with a warning fire. “And you are mine, Gwayne. If you ever look at another woman like that again, I will burn this whole keep to ash."
Gwayne pulled back just enough to look at you, a dark, breathless, utterly ruined smile breaking across his handsome face. The green of his eyes was bright with a dangerous, triumphant fire.
"Let it burn," he whispered against your lips, and carried you to the bed.
Inside the marital chambers, the aftermath of the storm lay scattered across the floor—shredded silk, a discarded doublet, torn laces, and the heavy scent of crushed winter roses and sweat.
When you and Gwayne finally emerged into the outer corridors the following afternoon, the transformation was staggering. The icy distance that had defined your marriage for weeks had vanished, replaced by an atmosphere of mutual possession. You did not walk a step apart as you usually did, maintaining the stiff, courtly boundaries of rival factions. Instead, Gwayne’s large hand was wrapped firmly around your waist, his fingers digging into the fabric of your gown and keeping you flush against his side as if daring the world—or his own family—to try and wedge itself between the two of you.
But it was the physical evidence that truly set the whispers ablaze.
The court of King's Landing was a nest of vipers, trained to notice the slightest shift in a lord's posture or the subtle tear in a lady’s sleeve. Today, they didn't even have to look closely; the signs of your mutual destruction were proudly on display. Gwayne, usually the very picture of immaculate, highborn decorum, wore a high-collared doublet that failed spectacularly to hide the deep, purple bruises blooming high on the side of his neck. The illusion of his pristine nature was shattered further because you had playfully, yet possessively forced him to undo the top two buttons of his attire before leaving your chambers, making the marks impossible to miss. His lower lip was slightly swollen, bearing the faint, dark split from where you had bit him in the heat of your desire.
You fared no better, and you made absolutely no attempt to hide it. You had deliberately chosen a Targaryen-red gown with a wider, daring neckline, exposing the trail of marks and the faint, dark shadows of his handprints on the pale skin of your collarbone and shoulders.
The way you walked, slow and languid, spoke of a physical exhaustion that had absolutely nothing to do with sleep. Every lord, lady, and sycophant you passed in the gallery looked, widened their eyes in sheer shock, and quickly looked away under Gwayne's fiercely protective, lethal glare. The court was accustomed to seeing the two of you trade icy daggers with your eyes; they were entirely unprepared for the unified defiance that now radiated from your joined forms.
As you neared the small council chamber, a familiar figure stepped out from the shadow of a carved archway. It was Lady Tarly. She was dressed in a gown of soft, maidenly blue, holding a small silk handkerchief she had undoubtedly intended to offer Gwayne as a favour for the upcoming afternoon drills. Her face was bright with a practiced, flirtatious smile—a smile that died the absolute second her eyes landed on your husband.
Lady Tarly’s hands flew to her mouth, the blue silk fluttering uselessly between her trembling fingers. Her wide eyes darted from the deep, unmistakable bruise on Gwayne’s neck to his swollen, split lip, her expression a mix of genuine horror and mounting panic. To an outside observer unversed in the language of the flesh, he looked as if a wild animal had savaged him in the dark, and she looked as though she were about to call for a maester, the City Watch, or the Kingsguard itself.
She gasped in shock, her voice echoing off the vaulted ceiling. “Ser Gwayne, by the Mother... what happened? Are you alright? Who did this to you?”
Before Gwayne could even open his mouth to offer a courtly redirection, you stepped forward, tightening your grip on his bicep. The heavy fabric of his sleeve bunched under your fingers, an unyielding, territorial hold that drew Lady Tarly’s panicked gaze straight to you.
"Ser Gwayne is perfectly well, Lady Tarly," you said, your voice dripping with a smooth, lethal satisfaction. You leaned heavily into his side, ensuring the low, daring neckline of your Targaryen-red gown shifted just enough to give the young maiden a flawless, unhindered view of the dark, possessive marks and handprints decorating your own neck and collarbone. "In fact, I don't think my husband has ever been in better spirits. Or better hands."
"My wife speaks the truth, my lady," Gwayne murmured, his tone rougher and deeper than usual, a lingering remnant of the night's exhausting passions. He covered your hand with his own, his large fingers locking yours against his arm, cementing the unified front. "I assure you, I am entirely unharmed. Though... I admit the dragons of House Targaryen are far more feral than the histories lead one to believe."
Lady Tarly’s gaze flicked rapidly between the two of you, the scandalous pieces finally clicking together in her mind with the force of a sudden blow. The colour drained from her cheeks, replacing her initial shock with a burning, mortified blush as she realized exactly what—and who—had left those violent, passionate marks. The pristine, gallant Hightower knight she had been trying to court for weeks had been thoroughly, aggressively claimed.
“Was there something you needed from my husband?" you purred, the word husband leaving your lips like a final, devastating claim of possession.
Gwayne didn't even glance at the Tarly girl. His gaze was fixed entirely on you, his jaw relaxing into a dark, smugly satisfied grin as he felt the fierce, protective grip of your fingers on his arm. He loved it. The realization that you were actively, publicly marking your territory sent an intoxicating thrill straight through him.
Lady Tarly’s gaze flicked from your grip on his arm, up to the dark marks on Gwayne's neck and then yours, and finally to the unmistakable, lethal look in your eyes. The colour drained from her cheeks, her hands trembling slightly as she clutched her handkerchief.
"I... I merely wished to ask Ser Gwayne if he required a new favour for the tourney grounds, Your Grace," she stammered, her voice losing all its previous confidence, shrinking under the suffocating weight of your stare.
Gwayne’s grip on your hand tightened, his thumb stroking the back of your knuckles as he finally looked at her. "That is most kind of you, Lady Tarly," he said, his voice deep, rough, and entirely devoid of the polite warmth he had used to tease her just days before. "But I have already been thoroughly provided for. My wife has made it explicitly clear that I am to wear no one's colours but her own from this day forth."
He leaned down slightly, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to the crown of your hair, his eyes never leaving the disgraced lady-in-waiting.
"In fact," Gwayne murmured, his eyes shifting back to you, burning with the very same fire that had consumed your chambers the night before, "I doubt I shall have the energy for the training yards today at all. My lady wife keeps a very demanding schedule."
"I... I see," she stammered, stepping back into the shadows of the archway, her eyes dropping to the floor. "Forgive me, Your Grace, Ser Gwayne. I did not mean to intrude upon... your morning."
"No intrusion at all," you replied, offering her a sweet, razor-sharp smile that promised absolute ruin if she ever dared to look his way again. "But if you'll excuse us, the Small Council awaits. And after that, my husband requires a great deal of my personal attention to heal from his... recent exertions."
Lady Tarly offered a hasty, deeply embarrassed curtsy, murmuring a fractured excuse before turning on her heel and practically fleeing down the corridor, her silks rustling loudly in the quiet hall.
You watched her go, a small, triumphant smirk curving your lips as you tasted the sweet thrill of total victory. But before you could fully savour it, Gwayne stopped walking. With a sudden, fluid movement, he turned his body, using his broad shoulders to trap you against the cold stone wall of the gallery, effectively shielding you both from the main thoroughfare behind a heavy, ancient Targaryen tapestry.
"Satisfied?" he whispered, his breath hot and ragged against your cheek as his eyes tracked the rapid, telltale rise and fall of your chest. The smugness was back, but it was laced with a deep, breathless hunger.
"For now," you countered, tilting your chin up to meet his gaze, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing you flustered. Your fingers curled tightly into the fabric of his tunic, resting right over the steady, frantic beating of his heart. "Feral, am I? Is that what you're telling the court, Ser Gwayne?"
"Utterly," Gwayne breathed, his thumb tracing the elegant curve of your jaw before resting right over the racing pulse at your throat. "And I have absolutely no intention of ever letting you be tamed."
→ fluff and angst is always allowed
→ any kind of smut is allowed
→ i will not write anything to do with sexual assault or rape
→ I will not write about cheating (if it has to do with bucky barnes SPECIFICALLY — if it's a past relationship cheating is allowed)
✧ — over 500 notes
✯ — over 1000 notes
✵ — over 2000 notes
all separated by oneshots, two parters and series masterlists <3
you agreed to keep it casual—just sex, no feelings. but when loving bucky in silence begins to break you, walking away is the only thing you can do… even if it destroys you both.
•*⁀➷ The Soldier And The Vixen (14k words) ✯
— 40s!bucky x 40s!fem!reader & winter!soldier x hydra!reader & post!tfatws!bucky x fem!reader
— [fluff + angst + graphic + hurt/no comfort]
once comrades bound by war and affection, two soldiers-turned-weapons are reshaped into monsters by hydra, their humanity fractured and memories blurred.
bucky lets his relationship slip into the background for the sake of duty and public image. but when the distance starts to break them, he realizes he’ll do anything to fight for the love he almost lost.
•*⁀➷ After Hours (7.8k words) ✵
— au!bucky x teacher!reader
— [fluff + smut]
when bucky barnes keeps showing up early to pick up his nephew from school, it’s definitely not just about being a good uncle—it’s about the sharp, no-nonsense kindergarten teacher who won’t give him the time of day. one desperate club night and a locked bathroom later, you finally do.
•*⁀➷ Once More To See You (12.8k words) ✯
— 40s!bucky x 40s!reader & post-catws!bucky x fem!reader
— [smut + angst + hurt/no comfort]
in the 40s, the two of you were meant to be forever—wild, in love, and untouched by anything but each other. but time tore you two apart, and when fate brought you back together decades later, love still lived between you and bucky... just no longer in the same lifetime
•*⁀➷ Confidential Affairs (4.4k words) ✵
— congressman!bucky x assistant!reader
— [fluff + smut]
congressman barnes thought he had control—over his office, his image, and especially his no-nonsense assistant. That illusion ends the moment you hit a man's head against a table, ruin your blazer, and ride him across a random desk like you're the one running the country.
•*⁀➷ Strange You Never Knew (3.5k words) ✧
— 40s!bucky x 40s!reader & post-tfatws!bucky x 40s!reader & minor!40s!steve x 40s!reader
— [angst + hurt/no comfort]
decades after vanishing into war, bucky hears a voice on the radio that stops him cold—a voice he thought he'd never hear again. what he uncovers is a song written for him, by someone who loved him quietly, and died before he ever had the chance to say your name out again
•*⁀➷ Сетка (10.4k words) ✵
— civil!war!bucky x widow!reader
— [angst + hurt/comfort + smut]
when you, a former red room widow crosses paths with the man who once trained you—now a ghost of the monster you remember—your collision reignites memories neither of you can outrun. in a world that only ever taught you two to survive, you find something you were never trained for: each other.
•*⁀➷ I Thought We Were Already Dating (4k words) ✵
— congressman!bucky x fem!reader
— [fluff + smut]
you thought you were spiraling over a situationship—meanwhile, bucky barnes had been acting like your very committed, very oblivious boyfriend the entire time.
•*⁀➷ Please (3.6k words) ✯
— congressman!bucky x gf!reader
— [fluff + comfort + smut]
after a long day of political masks and quiet exhaustion, congressman barnes returns home to the only person who doesn’t ask him to perform—but demands his honesty.
•*⁀➷ Red Is The Color Of Want (4.8k words) ✵
— civil!war!bucky x widow!reader & winter!soldier x widow!reader
— [hurt/comfort + smut + angst]
in a crumbling safehouse far from the fights you both escaped, you—a former black widow—unravel the man beneath the metal as the winter soldier comes apart in your arms.
•*⁀➷ Drown Me Gently (6.6k words) ✵
— new!avenger!bucky x siren!reader
— [angst + fluff + hurt/comfort]
a half-siren joins the new avengers, hiding centuries of shame beneath skin that was never yours to begin with. but when bucky barnes sees past the danger to the devastating loneliness underneath, the monster you fear you are finally begins to unravel.
•*⁀➷ Sweet On The Job (9.9k words) ✵
— congressman!bucky x fem!reader
— [fluff + hurt/comfort]
when newly-appointed congressman bucky barnes reluctantly hires the sweetest, most radiant assistant imaginable, he doubts your place in the cutthroat world of politics—until you prove you can run it and melt his guard all at once.
•*⁀➷ Lost (10.2k words) ✯
— lost!au!bucky x fem!reader
— [angst + hurt/comfort]
you and bucky were supposed to be going home—then your plane crashed, and you were left to survive the island thinking he didn’t make it.
•*⁀➷ Compromised (10.8k words) ✯
— new!avengers!bucky x fem!reader
— [angst+ hurt/comfort + smut]
sent to infiltrate and execute the new avengers, you never planned on falling for their brooding, self-sacrificing unofficial leader—especially when loving him might just ruin you both.
•*⁀➷ Forever Mine (21.2k words) ✯
— post!tfatws!bucky x fem!reader
— [smut + angst + dark fluff]
you were the best thing that ever happened to him — and that was exactly what you wanted him to believe.
•*⁀➷ The Pink Star (8.8k words) ✵
— new!avengers!bucky x new!avengers!reader
— [smut + fluff]
when a world-famous diamond vanishes during a mission, all eyes fall on you—former jewel thief, current new avenger, and the possessive obsession of bucky barnes—who will defend you to the grave, whether you're guilty or not.
•*⁀➷ Maid For Him (8k words) ✵
— rich!boy!bucky x maid!reader
— [smut + fluff]
bucky barnes, heir to the barnes empire, could have anything money could buy and yet, the only thing he’s ever truly wanted is the housemaid who ruined him before he was even a man
•*⁀➷ HR Can't Save You (13k words) ✯
— boss!bucky x employee!reader
— [dark smut]
your pervy boss, mr. barnes tried to drug you at the office party — now he’s yours to use, and he likes it more than he should.
•*⁀➷ Barnes Family Circus (7.7k words) ✯
— new!avengers!bucky x wife!reader
— [fluff]
bucky barnes thought saving the world was hard—then he tried running the household for a single day while you were sick.
•*⁀➷ Baby Blues (5k words) ✯
— new!avengers!bucky x wife!reader
— [angst + hurt/comfort]
postpartum depression was not something bucky barnes knew about—until he ended up learning it the hard way.
•*⁀➷ Pregnancy Brain (His, Not Yours) (4.9k words) ✧
— new!avengers!bucky x wife!reader
— [smut + fluff]
pregnant, exhausted, and looking like a mess. somehow, your husband still can’t keep his hands to himself
•*⁀➷ The Vampire Of Sokovia (4k words) ✧
— scooby-doo!au!bucky x fem!reader
— [fluff]
a velvet-cloaked vampire is haunting a historical sokovian castle… and somehow, you're the one who always ends up in its arms screaming.
•*⁀➷ Movie Night (3.9k words) ✯
— post!thunderbolts!bucky x wife!reader
— [fluff]
it’s just another chaotic night in the barnes household—one movie, four kids, and zero peace
brooklyn, 1937. bucky barnes is nineteen, cocky, and absolutely doomed the second he lays eyes on you. the girl with the mean stare and the pretty eyes. too bad you want nothing to do with him.
•*⁀➷ Sweet Love, All Night Long (19.1k words) ✵
— pre-infinity!war!bucky x fem!reader
— [angst + fluff + smut]
it becomes your responsibility to help the winter soldier heal—not just his body, but the fractured remnants of his mind. what begins as stern guidance slowly grows into something deeper, as you teach him how to be a man again, not a weapon.
•*⁀➷ Wild Things: Bayou Heat (23.2k words) ✵
— drifter!bucky x fem!reader x drifter!steve
— [angst + fluff + smut]
two drifters take refuge on a sun-blistered louisiana farm, but the real heat comes from the farmer’s enigmatic daughter who draws them in with slow, honey-thick temptation.
•*⁀➷ Put That Down! (12.3k words) ✯
— loser!older!bf!bucky x fem!reader
— [fluff + smut]
you suggest taking a break from your deeply attached boyfriend. he reacts poorly and things somehow get worse from there.
•*⁀➷ Tuesdays and Thursdays (13.5k words) ✵
— mailman!bucky x housewife!reader
— (smut + fluff)
you had the house. the husband. the hollow life. but every tuesday and thursday at 10:45 AM, you opened the door to something sweeter—a young mailman with a mouth full of yes ma’am and hands made for sin.
bucky barnes can handle almost anything except the way you make him feel chosen one moment and disposable the next. loving you would be simple, if you weren’t so fucking confusing.
*:･ﾟ✧ ᴅʀᴀʙʙʟᴇs
*:･ﾟ✯ ᴛᴡᴏ ᴘᴀʀᴛᴇʀs
•*⁀➷ Hold Your Breath (6.6k words) ✵
— civil!war!bucky x fem!reader
— [angst + hurt/comfort + smut]
after a panic attack triggers something raw and vulnerable in bucky, a desperate kiss turns into a night of urgent, clothed intimacy where he clings to you for grounding, connection, and humanity.
a year after the fallout of the sokovia accords, the avengers (steve, sam, nat and bucky) come out of hiding and turn to nelson & murdock for legal defense.
during the rise and ruin of the second world war, a sharp-tongued brooklyn girl falls for james buchanan barnes—only to lose him to the battlefield, a presumed death, and the silence that follows.
he came home in pieces, broken but breathing, and slowly learned how to be whole again in the arms of the woman he loved and the child he never thought he’d meet.
*:･ﾟ✵ sᴇʀɪᴇs ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛs
•*⁀➷ The Education Of James Buchanan Barnes ✵
— post!tfatws!bucky x fem!reader
— [fluff + smut]
when dating apps fail him and thirst traps become his downfall, bucky barnes finds himself spiraling down the internet’s most unholy rabbit hole—pornhub.
•*⁀➷ Don't Wake Me ✯ (on a hiatus)
— post!infinity!war!bucky x fem!reader
— [smut + fluff + angst]
in westview’s perfect 1950s world, you and bucky barnes have the life he always wanted together. but when pieces of reality start to break through, bucky has to choose between the dream and the truth.
in the crucible of war, tying the two strongest houses in a holy matrimony is a scheme easier than any other. you’ve known ormund hightower your entire life, but he is also the man who has broken your heart... in a play of power and game of love, how will you protect your heart from him?
genre/warnings:
suggestive, marriage of convenience, unrequited love, slight enemies to lovers, hurt/comfort, yearning, age gap, mentions of pregnancy, kidnapping, fluff, tyrell!reader (reader is ormund's second wife), takes place during the dance of dragons, spoilers! from house of the dragon season 3
notes:
gif by @/alysmond. wc. 5.5k ! so ormund hightower makes an appearance, james norton is hot and i just watched house of guinness... so here's some brainrot concocted in my brain <3
They said... the best fairytale is the one that begins with a wedding.
The lady of the roses and the lord of the high tower. There was no union more perfect in the eyes of the Reach as the drums of war began to echo across Westeros. You were the vision of genteel grace and elegance while Ormund stood beside you as a stalwart protector.
Men mourned the loss, for the fairest maiden of Highgarden was no longer theirs to dream of, while women looked on with envy, wishing for a husband with the strength and stature of the Lord of Oldtown.
If only they have known…
Had it been ten years past, you would have been the happiest woman in the Seven Kingdoms.
And if fairytales begin with a wedding, then yours was doomed from the start— because long before the day you wed him, your story had taken root in heartbreak of your own making.
You had known Ormund Hightower all your life, loved him when you were young and foolish enough to believe that your innocent heart mattered to him. For years, you had molded yourself into his ideal—you kept yourself pretty, perfected your manners, and stayed up late reading tedious books just so you could casually strike up a conversation on subjects he cared about.
“Only you would throw yourself in the studies of the arts of war. What a charming young lady you are.” He would smile and be amused, and you would bite the inside of your cheek, genuinely believing you were winning him over.
You had carefully crafted your image as a prim, intellectual lady, dedicating every ounce of your grace and intellect to a singular, desperate goal: enticing him.
And you really thought you were at the forefront of his thoughts too—
“I present my victory to you, my lady. And at my behest, name you as the queen of love and beauty.”
The day you were crowned by the dashing heir of Oldtown right after he won the tourney before the entire court was the day you truly believed your girlhood dreams had come to life.
However... Ormund Hightower was apparently a man of distinct taste— and the young flower of House Tyrell was not on his list of potential brides, despite his fondness of you.
“Any good man would be delighted to be the object of your affections, no more so than I.”
It was the night after the news had broken of him asking for the hand of the vivacious Lady Tarly. He had a crooked smile, even as you stared at him with heartbreak shining in your eyes.
“Alas, I am a man soon to be wed. We must cease these meetings, so I ask you not to call on me any longer.”
Your heart died then, and stayed cold for the next ten years.
But fate, working its cruel irony, returned Ormund to you just as the war of succession for the Iron Throne began to tear the realm apart. Although the man before you was no longer the posh new lord of Oldtown, but a seasoned man hardened by politics and a wife who died in childbed.
“Declare Aegon the rightful heir and commit five thousand of your men. In exchange... my protection and the hand of the Lady Tyrell.”
Your good sister, the Lady of Highgarden, who was the regent for her infant son, had wished to remain neutral amidst the ongoing civil war. But the Hightowers were kin to the queen dowager and had been fiercely loyal since ancient times. Confronted with Ormund Hightower’s formidable host and the threat of dragonfire, she simply could not refuse his offer.
However, you had not forgotten the man who had broken your heart.
. . .
“Who would have thought that you would remarry? Your poor wife must be weeping in her grave.”
That was the first thing you said to his face after ten years, and he was entirely unfazed and amused instead.
“Of course, no one is more delighted than I to accept this most generous proposal,” you followed, your voice dripping with sweet venom as you paced before him. “But I wish to settle an arrangement first.”
Ormund leaned back, an intrigued glimmer in his dark eyes. He had a small smile and gave you a nod, gesturing for you to continue. “And what might that arrangement be, my lady?”
“I wish to maintain my freedom. I expect to be allowed to live on my own terms, and that includes being permitted to keep my own counsel, travel as I see fit, and take my own companions.”
Ormund’s lips twitched, as he tilted his head. “Companions? Do you mean lovers?”
You lifted your chin and looked down at him with haughty defiance. “I suppose so. Because frankly, I cannot see either of us engaging in romance in our otherwise unfortunate union.”
How was it that the man who once meant the world to you be the one you felt nothing for when fate twisted its narrative so you could become his wife?
“The rose has grown rather sharp thorns, I see.”
For the first time, you saw how Ormund’s eyes lit with distaste, even if he was ever amused. “As much as I could imagine, I couldn’t possibly allow that. At least for old times’ sake, shouldn’t you grant me the grace of fulfilling the role of your lord husband?”
“Let us speak freely here. If I recall correctly, it is my house’s bannermen you seek, and ten years is a long time,” you scoffed. “We might have been fond of each other once, but we are, at present, not.”
“Oh, but I am,” he countered smoothly, “still very fond of you, Lady Tyrell.”
Ormund finally rose from his seat and approached you with ease. His blue eyes narrowed, and a wicked, knowing smile curled his lips.
“And I have no intention of sharing what is mine, least of all with men lesser than I am. If it is a lover you want, then you will find I am more than sufficient.”
He stepped into your space, a particular yet pleasant smell—from his collection of pomander, no doubt—filled your senses. Leaning down, he whispered directly into your ear:
“At least let me prove to you that we don’t need romance to find… a common ground.”
This man was far more cunning than you had ever given him credit for, seamlessly crafting a trap for you to fall into.
But if he thought he could effortlessly master you like a piece on a chessboard, he was sorely mistaken.
He might have broken your heart a decade ago, but now, you held the shards.
Ormund Hightower, however, seemed intent on making good on his word.
He lavished you with his wealth, stood beside you like a devoted and gallant husband, and before long, even the smallfolk began singing praises of your match—utterly charmed by the sight of their Lord and the new Lady Hightower.
And he wanted the exclusive rights to your bed? Fine. You would grant him lordly dues, but—
—seven hells, you would have never expected that sex with him would be this great.
One time, it had started with him pinning you against the walls of your chambers, devouring your lips like a man in heat. The other time he took his time, worshiping every inch of you until you were weeping his name into the silk pillows, begging for a release he purposely delayed.
And now—
“Haah...”
The breath hitched in your throat as you sank down onto him, the heat and friction from where the two of you were joined striking like a sudden fever. You sat astride his hips, your skirts pooled around you, anchoring him beneath you.
Ormund’s calloused hands were gripping your waist as he let out a grunt, trying to steady himself against a shifting tide. He looked up at you, his blue eyes hooded, blown wide with a hunger that melted away the facade of composed lord from the war council.
This was him entirely at your mercy—
You rolled your hips with a fluid, agonizing grace that drew a ragged groan from deep within his chest. You kept your chin tilted high, meeting his lustful gaze with a mocking smile.
“Is this all it takes to render the Lord of Oldtown into submission?” you taunted, your voice trembling slightly with the pleasure of him, though you forced the words out like a dare. “A woman’s touch?”
Ormund’s jaw clenched, a breathless grin on his face. “Since when... have you become so sharp-tongued?”
“Since I realized pretty words are wind and noble lords are fickle liars,” you provoked, leaning forward until your tangled hair brushed his cheek, your breath hot against his ear. “Now, are you content to let me rule your bed just as Highgarden rules over you?”
Crafty little lady. That was his breaking point.
With a low roar, Ormund seized control. He didn’t unseat you—instead, his hands locked onto your hips like iron clamps, guiding your body into a bruising rhythm that completely shattered your cool. He drove up into you with fierce thrusts, proving with every deep stroke just how formidable he truly was.
The smug defiance bled out of you, replaced by needy gasps of pain as he chased your peak, drowned in his carnal dominance until the world blurred into a haze of white-hot heat and mutual ruin.
. . .
When it was over, the heavy silence of the chamber returned, and you woke to find yourself tangled in his arms.
Ormund lay with his eyes shut, his broad, bare chest pressed against you, holding you fast.
His hair was disheveled, his eyelashes were long, and for a moment you saw your first love again, who stood tall amidst the rose gardens.
How is a man well-known for his faith luring you into thinking of sins?
You immediately tried to pull away as your pride demanded that you re-establish your distance. However, when you moved to swing your leg off him, a sudden ache between your thighs made you wince slightly.
Ormund noticed instantly as his eyes fluttered open. He shifted beside you, his voice unusually soft in the dim light. “Are you sore?”
“I am perfectly fine,” you snapped, brushing his arm away as you reached for the sheets to cover yourself, trying to regain a semblance of independence.
You had expected him to either offer an argument or wear that infuriating smirk. He did neither. Instead, he quietly rose from the bed, and you watched him, expecting him to leave you be.
However, a moment later, Ormund returned to the bedside. He gently pulled back the linen sheet and before you could protest, the soothing, comforting heat of a warm towel pressed against your inner thigh, wiping away the slick remnants with tenderness.
You froze, the sharp retort dying in your throat.
His touch was gentle, devoid of the lust from moments ago and completely stripped of the smugness he wore by day.
“Do not coddle me, Ormund,” you croaked, your voice tight as he pressed another clean, warm towel gently over your lower abdomen for comfort, before pulling the sheets over you.
“You ride like a wanton, yet you are far from used to it,” he sighed softly, as if lamenting. “I would have been gentler, if I had known.”
You fell silent as shame coiled in your chest—a mirror of when you were just a young girl vying for his attention only to face the news of his impending wedding to another woman.
But he is taking care of you now, and you have become his lawfully-wedded wife. And in this quiet gesture, a dam broke in your memory— of a young man who draped his coat over your shoulder as you basked amidst the roses of Highgarden.
“You must be cold. Go inside already,” he would say, a smile crinkling the corners of his eyes.
You used to dream of his touch, his love, his everything. It was bittersweet how he was yours now, but you were torn between heartache and a desire to pay him back in full for what he had inflicted on you—the bitter, humiliating pain of not being chosen.
“Must you hate me that much?”
You blinked up at him, caught off guard. Ormund met your gaze with a certain sternness you had rarely seen from him.
“...to the point of hurting yourself?” he went on, his brow furrowing as he looked down at you. If you were bold enough, you would presume that it was concern that you saw in his eyes.
Yet… it only made that part of your heart clenched instead.
Why now? Why only after you had hated him enough to last a lifetime? Why only after you had spent nights crying yourself to sleep that he finally turn his eyes on you?
It was so fucking unfair.
“You presume too much, Ormund Hightower.”
Your response was biting cold, yet so soft and whispery. He blinked, a flicker of surprise crossing his features.
“Rest assured, in this very contractual marriage of ours, I have no intention of feeling anything for you,” you continued, your lips curving into a cruel smile. “Other than with my body.”
To your relief, not a single muscle in his jaw twitched, burying whatever thoughts your words had stirred in him.
He shook his head lightly, finally breaking your gaze, a ghost of a smile returning to his lips, though it never reached his eyes.
“So be it then,” Ormund murmured, his voice dropping to a low baritone that carried no warmth, only the absolute finality. “How regrettable though. One may mistake you as the rose, whereas you have long since become its thorns.”
Without waiting for your answer, he straightened, turning his back on you to dress, leaving you alone in the quiet wreck of the bedsheets.
You have done it. You had ensured that his affection would forever remain beyond your reach.
That may be so, but it did not mean the physical hunger between you regressed in the slightest
You had laid with him a few more times afterwards. Each encounter in his chambers was an exercise in numbing hearts— he took you with a demanding dominance that left you breathless and slick with sweat and pleasuring you as if you were the only woman he worshipped.
Yet, as soon as the sun rose, Ormund was back to his cynical self, his crooked smile and calculating gaze ever keen on you. He kept you at an arm’s length though since that night, strutting through the halls of the Hightower as the proud lord he was.
You truly believed you could kill that fragile part of your heart that still yearned for him, matching his coldness with your own pride.
Until the turn of the moon, at least.
“My lady... this is strange.”
The pale morning light filtered through the arched windows of your solar as your maid, Ellyn, tugged firmly at the laces of your corset. You stood before the tall silver mirror, waiting to be cinched into your dress.
“What is?” you asked, feeling how her fingers slipped on the laces.
Her hands smoothed over the small of your back as she tried once more to force the edges of the bodice together. “The laces simply won’t meet. It is as though it has shrunk.”
“Do not be foolish. Pull harder.”
“I am pulling, my lady, but...”
Ellyn hesitated, her eyes shifting to your reflection. Slowly, a realization dawned to her as she stepped to the side. “Oh, my...”
You looked at your reflection then, and for a moment, you forgot how to breathe.
There, beneath the unlaced corset, your normally slender waist held an unmistakable curve—a slight protrusion in your belly that had not been there a moon ago.
“Bless the Mother,” Ellyn whispered, her hands dropping away as a smile broke across her face, entirely unaware of how your breath had caught in your throat. She beamed at you, asking:
“My lady... your courses— when did you last bleed?”
. . .
“We will march for Tumbleton.”
You were pulled from your daze at the dining hall when Ormund’s voice broke your thoughts.
“You, however, are to remain in Oldtown,” he continued, adjusting the signet ring on his finger. “You know the city and the ledgers. I need a steady hand to rule it in my stead.”
His words passed by at first.
“I’m bringing my ward Daeron and his beast. I have also arranged for the merchant boy to have his hair dyed to stand in his place—”
“A double?” you asked, almost in disbelief. “If anyone notices the deception—”
“They won’t,” Ormund interrupted smoothly, a cold smile touching his lips. “People see what they expect to see. Silver hair, a fine cloth, and the right escort would do to make one a prince. It keeps the boy safe, and more importantly, it keeps our leverage intact. I’d wager sooner or later they’re going to demand his head.”
It was this exact cunning that had captivated you. He was a man who saw the board three moves ahead, possessing an intellect forged for the cruelties of war. The fact that your child would have him as father brought a wave of reassurance, somehow.
But at the same time, dread creeped in— with the news of his departure, the secret beneath your skirts suddenly felt twice as heavy.
Ormund paused, his sharp eyes narrowing as he caught the hollow look in your eyes. His lips crooked.
“No counsel to give? You already wear the expression of a widow grieving a husband lost to the war.”
The barb pierced through your fog, sparking a sudden flash of ire as you gave him a look. “Do not flatter yourself.”
“That’s more like it.” He rose from his seat with a low chuckle. He didn’t see the ghost that seemed to settle over you, nor the way your hand instinctively wanted to press against the fabric of your skirts.
There were barely two days before his banners moved out, and somehow you didn’t have it in you to let him go without any parting words.
“May the Seven guide your path.”
The hollow blessing tasted like ash in your mouth, but it caught his attention. Ormund paused and turned back to face you.
However, there was no warmth in his expression—only an expressionless stare that bore straight through your soul.
“I thank Her Ladyship for her blessing,” he said, his voice dropping into a formal cadence. “Though I find it unnecessary.”
Three weeks had passed since then, and even the air in Oldtown was thick with the apprehension of war.
With Ormund riding out to lead his host, the governing of the city fell upon your shoulders. While it was your first time doing so, you found that you possessed the head and patience for it.
And thankfully, it kept you busy enough to keep the ghost of him out of your thoughts.
Yet at the same time, unbeknownst to you, your devotion to the city made you a conspicuous target.
It happened on a gray morning while you were overseeing the distribution of rice near the harbor. Before your household guards could even draw their steel, men in dark cloaks had surrounded you and cut down the soldier closest to you—
“Lay down your swords!” you screamed, trembling as the smallfolk were sent into a cries of horror after the man’s blood splattered across the cobblestones.
The crowd erupted into a panicked frenzy, scattering like birds before a hawk. Your remaining guards hesitated, their blades shaking in their hands as the cloaked men closed the circle around you.
From the shadows of the docks, a man stepped forward. He wore a dun-colored cloak, his brigandine bore the banners of Targaryen black and red. Men loyal to the Queen Rhaenyra.
“Yes, yes...” the leader sneered, his voice cutting through the screams of the fleeing smallfolk. “Tell them to keep their steel sheathed, Lady Hightower, or we will turn these docks into a slaughterhouse.”
“You dare bring violence to Oldtown?” you demanded, your voice finding its steel despite the frantic pounding of your heart. “Lord Ormund will have your heads on spikes before the moon turns.”
The man laughed, a harsh, grating sound. “Oh don’t you know, my lady? Lord Ormund bit off more than he could chew. Even as we speak, he lies dying in a pool of his own blood in Tumbleton.”
The world seemed to tilt beneath your feet, leaving you hollowed out by an icy shock. Without thinking, your hand flew to your abdomen, your fingers pressing firmly against your velvet gown, trying to find something to hold.
Dying. The word echoed in your mind like a funeral knell. The fortress of ice you had built to protect your heart shattered. For all your vows of indifference, the thought of him bleeding into the dirt tore a jagged wound through your chest.
Your captain of the guards stepped in front of you, his sword raised. “My lady, we can take them. Run for the gates!”
“If a single blade is drawn, my men will cut these peasants,” the leader warned. “We will burn these docks, and every innocent soul on them will die because of your pride. Come with us quietly, or watch Oldtown bleed.”
You looked at the terrified faces of the very people you had spent weeks watching— the women holding their children close, the old men trembling behind the grain carts.
For years, Ormund had protected them as their lord. Even if he is now— No matter how, you couldn’t let his city fall.
You placed a firm hand on your captain’s arm , forcing his blade down. “Lower your sword,” you commanded quietly.
“But my lady—!”
“I said, lower it.” You stepped past him, lifting your chin, refusing to let these dogs see you tremble. Looking at the leader in the eye, you spat, “I will go with you. Spare the city, and let these people go.”
He gave a mocking bow. “A noble choice, Lady Hightower. The realm will remember your piety.”
A rough hand seized your arm, dragging you towards a waiting carriage. The smallfolk of Oldtown wept aloud as they watched their lady—the sweet rose who had looked after them these past few weeks—spirited away into a cage.
Only when the heavy door slammed shut and the iron bolt clicked into place did the stark reality finally crash over you.
Tears welled in your eyes, spilling down your cheeks as you cradled your belly and struggled to breathe under the crushing weight of the very possibility that the man you had once again fallen in love with might well be dead.
There were many things, in truth, that Ormund favored in you.
You always smelled of sweet roses— out of everything, that was probably what he liked the most.
The vast gardens of Highgarden suited you, and he remembered the girl you used to be, the one who had been too timid to look him in the eye at first, but who had beautifully worked herself up to be able to do so.
He knew of your affections— he has always known. It flattered him, though none but himself and the Gods would ever know that he, too, harbored a quiet fondness for the pure and innocent Lady Tyrell.
His little rose. In truth, he had believed that someone so young and sweet as you were too naive, and therefore, unsuitable to be with him. His late wife—rest her soul, for he had been fond of her too, though it was never a blind, consuming love—had been different. She had been compliant, and more than ready to submit herself to her wifely duties, and she was who he needed when he first took on the mantle of the Lord of Oldtown.
The Gods are cruel and just, as all men know, especially when his dutiful wife died in a tragedy and he had to turn to House Tyrell to aid his house in its conquest for the throne— only to find you, his rose, still very much beautiful and unwed.
However, that sweet rose has grown thorns. So sharp the thorns that he has almost forgotten how soft the petals are.
You no longer stuttered and conducted yourself with pride that both vexed and captivated him. In the beginning, he had been intrigued by the woman you had become because he was convinced that the gentle little lady of his memories was still there, waiting to be coaxed out.
That was why on the day he took you to his bed and realized the truth—that you were merely performing and he had been anything but gentle—he drew the line.
But you merely looked at him with eyes as cold as winter.
“Rest assured, in this very contractual marriage of ours, I have no intention of feeling anything for you.”
Every time those words echoed in his mind, it felt as though a dagger were piercing his lungs, as much as he hated to admit it.
. . .
“Lord Ormund! My lord! Thank the Gods you’re back!”
Tumbleton had been a bloodbath, and he barely survived it himself—a blade having pierced his armor and a hair’s breadth from his heart. But the market city had fallen, the Blacks had been broken there with the betrayals of two of their own dragonriders, and in the grand game of thrones, that was all that truly mattered.
However, the moment he stepped his foot back at Oldtown after six weeks, the atmosphere in his own home were grim— his household servants were openly relieved, some almost weeping, as if he was a ghost returned from the grave.
“They told us you were dead, my lord,” the head guard told him somberly. “We thought all was lost.”
“A blatant lie made to weaken our morale,” Ormund hissed, his hand dropping to the pommel of his sword as his wound ached. “Tumbleton has fallen, and I’m far from the grave.”
Still, he sensed something dreadful had occurred by how mournful the maidservants were—
“My lord!”
Before Ormund could demand what had happened in his absence, a shrill voice cut through. Ellyn, your faithful handmaiden, pushed past the other servants, her eyes were red-rimmed from days of crying.
She fell to her knees, clutching desperately at the hem of his traveling cloak.
“You must help her, Lord Ormund! You must bring her back!”
A cold knot of dread coiled in his stomach. He looked down at the trembling girl, his brow furrowing deeply. “Calm yourself, girl, and speak clearly.”
And the words she uttered next, as she looked up at him with tear-streaked cheeks, made his blood run colder than when he saw dragons burning Tumbleton.
“The lady! Three weeks ago, while the city was fooled by the news of your death, the false queen’s men took her away!”
They had taken you to Honeywine.
The streets was ravaged and deserted. For three weeks now, they had held you hostage in a makeshift holdfast. They gave you barely enough bread and water to keep you alive, and as the days bled together, your hope withered to nothing.
Your unborn child, who grew heavier by the day beneath your heart, was the only thing left to give you the strength to survive this madness.
And as if your situation weren’t desperate enough, through the timber door of your cell, the muffled voices of your captors reached your ears. They were conversing in frantic, hushed tones.
“The smallfolk are rioting in King’s Landing. They’re storming the Dragonpit. The Queen is fleeing!”
“Then what of us? What of the woman?”
“Leave her. If the Hightowers find us here, they’ll flay us alive. Set the fire. Let the ashes cover our tracks.”
Alarmed and struck by a sudden, feral terror, you flung yourself against the door.
“Let me out!” You screamed for help, your voice raw, hitting the wood until your knuckles bled.
But the only response was a thud, followed by the crackling of fire and pitch. Smoke and heat began to seep through, as the chamber was slowly being consumed. You were trapped.
Realizing you would soon meet your demise, the strength left your legs, and you collapsed into the dirt, trembling with tears.
I would die, Ormund already did, and I have never told him.
You bitterly regretted never telling him that you were with his child.
As the heat grew unbearable, your mind drifted away to the sun-drenched rose gardens of your home, where you and Ormund Hightower had first met.
He is devilishly handsome and cunning. Your first love who had broken your heart once, but still owns it to this very day, when you would breath your last.
The black smoke filled your lungs, choking the breath from your throat. Your vision began to tunnel, the edges of the room blurring into darkness as you surrenderred to the Stranger.
Then, through the flames, a sudden, violent crash echoed— the sharp ring of steel slicing through. Through your fading, tear-blurred sight, a figure burst through the burning doorway.
You could have sworn you saw the shimmering edge of Vigilance cleaving through the smoke, its blade gleaming. That was the Valyrian steel your husband wielded.
Was it a cruel figment of your dying imagination?
But then, the heat of the fire was eclipsed by the fierce, solid weight of heavy arms wrapping around you, lifting you from the ground. And right against your ear, came a trembling voice you recognized:
“I have you,” Ormund whispered, his voice cracking with a raw emotion you had never heard from him before.
“Hold on to me. I have you, dearest.”
The next time you awoke, you were in his bedchambers in the Hightower.
The suffocating stench of smoke and pitch was gone, replaced by the familiar, comforting scent of the crisp sea breeze blowing off the Whispering Sound. The moment your eyes fluttered open, you saw him.
He was staring down at you, his dark eyes ringed with exhaustion, but shadowed with a profound relief. He was only in a loose linen tunic that showed the bandages wrapping his chest.
“Ormund...?” your voice was a broken rasp. You reached out a trembling hand, terrified your fingers would pass right through him. “Are you... are you truly here? T-they told me you were slain—”
His eyes softened, and he smiled. Not the crooked one or a smirk, but the sincere, tender smile you had fallen in love with ten years ago.
“I’m here,” he assured, his deep voice and scent wrapping around you as he took hold of your hand.
Your first tear fell, and your voice broke into a sob then. Ormund pulled you gently but fiercely into his arms, tucking your head beneath his chin, and you clung to him, burying your head into his chest, weeping for the horror you had survived and the miracle of his embrace.
Slowly, he pulled away. His hand moved from your hair to cup your jaw, tilting your face up. The sorrow in his eyes flared into something primal— and he pressed his lips to yours in a deep, passionate kiss.
He drank you in as if you were the only life-giving water in a world reduced to ash, and you kissed him back with everything you had left. You had the man you loved returned to you, and he had the sweet rose he cherished safe in his arms.
When he finally pulled away, both of your breaths coming in ragged gasps. The tender silence stretched between you, but then Ormund’s gaze drifted downwards.
His large, warm palm rested against your belly, a knowing look in his blue eyes.
“Must you hide so many things from me?” he asked softly, his gaze boring into yours with an intensity that made your heart skip.
“I... I was—”
“Would you continue to do so if I told you that now, it is you who holds my entire heart and soul in the palm of your hand?”
You didn’t even dare to blink, and he held your gaze and a bittersweet smile touched his lips.
“I have always longed for that lady amidst the field of roses,” he murmured, his voice dropping to a rough, impassioned whisper. “Even though she knows nothing of it, even though I know she is too pretty for the likes of me, and even though I have broken her heart... I still selfishly wished I could have her for myself.”
“Ormund...” Your lips wobbled, ingesting every word as the tears pooled fresh in your eyes.
His vivid blue eyes, so warm and tender, crinkled faintly as he brushed a fallen tear from your cheek with his thumb.
“So even if roses bear thorns, I would gladly suffer a thousand cuts from now on… so long as I am the only one who gets to hold you.”
That was everything you needed to hear. You surrendered yourself to his embrace again, letting him kiss the crown of your head.
Dragons might continue to dance and the kingdoms would burn, but in that fleeting moment within the walls of the Hightower, the bloodstained game of thrones ceased to matter—
For the lord had reclaimed his lady, and their story might lead to a fairytale after all.
you are sarah lieberman's friend and neighbor for the past year and a half. before he died, david helped you get away from your abusive ex, and just when you start adjusting to your new life, he shows back up. who else to save you but the new man sarah hit with her car who you've grown close to, pete or is it frank?
Grizzly Bear | @pink-petal-horns
sleepyhead frank | @clawxmoon
older bf! frank castle | @/clawxmoon
frank castle!bf headcanons | @/clawxmoon
“I miss you.” | @arewetooyoungforthatsblog
Lately, you’ve been missing Frank…
What We Buried | @/arewetooyoungforthatsblog
A year ago, Frank Castle disappeared without a goodbye, leaving behind an apartment full of memories and a woman who never truly learned how to let him go. When he suddenly returns to New York, Matt believes there’s only one person Frank might still listen to. The only problem? Some things aren’t meant to stay buried… no matter how hard you try.
Frank Castle x Y/N murdock
Accident | @spidey-mads
After the accident that rocks New York to its core, Frank can’t seem to forgive himself, and he needs a reminder that accidents happen.
Who’s this? | @gallavichsreddie1128
Spiderman takes you to Frank who’s going to protect you and MJ while he handles Jean but you happen to take a liking to Frank right away.
Frank castle with a shy!reader | @wintrynightz
Bruises | @dirtylittlediary
it was a meaningless task. one frank had told you he would do. but after days of it going untouched, you took matters into your own hands.
leave a message after the beep, part two | @/dirtylittlediary
we're sorry, the number you're trying to reach has reached it's voicemail capacity.
i don’t share | @/dirtylittlediary
when trouble comes knocking, frank gets to punching
till she does us part, part two, part three | @/dirtylittlediary
you are frank's light. his life. after maria, you are the only person he could ever see himself marrying. but you aren't the only person he's seen himself loving.
too big | @/dirtylittlediary
love bites | @/dirtylittlediary
what started out as a prank sent your world crashing down around you.
take some off | @francixoxoxo
don’t like debt | @/francixoxoxo
Rage baiting him | @honeybeechestnut
You’re Not Alone Anymore | @pleasantlycrazyworld
After an intense night together, Frank finds you trying to do aftercare by yourself. What starts as confusion turns into quiet rage and aching tenderness when he realizes you’ve always had to take care of yourself. That ends tonight. Because Frank Castle doesn’t let the woman, he loves float alone in space
Cherry pie | @thyme-in-a-bubble
briefly glancing around the vacant space before taking a seat at the counter, there you spotted none other than the regular customer that you, for lack of better words, had an embarrassingly massive crush on.
His Wife | @sochkila-side
You and Frank tie the knot and he's taken quite a liking to his new title.. and yours
Worth coming back to | @peterftpercy
frank needs help after hurting spider-man. he calls you… after months of being out of your life.
MAN SIZED WALLET | @little-miss-dilf-lover
frank believes that what’s his, is yours. and what’s yours, is also yours. naturally, he’s taken on the role of provider and often finds himself doing exactly that: providing. with you his generosity knows no limits, so he spoils you rotten. giving you whatever it is that he can afford, treating you to things you shouldn’t have to spend your money on
TAXI | @/little-miss-dilf-lover
frank comes to collect you from a nightout with your friends. you’re sloppy and slurring, tripping over your words and feet in a way that shouldn’t fill him with as much adoration as it does.
Expendable | @mayfieldss
frank x reader where they’re kind of fighting each other and at each others’ throats when suddenly he realizes what’s about to happen and doesn’t hesitate to tackle reader out of the way to save her.
Beaten and bruised, Part two | @/mayfieldss
When Frank shows up at your apartment bloody and in need of patching up, you help him out. But it’s a little more than that…and maybe it always was
FOREVER | @watchmegetobsessed
You’re surprised to see Spider-Man and an unknown girl at your boyfriend’s hideout. Learning about what the kid is going through you discuss what you’d do if it happened to you, if you forgot about Frank.
Bulletproof | @fewerstars
when you make the wrong move on a mission and get shot, frank starts lecturing you for always wanting to be in charge, till he realises you're actually hurt
Pushing and pulling | @/fewerstars
you’re hopelessly in love with Frank, being the one who patches him up when he’s hurt, but he pushes you away to protect you, making the excuse that you’re young. you finally argue, then you cry and shout and yeah…
A glimpse of us | @/fewerstars
you visit your family with Frank, and when he sees you holding your brothers baby, his heart melts. It makes him think about the future you’re going to build together. So Frank has baby fever
I Love You, I’m Sorry | @tomhardysluvr888
You joined Spiderman and Frank’s mission to take down Jean from destroying the Department of Damage Control. Having been an Avenger, you knew that there was always a risk. A price to pay. But you never thought it’d be so high…
Lucky ones | @amhrosina
Frank is older than any man you’ve dated before, but the age gap doesn’t stop him from worshipping the ground you walk on. After a night out, he reminds you just how gentlemanly he can be.
