Even the deadliest of men are capable of sweetness, even a monster can nurture a pup. None of these things make them less cruel, nor keeps them away from the dark.
content warnings: Brynden Rivers x ward!reader, age gap, power dynamic imbalance, manipulation, fauxcesty, nsfw, soft dom!Brynden agenda, fingering, praise. This is my introduction to ward!reader
Brynden Rivers has never been in a situation where he needs to care or protect anything more vulnerable than him. In war, in life, he is loyal to his brother, but the King is not helpless, as poorly as may do with a sword. He is an older brother only to his sister and lover, Shiera, who he has a sane measure of fear towards, again, not helpless by any means. The crows and ravens he takes care of, they are far too smart, all they need is food and occasionally, a hand to take care of wounds.
This is to say, few things lay more dormant than his paternal instinct.
Bloodraven, the master of whispers, walks the streets devoid of all fear, it is him who is feared. If you paid enough attention —You would never.— you would see his smug smile beneath the dark cloak he uses to shield his delicate skin from the sun.
He remembered that day like it had been mere minutes ago, he would remember it forever. He was walking to a brothel, not to sate any bodily needs, but because secrets always spilled from the lips of overly confident men, or men overly drunk in cunt. And it was good for his image to be seen in such places, it gave others the impression that even Lord Bloodraven himself could succumb to uncalculated fits of lust, that there was some kind of advantage there, that they had anything to hold over his head. —They did not, of course, but it was beneficial to him.
As he walked, a small thief swiped his coin purse. Not an uncommon occurrence, but the audacity made him almost chuckle. He followed the child, well knowing he would recover his property, perhaps give a halfpenny if the child seemed too pitiful. When he cornered them in the rat's nest that was probably their home, the child was trembling and hugging the coin purse for dear life. He was not moved, using the tip of his boot to push the child away from his purse. They looked at him, and he could feel himself muster a slive of pity, the eyes were dark and teary, they looked huge in the gaunt face, for some reason unknown even to him, Brynden felt a strong disgust at the thought of this... creature, this thing, living in such poor conditions. There were a million of these roaming the streets of King's Landing, but this one happened to wake that very instinct that no kennel puppy nor injured raven had before.
"My purse, child." he demanded, only for it to close its eyes and shake its head profusely. Brynden kneeled to reach under the table the waif was hiding on, and grabbed it by the scruff of its neck, like a cat. And like a cat, it squirmed and shrieked.
"How old are you?" he asked, seemingly unresponsive to your screams. You didn't respond. "I'll put you down if you speak."
His grip was painful, so you obeyed. "'On't know." Brynden grimaced, peasants did speak like they had a potato stuck in their mouths.
He did good on his word and put you down, the purse you had risked it all for nw safe in his pockets again. "Give a number, anything close."
"Nine." You said.
"You don't look it." It made sense for you to be older than you looked. you were clearly malnourished, and possibly parasite-ridden, you had crusts around your eyes like no adult had ever cared to wash your face, and he was likely right to think it had been that way.
Then he took you in. There was tenderness, yet nothing to indicate he felt sadness or pity at the state of you, he even seemed to mock you for it, called you a street mutt, a waif and vermin; but you had never felt warmth and comfort like he provided when he wrapped a blanket around your shoulders or used a wet rag to roughly clean the grime off of your face. You were not sure if he ever treated you like his child —Though he was a father to you, you were a creature to him, but you knew that whatever sentiment it was that he had for you, it was close enough to love for you to take it and run with it, for you to keep all these memories guarded in a place in your heart that was far more secure than your hands were.
You obeyed Brynden, never understood him. you tried, many times, but you doubted if you were succesful, and the fact that doubt existed, meant failure.
Once you were a little fatter, and a little less likely to die, he started being seen with you, he called you his "ward," which you liked because he called you his, and disliked because the word sounded too much like "waif." You had thought you belonged to him since he fed you for the first time, but your thoughts were irrelevant, he made you his.
He taught you how to read, only for you to read what he wanted you to read, he taught you how to write, only for you to write what he wanted you to write, he told you secrets and techniques to get even more of them, but you always knew what he wanted you to know, and no more.
He made your sleep fit his, awake and alert by night, sleeping during the day. It was a shame, sometimes, when you were still a child and wanted to play in the gardens, or just go out and feel the sun in your skin. Brynden preferred not to go out into the sun, it made his skin burn and scab, and by the time you were twenty, you had almost forgotten you could go out in the sun, that your skin, unlike his, was not fragile. You had forgotten you and Brynden were not the same person.
To anyone, your life would seem cold, the only true bond you had was a man you could not read, a man distant and detached. But if you had certainty of one thing, it was that he was not as detached from you as he made it seem, it was the only thing you knew, that you were not sure if he knew.
When you see someone as an extension of yourself for over a decade, no matter how beneath you you deem them, it is not as easy to discard it. And yes, Brynden shed his skin like a cloak, each night, when he warged into birds and even rats or spiders, —When he left behind his one eye, and started using his thousand others.— but you were not a part of his body, you were a part of that essence of himself that remained.
Brynden had a way with you that made it difficult to even think of anyone else. The people you had grown the closest to, outside of him, were always his targets, his victims, no matter if you had developed feelings for them, if you had started to believe your own lies, they would die, or suffer, they were never granted the privilege of staying in your life. And the way your master treated you, the way he gave you what you needed, only when you did, and nothing more, it kept you craving and crawling back to him. You were a full grown adult the first time he touched you like a lover, and it felt far more caring than passionate.
He undressed you, put you in his bed and let you under the covers, — for it still seemed like you were in a perpetual chill ever since your waifish days— he was fully clothed, though he removed his gloves, he would only use his hands, he needed no more uncovered. He kissed your neck and ran his hands through your waist and hips, squeezed your breasts and let you feel just the slightest hint of pain as he twisted you nipples in his cold fingertips. He was silent unless it was to encourage you or shush you tenderly, he did not feel aroused, but not uncomfortable either. It was the same as it had felt when his hands cut and brushed your hair to get rid of the matted parts, the same as it had felt when he pulled out your first loose tooth, the same as it had felt when he corrected your posture with a firm hand on your spine.
Lacking in desire, but not in fondness.
You felt your cunt get wet, you were not a child, you knew what this was, what sex was, but in some part of that mind of yours, a mind he had touched and rearranged at will, it was like he was teaching you, like this was just another lesson. When his fingers found the nub at the top of your sex, still precise, still cold as a corpse, you shivered. He used his middle finger to rub in straight lines, over and over tapping until you were desperate enough to let out a broken cry.
"Please, Brynden."
"Good." Not good girl, not good job, just good.
His ring finger teased your hole, the slick sticked to it and he used it to lubricate your entrance, the wet sounds were so loud, creamy and embarassing you would have looked away if your lower half was not covered by blankets and furs already. His ring finger rubbed your clitoris. You were trembling and letting out gasps, trying to reign in the more shameful part of your cries.
"Let it out, don't quiet yourself, no one can hear you but me." And that was the problem.
Once he made sure you were as soaked as you could be, he used his left hand to cradle your face and pull it closer towards him. "This might hurt." He whispered with a kiss to your cheek as he inserted the first finger, now using his thumb to rub circles on your puffy bundle of nerves. You felt tears slip past your eyelashes, but paid them no mind, and obeyed his order to let out your sounds.
He pumped in and out until your squirming told him you needed another finger, you were lost in the pleasure, the sensations of the soft blankets, the warmth of his embrace, the smell of the melted wax from the candles, the scent of cinnamon and vanilla you liked so much. He didn't care for it, he had done it for you.
He whispered the kind of praise that could never be held against him, "good girl", "you are doing well", "so well behaved". It made you happy, yes, but you would have given everything for a "mine" thrown around there.
Your peak came after a few more thrusts of his fingers, he was whispering and petting your hair as he helped you through it, held you until your breathing evened, then kissed your forehead and got off the bed. You were dumbfounded as he left you just like that, your eyed did not leave him as he walked towards the fire to retrieve a jug with spiced wine, and he served you a cup. You were staring shamelessly at his crotch, looking to see if he had gotten hard or not, it was the closest thing you'd get to asking him if he liked you. He noticed, it was no doubt the reason behind his mocking smile. You felt vindicated enough seeing a slight bulge. The wine was comforting, it helped you shed the haziness.
"When you need it, ask for it, I have no use for your shyness." He said, handing you back your clothes. No use, of course. Everything was utilitarian to him, even if there was anything close to affection in between. Love it's a sweet thing, but it cannot change a man's nature.
His ward is hiding illness, Brynden will have none of it.
Content warning: Brynden Rivers & ward!reader (platonic), reader gets hit, so maybe child abuse?, reader is referred to as "it" briefly, descriptions of physical pain, a bit of dadraven before I'm back to sexualizing him.
The way in which Brynden cares for his ward is obsessive.
She has to be perfect, as it is a testament to his own meticulousness, his own competency. Some would start caring for a garden or raising horses, Brynden adopted a child.
It was in a miserable state when he first found them, which made him even more proud of his handiwork, now that it was at a healthy weight and better learned than most children its age.
Yet it was stubborn.
"I said 'open'." Brynden repeated, his serene voice betraying a hint of exasperation, he was holding your jaw with a firm grip, but you would not open your mouth. "This is the last time I will ask, child." But you closed your eyes to avoid succumbing to the authority in his gaze, as his single red eye glimmered and sank into you like the fangs of a monster of tall tales.
At your refusal, he lets go of your jaw and gives a slap to the cheek that has you in pain, is not as strong as you are used to, but your current state makes throbbing, sharp pain spike in the shape of roots, from your gums to your jaw and cheek. you shriek in pain, and Brynden grips the back of your neck so you don't fall to the floor. "This will be naught but a sliver of the pain that awaits you if you let that tooth rot in your mouth like a diseased rat." He was always so sweet.
You had tears in your eyes that you were fighting to keep from falling. You didn't want him calling you a babe again. "You hurt me, I 'ont nee' dis." you said, defiantly.
"Speak properly or I will slap you once more." Your master replied, unamused.
"I said," you covered your aching cheek as a reflex. "You hurt me, I do not need this, I have dealt with this before, not you."
"The fact that my teeth are not decaying while in my own mouth is precisely why you are to listen to me."
"It will fall." you retorted.
"Not before a fever blinds you, or the rot spreads, all this while you starve." He passed you a bottle filled with vinegar and mint. "Wash your mouth with this, then I will call a maester." He poked your cheek to make you ache again, the pain clouded your vision for a second and like the last time, you screamed. "'Tis not a question."
You would rather not recall the details of the maester pulling out your tooth. It was bloody, and immesely painful, and he had to drain pus from the infected absess just below your rotten molar. all while you screamed and your guardian watched you marinate in your own suffering.
You practically passed out once it was over, you woke up in your bed, a cold, wet rag on your forehead and one in your cheek. Beside you, book in hand, was Brynden. You were upset with him, so you did not look him in the eye when you woke up. He did not care for it, and instead pressed a kiss to your brow, then your right knuckle. You hiccuped, still in pain after it all. "Your breath still smells like shit." he noted, with an arched brow and that damn mocking smile.
"I told you I was hurting." you mumbled in between gasps as you finally let yourself cry. Brynden was not moved by your tears, but at least he was not smiling anymore, he hugged you, letting your tears and snot stain his tunic. "And I told you I know best." he said as he shushed you.
You just drank whatever strange crap he orderded you to drink after that.
Hotd erased Ormund's numerous children, rewrote Gwayne's death and prolonged his life but made him gay (bi if they're smart), Daeron is supposed to die as well as all of Alicent's descendants...So House Hightower is going extinct? How does that figure into AKOTSK and GOT shows where there are people descended from House Hightower? So Gwayne is going to live and have children? Or Ormund is? The most logical explanation is that Ormund has family but sent them away maybe? But where is safer than there he lives?
“Second in line” should imply Ormund has kids but they also appear to have written them out to make Gwayne second in line after Ormund which is kind of batshit crazy. I’m assuming it’s a set up bc they want him to live but in that case he’s either bi or the Hightowers are going extinct bc we already established the turkey baster method is not part of their scientific understanding. The lord paramount AND his heir are both 37-40yo bachelors, stop worrying about that family of evil swedes mama a succession crisis behind you!!
Summary: A noble lady from a disgraced house that supported Blackfyres is married off to Lord Bloodraven as a reward for his loyalty and prowess in battle. But he prefers to occupy his time with duties as the Hand of the King. Comfortable but lonely, she befriends one of his ravens. Part 1 here .Warnings: arranged marriage, yearning, angst, fluff, Westeros politics, Shiera.
King Daeron's court was full of whispers, and the whispers about the Hand and his lady wife were among the most persistent.
You heard them, of course. You could not help but hear them. The serving girls who thought you out of earshot, the lords who forgot you were standing in the shadow of a pillar, the ladies who smiled at you sweetly with acidic eyes. They spoke of the Oakheart girl who had married the sorcerer, who had been given to the one-eyed bastard as punishment for her family's treachery. They pitied you, mocked you, or marveled at your composure in the face of such a grotesque match.
What they did not know, what they could not see from their distant tables and their whispered huddles, was that you were quite happy.
It was an odd thing to admit, even to yourself. Brynden Rivers was not a man who inspired joy in the hearts of maidens. He was strange and secretive, pale as a corpse, with his missing eye and his wine-stain birthmark and his unsettling habit of knowing things he should not know. He did not dance, did not laugh loudly, did not shower you with the flowery compliments that other lords bestowed on their ladies.
Yet you woke each morning in his bed, your head pillowed on his chest. He rarely slept, you had learned that his strange nature included an ability to go for days with only the briefest snatches of rest, but he would lie still for hours in the darkness, one hand resting on your back, his heartbeat slow and steady beneath your ear. Sometimes you would wake in the small hours and find his single eye open, watching the ceiling. You would murmur his name and feel his hand tighten on your shoulder in wordless acknowledgment.
"Am I keeping you?" you would ask, in the early days.
"No," he would answer every time.
This morning was like the others. You woke to dawn light filtering through the narrow windows of the Tower, to the familiar scent of old parchment and candle wax, to the gentle rise and fall of your husband's chest. His arm was around you, his long fingers splayed against the curve of your waist. His eye was closed, his breathing even. He looked, in these rare moments of counterfeit sleep, almost peaceful.
You propped yourself up on one elbow and studied his face. The birthmark that others whispered about, the blotch of deep red that climbed his neck and pooled on his cheek, no longer seemed odd to you. It was simply part of him, like the silver of his hair or the pale arch of his brow. You traced a finger lightly along its edge. His eye opened.
"Good morrow," you said.
"Good morrow." His voice was rough with disuse. "You are staring."
"I am admiring."
A faint crease appeared between his brows, his version of a puzzled expression. "There is little to admire."
"There is everything to admire." You leaned down and pressed a kiss to his forehead, then to the bridge of his nose, then to the scarred hollow where his missing eye had once been. He held still for this ritual, as he always did, and when you reached his mouth, his hand came up to cup the back of your head and hold you there for a moment longer.
"You are very odd," he said when you pulled back.
"I am your wife. I am allowed to be odd."
"Hm." The sound was almost amused. He released you and sat up, the sheets pooling around his waist. The morning light caught the pale angles of his torso, the lean muscle. "I have something for you."
"You always have something for me."
He rose from the bed and crossed to his desk, where a small wooden box sat beside a stack of parchments. You watched him, the way he moved with that uncanny grace, the way his silver hair fell across his bare shoulders. When he turned back, the box was in his hands.
"For you," he said, placing it on the bed beside you.
You opened it. Inside, nestled on a bed of black velvet, lay a necklace. The chain was white gold, so fine it seemed spun from spider silk, and from it hung a pendant of deep green emerald, carved into the shape of a leaf. Oak leaves. Your house sigil.
"Brynden." Your voice caught in your throat. "This is…where did you find this?"
"A craftsman in Myr. I commissioned it some moons ago. It arrived by ship yesterday."
The emerald caught the light, flashing green fire. You lifted it reverently, and the chain slithered through your fingers like water.
"It is beautiful," you breathed.
"You said once that you missed the Reach. The trees, the green." He was standing awkwardly now, his hands clasped behind his back, his eye fixed on your face with slight anxiety. "I thought perhaps you might like to carry a piece of it with you."
"I love it." You rose from the bed and went to him, the necklace clutched in your fist. "Put it on me please."
He took the chain with careful fingers and fastened it around your neck. The pendant rested against your collarbone, a small green anchor to the home you had left behind.
"There," he said. "It suits you."
You looked down at the emerald leaf, then up at your husband's pale, strange, beloved face. "You give me so many things," you said. "The ruby bracelets, the sapphire hairpins, the pearl drop earrings. The ivory comb from Volantis, the silk shawl from Yi Ti. My jewelry chest is overflowing."
He tilted his head, that familiar birdlike gesture. "Do you not like them?"
"I adore them. Every piece." You reached up and touched his cheek, the smooth skin beside the birthmark. "But you do not need to bring me treasures every week, Brynden. I am not Shiera."
The name hung in the air between you. It was the first time you had spoken it since that night in the solar, the night everything had changed. You watched his face carefully, looking for the flinch, the shadow of old pain. It flickered there for a heartbeat, and then it was gone.
"I know you are not," he said.
"I only mean that I do not require rare jewels to be happy. Shiera collected beautiful things. I…" You hesitated, searching for the right words. "I collect moments."
He was silent for a while, his eye searching your face. Then, slowly, he leaned down. It was a gesture he had developed in the first weeks of your true marriage, when he had noticed how you stretched onto your toes to reach his mouth. So he had taken to bending toward you whenever you were close, a small, unconscious courtesy.
You kissed him. When you pulled back, he looked thoughtful.
"I see," he said.
"I am not ungrateful…"
"You are not." He touched the emerald leaf at your throat. "But I have been foolish. I have been courting you with the wrong currency."
"Brynden…"
"I have a meeting with the Master of Coin this morning." He was already turning toward his wardrobe, reaching for his doublet. "It will be tedious and I will likely have to threaten someone before it is done. But afterward…" He paused, his shirt half-buttoned. "Afterward, I have no obligations. The afternoon is clear."
You blinked at him. "It is?"
"I have ensured it." He finished the buttons. "I thought we might take a walk in the gardens. I have heard there is a new fountain, some ghastly thing from Braavos with mermaids. I would like to hear your opinion on it."
A walk in the gardens. Such an ordinary, unremarkable thing that any husband might do with any wife. Yet your eyes stung with sudden tears, because you understood what he was offering. Time. His time, which was the rarest treasure of all.
"I would like that," you said, and your voice came out steadier than you felt. "Very much."
He nodded, a crisp, businesslike gesture, but you had learned to read him now. The faint relaxation around his mouth, the slight softening of his red eye. He was pleased.
"Good," he said. "I shall send for you when the meeting is done."
He crossed to the door, then stopped, turned, came back to you and leaned down again, pressing a kiss to your forehead.
"Wear the necklace," he said. "It truly does suit you."
True to his word, Brynden sent a servant to fetch you in the early afternoon. You had dressed with care, a gown of pale cream silk, simple in cut but elegant in drape, the emerald necklace displayed against the bare skin of your throat. Your hair you had left loose, the way he seemed to prefer it. When you descended the Tower stairs and found him waiting in the courtyard, his single eye swept over you with an intensity that made your cheeks heat.
"You look lovely," he said.
"You look like you have just threatened the Master of Coin."
The corner of his mouth twitched. "I did. He was most cooperative afterward."
The gardens of the Red Keep were beautiful in the afternoon light, the roses in full bloom, the lemon trees heavy with fruit, the sea breeze carrying the salt-tang of Blackwater Bay. Lords and ladies strolled along the gravel paths, their silks and velvets a shifting tapestry of color. As you walked at Brynden's side, his arm tucked through yours, you felt their eyes on you. The whispers, too, rising like the hum of insects.
"…the Oakheart girl and the sorcerer…"
"…look at his face, gods be good…"
"…she seems happy enough, poor deluded thing…"
You had learned to ignore them. More than ignore them, you had learned to pity them, for they could not see what you saw. They could not know the quiet sweetness of the man beside you, the way he described the Braavosi fountain in a dry, precise deadpan that made you laugh aloud. The way he paused to point out a particularly clever raven perched on a fig tree, explaining how it had been trained to deliver messages. The way his hand tightened on your arm when you stumbled on an uneven stone, steadying you before you could fall.
"That fountain," he said, gesturing to the marble monstrosity ahead, "The mermaids were supposed to spout water from their mouths. As you can see, they are spouting from their…elsewhere."
You clapped a hand over your mouth, but the laugh escaped anyway, bright and startled. The mermaids were indeed spouting water from anatomically dubious locations, their stone faces frozen in expressions of eternal surprise.
"Who commissioned this?" you managed.
"Lord Redwyne, as a gift to the king. I suspect it was revenge for the wine tariffs."
You laughed again, and the sound drew stares from a nearby cluster of ladies. You did not care. You were walking in the gardens with your husband, your arm in his, he was making you laugh, the afternoon sun was warm on your face, and the emerald leaf was a cool weight against your skin.
"Brynden," you said, when your laughter had subsided.
"Yes?"
"Thank you. For this afternoon."
He was quiet for a moment, his eye on the fountain. The mermaids continued to spout water from various unseemly places.
"I have been thinking," he said, "about what you said this morning. About collecting moments. I have realized that I do not know how to be a husband. All of my tools are wrong." He turned to face you. "I gave Shiera jewels because jewels were what she wanted. I gave you jewels because I did not know what else to give."
"You give me plenty," you said, touching the emerald. "I was not complaining."
"But you were teaching me." He took your hand, his cool fingers wrapping around yours. "And I am a quick learner."
He lifted your hand to his mouth and pressed a kiss to your knuckles, right there in the middle of the garden path, with half the court looking on. The whispers rose to a crescendo, but you did not hear them. You only heard the beat of your own heart, the soft intake of your husband's breath, the rustle of the wind through the trees.
"Come," he said, releasing your hand but keeping your arm in his. "There is a bench by the sea wall. I am told the view is tolerable."
It was more than tolerable. It was magnificent, the bay spreading out before you in a sheet of hammered gold, the sails of ships glinting in the distance, the sky a pale, washed blue. You sat together on the stone bench, your shoulder brushing his, and watched the waves.
"May I ask you something?" you said after a while.
"You may."
"What do the ravens see? When you look through their eyes?"
He was silent for a moment, and you worried you had overstepped. But then he spoke, his voice low and contemplative.
"It is difficult to describe. It is like…being in two places at once. I am here, with you, but I am also above the city, riding the wind. I see the rooftops and the streets and the people going about their lives. I see ships coming into harbor and carts rumbling along the roads. I see a thousand small moments that no one else notices, all happening at once." He paused. "It is overwhelming, sometimes. It is why I do not sleep well. There is always something to see."
"Does it hurt?"
"No. It is simply…much." His eye found yours. "Does it frighten you? Knowing that I can see through them?"
You considered the question. "It should," you admitted. "But I have grown rather fond of ravens."
"One raven in particular, I suspect."
"Pebble is a good friend."
"Useless creature."
"You could stand to be kinder to Pebble."
Brynden Rivers laughed. It was a small sound, rusty, as though his throat had forgotten how to make it. But it was unmistakably a laugh, and it transformed his face. For a moment he looked young.
"I shall endeavor to be kinder to the raven," he said. "For your sake."
"Thank you."
A raven fluttered past, disappearing into the dusk sky towards rookery. You slipped your arms around his waist, pressing your cheek to his shoulder.
"Bad news?" you asked.
"No. Merely information." He turned in your embrace, his hands settling on your hips. "Lord Butterwell has been buying up land. I will need to look into it."
"Tomorrow."
He blinked. "Tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow." You reached up and traced the line of his jaw. "Tonight, you are mine."
His eye softened, the red dimming to something warmer. "Am I?"
"You are." You tugged gently at his collar, pulling him down. He leaned obligingly, bending to your level, and you pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth. "We are going to have supper. You are going to eat more than three bites. And then we are going to sit by the fire, and you are going to tell me about the most ridiculous thing you have seen through your ravens this week."
"The most ridiculous thing?"
"Surely there must be something. Courtiers are absurd creatures."
He considered this. "Lord Bracken was seen attempting to serenade a milkmaid last Tuesday. He fell into a cow pat."
You laughed, delighted. "There. That is exactly what I mean."
A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Very well," he obliged. "Supper. And cows. And…being yours."
"Good." You kissed him again. "Brynden."
"Yes?"
"I am happy."
"So am I," he said, and there was wonder in his voice, as though he had only just realized it was true.
The hour was late, and the Tower of the Hand was silent save for the crackle of the fire in the hearth and the distant cry of gulls over Blackwater Bay. You had retired to your chambers hours ago, leaving Brynden to his endless parchments and his murmured consultations with agents who came and went like shadows. You had grown accustomed to these nights, they no longer stung the way they once had, back in the cold early days of your marriage, when every empty hour had felt like a rejection.
Now, you simply waited. You knew he would come to you eventually.
You were half-drowsing when you heard the door open and close, the soft tread of boots on stone. The mattress dipped as Brynden sat on the edge of the bed, and you heard the familiar sounds of him undressing: the rustle of his doublet, the soft thump of his boots hitting the floor. You kept your eyes closed, a small smile playing at your lips, savoring the anticipation.
He slid under the covers beside you, and his hand found your hip in the darkness. His touch was urgent in a way it rarely was. Usually, he came to bed with a kind of restrained gentleness, as though he were still learning the language of intimacy and wanted to pronounce every word correctly. Tonight, his grip was firmer, his body pressing closer, his voice was rough with a weariness that went beyond the physical.
"I need you," he muttered. "Today was…I need to not think. I need to be here. With you. Only you."
Your heart clenched. You knew his burdens, the weight of a kingdom pressing down on his shoulders, the endless schemes and counter-schemes, the dark whispers that followed him wherever he went. You opened your eyes to tell him that you were here, that you would always be here, that he could lose himself in you as much as he needed…and then you remembered.
"Brynden," you whispered carefully. "Wait."
His hand had been sliding up your thigh. It stopped. "What is wrong?"
"Nothing is wrong. It is only…" You bit your lip. "There is something under the covers."
He went still. You felt the shift in him, the instinctive alertness of a spymaster who had survived a dozen assassination attempts. "Something," he repeated.
"A friend."
"A fr…" He stopped. His eye, adjusted to the darkness, dropped to the lump in the blankets between your bodies. A small lump.
From beneath the covers came a soft, contented squawk.
Brynden reached over and pulled back the blankets with a sharp flick of his wrist. There, sprawled across the soft mound of your stomach, wings spread as though drunken, lay Pebble. The raven's eyes were closed, his beak slightly open, his round belly rising and falling with each tiny breath. One of your hands was still resting on his breast feathers, frozen mid-stroke.
There was a long silence.
"My lady," Brynden said, in the tone of a man who was choosing his words with extreme care, "why is there a raven in our bed?"
"He was lonely."
"Lonely."
"He was tapping at the window. It is cold outside tonight. And you were working so late, and I was alone, and he looked so sad with his little beak pressed against the glass…"
"So you brought him into the bed."
"I put down a towel," you said weakly. "In case of…accidents."
Brynden stared at Pebble. Pebble, perhaps sensing that he was the subject of discussion, opened one bleary black eye, regarded the Hand of the King with casual insolence, and closed it again.
"He is lying on your stomach," Brynden said.
"He likes to be close to me."
"He is lying on your stomach in our bed, where I was about to…" He stopped himself, took a breath, and pinched the bridge of his nose. "My love. You have made my raven into a lapdog."
"He is not a lapdog. He is a raven."
"A lapraven, then. A creature that does not exist in nature. You have invented it." He reached down and scooped Pebble up with one hand. The raven let out an indignant squawk, his wings flapping uselessly. "This bird was bred to carry messages across the Seven Kingdoms. To fly through storms and evade hawks. To serve as my eyes and ears in places no man could reach. And now he sleeps on silk sheets and eats from your fingers."
You sat up, clutching the blankets to your chest. "He still carries messages."
"Once a fortnight. To the kitchens. Begging for scraps."
You tried to look dignified. It was difficult when your hair was mussed and your husband was holding your pet like a naughty child. "I will put him back on his perch," you offered.
Brynden sighed. It was a long, tortured sigh of a man who had spent the day dealing with treasonous lords and bickering councilors and who had come to bed wanting nothing more than to bury himself in his wife's warmth, only to find a plump bird in his place.
"Stay," he said. He crossed to the perch near the window and deposited Pebble onto it with more gentleness than you had expected. The raven ruffled his feathers, gave Brynden a reproachful look, and tucked his head under his wing with the air of a monarch who had been grievously insulted.
Brynden returned to the bed. He did not lie down. Instead, he sat on the edge, his back to you, his silver hair catching the firelight. The scars on his shoulders, old and pale, traced patterns you had memorized with your fingertips.
"I am not angry," he said, without turning around.
"I know."
"I am…concerned."
You crawled across the bed and knelt behind him, wrapping your arms around his chest and pressing your cheek to his back. He was tense, the muscles hard. "Concerned about what?"
"Pebble is not a pet. He was never meant to be a pet. He is a tool that has forgotten its purpose. And you…" He paused, and his hand came up to cover yours where they rested on his chest. "You have made him forget. With your kindness, with your attention, with your need to nurture something."
"Is that wrong?"
"It is not wrong. But it is…misdirected." He turned, shifting so that he faced you, his single eye found yours in the dim light. "A raven cannot love you back. Not truly. It can only take what you give and grow lazy on it. You deserve something that can return your affection."
"Pebble returns my affection."
"Pebble returns to anyone who feeds him. I have seen him beg from the kitchen maids."
You wanted to argue, but the image of Pebble waddling after the scullery girls, croaking pitifully for bacon rinds, was unfortunately vivid. "I like ravens," you said instead, a little defensively. "They remind me of you."
Brynden went still. "They remind you of me."
"Your eyes. Your cleverness. The way you tilt your head when you are thinking." You reached up and touched his cheek. "When you are away, which is often, Pebble is…a piece of you that stays with me. A small, feathery, ill-behaved piece. But a piece regardless."
"Then perhaps," he said slowly, "what you want is not a raven at all."
"What do you mean?"
He took your hand from his cheek and held it in both of his.
"Perhaps what you want is a child."
The word hung in the air between you. A child. Your breath caught, your heart stuttered, and you felt the blood rush to your cheeks.
"I…" you started, and stopped. "I did not mean to suggest…"
"You did not suggest. I am suggesting." His thumb traced circles on the back of your hand. "You have made this Tower warmer than it has ever been. You have filled it with your laughter and your gentleness and your stubborn insistence on loving things that are not easy to love." His eye met yours, and there was something almost vulnerable in its depths. "A child would be lucky to have you as a mother. And I…" He hesitated. "I would be honored to give you one."
Your throat tightened. "Brynden, you do not have to…you said once that you were not a man given to tender feeling. That you were strange and secretive and cold. If you do not want children…"
"I did not say that."
"Then what are you saying?"
He leaned closer, his forehead nearly touching yours. "I am saying that I have spent my life serving the realm. I have given my eye, my youth, my conscience, everything I have, to the Iron Throne. And I would do it again. But there is a part of me that is tired. A part of me that wants something that is not duty." His hand tightened on yours. "Something that is ours."
Your eyes were burning. You blinked rapidly, but a tear escaped anyway, tracing a hot path down your cheek.
"You want a child with me?" you whispered.
"I want a family with you." He said it simply, as though it were a fact he had long since established and was only now reporting. "I want to see you holding our son or daughter in your arms. I want to teach them to read and to shoot a bow and to understand the language of ravens. I want to watch you be the mother I know you will be: patient, kind, fierce when you need to be." He paused, a ghost of a smile crossed his lips. "And I want to stop finding birds in my bed."
A laugh burst out of you, wet and startled. "That is what this is about? You are jealous of Pebble?"
"I am not jealous of a raven."
"You are. You are jealous of a useless raven."
"I am not…" He stopped, his smile widened involuntarily. "Perhaps a little. He sees more of you than I do, some days. And he is always on your stomach."
You laughed again, it the tears spilled over. You threw your arms around his neck and kissed him. He caught you and kissed you back with a fervor.
"You are a ridiculous man," you murmured against his mouth.
"I am a pragmatic man. I see a problem, I propose a solution."
"A child is a solution?"
"A child is many things." He pulled back, his red eye bright in the firelight. "A legacy. A hope. A piece of us that will outlast all the schemes and wars. A child is the one thing that matters more than the realm." He gently brushed a strand of hair from your face. "You asked me once what I wished for. I told you I had wished for foolish things. But this…this is not foolish. This is the wisest thing I have ever wanted."
You kissed him again. His hands slid up your back, pressing you closer. You felt the tension drain from his shoulders as he let himself sink into you.
"What about Pebble?" you asked breathlessly as his lips traced a path down your throat.
"Pebble," he said between kisses, "can sleep on his perch tonight. And every night hereafter. Our bed is about to become considerably less accommodating to ravens."
"That seems unfair to him."
"I will buy him a larger perch. The finest perch in the Seven Kingdoms." He lifted his head and looked at you, his expression was serious now. "But this is not about the raven. This is about us."
Part 3: coming soon...
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Summary: A noble lady from a disgraced house that supported Blackfyres is married off to Lord Bloodraven as a reward for his loyalty and prowess in battle. But he prefers to occupy his time with duties as the Hand of the King. Comfortable but lonely, she befriends one of his ravens. Warnings: arranged marriage, yearning, angst, fluff, Westeros politics, Shiera.
The raven was a greedy, ungrateful beast, and you loved it dearly.
You had named him Pebble, for no greater reason than the smooth grey of his breast feathers, which reminded you of the stones along the Mander where you had played as a child. He came to your windowsill each morning, croaking his hoarse demands, and you obliged him with crumbs of bread and shreds of cold meat saved from your supper. In return, he permitted you to stroke the ruff of his neck and mutter your foolish secrets into the space between his blinking black eyes. It was a small, pitiful comfort.
The Tower of the Hand was a cold place, despite the braziers that burned in every chamber. You had been given rooms near the top, close enough to the Hand’s own solar that you might, in theory, encounter your husband on the winding stair. In practice, you saw his servants more often: the silent men in their grey wool cloaks, the Raven’s Teeth who guarded his door with bows strung across their backs. They nodded to you when you passed, respectful but distant, as though you were a ghost they had been instructed not to disturb.
You were a ghost, in a way. A shade drifting through the Red Keep in your pale gowns, your House’s green and gold folded away in chests because wearing them felt like a provocation. Oakheart. The name sat heavy on your tongue these days, a fruit gone bitter on the branch. Your father had played his double game during the rebellion and lost, and you were the price of his redemption, a trueborn daughter gifted to a legitimized bastard, a man who had not wanted you, who had asked for another woman’s hand a thousand times and been refused, and who had accepted you as a lord might accept a parcel of land he had no intention of farming.
You tried not to think of Shiera Seastar. It was impossible.
Her name was everywhere in the Red Keep, whispered by serving girls and sung by minstrels, painted in miniature on ivory pendants that his paramours wore at their throats. The most beautiful woman in the Seven Kingdoms, they called her, and when they said it in your hearing, their eyes would dart to you with something between pity and amusement. See the Oakheart girl, their glances said. See how plain she looks beside the memory of Seastar’s shimmer.
Back in the Reach, you had been called beautiful. You had believed it. Here, you were a candle held up against the sun. Back in the Reach, you were praised as a proper lady, and Shiera was called a shameless whore with nothing more than derision. But King's Landing valued influence, the ability to captivate and draw interest, which Shiera had in abundance.
You did not hate her. Hatred required energy you did not possess. But you feared her. You feared the day she would return to court, trailing silk and scandal behind her, and you would have to stand beside your husband and watch his single eye follow her across the hall. You feared the quiet, courteous dismissal that would surely follow. You had married a man who loved another woman. It was a common enough fate for highborn ladies, you knew, but knowing it did not make your marriage bed any warmer.
You spent your days wandering. The gardens, with their rose trellises and marble fountains, their sharp-scented herbs and imported lemon trees shivering in the sea wind. The library, where you read histories of the Seven Kingdoms until the words blurred before your eyes. The sept, where you knelt before the Maiden and asked for guidance that never came. And the stairway that spiraled up to the Hand’s solar, where you would sometimes sit on the cold stone steps with a book open on your lap, close enough to hear the murmur of voices beyond the iron-banded door, the scratch of a quill, the rustle of parchment. You never knocked. You were too afraid of being turned away.
It was on one of those steps, three moons into your marriage, that Brynden Rivers finally spoke to you about the raven.
You had Pebble on your knee, feeding him strips of roasted capon you had wrapped in a napkin and smuggled from the kitchens. The bird was growing stout, you could see it in the way his breast swelled over his claws, the way he waddled rather than hopped when he moved along the windowsill. You had noticed but you had not cared. You had to keep feeding him so he wouldn't leave you as well.
“What am I doing, Pebble?” you whispered. “What am I doing here? My husband does not want me. The court does not see me. My family’s name is a jest and a warning both. I am a wife in name only, and I do not know how to become anything more. I was not taught how to be a wife to a man like him. I was taught how to be a wife to a lord who wanted a gentle lady to manage his household and bear his children. But Lord Bloodraven has a household that manages itself and no desire for children of his body, or so they say.” You paused, your fingers stilling on the raven’s feathers. “Perhaps he would want children if they were Shiera’s.”
The raven croaked.
You stroked the raven’s feathers again, and your voice cracked. “I am even afraid that you will leave me, Pebble. You are the only friend I have in this place. Please do not fly away.”
The door to the solar opened. You scrambled to your feet, the napkin falling from your lap, capon scattering across the stone. Pebble let out an indignant caw and flapped onto the windowsill, his wings laboring under his weight.
Lord Bloodraven stood in the doorway.
His hair, silver-white, fell straight to his shoulders, and his skin was so pale it seemed to drink the light. The red birthmark that crept up his neck and cheek, the source of his name, was vivid as a splash of wine against snow. He wore black, and the eye that fixed on you now was the deep, unsettling red of dying embers.
The other eye was gone. A pale, smooth scar ran from brow to cheekbone, and beneath it, a dark hollow that seemed to see more than any living eye could.
“My lady wife,” he said. His voice was quiet, precise, each word placed as carefully as a stone on a cyvasse board.
“My lord.” You dropped into a curtsy, your heart hammering. You had not expected him to emerge. He rarely did before the hour of the bat. “Forgive me, I did not mean to disturb you. I was only...”
His gaze had moved past you to the raven. Pebble was worrying at a shred of capon, his beak tearing at the meat with smug contentment. Bloodraven’s expression did not change, but the air shifted, a faint tightening like the pause before a thunderclap.
“That is my raven,” he said.
“Yes, my lord. I hope you do not mind. He comes to my window, and I...”
“He is fat.”
The words fell like a stone into still water. You felt heat rise to your cheeks, the familiar burn of mortification. Your fingers twisted in the folds of your skirt, a pale lavender silk, pretty and demure. Here in the grey light of the tower it seemed washed-out and childish. You were a woman grown, a wife, and yet you felt like a girl being scolded by her septa for some minor transgression.
“I have been feeding him,” you admitted in a small voice.
Bloodraven stepped forward. His movements were unsettlingly smooth. He lifted one long-fingered hand, and the raven, your Pebble, your greedy, ungrateful Pebble, fluttered up to perch on his wrist without the slightest hesitation, as though you had never existed.
“A raven of the Tower must be lean,” Bloodraven said, stroking the bird’s breast with one pale thumb. Pebble closed his eyes in bliss. “He must fly swiftly over distances that would exhaust a lesser bird. He must carry messages through weather that would kill a hawk. He must be quick, clever, and sharp as a blade.”
He turned that burning red eye back to you.
“You have made him useless.”
The words struck harder than they should have. You had not thought yourself capable of tears, you had not wept once since leaving the Reach, not at your wedding, not on your wedding night when your husband failed to come to your bed, not in all the lonely days that followed, but now your throat tightened and your vision swam. You blinked rapidly, fighting it down, but a single tear escaped and traced a burning path down your cheek.
You ducked your head, hoping he had not seen. The silence stretched, unbearable.
“I am sorry,” you whispered. “I did not know. He came to me. He seemed friendly. I only offered him kindness.”
“Friendly.” He said the word as if it were a foreign concept. His blood-eye seemed to gleam in the half-light, and for a moment you could have sworn you saw the raven’s reflection in it, a dark bird within a darker pool. “Ravens are tools, my lady. They are not pets. This one has been made useless by your kindness.”
The word useless stung again. You dropped your gaze to the floor again, studying the worn flagstones beneath your slippers. “I apologise. I will not feed it anymore.”
You did not wait for a response. You gathered your skirts and fled down the winding stair, your slippers slapping against the stone, your breath coming in short, hitching gasps. You did not stop until you reached your chambers, where you threw yourself onto the great empty bed and buried your face in the pillows and wept until there was nothing left inside you.
You did not go to the Tower the next day, nor the day after that. You kept to your rooms, claiming a headache when your maids inquired. You took your meals alone, the food tasteless on your tongue. You did not open your shutters, though you heard the scratch of claws on the sill more than once. You could not bear to see Pebble, to see the raven who had abandoned you as easily as breathing, who had flown to his master’s hand without a backward glance.
It was on the third day that a servant knocked at your door and informed you that the Hand of the King required your presence in his solar.
You dressed carefully, your hands trembling on the laces of your gown. You chose a dress of pale green, the color of new leaves, the closest you dared come to the Oakheart colors. You pinned your hair up in a simple coil. You looked, you thought, like a woman preparing for an execution.
The solar was warm, lit by a fire in the great hearth and by candles in iron holders. Books lined the walls, more books than you had ever seen in a private chamber, their spines cracked and worn from use. Maps and charts covered a long table, and in the corner, a perch held three ravens, their heads tucked under their wings.
Bloodraven sat behind a desk of dark oak, a quill in his hand. He did not rise when you entered, but he set the quill down and gestured to a chair across from him.
“Sit,” he said.
You sat. Your hands folded in your lap, the picture of a well-bred lady. You had been trained for this, after all: to be still, to be silent, to be pleasing. It was the only weapon you had ever been given.
Bloodraven regarded you for a long moment. In the firelight, the port-wine stain on his cheek seemed to shift and writhe like something alive. His eye, that terrible red eye, seemed to see straight through you, past the careful composure and the pretty dress and into the hollow ache at your center.
“You have not been to the Tower,” he said.
“I did not wish to disturb you, my lord.”
“You have not been to the gardens, either. Nor the library. Nor the sept.” He leaned back in his chair, steepling his long fingers. “My birds tell me things.”
Your heart lurched. The ravens. Of course. You had forgotten, in your misery, the whispers that surrounded your husband like a cloak of shadows. He could see through the eyes of his birds, they said. He could watch the whole of the Seven Kingdoms from his Tower, and nothing escaped his notice. You had thought it a fanciful tale, a legend spun to explain the unerring accuracy of his spy network. But the way he looked at you now made you wonder.
“I have been tired,” you said, which was not entirely a lie.
“You have been crying.”
The words were blunt, without softening. You flinched, your gaze dropping to your hands.
“My lady,” Bloodraven said, his tone had shifted. It was not kind, you did not think kindness was in his nature, but it was less cold than before. “Look at me.”
You raised your eyes.
“The raven,” he said. “You named him.”
It was not a question. You nodded anyway.
“Pebble,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “Because of his breast feathers. They reminded me of home.”
Bloodraven was silent for a moment. Then he rose from his chair and crossed to the window, his back to you, his silver hair catching the firelight.
“I have had many ravens,” he said. “Hundreds, over the years. I breed them in the Tower, train them, dispatch them across the realm. They are tools, nothing more. I have never given one a name.”
He turned, his single eye finding you again.
“No one has ever named one of my ravens before.”
You did not know what to say. You sat frozen, your heart beating a nervous rhythm against your ribs.
“He is not useless,” Bloodraven said, and there was something akin to curiosity in his voice. “I examined him this morning. He is plump, yes, but he is healthy. His plumage is glossy. His eyes are bright. He is more docile than the others, more accustomed to human touch. There are uses for such a raven.”
He took a step toward you, then another, until he stood before your chair, looking down at you with an expression you could not read.
“I have been a poor husband,” he said.
Your mouth opened but no sound came out.
“I did not ask for this marriage,” he continued, “and neither did you. We were both bound by the king’s will, and I have not made the binding easier for you. I have been…absent. Preoccupied.” He paused. “Unkind.”
“My lord, you have been...”
“Do not,” he said, lifting a hand to stop your protest, “be polite. I am surrounded by polite people. I find it exhausting.”
You closed your mouth.
Bloodraven lowered his hand. “I loved Shiera,” he said, and the name was a blade between your ribs. “For many years. I asked for her hand more times than I can count. She always refused. Perhaps she was wise.” His jaw tightened, a flicker of old pain crossing his pale features. “But she is not my wife. You are.”
He reached down, and before you could react, his fingers closed around your hand. His skin was cool, dry. But his grip was steady.
“I cannot promise you love,” he said. “I am not a man given to tender feeling. The whispers about me are not all false. I am a sorcerer, of a kind. I do see through the eyes of my ravens. I have done things that would make you flinch to hear, and I will likely do more before I am through. I have little patience for the courtly games that fill the days of most highborn ladies.”
He paused, and his thumb brushed once across your knuckles.
“But I am not cruel without cause. I do not take pleasure in suffering. And I have watched you these three moons, my lady. Through the eyes of my ravens, yes. I have seen you in the gardens, sitting alone on the stone benches. I have seen you in the library, reading the same page over and over because your mind is elsewhere. I have seen you feeding my raven, speaking to him as though he were a friend, because you had no one else to speak to.”
Your face was burning. You wanted to look away, to hide, but his eye held you as surely as a pin holds a butterfly.
“I did not intend to spy,” he said, and there was a note in his voice that might have been regret. “At first, I was merely curious. Then I was...concerned. You are withering, my lady. Like a flower deprived of light. And I am the one who has kept you in the dark.”
He released your hand and stepped back.
“I would like to propose a truce,” he said. “A beginning. I will not pretend to be something I am not. I will always be busy with the affairs of the realm, always be strange, secretive and perhaps a little frightening for your liking. But I will make an effort to be present. To speak with you. To…know you.” He tilted his head, a gesture eerily reminiscent of his ravens. “If you will permit it.”
You stared at him, your heart pounding so loudly you were certain he could hear it. This was not what you had expected. This was not the cold dismissal, the polite abandonment, the quiet return to separate lives. This was an opening, a crack in the armor.
“I would like that,” your voice came out steadier than you had hoped. “My lord.”
“Brynden,” he corrected. “If we are to attempt this, you may as well use my name.”
You swallowed. “Brynden.”
The corners of his mouth twitched, the barest suggestion of a smile. “See? Not so difficult.”
He returned to his desk and picked up his quill, but he did not dismiss you. Instead, he gestured toward a smaller table near the fire, where a tray of fruit and cheese and a pitcher of wine had been laid out.
“Stay,” he said. “Eat. You have been hiding in your rooms for three days, and I suspect you have not been eating properly.”
You rose from your chair, your legs unsteady beneath you. As you crossed to the table, you saw a perch near the window, separate from the others. On it sat Pebble, his head cocked, his black eyes fixed on you with reproach.
“He has been sulking,” Brynden said, not looking up from his parchment. “He does not understand why you stopped coming.”
You reached out a trembling hand and stroked the raven’s breast. Pebble made a soft sound and pressed his head against your fingers.
“I am sorry,” you murmured to him. “I am here now.”
Behind you, you heard the scratch of the quill pause for just a moment, and then resume.
From that day, you took your evening meals in the solar with Brynden, sitting at the small table by the fire while he worked at his desk. He did not speak much, but he answered when you asked questions, and sometimes he would pause in his writing to ask one of his own. Small things at first: how you found the Red Keep, whether the sea air agreed with you, what books you had been reading. You answered honestly, and he listened with a focus that was almost unnerving, his eye fixed on you as though every word you spoke were a piece of intelligence to be filed away.
Then he started inquiring about your life, so you told him. Your father had pledged fealty to both King Daeron and Daemon Blackfyre, sending one gold and the other men. King Daeron had kept his crown, and House Oakheart's reputation had suffered. Instead of emerging unscathed either way, as Lord Oakheart had intended, the King inflicted punishments on him. His eldest son, your older brother, was assigned to become a Kingsguard. He had to refute his title, land and future of marriage and instead serve as a guard to the same King he had fought against. You, the eldest daughter, were given to Hand of the King as a reward he didn't ask for. A legitimate lady to solidify his standing. Your mother had acted as if everything was fine, which you suspected was for your sake, although you didn't want such strained treatment. And you scarcely saw your brother since arriving in King's Landing, even though you both lived at the Red Keep.
You learned things about him in return. He had been born with the birthmark, with hair already white, and his mother had wept when she first saw him. He had been a poor swordsman as a boy, too thin and frail, so he had turned to the bow out of desperation. He loved his Blackwood sisters. He did not sleep well. He never had.
One evening, a fortnight after your conversation in the solar, you gathered your courage and asked the question that had been burning in your throat since the day you arrived.
“Do you wish I were her?”
The quill stopped. The fire crackled in the silence. Pebble, perched on the back of your chair, shifted his weight from one claw to the other.
Brynden set the quill down slowly. “That is a foolish question.”
“I am not afraid of the answer.” You were, of course. You were terrified. But you had spent months living in the shadow of a ghost and you could not do it any longer.
He rose from his desk and came to stand before the fire. The flames cast his face in red and gold, the birthmark nearly invisible against the glow. His back was to you.
“I wished for many things,” he said at last. “I wished for her to love me. I wished for her to choose me, just once, over all the others. I wished for a great many foolish things that a wiser man would have let go long ago.” He turned to look at you. “But I do not wish you were her. You are not her. You are nothing like her, and that is…not a bad thing.”
“I have heard she is the most beautiful woman in the Seven Kingdoms,” you said, and you hated the smallness of your voice, the jealousy that crept in despite your best efforts.
“She is,” Brynden said, and your heart sank. “But beauty is a strange thing. Shiera’s beauty is like wildfire: brilliant, consuming, and utterly indifferent to what it destroys. I spent years burning in it, and I have the scars to show. You are different. Your beauty is like…” He paused, searching for the word. “Like the first green shoots after winter. Blooming. Steady. Something that grows rather than blazes.”
You did not know what to say. Your face felt hot.
“I am not good at this,” Brynden said with a flicker of frustration in his voice. “I am no poet. I do not know how to court my own wife.”
A laugh bubbled up in your throat, unexpected and slightly hysterical. You pressed your hand to your mouth, trying to stifle it, but it escaped anyway, a small, surprised sound that made Brynden’s eye widen a fraction.
“I do not know how to be courted,” you admitted. “I was taught to be a lady, not a wife. No one ever told me what to do with a husband who did not want a wife.”
“I never said I did not want a wife.” He took a step toward you. “I said I did not ask for this marriage. There is a difference.”
“Is there?”
Another step. He was close enough that you could smell the faint scent of ink and old parchment that clung to his clothes. Close enough that you could see the tiredness around his eye.
“I am learning,” he murmured, “that I may have wanted something I did not know I did.”
His hand rose, and this time, he did not stop at your fingers. His cool palm cupped your cheek, his thumb brushing the corner of your mouth with a gentleness that contradicted everything you had heard about him: the cold sorcerer, the ruthless spymaster, the man who had killed Daemon Blackfyre and his sons with arrows guided by dark magic. In this moment, he was only a man, touching his wife’s face for the first time.
“You are trembling,” he said.
“I am afraid.”
“Of me?”
“Of this ending.” Your voice cracked. “Of Shiera returning. Of waking up tomorrow and finding that you have remembered you do not want me after all.”
His eye searched your face. You had the unsettling sensation that he was seeing more than your skin and bone, more than the fear in your eyes. Seeing into you, the way he saw through the eyes of his ravens.
“Shiera is in Lys,” he said. “She left months ago, before our wedding. She may return someday, she always does, but she is not here now, and she has no claim on me. Whatever I felt for her, it is done. I have been a fool for her long enough.”
He leaned closer, his forehead nearly touching yours.
“As for waking up tomorrow,” he murmured, “that is simple. You shall wake up in my bed.”
Your breath caught.
“The bedding ceremony was waived,” he continued, “because I requested it. I did not think it fair to subject you to the court’s crude jests when we were strangers. But we are not strangers now. Not entirely. And I find that I am tired of sleeping alone in my cold solar while my wife sleeps alone in her cold tower.”
His thumb traced the line of your jaw.
“If you are willing,” he added, and the hesitation in his voice, the faint uncertainty, undid you completely.
“I am willing,” you whispered.
He kissed you. His lips were cool, like his hands. The kiss was cautious, almost experimental, as though he were tasting a new wine and trying to decide if he liked the vintage. But it deepened, slowly, his hand slid from your cheek to the back of your neck. You felt a knot of tension loosen in your chest.
When he pulled back, his breathing was slightly unsteady.
“You will not be alone.” He took your hand again, this time, he laced his fingers through yours. “I have a thousand eyes. Some of them will always be watching over you.”
It was perhaps the strangest declaration of affection any woman had ever received. But you found yourself smiling anyway, a real smile, the first you had worn since leaving the Reach.
That night, you did not return to your lonely tower rooms. You slept in the Hand’s bed, in the Hand’s arms, and though he did not sleep, he had told you he rarely did, he held you in the darkness, his fingers tracing idle patterns on your shoulder.
In the morning, you woke to find him already dressed, standing at the window with the pale dawn light on his hair. He turned when he heard you stir.
“Good morning, my lady.”
“Good morning, Brynden.”
He crossed to the bed and sat on its edge. From behind his back, he produced a single winter rose, its petals white as fresh snow, its center a deep, vivid blue.
“There are no winter roses in King’s Landing,” you said, taking it with trembling fingers. “How did you...?”
“I have my ways,” he said, the faint smile on his lips was no longer tentative. It was the smile of a man who had unraveled a mystery and found the answer rather pleasing.
You lifted the rose to your nose and breathed in its sweet, cold scent. Through the window, you saw a raven circling against the pale sky, not Pebble but another, its black wings cutting the air with swift precision. It was returning home, carrying something in its beak.
“What is he bringing?” you asked.
“A letter,” Brynden said. “From the Arbor. Lord Redwyne is plotting something tedious involving wine tariffs.” He paused. “Would you like to watch me unravel it?”
“Yes,” you said. “I would like that very much.”
He offered you his hand, you took it.
Pebble, watching from his perch, let out a satisfied croak and followed you and your husband up the winding stair to the solar.
Part 2: coming soon...
a/n: Please don't let this flop guys, I have an entire series planned out.
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a/n: Comment if you'd like to be added to the series taglist. Rn I'm tagging those who went along with my freaky birdman propaganda.
Let's say reader is his younger sister, and they're both in King's Landing since Rhaenyra is now Queen. They basically recreate that Daemyra scene from s1 ("Take me to Dragonstone and make me your wife.")
A/n: yall im done with my finals so I’ll be doing the requests don’t worry , also luke is alive in this fic , it’s like an au where the greens don’t exist as enemies or wtv , all characters are aged up , also not proofread enjoy and i hope whoever requested this likes it keep it up with the requests guys
As you watch how servants scurry away in the halls of the red keep, trying to ensure that everything is well prepared for tonight's feast , since your mother queen Rhaenyra ascended the throne and decided to hold a feast to honour the lords of westeros that she's grateful for remembering their oaths.
You walk through the halls spotting your younger brother lucaerys who's pacing worriedly about something. "Luke , what's the matter?" You ask him softly taking a hold of his hands.
"oh sister , nothing , all is well, not really can you help me?" He says trying to sound calm.
"Of course dear , what is it?" You reply to him wondering what's causing him worry.
"well I'm worried about tonight's feast , I want rhaena to only dance with me during the feast. I know she's beautiful and how the lords will want to dance with her." He says rambling
"Luke , lucaerys , calm down darling ,she's your betrothed, you are set to marry soon , she'll dance only with you , you have nothing to worry about , now go talk to her about whatever you're feeling , honesty is always best in everything." You says caressing his cheek , after all he's still your baby brother.
As he nods and walks hurriedly towards where rhaena will be , you smile at him unaware that someone has been watching the whole interaction but soon enough you feel the pair of eyes and you smirk. "You know as heir to the iron throne you need to stop walking around invisible , especially around your siblings." You turn around to see your older brother.
"I wasn't doing anything sister , just admiring my siblings, and shouldn't you be getting ready for feast, surely enough there'll be plenty of lords and knights wanting to dance with you." He replies holding back his jealousy.
"Mhmm well I was on my way but Luke needed an advice , and you brother, ladies will be all in your way , lords pushing their daughters and sisters to make sure their blood is on the throne. I'll see you in the feast Jace. " You say also holding your jealousy as you make your way to your chamber to change into the dress that was prepared for you especially for this occasion a long red gown with gold embroidery and flowy sleeves , your maid styles your hair in a beautiful braid and places gold hair pieces in each section of the braid , your jewellery are the usual , rings and necklaces , you make your way to the great hall where the feast is being held , noting how everyone nods their head in respect and you reply with a nod and a soft smile , then you walk to the royal table , where your mother is sitting in the middle and behind her is the iron throne , to her right jacaerys and to her left , your stepfather Daemon , you walk around the table to sit next to Jace.
As your mother begin her welcome speech , thanking the lords. Soon enough the musicians begin playing the tunes , and the courtiers flood the dance floor , as lord tyrell makes his way to the table with his eyes set on you, he bows to your mother then turns to you, "Princess would you honour me with a dance." You turn to your mother who nods to you subtly , you smile to the lord "it would be my honour lord tyrell " With that you stand up and walks with him to the dance floor , as the dance begin you notice how clumsy he is , stepping on your toes and constantly apologising but you keep polite and smile. As this dance is over a knight asks for a dance and you accept and so does half of the feast waste away with you dancing with every eligible bachelor who wishes to marry you.
As Jacaerys can no longer reign in his jealousy as he sees you dancing with ser gawyne high tower , he stands up and makes his way to the dance floor , Rhaenyra raises an eyebrow wondering what's this about and Daemon just smirks fully aware of what Jacaerys is feeling.
Jacaerys places a hand on the knight's shoulder mumbling something about him wanting to dance and the knight says "of course my prince" stepping aside as Jacaerys is now in front of you, "you looked like you needed help." Jacaerys says as he takes your hand and you two are now in a the middle of the dance floor but not in the way of any dancers.
"I needed help seven dances ago brother , not now, why are you here." You reply not understanding why he's interfering now.
"Jaelā līr kesir issa?" (Is this what you want?) He says in high valyrian. "sagon pa'urádædva se tó'shsædtor tolī hen ön’næza vala tolie" (To be paraded and tossed around from one man to the other).
"Jaelun līr avy jenissus, gīmīlon daor." (I was not aware that what I wanted mattered to you.) You reply annoyed to why he's talking to you like that.
"Ao vēdagon nyke üñc’árríngā syt ao, vēdorys hen kesori dr'rünnkeñnos valar vēndarion ao" (You think me uncaring for you, the thought of those drunken men touching you) "Pōnte wa'nthrys ao syt aōha ānogar, ao gīmigon kesor" (They want you for your blood , you know that) He says with anger as you two circle each other like dragons.
"Idīnnon dēmalio syt verdilla mērī issa, rȳban." (Marriage is only a political arrangement, I hear.) You reply throwing his words back at him.
"Kessa, yn néyd’hkhérrtor hen īlva issa beth'rôdjædnos" (Yes , but neither of us is betrothed) He says looking at you now.
"Sepār yne dārlīs. Kesir ondurilla īlos daor? Nyke sīr dīntoks daor. " (So take me, then. Has this not been your purpose? I am not yet married) You say boldly. Knowing he's not one to back from being challenged. "yn rȳbasor pau'sshā swi'fdhlynos se muña kostion be'thrrôdkhnos nyke áñyrys āeksio kesor." (but the hours pass swiftly and mother could betroth me to any lord here.) you snark at him then add. "Wjóæ’verhën hen pōnte óf’ferrā sȳz jentorys æidh’ærrtor hen īlva" (Whoever from them offer a good alliance to either of us)
Jacaerys pauses looking down at you. You tilt your head "Sīlāvose azandomy iksā. Ao issa jëí'rhza dēmalion, ao kostion kútza dkhr’hóugjrys mö'thkhër'znos qûëe'nn'sā mīsagon." (You are surely armed, You are the heir to the throne , you can cut through mother's queen's guard.) You say to him .
His large hands come up to your face tilting it up to look at him as you say the thing that is his last straw . "Zaldrīzdōrot yne maghās se ābrazȳrys aōhys sagon ynot sahās." (Take me to Dragonstone and make me your wife.) His face is inches close to yours, both of you unaware of Rhaenyra and Daemon watching this unfold , while the rest of the courtiers around you on the dance floor not even minding you both , Daemon is smirking as he turns to Rhaenyra . "Seems like our children are growing bold don't you think. " He says to which she replies. " I never thought they'd be like us."
Jacaerys then leans to whisper in your ear "Ao wa'nthrys sagon ñuha wï’féza, ñuha vēragorys dāria hāedar, lï'kérys Ae'gonën ērinagon" (You want to be my wife , my future queen sister, like Aegon the conqueror)
You nod to him as he takes your hand and swiftly you both make your way out of the hall and away from the feast to his chambers. As you enter his chamber he pushes you against the door , and kisses you hungrily his large hands roaming your body. He pulls away. "I've wanted to this for a very long time , but every time I push it down reminding myself of honour , but fuck honour , you're mine sister , the blood of the dragon is in us and will not be shared." He lifts you up as you wrap your legs around his waist.
"Yes this is what I wanted for a long time not those boys. But I always thought you are a coward brother , never acting on urges we both have . So go on do it" you say teasing him , aware you're agitating him on purpose.
With that jacaerys' patience and restrain is thrown out of the window , immediately starting to untie the laces of your and you the ties on his robes , clothes being thrown aside as he places you on the bed when now you're only in your corset and small cloth and he's in his breeches only revealing his toned chest from hours of training, you admire shamelessly and hungry . He notices, "Oh you like what you see. Well it's all yours but first lets see you my darling." He removes the corset and the small cloth , now sitting bare in front of him , your nipples are peaked from the arousal, he doesn't waste time in kissing your neck or collarbone , he immediately latches his lips on one of your nipples while using his finger to circle the other, pulling away as he hears you moan , then he kneels spreading your thighs open revealing to him your wet cunt glistening with arousal. "My my my , I wasn't aware my sister is such a slut for me, here I was trying to be a gentleman but You're already dripping from few kisses." With that he leans and begins lapping around your clit with his tongue , sucking every now and then adds a finger ,letting your moans spill out as he Doesn't stop his ministration till your legs are literally shaking and your orgasm hits you so hard. He then pulls away his lips and chin are glistening with your arousal. "You taste devine , my sweet , sweeter than any dessert that we ever tasted , sweeter than any fruit. And now It's all mine." He says as he unties the laces of his breeches letting them drop revealing his long thick hard cock that's leaking with precum , your eyes widen as You're already trying to catch your breath from the earth shattering orgasm he just gave you from his mouth and fingers alone , you wonder how will it even fit but also you want to ride him like you'd ride your dragon. Lust clouding both of your eyes.
"I want to ride you Jace , I want to ride the dragon himself" You say boldly as he smirks.
"all yours my darling" He says proudly as he sits himself on the mattress with the bedpost behind him so he can see you properly, you straddle him as you slowly sink , taking a sharp inhale at the thickness of the tip and he guides you. "Slowly , keep breathing , eyes on me , good job , just a little more." And soon enough you're full with his cock , the eye contact between you two is so intense , you lean and kiss him deeply as your fingers thread into his hair and his are on your hips as you slowly begin rocking back and forth , not truly bouncing but grinding , the pleasure for you two is beyond anything you've ever felt and Jacaerys is trying his best to not spill immediately as he goes back to kissing and sucking on your nipples , he buckle his hips up thrusting slowly so you two can reach your orgasm together. "Are you close my darling , I know you are , just a bit" and with that you feel your legs shake again and your head fall on his shoulder as you feel him spill in you.
You both pant as he peppers your face with kisses. "Mhmm mine , I even spilled in you, I'll tell mother to wed us, and you'll be mine." He says softly.
"Good , you're not as coward as I thought you to be Jace, but I love you for it " You peck his lips and he kisses deeper . "I should head back to my chamber."
"I'm not letting you out my sweet , one round isn't enough to satisfy my hunger, I'm just letting you take a breath" He replies with a smirk, and you realise you're in for a long night ahead of you
⤷ female, ambiguous race, and any size reader. Requests are open, thank you for reading!
Also this is 18+ ... we acting like grown ups.
ᴹᵃˢᵗᵉʳˡᶤˢᵗ | ᴹᵃˢᵗᵉʳˡᶤˢᵗ ᴵᴵ
𝑼𝒉𝒕𝒓𝒆𝒅
“Destiny is all… but you were never part of the plan.”
・This marriage is a strategic alliance. An act to broker peace between two warring factions.
・Even though Uhtred wants this peace, he isn't thrilled about it.
・At first his mindset was to keep you alive, but the more you got to know each other...the more he was in denial:
“I don’t care about her. I just need to make sure she stays alive… for the alliance. That’s all.”
・What started as a simple sword lesson had turned into him pushing you harder than he intended. Wanting you to see the true strength of opponents.
・He didn't want to sugarcoat what war and battles were. (Not that you had been fantasising about them anyway).
・Uhtred thought his lesson was going well until you finally knocked him to the ground.
・For a split second, he was shocked...stunned and then he stared up at you, breathing heavily. And then he smirked.
・Showing indifference, Uhtred trains you to fight. And adorns you with proper fighting gear, a shield and gets a blacksmith to make your very own sword.
・Even in the early stages of your marriage, Uhtred would subconsciously protect you - no matter where you were or what you were doing. E.g., even at the tavern, he never let anyone get too close (his men were like three other bodyguards)
・You were glad for Finan, he became like a brother to you. Always making things lighter, bringing the humour.
・Because you were constantly on the road with the four men. And Uhtred didn't trust anyone else to take care of you.
・But he would never say that...
・Sihtric barely spoke to you, but he held a lot of respect for you.
・Over time, Sihtric becomes one of your fiercest defenders, in battle and in life. Like a quiet shadow, a forcefield ensuring no harm comes to you.
・Osferth; he's your first friend, real friend, although he was a bit awkward. You become the sister he's always wanted. And he becomes that little brother who wants to follow you everywhere and do everything you're doing...
・The truth of Uhtred's feelings comes out during a heated argument. After nearly getting himself killed...again, you accuse him of putting too much at risk to gain Bebbanburg, that he cares too much about gaining that castle back.
・Shocked, ashamed, embarrassed that you would say that. Uhtred's face heats, and what you say is truth. Well, it was truth, until:
"I have spent my whole life fighting for Bebbanburg! But then you came along, and now I’m fighting for something else. For you. Don’t you see that?”
𝑵𝒊𝒄𝒌𝒏𝒂𝒎𝒆𝒔 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒚𝒐𝒖:
“My Heart” uses this one when you have private moments and when he feels vulnerable. I.e., after a battle or during soft, intimate conversations.
“Shieldmaiden” is used in front of his men, showing his pride in you.
“Wife” is both teasing and affectionate, often said when you’re being stubborn.
𝑹𝒆𝒍𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒔𝒉𝒊𝒑 𝑻𝒓𝒐𝒑𝒆𝒔
Shared Vision and Purpose
Closed Off (Uhtred) x The Person They Warm Up To (You)
Brave Warrior (Uhtred) x Self-Assured Damsel (You)
Places His Wife Above Everyone
𝑷𝒍𝒐𝒕 𝑻𝒓𝒐𝒑𝒆
Home Is Wherever You Are
The Parents Of The Group
Reluctant Allies to Lovers
𝑻𝒉𝒆𝒎𝒆 𝑺𝒐𝒏𝒈
Kingdom Dance by Alan Menken
Scotland by BBC Scottish Symphony Orchestra
I Had To Do That by James Newton Howard
𝑭𝒊𝒏𝒂𝒏
“I didn’t want this, but now? I wouldn’t trade it for the world.”
・Your marriage was a political alliance to strengthen ties between Ireland and the Saxons. Finan, as Uhtred’s right hand, was seen as a valuable connection.
・How else could Finan endure this other than with humour?
・As soon as you met him, he was cracking jokes. Sometimes he was funny, other times you were annoyed - because he was constantly making light of ... everything.
・When you called him out on it, he sighed, "I'm sorry lass. It's ah...the only way I know how to cope sometimes."
“She’s alright, I guess. I mean, for someone who can’t keep up in a fight…” (He says this right before throwing himself in front of an arrow meant for you.)
・Day by day, you were slowly opening up to each other. Learning through talking by the fire, on horseback, walking through the forest.
・Soon Finan began to lean close while talking to you, staring into your eyes, moving a piece of hair behind your ear, brushing past you "accidentally", etc.
・Finan was always looking to see if you were okay. Even in a crowded hall, his gaze would flick to you every few moments, but if he was ever caught, he'd smirk and look away.
・Whenever you feel down, Finan doesn't mind making a fool of himself to make you laugh
・If talking doesn't help, he'd happily slip in the mud during training or let Sihtric carry him around bridal style.
・One night, as a joke, you tied a small braid into his hair, saying it makes him look more "noble." He laughed it off but didn't take it out... he wore it for days afterward.
・His feelings are brought to light during a drunken night around the fire. The others were sharing stories about what they fight for; land, honour, family, ... fun.
・Someone asked Finan and as he was about to make a joke, he glanced at you.
・Your face was illuminated by the light of the flames, and it hit him like a punch to the gut.
"Her."
Silence fell. He looked to you who was wide-eyed, "I'll always fight for you."
𝑵𝒊𝒄𝒌𝒏𝒂𝒎𝒆𝒔 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒚𝒐𝒖
“Lass” is his go-to—light, teasing, and affectionate.
“Trouble” slips out when you’re bickering or challenging him (which is often).
“Little One” is playful, his everyday teasing, often when he’s trying to make you laugh.
𝑹𝒆𝒍𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒔𝒉𝒊𝒑 𝑻𝒓𝒐𝒑𝒆𝒔
You Fell First, But He Fell Harder
Constant Banter
The Sarcastic Duo That Can Finish Each Other's Insults
Places His Wife Above Everyone
𝑷𝒍𝒐𝒕 𝑻𝒓𝒐𝒑𝒆
Height Difference
Bickering and Banter
Timeless Love
𝑻𝒉𝒆𝒎𝒆 𝑺𝒐𝒏𝒈
Say Yes To Heaven by Lana Del Rey
Valerie by the Midnite String Quartet
Happily Ever After by George Fenton
𝑺𝒊𝒉𝒕𝒓𝒊𝒄
“You make me feel like I belong… like I'm worth loving.”
・For Sihtric, he was forced to marry you. The King willed it so. It was a cruel decision. the King wanted to somehow split up Uhtred's group - make it harder for them to be connected.
・It didn't turn out how the Monarch intended...the group just kept you with them.
“I don’t care if she notices me. I’m just here to protect her.” (He says while carrying a pouch full of the random trinkets you’ve given him.)
・You were trained by all of them in battle; how to defend, attack, how to do a shield wall etc.
・Spending time with the men was fun; even if Sihtric was silent most of the time.
・Finan always made you laugh, and Osferth made you feel comfortable no matter what the context was.
・In time, you truly thought of Uhtred as your leader. And you too called him 'Lord.'
・Sihtric constantly lingered in the background. He was always nearby, however, he was never imposing. Just ensuring you were safe.
・You were very different to what everyone thought. There was a softness in you. A heart of gold.
・When you became comfortable around Sihtric, you started to give him things.
・Particularly things you found on your journeys. E.g., many many rocks; smooth river stones, shiny pebbles (anything shiny really), beautiful feathers from birds, flowers that have specific meanings etc.
・And he keeps every single item.
・His pockets are completely full.
・Sihtric is constantly staring, but instantly looks away when he's caught. A small blush dusting his cheeks.
・Another thing is his quiet gestures...he'll fix your armor, puts extra supplies on your horse, sharpens your sword without saying a word.
・The love you hold for each other comes out during the aftermath of a brutal fight.
・You were tending to Sihtric's wounds, hands trembling as you stitched a deep cut on his arm.
・Sihtric couldn't help but watch your face, the concetration, the look of concern.
・You were both silent until you uttered, "You...you could have been killed," your voice was soft but full of emotion.
・Sihtric caught your wrist, his blood-stained fingers entwining with yours.
In a voice so wrapped with truth, Sihtric whispered, "I would die for you. Without hesitation. "
・This marriage wasn't duty anymore. Now...it was love.
𝑵𝒊𝒄𝒌𝒏𝒂𝒎𝒆𝒔 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒚𝒐𝒖
“Little Blade” pops up during training sessions or when you sass him.
“Mine” is possessive, intense, and usually slips out during high-stakes moments.
“Angel” when he’s overwhelmed with how much he adores you.
𝑹𝒆𝒍𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒔𝒉𝒊𝒑 𝑻𝒓𝒐𝒑𝒆𝒔
Madly In Love (Sihtric) x Ridiculously Oblivious (You)
Sun (You) x Moon (Him)
Always Bringing Them Rocks They Think They Would Like (You) x Keeps The Rocks (Him)
Places His Wife Above Everyone
𝑷𝒍𝒐𝒕 𝑻𝒓𝒐𝒑𝒆
Healing and Redemption
Unbreakable Bond
Emotional Intimacy
𝑻𝒉𝒆𝒎𝒆 𝑺𝒐𝒏𝒈
Me and Your Mama by Childish Gambino
Sex On Fire by Midnite String Quartet
Fire In The Water by Feist
𝑶𝒔𝒇𝒆𝒓𝒕𝒉
“You make me brave. Brave enough to be yours.”
・The marriage was to save your life. Many Saxons wanted you dead, but a marriage to a religious Saxon meant you'd be safe.
・Early on in the marriage Osferth would blush at everything you did. From compliments to teasing, he was constantly red-faced.
・But as your time together grew, he started seeking out those moments.
・Even though he’s usually mild-mannered, if anyone speaks poorly of you, Osferth is the first to step up; sword in hand, voice shaking, but unwilling to step down.
・Osferth would give you thoughtful gifts. Small items like a bunch of wildflowers, a smooth stone, etc. But never admitting they’re from him.
“She’s just being friendly. That’s what this is… right?” (As he turns red after you compliment his sword-fighting.)
・Both of you faced your feelings when he thought he lost you.
・It was after a battle; a close one where you all were separated from each other. You were missing for a few hours, and Osferth had been searching unrelentlessly.
・With each moment his panic had risen. His heart beating so fast he thought he might die.
・But he did find you. You were unconscius but alive.
・Osferth cradled you, tears in his eyes while whispering his feelings:
“Please, don’t go. I… I love you. I should have said it before.”
・You stirred at his words, opening your eyes, smiling lightly.
・Blinking slowly, you hummed. Moving to hold onto his arm.
"I love you too."
𝑵𝒊𝒄𝒌𝒏𝒂𝒎𝒆𝒔 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒚𝒐𝒖
“Sweetheart” is his everyday term — filled with gentle love.
“Dearest” slips out when he’s overwhelmed with love — often in moments of shyness or soft confessions.
“Braveheart” is used when he’s overwhelmed by your strength, often after emotional or dangerous moments.
𝑹𝒆𝒍𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒔𝒉𝒊𝒑 𝑻𝒓𝒐𝒑𝒆𝒔
He Confessed His Love When Thinking You Were Unconscious
Black Cat (You) x Golden Retriever (Osferth)
Menace To Society (You) x Living Moral Compass (Osferth)
Places His Wife Above Everyone
𝑷𝒍𝒐𝒕 𝑻𝒓𝒐𝒑𝒆
Trust and Dependence
Intertwined Destinies
Love Conquers All
𝑻𝒉𝒆𝒎𝒆 𝑺𝒐𝒏𝒈
Running Up That Hill by Kate Bush
The Train by James Newton Howard
Let The Light In by Lana Del Rey
𝑺𝒊𝒈𝒕𝒓𝒚𝒈𝒈𝒓
“I would follow you to the ends of the earth—because without you, none of this matters.”
・There was constant tension whenever you were around Sigtryggr.
・He rarely spoke to you in the early days of your marriage.
・Seeing it only as a way for him to gain more power
・And in return, your family would be safe - your village, kingdom, would not be harmed by any Dane.
・You kept your own beliefs and wore your traditional family clothes, even though you did not know when you would see your family again.
“She talks too much… but I don’t want her to stop.”
・Watches you when he thinks you aren’t looking.
・His stoic exterior hides it, but he studies you. Including how you smile, how you move, how you speak.
・Sigtryggr knows what your favourite colour is, what you like to do with your time - all because he notices things. And he wants to know more about you.
・He lets you in; allows you to see glimpses of his vulnerable self.
・He shares stories of his past, things he’s done, things he regrets and waits to see if you’ll turn away. You never do.
・And in a world where he controls everything...he lets you make decisions. E.g., about where to travel, what to eat. He values your opinion.
・When both of your feelings were revealed, it was during a difficult situation.
・You had confronted him after a harsh decision in battle. He had executed someone who defied him.
・It shocked you. But ... you understood. Traitors had to be punished, maybe he went a bit far this time but you understood.
・In the comfort and seclusion of your shared bedroom, you spoke your thoughts.
"Don't you think that was a bit ... brutal? I mean, yes he was a ... traitor but you could have done anything else-"
"I know you think I'm a monster," he replies, his voice low. He wasn't facing you, almost as if he wouldn't. Or couldn't.
"A monster?" You replied, shocked.
"Yes! Do you think I wanted this? To be this man?" His words came out like venom.
You soften, and step closer, "No. No, you aren't a monster. Sigtryggr, I have seen the good in you!
His gaze turns to you, utterly and completely. Gently taking a hold of your wrist, voice low and vulnerable: “I’ve done terrible things… but I would burn the world for you.”
・No more pretending. You had the realisation that...he is completely, undeniably yours.
𝑵𝒊𝒄𝒌𝒏𝒂𝒎𝒆𝒔 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒚𝒐𝒖
“Beloved” used during rare, emotionally charged moments e.g., after a battle, during confessions, or when you’re vulnerable together.
“My Flame” is used when there's passionate, heated arguments or intimate moments.
“Little Chaos” he calls you this when you’re being unpredictable or teasing him.
𝑹𝒆𝒍𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒔𝒉𝒊𝒑 𝑻𝒓𝒐𝒑𝒆𝒔
Soulmates
"I've done terrible things in the past" (Sig) x "All i care about is who you are in the present" (You)
The Hyperactive (You) x The Unheeded Voice of Reason (Sig)
contains: fluff & slight suggestive themes. strangers to lovers, uhaul lesbians down bad <3 humor, awkwardness, teasing, flirting, yearning. book talk. mel drinks coffee. pitt staff mentions & interactions. mushy romance. *no use of y/n
a/n: this one took me a while i was very invested… i hope it accomplishes the vision, anon!!!
—————————— ˚₊‧꒰ა❤︎໒꒱ ‧₊——————————
It wasn't unusual for pretty people to come into the library. Pittsburgh is a big place, there are beautiful people bound to be out and about. You just didn’t expect to see someone like her.
You knew she was a doctor because of a few screaming hints: her black scrub pants, her issued hoodie with a yellow and blatant Pittsburgh Medical Trauma Center print, and the badge reel hanging on her hip with a bright green stripe that read DOCTOR. If you knew anything about information literacy, these three details could only lead to one conclusion.
The girl was a very pretty doctor. Much too pretty to be working in a monstrous state hospital where she likely lost hair ties frequently and stained her creamy skin with blood. As her blonde head of hair bobbed through the sliding doors and towards the counter, your brain ran through about four different scenarios in which you could get hurt and trap her into saving you, each of them consistent with necessary mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.
You blinked when she reached the desk, shifting weight between her left and right foot, and you were unsure as to what you might begin with. You, of course, had to welcome her in and ask if she needed help. But your tongue felt like cotton. Was that medically qualifying?
The beautiful doctor smiled tightly, like she had to remind herself of the expression’s importance, and she said, “You guys are still open, right?” The timbre of her voice was smooth and deep. Like a saxophone. Or Superwoman.
“Yes! Why?” You spat out, brain catching up with mouth.
The doctor glanced around and smiled. “It seems pretty dead. But the sign was still on.”
You hummed eagerly and leaned on the counter, hand wrapped around the book scanner for emotional support. “Oh, yeah. Well, we don’t get a lot of latecomers, but we close at eleven. You’re just in time.”
The doctor nodded curtly and tucked a rogue lock of golden hair behind her ear. They were incredibly round ears, ones you could picture in a Disney movie. She was pretty enough to have walked right off the animated set of Tangled. You felt yourself revving up to blabber, and a nervous rhythm began to thump inside your chest.
“Well, welcome in! Can I give you a hand with anything tonight?”
She scratched her temple and shrugged. “Yeah, actually, um… I was hoping to set myself up with a library card?”
Your ears perked up. A card. A card indicated there would be multiple visits. Books to find, books to touch, books to put in her long-fingered, wide-palmed hands, hands that looked like they could slot nicely with yours, fingers that looked like they could notch nicely in places not work-appropriate. “Absolutely! I can get it done right now. It’s easy.”
“Cool,” she smiled wide, and her teeth broke through this time. White and round as a rabbit’s. Christ, there was no winning.
“Um, yeah, so…” You blinked, trying to remember what you needed to start a library account. This was literally the most basic and common routine you did every day. You needed… shit… “Oh! Sorry. Right. Your license. Could I just peek at your license? For, like, identification purposes.”
“Oh, sure.”
The doctor dug into her pocket, the same pocket her hospital badges were clipped to. Your gaze flickered down to see a whitewashed photograph of her with a neat braid and glasses– she looked the same now, without the braid, and much more tired– and in black letters, you made out the name. Melissa King. Her name was Melissa King. Doctor Melissa King from Pittsburgh Trauma, one of the largest trauma centers in the country, only a few blocks up the road. You heard the sirens all day long. She likely took people out of those ambulances with those sirens. Saved their lives. And she wanted a library card from you at 10:30 p.m.
You took the little slab of plastic and smiled at her, reading the name you already memorized. “It’s nice to meet you, Dr. King.”
“How did you– oh. Right,” Melissa grinned down at her appearance. “I sort of scream it, don’t I?”
“A little. Just wait here, I’ll be right back.”
Melissa crossed her arms and leaned against the desk as you scampered away to the card copier along the back wall. All day you pressed these buttons and spat out cards for newcomers who would show up once or twice and then forget they had an overdue book and never return. You hoped to God she wasn’t one of those people.
You punched the right sequence to assign her a fresh card with its own number, Melissa’s number, on the back. This number could follow her around the entire county. She could go to other libraries if she wanted and return the books to you. Wouldn’t that be fun?
You could print either a white card with a black logo, or a black with a yellow, and seeing as her work garb was running with the yellow motif, you picked the coordinating choice. A little square came hot off the press and you retrieved it, turning back to the counter. You slid her license back to her and plucked a Sharpie from the pen cup, scribbling her name on the special line.
“So, do you like being a doctor?” You regretted trying to make small talk the second you said it, but it just popped out.
“Yeah, I do. It’s great, y’know, doing something important every day.”
Her sincere answer made your heart flutter. “I can only imagine.”
“I mean, you do something important every day, too.”
You lifted your head as you capped the marker and laughed. “Like what?”
“I don’t know, like… protecting literacy. Giving kids a place to have imaginations. Giving adults a place to remember they had one once.”
Melissa crossed her arms and tilted her head, offering you a twinkling look that made you grateful the counter was there for purchase. “I wouldn’t say I do all that.”
“Libraries are important. That’s why I’m getting a card.”
“Usually people get cards because they don’t want to buy books.”
“That, too,” she teased.
You giggled awkwardly and passed her the card, flipping it over to show her the barcode on the back. “Just show this when you check books out. The library has a cap on five books at a time, and they’re due back three weeks from the day you took them. You can call or come in if you need a renewal. You also have free access to all kinds of stuff here with it, like we have study rooms and a recording studio, and we have a huge movie and audiobook section, and there’s CDs and cassettes and–”
“You seriously have all that?”
“Mhm,” you smiled, “and we do a lot of community events, if you’ve got family or friends, a boyfriend you like to take out.”
Melissa’s cheeks pinked as she scrunched her nose. “No, no boyfriend. Not my type. A sister, though. Although, she’s been busy with her boyfriend as of late… really busy… and I work so much I bet I wouldn’t ever have time to make it, I’ll probably mostly be coming by at night, so– well– you didn’t need to know all that, actually.”
A warmer laugh erupted inside you, and all you could think was how absolutely sweet she seemed. And no boyfriend. No boyfriend was good. Not her type. “It’s okay. A lot of people like to talk to us.”
“Us as in librarians?”
“Sure. I guess we have friendly faces.”
“You do,” Melissa said, and then seemed to realize what she said, and swallowed thickly.
You shared in her nerves and tapped your nails on the counter. “Well, um, was– was there anything else?”
“Huh? Oh, no! Just the card. I should get home, anyway. You gotta close up, I think.”
Your eyes darted to the clock above the door, and sure enough, it was ten to close. Being the only librarian on staff at night was great until you had to clean everything by your lonesome. “Ah! Yeah. I do. Okay.”
“Thanks for your help,” Melissa tucked the card into her wallet and flipped it shut. “Are you usually here at night?”
“Yeah. I’m the resident owl.”
“I bet I’ll see you soon, then?” she offered, her voice upturning with hope.
“I’ll be here,” you gushed, unable to help yourself. You felt like gummy worms were crawling inside your stomach.
“Cool. Goodnight, then.”
“Night, Dr. King,” you lilted.
On her way out the door, she looked back. “Mel’s better.”
You caught it just in time. “Mel it is.”
As the sliding doors zipped shut and the dark street swallowed Mel’s figure, you slumped against the desk and groaned in metaphorical pain. That was really great, you scolded yourself, bumbled like a true idiot. You didn’t even want to close up. You just wanted to stand there, behind that desk, in your old cardigan and unfortunate boots until Mel came back. You wanted to show her every book you had and then kiss her promptly on those life-saving lips. In just twenty minutes, you had made a fool of yourself and fallen into a deep and predictable infatuation. You read too many romance novels, you decided, as you pushed off the counter and got to work.
˚₊‧꒰ა❤︎໒꒱ ‧₊
Mel had let a week pass before she came back to the library. She was incredibly nervous to do so, because the last time she showed her face she had encountered you, and you were proving to be horrific trouble.
You were so cute. Plump like a peach, curved in all the right places. She could see your soft tummy when you pressed against the counter. The violet of your sweater made the tones in your skin sing. Your teeth shimmered when you smiled. Mel was convinced that she could draw you from memory after only looking at you for at most twenty minutes, and if she was already at that stage, there was no getting herself back. She wasn’t good with crushes, and so naturally, she avoided it.
But she was bored. So, so bored, and so alone. Becca was no more than a series of rushed phone calls recently since she moved in with Adam and started spending their dedicated weekends and Elf Fridays with her boyfriend. Mel’s apartment was a mess of unwashed clothes and uneaten pizza, and without her sister to give her any reason to keep it clean, the poor girl had ended things with her vacuum. But even more than that, she hated being by herself. It was bearable when each night was just a few hours of sleep because then she barely saw the place, but on her days off that were once scheduled for Becca, Mel had nowhere to go and no one to see. Trinity had invited her to karaoke a few times, and that was great, but it wasn’t enough. No amount of Samira and Frank and Parker was enough. Mel thought maybe if she picked up a hobby, the time would go by faster and she would find herself at work again. Work was the only place she felt comfortable anymore– however twisted that was, she did not need to know.
That was the point of the library card. It was close to the hospital, so she could go on her lunch (if she got one) or after her shift. It was a huge library, four stories of stuff to absorb, and it wouldn’t cost her a thing. She barely used the resources in the city while she instructed patients all day to drain the system for what it was worth, and so taking her own advice would be a good step forward. Except now she knew what waited for her at the library, and so the question became this: Be alone, or be infatuated?
As she trekked down the sidewalk in the balmy summer heat, she had decided to go with the latter.
The glass doors slid open in greeting. Mel crossed the threshold anxiously, peering at the front desk. You weren’t there, which initially was a relief, and then a colossal letdown. As the doctor walked further in and studied the first floor laid out before her in a maze of shelves wrapping around a lit staircase, she heard a soft rustle and turned around again.
You poked your head out of a shelf and called, “Welcome in!”
Mel’s heart fluttered at the sight of you stationed behind a book cart. There was a pencil spearing your hair and failing to keep it out of your eyes, and a pair of glasses perched on your nose. You had no glasses last time. She walked deeper down the aisle until she could see you up close.
“Hi again.”
You startled and whipped around to see the beautiful and elusive Dr. Melissa King, and immediately your face went up in flames. “Oh! You!”
“Me,” she bantered, laughing sheepishly. “Sorry if I scared you.”
“No, it’s okay! It’s great! I’m glad to see you, Mel, I was wondering if you’d use that card!”
Mel watched you beam, and it made her wonder what in the ever living fuck she was doing avoiding this place. You clearly were this place. You were in its fabric, warm and real and there for anyone to admire. She huffed out a breath and rocked on her heels.
“I was hoping you could help me find something.”
“Like what?” You rolled the cart away, unlocking her entry to the row. She was in scrubs again, top and bottom this time, and her hair was pulled back in a springing ponytail. Little tendrils of yellow coiled near her ears.
“I wanted to try something easy. I’m not a big reader, all I get around to are medical journals these days,” the doctor admitted.
Your fingertips buzzed with the request. To do the job you loved, to hunt down the perfect source, for the most gorgeous girl in the world was like hitting the lottery. “Oh, sure! What kind of genres do you like? Classics? Romance, fantasy, thriller?”
Mel blinked at your enthusiasm and flushed. “Uh, I like history, actually.”
Your lashes fluttered as you slipped past her and waved the girl down the aisle. “Historical fiction is an awesome genre. More research than you think goes into it, those authors spend forever getting the details accurate enough to plop a composite character in… ah, Ws, here– follow!”
Mel trailed after you like a puppy, because she would be a fool to waste this chance to watch your hips sway in that long satin skirt. You halted abruptly in the middle of the row, running your finger over some spines before plucking a green paperback off.
“How do you feel about Arthurian legends?” You asked, holding out the book to her. “This is a historical fantasy fusion. White used the legends from Malory and took them down in novel form so they would be easier to read. It redefined what a contemporary fantasy novel should be, it was a big hit, and now it’s a classic. I’ve read it a few times, it’s a favorite of mine.”
Mel flipped curiously through the pages, smiling to herself. “I’ve read the Death of Arthur, I had to in college. You like this better?”
Your eyebrow quirked in surprise. So she’s trained in some classics, you thought, that’s hot, and very good news. “Honestly?”
“Yeah.”
“Definitely. Malory is great, and you have to pay homage, but truthfully it's so dense that it feels like homework. This is a great way to enjoy the legends without torturing yourself.”
The doctor nodded thoughtfully and glanced back up to see your big eyes watching her every move. You had on a jean jacket tonight, with a little square neck tank underneath. You were what they tried to make librarians look like on television. You were unreal.
“I’ve never read it. But I think I want to, since you’re so good at selling.”
“Good choice,”
“Yeah, well, you made it for me.”
“I guess I did.”
Mel’s mouth tingled as she held the book under one arm and glanced you up and down. “Is this the sort of thing you read when you’re not working?”
With a hammering heart, you turned to weave back towards your restock cart. “I read all sorts of things.”
“Like what?” Mel hummed, following at your heels and watching you hustle. She ducked into the next row and followed the top of your head, catching quick glimpses of you between the books.
“Um, I mean, I love English classics a lot. I was always into them in college. But I love sci-fi and fantasy, realism, um, and plays, too. It’s hard to pick.”
Mel’s face opened wide with interest. “I guess you have to be well-read to be a librarian."
“It’s kind of a requirement,” you giggled, pausing and stacking a book into the space she stood across from.
“Makes sense. I never got much of a chance with med school, and now with my residency, but I’ve recently had some time free up, so I’m hoping it’ll keep me busy.”
“How long have you been a doctor?”
“I’m doing my third year residency, so technically three. I’ll get paid like one after my next year.”
You slid a few returns back onto the shelf and tugged the cart along, playing the game of predicting when Mel’s eye would peep through a space. “Wow. So you’re the real deal.”
“You could say that,” Mel nudged at the carpet with her toe, watching your manicured nails fill slots. “What about you? How long have you been a librarian?”
“Well, I started working here part-time when I got my bachelor’s, and I only just finished my master’s a little over a year ago. So that’s…” you did the mental math, “about four years.”
Mel toyed with her fingers, trying to expend the pent-up energy she felt just watching your sweet head try to remember the time passed. “And you like it?”
You tucked a lock behind your ear, a thoughtful expression creasing your brow. “I do. It can be difficult, especially recently with all the federal funding cuts. We rely on those a lot to help us give back to the community, y’know, with our events and stuff. We do a lot more fundraising now. But it’s all worth it, really. I get to be around books all day, and talk to interesting people from all over. It’s never boring like people assume libraries are.”
By the time you stopped, the doctor was at the end of the row and leaning against the shelves. Mel watched the way your mouth moved, rounding out vowels and punctuating each word with those plush lips. You chewed on them when you thought hard and she could tell. There were little red patches beneath your front teeth where you picked the skin. She could listen to you and watch that mouth move for hours. What a dream that would be.
“That’s great,” Mel said. Intelligent, she winced.
“Yeah,” you flushed and glanced at the cart. It was empty now. “Um, did– did you want to check that out?”
Mel stared at your mouth. “Huh?”
“The book.”
The girl snapped out of it and stood straighter, mustering a tiny chuckle. “The book! Yes. Definitely.”
Focusing hard on not tripping, you shot her a smile and dragged the cart back to the atrium where the desk was. Mel took her time to admire you as you scooted around, docking the cart against the wall and scurrying back to sit at the dusty desktop. Mel leaned on the counter and rested her chin in her palm, sliding the book towards you.
From beneath your lashes, your eyes fluttered up. The doctor was still grinning with her bunny teeth, and it was rapturous. “You remember the rules?” you solicited, taking the book and scanning the code on the spine.
“Due after three weeks, call or come in to renew,” Mel recited softly, “although I hope it shouldn’t take that long.”
“No shame. You’re busy cutting people open and touching their guts and stuff,” you smirked, click-clacking away on the computer.
Mel snickered softly. The sound drew her attention to your nails, which were a short shape with a deep blue polish, almost black, carving them out. The square edges were what made all the ruckus. She very quickly fell down a rabbit hole about those fingernails and what they might be capable of.
“Okay, Mel, you’re all set,” you quipped, pushing the rims of your glasses up the bridge of your nose. Sliding the book back into her hands, you promised, “It’s really good. Tell me how you like it.”
Her nails, barely manicured and bitten to the beds, looked awful compared to yours. Maybe you’d paint them for her if she asked. Maybe you’d make them pretty again. Something her patients could enjoy, and something that would remind her she could pull her life together if she tried hard enough.
“Mel?”
“Hm?”
“You zoned out for a second.”
“Sorry,” she mumbled sheepishly, brows jumping. “It’s been a long day.”
“I bet. You should go home, get some rest.”
Mel gazed down at you, all tucked into that desk chair like some guardian angel, and she felt threads that have been fraying for a while coming loose. It stoked a fire in her chest.
“It was nice to see you again,” she offered, smoothing her ponytail with her hand as she squeezed the book into her bag. “Have a good night.”
“Yeah, you too,” you sighed in a way that made your face turn pinker and her eyes shine brighter.
As Mel headed for the doors again, you called, “You’ve got three weeks!”
“I won’t need them,” Mel shot back, flinging a wink over her shoulder.
It was enough to knock you on your ass.
˚₊‧꒰ა❤︎໒꒱ ‧₊
Mel didn’t need three weeks. She blew through the stories in one day and came back on the second, itching for another chance to see you.
This was a bad idea, she knew it. You’ve never seen her out of her scrubs. Mel was not stupid, and it was very obvious that uniforms added a certain… attractiveness to people. Cops in their coats, firefighters in those pants, and doctors in their scrubs. All she had on was a pair of blue jeans and a grey shirt. Her hair was down in that wavy sort of way it dried, which wasn’t terrible, and she had found the one lipgloss she owned lost beneath her dresser, but other than that, Mel looked like anybody. She hoped you would recognize her. She hoped you would still smile how you did.
It was just past dinnertime on her second day off, and in the waning summer daylight, the library attracted plenty of business. When she came through the doors, there were clusters of cardholders all over the place; mothers and children reading picture books in the kids section, elderly couples puttering about, teenagers lounging on the couches and climbing up and down the stairs. It lightened her heart to see so many people using the building, because she thought it must make you so happy. Speaking of you… you weren’t behind the counter, once again.
Instead there was an older woman, a brunette with red-jelly glasses hanging from a beaded string. As the off-duty doctor approached the counter, the librarian looked up with barely an ounce of your enthusiasm. She asked after you, to which the lady only offered, “Third floor.”
That was a relief, at least– you were here. She had hoped she didn’t come too early. Her ‘thank you’ went unappreciated by the desk clerk, but she was too anxious to care. Mel trotted up the steps, peeking at the activity of college kids on the second floor– had to be the one with the study rooms, she figured– and crested the stairs on the third, looking for your cart or your head of hair or revelatory grin. She had to make a lap around the edges before finding you tucked away in the biology row. Quietly, she held onto the strap of her messenger bag and came closer. Seeing as you didn’t hear her footsteps on the wiry carpet, she took her chance.
“Hey, bookworm.”
She laughed as you jumped and let out a tiny yelp, but the look on your face was worth it. Your skirt fanned across the ground between stacks of donated textbooks, and the little platforms on your boots thunked the ground like happy tails as you beamed up at her. You recognized her, thank God.
“Hi, Mel!”
“Hey,” she melted, kneeling to sit beside you.
“What are you doing here? No work today?”
“Nope. Came to get a new book.”
“You finished it already? You’re screwing with me, right?”
“I did, and I’m not,” she chuckled, “it was really good.”
You gave her an incredulous look. “I’m impressed. You’re a fast reader. I bet that’s how you got through med school, huh?”
“Still is. I’m the only one who can get my charts done these days,” Mel jutted her chin, and when your head tilt led her to believe you didn’t know what charting was, her chest clenched tighter. “How’s it going?”
“Great, now that you’re here,” you gushed, pausing after you blurted it. Way to play your cards, you thought.
Mel’s throat jumped, and she ran her clammy palms down her jeans. “Actually, I didn’t just come to get a new book.”
You leapt at the chance to bury your lapse in judgement. “I can help you with anything you need, it’s my job.”
“Actually, um…”
It truly wasn’t fair how you could sit there, expression so trusting and aching for affection. She knew this was stupid. She’d only met you twice before. But there wasn’t a free second where her mind didn’t drift back to the warm, dust-mitey depths of the library, where you skittered around like a breathtaking thing, casting light everywhere you went. She was enamored with you.
You were in no better position, which would be nice for her to know. Historically, you never learned how to mask your emotions. When you were taken, it oozed from you in every direction, sinking into the music you had on repeat and the books you picked up, into the colors you wore, the way you did your hair. You wore love like a gift, and it was ridiculous and unfounded, but you couldn’t get enough of her. Just sitting there and waiting for her to speak was like being suspended in a state of bliss, where you had her attention and everything was alright.
Mel cleared her throat, lashes fluttering as her nose scrunched. With a big breath, she summoned the courage. “I was wondering if you’d want to go out. On a date. With– with me, like… romantically.”
What was that you heard? Angels humming? The trumpets of Heaven sounding over the galaxy, calling, Rise, people, rise, the girl is getting what she wants? Whatever it was, it was deafening. It sounded like the doctor’s voice, resonating inside your bones like a blessing.
“Yes,” you wheezed.
“Really? You’re into girls like that?”
“I am into girls, and I am incredibly into you. I want to go on a date. I really, really do.”
Mel was certain she would perish on the spot. That was a good reaction. “Well… great! Good! I– mhm,” she stammered, “a date. When? When can we go on a date?”
“I take an hour break in twenty minutes.”
Mel’s eyebrows shot sky-high. “Oh!”
“Too soon? Shit, sorry,” you chewed your lip, “I– you probably wanted to plan it, right? That’s fine, I can wait–”
Mel’s hands shot out to grip your arms, feeling the soft flesh as she halted your rambling before it could get going. “No. Twenty is fine. As long as you don't care that I’m in jeans.”
Your stomach flipped, and you couldn’t help how fondly the words slipped out: “You could be covered in blood for all I care.”
Mel laughed, “I usually am.”
The textbooks sat abandoned around your legs, and the thought of working another second made you nauseous. You wanted to leave now. You could hypothetically quit if it meant getting to a date with the beautiful doctor as soon as humanly possible. But before you could commit to a life-altering choice, Mel hopped to her feet and leaned down to tuck some hair behind your ear, as she saw you do before.
“I’ll wait downstairs. We can get something to eat when you’re done?”
You pushed into the touch like a shameless, shameless cat. “Please.”
“Okay,” she confirmed. “See you in a bit.”
“Yeah,” you pulled back, feeling her fingers slip from your hair.
Mel left you there like a lovesick pile of mush, practically skipping down the steps. In her head she began to run through every dinner option up and down the street, and then a five block radius, and whether you liked ice cream, or how strict you were about kissing on the first date. She nearly tripped over a child in the process, but it didn’t matter. She had a real date.
Life hadn’t felt this good in a long time.
˚₊‧꒰ა❤︎໒꒱ ‧₊
One date turned into three, and then five, and then you stopped counting. Whatever number tonight was might have been nice to know, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care. All you knew was that this was the one, you told yourself. This was the night you would be brave enough to ask for what you want.
Things were going so much better than you could have hoped for. After a few weeks of meeting Mel after work, you started to wonder when it would go downhill. She was always so eager, bouncing on her heels and following you around the library, taking you out for ice cream, inviting you to watch television at her place. It all seemed so right, like she was meant for you, and the little voice in the back of your head thought surely no girl as wonderful as Mel could be sustained. But she stayed, and you were absolutely lost.
You had always loved girls, but never liked this. Her every move was magical. You could tell she probably had the touch for needles, because sometimes when she grabbed your hand, you barely felt it. Like air, brushing you affectionately. After the first few dates, it became second nature to pick up every habit. There were no bad ones. For example: Mel rubbed at her neck pretty often, and tugged the strings of her hoodie if available, because that was where her stethoscope sat all day, and it soothed her to feel the ghost of it. Another one was Mel’s tendency to stop talking when your eyes flitted away, assuming you had stopped caring, only for you to turn again and prompt her with a Keep going, I’m listening. Mel bit her fingernails enough that she always had on a layer of top coat to try and deter her by taste. Mel only liked hot coffee, never cold, but never hot tea, always cold, because of her passion for boba. Mel did not like romance books, but she loved history, and with enough prodding, you could get her to try anything. Mel never liked to see the same movie twice, she always wanted seconds when you cooked, and when she sneezed, her nose twitched once, twice, three times. From top to bottom, you memorized every action and reaction, every love and hate, and by the time three months of seeing her rolled around, you were utterly in love.
Tonight, Mel asked you to meet her in the park across from the hospital when you took your break. You walked down the street at lightning speed, thrumming with excitement at seeing her face. When you wound down the walkway, you spotted the girl in black scrubs perched on a drug-rug blanket. Your cheeks pulled tight with joy as you walked across the grass.
“Melly,” you sighed, “a picnic?”
The doctor was trying to arrange a handful of strawberries on a plate when she heard you. Her braid slipped over her shoulder as she sat back and patted the blanket, affirming your observation. There was a little cooler with two sodas, what looked like Chinese takeout boxes, and a whole lot of strawberries.
“Do you like it?”
You sunk to your knees on the ground and laughed sweetly, tugging her in to peck her lips. “I love it. This is so sweet.”
“Mira suggested it,” she flushed, “she’s a lot better with what to do on dates than me.”
“I knew I liked her. I’ll have to meet her.”
“Come to the hospital one day,” Mel offered, cracking open a can for you.
You took it gratefully and crossed your legs. “You want me to?”
“Sure. Whenever you want.”
You struggled to contain your blissful jitters as you sipped your soda. Mel had this habit of staring at you when she wanted you to do some talking, and she was employing the strategy now, sinking her teeth into a berry and tracking you with her hazel eyes. You hadn’t even eaten anything yet, but maybe that was better. Nothing to puke up if you got rejected.
“Mel, um, I was… I wanted to ask you something.”
“What’s up?” The doctor scooted closer and nudged the plate towards you, trying to make you pick up a bite. You felt the tip of her sneaker knock against your ankle, and part of you just wanted to die.
“Well, I guess– y’know, we've been seeing each other for a while.”
“We have,” she hummed, focus drifting to your mouth.
“And I really like you.”
“I like you, too.”
“We spend all our free time together.”
“We do.”
“Your sister likes me,” you added, reminiscing the movie night you shared with Becca and Mel a few weeks ago. You giggled your way through Elf like a champ in the heat of August.
“She does.”
“So… I… I mean… I guess what I wanted to say was…”
Mel’s smile grew wider and wider, and she could read it all over your face. Mel knew a thing or two about you– how you repeated yourself and trailed off when you didn’t want to say something, how you only liked the warm syrup in diners and never from a bottle because it ‘didn’t taste the same’, the way you took your iced coffee, your shoe size, the coworkers from the library who grinded your gears. Mel adored you like she never had anything in the world, and if you were about to ask what she thought you were, she was going to be made a very, very happy woman.
“Tell me,” she urged.
You locked eyes with her and took a deep breath, and you came straight out with it: “I want to be with you for real. Like a girlfriend.”
After a beat, the doctor asked, “Like a girlfriend, or my girlfriend?”
That was another thing. Mel often teased just to see you get annoyed.
“Oh, shut up! You know what I mean!”
She threw her head back in laughter and crawled across the blanket, knocking you onto your back. You fell with a thump, and with your hair all fanned out behind you, she could barely breathe.
“I would love nothing more than for you to be my girlfriend, and for me to be yours.”
Your heart soared. “You mean it?”
“Do I mean it?” Mel scoffed, and without warning, she dove down.
You surrendered to her mouth willingly, back arching off the ground as her lean, strong arms slipped beneath you to hold you tight and squeeze. She crowded you against the ground and ran her hands from the backs of your knees to the pits of your arms, screwing up your skirt and vest and eventually your hair. The sharp tang of fruit passed between your tongues as she worked your jaw open, and you whined softly into the mix, head reeling and hips aching. Mel had to find the strength to pull away because she had a creeping suspicion you would make out with her until you lost consciousness.
Panting through the rush, Mel confessed, “I might love you.”
It wasn’t too soon. Not at all.
“Might?” You smirked.
˚₊‧꒰ა❤︎໒꒱ ‧₊
With a couple months of dating under your belt, you were itching to see Mel’s workplace. She’d visited you at the library so many times now, exchanging books and following you around while you restocked or dusted or worked on table displays. She had kissed you in many a dark corner. But all you caught a glimpse of was her scrubs, and you were eager to see what life was like when she was working. You wanted to match names to faces and hear what she sounded like when she treated patients. It would be satisfying to know how accurate your image of her being the best living doctor was in person. You resolved to bring her an unannounced cup of coffee on a Wednesday midmorning, figuring it would be a safe enough time for a dull emergency room.
When you walked in the front entrance, the waiting area full of chairs was sparsely seated. The air-conditioning was out, which was unfortunate for such a warm October day, but you were emboldened by the idea she might not be busy. You had heard horror stories of Friday nights and weekends, and they seemed nothing like this.
As you approached the front desk, a short clerk with a name tag that read Lupe lifted her head in a comforting smile. Her finger flicked the microphone on, and she asked, “Checking in?”
You shook your head and held up the coffees in your hand, asking hopefully, “Um, no, I was hoping I could see Dr. Melissa King, if she isn’t busy?”
Lupe’s eyes narrowed in playful recognition. “Oh. You’re the librarian girl.”
Your face heated up in an instant. “Um… yes.”
“She never stops talking about you,” Lupe smirked. A buzzer rumbled the glass partition, and the lock on the door to your left clicked. “Go on in, honey, down the hall and to the right. The doctors at the nurse’s station can help you find her.”
“Thank you!”
The long, tiled hallway was relatively quiet, but the closer you got, the louder the beeping, humming, and buzzing became. You turned the corner and saw Mel’s world open up before you. A white hospital wing crawling with doctors and nurses barreled down and branched off. Patients on gurneys were passing by or stashed along the walls. You spotted four custodians wiping at the floor. All around was the bustle of a busy hospital, and you could barely imagine your mild-mannered girlfriend functioning in such a fast-paced environment. Her explaining it was one thing, but seeing it was another. It was just another reason to admire her.
You walked in, clutching the cups tight and avoiding oncoming healthcare professionals as they sped around the halls. At a big desk clump in the center, you saw a tiny blonde woman with an expression best described as having seen enough, and a tall, bearded man with a stethoscope around his neck and little professor-eqsue glasses perched on his nose. They were seemingly deep in conversation. A lightbulb flickered over your head, recalling a certain nurse and doctor who frequently get into it from Mel's tales.
“Excuse me?”
The pair whipped around at your voice, and the nurse smiled warmly. “Hiya, sweetheart. Lookin’ for a family member?"
“Hello– um, no. Is Dr. Melissa King around?”
The doctor squinted at you, a slow grin tugging at his cheeks. He outstretched a palm. “I’m Dr. Michael Robinavitch, and this is our charge nurse Dana Evans. You must be the girlfriend our Mel mentioned.”
You shook his strong palm nervously and nodded, ears burning. “The lady at the desk said the same thing…”
“Trust me, honey, that girl never shuts up about it. Robby can show you around, she’s with a patient.”
“I guess that works!”
Robby swooped out from behind the desk and gave you a wink, placing a courteous hand on the small of your back and guiding you down the hall.
“I hope you’ve never been here before,” he quipped.
“Oh, I haven’t. Lucky me.”
“Yes, lucky you. Mel is one of our best residents. Hard worker, fiercely intelligent, great with patients. How did you guys meet?”
You chuckled softly as you peeked down the halls, catching shadows of men and women in black scrubs hopping between rooms and nurses carrying clipboards around with an air of urgency. “If it’s what it sounds like, then Mel probably already told you that.”
“Can you blame me? It’s not every day that family comes to see us at our jobs. Most people stay away from the stress of this place. You must be a pretty special one to show up unannounced.”
You glanced up at Robby. His eyes were so dark, and something very calming settled over you. Mel once described him as ‘the hospital’s dad’, and you felt that was a very fitting image.
“Well, I thought it might be a nice pick-me-up. You work her pretty hard,” you quirked an eyebrow.
Robby’s laugh rattled in his chest. “Only because she’s the best to do it. You should see her in action. She’s one of the best I’ve seen in a long time, and I’ve been at this for thirty years.”
It made your whole body tingle with pride to hear Mel praised so genuinely. You knew she was good, you could just see it when you looked into her eyes; but to know other people thought so was twice as nice.
“She’s a wonderful person,” you gushed, following the curve of the hall.
“She says the same thing about you.”
Curtain areas full of beds stuffed with patients passed as you looped the department. A few doctors perked up at the sight of you, and it made your face glow– just how much did she tell them? Do they all have a picture of you in their wallet or something? You saw a few faces with details that rang bells– a pretty Indian girl, a brunet beanstalk of a man, a short farmboy type…
As Robby asked you about your job at the library, the nurse’s station came into view again, and you saw Mel standing at the desk, lording over a clipboard. Robby patted your back and whistled, “You have a visitor, Dr. King!”
Mel’s head darted up at the sharp sound, and you wished you had your camera out when her face twisted through a rapid set of surprise, confusion, and glee, all in a second. She abandoned her chart to rush to you, showing off her teeth.
“What are you doing here? Hi!” She exclaimed, hands hesitating between hugging you or taking the coffee first.
You put them both down on the desk and grabbed her face, pressing a soft smooch to the skin of her cheek. “I thought I’d surprise you. Dr. Robby was just showing me around.”
Robby threw Mel a wink and slinked away, looking like a happy little hyena. She burned bright red and groaned, “He didn’t say anything embarrassing, right?”
“Only that you talk about me nonstop. I think everyone knew me without even saying hello.”
Mel’s eyes blinked in horror. “I– well– it– y’know–”
“I think it’s sweet,” you giggled, wrapping the end of her braid around your finger. You leaned against the desk and cocked your head, studying how she looked no different– still beautiful– in a place that wasn’t the library, her place, or yours. “I hope this isn’t a bad time.”
“No, no, God no. My patients are all inbetween being observed. I’m good.”
“I brought you coffee,” you hummed, and Mel leaned in closer, seemingly charmed.
“I missed you.”
“I missed you, too. Is there a rule against kissing in your hospital?"
“Probably,” she grinned.
You grabbed the ends of her stethoscope and tugged her in, slotting your mouth against hers. Mel let out a tiny grunt against your mouth, her voice thick and warm, and her hands slid around the soft stuff of your hips. Your nose smushed against hers and you sighed softly, relieved to finally have a fix again. Mel was two seconds away from shoving her tongue down your throat when another whistle sounded, starling you two apart like dogs.
“The lounge, Mel,” Robby called, his wolfish teeth peeking from behind a knowing look.
Mel could only wince and tug you along, grabbing her free coffee. “Come on. I’ve got twenty minutes.”
“I like him,” you teased, and Mel gave you a chiding glance as she dragged you towards the doctor’s lounge. “Can I meet the others?”
“Me first,” she purred.
˚₊‧꒰ა❤︎໒꒱ ‧₊
Mel’s bed was incredibly comfortable, especially in the slow transition to winter. You had come to appreciate this when you slept over after the fourth date, and even more after the fateful picnic, where the title of girlfriend raised the flag for you both to tear into each other in the way you’d wanted to for forever. As you lay in it now with one hand in the beautiful doctor’s hair and a book in the other, you hoped you might sleep in it for the rest of your life.
“You should really go to bed. It’s late,” Mel rasped, heavy eyes drooping.
“Says you. You’ve got work in four hours.”
“Well, I wanted to see you,” she murmured.
You put your book face-down on your thigh and coaxed your nails through her golden locks. “I know. You still need more sleep than me.”
Mel peeked up at you, seeing the enticing little roll of your chin that she wanted to climb up and bite. She let out a huff and rolled over, inching onto her knees and perching herself on your lap. You grinned and jutted your chin out as she leaned in to press a slow kiss to your lips, waking up the butterflies that had only just caught a break.
Against her lips you asked, “What are your days off this week?”
Mel’s hands sunk into your hair. “Mm… Sunday and Monday.”
You arched into her a bit and swiped your tongue along her bottom lip. “We can do something Sunday… park, zoo, something…”
“Stop talking,” she mumbled.
Mel loved to kiss you. You loved to kiss Mel. It was arguably what you did most, and for good reason. It had been a lifetime for you of wanting love and never getting it, putting your career first, hoping that one day someone would walk in and change everything. And with Mel losing her parents, and down the line her sister to another love, kissing you was her opportunity to finally regain the connection she had been searching for as life dragged her down. Here, in her bed, you could put your hands on her and find her perfect. She could squeeze your tummy and your thighs and mumble questions about books while she made you whine; she could tuck her fingers in warm places and tell you that you were everything she ever wanted.
Kissing and loving was so incredibly easy, and together you had realized that maybe everyone else was just stuck in a love that wasn’t the right kind. All this talk about making things work, about how work hours and separate lives can be too hard to reconcile, none of that made any difference to you. You worked nights at the library because Mel usually stayed late. You came home and ate eleven o’ clock dinners and slept in the same room. You woke with her to have coffee and fall back asleep when she left. On her days off she came to your job, and on yours you repaid the favor. Mel learned to take a day off now and again so she could live her life with you. Suddenly, in everything people said made love hard, you found moments that made the wait worth it. Months were a short period of time, but within them you realized how much real love smoothes the edges of everything, promising to get you through a hard day for the sake of coming home to a kiss. And it didn’t seem crazy at all, or impossible. Maybe it was a miracle, or maybe it was just Mel. These days, they felt one and the same.
When Mel pulled away, she tucked her face into your neck and peppered her lips across your collarbone. “Read to me?”
You melted like butter beneath her, and as she curled in your lap, you picked up the book again. She was a precious thing when her body was drained. “You’re so pretty. Did I tell you today?”
Mel grinned. “A few times, I think.”
“Well, you are.”
“So are you, bookworm,” she whispered, nudging up to kiss you one more time.
You released her with a sheepish expression and snuggled closer, finding your spot on the page. You would read until she fell asleep, and then you would shut the pages and stare at her face for a while until the image remained when you closed your eyes. And you would love her forever, because when you thought about the future, she was all you could see, stretching in an endless line. From where you stood now, it was easy to imagine. It felt good to think so.
A beautiful doctor and a librarian, you thought. That sounded like a good book.
Summary: Helaena is your next door neighbour and dear friend. You both call one night to get her mind off of things, but the conversation quickly changes. Not that she minds.
Warnings: phone sex!!!, teasing, undressing, voyeurism, mutual masturbation, jilling instructions/guided masturbation, confessions, fingering, breast play, a lot of fluff. MDNI.
4.5K
The second her light flicked on, it drew your attention. Her bedroom, facing yours, was lit up by a small lamp on her bedside table. You swirled around in your deskchair, until you spotted her. She was walking around, having dropped her bag next to the door. She removed her sweater, before plopping down heavily on her bed.
You saw she sighed deeply.
You huffed, before grabbing your phone.
>> long day?
You texted her. You noticed she kept staring up at her ceiling, ignoring her phone. You knew her for long enough now to not take that personally. And after fifteen minutes, she dragged herself back up, and grabbed her phone. You heard the soft ding moment later.
Don’t even get me started..<<
You snorted at that. Helaena should know by now you liked to get her started. You liked to give her a space where she could rant and complain all she wanted.
>>tell me !!!
You noticed how the glow slightly lit her face up more. She finally lifted her head and searched for you. When she saw you sitting at your desk, a similar lamp burning on your nightstand, you saw a vague smile.
Ugh fine<<
She didn't start texting, she disappeared into her bathroom for a bit. When she came back, she was dressed down to soft pajamas. Her hair was down from her braid as well. And then… she called. You nearly jumped when you heard your phone vibrating on your desk.
Helaena wasn't a big caller, so this had to be bad.
You picked up on the third ring.
“Hey,” you breathed out, clearing your throat.
“Hi,” she replied, her voice that same soft, soothing sound. You heard her move around on the other side of the line, and noticed her rummaging around her bedroom when you looked up. Moving things, putting things away. You waited for a moment longer.
“So, long day?” you said again, hearing a sigh from her side of the line. You watched her put a final book away, before she dropped herself on her bed again.
“The longest. I think this course is trying to kill me,” she replied to you with a tiredness that made you feel even worse for the girl. “I thought English lit would be a smart addition to my curriculum, but I regret it now. So bad. I barely even like to read anymore because of it.” You listened to her sigh, chewing your bottom lip for a moment and deciding what to say to make her feel better.
“I’m sorry, Hel,” you finally murmured, “maybe it’s just a little rough patch right now. Which book are you reading?”
“Fucking Emma,” she huffed out, and you saw her sit back up now, legs crossed. Pajama shorts riding up.
“Fucking Emma? Sounds very interesting,” you replied with a lame joke, but hearing her soft half-laugh half-sigh made it worth it.
“You know that’s not part of the title,” she gently scolded, and you just smiled, nodding even if she wasn’t able to hear that. “Sorry,” she said after a moment, “I’m just tired. And frustrated. I’ve just been so busy with uni, and mom is always busy with my brothers. And my dad…” You heard another sigh. “Well, you know how he is.”
“You know I’m here for you, Hel,” you said softly into the phone, “the offer to place a plank between our windows still stands…”
She laughed at that, and you could even see her shoulders shake when you looked out the window.
“We are not doing that! It’s too dangerous.” But she laughed nonetheless. “I miss hanging out with you. I’ve just been so busy..”
“Hey, it’s totally okay. And if calling every evening before you go to bed helps, I'm totally down for that.” You stood up from your chair, waving at her. After a moment you heard a small puff of air escaping her before she waved back.
“You’re so cheesy,” she said after a moment.
“What? Cheesy? I’m just checking in on a friend!”
“Yeah, well, your friend is tired and frustrated,” you heard her say.
“You know I can try to help,” you said, clearing your throat. That came out wrong. Kinda. “I mean, we can talk about your course, or about anything else-”
You heard Helaena hum, thinking for a moment about your offer. She could talk about how in English Lit two girls had looked at her funny, or she could talk about how her mother barely had time for her.
“Anything?” she said after a long moment. “Like… which books I do like? Or maybe about how I’m convinced the same spider crossed paths with me three times today?”
You laughed softly. “Yeah, anything. You can even talk about which pen is your favourite right now. Or maybe which pair of underwear is your least favourite-”
“Hey!” you heard her huff out, and you laughed again. A small silence fell between you, and you saw her change positions on her bed; now lying on her side, her head on her pillow and her phone propped up beside her. You moved as well, sitting down on your own bed.
“Hey,” she murmured in a more serious tone, and it made you shift. “Do you ever just… feel like you’re waiting on something? Not like a big trip, but… there’s just something about to happen in your life… and all you can do is wait for it to happen?”
You sat more straight. “Do you mean something… bad? Like, do you feel anxious a lot?”
She shook her head no. At least, you heard some fabric rusting on her side. “No, not a bad way. I think, at least. I mean, I don’t feel nervous. It’s almost… exciting. In its inevitability. I have a good feeling about it.”
“Oh, well,” you said, studying her quietly through the window. The sun was slowly setting, both your rooms growing darker by the minute--except for the single light you both had on. “I… don’t feel that way. I mean, not right now. But I think I have felt that way before. I think I felt that way before… well, when I heard we were getting new neighbours. I felt it then. And then, a month later… there were you.” A soft smile graced your lips.
Helaena flushed a bright pink at your words, and she was glad you wouldn’t be able to see it. “Really?” you heard her say softly on the other end of the line. “You felt that way?” Her voice was trembling just little enough that you weren’t able to make it out. But your comment had affected her. A lot. She moved again, now staring at the ceiling. Being able to look into your bedroom right now would’ve been too much.
“I mean, yeah,” you replied, “New neighbours, new people. I just… had this feeling that something was coming. And like you said, not in a bad way.”
Helaena stared at the ceiling, and remembered that day, the first meeting between you two, like it was yesterday. She saw you standing there, next to your parents, and for the first time she hadn’t felt the need to look away, or at the floor. She had looked at you, and you had smiled and introduced yourself. Helaena had blushed, spoken her own name too quietly in return. But you hadn’t laughed at her, or asked her to repeat herself. You had smiled brighter, and said ‘I hope to see you around.’
And she ended up seeing you a lot, since your windows faced each other.
But she didn’t mind. Still didn’t.
"I thought..." Helaena started, then paused, searching for the right words. She wasn't good at being direct. "I thought you were just being kind. Because you're a kind person. You're so... bright. Like a sunbeam that decided to settle in a garden of shadows." She let out a shaky, breathless laugh, her fingers nervously twisting a loose thread on her pillowcase. "But if you felt it too..." She trailed off, her gaze drifting back toward the window, towards your silhouette.
“I think you’re pretty cool,” you said, which earned you a genuine laugh. She loved that she could be herself around you. That she could use whatever metaphors bubbled up inside of her, and that you wouldn’t call her weird, or strange, or difficult.
“Cool?” she repeated teasingly, though her blush was still colouring her cheeks. You smiled.
“Sorry, I’m not the best at words like you are. But yeah. You’re really cool.” You moved as well, lying down on your bed, feeling more relaxed now. “And.. and you’re really smart, Hel.” She wanted to say something, usually making self-deprecating jokes when you complimented her, but this time it felt different. The entire conversation felt different.
“And… pretty..”
A long silence fell after. Helaena’s eyes had widened at your words, and for the first time, she really hadn’t seen that coming. She usually liked to predict what you were gonna say next. A stupid pun, an anecdote, perhaps a story you had told before but she’d never tell you you’d told it before simply because she liked to hear you talk.
“Pretty…” she murmured softly, her voice nearly inaudibly. You swallowed nervously. You wanted to say you were sorry and that you used the wrong word, but that simply wasn’t the truth. She was pretty. And to you, the prettiest.
"You shouldn't say things like that," she whispered, though there was no real protest in her voice. It was more of a plea. "It makes it hard to... to keep my feet on the ground. It feels like if you keep saying it, I might just float away through the ceiling." She turned to look at your window, barely able to make out the basic layout of the room anymore. The sun had set. "Do you really think so?" she asked, her voice small and vulnerable, stripped of all its usual defenses. "Even when I'm... when I'm being strange? Even when I'm talking to the moths?"
You sighed softly. You just… had to say the truth. To her.
“Especially then,” you admitted softly. “I think you look very pretty when you bend down to look at certain insects. And you look very pretty when you smile, and then rush to me to explain what it said.”
Helaena didn’t know what to say. She felt so seen, in the best way. She finally found a person that thought she was interesting enough to pay attention to. A person who would listen to her ramblings, and-
“And,” you said, disrupting her train of thought, “I also think you look very pretty when you pretend you don’t see me… and undress in front of your open window.”
Helaena flushed red immediately. Her embarrassment was so intense she felt her blush all the way down her neck, to her chest and shoulders. "You..." she started, but the words died in her throat. She let out a sound that was half gasp, half whimper. "You were... watching?"
Your own eyes widened too, her words making the entire thing seem incredibly perverted, before you could defend yourself, she was blurting out all different kinds of excuses.
"I didn't... I didn't think..." Helaena stammered, her voice trembling with a mix of shy laughter and pure, unadulterated panic. "I thought the curtains were... I thought the light was dim enough..." She bit her lip, her heart pounding hard against her ribs. She peeked towards your window, seeing the soft light of your lamp, the dark silhouette of you on your bed.
“I don’t believe that, Hel,” you said, your voice softer, more intimate, “I think you wanted me to see.”
The silence after your bold statement was even more intense. All Helaena could hear was the sound of her blood rushing through her ears. You knew. Of course you knew--you knew her.
"Maybe," Helaena whispered, the confession slipping out like a secret she could no longer keep. "Maybe a little bit."
You let out a soft, shaky breath.
"Was it..." she whispered, her voice dropping to a level so low it was almost a secret shared between you in the dark. "Was it... a good view? Or was it just... strange?"
“Strange?” you laughed. “No, Hel, it wasn’t strange. It was… stunning. I tried to look away, I really did, but then you fucking took your shirt off, and-” you laughed softly. “You knew exactly what you were doing. And I looked like a--like a creep, or something.”
Helaena bit her lip and smiled.
"A creep?" she teased, her voice regaining a hint of its usual playful lilt, though it remained hushed. "No... not a creep. Just a witness."
“A witness..” you repeated, “well, I’m glad I was a witness. And I wouldn't mind witnessing it again.”
Helaena felt as though she might actually float away now, just as she had feared. "You're very dangerous," Helaena murmured, her voice soft and giddy. She rolled onto her back again, staring up at the ceiling, but her eyes were bright. "If you keep saying things like that," Helaena continued, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, "I might just have to leave the curtains wide open every single night. Just to see if you're still there, watching the moths with me."
“Every night? Do you promise that?” you replied, and you heard that soft giggle again.
She paused, her heart doing a little skip jump in her chest.
"Well… would you?" she asked, the question hanging in the air between you, delicate and precious. "Would you still be there? Watching?"
You took a deep breath. “Yeah,” you replied, “of course I would. Especially now, knowing that… that you want me to watch.”
"Then I will," Helaena whispered, her voice trembling with a newfound, quiet certainty. "I'll leave them open. A little bit. Just enough for the light to spill out... and for your eyes to find their way in."
You sat a little bit more upright. “Hel?” you said softly, and while you gathered your courage, Helaena was as well. Because you both knew what you were about to ask. “Can you… show me… now?”
“Right now?” she repeated, and you just nodded in reply. You stood up slowly, moving a bit closer to the window, sitting back down on your deskchair. “Okay,” you heard her murmur, “Just don’t… don’t look away. Okay?”
“Promise,” you whispered, watching as she sat upright on her bed. She set the phone down, pressing the speaker button, before she reached to the hem of her soft pajamas. Her heart was pounding, but she had never felt more sure of anything in her life. She wanted you to see her. And you couldn’t look away. You watched as she took the shirt off completely, leaving her in a soft pink bra. Her skin looked so soft, so pale, and you just wanted to touch it.
“Wow..” you mumbled, unable to find the words. “So… pretty.”
Helaena didn’t even feel the need to cover up with her hand. They just rested on the bed beside her. “I think you’re quite pretty, too..” she said. “Do you… like it? What you see?” Even though she knew you did, she still needed a bit of encouragement. A bit of praise.
“I do-” you spoke quickly. “A Lot. You look so… soft. And that bra is very cute. It’s very you.”
“It’s one of my favourites,” she replied, and you watched eagerly as her fingertips grazed the underside of the fabric. You didn’t want to miss a thing.
“It’s now one of my favourites, too..” you replied softly. That sentence alone made a heavy heat pool in the stomach of the girl. Helaena’s hands moved over the fabric, tracing the edges before they rested back on her lap.
“Hey,” she murmured softly, “if you were…” she fell silent for a moment. “If you were here… with me… where would your hands be?” It was a bold question, a question that had taken all of Helaena’s courage. It was also a question that made you lose your mind. It was spoken so innocently, even if it wasn’t innocent at all.
“Your waist,” you breathed out a second later. “I would put my hands on your waist. Feel the soft skin, watch goosebumps raise on your skin. I would… tease a bit. Make you wonder if my hands would move up… or down.” You licked your lips. You watched as one of her hands almost automatically traced her waist.
“Yeah,” you whisper, “like that.”
Helaena let out the softest moan. She closed her eyes for a second, imaging it was your hand on her waist instead. She could almost feel the warmth of them, the way you’d softly squeeze her waist, and then… then…
“And then?” she breathed out, looking back at you again, wishing she had agreed to your stupid ‘plank-between-windows-plan’. "Tell me more. Tell me... if your hands moved up... what would you do? Would you touch my ribs? Would you... would you find the places where my heart beats the fastest?"
You’d be lying if you hadn’t thought of this before, because you had. One evening you two had been sitting together, arms pressed together. Her skin was soft, and warm, and she smelled good. When you said goodbye you hugged her a little tighter, arms squeezing her waist. It was intoxicating.
“I would slide my hands up, yeah,” you murmured, “feel the softness of your skin. And then I would… I would trace the underside of your bra, feeling your heart speed up. Maybe slip my thumb underneath the elastic, just to hear a soft moan.” You watched as she mimicked what you just said.
“I think I would moan,” she whispered now, “and… arch closer into your touch.”
“And then…” you continued, voice a bit heavier, “I would move my hands so I was cupping your breast through the fabric. But I’m… impatient. So I’d probably take your bra off quickly. Would you let me?”
The idea of her bra being removed, of that final, thin barrier between her and your touch being swept away, made her feel a dizzying sense of vertigo. "Yes," Helaena breathed, the word a sudden, fierce exhale. There was no hesitation in her voice this time, only a raw honesty. "Yes, please. I don't want anything between us. Not even the lace." She reached behind her, her fingers fumbling with the clasp, until the fabric finally fell away. She watched as you nearly pressed your cheek against your window to see, and she heard a soft sigh filled with pleasure. And this time you couldn’t hold back a soft cuss.
“Fuck,” you mumbled, seeing her breasts for the first time. They were soft, and her nipples were pink and you could swear they were hard. “You’re… perfect.”
She leaned toward the window, her eyes searching the dark, her expression one of longing. "Now... what would you do next?" she asked almost impatiently. "If you were standing here... right in front of me... what would you do with those hands?"
“Not just my hands,” you whispered, causing a warm shiver to roll down Helaena’s spine and settle in her core. “I would… cup them first. Feel the weight, the heat. And then I’d… squeeze them. I’ve always wanted to squeeze them.”
Helaena let out a sound that was a mixture between a laugh and a moan.
“I’d pinch your nipples, gently, of course. See what you like. Watch them grow a deeper pink.”
Helaena moaned softly.
“Can you do that for me?” you asked in a nearly pleading voice, “please, bug. I want to see.”
The nickname bug sent a jolt through Helaena that made her impossibly more turned on. It was her essence, her very identity, and you had claimed it, turned it into a term of endearment that felt like a caress. "Yes," Helaena whimpered, the word catching in her throat. "Yes. Watch me. Please."
You watched as her hand moved up, her hand finally cupping her breast. She squeezed softly, her fingers spread to cup the entirety of it. You heard the way her breath hitched and soft mewls escaped her. Then, with a shaky breath, she moved her thumb and forefinger to the peak of her breast. You watched her in the dim light of the lamp, her eyes lidded and glazed over, as she began to roll the sensitive bud between her fingers. The sweetest moan escaped her as she applied a tiny bit more pressure, a gentle pinch that sent a lightning bolt of sensation straight to her core. "Like... like this?" she gasped, her voice a ragged, breathless sound. She increased the pressure slightly, her eyes fluttering shut as she focused entirely on the sensation.
“Yeah,” you moaned, “and then… I would kiss your other breast. I would… take your nipple in my mouth. Suck on it.” You moved to undo your jeans, opening the button and zipper so you could shove a hand inside.
"Oh... gods..." Helaena whimpered, her fingers still working rhythmically at her breast, her movements becoming more urgent, more desperate. You could see her back arch, which sent a shiver down your spine. She was responsive.
"You're... you're doing it too," Helaena whispered, her voice trembling with a mix of awe and desire. Her free hand drifted down, her fingers tracing the line of her stomach, following the path of her own rising heat. "You're not just watching... you're with me."
“Yeah,” you gasped out, “you’re so… so perfect, and sexy, and--” you let out another shaky moan. “You turn me on so much, bug-”
She let out a long, shuddering moan, her hips arching slightly as she increased the rhythm of her hand against her breast, her other hand venturing lower, seeking the heat that was building in her core. She’d never been called sexy before. It made her feel… powerful.
"Tell me," she urged, her voice a low, melodic command, thick with a newfound confidence. "Tell me how much you want me. Tell me what you'd do if you could just... reach through the dark and take me right now."
“Fuck, Hel,” you hissed, your hand finding yourself hot and wet. “I would push you down on your bed, kiss you breathless. Maybe even leave my mark on you. Because you’re mine, Hel, all mine-”
She whined softly.
“And then I would kiss my way down, until my face was right in front of your pussy.”
She let out a gasp, pleasantly surprised by your crude words.
“I bet you taste so good, baby,” you said lowly, your own fingers pressing hard against your clit. You groaned softly, setting the phone down for a moment so you could take your jeans off completely. The sound of the rustle of denim made Helaena’s head spin.
“Please don’t stop talking,” she whimpered, and you didn’t even have it in you to tease her. She let out a long, high pitched moan, her eyes rolling back as she found her clit, her fingers mimicking the pressure she imagined your mouth would provide.
“I’d press kisses all over your thighs,” you said, “but I wouldn’t be able to stop myself. I would--” a sharp moan escaped you, “I’d lick a long stripe up your soft pussy. Taste your sweetness, feel how fucking wet you are. You are, aren’t you, bug? Let me hear it-”
With her mind half-gone, Helaena moved her phone closer. And you could hear her; those sweet, soaked sounds of her fingers moving through her pussy. "Yes!" she cried out, the word breaking into a sob of pleasure. "Yes-! I'm... I'm so wet... it's everywhere..." Her hips were bucking into her hand now, growing increasingly more desperate. "I'm so sweet for you," she whimpered, her voice thick and honeyed with arousal, her eyes squeezed shut as she visualized your face, your lips, your tongue. "Please... taste me... please... lick me... please..."
“Jesus, fuck, bug-” you moaned, staring at her through the window, watching the way her hand moved so quickly between her thighs. “I’d make you feel so good. You’d take two of my fingers so easily, wouldn’t you? Maybe even a third-”
"Yes..." she sobbed, her voice a ragged, desperate melody. "Yes, please... fill me... make me feel everything..." She had two of her own fingers inside now, using her other hand to rub circles on her clit. "I'm... I'm right there..." she gasped, her voice breaking, her entire body trembling with the force of her impending release. "Please... look at me... w-watch me!"
Your own fingers never stopped moving as you saw her cum, her back arching and the sound of her moans filling your ears. Her muscles tightened, her toes curled, and she let out a long, high-pitched moan of your name.
“Fuck-!” you hissed, a deep moan escaping you as you came at the sight of her. “Helaena… Helaena…” you panted, watching as she melted into her mattress. You stayed silent, listening to her breathing slow down, watching her come down from her high.
“Hey,” you murmured after a moment, “how do you feel, Hel?”
You heard her let out a soft, breathless giggle. The usual frantic buzzing in her mind, the thoughts of bugs and dreams and things others didn't understand, had settled into a calm, golden hum. "Like..." she started, her voice low. She paused, searching for the words, her fingers tracing lazy, absent minded circles on the warm skin of her stomach. "Like a butterfly that just finished its cocoon. Everything is... new. Everything is bright."
“Is that a good thing, baby?” you asked softly, even surprising Helaena with the soft and gentle sound of your voice.
She let out a small, sleepy sound of agreement, her head sinking deeper into the pillow.
"I feel... wonderful," she breathed, her voice trailing off into a contented murmur. "Do you... do you feel it too? The way the air feels different now?"
You groaned softly as you finally got out of the chair, and sat back down on your bed. You still wanted to see her. “I do feel it,” you agreed, “and things are different, right? Between us.”
"Everything is different," Helaena agreed, her voice a melodic murmur. She sounded as though she were speaking from a dream, her words slow and deliberate. “I’m yours.”
A smile made its way onto your lips. “Yeah, baby,” you murmured, “You’re mine. But you always have been, haven’t you?
"Yes," Helaena breathed, her voice gaining a sudden clarity. "I think... I think my soul has been humming your name since the very beginning. I just didn't know the song yet." She curled onto her side, pulling the duvet closer to her chin, feeling incredibly safe, incredibly cherished. "Don't let me go," she murmured, her voice growing heavy with the sweet pull of sleep. "Keep me... keep me in your hands. Even when we aren't... even when we aren't like this. Keep me yours."
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