Summary: Your husband, Ormund Hightower, finally returned home from war. The scent of you was among many other things he missed.
Warning: 18+, NSFW, MDNI, cursing, oral (female receiving), p in v.
Word Count: 2.1k. I divided into three parts.
A week had passed since a raven arrived bearing a letter from your lord husband, Ormund Hightower.
The Greens had won the field for the Iron Throne. The pretender had been driven back. The banners of House Hightower would turn south before the week's end.
Ever since Ormund had ridden forth to war, little had brought you comfort. Meals had lost their savor, mornings their light, and sleep had become a faithless companion that seldom lingered through the night. The absence of his steady presence had gnawed at your heart until it bordered upon madness.
More than anything, you longed for the warmth of his embrace and the familiar scent that belonged only to the two of you - one that had come to feel as natural as a second skin.
Ormund had often confessed that your own fragrance haunted him no less cruelly, lingering in his thoughts amidst the ceaseless misery of the campaign. So you had made ready. You filled the crystal perfume jars with the very essence he had always favored, that when at last the long-awaited hour arrived, you might anoint your skin with the scent he so dearly coveted.
That hour came at last. The bells of Oldtown rang bright under the shadow of Oldtown. Their joyful peals carried across the city as horns sounded from the walls to herald the return of its lord and his men. You stood before the great gates of the castle, eyes searching the endless column of riders until it found him at their head.
Ormund drew rein before you and swung himself down from the saddle. Seven save you, had there been no watchful eyes upon the courtyard, you would have spirited him away to the privacy of your chambers without a second thought. Yet the burdens of Lord and Lady Hightower had ever demanded restraint, denying you both the luxury of reckless affection.
"Welcome home, husband," you greeted softly, unable to keep the warmth from your voice.
"And my congratulations. May this victory bring an end to the madness that has so long afflicted the realm."
Whether Ormund had read the yearning plainly written upon your face, or whether the fragrance lingering about your skin had reached him upon the breeze, the corner of his mouth curved into a knowing smile. There was certainty within that expression, the silent promise that your long separation was at an end.
Bath has been drawed, candles have been burned and the door oak has been shut, leaving only you and Ormund alone in the shared bedchambers. You had sent away the servant so you could strip him off the armour yourself. He smelled of the road - iron, horse sweat, and the acrid tang of old campfire smoke.
His eyes fell upon you, only for the perfume you had chosen to welcome him home to steal the rest of his attention. He drew a slow breath through his nose.
"Take this ruddy armor off me, wife," he murmured, his voice roughened by travel and longing alike. "I need to touch you."
A smile found your lips as your fingers reached for the clasp upon his shoulder. You lingered over the fastening just long enough to test his patience, savoring the simple privilege of touching him again. The heavy cloak slipped from his broad frame and crumpled upon the stone with a muted thud, carrying with it the dust of the road and the weariness of war.
"This thing grows heavier with every campaign," you murmured, smoothing an idle hand across the thick wool. "I do not know how you endure wearing it for so long."
“The cloak is the least of my burdens,” Ormund said, one eye half-lidded as he turned a pointed glance your way. “It is your perfume that proves the greater torment. Seven save me, woman, you know full well what it does to me. Must you tempt me whilst I am still imprisoned in iron?”
A laugh threatened to escape you, though you smothered it before it could reach your lips. Now that he was safely home beneath your roof once more, there was no need for haste; you meant to savor every lingering moment before duty and desire could once again claim their hold. “I had thought the war might have taught you patience, husband.”
“I possess enough patience for soldiers,” he answered with an exaggerated sigh. “For my own wife? None whatsoever.”
You made no reply, only circling behind him, your hair slipping over one shoulder as you moved. The motion stirred the perfume beneath your ears, sending its fragrance through the quiet of the chamber. Ormund closed his eyes and released a low, strained groan.
"Please, my love," he pleaded. "What is this cruel slowness? Must you truly torture me so?"
"Stand still, Ormund," you chided gently, unable to conceal the smile tugging at your lips. "I cannot undress you if you insist upon fidgeting like an impatient squire."
Your fingers worked leisurely at the buckles of his gauntlets before easing the worn steel from his large, calloused hands. The weight of the metal struck against your rings with a sharp clang that rang throughout the chamber before you carefully set the pieces aside.
Next came the pauldrons, ever the most troublesome part of his harness. Ormund's shoulders were broad enough that the catches often refused to yield under your gentler hands, forcing you to work each fastening loose with patient determination. By now your perfume had thoroughly enveloped him, and the restraint upon his face had begun to crack. Hunger flashed openly across his features, transforming the disciplined lord into something far more dangerous.
"Get these off me," he growled, his voice emerging rougher than he intended.
The sudden command sent a startled shiver through you. His breastplate still held fast across his chest, refusing to surrender. "Ormund, I swear, if you do not—"
He answered only with a frustrated curse. Stepping away from your hands, he seized the breastplate himself, fingers curling beneath the steel with little regard for the straps you had been carefully loosening. Buckles snapped free under the force of his strength before the armor crashed upon the stone floor with a deafening thunder that seemed loud enough for all Oldtown to hear.
The final layer followed moments later. He shrugged the padded gambeson from his shoulders and cast it aside, revealing a broad chest of hard muscle and pale skin, crossed by silver scars earned through years of battle, with newer wounds still flushed an angry shade of red.
"Ormund," you breathed, eyes widening. "You have returned from war with all the manners of a starving beast."
“Can you truly blame me?” he answered hoarsely. His hands, usually so measured in every task they performed, had abandoned all patience. “You’re moving too fucking slow, wife.”
Before you had so much as drawn another breath, he caught your arms and pulled you firmly against him with a strength that left your heart stumbling within your breast. They fumbled with the silken ties of your gown before giving up entirely and pulling the fabric free.
The cream-colored silk whispered against your skin as it slipped from your shoulders, slid over your hips, and gathered in soft folds about your feet. In a blink of an eye, you stood naked before him, the last trace of your perfume clinging softly to your skin. Your wits were too slow to grasp all that had unfolded.
"I have been parted from you for far too long," his voice was little more than a strained confession. "I do not wish to spend another heartbeat away from you."
He began to kiss you with an urgent, ravenous fervor. The force of his lips made you gasp and arch your back. You could feel the rigid outline of his cock pressing against your abdomen, straining against his pants.
"Ormund," you moaned. His name leaves a sweetness around your tongue that you haven’t tasted in months.
Ignoring your plea, his mouth migrates from your neck to your jawline, finally capturing your lips again in a powerful kiss. It tasted of sweat and desire. His tongue slipped past your teeth, swirling with yours in a rhythmic exchange of saliva and warmth. He broke the kiss only to bury his face in the curve of your shoulder, his voice muffled against your skin.
"I can smell it everywhere," his breath was hot against your skin. "I can’t think of anything in that damn cold tent. I can't breathe anything but you. I’ve missed you."
He pressed his face into the gentle valley between your breasts. His tongue, long and warm, began to savor the oil on your skin, tracing the elegant curve of your breast. He circled your nipple, the tip of his tongue teasing the hardened peak until you let out a soft whimper, your fingers tangling in his thick, dark hair.
Each time he paused to breathe, he inhaled deeply, his nostrils flaring with desire. Heat unfurled within you as though your body had remembered him before your mind could catch up.
Gradually, he sank to his knees, kissing the delicate skin of your stomach, his lips igniting a trail of warmth as they descended. He lingered at the gentle dip of your navel, swirling his tongue there before venturing lower. As he neared the junction of your thighs, the scent transformed. The floral notes of the perfume blended with the natural, musky aroma of your arousal, creating an intoxicatingly primal essence.
So you lifted him by the wrist and guided him to the bed that had grown cold since his departure. You lay on your back, exposing yourself fully to your lord husband for him to devour you as he pleased, as he wished. "Take me, Ormund, please."
Kneeling once more between your legs, he leaned in and pressed his tongue directly against your clit. Moving strokes after strokes that caused your knees to weaken and your mind to go blank. His eyes fluttered shut, his chest rising and falling with each breath. He inhaled deeply, his entire being trembling with the effort to hold back.
"You put it in here, too, didn’t you?" he asked, glancing up to meet your eyes.
You could only nod in response, for no words seemed fit to leave your lips.
“Fuck, I’ve missed this too much.” Groaning low, Ormund plunged his tongue back in, savoring you with an intensity that bordered on ferocity. His tongue moved in rhythmic, swirling patterns, lapping at the oil and cream of your arousal. He drew your clitoris into his mouth, sending waves of ecstasy coursing through you. “You taste and smell as divine as I remember.”
You moaned and sighed as his tongue danced around you. With your eyes tightly shut, you surrendered to his care, fully aware that Ormund would relish teasing you while nestled between your thighs. You surrendered to him, knowing that your lord husband craved this too, just as much as you did.
The first round of sex was messy and unrefined. At one point, his thrust was so overzealous, so driven by primal hunger, that he completely slipped out due to the overwhelming wetness between you.
For a brief instant, there was a void, a sudden absence that felt like a loss. Then, he forcefully reentered, the air escaping from your folds with a loud sound that sent shivers down your spine.
The second time he took you, he flipped you over so you were on your hands and knees, your ass arched high in the air. The cool air caressed your damp folds, a stark contrast to the warmth radiating from his body behind you. He did not take his time. Gripping your hips firmly, he thrust into you with a single, powerful motion.
The third and final round unfolded in a manner unlike any other. It was a complete surrender, a heartfelt reunion filled with love and longing, intertwined with the fear of losing each other during his time away at war. He savored every moment, tracing the contours of your body with his lips and tongue. An entire hour was devoted solely to kissing, leaving tender marks on the delicate skin of your collarbone, before he began to tease the entrance to your core with the tip of his manhood.
He gently rocked in and out, whispering promises and soothing you as you sobbed with pleasure that overtook your body. Every now and then, he would pause to inhale the scent that was still ghosting around your throat and the back of your ear.
When you reached your end, your fingers tightened upon the sheets, as pleasure began to swell within you, akin to a tide gently rising on a serene shore. Both you and Ormund clung to each other, bodies fused, the scent of roses and sweat lingering in the air long after the candles had burned down to stubs.
“I miss you,” he said, the words simple and heavy with truth.
“I miss you, Lord Hightower.”
That night, you dreamed of a green beacon being lit up - not for a call to war - but to announce the arrival of Ormund’s heir, the future Lord of Oldtown.
Kwei does not understand humans. After all these years together, there are still moments that leave him completely confused. Some of them are small.
Why you smile at flowers. Why you insist on hanging dried herbs from the ceiling even when they have already served their purpose. Or why you always stop to watch the first snowfall of winter.
Others… He understands even less. Today is one of those days.
You are humming quietly to yourself while kneading dough near the fire, your youngest sitting nearby with a collection of wooden animals Kwei carved over the years. Your eldest is helping his father repair a spear shaft, though “helping” mostly consists of asking far too many questions.
Kwei is patient. More patient than the younger version of himself ever could have imagined.
“…Father?”
“Hm.”
“What is Mother’s favourite animal?”
Kwei glances toward you. Without looking up from your work, you smile.
“You are asking him?”
The boy nods enthusiastically.
“I want to know.”
Kwei answers before you can.
“The snow fox.”
“How do you know?”
“You stop to watch them every winter.”
You finally look up. A surprised smile spreads across your face.
“You noticed?”
He simply looks back at you. Of course he noticed. He notices everything about you.
The way you always sleep facing the fire. The herbs you reach for when your head aches. The songs you hum without realising it. The way your eyes brighten whenever the first snow begins to fall. These things matter because they belong to you.
That evening, after the children have fallen asleep, you sit together near the fire. Your head rests comfortably against Kwei’s shoulder while he continues carving a small piece of wood. The only sounds are the gentle scrape of his knife and the crackling fire.
“Kwei?”
“Hm.”
“Can I tell you about something we celebrated on Earth?”
“You may.”
“It was called a birthday. We celebrated every year after someone was born.”
“…Why?”
“Because we were happy they existed.”
“You already exist.” He tilts his head.
“I know.”
“So why celebrate again?”
“Because another year has passed.”
“…Humans celebrate surviving?”
“I suppose that is one way to look at it.”
He considers this very seriously.
“It seems inefficient.”
You grin.
“It probably does.”
He resumes carving.
“I celebrate you every day.”
The words are so simple that they nearly steal your breath.
“I know.”
“So why would one day be different?”
You reach for his hand, brushing your thumb across his knuckles.
“It isn’t about being different. It is about reminding the people you love how grateful you are that they were born.”
His eyes stay on yours for a long moment, hen he nods once.
“I understand.”
But judging by his expression… You are fairly certain he does not.
Months pass. Winter gives way to spring. Spring becomes summer. Life continues exactly as it always does.
Hunts.
Meals.
Children running through the house. Quiet evenings together. The conversation about birthdays disappears from your mind. Kwei, however… Remembers everything.
A few weeks before autumn arrives, he quietly begins disappearing after his hunts. Not for long. Just enough that you notice. When you ask, he answers.
“I had something to finish.”
You do not question him.
Then, your birthday arrives. You have not mentioned it. You never expected to celebrate it. It has been years since anyone did. You are preparing breakfast when Kwei enters the house carrying something wrapped carefully in soft leather. You look up.
“You are back early.”
“I am.”
“Good hunt?” You smile.
“It was.” He walks directly toward you. Stopping close enough that you can see a hint of nervousness in his posture.
It is so unusual that you almost laugh. He holds the wrapped bundle out toward you.
“This is yours.”
“For me?”
“Yes.”
You carefully unwrap the leather. Inside rests the most beautiful carving you have ever seen. It is a snow fox. Its fur has been carved so carefully that every strand seems almost real. Its eyes are gentle. Its tail curls around its body exactly the way you once described seeing them sleep.
You stare, unable to speak. Your fingers trace carefully across the smooth wood.
“Kwei…”
“It is your birthday.”
“You remembered?” You look up so quickly your eyes sting.
“You told me.”
“I only mentioned it once.”
“You mentioned it.”
As if that alone explains everything. Your vision begins to blur.
“Oh…” The first tear escapes before you can stop it. Kwei immediately stiffens. His mandibles lower.
“You are crying.”
“I know.” You laugh through another tear. His expression changes instantly. Concern replaces everything else.
“Did I carve it incorrectly?”
“No.”
“Do you dislike it?”
“No.”
“Is the fox inaccurate?”
“It is perfect.” You shake your head, laughing even harder now. He still looks uncertain.
“You are crying.”
You set the carving down carefully before stepping forward and wrapping your arms tightly around his waist. He freezes for only a heartbeat before embracing you just as tightly.
“I love it.” Your voice is muffled against his chest.
“I have never received something so thoughtful.”
He relaxes slightly.
“You are not unhappy?”
“No.”
“So… these are happy tears?”
You nod.
“Humans are strange.”
“We are.” You smile against him. He is quiet for a long moment before speaking again.
“I wished to remind you.”
“Of what?” You pull back slightly. His hand comes up to gently cup your face.
“That I am grateful you were born. Because if you had not…” He glances toward the room where your sons are still sleeping peacefully. “…I would not have this home.” His thumb brushes softly across your cheek, wiping away another tear. “I would not have our sons.” Then he looks back at you. “And I would not have you.”
You reach up, resting your hand over his.
“I think… you understand birthdays now.”
Kwei thinks for a moment. Then nods.
“It is not about celebrating another year.”
“No?”
“It is about thanking fate.”
“For what?”
“For bringing you into mine.”
You laugh softly before standing on your toes and pressing a gentle kiss to his forehead. Behind you, a sleepy little voice suddenly breaks the quiet.
“…Mother?”
You both turn. Your eldest stands in the doorway, rubbing sleep from his eyes.
“Can I have a birthday too?”
You burst into laughter, Kwei looks at him very seriously.
“Yes.”
The little boy grins.
“Will Father carve me something?”
Kwei looks back at you for just a moment before answering.
“I believe… that has become a tradition.”
And from that year onward, every birthday in your home was greeted not with grand celebrations or loud gatherings, but with something far more meaningful.
A hand-carved gift made with patience, thought, and love.
One unique carving for each member of the family, each telling a story that only Kwei could carve, and only the person receiving it could truly understand.
Years later, those little wooden figures would line the shelves of your home, each one a quiet reminder that love was not measured by the size of the gift, but by the care with which it had been made.
word count: 4.4k each headcanon is roughly 300 to 400 words
a/n: the headcanons turned out a little longer because there are quite a number of characters. this is the first time i've written this many characters at once, oh gods! i like how "i love you" manifests in completely different forms for each of them, and not everyone is ready to say it as directly as some. there's no specific timeline here, so each headcanon takes place at a different time. some are memories, others are present moments. they turned out quite separate from one another, each standing on its own
i hope you enjoyed it .ᐟ.ᐟ
Aegon Targaryen. He feels too awkward to talk about such things. For starters, Aegon just needs to realize what you mean to him. He understands that his heart stops every time he sees you hurrying through the castle corridors, but the Targaryen so hastily dismisses this foolish thought of being in love. His heart, atrophied and drenched in spiced wine, doesn't know how to love. Right? You have a pretty face, and that's normal. Doesn't he have the right to look at you? You turn a page, licking your index finger so languidly and unhurriedly that he would swear you do it on purpose. Aegon hated and adored that habit of yours. A curse escaped through his clenched teeth. You turned your gaze to him foxily, knowing exactly what reaction you provoked in him. You raised one eyebrow, silently asking if everything was alright. Aegon shook his head, and a few long platinum strands stuck to his forehead.
"What do you feel when I'm near?" Something vulnerable crept into his voice, making you put down the heavy book. "Warmth..." you answered, caught off guard. "And you?" His eyes darted in mild fear. He gripped the edge of the dark oak table but released his fingers, remaining glued to his spot. "I don't understand." Aegon's pupils dilated feverishly, his pulse pounding in his ears. He wondered why he could be so nervous when your question was innocent and didn't demand complete honesty. "Look at me. Just don't bite your damn lips... it's... it's distracting!"
You wanted to pull back at the hot, fiery notes in his voice. He could get irritated quickly, flare up like a match, and fade just as fast. Usually, that didn't push you away, but now, when his fingers, adorned with rings, trembled, knocking against the table, and his eyes glistened unnaturally, as if from tears, clinging to your features, you didn't recognize Aegon. "Do I love you?" he asked uncertainly. His hand reached for your soft cheek, covering it gently, fearfully. "Probably. I know... just don't ask anymore."
Aemond Targaryen. He tries to calculate the right moment to make his confession more meaningful. Aemond loves grand gestures that are remembered for a long time. That is why he so carefully and tenderly sketched the outlines of his future gift on cream-colored paper, a gift he so passionately wanted to give you. It was a dagger inlaid with sapphires, very fine work. On the blade was engraved an inscription he had been writing out on paper with a smile at the corner of his lips. A dagger, as it seemed, was not the most romantic gift, and few men, perhaps only a northerner, would be capable of such inelegant generosity. For Aemond, there was far more meaning, far more poetry in it than in lyrical lines written in a letter. Love for him was something worth fighting for, clawing for it like a victory. What could be more deadly than metal sharpened so diligently that simply looking at it was dangerous?
Aemond also feared he would not always be able to be by your side, no matter how fiercely he wished to protect you every second. His heart was uneasy when he thought of how his helpless, tender lady might be fleeing from someone down the steep castle stairs. The shadow that loomed over you in his mind was sinister, eyes blinking like flames, hands like claws reaching for the escaping skirts of your dress. Aemond wanted to be there, to hold you in his arms in his bed and never let you go a step away, but the duties he had taken upon himself forced him to be far from your hot lips, which begged to be roughly crushed.
He left his gift covered with a velvet cloth, hiding the gleaming steel like a secret. You would only see it later, after he had flown to Harrenhal, having said goodbye to you. Aemond left a sweet kiss on the corner of your mouth, unable to pull away when propriety demanded, and told you to look at his gift later. When you pinched the fabric and pulled it up, you gasped at the beauty that bloomed before your eyes. On the wave-carved dagger was elegantly engraved forever yours, A.
Helaena Targaryen. Her love manifests shyly, sweetly, through small gestures that mean a great deal to Helaena. She always chooses the best for you. She hands you the apple she considers more rosy and flavorful, she pushes the piece of pie she deems prettier than her own toward you. A sweet smile lights up Helaena's face, making her look like a warm, kind sun. The wind plays with the ends of her silver hair, and her fingers, slightly pricked from sewing, are the warmest and most tender you could ever imagine. You reach for her yourself. And is it really so hard to love Helaena?
You trustingly lean toward her, a little ashamed of the feeling that has bloomed in your soul. When you rest your head on her shoulder, watching the care she gives to every stitch, you can't help but think how much you want to warm those hardworking hands with yours, innocently, gently. She turns her gaze from the linen to you, starting like a dove. Her lashes are long, trembling, white as a moth's wings. "What is it?" Helaena smiles awkwardly, so sweetly that you want to kiss her cheeks, already touched by a blush. "I'm so... so in awe of you, Helaena, do you know that?" Her lips part into a wider, joyful smile, showing the top row of her pearly teeth. "What are you...?" she asks with slight embarrassment, but she almost places her hand on your knee. Her elegant fingers hover over the fabric, politely asking permission. You nod, returning her smile with one just as radiant. When she touches you, you can't help but think how soft and warm her body is. You involuntarily want to squeeze her in an embrace, never to let go. And it's even harder not to think about how unworthy Aegon is to be called her husband. You couldn't overcome the jealousy within you, you wanted to occupy just as significant a place in her life. Helaena seemed to guess your thoughts. She moved closer infinitely carefully. "I love you. Only you," she assured softly, her voice turning to a quiet, penetrating whisper. She returned to her threads and needle as if compelled, as if she hadn't just sworn loyalty to you a second ago, but every now and then she would glance at you, checking, and perhaps reassuring herself.
Daemon Targaryen. Loud declarations or love songs under a lute are definitely not what Daemon enjoys. He operates with rough honesty when he wants to let his beloved know she matters to him. But this man won't rush to voice those feelings. He is not a romantic hero from bedtime stories told to girls. Daemon comes to you late in the evening, not wearing armor in the full sense of the word. Fatigue has settled on his face in a crease above his brows, and his lips are tightly sealed in silence. There is nothing more convincing than coming back to you again. Returning, carrying the weariness he cannot hide from the one he loves.
His fingers are hard as stone when they touch the silk of your skin. It feels like a warm tide kissing the grey pebbles of a seashore. The prince's fingers slowly pull down the sleeve of your nightgown, eager to bare a little more of you. He kisses your collarbone unhurriedly, tracing the bone with the tip of his tongue. Daemon tastes the salt of your skin, his gaze unreadable and complex, and you would hardly guess that this is how he is absorbing you. You would hardly guess that when he sees a strand of hair left on the plump pillow where your head recently rested, he feels it with his fingertips and does not put it away. A fine tremor runs through your whole body when the tip of his nose traces a winding path, tickling the thin skin of the inside of your elbow. Daemon still hasn't said the treasured „I love you” when his lips press tightly against your wrist, where the blood beats feverishly loudly. The prince looks at you from under his brows for so long that you feel almost shy, despite how often you have shared a bed. Tomorrow he will come again, making you moan his name, and you will only be able to guess how much he needs you.
Jacaerys Targaryen. He wants to do it beautifully. His whole nature strives for something poetic and tender. Jace jumps out of bed and reaches for the quill, but stops himself, looking down in embarrassment. It's foolish enough to write poetry for his beloved lady to let her know how much she means to him. The prince had already tried to write something worthwhile before dawn, as sleep wouldn't come to him. Jacaerys's fingers are smeared with ink, awkwardly and carelessly, like the hasty kisses of a lover. The thick black liquid has already seeped under his nails, leaving uneven black trails there. Sheets of paper are crumpled and scattered across the stone floor of his chambers. He winced at the sight of how untidy love had made him.
The prince returned to his bed, sinking into the soft featherbed, his honey-colored eyes fixing on the small cracks in the limestone. He sighed convulsively, trying to gather his thoughts, but your image would not leave his head. You appeared in his dreams, beckoning him with your fingers, and Jace followed you blindly, like a faithful dog. There was not a trace of prophecy in this, he simply thought of you when he fell asleep and as soon as he woke up. The prince ruffled his hair, running his palm over his pale face with small freckles scattered across it. His lips moved silently as he tried once again to compose a rhyme praising your beauty. Jacaerys was slowly going mad, fruitlessly searching for comparisons, for elegant ways to describe you through his eyes. Everything seemed insufficient and pale, unworthy of you, his beautiful lady.
He remained in this nervous reverie until noon, until he finally took a deep breath and pushed open the door, knowing exactly what it hid. He sat down beside you carefully, but covered your hands with his decisively, pulling from them the dry bundle of herbs you were tying. "My lady, my intentions toward you have never been more serious. You are my sun and my moon, and life without you holds no meaning." Jacaerys spoke quickly and fervently, no longer wanting to take the words back.
Rhaenyra Targaryen. When you were young girls who snuck into the garden to watch the clouds drift across the sky, everything was certainly simpler. She turned on her side and couldn't wipe the smile off her face, simply because you were there, so close to her. And the way you trustingly followed her, always ready for any adventure the princess offered, warmed her heart. Rhaenyra moved closer carefully, worrying inside that you might flinch, run away from her. Her lips barely moved, trembling with nervousness. Nyra always thought of herself as brave, but when she looked at you, at how wide your wonderful eyes were, seeing every speck settled in your irises, she didn't have the courage to say such simple words.
The way she whispered "I love you" sounded no louder than the rustle of crimson, fire-like leaves of the weirwood tree. You didn't know if only your heart stopped or if your whole body had gone numb. Then the princess, her cheeks reddening like a bright sunset, repeated more boldly. "I love you. Not the way friends love each other, you understand?" The corners of her lips lifted in a hopeful smile.
But you couldn't find any suitable words that could reassure Rhaenyra. Of course, your feelings were mutual, but honestly, you hadn't even dared to hope for it. After all, this was Rhaenyra! So many people adored her with lovestruck gazes, watching how her silver strands glowed gold in the sunlight. The best you could do was press yourself against her, awkwardly cup her delicate face in your hands, and just as clumsily press your inexperienced lips to her parted ones. But that was so long ago. The memories had faded with time, yet she still couldn't forget the way your tongue had grazed her teeth, and it was the best kiss of her life. She had given you your first kiss and hoped she would take your last, just as openly loving.
Rhaenys Targaryen. She cannot call herself sentimental, but it's hard to doubt her feelings. Her very presence speaks of them. Rhaenys's gaze is warm, almost maternal. You remembered it well long before she became Corlys's wife. For you, it had always been a throbbing, painful reminder that your indecisiveness had ruined everything. Although you had no right to wish for a shared future together.
But could you ever forget the way the two of you laughed, tangled in the skirts of your own dresses, falling onto the emerald blanket of grass? Your fingers worked deftly, weaving green stems together to form a lush wreath. You crowned Rhaenys, placing your floral tiara on her head, covered in thick, night-dark hair. "Your husband will be lucky. You are so beautiful," you cooed sweetly, tucking her silky locks behind her ears. "No luckier than your husband," Rhaenys mirrored your actions, first gently running the inside of her palm down the length of your hair, but a second later a familiar mischievous spark appeared in her violet eyes, making her tangle your curls. You didn't keep her waiting, pushing her to the ground and pressing her down with your own body. You playfully shoved each other, the princess trying to shift you off and gain a better position. Your breasts rose quickly, heaving. Whether it was excitement or a hidden desire, it made her do it. Rhaenys kissed you firmly, leaving you no choice. You responded without hesitation, but when you realized the catastrophe of what had happened, you pulled back, jumped to your feet, and without a word, ran away cowardly. You had no right to do that! And she stood there in the greenery, so confused, her always proudly straightened shoulders slumped, the wreath slipping from the crown of her head down onto her forehead. That image was seared into your mind, and even now, seeing her with silver-streaked strands of age and the same gentle gaze, you saw that Rhaenys, silently and longingly speaking to your disappearing figure, "I love you."
Baelor Targaryen. He doesn't wait for loud declarations. He is more certain of his feelings than ever, and Baelor won't hesitate to voice what lies in his heart. He is convinced that his marriage is built on great love and doesn't skimp on repeating to you, again and again, that he loves you.
Baelor, exhausted after yesterday's hunt, was sleeping in your bed, almost hidden under the bulky layers of silk, furs, and a down comforter. He rarely allowed himself to wake up later than you, but yesterday they had been chasing the beast he had promised to get you for your dress collar. His whole body ached, but it was a happy, stubborn pain. There hadn't been a single promise he hadn't fulfilled for his lady wife. The future king peeked out from under all that heap, watching as your maid wrapped you in cords. Because you were carrying a child, your old dresses had become too small, and new ones needed to be sewn, ones that wouldn't press against your rounded belly. You sighed with mild resignation. Hearing about pregnancy was one thing, but facing it was quite another. Baelor had begun to notice how critically you looked in the mirror he had given you with such reverence when you told him about the pregnancy. You felt your cheeks, sensing they had become fuller than before. He didn't like how you had been speaking of yourself lately and wanted to present you with the whole world on a gleaming silver platter, just to see a smile on your wonderful, mother-lit face. When the maid finished, gathering the knots into a bundle, Baelor waved her away languidly. Sunlight kissed his ring, which gleamed with a precious ruby. When only you and your husband remained, he escaped from the captivity of the down. The prince crossed the room in a few strides that resembled leaps and stood beside you. His hands spread across your pregnant belly. "You are so beautiful in the morning light." Baelor leaves a slightly ticklish kiss, due to his beard, on your yielding lips. "The most beautiful woman in all of Westeros and my wife. Only mine." He kisses you again, a little deeper, letting you know his words are true, that you are the air that fills his lungs. "I love you, my dear, more than anything in the world," he says into your lips as soon as he breaks the sweetness of the kiss.
Maekar Targaryen. For him, these three words are like a painful incantation. Maekar himself probably doesn't know how many times in his life he has uttered them, whether there were moments that made him so unbearably soft? The words get stuck on the tip of his tongue, as if drying there, when the maester looks at him helplessly, trembling all over. The grey-haired man, whose age was approaching old age, was afraid to voice the horrifying news that fate had in store for the prince. Maekar's heart stopped beating when the maester said there was a high probability his wife would not overcome the illness.
You lay in your bed, almost completely soaked in your own sweat. Your mind was clouded, your forehead hot as a glowing coal. The prince was grateful that the children were not allowed to see you, because when he sat down by your bed and grasped your weak hand, his eyes would moisten on their own. He didn't allow himself to shed those tears, even knowing you were delirious. The hot moisture seemed to cloud his eyes, making everything around him blurry and trembling. The tears remained in his eyes like stubborn knights refusing to surrender without a fight.
But earlier, the maester had encouraged the prince by saying you were on the mend and needed a little more time and rest to fully recover. But earlier, hope had burned for him like a timid flame, making him wake up every morning with the thought that he would come to you, wrapped in blankets like a helpless infant. Maekar ran his fingers over the lines on the inside of your palm, the shapes he drew coming out uneven and broken because of how his fingers trembled. "You can't leave me... our children, you know there are quite a few of them, and I can hardly manage..." Maekar didn't recognize his own voice. He wanted to sound mockingly defensive, as always, but the words cut his throat painfully, coming to him with such difficulty. He rasped like a tearful child, choking on the oncoming hysteria, only now beginning to understand that he had never told you that you were the whole meaning of his grey life. "I need you..." he whispered, feeling the hot hail of tears that had broken through the wall of his control.
Daeron Targaryen. He doesn't rehearse! Daeron convinces himself of this as he paces around the room, probably completing his tenth lap. He wants to hit himself over the head for how ridiculous he looks from the outside. He mutters under his breath, starting over whenever he stumbles. Daeron stopped in the middle of the room as if he'd heard a command. He felt hopeless. He could tell himself a hundred times what he needed to say, but he was always afraid that his confessions weren't needed by you. He wouldn't survive your rejection. Daeron already believed he had no right to love you. There wasn't an ounce in him of what Valarr carried with pride. No one ever sighed after him, because he wasn't the embodiment of reborn hope. His romantic gestures seemed insufficient, not grand enough for a lady of your standing. His younger brother would have long ago showered you in gold and pearls, while Daeron, like a boy, carried flowers to your chambers, adding with such stupidity that they reminded him of you.
The prince was never ashamed of his adventures in the brothel, but when it came to you, he thought it wasn't enough to just wash that off. Your dresses, white as the first snow, your palms as tender as the petals of the lilies he had reverently ordered to be cut for the glass vase hidden in your elegant kingdom, your kind smiles that were given to more than just him and which aroused in him this disrespectful, insolent jealousy. Daeron wished you belonged to him, but that was too bold. Perhaps he knew you so well, but he didn't think he could be your equal. You were a sought-after bride, and that's why he couldn't help but worry that your parents would make an alliance with some lord he would hate for the rest of his life, simply because he had taken you from him.
He knocks impatiently on the door of your chambers, already preparing a thousand excuses to throw at your maid, but it's you standing before Daeron. All the speech he had prepared with such care evaporates. "I... you... you know... love..." he says, blushing ridiculously. "Don't marry... them... marry me..." the prince stammered right there on the doorstep, not even bothering to step inside your room.
Aerion Targaryen. He doesn't think it's worth saying such nonsense at all in his life. Words of love are for lovesick fools, a list Aerion has never been on. He hates himself for watching you twirl in a dance with some idiot lord and daring to laugh at what is surely an equally idiotic joke. All his blood boils with terrible force, and he frankly doesn't care whether you are his wife or not. He likes you, and that is quite enough for him to believe, with capricious grandeur, that you already belong to him.
Aerion doesn't ask when he grabs your wrist roughly. He doesn't hide, ready to show you and everyone around that you are a much better match for yourself. The way you look at him, with what fury you are ready to grab his throat in indignation, only makes him admire your fiery nature more. You don't skimp on harsh words in his direction, only praising your other suitors, and in return receive his iron grip. The prince's hands squeeze you tightly, unforgivably vulgarly. Your snarl mirrors his, as if you were molded from the same dough, ready to compete with each other until someone begs for mercy. But no one will beg. You grip his shoulders, you don't push him away, not even thinking about it.
"When you laugh with those idiots, you look like a complete fool," Aerion hisses caustically, running the tip of his nose along your cheek, momentarily forgetting he's playing the role of a furious dragon, not a hungry cat. The scent of the oils you use hits his nostrils. "Don't you dare anymore." His voice faltered, becoming hoarse and raspy from the emotions you gave him in a generous whirlwind. "You may be a complete fool, but you're my complete fool..." Aerion looks almost bewildered as he whispers this, staring at your lips. His whole being wants to squeeze you, to show you why you shouldn't play on his nerves, but he holds back, because another part of him wants to kiss every one of your fingers, the ones that nervously grip the fabric of his doublet. He wants to bite them gently, but softly, to leave behind small marks that would say not just that you are his, but that he wants you to be his and only his.
Valarr Targaryen. He is a gentleman, and he is convinced that confessions only go hand in hand with a serious proposal. He doesn't expect anything else. Valarr observes you, but he is not testing you, in whose perfection he does not wish to doubt. He is testing himself. It would be unforgivable for him to say such important words to you only to later wonder if you were the right one. But when he secretly watches you talk gently to the doves that have flown to the castle windows, Valarr can no longer lose himself in his thoughts.
You startle in surprise when you feel the prince's presence only by your back. You hastily brush off the breadcrumbs you had just scattered on the stone sill. You hide your hands behind your back, as if you had unforgivably misbehaved before Valarr. A chuckle escapes his lips when he catches you so adorably flustered and utterly charming in your mischief. "Are you feeding the doves, my lady?" he asks playfully, raising one eyebrow. "What do you have behind your back? I hope it's just a piece of bread." Valarr's voice is warm and unusually mischievous. He looks like a man who has plucked a star from the sky. You have never seen him in such a wonderful state of mind.
Forced by the awkward situation, you held out the hunk of bread you had refused but had conveniently found a use for as food for the hungry birds. "Only you would do something like that, you know, my lady?" The prince looked at your palm, clutching the recent pigeon feast. He seemed to glow like that very star he had caught. You smiled, embarrassed. The way he looked was too much for you. In his violet and brown eyes, admiration was poured out. "It's merciful. Don't be embarrassed. You have a kind heart, my lady. I have always known that." Unable to accept praise from a prince who was almost like a god to you, you quickly asked why he was so joyful today. Valarr, without a moment's hesitation, lowered his voice to a velvety tone. "I realized that someone is very important to my heart. And that this lady's kindness will always be my guide in life." A no less beautiful smile spread across his handsome face, making your legs weak.
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the sheets felt impossibly hot against your skin no matter how many times you kicked them away. you rolled onto your side, then your back, then curled up again. finally, a soft, frustrated sigh left your lips, yeah— sleep was nowhere in sight.
“can’t sleep, baby?” leon’s warm, heavy arm slid around your waist from behind pulling your firmly back against his solid chest.
you melted a little at the sound of his voice “not really”
he hummed softly, as he tucked you tighter against him. one big hand splayed across your stomach while the other stroked slow circles along your hip. the familiar scent of him, his faint cologne, his warmth helped ease your restlessness a little.
without thinking, you lightly dragged your tongue along his jaw, tasting the faint salt of his skin and stubble.
leon chuckled softly “my little troublemaker huh?”
and you did it again, slower this time, and felt his grip on your hip tighten.
“alright sweetheart, i’ve got a plan”
in one fluid motion he sat up, dragging the thick comforter along with him.
before you could protest, he rolled you up tight inside it, with your arms gently pinned to your sides and legs tucked inside. with only your head and neck free.
you burst into a surprised laughter as he lifted you up effortlessly, cradling you against his chest like you weighed nothing.
“leon! put me down-“
“nope” he kissed the top of your head, smirking “right now, my girl needs some icecream and a midnight drive”
“but-“
he pressed another wet kiss onto your lips “shh, let me take care of you baby”
and that shut you up.
the cool night air hit your face as he stepped outside and opened the passenger door of his black porsche. he placed you carefully into the seat, buckling the belt around your blanket cocoon and then slid into the driver’s seat.
the engine purred to life as leon reached over and rested his hand on your blanketed thigh as he pulled out onto the quiet street.
the only 24/7 ice cream parlour in the city was a small, neon-lit spot tucked between closed storefronts. leon parked right out front and leaned over to press a quick kiss to your lips
“stay put, burrito”
“hey!” you giggled
“the cutest burrito ever-“ he added
“obviously” you said smirking, and he returned a few minutes later with a massive cup overflowing with all your favourite scoops of icecream.
he climbed back in pushing the seat behind, and patted his lap.
“c’mere baby”
you wriggled out of the blanket enough to climb over the centre console. leon helped you settle on top of his lap, the blanket loosely draped around your shoulders like a cape.
he scooped up a generous amount of the mixed flavours and brought it to your lips first. the cold sweetness burst on your tongue as you took it with a happy hum. then, you leaned in and licked a slow stripe up the side of his neck, right along the stubble you’d been teasing earlier.
his breath caught, a low groan escaping him “you’re gonna be the death of me”
it was your turn to feed him, and a mischievous smile made it’s way onto your face.
you swiped a little icecream on your finger and smeared it across his nose “boop!” and leaned right back in to kiss him hard before he could’ve said anything else.
leon caught your wrist gently, licking the sweetness off your skin while his eyes stayed locked on yours.
and back and forth it went—icecream, then messy kisses and licks along his stubble, his collarbone, the corner of his mouth. the car windows had started to fog slightly. leon’s free hand slipped under the hem of your shirt, stroking warm circles against your lower back as you shared the melting treat.
“feeling better now?” he asked between bites
“much better” you whispered, licking a stray drop of chocolate from the corner of his lips before kissing him again properly
“y’know, i think i love you more than i love icecream” you muttered lazily
“yeah? that’s a dangerous amount of love sweetheart” he chuckled
you simply shrugged before leaning into him and resting your face on his chest.
Hi can you do Leon as a teacher and reader has a crush on him and he notices?
Not as Slick
Summary: After retiring from the DSO, Leon takes a job teaching at a local community college. He’s all but given up on his dreams when a bright, brilliant, and impossible-to-ignore student catches his attention.
Tags/Warnings: Fem! reader, suggestive elements, age gap (reader is 18+, Leon is 49), yearning, lots of yearning, you fall first, but he falls harder.
Note: This is lowkey kinda rushed, but I hope I can make it up to you with pathetic, needy Leon.
Leon Kennedy thought you hated him at first. It wouldn’t be the first time a student had hated him; it usually happened after he doled out a poor grade. However, your grades were fine– great, even. Maybe his lectures were boring, though he liked to think criminal justice was more engaging than some other mind-numbing subject.
So why would you refuse to look him in the eye?
You always slipped into class a few minutes late and left before anyone else had even packed their bags. Your head is always down, fixated on the desk as you absent-mindedly take notes, never once raising your head. Leon wasn’t sure why it bothered him so much. It shouldn’t have. He’d spent the first few years of retirement teaching bored college students who barely listened to him in the first place; it wasn’t anything new. However, for some reason, he couldn’t stop noticing you.
It was a dreary Monday morning when he decided he was going to get to the bottom of this. He had just spent the past sixty minutes giving a very impassioned talk on crime scene procedure, and you hadn’t even looked at him once. If anything, you had a pained look on your face as you glared down at the desk in front of you. He had decided then, halfway through his talk, that he was going to figure out why you hated him so much.
As students packed their bags to depart, Leon called out your name.
“Excuse me, do you mind staying after class for a second? I want to… discuss your latest paper.”
A few students around you snickered, but you just nodded solemnly in response, walking towards his desk while the rest of the class trickled out of the room.
“You're not in trouble,” he started, noting the way you approached his desk like a kicked puppy. “I just wanted to talk about the last paper you turned in. There seemed to be a bit of a dip in quality from the last essay you turned in, and I wanted to make sure everything was okay.”
“I’m sorry, Professor,” you mumble slightly, fiddling with your fingers.
“It’s okay, I just want to make sure one of my top students is okay,” he said with a small smile. “If you would like to resubmit it, I can give you until the end of the weekend if you’d like to make some edits.”
You flinch slightly, and Leon can see the way your body tenses as your composure falters.
You’re nervous. Why?
Oh
The realization dawns on him, and Leon can’t help but feel like an idiot. You don’t hate him. You have a crush on him. The fidgeting, the refusal to make eye contact, the stutter in your voice — he makes you nervous.
Leon feels his mouth go dry.
His gaze lingers on you for a moment longer than it should. You're smart. One of the smartest students in his class, actually. You always do your homework. Your essays are insightful. Despite your quiet nature in class, he’s gone over your notes, and it’s clear you have a strong understanding of the material.
And you're beautiful.
That part had been significantly easier to ignore before this revelation.
Why in God's name would someone like you be interested in someone like him?
Leon is forty-nine years old. His back always aches. He goes to bed before ten. Half the stories he tells start with "back in my day."
You deserve someone your own age.
Leon lets out a sudden cough as he realizes he’s been zoning out for too long, staring at you. You look like you’re about to have a panic attack, eyes wide as you fiddle with a strap on your bag.
“You can have until Sunday to resubmit it,” he repeats, glancing at the clock awkwardly. “If you need any assistance, I’ll be in my office for most of the weekend,” he adds, a little smile tugging at the corner of his lips.
You nod stiffly, although he notices the way your face twitches, eyes twinkling as you almost smile back at him. It’s cute. You’re cute. Leon watches as you walk out of his classroom, and chastizes himself for allowing himself to feel like this.
It’s late in the afternoon, and Leon is just about to wrap up on grading papers and return to his house to partake in his usual Saturday routine of wallowing in loneliness when a soft knock echoes through the room. His heart skips a beat as he glances up.
“Come in,” he says, after a moment of hesitation. Your head pokes in through the crack in his door.
“Sorry to bother you, I just, you said to come if I needed help–” you trip over your words, bashful. Leon chuckles, shaking his head as he sits back down in his chair.
“Of course, I’d be glad to help.” He smiles at you, and you smile back.
The question you had was minuscule, a little tweak, and suddenly your essay was perfect. Still, you hadn’t left. Leon hadn’t asked you to leave either. Both of you are currently debating the mishandling of a case he had brought up in class. He had made a one-off comment, hadn’t even really been thinking, the words had just tumbled out of his mouth. It was like a spark erupted within you as you head snapped up at his remark.
“No way! It was total police misconduct that, ruined the investigation,” you had argued.
“And what evidence do you have to support your statement?” Leon challenged.
That had been the start of your debate. For the past twenty minutes, the two of you had been bantering, building cases for the opposing side. Leon felt alive, more alive than he had felt in a long time. It was like the shyness within you had melted away as you passionately spoke your case. Leon couldn't remember the last time he'd enjoyed a conversation this much. He found it unfair how you could be so beautiful and clever at the same time. He fell into a trance as he watched you animatedly argue a technicality, hands waving as you spoke. Sunlight pooled around you as the last of the afternoon light poured into the office, casting you in an angelic glow. He knew then that you would be his undoing.
Leon returns home that night to his house at the edge of the city. He had bought it after retiring from the DSO, using some of his pension to purchase the white-picket fence cottage he had longed for since he was young. Call him old-fashioned, but he had always been envious of that lifestyle. It seemed….simple. A steady job, a wife, and two kids. Something peaceful and boring because his life had been anything but. He craved the mundane.
Leon had spent decades fighting monsters at the whims of others. He had buried friends more times than he could count and had sacrificed his youth so that humanity could live. With the remnants of Umbrella's past finally waning, with new agents far more limber than he at the helm of the fight, Leon had finally been able to hang up his holster. He just hadn’t been able to picture what a future of normalcy had looked like. The white-picket fence dream had always been just that—a dream. Men like Leon don’t get happy endings. They don’t deserve them. Not with his hands so stained with blood.
He unlocks his front door, placing his bag on the couch and melting into the cushions. He closes his eyes and thinks of the future— a normal future, the kind he's spent decades wanting—and your face is the first thing that comes to mind.
The weeks go by, and you’ve started to haunt Leon after class. Both literally and metaphorically. You’ve become emboldened, dropping by his office hours, lingering after class to ask questions. He doesn’t mind. Not at all. It gives you an opportunity to flash your academic brilliance, and gives him an opportunity to wallow in the ever-growing schoolboy crush he has on you. Intelligence is sexy after all. Metaphorically, you follow him outside the university. He’ll be at the grocery store, standing in front of rows of wine he has no real opinion on, and wonder which one you’d pick. He’ll pass snacks in the aisle and find himself thinking, absentmindedly, whether you’d prefer sweet or salty after a long day. Maybe he can find a way to ask you next time you drop by. Leon will be at home, washing dishes from his lonely dinner for one, and thinks about how chores would be more tolerable with you chatting beside him.
Lying down in bed at night, he thinks about how it would feel for you to lie beside him, sharing each other's warmth under the covers. Leon hates himself for thinking this, for becoming a stereotype. He can’t help it, though, not when you’ve wormed your way into his heart. He should feel guilty — he does feel guilty — but not enough to stop.
It’s raining when you drop by his office hours. There are droplets on your face and dew in your hair; you're drenched and dripping all over his hardwood floors. God, he wishes you’d drip all over him. Leon freezes at the thought, suddenly feeling the heat spread to his face. You’re innocently talking about the guidelines of the final essay, and he’s sitting across from you. Imagine what you’d look like grinding against his thigh. God, he really has turned into a perverted old man. Leon shifts uncomfortably in his seat, trying to ignore the way his slacks suddenly feel too tight against his groin. He hunches over his desk, leaning closer to you to ensure you don’t see anything you aren’t comfortable seeing. Leon chastises himself; he’s still a teacher, your teacher, and he needs to get a grip. He realizes you asked him a question, staring at him expectantly.
“Oh, um,” he mumbles, rubbing a hand over his stubbled jaw. “That sounds good,” he agrees, although to what, he has no idea. “Anything you turn in will be perfect, I’m sure.”
The compliment makes you smile. “Thanks, Professor,” you say, your voice as sweet as sin as you look away bashfully. You stand up to leave, waving him goodbye with the promise of seeing him in class tomorrow.
Leon lets out a groan of relief as you leave. Not because he’s glad you’ve left, but glad he finally has a reprieve to take care of the issue you’ve left him with. He flicks the lock on his door. Office hours are over; he has personal business to attend to.
The countdown to the end of the quarter hangs above Leon’s head like a threat. Every day brings the dreaded deadline of the end of your time together. Just a few more days, and you won’t have an excuse to see him anymore. You’ll move on to other classes, as will your secret affections, and you’ll forget all about him. It’s okay, most people do. Leon is used to being tossed aside; he’s used to not getting what he wants. Longing is an art he perfected long ago, and you deserve someone your age anyway.
The days pass by in a blur, and Leon only really feels alive when you're in the room with him. Every other part of his day is just a roadblock until he sees you next. It’s almost pathetic how quickly he grew to adore you, but then again, he’s always worn his heart on his sleeve, eager to give it away to anyone who spared him a second glance. It wasn’t a crime to want to be loved. To crave a happy ending.
It's the day before summer vacation, and the hot June sun has turned his office into an oven. He’s taken off his suit jacket, tossed it aside carelessly, why he even bothered with it on the hottest day of the year, he has no clue. His white button-up is rolled up his sleeves, bare forearm pressed against the wall, and he peers out on the campus lawn. Leon dreads going home, dreads knowing that it’s over. Students outside are already leaving the campus in droves, eager to return home to relax for a few months with friends and loved ones. Leon’s envious, because his summer break will be spent exactly how he’s spent the rest of his life. Alone.
A knock echoes through the room, and a soft, sad smile spreads across Leon’s face as he turns around to face you.
“I thought you’d have left campus already,” he says.
“Without saying goodbye to my favorite professor?”
“Quarters officially over, not your professor anymore.”
“That’s….actually why I wanted to stop by,” you confess, hands clasped together in front of you.
Leon tilts his head to the side, “Oh?”
“Wow, this is actually embarrassing,” you start, a nervous laugh leaving your lips. “I don’t think I could live with myself if I didn’t tell you. I need to get it off my chest,” you start, biting your lip.
Leon smiles; he knows where this is going.
“I–actually had a crush on you for most of the quarter,” you admit.
“I know.”
Your face falters, eyes widening. “You did?”
“You’re not as slick as you think you are,” he says, the corner of his mouth lifting. “I’ll admit, it took me longer than it should have to figure it out.”
You narrow your eyes a little. “Maybe you’re not as good a detective as you think you are.”
“Maybe,” he agrees.
Leon takes a step closer to you, trying to hold onto the professionalism that has been holding him back for weeks. You do the impossible and step closer to him. Leon is sure you can hear his heart beating, and he hopes you know it’s all for you.
“Since we’re confessing,” he starts, and suddenly he feels like the bashful rookie he was all those decades ago, “I’ve also grown to care for you.” His body relaxes as the words flow out of him. “More than I should have,” he admits quietly, “as your professor.”
A toothy grin erupts on your lips, “Good thing you aren’t my professor.”
His heart skips a beat, and he lets himself not think. His hands reach up, gently cupping your face as he tilts your jaw up ever so slightly. The want and longing that have been building for so long erupts within him, and he can’t contain it anymore. His lips press against yours, soft and gentle because that’s what you deserve. Weeks of restraint unravel, and Leon thinks you taste like sugar and feel like silk against him. Perhaps it is just the heat of the summer sun beating against his back, but he melts against you. Soft and desperate, just for you.
The kiss lasts an eternity, but not long enough, and after finding heaven against your lips, the two of you pull away, panting softly. For a moment, you both remain silent, finding comfort in each other's arms. It’s a dangerous line to cross, Leon knows this, but danger is never something he’s been averse too.
We should probably talk about this,” he says, though he doesn’t move away.
“Maybe,” you hum, hands sliding down from his shoulders to his chest, your fist grasping the length of his undone tie, giving it a playful tug that causes him to bend his head down closer to yours. He smiles, moving along without hesitation.
“Later?” he asks, pecking your lips.
“Later,” you confirm.
As your lips meet his once more, his strong arms wrapping around you, pulling you flush against him, Leon finds himself, for once, looking forward to the future.
Summary: You visit the Codys while they're on a smoke break and it gets a little heated.
A/N: this was inspired by a tweet i saw that had a gif of pope smoking and the person said "imagine sitting on his lap while he does this" and i thought i liked the tweet but i didn't. but yes. this is based off that.
Shawn Hatosy Masterlist
You arrive to the Cody house early evening. Andrew said he'd be there by the time you get out of work. You walk through the gate and to the backyard when hear three voices.
Hearing your footsteps approach, the chatter stops and all heads turn towards you, "Hey," you greet Deran, Craig, and Andrew nonchalantly, cigarette smoke bellowing around them.
Andrew watches you with an adoring gaze as you walk towards him. You lean down, pecking his lips, and settle on his lap, "Hi," your fingers running through his curls.
He gives you an adorable smile as he leans into your touch, "Hi,"the taste of his cigarette lingers on his breath, but you don't mind it.
Deran and Craig both pretend to gag, which causes you and Andrew to stick a middle finger up at them.
"Pft, fucking made for each other," Deran murmurs into his beer bottle.
"I'd say eat a dick to you, but you'd like that. How's Adrien by the way?" you smirk as you grab Andrew's cigarette from his fingers. You take the bud, taking it into your mouth, and inhaling. You blow out the smoke as you place the bud in-between Andrew's lips.
Deran leans into his chair, "It's complicated."
You snort, "Isn't it always?"
The youngest Cody rolls his eyes, "You act like you and Pope don't have arguments."
You and Andrew look at each other, love filled in your eyes, "We don't," you lean in, kissing his lips again.
"How is it that he's the most fucked up out of all of us and he has the most stable relationship?" Craig asks, his words slightly muffled from the joint hanging from his lips.
You shrug, "Just lucky, I guess?"
Andrew holds the cigarette to your lips and you take another inhale. You hold it for a little bit before blowing it into his face. You hear a low groan come from him, knowing exactly what you're doing to him.
You feel his hand tighten on your waist and you 'adjust your position' on his lap, causing him to groan again.
"Fucking get a room!" Craig throws a used napkin at you and you jump to your feet, "I think we will. Your room available?" You pull Andrew to his feet and he takes one more drag from the cigarette before putting it out.
He lets you pull him into the house and down the hall, your giggles echoing along the walls.
Summary: You went a little more rough during your practice with Baek-jeong and he was enjoying every bit of it.
Prompt credit @writersisland : “You’re distracted,” “Oh, I’m focused alright.” “..On?”“Getting those clothes off of you.”
Notes: all mistakes are my own, sexual themes (office sex, p in v penetration)
**
Letting out a deep breath, you stood from the locker room bench. You’ve been talking yourself into getting into the ring with Baek-jeong. He drags you into his gym for one hour, three days a week to keep your fighting stamina up.
It’s not something you look forward to, but Baek-jeong insisted. Saying that it was a good outlet for your stress.
At first, it didn’t take much convincing for you because you thought it would be a perfect opportunity to see him shirtless and sweaty.
You quickly realized that it wasn’t going to be a hot training session that would lead to sex. He was serious about making sure your fighting techniques were strong. He wanted you to follow through with your punches and kicks, not caring if it left bruises or marks.
He didn’t treat you as harshly as his fighters but that didn’t mean he was gentle with you.
“What’s taking you so long?” Baek-jeong questions, strolling into the locker room.
His gaze briefly trailing over frame. You wore biker shorts and a red sports bra that matched your gloves. He was shirtless and wore his typical black sweatpants.
“I’m hungry.” You whined, causing him to sigh.
“We’ll keep for short today. Thirty minutes. Let’s go.” He motions you to follow him out of the locker room and you complied, your braid swaying with every step.
He beelines to the octagon in the center of the gym. There was a smaller octagon in each corner that we could have used, but Baek-jeong always chooses the largest one for your sessions.
He steps up and opens the door before walking in. You trailed in after him, noticing your gloves felt a little loose.
“Can you tightened these?” you asked, closing the gap between you.
Without a word, he takes your gloved hand into his and pushes the glove down past your wrist before tightening the strap.
He did the same for the other glove, clapping his hands on your shoulders to state that he was done. He puts on his gloves and tightened them with ease like he had done many times before.
He clicked a button on his watch for what you assumed as a timer.
“Let’s start,” he goes into his fighting stance, planting his right foot forward.
You went into your fighting stance, tucking your arms in to cover your ribs and shuffled your feet side to side.
He throws an upper cut followed by a straight punch which you blocked. You followed him whenever he attempted to step to the side for an opening. He opened up for a right hook and you brought your arm up to counter his punch.
You took the opportunity to send a driving snap kick to his solar plexus. He gives you a nod of approval when he stumbles back a few steps.
“Good,”
He comes closer again, this time sending a combination of punches. He didn’t throw them as fast as he would an opponent but he wanted to see how well you would bode. You blocked his body upper cut and ducked under his straight punch.
You created some distance between you but that didn’t last very long because he closed the gap between you in a matter of seconds.
You’ve been practicing the timing of your back kicks in your spare time so you decided to give it a try.
Before he has a chance to throw another punch, you spin around and launched your leg out. Your heel pressed into his chest and he fell back into the fence of the octagon.
“Fuck, I am so sorry! Are you okay? I didn’t mean to push you that hard.”
You pulled on the Velcro of your gloves with your teeth and took them off as you made your way over to him. He jumps to his feet with a proud smirk on his face.
“That’s what I’m talking about,” he compliments.
“Baek-jeong,” you said, standing up on your tippy toes for look at his chest.
“Do you think it will bruise?” You added, grazing the skin.
“It’s fine, babe. Believe me. I’ve felt worse.”
You shook your head at how calm he was being.
“You’re distracted,”
“Oh, I’m focused alright.” He speaks, taking off his gloves as he held your gaze.
“..On?”
“Getting those clothes off of you.”
You took a step back at his words and he follows you around the ring.
“You’re not thinking clearly,”
“I’m thinking very clearly, babe. I want you spread out on my desk.”
“But I thought you said we come here for business, not for pleasure.”
By that point, he cages you against the fence and kissed down your neck, your hands found his chest.
His hands settled on your hips, pulling away from your neck to kiss you. The kiss was passionate and desperate, causing you to moan against him.
He stepped back to throw you over his shoulder.
“Baeki,” you breathed, yelping when he slapped your ass.
He strolls out of the octagon and crossed over to where his office was. He kicks his chair out of the way and sets you on the edge of his desk. He kisses you again, just as passionate as before.
You pulled your shorts down, lifting your hips up so they fell down your legs. Baek-jeong kisses down your jaw and your neck until he reached your chest.
“Wait, the camera.” You stated when you saw the light flicker in the corner.
He pulled away from your chest, tugging open one of his drawers to take out a blanket. Your heart pattered in your chest when he looked at you, “We’re not leaving for a little while. Might as well get comfortable.”
He sets the blanket on the floor and roughly pulled you back into his arms. You couldn’t help the smile that made its way on your face when he gently set you down on the blanket.
You sat up to take off your sports bra when he slips off his sweatpants so you both were bare on the blanket.
Leaning in for another kiss, you pulled him closer by his neck. You felt the tip of his dick smooth over your folds to gather your slick.
You both moan when he slides home, your walls taking him in effortlessly. His thrusts were deep and slow at first, grinding against you until you were mewling.
“Fuck, you’re perfect for me.” He breathes into your neck, your soft moans spurred him on to thrust into you harder.
You gasped his name and he kissed you roughly, holding your body in place when he fucks you deep and hard.
“Looks like the training has paid off, huh? Did Tae geom show you that kick?” He asks you lowly.
“N-no, I..” you trailed off when one of his veins brushed over a sensitive spot.
“UFC fights. I watch UFC fights, like you told me to.” You choked out, moaning when you felt your orgasm building in your stomach.
“So you’ve been shadow boxing,”
You nodded in response and he smiles down at you.
“You wouldn’t let him teach you behind my back, right?” He asks, keeping the same pace that left you in shambles underneath him.
You squeaked out a faint no when he takes one of your nipples into his mouth.
“Good, because you’re mine, princess.” He switches to your other nipple, goosebumps littered your skin when your orgasm washed over you. He continues to thrust into you past your orgasm, pressing down on your stomach.
You cried out his name and he pulls out of you to flip you over. Pushing your hips down, he spread your legs and slid into you from behind. Your eyes rolled back from the new angle as your legs shook with overstimulation.
“Say it,” he whispered into your ear.
“Fuck, I’m yours, Baeki.”
“Damn right, you are.” He bites down on your shoulder and you clenched around him in response.
The sounds of skin slapping and your blissful groans echoed through the room. Pulling your hips up, he brought one leg up, sending hard, quick thrusts into you. He knew you were close from your grip tightening on the blanket under you.
“Fuck,” you whined when he brought one hand around your waist to rub your clit.
After a few more thrusts, you came with a scream. Baek-jeong chases his orgasm, quickening his thrust until he cums deep inside of you. He stays inside of you, still thrusting even though he already went soft.
He wanted traces of himself everywhere on you. Leaning down, he left a trail of hickeys from your hip to the side of your neck. You pushed your hips back to match his thrusts and he chuckles.
Summary: Gunwoo picked you up from your job and brought you back to his safe house before Baek-jeong could kidnap you.
Gunwoo’s Version of this fic
Notes: all mistakes are my own, GIF is not mine, sexual themes (longing, slow burn, p in v penetration)
Gunwoo and Woojin sat across from Mr. Moon, watching as he scrolled through the IKFC illegal website.
“Is there anyone else that we would need to keep in the safe house until this is all over?” Mr. Moon suggests.
Woojin opened his mouth to say something but soon closed it. He glanced over at Gunwoo, whose ears were already turning red.
“There is someone,” Gunwoo says lowly.
“Who? I can get him and bring him in.” Mr. Moon states.
“It’s a she,” Gunwoo explains and Mr. Moon smirks.
“Ah, I see. Well I guess I’ll leave that to you then.”
“Can you come with me, Woojin?” Gunwoo asks.
“Yeah, of course.” Woojin agrees with a nod.
Gunwoo got up to go to the bathroom, leaving Woojin and Mr. Moon to talk amongst themselves.
“I’m assuming she’s an ex girlfriend?” Mr. Moon starts.
“She’s actually his ex fiancé,”
Moon’s jaw dropped, “She is?”
“Yeah, they have a.. complicated history. Which is why he appeared so flustered. He hasn’t seen her since the break up nine months ago.”
“And it’s still fresh too. Wow. How come I didn’t know about this before?”
“He liked to keep her to himself. Thought it would be safer that way.”
“He must have really loved her then,”
“He still does,” Woojin states lowly, looking at the hallway when he hears bathroom door creaks open and they quickly change the topic.
**
You left your corporate job after your third late shift in a row. The expectations of your boss was high, especially since you’re a recent college graduate and you were a woman in a predominantly male company.
You knew it would have its challenges but that didn’t deter you. This was the best accounting firm in Seoul and you knew that you would be set for life if you could land the job.
So you took every class, every certification and every exam to make sure you would get there.
That was one of the traits that Gunwoo loved about you, your determination.
You let out a deep sigh when you stepped onto the road. The sound of a door opening caused you alarm until you looked behind you to see Gunwoo and Woojin.
You slowly approached them, your heels softly clicking under you. Gunwoo gave you a polite bow and you returned the favor.
“Hey Y/N,” Woojin greets with two-handed wave.
“Hi,” you waved to him as well, before returning your hands to your pockets.
“Is something wrong?” You asked the pair, who shared a look.
“We don’t want to worry you. We wanted to be on the safe side, so we were going to ask you if you could stay with us for a few days.” Gunwoo explains, his cheeks had a pink hue to them as he linked his hands in front of them.
“Okay. I still keep a few days worth of clothes in my trunk,” you started.
Gunwoo’s gaze fell to yours and you added,
“Like you taught me,”
You reached for your keys in your purse, “I’ll be right back.”
“I’ll go with you. Can you keep an eye out here?” Gunwoo asks Woojin and he nods.
Gunwoo lets you lead the way down into the parking garage where your car was parked on the midlevel.
Thankfully, it wasn’t too far of a walk. Woojin watched as the two of you walked next to each other. Even though you wore heels, you were to Gunwoo’s chin.
He wonders if you knew that you were walking in sync.
“Congratulations on getting the job. I’m sure it was very hard but they didn’t stand a chance.” Gunwoo says, breaking the silence.
“Nothings too hard if I put my mind to it,” you said with a smile.
“Are they treating you well?”
“They’re still testing the limits a little. Seeing how far I’ll let them push me.” You spoke truthfully.
“Do you think they’ll keep trying?”
“They will. It’s how corporate firms are.”
“Does that make you stressed?” He asks cautiously.
“Sometimes,” you said with a sigh.
Gunwoo fell silent when you neared your white BMW. You popped the trunk and reached for the black duffel bag but he grabbed the bag before you had a chance to.
He waits for you to close the trunk and lock the car. You started walking and he switches to walk on outside and directing you to walk closest to the garage wall.
“You don’t deserve to be stressed,” he tells you.
“Neither do you,”
He meets your gaze, slowly blinking as he processed your words.
“Are you doing well?”
Not as well since we were together, he says in his mind.
“I’ve been doing my best to be,” he speaks after a long pause.
Your steps slow to a stop and he follows suit. You can cut the tension with a knife.
Eventually, Gunwoo clears his throat and advances to the car where Woojin was waiting for the two of you.
The rest of the night felt just as tense. Soyeol was over the moon to see you. She would always mention how you and Gunwoo’s relationship reminded her of her and her husband’s relationship when they were younger.
She’s seen how much losing you has taken a toll on him. Despite how scary this experience has been, at least it brought you two back together.
You had dinner with Soyeol, Gunwoo and Woojin like the old times. You sat next to Woojin and across from Gunwoo while Soyeol sat at the head of the table.
You turned in to get ready for bed then Soyeol and Woojin followed soon after. Gunwoo went to sleep last, making sure everything was secure before he went to bed. You slept for a few hours, turning over to read the clock, 3:02 AM.
You strolled tugged on a sweater before leaving the guest room and opening the sliding glass door. You sat on the wooden stairs and looked up at the stairs, the crisp fall air nipped at your toes despite you wearing socks.
Gunwoo heard shuffling and immediate jumped out of bed. He swung the door open and rushed into the guest bedroom where you were staying. His heart sank when he saw your bed empty.
“No,” he said under his breath.
He was going to wake up Woojin when he saw you sitting on the wooden panels. You jumped at the sound of the sliding glass door opening.
Looking over your shoulder, you saw Gunwoo closing the door behind him.
“Couldn’t sleep?” He greets, joining you on the floor.
“I’ve been having trouble sleeping for a few months now,”
“Me too. I only get a few hours of sleep. Less now that everything has happened.”
A silence fell between you and Gunwoo follows your gaze to the stars.
“You carry a lot of guilt, Gunwoo. Guilt that doesn’t belong to you.” You state.
He sighs in response, saying a soft I know under his breath.
“For what it’s worth, I forgive you.”
His eyes snapped to yours, “How can you forgive me that easily?” His tone sounded heavy with emotion.
“It wasn’t easy for me. There was a lot for me to process. But I know you. You’re genuine, and you like doing things the right way. No matter how hard it is. If it was hard for me to walk away from this, I can imagine that it was even harder for you.” You explained.
“I thought you would’ve painted me out to be the bad guy,” he explained, looking away from you.
You reached over and held his hand, he looks from your hand back up to your face.
“You could never be a bad guy, Gunwoo. I forgave you. Now it’s time to forgive yourself.”
He lets out a shaky breath, linking his fingers with yours. You rested your chin on his shoulder for a moment, like you used to.
And he pressed a kiss to your forehead, like he used to. You stayed there for a few minutes before pulling away from him and standing from the stairs.
He keeps a hold on your hand, causing you to look back at him.
“Gunwoo,”
“I should let go. I know. But I can’t.” He stands from the floor, still holding your hand.
Your heart began to race once his gaze settled on you again, his gaze intensified the longer you held it. It was the same look he gave you when he proposed.
You said his name again and he takes a slow step towards you, wrapping his arms around you in a warm hug. You both sigh into the hug as his warmth radiates against you.
“You should go back to bed,” he starts.
“I should,” you agreed, but neither of you pull away.
**
Baek-jeong sent Tae geom and Allen out to find anyone who had some importance to Gunwoo. He knew that Soyeol would be out of reach, so he had Allen dig up anything about a girlfriend or a friend. And Allen found you- thankfully Gunwoo already had you hidden away in his safe house.
“Who is she to him? His girlfriend?” Baek-jeong asks, looking at your picture on Allen’s computer.
“His ex-fiancé,” Allen corrects and Baek-jeong smiles.
“Perfect. Pick her up when she leaves for work,”
“There’s a little problem about that. Gunwoo has been dropping her off and picking her up.”
“Then grab her when she leaves for lunch,”
Gunwoo woke up in a cold sweat. Ever since you’ve been staying with him, he’s been having nightmares about you getting kidnapped. He would leave a few hours before you got off and wait outside the accounting firm where you worked.
You sent him a text, asking if he wanted to grab a coffee with you. Thankfully you did, because two of Baek-jeong’s goons were waiting for you in the parking garage. They drove in front of you and stepped out of the car, causing you to freeze.
You dropped your purse on the floor when the two men approached you wearing all black and a black mask.
“Get in the car.” One of them states.
You attempted to run around the car when one guy grabs your wrist. You dropped your hand down and slipped out of his grip, coming back around punching his throat.
He drops to the ground, cradling his throat as he chokes. You ran like hell down the car garage, hearing heavy footsteps behind you.
“Gunwoo!” You yelled out, the guy behind you grabbed your hair from behind and you slowed your movements.
He wrapped his arms around you from behind. You launched your head back until the back of your head connected with his nose.
He cries out in pain and you sent a quick jab to his crotch. When he loosened his grip on you, you broke away from him.
The man fell to his knees, holding his crotch and you drove a snapping kick to his face before running out the garage entrance.
“Gunwoo,” you called again when you found him looking around the street frantically. He must have heard you the first time.
“Y/N,” he says out loud, meeting you in the street.
“What happened?” He asks cautiously, holding your face in his hand as he searches your body for any bruises or marks.
“They tried to kidnap me,” you said shakily.
“Who?”
“There’s two-“ the men drove out of car garage fast enough to make the wheels screech.
“That’s them,” you pointed after the car but Gunwoo stopped you from taking another step.
“We should drive around a few blocks before we head back home.” He opens the door for you but you hesitate.
“I think they have my purse,”
“Do they have your phone?” He asks, watching as you pat down your pockets. Your phone was thankfully in your back pocket. You showed him the phone and he sighed in relief.
“Let’s go,” he gestured to the open door.
“Can you idiots do anything right?” Baek-jeong seethes at the two bruised men in front of him.
“She’s fast, sir. And she’s trained too.”
“All I hear is excuses. She’s a five foot two woman, and she got the jump on you. You’re fired, get out of my sight.”
**
You and Gunwoo sat in the empty hotel room. Soyeol and Woojin insisted that you have your own room because they wanted to give you some privacy.
Gunwoo and you hesitated at first, not liking the idea of separating the group. But they insisted, Soyeol even begged us to work things out with each other.
“How’s your neck feeling?” Gunwoo asks, breaking the silence between you.
“It’s okay. He didn’t tug me that hard.”
A silence fell between you again and you stood up to open the fridge, hoping there was a complimentary bottle of alcohol.
Thankfully, you found a bottle of soju.
“I should have walked with you instead of waiting for you,”
“Stop blaming yourself for things you can’t contol, Gunwoo.”
“What else am I supposed to do? I feel like I’m a day late and a dollar short at every turn. Baek-jeong is always one step ahead of me.”
“If he was always one step ahead, then I would have been kidnapped by him already.” You had your back to him as you poured two shot glasses of soju.
“He almost did,”
“I meant way before today. Thank you for thinking of me.” You complimented, handing him the shot.
“I’ll always think of you,” he says softly.
You took the shot before your mind could start racing. He did the same, setting down the glass gently.
“I think that’s apart of the problem. I always think of you. I pulled you into my life and now you’re probably always going to be at risk. If someone wanted me to do something I didn’t want to do, all they would need to do is take you.” He explains.
“You didn’t pull me into your life. That makes it sound involuntary. I wanted to be there.”
He shakes his head before standing from the couch.
“The only way that you would ever truly be safe is if we’ve never met,” his word felt like a knife in your stomach.
You turned back around to suppress the tears threatening to escape you. You poured another shot and downed the burning liquid.
“Y/N,” he says when you poured another shot, catching your hand before the glass touched your lips.
He sets the glass on the table and you took a step back from him, his gaze softening when he saw the tears building in your eyes.
“Look me in my eyes and tell me you wished we never met each other,” you fought to keep a steady voice.
When he doesn’t respond, you downed the shot and set the glass in the sink.
“I need to get some air,”
You moved to pick up your purse but he catches your arm and pulled you close.
“I don’t have the heart to ever tell you that because it’s not true. Y/N, you’re the love of my life. I think about what I did every day. How I hurt you.” He starts, watching the tears fall down your cheeks.
“Then why did you say that?”
“Because I feel guilty for putting you in the situation where you felt unsafe. They hurt you. They tried to take you.”
“It’s not your fault, Gunwoo. I wanted to be with you because I love you.”
He cuts you off with a kiss, progressively deepening the kiss as he cradles your face in his hands.
“I love you too,” he says against your lips, he walks you into the counter and you loosely held his wrists.
Your eyes fluttered closed as his lips moved against yours. His breathing grew heavier when you gripped his shirt in his hands.
Catching you in his arms, he cages you against the counter. He pulled a few inches away from your face, his gaze closely studying your face. He hesitates to lean in for another kiss. You took his hand and led him into the bedroom.
His gaze darkened when you pushed him onto the bed and stood back to pull off your shirt. You unzip your pants and he pulls you into his lap, desperately gripping your waist and kissing you warmly.
His hands smooth over your toned back, gripping the back of your neck loosely. He kissed down your neck slowly, gently nipping at the skin.
You tugged at his shirt and he pulls it over his head. He lifts his hips to pull his sweatpants off and you held his gaze as you took off your bra.
He sits back up and kisses down your neck again, holding your hips while he rolls his hard on against you.
Your lips parted in bliss at the stimulation and you moaned softly. He hooks his finger under your underwear and pulls them down your legs.
You did the same with his boxers, he sighs as his dick hit his stomach. You positioned yourself over his hips, reaching over to smooth the head of his dick between your folds. His grip tightens on your hips with anticipation.
He moans softly when you sank onto him, his gaze falling to where your bodies met.
“Fuck,” he breaths.
Your legs shook when you began moving up and down on him. He pulls you down for a warm kiss on your lips, causing you to slow your movements.
“I love you,” he moans out and you bounced on him, grinding back and forth until you felt your stomach tense.
“I love you too,” you met his gaze and he links his hands with yours.
Your linked hands rested next to his head as you continued to ride him. He thrusts himself up into you when you grinded on him, making your toes curl. You chased your orgasm when he continued to match your thrusts from under you.
You moved against him faster and harder until your body seized.
His dick throbs inside of you, threatening to fill you up but he pulls out of you and finishes on your thighs. The two of you collapsed onto the bed as you caught your breath.
You eventually roll onto your back but he pulls you close so your body curled around his.
You stayed that way for several minutes, holding each other in comfortable silence.
“This feels so surreal.” He tells you, linking his fingers with yours.
You met his gaze with a soft smile.
“I know. Did you ever think we would find our way back to each other?” You questioned.
“I counted on it,”
He leans in to kiss you again when he heard a knock at the hotel door. He kisses you anyway, causing you to chuckle. He eventually stands with a sigh and pulls on his shorts.
“I’ll be right back,” he states, leaning over you to kiss you again.
He pulls away and advances to the bedroom door, closing it behind him. You heard soft voices for a few minutes before the door closed again and Gunwoo re-emerged from the living room.
He stands next to your beside and slowly climbs over your frame, kissing your cheeks smiling when you tried to push him away as you giggled.
You’re Viserys and Aemma’s daughter, no description of reader though. Daeron is our adopted son!! Just little family moments
“Not it.” You mumble snuggling further into your pillow when you hear your daughter cry. Her refusing to settle for the nursemaids so you and Gwayne are alway on baby duty. You two not having slept properly in moons, Gwayne just whining in response.
“I’m coming, wait a second.” He tells your daughter sleepily stumbling out of bed. Rosalind having been going through sleep regression and acting like she did when just born and suffering from colic. “Can you go back to sleep, my little princess?”
“Why won’t she let us sleep?” Your half brother Daeron grumbles making you and Gwayne jump, not knowing the boy was in your chambers let alone sleeping on your sofa.
“How long have you been here?” Gwayne asks his favourite nephew, you two have practically raised the boy for the past few years. You having married Gwayne when Daeron was being given as a ward. Your stepmother and his father wanting to tie you to the hightowers. You and Gwayne eventually falling in love over the time of your marriage, Daeron being your first child in all but blood.
“A few hours, I had a nightmare.” He admits knowing you’ll worry given Helaena’s dreams.
“What type?” You ask quickly sitting up to look at him, wanting to check he’s ok.
“It wasn’t a dragon dream.” He reassures, getting off the sofa and joining you in bed, wanting a cuddle. Knowing his dream won’t come true but still wanting comfort.
“Good.” You say kissing the top of his ginger head, knowing your boy is a cuddle fiend like his uncle.
“Do you want to be the best uncle in the world?” Gwayne asks the boy deciding to try his luck as Rosalind if finally sleeping again. Knowing she’ll only sleep on someone’s arms.
“No.” Daeron say snugging into you on Gwayne’s side of the bed, knowing what his uncle wants. “Night uncle Gwayne.”
-
“They’re like cats.” Gwayne muses as you’re all sat in the gardens having a picnic while the dragons play. Stormfrye mothering Tessarion and Shrykos, teaching the young dragons how to hunt/play.
“What?” You ask looking at your husband in confusion, Daeron to occupied playing with a giggle Rosalind. The girl having just learnt how to walk.
“Dragons, they’re like overgrown cats.” He clarifies, never expecting to have 3 almost 4 dragon in his life/family. Your hand resting on your small bump, watching Shrykos pounce Tessarion.
“I suppose you’re right.”
-
“Do we have to?” Daeron asks having just read the letter his mother has sent asking him to go back to kingslanding for a visit. You and Gwayne beginning invited along as Rhaenyra and daemon were also going to be there, it being the kings nameday. “Can’t we just say home?”
“It’s father’s nameday we need to go.” You say fixing Lillian’s toy bunny, Rosalind having accidentally ripped the arm off while playing with her dragon.
“It was his nameday last year and we didn’t go.” Daeron counters, not even knowing his father, Gwayne being his true father. Just as you are his mother.
“That’s because it wasn’t a big one.” You say raising an eyebrow at the boy, knowing he was just trying his luck.
“This is so unfair.” He pouts, crossing his arms over his chest. Wanting to say home with his sisters.
“Life’s unfair sweetheart.”
-
“Right, it’s bedtime.” Gwayne says the night before you have to leave to go back to the red keep. The girls sleeping after you read them their favorite story. Daeron half asleep on his cuddle chair, it being big enough for two.
“Can you carry me?” The boy asks not wanting to walk and missing when Gwayne would carry him to bed most nights when he was little.
“Daeron you’re 10.” Gwayne say with a smile happy to carry the boy.
“And?” He asks in response smiling when Gwayne lets out a dramatic sigh before picking the boy up. “Thank you.”
-
“You must be proud.” A old woman says to you, you all having stoped at a tavern on the way to your father’s nameday celebration. “Your son is a darling young boy, he’s so polite and very good with his sisters.”
“Oh, thank you.” You say not bothering to correct her, Daeron is your son. You raised him, you were the one who would read him to sleep every night.
“He looks just like his father as well.” She says with a laugh seeing Gwayne playing tag with the children in the gardens. Gwayne spinning Rosalind around making her giggle Daeron doing the same to Lillian.
Just a little Gwayne fic I thought of in the shower so thought I’d post it before going to sleep. Can be read as the prequel to family, so you’re a Targaryen. Also know as how you got your eldest child 🥰
“What’s all this noise about?” You ask the crying babe who’s been left unsupervised in the nursery for however long. The nursmaids being too busy with the other children. The little boy finally stopping crying when you pick him up. “All that ratchet for a cuddle? I can tell you’re going to be a needy boy.”
“Is he alright?” Ser Gwayne, elder brother to your stepmother/ex friend asks. Having heard the crying while he was on a walk, trying to clear him mind after the conversation he’d just had with his father. “Where is the nursemaid?”
“I don’t know.” You say not happy the babe has been left, there not even being a guard outside the doors. “Luckily he doesn’t appear to be hungry.”
“That’s good.” He says relieved, knowing he would have been furious if the boy was left hungry. Thinking his sister needs to staff, if they think it’s acceptable to leave a babe alone for who knows how long. “I’ll speak with my sister about this though he shouldn’t be unsupervised, especially for long enough that both of us heard him.”
“I know.” You say swaying slightly while you hold the boy close to you. Noticing that the man looked exhausted and you don’t mean physically. “Are you alright, you seem troubled?”
“My father wishes me to marry.” He tells you, feeling you had the right to know and he selfishly needed someone to talk to. The man deliberately not letting himself focus on how beautiful you look holding a baby.
“That makes two of us.” You say, waiting for the news of who your father and Otto will pick out for you to marry.
“He wishes me to marry you.” Gwayne says softly, feeling guilty that he has more of a say than you do.
“Thank you for telling me.” You respond slightly graceful that Gwayne is a candidate, him being a true knight.
“You’re not mad?”
“I’ve always known I’d be married off to whoever my father and yours decide.” You say factually, having known your whole life you wouldn’t be able to marry for love. “I’ve never had a choice in anything my whole life, I’m just grateful you are kind.”
“How do you know that? I could secretly be horrid.” He asks, trying to lighten the mood. Smiling softly down at the babe in your arms, letting the boy hold his finger.
“You came looking when you heard a babe cry and from what I’ve seen you’ve always been honourable.” You explain, no other man apart from Ser Harwin having done that with any of the children.
“I try my best.”
-
“He’s a babe!” You shout having just heard the new that Daeron was being sent to ward in old town at only a few moons old. “He’s too young to ward!”
“He won’t squire until he’s older.” Otto explains, sat with your father in his chambers sharing some tea when you stormed in.
“Then send him when he’s older!” You argue, thinking it ludicrous to send a baby away from his family to live with a random cousin. Gwayne being unwed so not an option.
“It’s best he go now.” Your father says, unknowingly doing exactly as Otto told him to.
“For who?” You snap, knowing this is Otto’s doing. You and Gwayne having spoken about how manipulative his father is, Alicent going down the same path. “I know this is just because of his hair.”
“I don’t know what you mean.” Your father says in confusion, not having seen the boy enough to know anything about the babe.
“Otto does.”
“Then why don’t you go with him?” Otto suggests, his plan playing out. “If you’re that concerned you should go with the boy.”
“Otto, she needs to find a husband she can’t just go to old town to raise her brother.” Viserys says, wanting you to marry.
“She could marry my son, two birds one stone if you will.” Otto says as if just thinking of it, giving the king a thoughtful look. “I know he’s the son of a second son, but if the princess is so worried about the young prince it makes sense. My son Ser Gwayne is looking for a wife and he loves children I’m sure he’d happily care for the young prince with the princess.”
“That does sound like a good idea, what do you say dear?” The king says, thinking that’s a brilliant plan. You able to stay with the babe you seen to care for and he can marry you off.
“I’m staying with Daeron.” You say, making the first decision of your life. Unaware that your husband will let you make many more.
“Then the matter is settled, you and Gwayne shall marry before you all leave for old town in a fortnight.” Otto says with the biggest fake smile, his plan going exactly as he wanted.
-
“Are you sure about this?” Rhaenyra asks you the morning of your wedding, you wearing a dress that Alicent picked out for you. “I can try and get father to change his mind.”
“I’m not letting Daeron go alone.” You say, looking into the mirror while your sister places your mother’s necklace on you. Your older sister thinking you look beautiful.
“Why do you care for him so much?” She asks, knowing you’ve spent most of your time with the babe since he was born. Her having sat out in the gardens with you and the children.
“I don’t know.” You say honestly, having always liked and cared for children. “But I’d do the same if they tried to send your son away.”
“I know you would.” She says, knowing you’ll always protect a child, no matter the circumstances. “You’ve always been the best of us.”
“That’s where you’re wrong, I’ve always been the most obedient, not the best.”
-
“It’s alright.” Gwayne says softly to the baby in his arms, Alicent having passed the babe to him at the reception of his wedding. His sister saying she’d be right back, him knowing otherwise. “We’re leaving for home in two days, are you excited?”
“Not really.” You say appearing at your new husband’s side, having just escaped an awkward conversation with a lady who insinuated that daeron is your son and Alicent is just pretending he’s hers.
“That’s understandable.” He says, knowing it must be difficult to leave home for the first time to live with people you don’t really know. “But I’ll try every day to be a good husband.”
“Thank you.” You tell him softly, silently vowing to be the best wife you can be. Giggling slightly at the boy in his arms who was trying to pull on Gwaynes doublet. “How’s our boy?”
“He’s fine.” Gwayne says smiling at Daeron, the little boy putting his fist in his mouth, clearly having decided the doublet wasn’t as fun. “Brilliant even, I just don’t understand how everyone is so ok with sending him away.”
“Me neither.”
-
“How could anyone not adore him?” Gwayne whispers while you lay in bed together, Daeron sleeping between you both. You on your side so you can watch your boys, Gwayne doing the same.
“He’s perfect.” You say brushing a ginger wave out of the boys face, him looking more and more like Gwayne every day.
“He is.” Your husband agrees, thinking you and Daeron are the best things that have ever happened to him. Him never felling happiness like it when you’re all together.
How would the AKTSK guys react to a screamer in bed? 😏
Headcanons for a reader who is vocal in bed
(including: Baelor, Maekar, Valarr, Daeron, Dunk and Lyonel)
Tags/Warnings: 18+, Smut, Implied Age Gap for the DILFs
Words: about 150-200 for each
BAELOR would tell you to be quiet, lest you be overheard. He'd shush you with a ringed hand covering your mouth, cooing in your ear as he continues thrusting, burying himself inside of you again and again, pummelling the spot that made you scream in the first place.
He wants desperately to make you come, but he does not want the whole castle to hear you. Not because of embarrassment, but because he does not wish others to know what you sound like. Baelor has to give so much to the realm. Your sounds are one of the only things that are his.
If you were on Dragonstone, on the other hand... he would encourage you to make whichever sounds you please. He loves knowing that he pleasures you so much that you become unable to regulate yourself, that he unmakes you so thoroughly. The only time he would muffle your sounds in the privacy his seat on Dragonstone affords him is when he kisses you, swallows your sounds into his own throat, consuming you as you consume him.
MAEKAR would be undeniably proud. He takes immense pride in his prowess, and he does not mind everyone knowing how much his lady wife enjoys him and his thick cock. In fact, he wants them to know. All those young, simpering knights that follow you with their eyes - they'll hear your pleased screams and know that your husband is the one making you feel this way. Not them. Never them.
If anything, he encourages you to be even louder, egging you on as he fucks you harder, faster, whatever you need. If you like your hair pulled, he'll do that, too. Maekar can get a little mean with it. This man has no shame, and he can be almost as vocal as you with his groaning and grunting.
The only thing that would dampen his ardour is if his children were staying close. When he needs to be mindful of his brood, Maekar has been known to put something into your mouth to keep you quiet. A gag, his fingers, his cock... it doesn't matter. He'll make you peak regardless. He knows your body well enough.
VALARR would be startled at first. He was raised on gentle courtesies, the politeness of court. He is used to refined speech, people concealing their wants and desires behind mild manners. But that does not mean that he dislikes how vocal you are.
In fact, he learns to treasure it, his longing for your screams in the sanctity of your chambers becoming quite ardent. It's a respite, a break from his burdens. In bed with you, his head bracketed by your thighs, he feels at home. He is finally not afraid of failing, not when you sing so prettily for him and there is no doubt to be had that you enjoy his touch.
With you he knows that he does not need to be perfect for you to love him, though he still always puts you first, wringing at least one peak from you before he even enters you. Valarr himself is quiet, rarely even sighing in pleasure, but you more than make up for it and he would have it no other way.
DAERON would barely notice initially. Other than you, he was used to whores, and they were always vocal in their performances. At first he assumes you are the same, acting to please him, pretending.
Once some time has passed and he realises that you actually like what he is doing, that you are being honest, he becomes more nervous. There's a pressure on him now. What if he cannot make you scream the next time? What if he drinks too much and cannot be good enough for you?
It fucks with his head a little. Daeron is used to being perceived as a failure. That you like him, like the way he makes you feel, is foreign and strange. But with time he learns that it is not bad. To be wanted. That your "expectations" are not hard to meet, that it's different than what he's used to. There's no punishment, no disappointment. Only love.
DUNK would stop immediately. He would freeze above you, scared to death, his broad, towering frame supported by his huge arms, needing to make sure that your scream was a good sound. He's not used to making people feel good.
When you encourage him to continue, when you reassure him, he becomes more confident, bolder. He'd start experimenting with what makes you scream the loudest - a kiss here, a squeeze there, his cock pushing into you in a maddeningly slow drag.
Eventually, he grows to love your squeals, your screams, your sighs. Everything that shows him that he's doing a good job. He knows he can be slow to understand, but he finds that your sounds make your reactions easier to interpret. He almost doesn't even mind the grins and salacious winks people shoot at him when he emerges from his rooms after a rigorous night of activity. But his blush betrays him.
LYONEL would chuckle and tease. All in good fun, of course. He loves a confident woman, a woman that knows what she likes and expresses that. If you are usually shy, he'll like it even more. Seeing a side of you that no else sees, coaxing it out of you with his mouth, hand, or his cock - it drives him crazy.
He's utterly unashamed - Lyonel likes fucking you where people will hear your sounds. If anyone mentions it to him, he'll boast, take it as a compliment. If he's feeling particularly naughty, he might make a comment doubting the other's sexual prowess if they cannot make their wives scream as he does his.
His favourite is when he crooks his fingers inside of you, seeing your face twist in pleasure at the same time. He loves watching that scream form in your throat, loves watching your eyes flutter as you peak. His name on your lips makes him unbearably smug.
Summary: You wanted to spend some quality time with your boyfriend.
Pairing: OC!Martin x Girlfriend!Reader, Ari Levinson x fem!Reader
Characters: OC Chrissy, OC Stan
Warnings: romantic getaway gone wrong, angst, break-up, Ari being the best
A romantic getaway was all you dreamed of for weeks. You planned the trip and every detail. Everything from a cozy cabin in the woods to Victoria's Secret lingerie and fine wine.
Everything was perfect. You arrived earlier, prepared the cabin, and cooked dinner before Martin even arrived.
You waited patiently, giddy like a schoolgirl to finally have quality time with your boyfriend. The happiness you felt when you heard his car soon died. You left the cabin to jump into his arms, only to end up facing his best friend, Stan.
“What are you doing here?” You couldn’t help but wonder. “Where’s Martin?”
“I’m right here,” your boyfriend said, leaving the backseat, along with his best friend’s sister. Chrissy, or Christine, to the people she doesn’t like.
You looked from a smirking Chrissy to her brother and back to your boyfriend. “Martin, a word!” You said, your voice sharp. It was not the time to swallow your pride and roll over as you did so often in the past.
“You can say everything you want to say in front of my friends.” Martin shrugged and wrapped one arm around Chrissy’s waist. “Right, guys.”
“Fine. If you want them to hear that they are not welcome, so be it. I planned a romantic getaway for the two of us. You just spent a whole week with your best friend and your entourage. Do you honestly believe I want your friend; his sister, and God knows who else you invited over while I show you my brand-new lingerie?” You put your hands on your hips and glared at Martin.
“It’s not a big deal,” he replied, and rolled his eyes. “It’s just a getaway, not our honeymoon.”
“I planned this getaway for two months. I paid for it, for the food and fucking Victoria's Secret lingerie. I did it for the two of us, not your buddies. So, what will it be? Me or them.”
Martin looked annoyed. He sighed and ran one hand down his face. “Don’t throw another tantrum, Y/N. They are my friends.”
“We are only friends,“ Chrissy said. We will all be having a sleepover. Martin said there are two bedrooms. You can have one, and the fun trio will take the other.”
The sheer audacity of that woman never failed to amaze you. You didn’t play her game, though. Ignoring her presence, you turned toward Martin. “Exactly,” you bit back. “They are your friends, because mine are never allowed to join us. If they are not on their way back in ten, I’ll cancel the payment, and you can pay for everything.”
Martin laughed. He didn’t believe for a second that you’d leave him alone. You loved him too much after all. “Why don’t you invite your friends over. Then we are even.”
You were fuming. Martin knew that your friends couldn’t just take a week off. He smirked, believing you’d give in.
Chrissy walked toward the cabin, completely unfazed by the fact that you were about to commit murder. “Fine,” you finally said and fished your phone out of your pocket. “I’ll call someone.”
Martin gasped loud enough for his friend to hear. He didn’t think you’d agree to invite your friends. “Who will you invite? Michelle, or maybe Susan.” His friend’s grin widened.
“Oh, I will not call one of them,” you cooly replied. “I will call Ari. He helped me find the cabin and told me everything about the lake and the trail. Ari will be over the moon hearing he can join us.”
The fact that Martin didn’t know most of your friends made it easier to invite Ari, your boss.
Your boyfriend opened his mouth. He wanted to protest, but you already dialed Ari’s number. You knew it was like playing with fire to invite your boss, but right at that moment, you didn’t give a shit.
You and Ari talked for ten minutes. He didn’t hesitate after he heard what Martin did. He grabbed the bag he packed for his planned trip, jumped into his SUV, and drove faster than ever before.
While you claimed the biggest bedroom and moved everything you bought, including the wine and food, to the room, Martin was still outside, sulking like a child.
Your boyfriend was shocked to hear that you wanted your boss to sleep in your room. He hissed and yelled. “How dare she! She can’t have him in her bedroom.”
“Dude, you wanted to do the same with my sister,” his friend reminded him. “Remember? You told me to bunker in the tiny storage room or the couch. How’s that fair?”
Martin glared at his friend. “That’s not the same!”
“Is it?” His friend didn’t back down. “Listen. I thought it would be fun to have a little getaway for free. You left the part about the trip being a romantic getaway with your girlfriend out.”
“I thought she’d adapt,” Martin said, throwing his hands up.
“Adapt.” His friend repeated. “Do you hear yourself? You want my sister to sleep in your bedroom while the woman planning the getaway sleeps alone in the second bedroom? That’s messed up, even for you.”
“It’s bonding time for us,” Chrissy whined. “Since they started dating, I barely see Martin.”
“You see him every week,” her brother reminded her. “I bet you see Martin more often than his girlfriend. It’s no surprise to me that she’s pissed.”
The voice grew louder until another car arrived. Ari slipped out of his expensive SUV, looking as stunning as ever. For once, he didn’t wear a suit. Ari was wearing blue jeans and a blue plaid, matching his eye color.
“Ari!” You squealed and jumped right at him. He wrapped his arms around you, lifted you, and twirled you around. Everything was going according to plan. Your and Ari’s place.
Ari suggested giving Martin a dose of his own medicine. He was a great boss after all…
After Ari settled in your room, you decided to make dinner. Only for Ari and you. If Martin wanted his friends on the trip so badly, he could take care of them.
Ari wouldn’t have it. He told you to relax and mastered the kitchen, making the most delicious dish you can imagine.
“Food! Yes!” Chrissy sat down first. She tried to put food on a plate, but Ari stepped in front of the table and shook his head.
Ari glared her down, not moving an inch. “You can eat what you contributed. If I remember correctly, you only brought beer, sandwiches, and shamelessness.”
You laughed at your boss’s attitude. He prepared two plates and carried them toward the bedroom you would share for the next week. There was a small table and two chairs. Inside, no one would disturb you and Ari.
You followed him, taking the wine and the glasses. There was no food left. Ari only made enough for the two of you.
Martin could only watch you close the door. His throat tightened, and he felt like someone had slapped him across the face.
“Hmm…looks like they are getting along as well as you and my sister,” Stan said, leaning back in his chair with a beer in hand. “How does it feel?”
Martin shot him a dark look. “Shut up.”
“No, seriously,” Stan said. “You brought Chrissy here to make yourself comfortable.”
Martin’s jaw ticked. He hated that Stan was right. He hated even more that he could hear your laughter through the door.
Inside the bedroom, you felt better than you had in months. Ari had pushed the little table toward the window and set your plate down in front of you.
“You didn’t have to do all this,” you murmured, staring at the plate instead of him. “I only called you because I was angry. You’re my boss, and I feel so stupid for all this.”
Ari sat across from you, studying your face. “I know.” His voice was gentle. “And I came because you sounded hurt, Y/N. I hate people hurting the people they should love the most.”
That simple answer did something terrible to your heart. It made that treacherous lump flutter. Martin would have called you dramatic. Ari knew you weren’t dramatic or wanted attention. You wanted someone who wanted you too.
You tried to laugh it off, but failed. “I’m fine.”
“You don’t have to be fine with me.” Ari leaned back to look you in the eyes. “Not tonight. Not ever. I’m here if you need a friend.”
You stared at him for a long moment. Maybe it was the warmth in his eyes, or the way he always talked to you, that made you crack.
“I planned this because I thought we could bond as a pair. I felt like it didn’t matter to Martin if I was in his life or not,” you admitted. “I think I got my answer.”
Ari’s expression darkened, but his voice stayed warm. “You shouldn’t have to do all this to get your man’s attention. If he doesn’t appreciate you, he doesn’t deserve to call himself your boyfriend.”
Your breath hitched. No one had said it that plainly before. No one had made it sound like the problem wasn’t you, but the man choosing his friends over you.
Ari was there. He listened without judging. Somehow, his presence alone made you feel heard and seen.
It wasn’t a grand romantic moment, yet it felt more intimate than anything you did with Martin. That was when you realized you were in trouble.
Falling for your boss would ruin your life, and you knew it.
A harsh knock shattered the quiet.
“Open the door,” Martin demanded from the other side. “We need to talk.”
Ari looked at you, not the door. “Do you want me to leave?”
You shook your head. “No.”
You wouldn’t give in. Not this time. Not when Martin decided he wanted privacy only after he experienced the same treatment you did whenever he ruined your plans for his friends.
You took your time, slowly got up, and opened the door.
Martin stood there with his arms crossed. “This has gone far enough, Y/N.”
“I agree,” you said.
Martin grinned, believing he had won again. “Good. Tell him to leave.”
You shook your head. “No, Martin. I mean this. Us. I put up with your behavior for too long.”
His face fell. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“I’m not.” You said. “And I’m dine begging you to choose me. I am done planning around your moods, your friends, your excuses.”
Ari stepped behind you, placing his hand on your shoulder. “You heard the lady. We want you and your friends gone. Y/N won’t pay for a vacation your friends hijacked.”
“You can’t do this,” Martin tried, but you held up your hand. “What?”
“I want you gone in an hour.” Your voice didn’t waver. “I paid for the cabin, the food, and everything else. You and your buddies have no right to be here. If you can’t drive because you are drunk, there’s a motel not far down the road.”
Martin turned on his heels. He wanted to argue, but it was a lost cause. Ari’s hand was still warm on your shoulder. He stood behind you, watching your ex-boyfriend leave without a fight.
“If I were him, I’d have fought harder for you,” he said, his voice a little rougher.
“If you were him, I wouldn’t have chased you away…”
Summary: You wanted to spend some quality time with your boyfriend.
Pairing: OC!Martin x Girlfriend!Reader, Ari Levinson x fem!Reader
Characters: OC Chrissy, OC Stan
Warnings: romantic getaway gone wrong, angst, break-up, Ari being the best
A romantic getaway was all you dreamed of for weeks. You planned the trip and every detail. Everything from a cozy cabin in the woods to Victoria's Secret lingerie and fine wine.
Everything was perfect. You arrived earlier, prepared the cabin, and cooked dinner before Martin even arrived.
You waited patiently, giddy like a schoolgirl to finally have quality time with your boyfriend. The happiness you felt when you heard his car soon died. You left the cabin to jump into his arms, only to end up facing his best friend, Stan.
“What are you doing here?” You couldn’t help but wonder. “Where’s Martin?”
“I’m right here,” your boyfriend said, leaving the backseat, along with his best friend’s sister. Chrissy, or Christine, to the people she doesn’t like.
You looked from a smirking Chrissy to her brother and back to your boyfriend. “Martin, a word!” You said, your voice sharp. It was not the time to swallow your pride and roll over as you did so often in the past.
“You can say everything you want to say in front of my friends.” Martin shrugged and wrapped one arm around Chrissy’s waist. “Right, guys.”
“Fine. If you want them to hear that they are not welcome, so be it. I planned a romantic getaway for the two of us. You just spent a whole week with your best friend and your entourage. Do you honestly believe I want your friend; his sister, and God knows who else you invited over while I show you my brand-new lingerie?” You put your hands on your hips and glared at Martin.
“It’s not a big deal,” he replied, and rolled his eyes. “It’s just a getaway, not our honeymoon.”
“I planned this getaway for two months. I paid for it, for the food and fucking Victoria's Secret lingerie. I did it for the two of us, not your buddies. So, what will it be? Me or them.”
Martin looked annoyed. He sighed and ran one hand down his face. “Don’t throw another tantrum, Y/N. They are my friends.”
“We are only friends,“ Chrissy said. We will all be having a sleepover. Martin said there are two bedrooms. You can have one, and the fun trio will take the other.”
The sheer audacity of that woman never failed to amaze you. You didn’t play her game, though. Ignoring her presence, you turned toward Martin. “Exactly,” you bit back. “They are your friends, because mine are never allowed to join us. If they are not on their way back in ten, I’ll cancel the payment, and you can pay for everything.”
Martin laughed. He didn’t believe for a second that you’d leave him alone. You loved him too much after all. “Why don’t you invite your friends over. Then we are even.”
You were fuming. Martin knew that your friends couldn’t just take a week off. He smirked, believing you’d give in.
Chrissy walked toward the cabin, completely unfazed by the fact that you were about to commit murder. “Fine,” you finally said and fished your phone out of your pocket. “I’ll call someone.”
Martin gasped loud enough for his friend to hear. He didn’t think you’d agree to invite your friends. “Who will you invite? Michelle, or maybe Susan.” His friend’s grin widened.
“Oh, I will not call one of them,” you cooly replied. “I will call Ari. He helped me find the cabin and told me everything about the lake and the trail. Ari will be over the moon hearing he can join us.”
The fact that Martin didn’t know most of your friends made it easier to invite Ari, your boss.
Your boyfriend opened his mouth. He wanted to protest, but you already dialed Ari’s number. You knew it was like playing with fire to invite your boss, but right at that moment, you didn’t give a shit.
You and Ari talked for ten minutes. He didn’t hesitate after he heard what Martin did. He grabbed the bag he packed for his planned trip, jumped into his SUV, and drove faster than ever before.
While you claimed the biggest bedroom and moved everything you bought, including the wine and food, to the room, Martin was still outside, sulking like a child.
Your boyfriend was shocked to hear that you wanted your boss to sleep in your room. He hissed and yelled. “How dare she! She can’t have him in her bedroom.”
“Dude, you wanted to do the same with my sister,” his friend reminded him. “Remember? You told me to bunker in the tiny storage room or the couch. How’s that fair?”
Martin glared at his friend. “That’s not the same!”
“Is it?” His friend didn’t back down. “Listen. I thought it would be fun to have a little getaway for free. You left the part about the trip being a romantic getaway with your girlfriend out.”
“I thought she’d adapt,” Martin said, throwing his hands up.
“Adapt.” His friend repeated. “Do you hear yourself? You want my sister to sleep in your bedroom while the woman planning the getaway sleeps alone in the second bedroom? That’s messed up, even for you.”
“It’s bonding time for us,” Chrissy whined. “Since they started dating, I barely see Martin.”
“You see him every week,” her brother reminded her. “I bet you see Martin more often than his girlfriend. It’s no surprise to me that she’s pissed.”
The voice grew louder until another car arrived. Ari slipped out of his expensive SUV, looking as stunning as ever. For once, he didn’t wear a suit. Ari was wearing blue jeans and a blue plaid, matching his eye color.
“Ari!” You squealed and jumped right at him. He wrapped his arms around you, lifted you, and twirled you around. Everything was going according to plan. Your and Ari’s place.
Ari suggested giving Martin a dose of his own medicine. He was a great boss after all…
After Ari settled in your room, you decided to make dinner. Only for Ari and you. If Martin wanted his friends on the trip so badly, he could take care of them.
Ari wouldn’t have it. He told you to relax and mastered the kitchen, making the most delicious dish you can imagine.
“Food! Yes!” Chrissy sat down first. She tried to put food on a plate, but Ari stepped in front of the table and shook his head.
Ari glared her down, not moving an inch. “You can eat what you contributed. If I remember correctly, you only brought beer, sandwiches, and shamelessness.”
You laughed at your boss’s attitude. He prepared two plates and carried them toward the bedroom you would share for the next week. There was a small table and two chairs. Inside, no one would disturb you and Ari.
You followed him, taking the wine and the glasses. There was no food left. Ari only made enough for the two of you.
Martin could only watch you close the door. His throat tightened, and he felt like someone had slapped him across the face.
“Hmm…looks like they are getting along as well as you and my sister,” Stan said, leaning back in his chair with a beer in hand. “How does it feel?”
Martin shot him a dark look. “Shut up.”
“No, seriously,” Stan said. “You brought Chrissy here to make yourself comfortable.”
Martin’s jaw ticked. He hated that Stan was right. He hated even more that he could hear your laughter through the door.
Inside the bedroom, you felt better than you had in months. Ari had pushed the little table toward the window and set your plate down in front of you.
“You didn’t have to do all this,” you murmured, staring at the plate instead of him. “I only called you because I was angry. You’re my boss, and I feel so stupid for all this.”
Ari sat across from you, studying your face. “I know.” His voice was gentle. “And I came because you sounded hurt, Y/N. I hate people hurting the people they should love the most.”
That simple answer did something terrible to your heart. It made that treacherous lump flutter. Martin would have called you dramatic. Ari knew you weren’t dramatic or wanted attention. You wanted someone who wanted you too.
You tried to laugh it off, but failed. “I’m fine.”
“You don’t have to be fine with me.” Ari leaned back to look you in the eyes. “Not tonight. Not ever. I’m here if you need a friend.”
You stared at him for a long moment. Maybe it was the warmth in his eyes, or the way he always talked to you, that made you crack.
“I planned this because I thought we could bond as a pair. I felt like it didn’t matter to Martin if I was in his life or not,” you admitted. “I think I got my answer.”
Ari’s expression darkened, but his voice stayed warm. “You shouldn’t have to do all this to get your man’s attention. If he doesn’t appreciate you, he doesn’t deserve to call himself your boyfriend.”
Your breath hitched. No one had said it that plainly before. No one had made it sound like the problem wasn’t you, but the man choosing his friends over you.
Ari was there. He listened without judging. Somehow, his presence alone made you feel heard and seen.
It wasn’t a grand romantic moment, yet it felt more intimate than anything you did with Martin. That was when you realized you were in trouble.
Falling for your boss would ruin your life, and you knew it.
A harsh knock shattered the quiet.
“Open the door,” Martin demanded from the other side. “We need to talk.”
Ari looked at you, not the door. “Do you want me to leave?”
You shook your head. “No.”
You wouldn’t give in. Not this time. Not when Martin decided he wanted privacy only after he experienced the same treatment you did whenever he ruined your plans for his friends.
You took your time, slowly got up, and opened the door.
Martin stood there with his arms crossed. “This has gone far enough, Y/N.”
“I agree,” you said.
Martin grinned, believing he had won again. “Good. Tell him to leave.”
You shook your head. “No, Martin. I mean this. Us. I put up with your behavior for too long.”
His face fell. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“I’m not.” You said. “And I’m dine begging you to choose me. I am done planning around your moods, your friends, your excuses.”
Ari stepped behind you, placing his hand on your shoulder. “You heard the lady. We want you and your friends gone. Y/N won’t pay for a vacation your friends hijacked.”
“You can’t do this,” Martin tried, but you held up your hand. “What?”
“I want you gone in an hour.” Your voice didn’t waver. “I paid for the cabin, the food, and everything else. You and your buddies have no right to be here. If you can’t drive because you are drunk, there’s a motel not far down the road.”
Martin turned on his heels. He wanted to argue, but it was a lost cause. Ari’s hand was still warm on your shoulder. He stood behind you, watching your ex-boyfriend leave without a fight.
“If I were him, I’d have fought harder for you,” he said, his voice a little rougher.
“If you were him, I wouldn’t have chased you away…”
steve rogers' birthday across the multiverse: infinity war steve rogers
pairing: infinity war!steve rogers x female reader
summary: being on the run won't stop steve rogers from seeing his favorite girl.
warnings: 18+ content (minors dni!!!), slight angst, smut, piv sex, unprotected sex, creampie, cockwarming, big cock, almost somnophilia, pet names (angel), established relationship
word count: 1.1k
a/n: the request for infinity war era Steve comes from @perdidosbucky-yyo and i wasn't totally sure what to write for it. but then i saw @biteofcherry's post about leaving her cookie out for Steve for his birthday and the idea of IW Steve coming home to reader took form! hope y'all enjoy 😉
steve rogers' birthday across the multiverse masterlist
Infinity War era Steve Rogers spends his birthday laying low since he’s still on the run after everything that happened. But even the threat of General Ross bringing the entire might of the U.S. government down on his head can’t keep Steve from seeing his favorite girl.
In the early morning hours on July 4th, Steve lets himself into your apartment, using the key you left hidden under the mat for him. He peels off his gear, stripping on the way to the bathroom and grabbing a quick shower to clean the grime of travel off his body.
Once he’s done, he towels off quickly and dons only a pair of boxer briefs to sleep in before slipping soundlessly into your bedroom. He pauses for a moment to take you in. You’re laying on your side in the exact middle of the bed, your eyes closed and your lips parted as you breathe deeply in your sleep.
Steve has to bite back a snicker when he notices the bit of drool at the corner of your mouth, but the sound dies in his throat when he notices that your arms are wrapped around a pillow—one you’ve covered with one of his shirts.
When he realizes that you’re clinging so tightly to something of his, even in your sleep, Steve’s heart thumps hard in his chest and he knows he can’t keep himself away from you for even a moment longer. He’s been gone too long, and he misses you too badly.
In just a few quick strides, Steve crosses the room to the bed and slips beneath the blankets behind you.
You always keep the air conditioner on high in the summer, needing the weight of your blankets to sleep, so Steve doesn’t notice that you’re completely naked until he bundles you up in his arms. He pulls your back into his front, slotting you in perfectly against his body.
Suddenly, there’s so much warm, bare skin pressing against Steve’s chest, his arms, his legs, that for an entire minute, his mind completely blanks out. He knows, deep down, that you did this for him. Normally, you wear one of his shirts to bed, so the fact that you’re naked means you were waiting for him—that you’re ready for him.
While Steve’s short-circuiting behind you, you rouse from sleep, giving a sleepy mumble of his name.
“Steve?”
That snaps him out of it, and he squeezes you a little tighter in his arms. “It’s me, angel,” he murmurs into the crook of your neck, reveling in the way you shiver at the rasp of his beard. “Had to see my best girl on my birthday.”
“Mmm,” you hum in agreement. Wiggling your ass, you rub sleepily against Steve’s hardening cock, the tantalizing warmth of your pussy teasing him and making him groan softly against your cheek. “Want you, Steve. Inside. Please.”
The soft, broken sound of your voice begging for his cock is too much for Steve. All he can do is give you exactly what you asked for. It takes him very little time to shove his briefs down and line up the tip of his cock with your warm, welcoming entrance.
Steve works himself inside you slowly, one of his hands slipping around your hip and dipping between your thighs to stroke your clit sweetly, teasing you open. Helpless moans fall from your lips and you bury your face in the pillow wrapped in Steve’s shirt, letting the soft cotton muffle your sounds of pleasure.
It feels endless, the stretch and ache of taking the super-soldier’s thick cock after so long, and by the time Steve hilts himself in your pussy, you’re both breathing hard. He sucks a hickey into your shoulder, making you whine and clench around his fat dick.
“Baby, baby, ‘m not gonna last long,” Steve rumbles, trailing kisses up your neck to nip at the edge of your jaw. “You feel too good and it’s been too long.”
You’re nodding your head before he’s finished speaking, biting back a sob of pleasure even as you roll your hips impatiently. “Too long,” you echo, and the subtle thread of sadness in your voice nearly breaks Steve’s heart.
He captures your chin in one hand, turning your head enough so his mouth can find yours. He kisses you hard, fierce, as he begins to fuck you, hard and deep. “I miss you so fucking much when I’m gone, angel,” he rumbles against your mouth, lifting up enough so that he can look into your pretty eyes, see your face as pleasure surges through your body.
You stare up at Steve like he’s your everything, one hand cupping his jaw, fingers sinking possessively into his beard and yanking him down for another kiss. “I miss you, too, Steve,” you confess against his mouth before kissing him again harder, pouring all your love for him into it as tears spill down your cheeks.
The hard things go unsaid. Steve’s birthday isn’t the time to talk about how you wish he didn’t have to leave again, even though you know he’ll have to. And you’re grateful he doesn’t make promises he can’t keep about when he’ll be able to come home for good. For the day, the two of you will just enjoy each other.
Steve’s hand slips back between your thighs, rubbing your clit, determined to make you cum first. He uses everything he knows about your body to ratchet your pleasure higher, getting you to the edge before he lets himself cum. Still, it’s a near thing. But he manages to find the spot inside you that drives you wild, and he pounds into it until you’re quaking in his arms.
You pull away from Steve’s mouth to muffle your cries of pleasure in his beard, just beneath his jaw, the vibrations of you coming apart shooting down his spine and straight to his dick. He twitches inside you, your cunt clenching hard around him, and then he’s coming inside you.
Steve ducks his head, searching for your mouth. He kisses you breathless before you both sag back into the pillows on the bed, relaxing into the post-sex haze.
The two of you fall asleep like that, you curled up in the super-soldier’s arms, his cock still buried in your body, plugging you full of his cum. You keep him warm while he sleeps, and he keeps you safe—and when you wake up, it’s to spend the day with your man, Steve Rogers, celebrating his birthday.
At least, until he has to leave again.
thank you for reading! comments and reblogs are appreciated! ♡
steve rogers' birthday across the multiverse masterlist
Remember biker Steve who saved us from the side of the road? What's he up to these days?
I’m sorry I didn’t get to this last night, nonnie, I ran out of brain power. But it just means we get an extra Steve birthday treat today 🤭
I am soooo glad you reminded me about this biker!Steve. Oh my god, he is such a dreamboat!!! As promised, he treats you like his cherished queen ☺️
Steve starts his birthday with one of his favorite activities—lazing in bed with you on a Saturday.
Even though he tends to wake up much earlier, and more willingly, than you, he enjoys this quiet, intimate time together. If you actually knew how many hours he’s watched you peacefully sleep sprawled across his chest or curled close to his side, you’d probably want to hide.
But you make Steve’s heart feel full, and he’s so glad you’re his.
That thought barely completes in his mind before you start to stir beside him. He smiles as your lips turn down into a pout because you are not a morning person.
But you are very cute when you’re all cranky and sleep mussed.
You’re also extra clingy and whiny, which is exactly what you do as you snuggle closer, band an arm across Steve’s chest and crack one eye open to glare up at him.
Well, not him. Early morning. Even if it’s not that early in general, it’s early to you. And you don’t like it.
But then you remember this isn’t just another non-early morning, it’s Steve’s birthday, and that has you shifting even closer to him, until your body is draped over his like a weighted blanket.
Steve’s eyes twinkle at your antics. They’re so soft, too, especially once you trade your cranky pout for a smile and start to rain soft kisses all over his face.
“Happy birthday, handsome,” you finish against his lips, giving him an extra long kiss on his mouth before nuzzling your nose against his.
“Sure seems like it.”
You giggle, sinking down against Steve’s warm, firm body. You watch him, your gaze just as soft for him as his is for you as Steve reaches for your hand.
He holds it up, about to press your palms together and lace your fingers for good measure when his eyes zero in on the faint scars along your skin from the night you first met.
When your shitty ex threw you to the ground and left you on the side of the road like you were nothing.
After being your savior and taking you back to the safety of his clubhouse, Steve himself had cleaned the bits of gravel and dirt from your cut up knees and palms.
He remembers it now like it was yesterday, and not nearly three years ago.
You both do.
“I’m fine,” you murmur, kissing Steve’s beardy chin since it’s easier to reach in your current position than his mouth.
“I know.” His voice is soft but sad, like he still struggles to remember that you were ever treated that way.
You. His everything.
“I’m so happy here with you.”
The storm cloud clears from Steve’s features as he shakes away those unpleasant memories and thoughts. He presses a lingering kiss to your scarred palm before giving you a warm smile. “Good. It’s what you deserve, being happy,”
“You know what you deserve, birthday boy?” You waggle your eyebrows before leaning up to press another kiss to Steve’s lips.
He makes a sound of discontent when you pull away far too soon for his liking, but you’re giving him that impish grin he loves so much so he doesn’t stop you from shimmying away.
You sink lower down his body, giving Steve a wink before disappearing beneath the covers, and then he’s sighing for an entirely different reason as you press a sweet kiss to the head of his cock before giving him his first birthday gift of the day.
a random thought: Y/N marries one of the Hightower brothers and just so happens to keep a diary, a little book she scribbles in EVERYTHING and keeps either on her person or hidden away.
husband! Gwayne Hightower would never even look at her diary. Like, ever. He respects her privacy too much to intrude and even gives her time to write alone if she wanted it. And if she ever offered to let him read a bit for whatever reason, he would be so touched over it, like oh she really loves and trusts me like that, I'm the luckiest man alive i love my wife ♡♡♡
husband! Ormund Hightower, however, reads that shit weekly. Outright comes up with some little errand or thing she needs to do, something that would likely make her hide the diary in their chambers, and than searches the place when she leaves and does some light reading. Tells the servants to leave him alone a while, makes a cup of tea, and just enjoys his little wife's inner thoughts. And he's not even sorry if she finds out, Ormund's just like...I'm literally your husband, it's my right, love you, babe ♡♡♡
Because Ormund is a little toxic even when he loves you and Gwayne is a Wife Guy 100%.
summary: you're wed to ser gwayne hightower in one last desperate attempt to unite the realm; but when the war tears the two of you apart, you're taken prisoner by his cousin, lord ormund hightower, where the line between duty and desire begins to blur. (12k)
contents: targ!reader (no physical descriptions), love triangle, enemies to lovers, angst, hurt/comfort, forbidden love, infidelity, canon divergence, cw for brief mentions of attempted assault and smut 18+ (MDNI): fem receiving oral, unprotected sex, ormund has a scent kink
( NAVIGATION ) | ( MASTERLIST ) | ( AO3 )
i. DUTY & HONOR
Your last name was, perhaps, your greatest burden. It was the very walls of your prison; the unseen chain cinched perpetually around your throat. You had inherited the dragon’s blood, it seems, but not the dragon’s freedom — and when Rhaenyra’s fleet sailed across the Narrow Sea to wage war over a throne of swords, it forgot to take you with it. The only home you’d ever known was soon filled with ghosts donned in Hightower green and whispers of your leaving.
You were going to die here. That is a truth you learned long ago. Your only wish was that they’d hurry up and get it over with.
They gave you a husband instead.
Your marriage to Ser Gwayne Hightower was heralded as an act of wisdom, the proof that wounds carved by old grievances could yet be stitched together, with silk ribbons tied around the wrists and a few spoken vows declared before the Sept. It was to be the very bridge that united the green and black. But the bridge burned anyway, and left the two of you behind.
“They wed us to prevent a war that had already begun,” you’d scoffed, already deep into your cups at the feasting table, when Maester Orwyle called the fight to come inevitable.
“No…” Gwayne hummed from beside you, still perfectly temperate, though his blue eyes were heavy with a burden too old for a man of his years. “They wed us so that, when the histories of this moment are written, someone might say that they tried.”
You’d laughed then, loud enough to gain the attention of the rest of the courtiers at the long table — because Ser Gwayne was not entirely wrong, to be sure, but he was far too generous for his own good; generous enough to believe that the effort of your marriage actually meant something in the grand scheme of things.
Gwayne Hightower was a sensible man. He was not outwardly affectionate, maybe, but he was no less kind. There was no great love in your union — not like all the songs and fairytales insist, at least — but there was safety. Security. Stability. His presence often found you like the thick walls of an ancient keep, steadfast against the howling winds of a summer storm. You would find no certainty of your future in war, but being Gwayne’s wife meant, at the very least, that you were still alive today.
That unsaid assurance is perhaps a greater gift than any truly loving marriage could’ve been for you. And, perhaps, it was with that unsaid assurance that you came to admire him, without ever realizing you were doing so — always searching for his face in crowds, waiting every night for the familiar sound of his footsteps to walk outside your chamber doors, constantly watching him from a distance (which has become a most embarrassing habit of yours).
You find him now on the western balcony overlooking Blackwater Bay, where the moon climbs high over shimmering midnight waters. The salty breeze mixes with the scent of damp stone and dying fires from the lantern light glittering in the city below. Gwayne stands alone with his forearms propped on the pale stone balustrade, having exchanged his armor for a forest-green doublet embroidered with winding gold vines. The fading torchlights gild his silken auburn hair, stirred loose by the sea breeze.
You linger just beneath the archway, hidden in the place where the torchlight turns to shadow, studying the slope of his strong shoulders and how they rise and fall with each breath. He looks lonely; lonely enough for your chest to tighten with the want to close the distance between you and slip in beside him. But your feet refuse to move. And whatever affection was warming in your chest before pierces through you like a sword.
“You’re staring.” The suddenness of his voice startles you.
“…You’re supposed to be watching the sea,” you respond, half-shy. He doesn’t look back at you when you emerge finally from the shadows; slippers scuffing the cobblestones, black skirts fluttering at your feet.
“I was,” Gwayne nods.
“Then how could you possibly notice I was standing there?”
He turns to face you then, as you settle on the balcony just beside him, keeping a few feet of careful distance between you like you always did — as if, in your union, an invisible line had been wedged between you and could not be crossed.
The corner of his mouth lifts slowly into a crooked smile. “Because I notice everything about you,” he answers like it’s simple, like he hadn’t just stolen the breath from your lungs.
Heat crawls up the low neckline of your dress, speckling across your cheeks and the very tip of your ears. You turn away, face screwed in a feigned disgust, and busy your hands with an imaginary wrinkle on your sleeve.
“That,” you murmur. “Is a terrifying thought.”
“Well, it ought to terrify you,” Gwayne quips knowingly, bending softly at the waist to fold his arms along the stone railing. “I’ve seen the way you steal the candied slices off of all your lemon cakes just to leave the sponge untouched, you know? Like an utter madwoman.”
“Well…” you huff, face flaring hot at the acknowledgment of being so openly seen by another. “It seems I made the dreadful mistake of marrying the observant man in the Seven Kingdoms.”
“And here I thought that distinction belonged to my cousin,” Gwayne jokes lowly, brows raised to his hairline. “I shall write to Lord Ormund at once and relieve him of the title.”
You laugh quietly through your nose and turn away again. Silence settles comfortably over you once more, filled only by the distant clanging of metal as guards change their shift and the far-off crowing of a caged raven. The night feels impossibly dark, emptier than usual. It feels like an omen of sorts.
“It grows worse, does it not?” you wonder aloud through the breath that catches in your chest, as if you were half scared to even ask.
Gwayne’s thin smile slowly fades. His adam’s apple bobs in his throat. “Aye,” he nods. “I fear it does.”
“I keep… hoping that…” You swallow around the invisible hand tightening around your throat. “That they’ll remember I am your wife before they remember whose blood I carry. I feel it’s the only reason they’ve yet to take my head.”
“Of course, they remember,” he assures you.
“It feels less and less so these days.”
“They’re only frightened—”
“I’m frightened,” you remind him.
The admission lingers between you like the salt water scent hanging in the air. Gwayne studies you for a long moment — he sees the flicker of sincerity flashing across your face right before you turn away from him again, and the way your jaw clenches a second later in regret of saying the words aloud.
He leans an elbow along the parapet to face you fully. And, as if to soothe you, he asks, “If there were no war… No thrones, no dragons—”
“No Hightowers?” you add.
“—If the Stranger himself appeared before you now and offered you another life,” the auburn-haired man continues with a hint of a smile gracing his lips. “What would you do?”
You ponder the question for a moment, eyes zeroed on the navy black horizon ahead as your fingers fidget on the stony barricade. “I should like a farm,” you answer, mouth twitching into an absentminded grin. “Somewhere far away from here. So I could raise chickens—”
“Chickens?” he scoffs a dry laugh, then softens a second later at the sincere look you give him. He swallows hard and nods supportively. “Most ladies would’ve said children, is all…”
“Well, I am not most ladies…” you tell him. “I would have a field of apple trees, and a hundred dogs to protect all my chickens and horses and fluffy cows— you know, the ones that live down in the Reach?”
“Well…” Gwayne croons. “You’ve certainly thought about this, haven’t you?”
“Every day,” you confess. The honesty in your answer strikes him down like a blade; the sorrowful look that heavies your face even more so. The reality of your situation returns to you then, settling over you like gravity’s inevitable weight. You swallow hard before you confess, “I fear they’ll kill me if matters grow worse at Dragonstone.”
“They won’t.”
“You cannot know that.”
“I do,” Gwayne assures you and takes a slow step closer, until the inherent warmth of his skin dulls the bite of the bitter sea wind. He ducks his chin to his chest to chase your gaze, peering down at you with glittering blue eyes. “I swore a vow before gods and men, did I not?”
“So do most men—”
“Well, I am not most men,” he lilts with an air of amusement hanging on the edge of his words. “I actually meant my vows.”
Your eyes soften as they search his face, looking for any hint of hesitation or doubt in his handsome features. You find no uncertainty there; just the maddening, immovable confidence that seems to be stitched into the very fiber of his making.
“If this castle should fall tomorrow…” you whisper to him, eyes narrowing in skepticism. “Or if your family decides that I have become too great a burden to keep here… What happens then?”
“Then I shall stand in the doorway,” he shrugs.
A shocked laugh sputters from your mouth at his boyish conviction. “And if they mean to come through it?”
“Then…” His lips jut softly. “They shall first have to make a corpse of me.”
“You are a valiant knight, Ser Gwayne, but you cannot fight an entire army.”
“Perhaps not,” he replies with a sad sort of smile. “But armies are made of men. And every man who wishes to reach you will first have to face me... As I said… I meant my vows.”
Something in his words strikes a deep sadness within you. No one had ever spoken of your being like it possessed any value worth defending, and now the words come from the very family you were meant to despise.
But even still, for the first time since the ravens brought the tidings of war and the dragons took wing against dragon, you believed him. You believed that, should the whole realm come crashing down around you, Ser Gwayne would likely be the only one left standing at your side when the last stone fell.
And, gods, how stupid you were to do so.
ii. OATHS & ASHES
The news of your husband’s leaving came not from your husband himself.
It came, rather, in whispers at court, slithering through the Red Keep like snakes beneath rushes — passing from Gold Cloak to stable boy to serving girl to scullion. “They say Ser Criston and his knights are marching for Harrenhal on the morrow,” says a thick-accented handmaiden. “Lord Hand means to smoke Daemon from the castle. It’ll be Prince Aemond’s before the next moon, no doubt.”
Your stomach dropped so harshly at the whispers that you nearly retched upon the marble. It was not Gwayne’s leaving that frightened you so, but rather what his absence would represent — he might as well throw you to the hounds himself before he goes, because you were as good as dead with him gone.
Your slippers strike the ancient stone in a frantic rhythm as you turn on your heel to storm back the way you came. The harsh echo of the soles catches the attention of surrounding servants, who flatten themselves against the walls as you hurry suddenly past. Your heartbeat pounds like thunder in your ears, far louder than the bells of the Great Sept that toll the evening hour — the combination of both feels like an ominous funeral knell.
You rush up the winding stone staircase with your crimson skirts gathering in your fists. Gwayne’s chambers sit directly opposite yours, and you find the heavy wooden door is cracked ajar. The hinges screechbeneath your palm when you shove it the rest of the way open without warning. The sight you find on the other side hollows you from the inside out — a travel satchel, laid open along the emerald sheets. Inside, a whetstone, riding gloves, a leather-bound prayer book, a sword belt, a flask.
The careful order of it all feels almost cruel. Chaos, at the very least, would suggest some air of hesitation from the man; a faint pause at leaving you behind. This, however, feels far too final.
Gwayne stands at the head of the bed with his back facing you. His pale hands work with a quiet precision to roll a Hightower-green cloak into his bag. He did not need to turn at the sudden intrusion. He learned the sound of your footsteps long ago.
“I wondered how long it might take,” the man croons distantly. The calmness of his voice, the indifference, sets you entirely aflame.
“Why would you not tell me?” you bite in response.
Gwayne glances over his shoulder at you then. The flickering candlelight turns his hair a more golden shade of Hightower-red, and carves the soft edges of his face out in shadow. He was still every inch the striking knight that the whispers purported him to be — broad as an oak tree, handsome as a saint carved into an altar — but there’s a foreign weariness etched into his features now. It darkens the skin beneath his eyes, turns his gaze a duller shade of icy blue.
“Well, I was going to, of course.”
“When?” The sharpness in your voice could draw blood.
“…Tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” Your laugh splinters the otherwise silent room, sharper than broken glass. You shut the door behind you with an aggressive hand and close the distance between you, dress skirts billowing wildly at your ankles. “When you ride at dawn? And you meant to tell me when your horses were already saddled?”
“Yes,” Gwayne sighs, lowering the folded doublet into its place. “I thought I might spare you one night’s grief—”
“You’re abandoning me,” you tell him then, as if to translate the man’s words back to himself. You linger at his side, eyes darting wildly over his profile when he fails to meet your gaze. “Just like all the rest of them. You do realize that, right?”
“The king has given orders—”
“Well, it wasn’t the king who stood beside me at Blackwater Bay not even a week ago, was it?” Your voice lowers into a faux-masculine tone, trying and failing to mock him. “If anyone comes for you, I shall stand in the doorway—”
Gwayne scoffs. “Surely, I do not sound like that.”
“—They shall first have to make a corpse of me.”
“Yes… I remember,” he answers through a slow huff of annoyance, stepping back from his travel bag to drag a pair of weary hands down his face. “I was— well into my cups by then, as you well know—”
“Oh, do not cheapen those words now,” you spit, shoving hard at his shoulder. Gwayne’s features twist in offense as his wide eyes glance down at the hand you’d pushed him with, though he doesn’t move an inch. “Don’t dishonor yourself with a coward’s excuse just to make up for the fact that you lied.”
Gwayne’s composure fractures at that. He had spent too much of his life trying to be a good knight, a good man — one that maybe his callous father could be proud of — so he refuses to stomach accusations of otherwise from you.
His icy blue eyes harden into a glacial sort of look, more hurt than truly angry. He lays his cloak into place to face you fully.
“Do you not see that I am leaving to keep the fight from coming here?”
“Do not you see that by leaving me here that I’m as good as dead?” you retort through a jaw clenched tight. “If you do not take me with you, then—”
“Of course I’m not taking you with me!” he scoffs with a crooked smile, like it’s funny to him. “You’d be dead before we made it to the God’s Eye—”
“And I will be dead before this war is won if you leave!” you shout, voice wet and fragile with the unshed tears burning the backs of your eyes. “The fight is already here! The people who wish me dead are in these walls! They pour my wine, they wash my hair, they cook my food, they bow when I walk by and whisper when my back is turned! And if you aren’t here, then…”
You trail off with a ragged breath. Your corset feels suddenly tight against your ribs. You choke back the sob that strangles your throat and blink rapidly to clear the haze of tears blurring at your waterline. You peer up at the man with the sternest gaze you can muster.
“I am… frightened,” you tell him, though your voice cracks into a fragile whisper halfway through.
The anger disappears from Gwayne’s face as quickly as it arrived. His shoulders deflate with a slow huff through his nose as he takes a slow step towards you. His hands release their clenched fists to reach hesitantly for your face. His palms are warm and softly calloused when they cup your cheeks, caressing you with a tenderness he hasn’t shown since your bedding ceremony six or more moons ago.
The quiet half-smile he gives you, then, is weighed down by a palpable sadness.
“To tell you the truth… I have never been more afraid than I am right now,” he confesses in a low murmur, swiping his thumb over the warm apple of your cheek. The softness in his voice threatens to undo you entirely.
“So then don’t go,” you plead in a small voice, grasping at the front of his emerald doublet until the golden vines wrinkle under your grip. “Please.”
“If Harrenhal remains in Rhaenyra’s hold, and if Daemon rallies the Riverland armies, then the war will come here,” Gwayne continues in a painfully steady voice. “I fear I don’t have a choice in the matter.”
“Everyone has a choice,” you tell him, filled with a girlish sort of rage once more. “But, I suppose you’ve already made yours.”
The man meets your scowl with a tired, slightly heartbroken smile. “Please do not make me spend my last night with my wife quarreling with her,” Gwayne jokes quietly, swiping an eyelash from your cheek with the pad of his thumb. “At least leave me with something to hold onto until my return.”
Your tight chest deflates with a slow sigh from your nose. The rage ebbs evenly into grief. “And what shall I have, hm? Considering tonight is very likely my last one alive and all…”
Gwayne laughs. “You are being… catastrophically dramatic.”
Your chest burns with a mixture of rage and desire. He could never possibly understand you, but somehow, he is the only one with the walls of the Keep who ever has. The contrast is dizzying.
“I hate you,” you hear yourself say.
“Perhaps...” Gwayne hums, warm breath fanning across your cheek. “But not nearly as much as you love me.”
Your first instinct is to strike him for the sarcasm in his words; your second is to weep at the truth of them. He kisses you before you can do either.
He ducks down to press his lips to yours in a tender kiss, a mere brushing of your lips. The last time he had done so was beneath the glowing candles of the Sept, following the declaration of your wedding vows. But that was an obligation, a political victory of sorts.
This kiss is far sweeter in comparison. You feel the man heavying against you as he falls deeper into your touch. He opens your mouth with his and flicks the pad of his tongue against yours, like velvet brushing velvet. Your hands tremble as they leave the chest of his doublet to rake through his auburn locks, like silk between your fingers. You sigh against his open mouth at the taste of him — like wine and mint and oranges — sweet enough to get drunk on.
It takes you a long moment to realize his hands have snaked around your waist accordingly. You don’t realize his deft fingers are loosening the tie in your corset until the discomfort in your ribs disappears entirely. Your body acts before your mind, and your arms slither from their sleeves to curl once more around Gwayne’s broad shoulders.
The man folds the top of your dress down until your bare chest is revealed to him. A grumbled moan sounds in the back of his throat as he pulls you back into him with two wide palms along your bare back, pressing your breasts flush against his chest. He thinks, if he concentrated hard enough, he could feel the steady thundering of your heart like this.
“Gwayne—” you whisper against his mouth when you feel something hardening against your hip. Your hands drop from his hair to slide between your bodies, headed for the tie in his trousers to release the stiffness growing there.
He twists you round in the meanwhile, shoes scuffing the cobbles, until the bend of your knees meets the edge of the mattress behind you. He lays you down without once taking his mouth off of yours, with one wide palm splayed along your ribcage and his other cradling the back of your neck.
He pulls off of you with a quiet smack to catch his breath. A small whimper sounds in the back of your throat when his warm body leaves yours, rising to reach down for your skirts. Your bare chest heaves as you sit up on your elbows to watch him fumble with your dress. “Gods above, how many skirts are you wearing?” you hear him complain under his breath. “I’ve faced hedge knights with fewer defenses than this.”
You giggle when he finally pushes the layers of your dress up to your hips. Your thighs spread on instinct, exposing yourself to him. Gwayne’s mouth waters at the sight of your silken folds, already glittering in anticipation. Your chest tightens when he falls to his knees before you.
“What are you doing?” you ask on bated breath.
Gwayne flashes you a love-drunk grin and a pair of glassy blue eyes. His warm palms smooth along the velvety skin of your inner thighs to spread them further. “Call it a knight’s act of service, shall we?” he quips.
His auburn head disappears beneath your bunched-up skirts a second later. Your face twists momentarily in confusion before you feel his tongue slotting in the silk folds of your cunt. He licks a fat stripe up the length of it, until his tongue finds something that makes your hips twitch despite yourself. His mouth closes around the sensitive button, suckling at it with a grumbled moan in the back of his throat.
Your head tips back at the feeling. Your lips part as if to moan, but the electric shock in the pit of your stomach knocks all the available air from your lungs. You feel him laughing against you when your thighs clench suddenly around his head, tighter than you realize.
Gwayne pulls off of you with a quick smacking sound. He wears your slick down to his chin as he flashes you a teasing, glassy-eyed look. “I’d quite like to keep my head, dear wife—”
You say nothing in response to his quip. You just dart a head to the crown of his skull and shove his face back between your thighs.
Gwayne complies without complaint, lapping at the honey you leak for him, until the wet sounds of his mouth fill the quiet chambers. You rock your hips against his face, bracing yourself with the auburn locks you clench in your fist.
His nose nudges the swollen bud that makes you keen, right before he takes it in his mouth again. Your skin buzzes at the foreign feeling.
“Gwayne—” you gasp. A tight feeling settles deep in your stomach, like a fraying knot about to snap. Your back arches off the mattress. Your hand tightens in his hair. Your features screw in a pain look, half-scared at the pleasure welling within you. “I can’t—”
“Mm…” he just keeps moaning against you, letting the vibrations deepen your pleasure. His wide hands smooth up and down your outer thighs when they tremble on either side of his head, clenching around him as your orgasm hits you with a pleasured whine. He laps up every ounce of honey you leak for him, and sighs hard through his nose at the salty-sweet taste of you.
Only when your legs grow finally lax around his jaw does he pull back from your thighs. A smile curls lazily at his rosier, more swollen mouth. The bottom half of his face glitters in the candlelight with a mixture of saliva and cum — you lift your head in time to watch him wipe his mouth with the back of his hand.
“If this truly is my final night alive…” you say through panted breaths, eyes still wide from the shock of your simmering pleasure. “I feel I could finally die a happy woman.”
“I’m glad I could be of service, princess…” Gwayne smiles lazily, grimacing slightly at the ache in his knees as he rises from the unforgiving cobbles. He leans down to lay his warmth back over you. You stop him with a firm hand on his chest.
“I want to be on top this time,” you confess in a breathless whisper, eyes darting back and forth between his.
Gwayne’s brows raise slowly in shock at your sudden display of dominance. The corner of his lip twitches into a smile the same way his cock twitches in his boxers. He nods until the words catch up to him. “As you wish…”
iii. CROWNS & CAGES
You did not weep when they came for you, scarcely a fortnight after your lord husband’s leaving.
Gwayne was gone by first light, perhaps already a league or more away before you stirred awake that morning to the chill of an empty bed. He parted with nothing but a folded scrap of parchment resting where his head had been the night before. In his scrawled handwriting, half-smudged from where his wrist had dragged the ink in haste, he wrote: “Write to me. Don’t die. I’ll build the form for you myself.”
You keep the note tucked safely inside the chest of your corset now, folded so many times that the edges have already begun to soften. You keep it close to your heart like a holy relic, or perhaps, a threat to whatever unlucky son of a bitch kills you first — something to discover on your corpse after they slit your throat, so they’ll know who to answer to upon your husband’s return.
Eventually, the servants ceased asking whether you needed anything, and all your meals came cold. Conversations ceased the moment you entered a room, and doors slammed shut before you could reach them. And then, when word spread that a wild dragon had taken wing not far from here, all eyes of suspicion turned to you — to whom a dragon had never belonged, though the blood in your veins wearied the courtiers all the same. Rhaenyra had already added three new riders to her fleet; she certainly did not need another.
You were no longer a bride, but a prisoner in pretty gowns — it was the Queen Dowager, and your sister by law, who confirmed as much to you.
“I had hoped…” Alicent started slowly, bathed half in sunshine and half in shadow from where she stood before the window in your quarters, watching the distant storm clouds blow in over Blackwater. “That I might never have to ask this of you.”
Her auburn curls swept over her pale shoulder when she turned to face you. Something heavy sat in her round green eyes, as if she wanted you to finish the rest of it for her. But you remained as stoic and silent as ever from where you sat at the small dining table just across from her. Your hands wrung into knots over your skirts, hidden beneath the surface, as you waited for the words of your fate to fall from her lips.
“The council believes that— Should the opportunity present itself, you would attempt to reach the wild beast. The Cannibal, I believe it’s called,” Alicent said. “And through him, Rhaenyra.”
“So…” You sighed, making no attempt to argue the subject. It did not matter whether or not it was true; the possibility was enough to make you a criminal. “The Black Cells, then?”
“No,” Alicent shook her head, half-offended by the suggestion. “Of course not. My cousin, Lord Ormund, he commands the Hightower host. He has agreed to keep you under his… protection for the time being.”
“Protection?” you echoed through a scoff. The word tasted foreign and bitter in your mouth. “What a pleasant name for captivity.”
Alicent’s face flickered with a mother’s sort of sympathy. Her hands wrang together beneath the draping sleeves of her emerald dress.“You will be treated with every courtesy your station deserves, I assure you.”
“If your council means to bargain with me, Your Grace…” you started with a sad smile. “They mistake me for something worth bartering for. Rhaenyra already abandoned e— keeping me hostage will not make her respond to your offered terms.”
“Even still… You would be far safer there than you would be here, whether or not you believe that’s true,” Alicent said. “I know what my brother would wish of me. And Gwayne would never forgive me if I didn’t do everything I could to keep you safe.”
The long journey south smells of wet earth and horse dung. By the time you reach the Hightower encampment — which sprawls across the rolling fields like a second city — your fine silk gown has long surrendered to the dust of the road, and your hands now bear the tenderness of a week spent in the saddle.
Your broad-shouldered escort guides you through the avenue of canvas tents billowing wildly beneath snapping green banners. The air smells of woodsmoke, cooked venison, and salty sweat — the soft breeze carries with it the sound of laughter, barking hounds, clanking chainmail, and shouted commands.
A pair of guards draw back the heavy canvas of the biggest pavilion in the camp. “My lord,” one says to announce your arrival inside, right before the entrance flap closes heavily behind you.
Inside, candles burn despite the lingering daylight, filling the enclosed tent with the smell of beeswax and parchment from the large map covering the long oak table. Pieces carved from ivory and oak mark castles and armies across the whole of Westeros, waiting to be won or maybe burned.
A strange man stands over them with his broad hands planted along the edge, visibly built beneath his ornately decorated armor, and standing several inches taller than the rest of the knights in the room.
Lord Ormund was not pretty like Gwayne, but he was his own kind of handsome, made of sharp edges and strong features. His Hightower-auburn curls are less vivid in color and sheared short. He has his family’s pair of striking blue eyes, too, which feel a little like they’re piercing you when he glances up from his map.
“Leave us,” he commands his guards in a low, melodic voice, keeping his eyes on you as his knights filter out of the tent. Their armor clatters faintly as they go. The man doesn’t say another word until they’re gone.
“So…” he hums, one corner of his mouth lifting upwards. “The infamous dragon bride.”
Your brows bounce at the title. It feels like another chain around your neck. “I suppose I’ve been called worse…” you sigh, studying him with the same curiosity. “You must be Lord Ormund.”
“I must,” the man nods as he rounds the war table at an unhurried pace.
His boots sink into the woven rungs laid across the hard earth with each step. He towers several inches over your head when he plants himself in front of you. He smells of steel and sweat and strongly of incense.
“I expected someone… older.”
His brows raise in amusement. “And here I expected someone taller.”
“Well,” you deadpan, eyes narrowing up at him as your hands clasp behind your back. “I’m sorry for disappointing you, Ser.”
“Oh, I’ve endured far worse disappointments, my lady, I assure you.” A ghost of a smile graces his pink lips as his eyes soften slightly around the edges. “I give you my word. While you remain beneath my banners, no harm will come to you.”
You sigh hard through your nose. “Yes… People keep promising me that.”
“I’m sure they have… But I intend to honor it.” The certainty of the man’s words unsettles you. It’s strange, you find, to be looked at like you were something worth protecting. “And if you require anything— anything at all. You need only ask.”
You nod slowly with a deep exhale, considering the offer. “A quill,” you conclude firmly.
Ormund blinks. “A… A quill?”
“Yes,” you say. “And parchment.”
“For… What purpose?” he laughs.
You glance over your shoulder towards the tent’s fluttering entrance, where the last light of the early evening burns gold against a sea of green banners. You wonder, briefly, how many soldiers outside this pavilion would celebrate if they found you dead on the morrow — how many would mourn, how many would care enough to do anything at all.
You think, perhaps, that in the whole of the Seven Kingdoms, there is only one person who would weep for you. And he was a hundred leagues away.
“So that I may write to my lord husband,” you answer finally. “And tell him that I was right… And that he still owes me a farm.”
Lord Ormund allows you to write to Gwayne that night, and every seventh day after. It was the only thing you could look forward to, since there was little else to do at camp. He had been gracious enough to give you your own pavilion at the edge of the command encampment, close enough for the sentries to watch but far enough away to force you into solitude.
It was clean and moderately comfortable — with a narrow cot draped in a single wool blanket, a traveling chest for the few dresses you were allowed to bring, a wash basin, and a small writing table tucked beneath the only slit in the canvas that permitted daylight. Inside smelled of candle wax, pressed linen, and lavender soap.
Outside smelled of war — of pressed metal from the blacksmiths, of men cursing over burnt porridge, of stableboys tending to horses who fouled the earth faster than they could shovel it. It was cruel, how the world went on while you could go scarcely a step without an escort. Eventually, you became accustomed to feeling a hundred eyes upon your back — most curious, others suspicious, some outright hateful.
The letters you wrote to Gwayne, at least, gave you the illusion of escape. You tended to each with careful precision — melting the wax, stamping it shut, then tying it off with a ribbon — and watched from afar as one of Ormund’s knights carried them toward the rookery. It was not until the twentieth day at camp, when you wandered further than you were typically allowed, that you noticed that none of your messages had been sent. You watched the knight toss the letter into the fire, flinching slightly when the flames sparked beneath the fresh kindling.
It had been four days since then.
And you haven’t eaten once in protest.
It took roughly half that time for Lord Ormund’s patience to run thin. He’s suffered the endless whispers of your attempts to starve to death with an increasing displeasure. He commands thousands of knights beneath his banners, serves as the leader of his house with grace, and yet — he still cannot seem to manage to command one lady to supper. It was absurd. Humiliating. And worse, it invited doubt. What army will follow a man whom they believe incapable of governing his own household?
On the fifth evening, after your breakfast tray went untouched that morning, Ormund opts to bring you your supper himself. He marches through the crowded camp with his jaw clenched tight like a soldier headed into battle. His chainmail clanks with every step. Avoiding the stares he gets from surrounding knights feels borderline impossible.
He throws open the entrance of your tent without ceremony. The canvas snaps sharply beneath his aggressive hand as he ducks suddenly underneath it. The light of the golden evening pours suddenly inside around his towering silhouette before the flap falls shut behind him once more, trapping the two of you inside.
There, he finds you lying on your cot, staring upward at the slit in the pavilion where one lonely shaft of sunlight spills through. Your fingers drift lazily through the rays, as if you were trying to catch it somehow.
Your head snaps suddenly to the side at the sudden intrusion — your hair is loose and unkempt, because no one ever taught you how to do it yourself, and all of your dresses are now wrinkled and stained with dirt. The thin white nightgown you wear makes you look more sunken, more lifeless.
Ormund grasps your tray with one hand and reaches for your small writing desk with the other. He lectures you through the distant pang of sympathy in his chest.
“I have commanded men twice your size—” His boots are heavy on the thin rug as he carries the desk over to you. “I have started sieges, I have broken sieges. And yet—” He slams the table in front of you with a dull thump. You try not to cower under the icy blue glare he gives you. “I cannot seem to persuade one prisoner— a lady, no less— to eat her supper. And I confess, it does very little for confidence in my command. So eat.”
Ormund slams the tray onto the desk. The broth steaming in a small wooden bowl sloshes over. Next to it, strips of leftover venison and a broken loaf of stale bread. Your empty stomach twists painfully with a mixture of nausea and hunger.
“So…” you start lowly, clearing your throat when your voice comes gravelly. You rise from your supine position on weak limbs. The fabric of your nightgown rides up your thighs as you turn to place your bare feet on the ground — eyes dull when you peer up at the man from beneath your lashes. “You admit it, then? That I am your prisoner here?”
His jaw clenches tight. His nostrils flare through a sharp breath. He no longer finds amusement in your banter. “Your status here depends entirely on your pliancy,” he spits, ripping off a piece of the stale loaf. “Now eat.”
You flinch when his fist rears suddenly towards your face, holding the broken bread just in front of your mouth. You blink wildly up at him, features screwed in offense. “…Excuse me?”
“Eat.”
You swat his hand away; it moves scarcely an inch. “I’m not a child—”
“Well, at present, you are behaving remarkably like one,” Ormund argues through a tight jaw. “Now open your mouth.”
You respond with only a glare.
Fury rages through the man’s chest. He wishes wordlessly for the strength of the Mother and the Warrior engraved upon his armor as he offers bitterly, “Or shall I make you?”
You spend a long moment staring up at him with eyes cold enough to freeze wine. You hold his gaze as your mouth parts slowly to accept the chunk of bread he pinches between his thumb and forefinger. He places it upon your tongue with a surprising gentleness, considering the wrath he’d had moments ago.
“Chew,” he commands, glaring down the bridge of his nose at you. Your jaw moves slowly. Ormund nods in approval. “Swallow.”
Your heart lurches into your throat at his order. But you do as you’re told, throat bobbing as the piece of bread goes down. Another piece follows soon after; this time, your lips part before he asks you to do so. Relief crosses over his strong features as he places the food onto your tongue. His shoulders sag with the exhaled breath that it feels like he’s been holding for days.
He looks almost worried for you; relieved, almost, to have fed you. A warm, foreign feeling settles in your chest accordingly.
“I am trying… Very hard to be kind to you,” Ormund confesses, scarred hands twitching at his sides. “So I cannot, for the life of me, understand why you insist on making this so difficult.”
“My letters,” you tell him. “Why aren’t they being sent?”
“The rookery master feared they could be intercepted,” he answers plainly. “I could not risk one falling into enemy hands. I… meant to tell you.”
“When?” you spit.
“When I found a safer way to deliver them.”
A bitter laugh sputters from your mouth. “What curious men you Hightowers are,” you quip with narrowed eyes. “So fond of deciding what sorrows I ought to be spared.”
His brows lower in confusion. “Is that not a kindness?”
His answer lingers between you for several long moments. There was no cleverness in his words, only an honesty that strikes you like a fist to the stomach.
“Aye. I suppose it is,” you answer, clearing your throat when your voice catches.
A strange emotion strangles you, and burns at the back of your eyes as you look down at your dress. Your dull nails pick at a smudge of mud on the fabric that will likely never come off. An embarrassed sort of laugh tumbles from your mouth.
“Perhaps I… I spent so long waiting for someone to hurt me that I no longer remember what kindness is supposed to feel like.”
Ormund nods through a slow exhale from his nose. He glances to the side and walks the short distance to the stool that the table had knocked over in his rage. Your wet eyes follow his form as he walks away and then back to you, setting the chair on the other side of the table. You can feel the warmth radiating from his body, even in the scarce distance between you.
“I’ll admit— A man spends enough time at war, they start to forget that mornings are not meant to begin with fear,” he says, reaching again for the loaf of bread, but this time breaking it in half. “I forget myself, at times, but… if you’ll allow me… I’d very much like to prove to you that I can be kind.”
Your weary features soften around the edges. “Well, I don’t have much of a choice in the matter, do I?” you tell him, with a more sincere smile hinting at the corners of your lips. “I am your prisoner, after all.”
“So you keep insisting,” Ormund quips with his own quiet grin. “But I should rather you thought of yourself as my… responsibility.”
Your heart stumbles a beat. Responsibility felt much safer than hostage, or bargaining piece, or burden. It felt, you’ll admit, like a kindness.
iv. SILK & SWORDS
You fall into a steady routine at the Hightower encampment by the fifth moon of your captivity.
Each morning arrives with the same mournful groan of a warhorn that rolls across the grass green hills before the sun has even broken the horizon. You wake to the distant ringing of hammers against anvils, hounds barking for gristles off the cookfires, and knights shouting for their squires. The first hours were reserved for armorers; the afternoons for drilling knights whose swords cracked together until you could feel them ringing in your skull; and the evenings for songs, laughter, and ale.
Your days, however, remained painfully empty.
Lord Ormund had been kind enough to provide you with greater comforts as the weeks went by — cushioned pillows and heavier woolen blankets for when the nights got colder; sprigs of lavender for your bedside to keep out the stench of man; more parchment and colored ink to busy your hands when the days were especially long. And all of them were especially long. He’d given you his leather-bound prayer book, too, and even though you were not an entirely pious woman, you’d read through it enough times to recite each passage from memory.
The camp has since grown accustomed to your being there, ever since Ormund slackened his metaphorical leash on you — “You’ve had more than ample opportunity to run,” he’d said beneath the scratching of his quill. “Besides, where exactly would you go? No one else would take you.” No one bats an eye when you leave your tent, after three days of relentless rain had finally broken, to pick fresh berries from the brushes along the treeline.
Your crimson silk dress scrubs the dewy evening grass as you collect wild raspberries into a small wooden bowl. The juices stain your fingertips the color of red wine. The sweet scent mixes with the smell of wet earth and mint leaves crushed beneath your slippers. You bend at the waist to parse through tangled brambles, searching for the ripest berries. For the first time in months — years, maybe — you feel almost peaceful.
“Is that a love letter—?”
The voice cuts through the quiet like a blade. Your heart lurches into your throat as you jerk to full height again. The small bowl of berries slips from your grasp and rolls through the wet clover like so many drops of scattered blood. Behind you, you find a vaguely familiar hedgeknight, scarcely ten paces away — made of broad shoulders, broken teeth, and greasy hair that falls to his shoulders.
It takes you an embarrassingly long moment to catch your breath.
“I’m sorry,” you say through a tightening chest. “You… You startled me.”
“Did I?” he hums gruffly, in a voice that borders on amusement.
You cower into the hedgerow behind you as he approaches you, reaching you quickly on much longer limbs. He looms close enough for you to smell the sweat and ale and horse piss on his chainmail, close enough for you to lift your chin to meet his gaze.
His eyes never quite reach yours. They linger, instead, on your chest. “Letter from your lord husband, is it?” he asks, motioning with his head.
Your chin ducks to follow his eyes, where the rough edges of parchment nestled against your chest peek out from your corset. Your hands lift to cover it instinctively. “Yes. It’s a… a letter. From home.”
“Mind if I take a look at it?” he asks, taking another daring step closer. You wince at the sour smell of him. “What does Ser Gwayne write his pretty wife, hm?”
“Please, don’t—”
His hand shoots out. Thick, filthy fingers hook beneath the neckline of your gown, hard enough to stretch the fine silk with an audible crack. You react on pure instinct accordingly, lifting your own hand to strike him before your mind could forbid it.
The sound of your palm colliding with his bearded jaw cracks through the hedgerow like a whip.
His head turns slightly under the blow.
Your breath catches in surprise at yourself.
The back of his hand catches you across the cheek before you can blink. A red-hot pain explodes from your ear to your jaw as your world lurches suddenly sideways. You hit the unforgiving earth below with a huff when the air rushes from your lungs. Coppery blood pools thick on your tongue from where your teeth had cut the inside of your cheek.
“You little cunt—” you hear the man say, right before he catches a fistful of your skirts to pull you back towards him. The fabric screams beneath his hand. The cool evening air strikes your legs all at once when the silk rips up to your thighs.
You kick wildly at the man. Your slipper strikes uselessly against his shoulder. Your fingernails claw muddy furrows through the soaked earth.
“I am— Gwayne Hightower’s wife—” You tell him through panted, fearful breaths. He flips you onto your back by your ankle. Your foot burns beneath his grip. Your head strikes the soaked earth. Through the lack of air in your lungs, you heave, “He will have your head for this—”
“Oh, will he?” the hedge knight laughs with a brown-tooth grin. “‘Cause he ain’t here—”
The hand not holding your squirming ankle reaches for the tie in his trousers.
Then, in a blink, steel sings with a clean rasping sound. Warm blood splashes from your right jaw up to your left temple. For a flicker of a moment, you can’t quite comprehend why — not until the hedge knight kneels suddenly before you, with open eyes that have gone strangely distant. He topples suddenly sideways with his neck bent at an awkward angle, head half cut off and spouting bright red blood.
You blink wildly through the haze of death until you find Ormund standing just behind the corpse, chest rising and falling beneath his heavy armor. His longsword drips crimson onto the grass where your raspberries lie.
Sweat from the long day clings to his dark curls, wetting them against his temples and forehead. Flecks of blood dot his jaw like crimson stars. His blue eyes burn with something fierce, but his voice remains remarkably soft.
“My lady…”
You open your mouth to answer him, but nothing comes out.
Only then do you notice how violently your body is shaking, buzzing with a white-hot fear, as you scan the scene surrounding you — your torn skirts, the blood staining your chest, the dead body at your feet. You stare at the hedge knight’s gushing throat without fully understanding the sight of it.
Ormund reaches you in three long strides. He sheaths his sword without a word before dropping carefully to one knee. He slides one arm under your leg and his other behind your back, hoisting you upward with a pair of strong arms. The scent of blood and earth gives way to the smell of leather, incense, and bathing oils as he cradles you to the broad wall of his chest.
Your trembling hands clench a fistful of the green velvet cape draped along his shoulder.
“You’re safe, my lady,” Ormund murmurs as he carries you back to camp. “You’re safe.”
Your face finds the hollow space between his jaw and collarbone. You’re not entirely sure if you believe the words he speaks, but you know now that you do believe in the man who speaks them.
v. SANCTUARY & SIN
The weeks that followed could be divided into two — the days before the attack and all the days after.
For a time, you startled far too easily. A dropped shield sent you into a panic. A knight laughing too loudly made your pulse skyrocket. And if a pair of bootsteps walked too closely behind you, you lost all your breath before your mind had time to remind your body that no one meant you any harm.
Nights proved harder still. You dreamt of nothing but rough hands and torn silk and crushed berries that smelled so sweet the thought alone made you sick. One moment you were suffocating beneath the sweaty body of a hedge knight, and the next, your canvas door was thrown open while you were choking on a scream.
Ormund stood silhouetted before you, barefoot, with a sword in his naked hand. He’d reached you with haste, after having your pavilion packed up and pitched again not quite twenty paces from his following the attack — “It’ll be easier that way,” he assured you. “If another fool decides to trouble you, I’d rather not have to cross half of Westeros to remove his head.”
His curls were flattened from slumber, his linen shirt unlaced to reveal his broad chest heaving with panic. His sleep-swollen eyes swept every corner of the empty pavilion before they settled finally on you. His steel lowered as he crossed the tent to settle beside you, smoothing a hand up and down your back despite the way your nightgown clung uncomfortably to your sweaty skin.
“We’ll move your bed into my tent,” he’d said. “You’ll sleep there for the time being.”
It was concern disguised as a command. One you could not refuse if you wanted to.
Ormund’s tent was large enough to pass for a modest hall — maps and banners occupied one half, while the other had become something half-resembling living quarters. Your smaller cot was placed opposite his beneath the same sloping canvas roof, separated by little more than a table crowded with candles and books. You would wake occasionally to find Ormund already seated beside the brazier in nothing but a linen shirt, reading dispatches by firelight while occasionally glancing over to see whether you were sleeping soundly.
You pretended that you were, if only to keep on watching him.
But then the late summer storms arrived; and the unforgiving deluge washed over the camp with enough violence to shake the pavilion you slept beneath. Thunder cracked like an explosion closely overhead, and you woke with another frightened gasp before remembering where you were.
Ormund was already awake, as if stirred in knowing that you were scared.
“If you’re frightened…” he murmured from across the darkness. A flash of lightning revealed his blanketed body, and his face half-smushed into his pillow. “I imagine my bed could accommodate two people without either touching the other."
You crossed the space between your cots and climbed beneath his blankets without another word.
You haven’t left his bed since.
The days soon settle into something almost resembling normalcy. Ormund, you find, possesses an absurd fondness for taking care of you — always making sure that you’ve eaten breakfast before he’s started his mornings; delivering his wool blankets to you before you can complain that you’re cold, warming your hands between his calloused palms when he does so; and escorting you through camp with a protective hand splayed along the small of your back.
No one ever cared for you with such deliberate attention before — even Gwayne, as gentle as he was, could only love you from a respectful distance before the war had sent him off. Your husband washed away into memory, into the note left abandoned somewhere on the forest floor.
You did not know whether he still rode beneath banners or if his corpse had been picked clean by crows. You did know, at the very least, that Ormund was here — he was there in the mornings when you woke and each night when old fears crept back into your skin. It was a dangerous thing, you soon realized, to mistake safety for love. Or more dangerous still, to suspect that the two were any different at all.
You watch from Ormund’s bed — freshly bathed beneath your thin ivory slip, with your legs kicking lazily from where you lie on your stomach — as his squire removes pieces of his armor. A sketchbook lies open before you, alongside a collection of colored inks.
“This is what you get for tightening the straps so much,” Ormund hums as Daeron struggles with the final buckle across the man’s broad shoulders.
“Well, you’d like them to remain attached, wouldn’t you?” the boy quips back.
The man smiles despite himself. “You complain more than any squire I've ever met, do you know that?”
“I learned everything from you, did I not?”
When the final piece of armor comes finally free, Ormund dismisses the boy back to his tent. The entrance cover opens and shuts behind the boy, letting in a rush of cool evening air before it closes again. Silence returns to the expansive pavilion, filled only by the crackling of burning candles.
Ormund, left only in his loose dark breeches and a linen undertunic, walks to the round table to pour himself a goblet of wine. “What is occupying you so completely over there?”
“I’m hard at work,” you answer vaguely.
“So I see.” He eyes you carefully over the glugging of the flagon. A faint, unreadable flicker crosses his face. “Writing to Gwayne, are you?”
“No,” you sigh. “I’m drawing you.”
You set the quill into the inkpot and lift the sketchbook to face the man with a girlish grin, which seems to be becoming more and more frequent as the days go by. Ormund’s light eyes squint to study the page. It was unmistakably him drawn in the ink, though perhaps only if one was exceedingly charitable. The proportions are all wrong: his nose is too large, his mouth is too small, one eye sits higher than the other, and he’s missing his left brow.
His eyes flick to meet yours again. “…Is that intended to be me?” he asks, motioning with the goblet in his fist.
“Of course,” you shrug like it’s obvious.
“Well,” he sighs, raising the cup to his mouth. “I had no idea that I resembled that of a rotting turnip.”
You gasp in faux-offense that’s soon overcome by a fit of laughter. “It is not that bad!”
“My lady…” Ormund huffs sympathetically, abandoning his ale to saunter slowly towards the bed. “This could be considered treason— I should confiscate this immediately."
“You shall do no such thing,” you tease.
“Oh really?” he croons, brows raised in amusement.
He lunges for you in an instant. You jerk back onto your haunches with a squeal, cradling the sketchbook to your chest. You dodge each of his attempts to take it with a girlish gracelessness, laughing harder with each of his failed attempts. Ormund smiles at the sound without realizing it, dropping the table of ink to the rug below before clambering onto the bed to follow you.
One final tug sends the book flying across the bed, and the two of you go to reach for it at the same time. The momentum carries you forward until you land clumsily against his chest, knocking the breath out of him as his back hits the mattress, with you squarely on top of him.
It takes you a long moment to realize your precarious position — your chest brushing his beneath your thin slip, noses nearly touching, breaths nearly entwining. Your laughter fades first, but you still do not move. Ormund’s smile flickers, but his hands lift to rest lightly along the arms you use to prop up your weight on top of him.
You can feel each of his warm breaths fan against your chin. You could get drunk on the ale stained on his mouth from the proximity between you alone. Closer by an inch or two and you would taste it on his lips.
“We ought not,” Ormund murmurs lowly, as if he can read your mind.
“Ought what?”
“This,” he answers. His blue eyes flick briefly in the space separating your mouths. “You are another man’s wife. My cousin’s wife.”
You swallow hard at the mention of Gwayne. It had been far easier to forget him, in truth. “I have not seen my husband in nearly a year,” you reply in a small voice. “I do not even know whether he yet lives…”
Pain etches in Ormund's strong features before disappearing behind his usual practiced restraint. His hands tremble with the urge to smooth away the frown between your brows, but he does not allow himself the satisfaction.
“I swore on oath to protect you,” he says. “To serve you in my cousin’s absence.”
You, without possessing a similar self-control, lift a hand to brush a wild curl from his temple. “And do you intend to keep that promise, Lord Ormund?”
He nods against the mattress. “Of course I do.”
“Okay then…” you hum as a smile tugs slowly at one corner of your mouth. “Then serve me.”
You duck down to close the distance between you without a second thought. The tip of your nose grazes the strong bridge of his as you press your lips to his chapped ones, nothing more than an experimental brushing of your mouths. You go to pull away just as quickly as you came, and whatever restraint Ormund had had before vanishes in an instant.
He lifts his head from the tousled blankets to chase your mouth, cradling your neck with a wide hide to draw you back into him again. The second kiss lands with none of the careful uncertainty of the first. This one is slower, deeper, and far more languid. His tongue licks into your mouth, tasting of wine and the mint leaves he always chews after supper. You sigh through your nose to savor it, melting further into his chest.
Your mouths move together with an awkward sort of tenderness, learning one another by the second. Ormund kisses you far rougher than Gwayne ever did — it’s all tongue and teeth and spit, as if he were committing the taste of you to memory: the meat from your supper, the berry from your tea; the guilt from your broken vows, the relief of being found after believing yourself long abandoned.
Your breath catches in your throat when Ormund suddenly takes charge, urging you onto your back with his mouth still on yours. He pulls off you with a quiet smack, wearing your spit on his rosy mouth like gloss.
“Do you want me to stop?” he asks with heavy eyes that dart back and forth between your glassy ones.
You shake your head against the cushions beneath you, features twisting with a pained look at the thought of stopping now.
“Do you understand what will follow? What… vows both of us will be breaking?”
Your eyes glisten as they dance between his blue ones. “The war broke those vows,” you tell him, half-breathless. “Not us.”
Ormund nods wordlessly for a moment, pleased with your answer. “Then open,” he says.
Your mouth parts for him on instinct. He lifts his middle and pointer finger to your lips, wetting them on your tongue, before sliding them in between your bodies. His hand disappears beneath the skirt of your slip. Your head tips back when you feel his fingertips sliding between your velvety folds, brushing your clit before sinking into your waiting cunt.
Your sigh fills the quiet tent, accompanied by the low groan in the back of Ormund’s throat.
“You’re softer than I imagined…” he confesses, almost to himself.
“Imagining me a lot, are you?” you tease on bated breath.
“Yes,” he answers without missing a beat. “I dreamt of how your cunt would wrap around me… of how you’d soak the sheets… of what noise you’d make when I moved my fingers like this—”
A whine catches in your throat when he crooks his fingers just so, nestling the fatty part of his palm flat against your clit. Your hips buck into his hand despite yourself. Your exhaled whine is half-drowned beneath his breathy chuckle.
“There it is…” he praises.
“Fuck me,” you plead, face crumpling under the weight of your need. One hand twists in his hair, while your other fists in his thin white tunic to keep him close. You only vaguely realize how little you sound like yourself as you plead: “I need it so bad, Ormund, please, fuck me—”
The man goes dizzy at the sound of your begging, as if he brought you into his camp, his tent, his bed, to do anything other than serve you.
His fingers glitter with your slick when he drags them out of your cunt. He brings them to his nose, nostrils flaring slightly as he inhales the scent of your musk upon them. You whine at the sight of it — half-disgusted, half-intrigued. You watch with heavy eyes when he brings the same hand into his trousers to fist his half-hard cock fully stiff for you.
It’s a mess of tangled limbs for a moment, as you drag his shirt gracefully from his torso while he attempts to free himself from his breeches. He’s made of tanned skin, toned muscles, and a dusting of auburn hair from his sternum to his stomach. It grows more dense at the root of his cock — which is not quite as long as Gwayne’s, but thicker still and adorned with more prominent veins.
Ormund works himself hard with his fist; the reddened head of his cock leaks pearly drops every time his hand moves upwards. Your mouth waters for a taste. You let him smear it along the folds of your cunt instead.
You curl your arms under his broad arms to splay your hands along his shoulder blades. They flex slightly under your touch as he leans down over you. You tense on instinct when he pierces you with the tip of his cock. “Shh, shh, shh,” he soothes lowly, fighting back his own grunt as you spread so perfectly around him.
He sinks slowly into you, slow enough for you to feel every vein and ridge of his cock as he mounts you until his hips are flush with yours. Your mouth parts. He ducks down to kiss you before a moan tumbles out, swallowing the pretty sound with his mouth.
He stays still against you for several long, agonizing moments. Your hips buck against his in anticipation. “Please move,” you whine, digging crescent shapes into his shoulders with your nails. “I need you so much, please—”
Ormund’s jaw clenches tight. “Do you have any idea how long it’s been since I’ve been inside another woman?”
Your face screws. “I’d rather not hear about your previous exploits at the moment—”
“Don’t,” Ormund spits, shuddering on top of you when you roll your hips into his once more. He grasps your thigh hard enough to dig bruises into the plush skin with the hand not holding himself up beside your head. His light eyes turn glacial in an instant, darting wildly between both of yours. “I won’t… I won’t last…” he confesses.
Your eyes soften around the edges with a faux innocence. “This isn’t going to be the last time you fuck me, is it?”
The crude word falls so effortlessly from your pristine mouth that it makes his cock jerk within your drooling confines. “I don’t want it to be. No,” he answers, half-shy.
“Then I don’t care how long you last,” you assure him with a lazy grin. “You have kept me hostage for nearly a year— Surely, I’m entitled to make some use of my captor while the realm delays the war, am I not?”
Ormund’s resolve crumbles under your permission. He rolls his hips forward and back again, never quite pulling all the way out of you. He groans quietly when you clench around the sensitive head of his cock; and you swallow down a whimper when the coarse hair below his stomach rubs mercilessly along your sensitive clit.
Your head tips back. He falls to the hollow space between your neck and shoulder.
Ormund’s open-mouthed breaths fan warm along your burning skin as he stumbles into a graceless rhythm, thrusting hard enough to make the wooden frame of his bed squeak quietly beneath you.
The pressure on your clit is relentless. You squirm underneath his sweat-slick body, chasing and running from the pleasure all at once. “I know. I know. It’s okay,” you hear him slur against your skin. “Just take it. Just fuckin’ take it— Fuck—” His voice breaks like splintered glass.
He tenses suddenly above you, taut muscles trembling. You hear his breath catch for a moment, right before a foreign warmth pools in the very pit of your stomach. He groans in time with his release, heavying his weight further against you.
You aren’t far behind.
He grinds his hips lazily to ride out his high, smothering your sensitive clit as the warm, wet, sticky feeling continues to bloom inside of you. “Ormund—” you gasp, tensing beneath him.
“There it is…”the man praises as you tremble underneath him, smearing his lips against your jaw until they reach your parted mouth. “There it is— Fuck, that’s it,look at me.”
Your eyes snap open at his command, bleary and heavy-lidded. You ride out the rest of your orgasm with your gaze locked with his glassy one.
The honeyed moment doesn’t last nearly as long as either of you would’ve liked.
“My lord?”
The two of you sober in a flash as the spell between you shatters. Ormund stills suddenly above you, as if pierced by steel. The warmth flees from his features at once, replaced by the hard composure of the commander of House Hightower. You, too, freeze where you lay beneath him — pulse thrumming hard in your throat as the muffled voice drifts once more through the pavilion.
“My lord—”
“Yes, Daeron,” Ormund spits through gritted teeth, nostrils flaring as he breathes through the rage searing in his chest. “What is it?”
The squire hesitates at his uncle’s harsh tone. “Forgive me for the intrusion, my lord…” the boy says carefully, hidden behind the covered entrance. “But a messenger arrived from the river road. He bears urgent word from Ser Criston’s camp.”
You feel your stomach sink — or, perhaps, it’s only the mixture of cum seeping out of your still fluttering confines, soaking the sheets beneath you. You feel unspeakably dirty now, and the lack of regret only deepens the feeling.
Ormund remains motionless above you for a moment before sitting back on his haunches. You shiver at the absence of his warmth, and wince slightly when his softening cock slips out of you. “A letter?” he calls to the entrance, brows lowered. “What news?”
“It is sealed, my lord,” Daeron says. “The messenger said it was to be opened by our hand alone.”
Ormund’s confusion deepens. “And who sends it?”
After another brief hesitation, the voice answers solemnly: “Ser Gwayne, my lord.”
