morning breakfast with husband! gwayne and your son! daeron. inspired by daeron asking for gwayne in the latest episode .
daeron knows that love exists because you and gwayne exist.
its fluid, golden liquid, dancing in the way gwayne spoons the honey in your sweetened tea before you've even made it to the breakfast hall. he hasn't eaten yet, he waiting for your entrance and the moment his eyes set foot on your frame through the door he's up in an instance. daeron doesn't even hear the scrape of his chair or the clunk of his shoes on cold ground, nor does he hear the small breaths from his uncle's quickened pace. no, this happens at light speed, like a natural born reaction that gwayne is drawn to you.
daeron sees the slow smile mirrored across your faces, a teasing joke that the two of you only know and he sees gwayne take your hand, bring it to his lips with such grace, such nobility and restraint that you scrunch your nose up in delight; feeling exactly how it felt all those years ago when he first courted you. the sound of your laughter swirls like the honey in your tea, like a magnet gwayne's ears perk up and he leans in to press a kiss to your forehead. he knows daeron is behind back at the table so he doesn't do more, he knows what it is to be respectful and not, though you do a damn well job of making sure he forgets most of the time. but for the sake of his nephew, he stops. he offers you his arm that you take instantly, slotting in perfectly next to his as his steps slow to match yours, a piece of harmony.
daeron watches with a smile as gwayne reaches the table, he walks past his chair first, knowing you'll want to reach out press a featherly kiss to his hair and a warm palm to his jaw. "good morrow, my sweet," and the glint in your eyes lights his whole world bright. its motherly the way you tend to him, the way he's always ever known it to be you and gwayne. gwayne and you. ormund, when its not you and gwayne. oh how he wishes it will always be you and gwayne.
he misses the heat as soon as your hand leaves his face with a ruffle to his hair and you take your designated seat in between your husband and son, one that gwayne has already pulled out for you and tucks you in. its a marvel how he does this all one handed, one firmly tucked into yours and daeron almost giggles boyishly at how such a love, so firm and strong can exist in turbulent times as such. but this is normalcy, your purpose and when gwayne brings your sweetened tea to your lips, the ceramic a nice warm and not burn just the way you like you sigh in bliss.
"thank you, my love," you whisper tenderly and he smiles, one for himself in pride and the other to you in devotion. your attention turns to daeron as gwayne begins to tuck into his meal. its a rhythm, you talk with daeron about his valyrian lessons, how his dragon riding is coming on, his interests, his rest, all these details are important to you. daeron almost feels bad for the way he's sucking in your attention but gwayne pays this no mind. the subtle shuffle of cutlery against his plate and besides, he's too busy rearranging your plate- he wipes the jam he knows you like clean off his dish and onto yours. and without even taking your eyes off your nephew, you move the fruit he likes off yours and onto his.
gwayne murmurs a "thank you" against your skin, the breath hot and heavy with a kiss to your neck as you're still turned to your nephew.
"you're doing extremely well, daeron," you lean in and pat his hand reassuringly. and daeron's heart swells with immense pride, all he's ever wanted was to do good with the cards he's been dealt.
"very well," gwayne's head bobs from your side of view, "you make our house very proud, you make us very proud," and just like the honey in your tea, daeron melts into something dangerously softer. the love you and gwayne share has always opened its orbit in the presence of daeron, and now it sucks him in whole, a nice warm tuck to an easy rest.
"though i'm afraid you'll have to start eating soon my heart, lest your uncle devours this whole spread," you jest and as daeron's body vibrates with an entertained chuckle, your head is thrown back into a fit of giggles, muffled as your tucked into your husband's chest as he tries to pretend outrage and offense. you look up to him, secure in his hold and soften.
"good morning to you, wife," he teases and for a second, gwayne forgets all about the young one seated centimetres from you and closes your mouth over his. in all the moments daeron has been raised in your care, there's no words to describe how you and gwayne are when you are with each other. daeron's heard the stories, been trained with the noble knight and knows how fearless, how co-ordinated and lethal his uncle can be. but he also knows the whispers, the laughter, the love existing in mundane moments. gwayne doesn't need to be loud to command the room, he certainly has commanded yours and daeron's life with such ease. but never has he seen his uncle so unguarded when he is by your side, so enamoured and oh so, normal.
"yes it seems it is a good morning," you whisper in return, content in his hold and by his side for life.
daeron eats the rest of his breakfast with quiet contempt and as he stares out to the resting sun with all its beautiful blue and white, he wishes that in his lifetime he hopes to get as lucky as you and gwayne have. to find a love seems an easy feat, but to find a love and yourself in another and to find reasons to fight for that love each and every day, that is rare.
divider by: @cafekitsune & @rmstitanics & @uzmacchiato & @pepsipoet
word count: 7.4k
synopsis: He was fire, you were thorns. Forced into an unwanted marriage, Daemon Targaryen slowly comes to realize that being bound to you might not be the curse he once thought—but the perfect match he never expected.
a/n: I may have gotten a little carried away with this one. There are a few potentially triggering moments—nothing overly graphic, but I’ve listed the warnings below just in case. Please read with care.
warnings: Attempted SA (not by Daemon), mutilation, infertility accusations, political manipulation, and Otto being a power-hungry ass.
The wedding feast was suffocating. The air thick with roses, gold, and polite falsities. You sat beside Daemon Targaryen—your new husband—while the King raised a goblet and smiled through his teeth. Everyone knew what this was, another political match meant to tame Daemon’s reputation and bind your allied family tighter to the Crown.
Daemon hadn’t looked at you once. Not when you exchanged vows. Not when Viserys gave a speech about you two. Not even when you boldly reached for his cup, having already drained your own.
When he finally did, it was with that same infuriating sneer you were already learning to hate.
“So this is my reward for everything I’ve done,” he muttered under his breath, voice low enough for only you to hear. “A fragile Tyrell rose.”
You smiled without warmth, your tone as sharp as Darksister that was resting at Daemon’s hip. “And I’m to believe I should be grateful to be shackled to a dragon of my own?”
His eyes flicked toward you and narrowed, his tone as cold as yours despite the faint trace of amusement threading through his disdain. “I’m not your dragon, wife,” he drawled, voice soft but edged with warning for you not to get your expectations up. Not that you had any. You knew exactly where you stood with your new husband—unwanted. “You may find you’ve married something you cannot handle.”
You hummed, entirely unbothered. “Only time will tell,” you said evenly, meeting his violet gaze without flinching. “Which one of us can’t handle the other.”
Daemon made no effort to hide his dislike in the weeks that followed. He avoided dinners, ignored the courtiers who dared offer their congratulations, and left your marriage bed untouched and cold. He refused even to consummate the union—much to your quiet relief.
You, in turn, perfected the art of pretending not to care.
You did not rise to his baiting remarks or sharp-edged insults. You ignored the whispers that slithered through the halls, the rumours that spread like wildfire about the cold marriage between the Rogue Prince and his southern bride.
Instead, you smiled sweetly, your wit sharp enough to charm but never offend the members of court around you. Where Daemon made enemies, you made allies. You had learned quickly how to survive the venom of court: with polite smiles, measured words, and alliances that grew quietly in the shadows. People underestimated you because you were young, southern, and soft-spoken. That suited you perfectly.
Daemon, however, did not take kindly to being ignored despite his own actions—especially by his wife.
He found you one afternoon in the gardens, sunlight filtering through the lemon trees, deep in conversation with a few of the court’s lords. His sharp stare cut across the courtyard like a blade, but you met it with nothing more than a polite nod before returning to your discussion, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a reaction.
Only that dismissal didn’t suit him and decided to interrupt and remind that fat lord just who you belonged too.
“Lord Redwyne,” he drawled as he approached, hands clasped loosely behind his back, tone deceptively casual. “I wasn’t aware my wife required your company quite so often.”
The poor lord paled instantly, words tumbling from his lips as he stammered a hurried apology before bowing and making a hasty retreat. You waited until the echo of his boots faded before finally turning to Daemon.
“Was that truly necessary?” you asked, annoyance lacing your voice as you regarded your husband with open disdain.
Daemon’s mouth curved into a smirk, his violet eyes glinting with something between mockery and challenge. “I find men at court need reminding of their boundaries.”
You tilted your head, meeting his gaze without a trace of fear. “And yet here you are,” you said evenly, “forgetting yours.”
You turned to leave, skirts whispering against the stone, but his hand shot out—fingers curling tightly around your wrist. His grip was firm and possessive, eyes dark with anger at your audacity.
“I am your husband,” he hissed, his grip tightening around your wrist. “There are no boundaries placed upon me. I could choose to take you here and now, and no one would dare stop me. Do well to remember who exactly you belong to.”
You turned slowly, your eyes narrowing, lips curling into a sharp, cold sneer. “And you’d do well to remember,” you said, voice low and venomous as you wrenched your wrist free of his hold, “that dragons aren’t the only danger in this world. Poison can be equally as effective as fire.”
You didn’t wait for his reply. The echo of your steps trailed behind you as you stormed down the hall, leaving Daemon standing there, the tension in his jaw slowly easing before a faint grin tugged at his mouth.
You were still his unwanted wife, but the longer he watched, the more Daemon realized your indifference fascinated him. There was something intoxicating about the way you carried yourself. He had thought you soft, too weak to stand by his side as his wife, yet beneath that deceptively innocent exterior laid an unyielding spine and a quiet, hidden fire he found himself wanting to provoke—to see how brightly it might burn.
You had adapted to court life far faster than he’d anticipated, and the fact that you offered him nothing—no submission, no craving for his approval—only deepened his fascination. He had expected you to run back to Highgarden, to crumble beneath the weight of court politics, or perhaps to come crawling to him for protection once the vipers began to circle. Instead, you had stood your ground. You may not have carried the blood of the dragon, but your thorns proved sharp enough to rival one’s bite.
And as the days passed, he watched you closer, beginning to notice a shift in court—the way certain lords now looked at you with measured respect, the way your words began to carry more weight when you spoke. You were earning favour, allies, influence—without his name, without his help.
Daemon would never say it aloud, but the truth lingered all the same: the woman he had dismissed was quickly becoming the only person in the Red Keep he could not ignore.
It was deep into the night when he found you.
He hadn’t meant to—restless and half-drunk, he’d been wandering the castle’s corridors in search of quiet when a sound stopped him. A scuffle. A muffled cry.
His hand went to the hilt of his sword before his mind even caught up with his body. He turned the corner—steel half-drawn—and what he saw turned his blood to fire.
A knight, one of the Reach’s lesser sons, had you pinned against the cold stone wall. One hand clamped over your mouth, the other tearing at the thin fabric of your nightgown. You shoved him back hard enough to make him stumble, but he caught you again, slamming your shoulder into the wall with a brutal thud. You fought like a cornered animal—kicking, clawing, the sound of your muffled scream cutting through the stillness of the Keep.
Daemon didn’t think. He moved.
In two long strides, he was on the knight, seizing him by the collar and hurling him against the wall so hard the man’s head cracked against the stone. The clang of metal filled the hall as the knight’s sword hit the floor, followed by a strangled gasp of pain.
“Get your fucking hands off her,” Daemon snarled, every word vibrating with barely contained fury.
The knight barely had time to register who stood before him before Daemon’s fist collided with his face, the impact sending him sprawling across the stone floor. The sickening crack of bone echoed down the corridor, followed by a sharp cry of pain.
“Please—” the knight gasped, blood spilling from his mouth as he tried to crawl away.
Daemon said nothing. His expression was carved from ice, his fury so cold it burned. He drove his boot into the man’s ribs once—hard—then again, each strike landing with the force of restrained rage. But restraint only lasted so long.
“Tell me,” Daemon hissed, his voice low and venomous, “why I should stop—when you saw fit to ignore my lady wife as she begged you to let her go?”
He seized the knight by the collar, yanking him upright with a violent jerk. The man’s head lolled, blood dribbling from his nose and mouth as he blubbered incoherently—pleas for mercy, apologies, excuses.
Daemon’s lip curled. “Pathetic.”
The words were little more than a growl before his fist crashed into the man’s face again. The wet, sickening sound of impact echoed down the corridor, followed by another and another, until the knight’s desperate cries dissolved into gurgled whimpers. Bone crunched beneath Daemon’s knuckles; blood splattered his sleeve.
The knight’s feeble attempts to shield himself only stoked Daemon’s fury further. He struck until the man finally collapsed—crumpled and half-conscious, his face a ruined mess of blood, swelling, and shattered bone.
Daemon’s breathing came harsh and ragged. He straightened slowly, wiping a streak of the man’s blood from his knuckles with a calm that contrasted his earlier fury. He should have called for the guards—those useless bastards who had clearly been asleep at their posts—but he had no intention of delegating this.
No, this was personal.
He would make a spectacle of this wretch. He would ensure that every knight, lord, and servant in the Red Keep knew what became of any man foolish enough to lay a hand on what belonged to him.
Because as unwanted as you had been, you were still his wife. And compared to his late bronze bitch, you were far more tolerable—infuriatingly so.
He was already moving, intent on dragging the vermin to the dungeons, when a flicker of movement stopped him.
You stepped forward.
Your nightgown was torn, the fabric clutched tightly to your chest to preserve what little modesty you had left. Blood stained your lip, your hair hung loose and tangled, and your eyes—seven hells, your eyes—burned with a cold, unflinching fire.
Before Daemon could speak, your hand darted for the dagger at his belt. His fingers twitched in surprise, but you were faster—ripping it free in one fluid motion. He opened his mouth, perhaps to stop you, perhaps to warn you, but the words never left his tongue.
You dropped to your knees beside the fallen knight.
Daemon watched, frozen, as the trembling in your hand steadied with terrifying purpose. And in that heartbeat, he realized he had gravely underestimated you. The danger you carried wasn’t in your silver tongue or your deceptively soft appearance. It was in the fire he so often enjoyed provoking—the one that now burned, fierce and unrestrained, revealing a brutality that mirrored his own.
The blade came down. Once. Twice. The sound was wet and final.
The scream that followed ripped through the Keep, sharp and ragged, echoing off the stone. Blood spattered across your cheek, soaking into your torn nightgown as the severed hand hit the flagstones with a dull, wet thud.
You didn’t look away, your eyes burning with something perilously close to satisfaction. You only took a single deep breath, your grip on the slick dagger tightening for a brief moment before you finally straightened up.
“He won’t be touching anyone again,” you said, your voice calm—eerily so. Then, as if the act had been no more than pruning a hedge in the garden, you turned the dagger in your hand and offered it back to Daemon, blood still dripping from the blade. “You can do the rest.”
Daemon stared at you—really stared—as if seeing you for the first time. The sharp edge of his anger faltered, giving way to something dangerously close to admiration. Then, slowly, a low laugh rumbled in his chest. It wasn’t mocking or cruel, but low and genuine—born of disbelief more than mirth.
“Seven hells,” he murmured, a crooked grin curving his lips. “Perhaps the gods aren’t so cruel after all. You’re full of surprises, little flower.”
You met his gaze without flinching, the flickering torchlight catching on the blood still splattered across your cheek.
“You married a Tyrell,” you said evenly, “not a delicate flower.”
His grin widened, sharp and feral. “No,” he said, almost admiringly. “It seems I married a thorn.”
He reached out, his thumb brushing a streak of blood from your cheek. The touch lingered—longer than it should have, longer than either of you cared to admit. His eyes, glinting in the dim torchlight, softened into something dark and dangerous. “Perhaps,” he murmured, voice low, “I should’ve agreed to this marriage sooner.”
You rolled your eyes, unimpressed by the sudden warmth in his tone. “Save your charm for someone who cares, husband,” you said coolly, stepping past him.
The hem of your ruined nightgown dragged across the stones, leaving thin streaks of crimson in your wake. You didn’t look back—not even when another low chuckle rumbled from his chest.
Daemon watched you go, the sound of your fading footsteps echoing through the corridor. You didn’t rush away, nor offer him a single glance.
For a man like him, so accustomed to obedience, fear, or devotion, that quiet defiance was nothing short of intoxicating.
By the time you disappeared around the corner, Daemon’s grin had widened, but it was darker and less amused. He glanced down at the severed hand still lying in a growing pool of blood, then toward the path you’d taken.
“Definitely a thorn,” he muttered to himself, before raising his dagger to do as you ordered and finish what you started.
By the time the task was done and the wretch was dragged to the dungeons, you were long gone. When Daemon finally reached your shared martial chambers, he found the door barred from within. There was a faint flicker of candlelight beneath the door, telling him there was a high chance you were still awake.
He stood there for a moment, silent, debating whether to knock. His hand hovered near the handle, but he didn’t move. Instead, a faint smirk tugged at his mouth as he let his hand fall away.
“Tomorrow, then,” he murmured under his breath, turning on his heel.
As he walked down the dim corridor, the sound of his boots echoing against the stone, Daemon found something unfamiliar curling in his chest as he once again thought of you.
For the first time in years, he was smiling at the thought of someone daring to tell him no.
The story spread quickly—faster than wildfire and twice as hot.
By morning, the entire court knew that a knight had been maimed and stripped of his title, Daemon Targaryen had been involved, and the new Lady Targaryen was not to be trifled with. Servants whispered in corridors, eyes wide with both fear and fascination. Lords traded embellished versions over their morning wine, each claiming to know the true tale. And by the time the sun reached its peak, it had reached the ears of the Small Council.
Viserys wasted no time. Before the morning was out, the two of you were summoned before the Iron Throne.
Daemon stood tall at your side, hands clasped behind his back, his smirk unmistakably smug as though the entire affair amused him. You, however, remained composed, despite the split lip and the faint bruise still shadowing your jaw.
Viserys pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling heavily. His patience, always thin when it came to his brother, was clearly stretched to its limits. “Seven hells, Daemon,” he muttered, his tone sharp with exasperation. “Can you not go a single month without bloodshed in the Keep?”
Daemon’s smirk only deepened. “It wasn’t entirely my doing this time,” he drawled lazily, almost playful. “My wife saw to most of it.”
The council chamber fell into utter silence. as a dozen pairs of eyes turned toward you. Their expressions ranged from disbelief to thinly veiled horror, as though they’d just realized the soft-spoken lady from the Reach was no lady at all.
You did not flinch beneath their scrutiny. When you spoke, your tone was calm yet cold. “The knight was drunk and violent, Your Grace,” you said evenly. “My husband stopped him before he could do worse. I merely… ensured it would never happen again.”
Otto Hightower regarded you as though you’d sprouted fangs. “You ensured it?” he repeated, his voice slow and dripping with disdain. “By cutting off his hands? The man was brutalized.”
“Hand,” you corrected smoothly. “I took only one. My husband saw to the other in his own form of retribution.” You tilted your head slightly, meeting Otto’s stare without wavering. “Would you prefer I’d waited for the court to deliberate while he still had the use of it? It is the law, is it not—to lose them for such crimes?”
For a moment, silence hung over the council chamber. Then Daemon broke it as he chuckled under his breath, low and amused.
Otto’s eyes narrowed, his irritation bleeding into every measured word. “The law, Lady Tyrell—”
“Targaryen,” Daemon interrupted, his tone deceptively mild.
The single word landed like a slap. Otto blinked, surprise flickering across his features before his expression smoothed back into something resembling civility. He inclined his head slightly, though the muscle in his jaw twitched. “The law, Lady Targaryen,” he corrected, voice clipped and cold, “is not yours to carry out. You have overstepped your station. The King’s justice does not come from the hands of women—or from vigilantes acting on impulse.”
Your expression didn’t falter, though the tension in the room thickened. “Then perhaps,” you said evenly, “the King’s justice should arrive before a woman needs to defend herself.”
A few councillors shifted in their seats, exchanging uneasy glances. Otto’s expression darkened, his composure fraying at the edges. “You forget yourself, my lady,” he snapped. “Such defiance is unbecoming of—”
“Careful, Otto,” Daemon drawled, his voice cutting cleanly through the chamber. “You seem to be forgetting yourself.”
The Hand froze mid-sentence. The smirk that usually curved Daemon’s lips had vanished, replaced by something colder and dark. His words simmered with threat. He took a slow step forward, the click of his boots echoing against the stone floor.
“My wife,” Daemon declared, looking to the members of the council, “was attacked in her own hall. And the man who dared touch her breathes still. I’d say we’ve already shown the court more mercy than it deserves.”
Otto’s jaw tightened. “Mercy?” he repeated with a scoff. “You call mutilation mercy?”
Daemon’s gaze turned sharp as a blade. “That, Otto,” he said evenly, “is leniency. Were it my full measure of justice, you’d be discussing a corpse, not a cripple.”
Viserys sighed, rubbing at his temple as though warding off an oncoming headache. “Daemon—”
But Daemon wasn’t finished. He moved closer to Otto, enough that the old man’s hand twitched to grab the edge of the table.
“You should choose your next words carefully, my lord Hand,” Daemon said softly, the quiet in his tone somehow more dangerous than a shout. “Because the only reason this matter reached your ears at all is that I allowed it to. Had I wished otherwise, that knight would’ve vanished before sunrise — and not a soul would be the wiser.”
Otto’s mouth tightened, his knuckles whitening around the edge of the table. “You threaten the Hand of the King in open council?”
Daemon’s grin returned — thin, wolfish, and entirely without warmth. “No,” he said. “I’m reminding you where your authority ends.” His gaze flicked toward you, lingering for a heartbeat before returning to Otto. “Whether you like it or not, she is a princess. Her word carries the same weight as mine — as any Targaryen’s. You’d do well to remember that the next time you choose to address her so brazenly. Next time,” his voice dropped, dangerous and deliberate, “I may not be so… lenient.”
“Enough,” Viserys interjected sharply, his patience at last fraying. He sank back against the Iron Throne with a weary exhale. “Gods save me, the two of you are well-matched. The knight’s punishment will stand as delivered. Now — let us not waste more of the realm’s time on this nonsense.”
Otto looked like he wanted to protest, but one glance at Daemon’s expression silenced him. The prince’s violet eyes burned with quiet warning, and the faintest ghost of a smile played on his lips as he turned back toward you, brushing his fingers briefly against yours
You didn’t return the gesture, though your lips curved just slightly as you met his gaze.
For the first time since your marriage, Daemon’s smirk wasn’t cruel. It was proud. And worse still, it was genuine.
After the council incident, something between you and Daemon shifted. It wasn’t a sudden change, nor one you could easily define. It was noticeable enough that conversations faltered when you entered a room together. Even Otto Hightower, ever the picture of composure, could not disguise the way his mouth tightened and his expression soured the moment his gaze landed on either of you.
You had become something of a spectacle: the Rogue Prince and the Southern Rose, a union that should have burned under the weight of its own volatility—but hadn’t.
Daemon, of course, took delight in every ounce of scandal your union was inspiring.
At council meetings, he no longer sat opposite you but beside you, close enough that the warmth of his arm brushed against your sleeve when he leaned in. He had made it his personal amusement to whisper comments low enough for only you to hear — wicked little asides designed to test your composure.
“I think,” he murmured one morning, as Otto began another of his long, tedious speeches, “if the old vulture glares any harder, his eyes might fall out.”
You fought the smile tugging at your lips, forcing your expression into something neutral. “Try not to provoke him,” you whispered back. “He’s still the Hand.”
Daemon tilted his head, eyes gleaming with that familiar, dangerous humour. “He’s a hand I’d gladly cut off,” he murmured. “Care to help me, wife? You did quite well the last time.”
You sighed, though the faint curl of your lips betrayed you. In truth, you disliked Otto Hightower just as deeply as Daemon did. The man was a vulture — always circling the throne, always overreaching, always pretending his ambition was piety.
“You enjoy making enemies far too much,” you muttered, the words slipping out before you could stop them.
Daemon’s smirk only deepened, that infuriating glint in his eyes suggesting he found your disapproval endlessly entertaining.
He began to appear everywhere.
At dinners, his chair was suddenly beside yours, his presence commanding attention no matter how much you tried to ignore it. In the gardens, you’d feel his gaze long before you turned to find him watching, his expression unreadable. Even during court sessions, he lingered near you, standing just close enough to make it impossible for anyone to forget whose wife you were.
He hovered close enough to unsettle you, close enough that the courtiers began to whisper behind gloved hands. After all, it wasn’t so long ago that Daemon Targaryen had made no secret of his disdain for this marriage, for you. Yet now, wherever you went, he followed — a shadow that refused to fade, a dragon circling what he had once dismissed as unworthy prey.
And in all his watching, Daemon came to a realization.
The lords who had once made their disdain for him plain were now markedly more tolerant—some even deferential. Conversations that used to die the moment he entered no longer did. The same mouths that had once whispered against him now spoke with murmurs of cautious respect.
It hadn’t been his doing. It had been yours.
For all your ice, for all the cruelty he’d shown you, you had never once turned against him. In your own quiet way, you had stood beside him. Those endless interactions he had dismissed as meaningless pleasantries, the soft smiles and chatters he’d mistaken for you wasting your time on simpering lords in what he had thought had been in indulgence, hadn’t been acts of vanity or spite.
You had been securing him power. Turning enemies into allies. Shifting the court’s favour not through fear, but through quiet influence — a kind of power he’d never learned to wield.
And you had done it all without asking for credit, without expecting his gratitude.
It unsettled him—how easily you’d done what he, with all his fire and fury, never could. For perhaps the first time in his life, Daemon Targaryen found himself forced to admit that he had gravely underestimated the woman the gods had chained him to.
“You’ve made quite the name for yourself,” Daemon drawled one evening as he joined you on the balcony overlooking Blackwater Bay. The setting sun bled across the sky, painting the water in molten gold and fire, while the wind carried the faint scent of salt and smoke through the air.
“Half the court is terrified of you now,” he continued, his tone lazy, though his eyes gleamed with amusement.
“Are they now?” you mused, lifting your goblet and taking a slow sip of wine. “Perhaps it’s you they fear, husband.”
Daemon snorted, resting one shoulder against the carved stone rail. “Of course they fear me,” he said easily, almost amused. “But you, my lady wife—” his gaze swept over you, lingering in that way that felt like admiration, “— you’ve built a reputation entirely your own. And a powerful one at that.”
You arched a brow, setting your goblet down with a soft clink. “You almost sound impressed.”
A low hum rumbled in his throat, the corner of his mouth curving into that familiar, crooked smile that had begun to lose some of its cruelty. “Perhaps I am,” he admitted, leaning in as his tongue swept briefly across his lips.
You turned to face him fully, the sea breeze catching a loose strand of your hair and brushing it against your cheek. “Then you should be careful,” you said lightly, though the warning in your voice was unmistakable. “It seems I’ve earned a reputation for maiming men who touch without asking.”
His answering grin was wicked, his eyes glinting with that familiar mix of arrogance and amusement. “Don’t worry, wife,” he murmured, his voice low, smooth, and far too sure of itself. “When I touch you, it’ll be because you begged me to.”
You didn’t blush at his implication. You simply rolled your eyes, “Need I remind you that you hate me?”
“I’m reconsidering that fact,” he said without hesitation, the corners of his mouth twitching.
“Don’t bother,” you replied coolly, your tone sharp enough to cut. “You’re not forgiven.”
“Forgiveness,” he said, leaning just close enough for your breath to catch, “was never what I wanted.”
You didn’t move away. The space between you felt taut, charged, alive. His nearness carried heat — the faint scent of smoke and steel that always clung to him — but you refused to yield an inch.
“Then what is it you do want, my prince?” you asked, your voice measured, daring him to answer truthfully.
“Husband,” he corrected softly, taking another slow step forward. “I’m your husband, and you are my wife.” His gaze dropped briefly to your lips before lifting back to meet your eyes. “And what I want…” He paused, the ghost of a smile curling his mouth. “…is you.”
You studied him for a long moment, the torchlight flickering across the sharp planes of his face — the proud line of his jaw, the dangerous glint in his violet eyes. He wasn’t jesting. There was something different in him now, something that unsettled you far more than his cruelty ever had.
Finally, you exhaled and shook your head, turning away. “Goodnight, Daemon.”
He didn’t try to stop you. He only watched as you passed him, his gaze following the graceful sweep of your figure as the faint scent of roses lingered in the air, as you made your way down the corridor.
“Sleep well, wife,” he called after you, his voice carrying that maddening blend of amusement and promise. “You’ll dream of me before long.”
You didn’t look back, though your lips curved faintly as you rounded the corner. “Not likely,” you murmured under your breath — but even as you said it, you knew it for a lie.
If the gods had cursed you with Daemon Targaryen, they had done so knowingly. For all his temper, his wickedness, and his arrogance, the man was beautiful. And worse still — he knew it.
Despite the growing ease between you and Daemon, there were still some in the court who looked upon the change with thinly veiled displeasure. Power unsettled men like Otto Hightower — especially when it didn’t belong to them.
Daemon had been gone for days, called to Dragonstone on some errand for Viserys, and though you would never admit it aloud, the castle felt quieter in his absence. You told yourself it was a welcome reprieve — fewer stares, fewer annoying grins, fewer games — but there were moments when you caught yourself missing the sound of his voice, the heat of his presence. You buried the thought quickly.
When the summons came, you were told it was a matter of court business — routine, nothing more. But the moment you stepped into the council chamber, you knew better.
Viserys sat slumped at the head of the table, his crown slightly askew, weariness written in every line of his face. Beside him stood Otto Hightower, hands folded neatly behind his back, his expression smooth as polished marble. Around them sat a small cluster of lords and septons — enough to make the meeting official.
“My lady,” Otto said as you approached, inclining his head with mock civility. “We thank you for attending on such short notice. Please, be seated.”
You didn’t move. “What is this?”
Viserys shifted uncomfortably, eyes flickering between you and his Hand. “There have been… concerns raised,” he began, his tone hesitant. “You understand how closely the court watches the stability of the royal line. It has been several months since your wedding to my brother and…” His words trailed off as he rubbed at his temple. “Questions have been asked.”
You stared at him, suspicion already twisting in your gut. “Questions,” you repeated slowly. “About what?”
“About heirs,” Otto said smoothly, seizing the opening. “Or rather—” he paused, letting the silence linger for a moment, “—the lack thereof.”
For a heartbeat, you could only stare at him, the meaning of his words sinking in like ice water down your spine. Then disbelief hardened into fury.
“You summon me before the council,” you began coldly, taking a step closer to the table, “to discuss my womb?”
Otto smiled faintly, the perfect picture of reason. “Not to discuss, my lady — merely to clarify,” he said smoothly. “You see, the matter has caused… some unrest. There are whispers that perhaps the marriage has not been—” he paused delicately, “—fruitful.”
Your fingers curled around the edge of the table, nails biting into the polished wood. “Fruitful,” you repeated, the word falling from your tongue like venom. “Tell me, Lord Hand — are you in the habit of inquiring into the private matters of every marriage in the realm, or only those that inconvenience you?”
Otto’s expression didn’t flicker. His tone remained calm, reasonable — the voice of a man who hid malice behind measured words. “I inquire only when the stability of the realm may be affected,” he replied smoothly. “The King’s council must consider every possibility. You and Prince Daemon have been wed for—” he glanced down at a parchment, the motion purely performative, “—five months. No announcement has been made. No signs of an heir. Naturally, the court wonders if perhaps the gods have seen fit to close the womb of the Princess.”
The air in the chamber seemed to still at the thinly veiled implication.
Your jaw tightened, but your voice, when it came, was soft and cutting. “Careful, my lord. The gods are fickle creatures. They might decide to close your mouth next.”
A few of the lords shifted, uncertain whether to look at you or the Hand. Otto, of course, merely smiled — that thin, patronizing curve of his lips that made you want to drive a goblet straight through his throat. “I assure you, Princess,” he said mildly, “no offence was meant. But when the succession of the realm may hang in the balance, His Grace is right to seek certainty.”
You stared at him, the realization sliding into place like a dagger between ribs. This wasn’t about heirs. It wasn’t about the stability of the realm. Otto Hightower, ever the vulture, had scented blood — your rising influence, your ability to temper Daemon’s fury—and meant to get rid of you down before you became unassailable.
Turning toward the King, you met Viserys’s weary gaze, disbelief and anger threading through your voice. “Surely, you don’t mean to entertain this insult.”
Viserys shifted again, visibly uncomfortable. “It’s not an insult, child,” he said, his voice carrying that weary gentleness he used when trying to placate. “Merely… a concern. You know how these things spread. If the marriage is troubled, it would be better to resolve it quietly before others make assumptions.”
Resolve it quietly. The words settled like ice in your chest. He meant annulment.
Otto’s eyes gleamed — the satisfaction barely hidden behind his veneer of civility. “The Faith could be called to confirm the matter, of course,” he added smoothly, his tone almost sympathetic. “A physician or septa might—”
The doors slammed open.
The sound cracked through the chamber like thunder.
Daemon strode in. His cloak billowed behind him, dust from the road still clinging to his boots, and though his expression was deceptively calm, the fire in his eyes was unmistakable. Every man in the room went still. Even Otto Hightower’s composure faltered.
“Don’t stop on my account,” Daemon drawled lazily. “I’d hate to interrupt such an important meeting.”
The silence that followed was thick enough to choke on.
Viserys exhaled heavily, already bracing himself. “Daemon…” he began, but it was useless.
The prince was already in motion, his steps measured — a predator circling prey. His gaze swept over the gathered lords, past the nervous septons, before locking on Otto like a dragon sizing up a meal.
“I heard,” Daemon said, his voice low but carrying easily through the room, “that my wife was summoned before the council.” He tilted his head slightly, his mouth curving into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Imagine my curiosity when I discovered the topic of discussion was of our martial bed.”
He reached your side in three long strides, his arm winding around your waist and pulling you close without hesitation. The sudden gesture was possessive, protective and it startled you more than you cared to admit. You had expected to stand alone in your defence; part of you had even braced for Daemon to use this as an opportunity to accept an annulment and cast you aside.
But he didn’t.
Instead, he stood beside you, unyielding, his hand firm against your hip as though daring anyone in the chamber to try and take you from him. Whatever else he was to you—your unwanted husband, your tormentor, your frustration—right now, he was your shield, and the weight of his presence filled the room like a drawn sword.
“So tell me, my lords,” Daemon drawled, his tone deceptively casual, “which of you volunteered to climb into my bed in my stead?”
An uncomfortable murmur rippled through the room, the councillors shifting uncomfortably at the implication. No one dared to meet his eye.
Otto’s composure faltered only for a breath before he recovered. “Your Grace, no one meant offence,” he said quickly, though his voice carried an edge. “Concerns were raised for the good of the realm—”
“Concerns,” Daemon echoed, turning his head toward the Hand with slow, deliberate menace. “About what, exactly? My performance? My wife’s virtue?” His smile thinned, the faintest hint of a snarl curling beneath the words. “Or is this your latest attempt to worm your way deeper into my brother’s ear?”
Otto straightened, his restraint beginning to fray. “I advise the King as duty requires,” he replied tightly. “The realm must have heirs.”
Daemon’s expression sharpened, all trace of humour gone. “And you presume to dictate when they come?” His tone dropped lower. “Or from whose womb?”
“Of course not,” Otto began smoothly, though the gleam in his eyes betrayed his intent. “However, if your wife cannot fulfill her duties, it would be prudent to consider other options. My daughter, Alicent—”
“Alicent Hightower?” Daemon scoffed, his laughter low and mocking. “The only thing she could breed is boredom.”
The insult hit its mark. A few of the councillors coughed into their hands, poorly hiding their amusement. Otto’s jaw tightened, the faintest flicker of fury breaking through his polished restraint.
“I have no interest in your spawn,” Daemon continued sharply, each word laced with venom. He leaned forward, his head angling just over your shoulder, his voice dropping to a low growl that slithered through the chamber like smoke. “And the next time you dare to question my wife’s worth—or her body—you’ll be counting your teeth instead of heirs.”
You fought the urge to smirk, but gave in to the temptation of leaning into him, placing your hand to rest over his. It was a simple gesture, but it showed your solidarity. Daemon Targaryen had once claimed he was not your dragon, yet here he stood, defending you as fiercely as one. And though he infuriated you more than any man alive, you had no intention of letting him go either.
“This is unseemly,” Otto hissed, his composure splintering. “The Prince misinterprets the council’s intent.”
Viserys rose from his seat, attempting calm though his tone frayed with irritation. “Daemon, enough,” he said, voice heavy with exasperation. “The matter was only raised to ensure stability—”
“Then let me assure you, brother,” Daemon said, his tone dropping to something low and dangerous, “my marriage is quite stable. And as for heirs—”
He turned toward you, his lips curving into a slow, wicked smile that made heat creep up your neck. “They will be provided when I decide the time is right. In the meantime, how my wife and I fuck in our marital bed should not be of concern to anyone in this hall.”
Ignoring the gasps rippled that through the chamber. He turned on his heel, using the hand on your waist to guide you to follow him out of the chamber. The doors slammed behind you, the echo reverberating through the marble corridor, leaving a stunned silence in your wake.
Only when the noise of the council faded did you finally exhale, tension bleeding from your shoulders. “You didn’t need to do that,” you muttered, refusing to meet his gaze.
Daemon’s tone was calm as he took you in. “If you think I’d let them humiliate you while I breathe, wife,” he said softly, “then you truly don’t know me yet.”
You turned to look at him—and for the first time since your marriage, there was no mockery in his eyes. No smirk. No cruel amusement.
“Why?” you asked, your voice low. “You made it quite clear you never wanted this marriage. That was your chance to be rid of me.”
Daemon stopped walking. The torchlight from the corridor flickered across his face, throwing sharp shadows over the hard lines of his jaw. For a long moment, he didn’t speak. He only studied you, eyes dark and searching, as though weighing truths he’d rather keep buried.
Finally, he said quietly, “I didn’t want a marriage forced on me.” His voice had lost its usual bite—no swagger, no arrogance—just the faint rasp of honesty. “But I’ll be damned before I let Otto Hightower, or anyone else, decide what’s mine to keep or discard.”
You stared at him, uncertain whether to scoff or believe him. “So this is about pride, then?” you asked, your tone measured. “Possession?”
He gave a faint, humourless huff of laughter, the corner of his mouth twitching but never quite forming a smile. “At first,” he admitted. “Perhaps. But pride doesn’t make a man ride through the night when he hears his wife’s being paraded before the council and being accused that she is some barren broodmare.”
Your breath caught — just a fraction. You searched his face, expecting him to be mocking you, but what you found instead was something dangerously close to sincerity.
He stepped closer, close enough that the heat of him seeped through the thin layers of your gown.
“You’ve done what no one else at court has managed,” he said, voice low, roughened by truth. “You’ve made them listen. You’ve made them respect me—support me—without ever drawing a single blade. You stood before them with nothing but your tongue and your will, and you bent the court to heel. You’re a threat to Otto, and that’s why he went after you today.”
Your pulse quickened, steady composure slipping beneath the weight of his words. “And that’s why you defended me?”
“No,” he said simply. “I defended you because I wanted to.”
The air between you grew heavier. You could feel it — the shift that had been building for weeks now was impossible to ignore.
You tried to look away, but he reached out—gloved fingers brushing beneath your chin, coaxing your gaze back to his. “You are my wife, from now until my death, you are mine to protect.”
For a moment, you forgot how to breathe. The fierce promise in his eyes rooted you in place, stealing the air from your lungs. You searched his face for the lie—for that familiar smirk that always followed his provocations—but it never came. Daemon Targaryen—your infuriating, impossible husband—was entirely, terrifyingly sincere.
“So let them whisper about heirs all they like,” he murmured. “We’ll give them something worth whispering about soon enough.”
You swallowed hard, forcing composure back into your voice. “You think one grand gesture and a few flowery words erase months of your cruelty?”
His thumb grazed the line of your jaw. “No,” he said softly. “But it’s a start.”
You exhaled, steadying yourself. “I hope this doesn’t mean you expect me to let you into my bed.”
A faint smirk ghosted across his lips, a glimmer of the man you knew too well. “I’ve told you, wife,” he said, voice smooth as silk. “When I touch you, it will be because you begged me to—not because some fat lords on a council demand it.”
“I may not have wanted this marriage,” Daemon said. “But the thought of losing you… that, I find I want even less.” His gaze locked on yours, unwavering. “They thought forcing this marriage would tame me,” he murmured, a flicker of something dangerous glinting in his eyes. “But all they’ve done is tie me to the one person as untameable as myself. You and I—we were never meant to be gentle. A dragon needs fire to burn…” His thumb brushed once more against your skin, the gesture feeling less like flirtation and more like a vow. “And I’ve found mine.”
For once, you didn’t have a sharp retort. The words lingered between you, fragile and unguarded, like something that might shatter if either of you dared to break it. Your gaze danced between his, taking in the depth of his lilac eyes, and slowly—almost against your better judgment—you stepped forward, your hand resting lightly against his chest.
He stilled beneath your touch, watching you closely as you leaned up, your lips brushing his softly. Daemon’s breath hitched, and then he returned the kiss instantly—hungry, wanting, alive. The contact was brief, fleeting, but it burned like wildfire. You were the one to pull away first.
“Thank you, Daemon,” you murmured, your voice softer now, though not without its steel. “For coming to my defence—and for your honesty. Perhaps… there’s hope for us yet.”
He released your wrist, stepping back just enough to let you go. His gaze lingered on your face, unreadable. “Rest, wife,” he murmured, his tone softer than you had ever heard it. “The realm can damn itself for all I care. They’ll not touch you again.”
You hesitated only a moment before offering the faintest of smiles. “Goodnight, husband.”
Daemon’s lips curved, the ghost of a grin playing there. “Goodnight, wife.”
And as you walked away, your steps echoing down the quiet corridor, neither of you could quite ignore the truth that had finally taken root—whatever bound you together was no longer duty, nor politics, nor the will of others.
summary: when your ex-boyfriend makes a surprise visit to ptmc, your boyfriend and the rest of your co-workers realise you might have a type…
pairing: jack abbot x fem!reader & ex bf!mark sloan x fem!reader
warnings/tags: established relationship, implied age gap between abbot & reader and mark & reader, flirting, fluff, swearing, mark don’t give a fuck that the reader is in a relationship, but reader is respectful of boundaries, defs a bit of jealous and insecure Jack if you squint
notes: hot hot hot hot hot give them both to me now thanks!! also massive shoutout to the anon that requested this 🙂↕️
likes, reblogs, comments are very much appreciated!
Enjoy my work? Tip me! 🤍
masterlist
“Ew.”
The word left you before you could stop it as you sunk your teeth into a granola bar.
You grimaced as you turned over the wrapper, examining it like it might explain why you felt like you were currently eating a stick of glue.
“Are these expired?” You asked through the mouthful.
McKay barely glanced up from where she had half her body buried in the fridge, rummaging past several abandoned containers and a suspiciously wet paper bag.
“Nope, they’re just a by product of the drywall factory down the road.” She answered.
You stared at the bar for another second, trying to muster up enough willpower to finish it given you hadn’t eaten lunch.
After abandoning that mission in under 10 seconds, you leant over the bin and spat out the mouthful with as much decorum as you could before unceremoniously dumping the rest of the bar after it.
“Those things aren’t that bad.” Whitaker mused as he wandered into the breakroom with Santos hot on his heels.
“That’s because you were raised on hay.” Santos remarked dryly.
“They’re raspberry flavoured.”
“That’s not helping you Huckleberry.”
You huffed a laugh as the two of them started bickering just as your phone buzzed in your pocket. You leant against the wall, only half listening as you pulled it out of your scrubs and saw a notification from Jack.
He must have just woken up from his pre-shift nap. The corner of your mouth lifted as you read his reply.
You: Are you coming in early today?
JA ❤️: Always.
You quickly typed out another message.
You: any chance u could bring in a protein bar for me? the ones at work are inedible
The reply came almost instantly.
JA ❤️: I know. I’ve told Robby they are a serious health hazard.
You smiled at that as you watched the three dots blink back at you.
JA ❤️: I’ll be in soon. I already have some in my bag for you.
You: are you psychic?
JA ❤️: Just good at pattern recognition.
Your smile widened as his reply came through.
You: thank u 🩷
JA ❤️: 👍
“What are you smiling at?”
You looked up to find McKay watching you over the fridge door.
“What?”
“That.” She pointed vaguely at your face. “Whatever that was.”
“Nothing.”
Santos and Whitaker paused their arguing to focus on you.
Santos studied you, her face contorting into a grimace. “Gross.”
“What?”
“I just can’t get over the fact that Abott reduces you to…” She trailed off, waving vaguely at you.
“That?” Whitaker supplied.
“Yeah.” Santos nodded gravely. “That.”
You rolled your eyes, sliding your phone back into your scrub pocket.
“I think the two of you are starting to fuse into one brain cell.”
Santos’ expression went still. “….that was genuinely hurtful.”
You turned to Whitaker. “There’s your new button to press.”
Whitaker’s grin widened as he crossed his arms over his chest and turned to Santos. “Oh I cannot wait to bring this up multiple times a day.”
Santos glared at you. "You're a traitor."
You pushed off the wall, shaking your head as you made your way towards the door.
“Never give your triggers away Santos.”
“You’re still a traitor!” She called out.
You waved her off without looking back, escaping before she could start another argument.
You barely made it two steps before nearly colliding with Samira.
“Oh sorry.” She came to an abrupt halt, the usual frazzled expression etched onto her features as she looked up at you.
“You all good?”
“Yeah um- have you seen Joy?”
“Not for a little while.”
“No worries, if you see her can you tell her I need her in Room 3?”
“Sure.” You nodded, tilting your head slightly as you studied her. “Are you sure you’re ok?”
“Yeah fine.” She brushed you off as she tucked a loose curl behind her ear. “Haven’t had lunch so I’m a bit cranky.”
You nodded in understanding. “Word of warning, don’t eat the protein bars.”
Samira’s nose wrinkled as she stepped around you. “Why on earth would I do that?”
You threw your arms up dramatically. “Am I the only one who didn’t know they were inedible?”
“Apparently so.”
You huffed, pulling your hair out from under your collar as you made your way over to the status board which was currently glowing above the chaos that was the ED like a cruel little scoreboard.
Your hands settled on your stethoscope as you scanned the board. Less than an hour till your shift was over, at least officially. Which given your track record of overtime, meant close to nothing.
“Hey.”
You glanced over to see Perlah leaning against one of the desks.
“What?” You asked warily.
Her smirk widened. “Have you seen the hot visitor?”
“The what?”
Princess appeared beside her, equally delighted.
“Absolute smoke show.”
Princess nodded towards the far end of the station. “Follow the sounds of Joy giggling.”
Your brows knitted together.
“Joy? As in our intern, Joy? As in the complete antithesis of her name, Joy?” You queried.
“See for yourself.” Perlah grinned.
You followed their line of sight to the other end of the nurses station where a tall figure stood, leaning an arm on one of the benches.
At first, all you saw was the back of a leather jacket, familiar in a way that made your stomach drop before your brain had fully caught up. The man shifted slightly, turning just enough for a familiar profile to come into view. The same hair coifed to perfection, the same self-satisfied slant of his mouth.
And sure enough standing beside him, blushing furiously as she giggled, actually giggled, at whatever he had just said, was Joy.
“I didn’t even know she was capable of laughter.” Princess remarked.
You closed your eyes for one brief, pained second. “You have got to be kidding me.” You grumbled.
Before either Princess or Perlah could ask what was wrong, you were already moving, making a beeline towards them.
Princess and Perlah exchanged a look behind your back. “What just happened?” Princess asked in Tagalog.
“I don’t know." Perlah muttered. "But I think it’s going to be good.”
By the time you were close enough to hear the familiar deep drawl of his voice, Mark Sloan had inched in just enough to make Joy look like she might pass out.
“So, is that the only piercing you have or...?”
You rolled your eyes.
“Still shamelessly hitting on interns I see.”
Mark turned at the sound of your voice. For half a second, there was nothing but surprise. And then his eyes lit up in recognition.
“Well I’ll be.”
That familiar grin spread slowly across his face as his eyes travelled down your body with the same shameless appreciation he’d had years ago, like he was undressing you from memory.
“Cupid.” He said the nickname lowly, like he’d never stopped saying it. “Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.”
You shot him a fake smile. “Wish I could say the same.”
Joy looked between the two of you, blinking rapidly, as if she was trying to decipher a complex math problem. You turned your attention to her, offering her a polite smile.
“Dr Mohan's looking for you, something to do with your patient in room 3.”
“Oh right.” Joy nodded, adjusting her glasses as she glanced at Mark. “On it.”
“Bye Joy.” Mark called out lazily, watching her blush as she scurried away, nearly walking into a wall in the process.
He turned to you, looking pleased with himself as he leant forward. “Why do you always have to ruin my fun?” He pouted once she was out of earshot.
"Someone has to."
Meanwhile, McKay, Whitaker and Santos had exited the breakroom, not even bothering to conceal their ogling as they clustered around a monitor.
“Ok who on earth is that?” Santos queried.
"And why does he look like he just walked off a photoshoot?" McKay muttered.
“And how do they know eachother?” Whitaker added.
“He called her Cupid.” Joy casually commented as she walked past them.
Whitaker’s brow furrowed. "....Cupid?"
Santos froze. The faint amusement dropped away, replaced by the sharp, dawning horror of someone remembering a detail they were never supposed to need.
“Oh my god.”
“What?” McKay and Whitaker asked simultaneously.
"Do you guys remember that time at karaoke?"
"....the one where she sang No Scrubs at Abbot?"
"No. The one when she accidentally admitted she had an ex at Seattle Grace that used to call her Cupid."
McKay and Whitaker both slowly turned to stare at Mark, then at you, then back at Mark.
Back at the nurses’ station, you folded your arms, ignoring Mark's attempts at getting under your skin.
“What are you doing here?”
“Oh some conference.” He waived his hand dismissively. “Thought I’d take the opportunity to come see Robinavitch.”
You blinked. “You know Dr Robby.” You said slowly.
“Since med school.” He answered smoothly. “Why? Hoping I was here to see you?”
You snorted. “Please.”
“Oh c’mon Cupid don’t act like you don’t miss me.” He smirked as he stepped closer. “You wouldn’t have moved across the other side of the country to forget about me if you didn’t.”
You leant in slightly, shooting him a dry smile. “I wouldn’t touch you again even if my life depended on it Sloan.”
He let out a genuine chuckle. “I’ve missed this.” He gestured between the two of you. “Us."
He placed his chin in the palm of his hand, leaning even closer. "Why did it ever end?”
You pretended to think for a moment. "Maybe because you’re physiologically incapable of staying monogamous?”
“Oh yeah right that.” He nodded. “Speaking of monogamous..."
"No."
"... I’ve heard you’ve got a new boy toy right here at PTMC.”
Your eyes narrowed. “Jesus Christ Meredith needs to learn to keep her mouth shut.”
“Well in her defence she told Derek who then told me so….” Mark trailed off, turning his body around to survey the room. “Which one is he?”
"I'm not playing this game." You answered, folding your arms over your chest.
“Wait let me guess.”
Before you could stop him, Mark placed both hands on your shoulders and gently turned you so you were both facing the floor of the pitt.
His eyes landed on Frank first. “Too pretty boy.”
He guided your shoulders slightly towards Whitaker. “Too scrawny.”
From across the room, Whitaker stiffened. “…Why is he looking at me?”
Santos didn’t look away. “Don’t wave.” She murmured.
“I wasn’t going to.”
“You were thinking about it.”
Then the ambulance bay doors opened. Jack walked in with a thermos in one hand, his bicep bulging as he shifted the backpack slung over his other shoulder on full display under his dark fitted shirt.
Your stomach dropped as his eyes scanned the room, no doubt looking for you. It didn't take long for his eyes to find yours. You watched as they shifted to Mark, then dropped to Mark's hands resting on your shoulders.
For a moment, his expression barely changed, only the faintest tightening around his jaw gave him away. Then he kept walking.
Mark smiled slowly. “….bingo.”
Your body stiffened as Mark glanced sideways at you.
“I’m right."
You didn't answer.
"I am."
“I’m not talking about my love life with you of all people.”
“Cupid, don’t be like that.” He nudged your shoulder. "Come on, what’s he like?”
“Well for starters, he volunteers as a medic for the SWAT team.” You said sweetly. “So he’s got at least one gun on him at all times.”
Mark nodded slowly, dropping his hands from your shoulders. "Noted."
"He also has excellent aim."
"Message received." Mark held his hands up. "I'll behave."
And then, for the first time since he had appeared, the teasing faded.
"But seriously..." His face softened slightly as his eyes settled on your face properly, no longer performing for the room.
“You’re happy?”
You exhaled slowly, your defences lowering slightly by the unexpected tone of his voice.
“I am.”
“He good to you?"
You smiled softly despite yourself. “He is.”
Something flickered across Mark’s face then, softening the usual sharp lines of his smirk, scarily close to being something sincere. “Good.”
For a moment, the years between you settled there. It didn’t feel painful or bitter or even sad. In fact, it seemed absurd to think that you'd cried over him once upon a time. Now he was just a story you told after one too many drinks, something you reflected on and shook your head, chalking it up to the foolishness of youth.
You cleared your throat, looking away first. “How’s work?”
“Busy, chaotic, dramatic.” Mark shrugged.
"So the usual then?"
“The usual.”
He glanced around the emergency department, frowing slightly as he took in the noise, the movement, the organised disaster of it all. “How’s the ED?”
“Busy, chaotic.” You echoed. “Somehow still much less dramatic than Seattle Grace."
Mark barked out a laugh. “Yeah that checks out.”
“Sloan.”
The two of you turned to see Robby making his way towards you, Jack beside him.
Mark's grin returned instantly.
“Robinavitch.” He broke away from you and pulled Robby into a hug with the force of someone who had never respected personal space in his life.
"A lot less hair since I last saw you."
Robby snorted, clapping him on the back. "The Pitt will do that to you.”
Jack caught your eye over Robby’s shoulder, his expression running a fine line between faint amusement and annoyance.
Robby stepped back, shaking his head before gesturing to Jack.
“This is Jack Abbot, night attending.”
“Nice to meet you. Mark Sloan.” Mark stuck his hand out. “Head of Plastic Surgery at Seattle Grace.”
“Plastic surgery?” Jack's brow lifted slightly as he shook Mark’s hand. “Explains the soft hands.”
Mark laughed loudly enough that several people looked over.
“Oh my god.” Whitaker mumbled as he watched Jack and Mark shake hands. “It’s like I’m seeing double.”
Santos shook her head. “She’s got some serious issues.”
McKay folded her arms over her chest as she studied the two men. “Or just good taste.”
“I second the good taste thing.” Princess murmured as she appeared beside McKay.
Perlah took a sip of her drink and nodded. “I third that.”
The handshake lasted just a fraction longer than necessary as Mark glanced over at you. “I get it."
Robby’s eyes narrowed as he gestured between you and Mark.
“You two know eachother?”
“I was an intern at Seattle Grace." You supplied quickly.
“Oh yes, Cupid and I go wayyy back.” Mark smirked.
Robby's confusion only deepened. “Cupid…?”
You shot Mark a warning glare, which he very intentionally ignored.
“Yeah Cupid.” He answered smoothly. “'cause you know she’s got these little angel wings tattooed right above her-“
“Okayyy you know what.” Robby clapped his hands letting out a bark of awkward laughter. “I think a hospital tour sounds like a great idea right about now."
Mark's eyes gleamed as he shoved his hands into his pockets. "I was going to say shoulder blade."
“You are going to walk with me." Robby said, already steering him away, “And tell me absolutely none of the rest of that story.”
Mark let himself be guided down the hall, still grinning smugly as he glanced back over his shoulder at you and winked, making you roll your eyes once more.
You dragged your eyes away from him to look at Jack who was yet to move. He watched Mark disappear down the corridor, then looked back at you.
He slowly stepped forward, eyes scanning your figure as he placed his hands casually behind his back.
"Ex?"
You sighed. "...Ex."
Jack nodded curtly. “Got it.”
“Abbot.” You looked over to see Dana studying both of you. “Dr King needs an attending in Room 8.”
Jack's eyes never left you. You watched him intently, waiting to see if he would say anything further. Instead he simply reached into his pocket and produced a protein bar.
You swallowed as he slid it into the front pocket of your scrub top, his fingers lightly against your side subtly.
“Eat.” Was all he said, unable to hide the affection in his voice.
Your throat tightened around a smile as you nodded. He held your gaze for one more second, then turned and headed in the direction of Room 8.
You watched him go, your hand subconsciously brushing over the side that he’d just touched.
When you looked back, Dana was still standing there, one hand on her hip as she watched you over her glasses with an expression far too knowing for your liking.
“Don’t you dare say a word.”
She raised her hands up in mock surrender. “Wasn’t gonna.”
You huffed as you turned, suddenly desperate to busy yourself in order to keep your mind off the cluster fuck that was your two worlds colliding.
For the next twenty minutes, you threw yourself back into work. Every few minutes though, your gaze betrayed you, either drifting towards the corridor where Robby had taken Mark or towards Room 8, where Jack had disappeared. The protein bar sat heavily in your pocket, your appetite now completely non-existent.
By the time you ended up at a computer to finish off your charting, your shift was close enough to ending that you had started to believe you might actually survive it.
“Oh damn, the patient in room 7 died.”
You glanced up to see Whitaker staring at a chart from the workstation beside you.
“The old lady with the chest pain?”
“Yeah.” Whitaker sighed.
You frowned. "That sucks."
“She had a husband right?” Santos chimed in from across from you, not bothering to look up from her own computer.
“Yeah she did, married nearly fifty years."
Without missing a beat, Santos glanced up at you. “Abbot better watch out.”
Your eyes narrowed.
"Nice. Very respectful." Whitaker shook his head, although you could see he was trying not to laugh.
"What?" Santos shrugged. "Our girl clearly has a type."
"Silver foxes?" McKay suggested as she walked past grinning like a cheshire cat.
"I hate all of you."
Whitaker looked over at you like he was genuinely offended. "What did I do?!"
Across the hallway, Jack had just emerged from Room 8. Your eyes met his. He didn’t react beyond the faintest lift of one eyebrow, but you could tell he'd heard every word.
You tipped your head slightly towards the supply closet. Jack looked at you for half a beat, then gave the smallest nod.
You waited a couple minutes before moving.
The supply closet was narrow, overstocked, and smelled faintly of antiseptic and cardboard. You shut the door behind you and leaned against a shelf, exhaling slowly for what felt like the first time in an hour.
A few minutes later, the handle turned. Jack stepped inside and closed the door quietly behind him. He leaned back against the opposite shelf, folding his arms loosely across his chest as the two of you studied eachother.
“Hi.”
“Hi.”
“So… that’s your ex.”
“That’s my ex.”
He nodded. "You left out a few details."
"Such as?"
His gaze dropped briefly, then returned to your face.
“Well first of all I wasn’t expecting Mark Sloan.”
Your brows lifted in surprise. “You know who he is?”
“I’ve heard of him.”
“Of course you have.” You paused for a moment before your voice dropped slightly, unable to hide the insecurity in your tone. "Do you think less of me because I dated someone like him?"
Jack's brows knitted together. "Absolutely not." He said immediately. "It's just that I wasn't expecting your ex to be..."
Your brow furrowed. “Be what?”
“…old.” Was what Jack settled on.
You let out a disbelieving laugh. “He’s not old, he’s like your age.”
“Exactly.” Jack nodded. “I'm practically from the stone age compared to you.”
“You’re not.” You insisted.
Jack’s mouth twitched, but the smile didn’t quite hold as he looked down at the floor.
You studied him for a moment, admiring the lines etched deep into his face that you’d had memorised for as long as you’d known him. “Does it bother you that he’s older?”
“No it doesn’t bother me it’s just...” He sighed. “I thought I was the exception.” He confessed.
Your face softened instantly as you pushed off the wall and took a step towards him.
"Jack."
"I know it’s irrational.” He said, giving a small, self-deprecating shrug. “I just thought I was the first older doctor you’d made questionable life choices over.”
You huffed a small laugh as you closed the gap between the two of you, reaching up to cradle his jaw.
“Hey.” You said gently, guiding his eyes up to meet yours.
“When I met Mark I was young and overwhelmed and had just moved to a new city and he was…” You trailed off, glancing at the door like Mark might somehow materialise on cue.
“…well you’ve seen what he’s like.”
You brushed a thumb over his stubble that lined his jaw. “It barely even qualified as a relationship. And then it ended and we worked together for months. And then I moved.”
Jack leant into your touch slightly, his eyes never leaving your face as you spoke, attentive in the way that always made your heart ache a little.
“And then on my first day here I met a grumpy doctor up on the roof while I was mid meltdown.”
His brows drew together in feigned disbelief. “I don’t think he was grumpy.”
“He told me if I was thinking of jumping I shouldn’t because it’d be a shame to ruin a face like mine.”
The frown that had a hold on his face loosened just a fraction. “Why on earth would he think that line would work.”
“In his defence, I think he was a little out of practice.”
His hands settled at your waist, warm and steady through the thin fabric of your scrubs. “Or his brain short circuited when he saw you.”
Your smile widened as you slid your arms around the back of his neck, entwining your fingers absentmindedly around the silver curls at the nape of his neck.
“Well, lucky for him it worked.”
The reluctant smile finally reached his eyes. “Very lucky.” He corrected.
He glanced down, playing with the tie of your scrub pants.
“I just can’t believe you dated a plastic surgeon.”
You snorted softly. “Is that seriously what’s bothering you the most?”
“Yes.” He answered plainly.
You shook your head, a wry smile on your lips. “Not the stupid nickname?”
Jack glanced down at you, his grip on your hips tightening ever so slightly.
“If he calls you that again I may have no choice but to punch him.” He conceded casually as he brushed a strand of hair behind your ear.
His head tilted slightly as he studied you for a moment. “But at least he can fix his own nose up after.”
You let out a laugh, running a hand over his chest. “Don’t worry.” You soothed. “I already told him you volunteer with the SWAT team.”
Jack smirked down at you proudly. “Atta girl.”
Then he leant down and finally pressed his lips to yours in a slow, reverent kiss. When he pulled back, his eyes narrowed immediately.
“Did you eat?”
You winced slightly. “Not yet.” You patted the pocket that contained the protein bar. “I’ll eat this and then go.”
Jack frowned, clearly unsatisfied with your solution. “Go home and eat something more substantial.”
“I will.”
“There’s pasta in the fridge for you, all you have to do is chuck it in the microwave.”
Your interest piqued immediately. “The pesto one I love?”
“Of course.”
You grinned, pressing your forehead against his. “You’re very good to me Dr Abbot.”
His smile softened into something private, something reserved just for you. “Anything for my girl.”
You kissed him again, deeper this time, enjoying the feeling of his warmth seeping into you.
“Alright.” He muttered reluctantly against your lips as he pulled away. “Get going before I end up locking you in here.”
You smirked. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
He shot you a warning glare with absolutely no bite to it.
You huffed dramatically, “alright alright.”
You reached for the door, then paused, glancing back at him.
“And for the record, if you’re worried about feeling old…”
Jack raised a brow.
“You should meet my other ex, he checked into the nursing home down the road last week.”
“Very funny.” He muttered, trying but failing to look unamused.
“I know I am.”
“Go.” He urged as he tapped your backside affectionately.
You raised your hands in mock defeat, slipping back into the pitt without another word.
Jack shook his head as the door shut softly behind you, a lovesick smile spreading across his face.
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summary: After the battle at Rook’s Rest all Gwayne wants is you. Hopefully longing just like he is and cherishing his safe return. And yet he is met with an absence that makes his breath hitch and grim remarks he does not appreciate. Despite being a lord and a noble knight he is also nothing but a man, and how long can a man go without the comforting presence of his wife? And especially a wife who is worth worshipping, every battle and every whispered word of blasphemy?
word count: 5.8k+
a/n: or to put it differently gwayne goes ‘where the hell is my mate with whom i can complain about the greens and their overgrown winged lizards’
“Ser Gwayne?”
He didn’t miss the call. It simply felt irrelevant at this moment, too shallow and meaningless to attract his attention.
Backnoise, perhaps even an annoying one that disturbed Gwayne’s thoughts that were turning more anxious with every second. He didn’t react, focused on scanning the courtyard with his gaze. He furrowed his brows, then grimaced to eventually run a hand over his tired face.
It turned from expressing irritation and discomfort of the travel to a look of deep worry. He could feel his breath growing heavy, barely rhythmic when his eyes moved from one person to another.
Even though he knew and memorized every inch of your face he kept replaying it in his head as if it could help him through the search. The search that slowly started to wear signs of desperation. He suspected that it was caused by the turmoil in his mind that howled and roared ever since he witnessed the huge winged beast on the ground, lifeless.
The closeness of the dragons brought up worry in him and it wasn’t something he cared to be ashamed of.
While brushing through his own hair to stick it back and get rid of the disgusting, sweaty feeling, he thought about your eyes which had a spark in them whenever they found him in a crowd. It was something your husband never got used to fully and it always thrilled him. It was so special that it turned to the main thing he could focus on during the travel back to King’s Landing.
It was the first time in your short years of marriage when he had to march to a true battle.
He imagined how you’d smile with your whole face, a shine of relief washing over you. Your lips would curve gently at first, before he’d gather you in his arms and then the soft greet would turn into a heartwarming laugh. Your lips…
Gods, your lips.
And yet you weren’t here.
The second headman of the Hightower army and Gwayne’s right hand cleared his throat again. “My lord?” He asked louder.
“Ah, yes,” he muttered while breaking out of his trance of worry and madness. “You are dismissed, commander. You did well.”
It was said quieter than he used to speak, not hesitating but not very sure either. He found it hard to focus, only managing to nod at his companion before his gaze shifted to the people gathered around again. Gwayne swallowed a bitter taste on his tongue and straightened his back.
He was falling into unnecessary insanity, surely.
“The men did well too, my lord,” the commander remarked with pride.
Gwayne clasped a hand on his shoulder like the good leader he always tried to be.
“Naturally. We brought a slain dragon’s head with us, after all. You deserve to rest, my friend.”
He couldn’t care less right now if he was honest with himself. You often pointed out his arrogance but lucky for him he also lacked the audacity to mention out loud that the dragon, the victory, the king’s suffering… It all meant very little to him right now.
He spotted the queen with ease. Handing his horse to a stableboy he approached her with his hand clasped behind his back.
“Alicent,” he greeted, probably betraying his outraged frame of mind with the annoyed tone.
He bowed his head. It was respectful enough, he hoped. He had no strength for bending his back, his knees, for ostentatious gallantry and for calling his little sister ‘queen’...
“Brother. I’m happy to see you unharmed and–” she spoke after having a good look at him.
Gods, she really resembled their mother when her eyes travelled all over him like that. It made him clench his jaw and look away from her, searching for you again. He was turning pathetic in it, he feared.
“Where is my wife?” He asked, interrupting Alicent’s words. Silence settled between them for a moment. Either she was unused to such savage manners, let alone from Gwayne, or the question troubled her. “Sister?” He called again when he was left unanswered.
The queen shook her head.
“I haven't seen her,” she said simply. “She is… Well, she is a woman hard to find these days.”
She clearly didn’t grieve that you weren’t her. It could be Gwayne’s own sorrow about it that made him so angry at his sister’s calmness. He breathed in deeply before turning to her.
“You dislike my wife.” It was a statement, not a question, and also not an accusation. Just a fact he found disappointing.
“No. I worry, that's all. She is just–” she cut and blinked at her brother’s unfamiliar expression. The corners of her lips fell further down. “She is of a peculiar character that I failed to notice before,” she explained, almost diplomatically which earned a scoff from Gwayne.
“You dislike her,” he repeated sharply.
“Brother,” she said with firmness that could bring an unruly child to peace. “As I said, I worry. She reminds me of Helaena and that is… It isn’t a good sign,” she said with a sorry face as if she was informing him of his wife’s deathly illness.
“You don't speak about your daughter with much fondness either,” Gwayne pointed out, despite noticing what she tried to say. “Makes me wonder how much of what you see I should put faith in…”
He knew the rationality of your mind. Your wit, your skills and intuition. He would never agree to bring you to a castle so full of viciousness as The Red Keep if he thought you were too fragile to bear it.
“Ser Gwayne.” He heard the voice of Criston Cole behind him which made him realize his tone has risen a bit. More than he wanted. The knight wandered next to him, bowing in front of the queen. “Could that be the truth that your marriage is not as cheerful as you described it to be?” He mocked , certainly recalling Gwayne's lectures.
Malicious cunt. In one moment Gwayne regretted ever mentioning his wife in the presence of a man like him.
“Ser Criston–” Alicent almost choked on her breath while trying to scold the knight, but didn’t find the right words. She turned to Gwayne with a look that could be taken for understanding. “Brother, I see that you worry. You are excused and forgiven.”
“Forgiven for–” Gwayne tried to clarify. Clarify, he told that to himself. In truth he sought an opportunity to argue and release some of his anger.
“Take the queen’s mercy and leave, ser,” Cole said firmly.
It would be below his decency to stay.
Gods, even though you left home with him he wished to see Oldtown as soon as possible again… Suddenly he thought that it could be a mistake. Disturbing your peace so much… On the other hand, if he never offered you would force him anyway. Of that he was sure.
Three months on the road. Alicent always thought you’re heedless and daring. Childish even. What woman with common sense would take up a travel this hard by the side of her lord husband? It was beyond her comprehension no matter how much he tried to understand your reasons. She could appreciate your devotion for her brother, though, and because of that she would never refuse her hospitality to you. That didn’t mean deep sympathy, naturally, and the lack of it was mutual, too.
The queen was faced with her own envy as well when she witnessed you offering comfort to her grieving daughter. You visit in the capital settled on unsteady days full of fear and pain. You were glad that Helaena allowed you to wrap your arms around her gently, even if you had to live under the jealousy of her mother’s gaze.
You felt bad for the dowager queen too. She was too hasty, too expressive in her dislike towards her to make you show compassion. You were also far too well-mannered to show pity.
One way or another, you saw the shadows of vultures that circled over the queen. She wasn't the one with true predatory nature toward the weak perhaps, but you were sure she would gather a harvest of corpses around her anyway. Your only hope was that neither you nor your husband will be amongst them…
You were plagued with the future as much as the past. It was an alliance of both that caused the decision of staying away while the army returned. You should be there awaiting your husband, you knew it but there was this vicious whisper inside you…
Gods, you managed to settle your mind on the matter when you knew it was already too late.
Running through the corridors of the Keep you made a few servants turn after you passed but you no longer cared. You brushed your hair out of your face before leaving the cold walls, stepping into the yard and stumbling onto Gwayne almost immediately.
“Husband,” you mumbled out of breath, too stunned to react properly.
You offered your hand to him, going for a handshake that made him freeze for a moment. It must have been a joke, he thought, but you made no effort to change it. To fix it.
He wanted to move closer, cup your face, smell your hair, remind himself of what true home meant, and here you were offering him your hand to shake.
Gods, no. He was a respectful man, always, but he now almost snatched your hand, leaned down and placed a long kiss on the skin of your knuckles. Not a peck, nothing chaste about it.
You didn’t dare to move and couldn’t help but look at the people gathered around. No one seemed to mind, save for the queen and the man beside her. You turned away as fast as you met her eyes.
Your breath hitched when Gwayne straightened his back and looked you in the face. Your love, your husband that you begged the gods to see again. He looked tired, that you expected, but he was also annoyed. Perhaps it was a mistake and your longing for him led you in the dark; you should have been more patient, stay in your rooms…
“Wife,” Gwayne said with a nod of his head. Only then you noticed he still didn’t let go of your hand. “You look even more delightful than I remembered.”
“It’s only been a few days,” you noticed in a hushed voice.
He grimaced as if you painfully belittled his feelings. Misled by your childhood’s grim experience you thought that it was your voice itself that angered him further. That he was just proper as always, greeting you because he had to before he would drown the memory of the fight in something of his own choosing.
Gwayne wasn’t fond of drinking, he certainly didn’t look around for other women nor he gambled, but in that moment you were sure it wasn’t you from whom he wanted comfort.
You could live with it. Despite the pained look on his face he made the effort to not flaunt it, to not humiliate any of you publicly, so you could do the same. Play the restrained, good wife until he could walk away from you freely without attracting any attention.
“Was the march hard, lord husband?” You asked in the tone of a stranger who made simple conversation.
His eyebrows twitched up at the sound of the title. It was almost unfamiliar coming from you. You, who knew how his name felt on your tongue whispered, cried out, moaned and in laughter… ‘Lord husband’ felt like an insult when he knew how sweet his true name sounded.
“The memory of you made it more bearable,” he answered but the smile didn’t really get to his eyes.
“Oh.” How could you not love him? Even in annoyance and when he wanted to be alone he could play the role of an admirer. “Well, I won't bother you with questions about the battle itself. It must have been horrible.”
He nodded and threw the last look around the yard before offering you his arm. He didn’t understand what in the name of the seven hells was going on but he knew he hated it. Perhaps if you stepped away, stayed in the company of each other.
But you didn’t jump into his arms when you both left, as he wanted. You allowed him to hold your hand, but that was it.
“It is behind us now, dear wife,” he explained to your worried voice. At least it was genuine, that he didn’t doubt. “That is what matters.”
“And that you are unharmed.”
It was strange, made his head spin, that you muttered such careful, lovable words while walking so unsure behind his side. He didn’t fail to notice that you weren’t close enough. Whenever you two strolled together you always rested against him, moved more into him than it was necessary and he adored it. It felt right, having you in his arms. He loved calling himself your husband, your lover, but if he was ever stripped from that he would at least want to be named your protector and supported. That’s how he felt when you showed him so much trust with your actions.
And now your bodies barely even brushed.
Dark thoughts settled in his mind. Did he cause you any pain? Have you heard a vicious rumor about him? Did… Did someone hurt you when he was away?
He called your name quietly, but you spoke up before it could truly get to you.
“Do you wish to have the chambers all to yourself?” You asked, turning your head to look at him. “I can't stay in the garden to offer you some space.”
He matched your gaze slowly, as if he was in pain from his shallow injuries, but it was just the shock. The look on your face seemed small to him, like an intimidated dove, afraid not only of her companion but also her own voice.
You never acted like that.
“I wish for no space,” he declared immediately and couldn’t hold back from moving his free hand up to brush your cheek with his fingers. “You offer strange things, dearest. If it's not too much to ask for, I want my wife's presence right next to me. Caring for me, if she feels strong enough today.”
You nodded and leaned more into his touch.
Gods, so the worry truly blinded you. It was still your Gwayne, after all.
“Of course. I meant no offence,” you explained, partially hopeful he wouldn’t question your behaviour any further. Only if you knew how troubled he was by it.
“And you gave none,” he assured.
“Good. I would love to care for all of your injuries. It will surely calm my nerves, knowing you are in good health.”
But would it really?, he asked himself.
In his common sin of arrogance he lied to himself that he wasn’t easily offended. Yet now he had to admit in front of himself. It struck him painfully.
“You don't seem happy that I'm back,” he noticed eventually while walking. It was a difficult thing to say, as hard as seeing it.
You stopped in your tracks.
“How can you say that? Of course I am.”
He hummed, clearly having a thought about it before stepping in front of you. He took both your shaking hands in his and held them, while lowering his head to you. “Speak to me, wife.”
“B–but I do, don’t I?”
Despite the exhaustion, the dark marks under his eyes and how unruly his hair looked, the lenient smile he put on was honest. There was also a visible fair share of worry in him.
“Something's happened, hasn't it?”
You shook your head, struck by the fact that he turned even more pale. “Nothing, husband, no. You know I would never lie to–”
“Then why are you so afraid?” He asked firmly, never stopping to gently brush your hands.
“I just... I missed you greatly.”
“You did?”
The question rang in your ears for a while. Your husband wasn’t sure if you spoke truthfully about your feelings towards him. You didn’t know if falling into laughter or sobbing was more due in this situation.
Your hands moved, not not only laying in his but interlacing your fingers.
“Yes,” you repeated. “I lived in fear and I was surrounded by strangers, Gwayne. Only the idea of seeing you again kept me sane.”
“I missed you too…”
He almost gave in into leaning closer, bumping your nose with his and resting his forehead against your face. Eventually he held back, too disturbed by your behaviour to let it lay unsolved.
“And yet I'm welcomed with distance and restraint,” he said. “Why?”
“Distance? I–”
But he didn’t let you finish. He moved your hands up to his chest. You could feel his warm breath over your skin.
“Why didn’t you kiss your husband when you saw him? Why didn’t you bless him with your touch if you missed him so?”
He saw your conflicted expression and he couldn’t hold back anymore. Freeing his hands from yours, he moved them to your face. You held onto his wrists gently when he cupped your cheeks like that. Just the way you wanted and dreamed about.
The tears went freely, you no longer tried to stop them when his fingers were placed on your warm skin.
“You terrify me, wife,” Gwayne confessed in a whisper, brushing away some of your tears. “Is it because you try to hide something? If you've experienced any wrongdoing... Gods, I promise that whoever hurt you will pay. Even if I have to go through this whole castle.”
“N–No,” you muttered at once, irritated by how weak your voice sounded. “It’s not that.
He’s never seen you like this before.
“Then…”
“It's my father,” you snapped eventually, annoyed yet glad you got it out of your throat. It was choking you, suffocating for the well part of the day and you had enough.
It should have been enough a long time ago.
“Your father, dove? What about him?”
“He hated it when we waited for him after battles. My mother thought it to be proper and I never understood her stubbornness, but–” The words died on your tongue. You felt foolish, a child again. Gwayne didn’t let you turn your head away from him. “He pushed me and my sisters away when we tried to hug him, and only shared a feast with us to not attract whispers. I suppose all he wanted then was to have a cup of wine and a quiet corner for himself. He was embarrassed by the displays of emotions... I thought–”
“You thought I would push you away like he did,” he said slowly and with understanding.
It sounded stupid, you didn’t even realize how much. You sniffed and took a deep breath to calm yourself.
“Well, I knew you wouldn't but... I felt it somewhere deep under my skin,” you explained and dried the tears on your cheeks. “I couldn't. The shame I felt back then. The feeling like I did something wrong... I couldn't fight it.”
Your husband nodded, taking in the sight of you with pride, not at all unpleased by how shaken up you were. He wasn’t easily annoyed by such things, on the contrary to when he couldn’t understand the situation.
“I see,” he said. He was out of words for a moment when you took his hand from your cheek and placed a kiss on it, just like he did to you every day. “I would never do that to you, you have my word.”
“I know. I always knew it, I just…”
“It is alright, dear. Don’t put me through it again, though. I’m not sure I can take it,” he joked, but there was some true seriousness buried within it. “Can you promise me?”
You smiled at him. Oh, how he missed that. “I can.”
“Good.”
His arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you into him. There was no rush in Gwayne’s actions. He touched your hair, took his time in playing with it before brushing it behind. His lips found yours when his hand finally settled at the nape of your neck.
He kissed you like a man who was left without air ever since he saw you for the last time, and yet he still had the strength of his mind to not impose. To not appear desperate, starved, even if all he wanted was to devour every moment of your love that he was given. The thought of pulling back didn’t even cross your mind.
His lips weren’t as soft as usual. Drier from the harsh wind and sun as well as marked by a bruise and poorly cleaned dry blood. He lingered just over your mouth when he was forced to take a breath.
Gwayne pushed his forehead to yours, resting with his eyes closed as his hand still played with your skin and hair. It made you raise your hand as well, gently touching his face, tracing shallow wrinkles and searching for the familiar feeling of warmth caused by an injury.
“We shouldn’t stand here,” you whispered.
“Why, will you complain about the way I smell, or–”
“That’s not what I said,” you cut in and boldly draped your arm around his neck. Gwayne almost purred when you pressed your body against his. “I would never complain about my own husband’s smell, you know that.”
“Gods, you are right,” his voice broke a bit but there was no shame in him. Not in front of you. “You are right, we shouldn’t be standing here. I want you all for myself.”
“And that you shall have,” you promised with a bashful smile. “Just later. Allow me to have a proper look first.”
He hummed in displease when you stepped back to look at him. Only now he realized you were shying away from that before, silly girl…
“Don’t worry,” he spoke when he noticed how your eyes changed when you set them on a bloodied spot on his doublet, uncovered by the plate armor, “Alicent offered to send her maesters.”
It didn’t soothe your nerves and he was a fool if he imagined it would. You only grimaced and nodded in acknowledgment.
“What is it?” He asked, spotting the shift immediately.
“Her servants are…” You clasped your hands together in front of you and sent him an apologetic smile. “Well, the queen is very kind but I would prefer to tend to you myself, if that's not of much difference to you.”
But Gwayne shook his head with a small grin and showed you to keep strolling to your chambers.
“It is a crucial difference,” he said firmly. “I would prefer no other touch than my wife's. The wounds you dress yourself… they always seem to heal better.”
“Do they?” You asked, taking his hand in your again. “Then I suppose true care can do miracles. Thank the gods those are not necessary today. Well, at least not in flesh….”
“Strange times we live in,” he agreed, seeing that you were speaking of the realm’s position.
The realm’s and yours, as those who sat the closest amongst the family of the ruler, either it was Aegon or Aemond now – you weren’t sure.
“You and my sister,” Gwayne spoke up, “ didn’t find much common ground, I see.”
“We don’t hold love for each other, if that is what you ask about,” you admitted, making your husband chuckle.
“For that I had no hope. Still, I thought you might have some comfort in the presence of another… I believe I was very wrong.”
You tightened the grip on his hand.
“I don’t wish to offend you by speaking ill of your sister. She is the queen, after all and–”
“Wife,” he interrupted with fondness, as if to make you realize who’s side he was on. “When I first saw your sorrow today I feared it was her who had done something horrific to you. Now tell me all.”
So you did, even if there were no tragic tales or shaking plots to mention. Gwayne could be a great listener when he wanted and to you he was always.
He opened the door to your shared chamber when you reached it and let you pass. He could already feel his insides aching from how hard you made him laugh.
“So she goes, still not looking at me, now listen–” you cut to clear your throat.
Resting one arm on a nearby desk you clutched the other to the neck of your gown, the way the queen often did, and lowered your voice to match hers.
“I hear you are fond of politics, my lady… I said that local politics, yes, but not the capital one. That is... that is certainly too overwhelming for a woman like me.”
“Mm.” Gwayne sat on the bed without moving his eyes from you.
“And then: Well, I’m sure you are very grateful to my brother then, she says, for allowing you to be involved in it. Politics, she meant, even the local one.”
“Allowing?” Your husband questioned, still trying to fight the smile brought up by your little act.
“Yes! Her words exactly,” you squealed in emotion. “So I replied that if she knows you well, which I don’t doubt she does, then she knows you aren’t fond of all your duties. My husband, I went, is gravely bored by the matter of grains and wheat, let’s say, so to be a good wife I free him of this subject and tend to it myself. And then she gives me a look so dirty as if I just confessed I want to slay Ormund Hightower and take the title of lord paramount myself. Or murder one of her sons, whoever is king now, since I lost count in that…”
Gwayne thought for a while, then waved his hand. “I’m not sure, now that Aegon is… Well, the way he is.”
You quickly moved to his side and occupied the spot nearby. You lowered your voice almost to a sound of conspiracy. “He is not dead, though, is he? People whisper different things…”
“Not dead yet, at least,” he admitted indifferently. “That I can say.”
You frowned for a moment then shrugged.
“You see my point, anyway,” you continued.
“I do. And I know my sister well, I can imagine her killing you with her gaze.”
You nodded like he described it perfectly. “Even your father is less demanding and, gods, backward, than her.”
“He is. Yes, Alicent is…” he sighed while looking for a good word, then smiled and turned to face you. “She’s just Alicent.”
“She is.” It made you giggle. “Now let me prepare some water and clean cloths…”
He was rather properly cleaned up already but you wanted to have a look yourself and make sure he was unharmed. One of his squires came to help you take off his armor, then bowed to you and left.
“You’re staring, Gwayne…” you noticed while struggling with the laces of his green overshirt.
“I am.”
He really had no shame when it came to the things he felt for his wife.
You were already bent forward to see the strips and belts better, almost resting your head on Gwayne’s shoulder. He barely had to move to cup your lips with his and still he made sure to tug you closer, earning a half-swallowed whine from you. You would have fallen, your body collapsing into his, but he gracefully directed you to his lap, making you laugh at how cheeky he could be sometimes.
You didn’t break the kiss nonetheless, and moved against him with matching eagerness. He let out a deep, content sigh and it was the most beautiful sound you have heard in days.
Draping your arms around his neck and shoulders you allowed him to tug you even closer, his own arms caging you, wrapped around your middle. You picked at his lower lip earning a hoarse, pleased groan from your husband. It wasn’t hard and still you could feel the iron taste of blood on your tongue.
“Forgive me,” you said in worry, pulling away and spotting that the bruising opened again. “I’ve forgotten myself–”
But he didn’t care. He tugged you in for another kiss and only calmed down when you rested your chest and head against him. This is where he wished to be ever since they left the camp at Rook’s Rest. Here with your body in his arms.
“You know I found it harder to pray to the gods with every moment I spend away from you,” he confessed. You felt him shiver at the sensation of your breath over his neck. “I could only think about you.”
He moved one hand from your back to pick at his necklace and raised it to his lip. Where his sister wore a sign of religious devotion, Gwayne wore his reminder of loyalty to you. It was poetic in a way, much more romantic than you would ever imagine him to be. Before Gwayne you thought nothing of gestures like that, thinking you would never find happiness with a man like that.
“Stop, husband,” you hushed, brushing the side of his face. Eventually he allowed you to take a wet cloth and slowly run it over his skin. “It is blasphemy.”
“It's you,” he argued. “You are worth every blasphemy.”
What could you possibly say to that? What could you do instead of placing a kiss on his face and making your touch even more gentle? It was bliss, even despite the blood that ran with water and stained your fingers. For a while you could forget about wars, kings and battles that were to come.
The worry laid deeply, though, and the everlasting grim of the Red Keep never made it better. Your husband always noticed it on your face.
“What is it that scares you, dearest? I can see it.”
A sigh left you. “The walls. They have ears and eyes around here. It makes me go mad, husband.”
Some more blood dripped from his lip when he smiled.
“Then I promise to make sure to get you out of here before you start collecting bugs like my niece,” he said jokingly.
“You mock me,” you pointed out sharply and tapped his chest with your finger. “And my worry. too, when it is very adequate.”
“No, love, not at all. I don’t mock you.”
He coughed into his sleeve and made an innocent face. At least he was in a good mood.
“I am only being rational, even if you view it as paranoia. Oh, and trust me, Helaena’s company sometimes feels like she is one of very few sane people around here.”
Gwayne chuckled. “It must be bad if you say it.”
“It is bad. That’s why I pray for the war to be finished. So you can take off your armor for good and we can go home.”
“Not so many innocent lives could be spared?” He suggested.
Frolics.
“That too, of course. And honestly, I never want to see a dragon again. Not close, not far, not at all,” you said with a grimace.
Gwayne sat more comfortably with you in his lap, resting his back on the wall. He closed his eyes for a moment like he was dreaming, and yet it was nothing pleasant.
“The dragons, love,” he mumbled. When he opened his eyes there was nothing but worry in them, like he could recall the fire and death in its every detail even now. “They… Gods, they are nightmares.”
You watched your husband with carefulness, and dried his skin. “Do you wish to speak of it? The battle?”
You saw the hesitation on his face. The way he was questioning if he should bother you or not. Like he was picking between being a husband or a friend and trustee. Choice you never wished him to make.
“Do not offend me,” you said softly, “with the idea that I have not enough courage to bear those things you were forced to face.”
He nodded, yet no word of the battle itself left him at once. He needed time, you knew. Whenever something happened you tended to spend long nights talking about it in bed and you didn’t doubt it would be similar this time.
“We brought the head of the fallen beast…” he said.
“So it's true,” you hummed in awe. “I heard the voices from town. People didn’t like it.”
“No, they didn’t,” he agreed. “Truth be told, I don’t like it either. It stinks.”
“Reeks of a dead dragon? Who would have thought,” you teased ironically, making him stick his fingers more into the flesh on your waist.
“The only advance this place has over Oldtown,” you spoke up again, “is that rumors seem to be more reliable. To those who know how to understand them they are almost always valid. I find that entertaining.”
“Yes? And what did you hear, love?”
“I heard that your cousin is on his way here. And he’s with Daeron, too,” you informed proudly of your discovery. “People already whisper about another dragon.”
But Gwayne’s face fell and he sighed like the weight of the world was just dropped on his shoulders. For a moment you thought that it came from worry about his young nephew, but you finally understood when he spoke up.
“Are we not allowed some time away from him?”
It was sharp, annoyed, and ‘him’ must have been none other than Ormund Hightower.
“You haven’t seen him in months, Gwayne. There are two of us who don’t miss him, but…”
“I see him enough at home,” he remarked then lowered his head to your shoulder. “I’lll have to keep an eye on him when he’s around you,” he muttered.
“What? Do you have no trust in me, husband?”
“Oh, I have all trust in you,” he promised, feeling something bitter even at the thought of his cousin laying his eyes on you. “I just don't want him bothering you.”
You waved it off. “It will be fine. There is no need for you to get angry.”
“Him or his men…” Gwayne kept going.
You rolled your eyes and quickly got off his lap to dry your own hands and pick up the bandages.
“At least we’ll see your nephew again.”
With that he could agree.
“Yes, at least. You're fond of the boy, aren't you?”
“Yes. He’s… “You merely shrugged. “He is different from his siblings, you know? Perhaps Helaena… Well, the future of house Targaryen, I think, lies in Daeron alone. It's good that he's not cruel like his kins…”
Gwayne nodded and moved to stand up, slowly growing restless about the absence of your warmth against him.
“In that you might be just right, my dear. But Ormund… I keep no love for my cousin now that I have you to protect,” he confessed.
“I don't need–”
“I know,” he interrupted quietly and leaned to kiss the uncovered skin on your shoulder. “I know but I would go mad if you didn't allow me to be protective and just a little bit overbearing.”
a/n: you noticed that i made all of those hightowers quite crazy about smells, right? RIGHT? you noticed??
thinking thoughts about john price on the run in that trailer... (gn!reader)
"I thought you were smarter than this, John," you drawl.
"We both know you don't believe that," he retorts. To John's credit, he waits for you to step aside before pushing his way into your home. At a time, it was his, too, practically built by the man now nearly a stranger. "You alone?"
You quickly lock the door behind him, moving to do the same with the windows. You draw the blinds shut as well, "If by alone, you mean single, then I'm sure you'll be happy to know that men aren't lining up to go out with an SAS captain's ex."
"Not single– alone," John peeks through the curtains, grunting to himself at whatever he spots. "People are looking for me, love."
You laugh, not because you don't believe him, but because: "It's all over the news, John."
He shrugs, dropping his bag at the foot of the door, just like he used to do when you were married. And just like when you were married, hot anger washes through you, though you quickly swallow it. When you catch John's gaze however, light and full of mirth, you scowl.
"I need to lay low for a bit. I figure some time here might do the trick," he says like its final. You suppose for him it is.
"People are going to come looking for you."
John ignores you, stepping into the kitchen. He opens the fridge and after rummaging for a few seconds, pulls out a beer you hadn't realized you owned. Dully, you wonder if he was the one who bought it, back when you still shared his name.
"I converted the guest bedroom into a studio," you say as he uses the counter to pop off the cap.
"That's fine," John takes a sip. He licks the small amount of foam that collected on his mustache, now a part of a full beard rather than an accompaniment to those terrible mutton chops.
"You're fine sleeping on the couch?"
John barks out a laugh, sharp and mean. You flinch.
"The couch!" He muses as if it were a joke. "Love, I'm sleeping with you, like a good husband should."
☆ KIND ☆ inspired by my brain feeling maternal at age 20
note: this is mildly short and i left it at an unresolved ending because I didn’t want to. I think it could majorly grow in another part.
Damian scowled from where he stood beside Dick, small hands tucked behind his back like he was already preparing for a funeral instead of attending another one of Bruce Wayne’s endless galas.
“She kind of creeps me out.”
Gotham’s elite laughed too loudly over champagne they barely drank. Another fundraiser. Another parade of rich idiots pretending they cared about charity because their names were printed in silver on the invitation cards.
Dick snorted beside him, adjusting the cuff of his suit. Bruce had dragged them both here under the excuse of “family appearances,” which really meant Bruce wanted at least one of his sons nearby while he played billionaire socialite for the cameras.
Dick didn’t actually mind these events anymore. He was way past the age of being hauled around by his dad, but there was something weirdly comforting about them. Standing in Bruce’s orbit like this almost made him feel ten again, back when galas were sneaking desserts and trying not to fall asleep on Alfred’s shoulder during speeches.
Across the room, Bruce stood close to a woman dressed entirely in black. Not unusual. To most people, it just looked like Bruce being Brucie Wayne charming smile, hand curled around a champagne flute, leaning just close enough to make whoever he was talking to feel like the only person in the room.
But Damian wasn’t “most people.”
“Hey, kid,” Dick said, grinning as he slung an arm around Damian’s shoulders from behind, “that’s my mom you’re talking about.”
Damian immediately tried shrugging him off. “Unhand me, you buffoon.”
Dick only laughed harder. Out of all Bruce’s children, Dick had somehow inherited the horrifying ability to be effortlessly likable. It was deeply irritating.
Damian looked back toward you anyway.
Fine. You weren’t some random woman in black. You were the woman. The woman Bruce had loved for years. Even Damian knew that.
The timeline of Bruce Wayne’s relationships was already messy enough to qualify as psychological poo poo pee pee, but one thing had always remained embarrassingly consistent: Bruce always found his way back to you.
The only real gap had been around the time Damian was born, though considering his parents’ relationship had been built on manipulation, violence, and mutual stubbornness, he supposed that separation had been inevitable. Talia and Bruce were a match made in hell.
You, however, were different. Softer where his mother was sharp. Patient where Talia demanded obedience. Warm in ways Damian still didn’t fully trust. Which was exactly why he found you all too suspicious.
His gaze flicked back toward Bruce just in time to nearly regret possessing eyesight. Bruce had leaned down toward you with that stupidly fond expression he reserved for exactly three things in life: his children, Alfred’s cooking, and you. He tilted his champagne glass toward your lips teasingly, he was trying to get you to take a sip from his drink instead of your own.
You laughed quietly, fingers pressing against his wrist while Bruce grinned like some teenager in a romantic comedy instead of a terrifying vigilante pushing fifty.
Damian physically recoiled. Disgusting.
“Yeesh,” Dick muttered, watching the scene unfold with open amusement. “I love B, but he seriously needs to stop looking like he’s in a Hallmark movie.” He glanced sideways at Damian. “And you need to lighten up a little. Why does Bruce only collect the emo ones?”
Damian deadpanned. “He did not collect me. He made me.”
Dick immediately lost it.
“Oh my God,” Dick wheezed, grabbing Damian’s shoulder. Then, in the most obnoxious voice imaginable imaginable, he pushed imaginary glasses up Damian’s nose.
“Erm, actually ”
Damian’s eye twitched.
Without another word, he turned sharply on his heel and marched across the ballroom, cape nearly snapping behind him despite the fact he wasn’t even wearing one tonight.
Dick laughed harder. “He makes it so easy.”
Near the entrance, Alfred stood. Damian stopped beside him with his arms crossed tightly over his chest.
“Master Damian,” Alfred greeted calmly. “Enjoying the evening?”
“No.”
“Yes, I gathered that.”
Back near the center of the gala, Bruce’s attention never fully left you even while half a dozen people attempted to talk to him. That was always the thing about Bruce. When he cared about someone the rest of the room faded into background noise.
“Bruce,” you laughed softly as he tilted his champagne glass toward you again, “you’re going to spill all over my dress.”
“Well,” he murmured, eyes flicking down briefly before returning to yours, “that would give me another reason to take it off you.”
You pressed a hand lightly against his chest with a warning look, though the smile tugging at your lips ruined any actual intimidation. “Mister Wayne.”
Bruce immediately covered your hand with his own, thumb brushing over your knuckles. “Ms. Wayne.”
The ease between you was almost unfair. Years and years of history sat beneath every glance. Every touch. Every stupid little grin Bruce only seemed capable of around you.
It hadn’t always been easy. God, it had rarely been easy. There had been arguments that were fucked up enough to leave scars, disappearances that lasted months, years where timing and grief and Gotham itself seemed determined to keep you apart.
But somehow, no matter how far things fractured, the two of you always circled back toward each other.
“Hello, people,” Dick announced as he suddenly appeared beside the two of you, looking annoyingly handsome in his suit. “Not to rain on whatever disturbingly parade this is, but I’ve developed a sudden urge to go home.”
You looked over at him, smiling despite yourself. Sometimes it still caught you off guard how grown up he looked now. You remembered when he’d first entered Bruce’s life all smiles and scraped knees and too much energy for one tiny child to physically contain. Dick Grayson had crashed into it like sunlight through a window.
Bruce glanced at him lazily. “You’ve been here forty minutes.”
“And I’ve suffered through at least thirty eight of them.”
Dick hooked a thumb over his shoulder dramatically. “I also have a feeling someone isn’t having the best time.”
You looked past him toward the doorway.
Damian stood beside Alfred, still pouting like the world had personally offended him. Alfred, meanwhile, looked entirely unsurprised by this development.
Bruce sighed quietly under his breath. “He’s glaring again.”
“He’s twelve,” you said with an amused smile. “That’s sort of their thing.”
Bruce took another sip of champagne without taking his eyes off Damian. “He’s planning my assassination.”
Dick nodded immediately. “To be fair, he usually is. Well not yours specifically. Just… an assassination in general.”
“Richard,” Bruce warned flatly.
“What?.”
You couldn’t help the laugh that slipped out.
Truthfully, you and Damian still danced around each other more than anything else. There wasn’t hostility exactly, but there was caution. Damian was observant in a way most adults failed to be. Beneath all the edges was a child who had been raised to expect betrayal before kindness. Someone who treated trust like a weapon that could be turned against him at any moment.
It made your chest ache sometimes. Across the ballroom, Damian narrowed his eyes the second he noticed all of you looking at him. Bruce, attempting to smooth things over, sent him a small smile.
Damian looked immediately horrified by it.
“hes so brooding,” Dick whispered back. “That kinda proves my point, little man.”
Damian looked ready to throw hands with the older robin but he was raised to be a gentleman so that was out of the picture.
Before the Wayne family could make another spectacle, Unfortunately having Dick, Jason and Tim so close together at the manor meant no rest ever. You clapped your hands together once.
“Okay, boys,” you announced brightly, already grabbing Bruce’s hand with one and Dick’s wrist with the other, “I think it’s time to go.”
Bruce let himself be pulled without resistance, something he only really allowed with you. Dick followed, nearly stumbling on purpose just to irritate Bruce further.
“You’re sending us to our demise?” Dick asked.
“Alfred let’s head out.”
“Acceptable reasoning,” Alfred commented smoothly as he joined the group near the entrance.
Damian muttered something under his breath but moved toward all of you anyway.
You guided them through the crowd while Gotham socialites tried desperately to stop Bruce for conversations.
“Bruce! Before you leave ”
“Mr. Wayne, just one moment ”
“There’s someone I’d love you to meet ”
But Bruce barely acknowledged any of them, attention lingering on the way you were still holding his hand while steering the family toward the exit.
Honestly, the sight alone probably made headlines tomorrow. Outside, the cold Gotham air hit immediately.
Dick inhaled deeply. “Freedom.”
Damian moved toward the car first, clearly eager to escape humanity altogether. But before he climbed in, you caught the briefest hesitation when you reached over and straightened the crooked edge of his tie.
Just staring at you with his green eyes. “There,” you said softly. “Much better.”
“…Thank you,” he muttered, the words physically pained him.
That was one of the many moments where Damian found himself struggling to understand how someone could be so effortlessly kind.
Damian gave the ‘robins’ all hell because, in his mind, they were supposed to be his equals. lets give an emphasis on the supposed
It didn’t take a genius to see the war happening inside his head whenever you were around. Talia was his mother. That fact would never change. Loyalty to her had been carved into his bones before he could even properly read. But then there was you standing beside his father so naturally that the equation in Damian’s mind became impossible to ignore.
Bruce loved you. You loved Bruce. over time, the rest of the family had unconsciously built space for you too.
Simple mathematics. One plus one equals two.
Father and mother.
The thought made an uncomfortable twist in Damian’s chest. Weakness. That’s what it had to be. His brothers were weak for how easily they attached themselves to people. Bruce was weak whenever it came to those he loved. Damian had seen firsthand how devastating attachment could become.
He refused to become like that. Tim had once casually mentioned you were originally from the Narrows. Not born into wealth. Built yourself upward piece by piece until eventually crossing paths with Bruce Wayne somewhere in the middle of Gotham.
Damian respected hard work. He respected perseverance even more. Which only complicated things further.
What even was love? Devotion? The concepts sounded almost laughable whenever he tried to define them logically. They were inefficient. Dangerous. Vulnerabilities waiting to be exploited.
But every single day inside Wayne Manor contradicted everything he’d been taught. Bruce stayed awake for nights on end when one of them got injured.
Dick called everyone after patrol just to make sure they got home safe. Jason acted like he hated family dinners but still showed up on occasion. Tim did whatever he did. He didnt really know him much yet either. Then the non robin predecessors. You somehow loved every single one of them without asking for anything in return.
Peculiar.
Damian wandered the manor halls quietly that evening, peeking through cracked open doors as he passed. In one room, Dick and Stephanie were arguing over a movie while Duke laughed along.
Further down, Tim was asleep face first on a keyboard while Jason drew something obscene on his cheek in marker.
Damian frowned to himself. Peculiar stuff.
When he reached your study, he initially intended to walk past without looking in. Better not to invest effort into another person who could eventually disappoint him.
But your voice drifted softly through the partially open door. “Alfred, do you think you could process the donation for the building of this project?”
Damian slowed without meaning to. “Of course,” Alfred replied easily.
You continued flipping through paperwork spread across the desk. “Oh, and put it in Bruce’s name.”
Alfred paused slightly. “That I can do, though you are the one who put significant work toward it.”
“I know…” you murmured with a small smile. “I’d just rather this gift be from someone special.”
Something in Damian’s chest tightened strangely at that.
Alfred’s expression softened in a way only years with the Wayne family had taught him. “My lady,” he said warmly, “you are one of the most special people in this house.”
You laughed quietly under your breath, almost embarrassed by the sincerity. “You speak far too sweet you old man.”
“No,” Alfred replied gently. “I simply speak honestly.”
Damian stayed outside the doorway longer than intended, staring at the warm light spilling from your study across the dark manor hallway.
Why did he want to understand this so badly? Before he could retreat unnoticed, the door creaked open. Alfred stepped out carrying a small stack of folders, only to pause upon seeing Damian standing stiffly nearby like a cat caught knocking something off a shelf.
For a brief second, Damian almost looked… panicked. Just embarrassed at being discovered lingering.
Alfred, merciful as ever, pretended not to notice. “Did you require anything, Master Damian?”
Damian straightened immediately, face settling back into its usual guarded expression. “I’m hungry.”
Alfred’s mouth twitched faintly at the corners. “That,” he replied smoothly, “I can certainly assist with.”
Damian silently followed beside him down the hallway.
Later that night, the Batcave seemed quieter compared to most nights in Gotham. You sat behind Bruce on the medical platform, carefully cleaning the cuts scattered across his back while he tried not to wince.
For a man who could outfight Gotham’s criminal population, Bruce Wayne remained absolutely terrible at taking care of himself. Honestly, after all these years together, you’d started suspecting he enjoyed being fussed over. Poor little rich boy.
Bruce hissed under his breath as antiseptic touched another open scrape. You immediately softened, leaning down to press a gentle kiss against his shoulder. “Sorry, my love,” you murmured. “Someone was being a little reckless tonight.”
Bruce groaned. “Sorry my decrepit body is aging.”
You laughed, shaking your head as you wrapped another bandage around his side. “You are still annoyingly agile. Like a panther.”
“Hm,” Bruce hummed. “I’ll accept that compliment.”
You smiled despite yourself and returned to tending his injuries carefully. God, you loved this man more than words could ever fully explain.
You burned for him in every possible way. Bruce had already filled your life with more children than either of you knew what to do with.
Dick’s always being the light of the room. Jason’s temper really taught you to grow even more than you could possibly know. Tim being the smartest little man. Cass always being so full of emotions for her body. Duke honestly being just a perfect gentleman. Stephanie being always the most logical in a room.
Damian. Sweet, difficult Damian. You would never say it aloud because you knew it might overwhelm him, but Damian entering your lives had become something you treasured deeply.
Even if no part of you existed within him biologically, he was still a piece of Bruce. A living fragment of the man you loved most in the world.
“Bruce,” you sighed once you finally finished bandaging him, “you genuinely need sleep tonight.”
“I’m fine,” he replied immediately. “Your love has healed me.”
You rolled your eyes fondly as he caught your wrist and gently pulled you around to stand in front of him. “Oh, I know that look,” you laughed softly.
Bruce rested his forehead briefly against your stomach before tilting his head up toward you with a shameless smile. “I haven’t the slightest clue what you mean.”
“Mmhm.” He leaned closer, pressing lingering kisses along the side of your neck while his arms settled around your waist.
“You’re not in the state,” you muttered through laughter, lightly pushing at his shoulder.
“Im perfectly in the state,” Bruce murmured against your skin,
“We are not having sex tonight”
“but my love.” he groaned
“That sounds like community service.” Bruce actually laughed at that.
“Ahem.”
Both of you turned instantly.
Damian stood down the stairs leading into the Batcave, frozen in place with the expression of someone who deeply regretted having functional eyesight.
Bruce did not release you. You, meanwhile, looked seconds away from bursting into laughter.
“…Father,” he said stiffly, staring firmly at the computer screens instead of either of you. “Your medical scans required updating.”
Bruce nodded once. “Thank you.”
Damian turned sharply. “…You both should rest,” he muttered awkwardly toward Bruce before immediately continuing toward the computers.
You both blinked
Somewhere above you both, Alfred looking through one of the cameras “Im proud of you, Master Damian” Alfred the thought back a bit to that conversation and shivered. “Animals” he scoffs out.
When Alfred brought Damian into the kitchen earlier that night, the manor had already settled into its quieter hours.
Most of the lights were dimmed low. Rain tapped softly against the windows overlooking Gotham.
Damian sat atop one of the counter stools while Alfred moved around the kitchen.
Alfred had immediately put him to work the second they entered. “Hands are not decorative, Master Damian.”
Damian now found himself begrudgingly separating herbs while Alfred prepared ingredients beside him.
Over the months, Alfred had taken genuine joy in learning vegan recipes specifically for Damian. Entire cookbooks had slowly accumulated in the kitchen because of it. Alfred never made it feel burdensome either.
despite everything surrounding Damian’s birth, The years Bruce had spent separated from you, Alfred could never bring himself to regret it fully. Because at the center of all that disaster stood Damian.
Sharp edged and difficult, yes but still a good boy.
“I discovered a recipe earlier today,” Alfred said conversationally while opening the fridge. “Marry Me Chicken. Though, naturally, tofu in this case.”
Damian looked up immediately despite himself. Alfred continued, entirely serious, “I thought you might enjoy trying it.”
“…Thank you, Pennyworth.”
“The pleasure is mine.”
Alfred began seasoning tofu with nutritional yeast before carefully setting it into a pan to fry. The smell alone was already incredible. He glanced over his shoulder only to notice Damian staring absently out the kitchen windows into the dark grounds surrounding the manor.
Poor child. Whether Damian fully realized it or not, that boy was loved beyond measure in this house.
“You know,” Alfred started carefully, “the lady of the house specifically requested I refrain from mentioning this to you, though I fear I must meddle slightly.”
Damian’s eyes narrowed immediately. “I do not care to hear about her business.”
“Of course,” Alfred replied smoothly. “Naturally.”
Damian returned to staring out the window. He started fiddling with his fingers against the countertop.
Alfred hid his amusement expertly.
“Well,” Alfred continued after a moment, “I heard from a rather reliable little bird that Master Bruce intends to open a sanctuary dedicated to Gotham wildlife rehabilitation.”
The reaction was immediate despite how hard he tried suppressing it. His eyes widened slightly, shoulders straightening. Damian had openly ranted to the family about animal cruelty. Half the manor had been subjected to lectures about ethical conservation at some point. Bruce himself had once endured a two hour argument because Damian discovered an endangered species exhibit operating unethically overseas.
The idea that his family not only listened but actively supported those passions It hit somewhere deep inside him.
“That…” Damian started quietly before quickly correcting his tone back into something composed. “That is good news.”
Alfred smiled softly to himself while stirring the sauce.
Then Damian’s expression fell. Because suddenly he remembered the conversation outside your study earlier. Damian could not understand it. Why would you continue trying with him?
Most people eventually gave up when someone acted rude enough. Damian certainly wouldn’t blame them. He knew he could be difficult intentionally. So why didn’t you stop?
“…Why would she do that?” he asked finally, voice quieter now.
Alfred looked over at him knowingly. “Well,” he replied gently, “I imagine he cares a great deal about you.”
The emphasis made Damian blink.
Your gift had not been about earning Damian’s approval. It had been because you loved Bruce enough to love what mattered to him too. Or that maybe you cared much about him. It made him fee guilty, Damian suddenly realized the kindness you showed him was not an obligation.
Alfred plated the tofu carefully before placing the dish in front of Damian.
“Besides,” Alfred added lightly, “people in this family do have a rather amazing habit of loving each other persistently.”
Damian stared down at the food for a long moment. “…Peculiar.”
The medbay was quiet in that soft, humming way that always made people instinctively lower their voices, as if the machines themselves demanded respect. Soft lights glowed overhead, casting everything in a calm, sterile haze while the healers worked carefully around you.
You, meanwhile, were very much not calm.
“I don’t need that many wraps,” you muttered, glaring down at your arm as a healer adjusted the splint again. “It’s one arm, not a full-body injury.”
“It’s a fracture, Your Highness,” the medical droid replied. “And you also have a concussion.”
“I feel fine.”
From the chair beside your bed, Obi-Wan made a quiet sound that was dangerously close to disbelief.
You turned your head toward him immediately, eyes narrowing. “Don’t start.”
“I haven’t said anything.”
“You were thinking something.”
“I assure you,” he said mildly, though there was a hint of something softer in his tone now, “my thoughts are entirely reasonable.”
You scoffed, shifting slightly only to hiss under your breath when your arm protested.
His hand was there instantly, not grabbing. Not restraining.
Just… there.
Hovering at your side, steadying you without pressure, his thumb brushing lightly against your wrist as if checking that you were still real.
“Careful,” he murmured.
Your irritation flickered, then softened just a fraction. “…I am being careful.”
“You are arguing with medical staff.”
“They started it.”
Across the room, Anakin leaned lazily against the wall, arms crossed, watching the entire exchange with barely contained amusement. Padmé stood beside him, composed as always though the corner of her mouth kept twitching like she was fighting a smile.
Anakin leaned in slightly, lowering his voice as Obi-Wan reached up to gently brush a loose strand of hair away from your face.
“It’s a bit pathetic, right?” he whispered.
Padmé’s eyes widened just slightly as she elbowed him. “Anakin.”
“What?” he muttered, grinning. “Look at him.”
Because Obi-Wan wasn’t even trying to pretend anymore.
He sat close, too close for someone who insisted on Jedi detachment, his body angled toward you like he’d forgotten the rest of the room existed. His hand lingered near your shoulder, occasionally adjusting the blanket, smoothing your hair back again when it fell into your face, his gaze constantly flicking over you like he was checking for injuries that had already been treated.
It was…obvious.
Painfully obvious.
On the other side of the room, Ahsoka clasped her hands together with a quiet, delighted little gasp.
“I think they’re cute,” she whispered, absolutely beaming.
Anakin gagged.
Loudly.
“Oh, that’s disgusting.”
You turned your head instantly. “I can still hear you.”
“Good,” Anakin shot back. “Maybe then you’ll realize you’ve turned my master into...” he gestured vaguely toward Obi-Wan, who was currently adjusting your pillow with entirely too much care, “...that.”
Obi-Wan didn’t even look at him. "Anakin.”
“That’s not a denial,” he pressed, smirking now. “You’re hovering.”
“I am ensuring she is comfortable.”
“You’ve adjusted that pillow five times.”
“It required adjustment.”
“It did not.”
“It did.”
Ahsoka snorted softly, bouncing slightly on her heels. “You’re both wrong. It’s not the pillow.”
Anakin raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”
“It’s the hair thing,” she said, pointing dramatically as Obi-Wan completely unconsciously, brushed your hair back again. “That’s the one that makes it obvious.”
Anakin made a face like he’d just smelled something terrible. “I’m going to be sick.”
Padmé pinched the bridge of her nose, clearly trying not to laugh. “You’re being dramatic.”
“I am not being dramatic,” he insisted. “I have watched this man lecture me for years about attachment, and now he’s...he’s—” he waved a hand again, searching for words, “...fixing her hair.!"
“I can hear you,” Obi-Wan said calmly.
“Good.”
You shifted again, eyes flicking between them before settling back on Obi-Wan, your lips twitching slightly despite yourself.
“…You are hovering,” you murmured.
His gaze dropped to you immediately. “I am not.”
“You are.”
“I am ensuring—”
“that I don’t spontaneously combust?” you cut in dryly.
A pause.
“…That you are comfortable.”
You hummed, studying him for a moment, something softer slipping into your expression.
Then, without warning, you leaned slightly toward him, just enough that your shoulder brushed his arm and let your head tilt, resting lightly against him.
The room went silent.
Obi-Wan froze.
Completely.
Anakin gagged again. “Oh, come on.”
Ahsoka clutched her hands to her chest like she might actually explode. “I knew it—”
Padmé finally gave in, turning her face slightly to hide her smile.
Obi-Wan, meanwhile, very carefully did not move.
Not away.
Not closer.
Just… stayed.
As if he’d decided that breathing too loudly might ruin the moment.
You let out a quiet, satisfied little hum, eyes slipping half-shut as you settled more comfortably against him. “…There,” you murmured. “Better.”
His hand hovered again for a second, just hesitating before gently, cautiously, coming to rest against your shoulder.
Anakin made the most dramatic choking noise yet, dragging a hand down his face. “This is unbearable.”
Ahsoka grinned brightly. “You’re just jealous.”
“I am not jealous.”
“You are.”
“I am traumatized.”
Padmé laughed softly under her breath, shaking her head.
And across the room, Obi-Wan didn’t respond to any of it.
Didn’t rise to the teasing.
Didn’t correct them.
Because you were leaning against him.
Safe.
Warm.
Here.
And for once, he didn’t seem to mind being called out at all.
Hello, how are you? So… I don't know if you accept any kind of request, but if you do, could you do something with John Wick dating a younger assassin?
English is not my first language and I'm not very good at it… so sorry if there are any mistakes, anyway, thanks.
𝖶𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗄𝗂𝗅𝗅𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾
𝖯𝖺𝗂𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀－𝖩𝗈𝗁𝗇 𝗐𝗂𝖼𝗄 𝗑 𝖸𝗈𝗎𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗌𝗌𝖺𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗇
𝖲𝗎𝗆𝗆𝖺𝗋𝗒－Being with John Wick wasn’t about romance—it was about survival, trust, and quiet intensity. You met on opposite sides of a contract, but somehow, through blood, bruises, and shared silence, you became each other’s only peace. He loved you without words—through protection, presence, and the way he held you like you were the only thing keeping him grounded.
𝖠／𝖭－𝖨 𝗁𝗈𝗉𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗂𝗌 𝗀𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝖾𝗇𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗍𝗉𝖾𝖺
Being with John Wick wasn’t like the movies.
There weren’t candlelit dinners or weekend getaways. No flowers on the kitchen table, no grand gestures. The world didn’t let men like John love like that.
But he loved you in his own way.
In the way he cleaned your wounds before his own. In how he always walked on the outside of the sidewalk. How he noticed when you were down to your last magazine, even in the middle of a firefight. How he memorized the rhythm of your breathing while you slept—just in case it ever changed.
You met on a job in Morocco. Two professionals. Two contracts. Same target. You nearly killed each other in a hallway before realizing the contract was double-booked.
You cracked the first joke.
He didn’t laugh—but he didn’t shoot, either.
Now, two years later, you lived in a hidden townhouse outside of Naples. The walls were reinforced. The basement had three exits. And your bedroom had blackout curtains and a drawer full of unregistered weapons. Still, it was the closest thing to peace either of you had known in years.
Mornings with John were… surprising.
You always expected him to be cold. Stoic. But he was quiet in the mornings in a way that felt tender. He made coffee just the way you liked it, always handed you your mug before touching his own. Sometimes, you’d find him out on the patio before sunrise, barefoot, wrapped in a robe, staring into the trees like he was waiting for something—or someone—that would never come.
You never asked what he was thinking about.
You just sat beside him.
No words. Just presence.
Training together was… violent foreplay.
Sparring in the basement usually ended in bruises and heavy breathing. He never went easy on you, and you wouldn’t have respected him if he did. You learned each other’s rhythms. The way he favored his left side after taking a bullet last spring. The way you dipped your shoulder before every hook.
One time, you had him on his back, your knee against his chest, hair falling in your face. You smirked. “You’re slipping, old man.”
His response was to grab you by the waist and flip you in one brutal, fluid motion.
He was on top of you now. Breathing heavy. Hands planted on either side of your head.
“You were saying?”
You just smiled.
Sometimes, the fights ended in sex. Sometimes, in bruised egos and ice packs.
Either way, it was always honest.
The work never really stopped. You still took contracts. So did he. Sometimes together. Sometimes apart.
The part no one warned you about?
The waiting.
When John was out, the house was too quiet. You cleaned your weapons. You sharpened your blades. You stared at your phone like a rookie.
Because as skilled as he was… you knew how fast things could go wrong.
And when you were the one out in the field? He’d be waiting with the front door cracked open and a first aid kit on the counter—never asking questions unless you needed to talk.
Because that’s the kind of love you had.
No demands. No ultimatums. Just survival and understanding.
Nights were the best part.
He didn’t like to be touched much in public. Not in front of other assassins, not in front of enemies. But at home? He was starved for it.
He held you like he couldn’t believe you were real. Slow. Careful. One arm around your waist, the other tangled in your hair, like he was scared you’d disappear if he let go.
“You trust me?” you asked him once, voice soft against his chest.
“With everything,” he said, no hesitation.
You didn’t respond. You just kissed the scar on his collarbone, the one you’d stitched yourself six months ago.
You argued.
You were reckless. He was stubborn.
Sometimes you came home bleeding, grinning, high on adrenaline, and he’d pace the hallway like a man trying not to scream.
“You’re not untouchable,” he’d growl, patching you up rougher than necessary.
“Neither are you,” you’d spit back, eyes flashing.
But then he’d stop. Look at you like you were glass. Like he was afraid one day you wouldn’t walk back through that door at all.
And he’d say nothing. Just pull you close, bury his face in your neck, and hold you like you were slipping through his fingers.
“I can’t lose you too,” he whispered once.
You didn’t say anything.
Just held him back tighter.
The world called him the boogeyman.
You just called him John.
He wasn’t perfect. He was broken. Haunted. Still wore grief like a second skin.
But so were you.
And maybe that’s what made it work. Two broken people. Two survivors. Finding peace not in safety—but in each other.
The world never stopped chasing him. Not really. And by being with him, it came after you too.
But you never wanted safety. You wanted something real.
You wanted him.
And John, for all his damage—for all the ghosts he carried—chose you.
He didn’t say “I love you” often.
But he said it in the way he bandaged your ribs.
In the way he never turned his back on you during a fight.
In the way he’d sit on the edge of the bed, watching you breathe like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to earth.
Even if the world burned tomorrow, you’d die knowing you were loved in a way few ever are
Fully. Quietly. Fiercely.
You were his war
And he was your peace
But somehow, the two of you found something between the two.
Something that felt like a future—even if it came one bloody day at a time.
With John, everything started slow.
There was no rush. No fumbling. No words wasted.
He touched you like a man who’d thought about it too many times. Like he’d memorized the lines of your body long before his hands ever got the chance to trace them.
It always started with silence.
His fingers on your jaw, his thumb brushing your lips. A low look in his eyes that asked permission without ever saying a word. You nodded, breath caught in your throat, and that’s all he needed.
He kissed you like he was starved for it. Like you were the only thing tethering him to this world. And when he pulled back just enough to breathe, he looked at you—really looked at you—and said things with his eyes he never said out loud.
“You’re mine.”
“I need this.”
“I need you.”
When he finally got you into bed, he took his time—at first.
Hands on your waist. Mouth trailing down your collarbone. He was slow, methodical. Like he was cataloging every sound you made.
“You always make that noise?” he murmured, lips brushing the inside of your thigh.
“Only for you,” you gasped, fingers tangling in his hair.
That made him smirk. The kind of rare, quiet smirk only you ever got to see.
And then he wasn’t slow anymore.
He flipped you, dragged your body beneath him like he couldn’t stand the distance, and bit your shoulder as he slid inside you for the first time.
It wasn’t gentle.
But it wasn’t careless either.
John was the kind of lover who held you down, but kissed your temple. Who grabbed your throat, but stroked your cheek afterward. Who made you feel it—every thrust, every grip, every shaky breath.
He fucked like a man with something to prove—like he was trying to erase every man who came before him. And you let him. Welcomed it.
Because with John, it wasn’t just about sex.
It was about claiming. About trust. About needing someone so badly it hurt.
Afterward, he didn’t say much.
Just pulled you against him. Held you so tight your bones ached in the best way.
His fingers traced lazy patterns along your spine while your heartbeat slowly steadied. And eventually, his lips brushed your hairline, and he whispered something so soft, you almost missed it.
“I don’t deserve you.”
You looked up at him, sweat-damp and dazed.
“You’ve got me anyway.”
And in the quiet of that moment—in his arms, with his scent all over your skin—you knew you’d let him ruin you a hundred times over.
Because John Wick didn’t take what he didn’t mean to keep.
I'm sick of Steve being portrayed as a 7ft alpha daddy mogger guy, so here are some REAL headcanons about Steve having a crush:
- He tends to adjust his jacket or shirt every time he sees you, as if he's getting ready to impress you.
- He fiddles with his gloves or shield (if it's nearby) while talking to you, because he doesn't know where to put his hands.
- He tries to maintain eye contact but quickly looks away if he feels like he's staring at you for too long.
- He laughs awkwardly every time you say something funny, then blushes a little when he realizes it.
- He stumbles over his words or says things that are too formal for himself, like, “I'd like to... uh... talk to you about... that,” nervously but sweetly.
- He stand between you and anything that might hit or bother you, even if it's minimal, just to protect you.
- He opens the door to the lab or office for you, with that shy smile that he's not sure you'll like.
- He makes sure you have everything you need on your desk: water, coffee, organized papers, working pens.
- Takes extra notes to help you, even if you haven't asked, just because he wants everything to be perfect for you.
- Remembers things you said days ago and brings them up as an excuse to talk to you or surprise you, like, “Hey, I remembered you liked X, I got this for you.”
- Very enthusiastic about explaining something he's passionate about to you, just to see your reaction, and deep down hoping you will admire them a little.
- Leaning in to see you better when you are doing something, even if there is no need, as if he just want to get closer.
- Clumsily imitating your gestures without you noticing, as if he's unconsciously want to be closer to you.
- He accompanies you while you work, keeping a respectful distance but always close by, just so he doesn't miss a thing.
- He takes small risks to interact with you, like walking by you to hand you a document or asking you a trivial question just to talk to you.
- He gently teases you with jokes to make you laugh and see your smile.
- He watches you when you're not looking and quickly looks away when you catch him.
- He gives you awkward compliments, like “that... uh... the project you did is... very well done” with an instant blush.
- He is genuinely interested in things you like, even if he didn't care much about them before, just to have something to talk about with you.
- He thinks about you when you're not around, then tries to hide it when he sees you again.
Batmom: I’m fine, it’s just a small headache.
Bruce (looking Batmom over): When did it start?
Batmom: About ten minutes ago, I think.
Bruce: Did you drink enough water today?
Batmom (hesitantly): Yes
Bruce: How much?
Batmom: Maybe three...
Bruce: Cups?
Batmom: Sure
Bruce: Sit down, I will dim the lights and get you water and medicine.
Batmom: You worry too much.
Bruce: I know.
Batmom: I love you.
Bruce: I love you too.
Ok so the City Walls music video just released right? I have some notes.
Firstly:
Heavydirtysoul!! its so cool (and sad) to see Tyler back where he started
Then we got Bishop Clancy
Or ig he turned into Bishop Nova. According to TB, Clancy is "still out there somewhere" so the cycle continues for TB as well
Then we got the absolute devastation from TB seeing Clancy turn into a Bishop. Genuinely one of the saddest expressions I've ever seen (go watch the video, the screenshots dont do it any kind of justice)
The "and YOU" popping up made me cry, and I am NOT ashamed to admit that.
