39 years old. Italian. She/her. |Occasionally 18+| Fanfiction. Reading. Drawing. Movies. Arthur Morgan owns me. Din Djarin makes me weak. Sonny Carisi is a sweetheart. Pedro Pascal. MCU. Sebastian Stan. The Walking Dead. Thorin Oakenshield and Richard Armitage have a special place in my heart. The Hobbit & LotR. I'm also known as CloudySky on Lunaescence, Ghosts of the Vanguard and AO3.
The Fun Aunt (Baelor Targaryen x Wife!reader, Egg x Aunt!reader)
Request
A/N: I was originally going to make this an Egg x Step Mother!reader fic, but I thought this might be a slightly more fun twist!
Summary: When Maekar and family come to visit the Red Keep, there is always joyful chaos in the halls!
Word count: ~1.6k
Tags: 18+/MDNI, AFAB reader, (significant) age gap, younger!reader (20s), maternal/platonic relationship with Egg, just lots of fluff and cuteness, never proofread, (please let me know if I missed any)
“You little monkey!” The high pitched shout echoed through the halls to the solar in which Baelor worked diligently alongside his brother.
Maekar and his brood had come to Kingslanding upon Baelor’s own behest. It was to be his wife’s nameday in a few day’s time, and though the occasion did not usually necessitate such a grand visit, Baelor knew how fond his wife was of her younger nieces and nephews, and he himself would take any excuse to see his brother again.
Maekar looked up and met Baelor’s questioning eyes, his own eyebrow raising at the commotion. The sound of running feet echoed distantly, the slapping of boots and slippers on stone, and the loud mischievous laugh of Maekar’s youngest son followed by your own girlish giggle.
“You can’t catch me!” Egg called, the shout closer than before, and Maekar sighed, dropping his head with a shake, pressing his hand to his face. But Baelor only smiled, feeling a deep satisfaction at having the Keep so full of joyful noise.
Just as both men began to turn back to their work, the door burst open and a little bald head came rushing in. Egg skidded to a stop right in the centre of the solar, just shy of tripping over the edge of the rug, and stared wide eyed at both his father and uncle. Maekar was already scowling, one eyebrow rising dangerously, and though his uncle’s eyebrow mirrored it, he was far more amused than anything else.
Before anyone could say anything, the sound of hurried footsteps along the corridor reached them, and Egg jumped into action once more, rushing towards Baelor and rounding his desk just as you came sprinting through the open door.
You were a windswept vision. Your hair flew about and remained relatively contained only because of the intricate braids you kept. Your face was shiny, cheeks puffed from exertion, but your eyes were bright and alive, your face alight with the most beautiful smile.
“There you are! You silly silly goose!” You exclaimed, walking into the solar with a loud laugh.
“What the fuck is going on?” Maekar grumbled, glancing between his son (who was peeking out from behind Baelor’s chair with a bright smile and mischievous eyes) and his sister-in-law (who was pointing accusingly at his son).
“The little rascal and I were playing a lovely game of cyvasse - which I was winning might I add - when he swept all the pieces up into his arms and ran off!”
“You can’t win if there are no pieces!” Egg exclaimed, giggling brightly and hiding behind Baelor’s chair once more. He clutched the edge of his tunic up against his chest, creating a little pouch where many of the game pieces now resided (though many had also fallen along the way as he ran).
Baelor leaned back in his seat, settling comfortably as he watched you with a loving smile. You offered him one in return, blowing him a kiss before refocusing on Egg.
“That is called cheating!” You accused, pointing a finger at him as you moved forward to block his possible path around the other side of the desk. Egg only leaned around the side of Baelor’s chair and stuck his tongue out at you, giggling once more when you let out an exaggerated gasp and labelled him insolent.
“She is right, Aegon,” Baelor finally said, “it is cheating to steal away the pieces.” But before Egg could respond, Baelor reached around his chair with both hands and grasped onto the little boy. He dug his fingers into his sides, and though the angle was awkward, tickled the boy mercilessly.
“Uncle!” Egg yelled, squirming and squealing as he attempted to escape Baelor’s relentless grasp. You exclaimed triumphantly and quickly ran forward to join the onslaught, wrapping one arm around the boy and using the other hand to tickle at his stomach and ribs. All the pieces fell from his tunic and clattered on the floor, but the boy was too busy attempting to evade the hands grasping at him.
Maekar watched silently from the other side of Baelor’s desk. Though he did not smile overtly, there was something soft in his face. He watched Baelor smile as he leant around the side of his chair to watch you with Egg, he watched how his brother beamed at you and the boy. He watched how you wrapped Egg up in a hug and how your laughter flowed freely, how your smile was as bright as his brother’s. And he saw Egg, sweet little Egg who remained an absolute nuisance to his father, but looked so full of joy now. He had not seen Egg so free, so relaxed and… happy. He had not seen his boy happy in so long.
The scene reminded Maekar of his own youth, of all the moments spent playing with Baelor before they were both grown. He remembered such moments with Baelo when one chased the other through the halls of the Keep, or when Baelor was merciless with his ticklish onslaught, only yielding when Maekar had gone red in the face and could neither breathe nor speak. Those were some of the happiest memories Maekar possessed.
“I yield! I yield!” Egg finally called, panting and breathless, curled in on himself to escape the onslaught.
You and Baelor finally let go of the boy, the two of you falling into a heap beside Baelor’s chair, breathless and still laughing a little. You rubbed a hand over the top of Egg’s head and he shoved it away lightheartedly, slumping against the wall so he could catch his breath.
Baelor reached down and gently pushed a sweaty strand of hair out of your face, caressing your cheek with his thumb for a moment. You turned your head and kissed the inside of his palm without thinking about it, leaning your head into his hold and fluttering your eyes shut for a second before returning to the world around you.
“You’ve tired me out so early in the day,” you huffed, mock-glaring at Egg. He let out a breathless laugh, shrugging as if it could not be helped, and you reached out and lightly flicked him on the arm. “Oh!” You perked up with an idea then, offering Egg a conspiratorial and mischievous smile. “I’ve had rather a good idea, why don’t you and I go sneak some cake from the kitchens? I’m quite sure they’ve been practicing for my nameday feast, no doubt they will have scraps to offer us.”
Egg nodded enthusiastically then jumped up, practically buzzing with excitement again. He offered you a hand up, and you smiled kindly in thanks, taking one of his and the one that Baelor too offered you. You were careful to not step on the inside of your dress, and you petted the top of Egg’s head in thanks. The boy quickly made his way to the door but you remained at Baelor’s side.
“Would you like some secret cake?” You asked your husband cheekily, and he only huffed a chuckle in response. Baelor draped his arm around your waist and dragged you a little closer to the chair he was sitting in. He tilted his head back to look up at you and his eyes shined with love.
“I shall wait to enjoy it legally,” he answered teasingly, and you scoffed, murmuring about how he was no fun at all, but your smile betrayed you. You leaned down and cupped Baelor’s cheek, rubbing a little at the scruff of his beard, then gently pressed your lips to his, kissing him once and then twice until both of you were smiling into it and you could hear a grumble from Maekar and a loud “ew!” from Egg.
“Kissing my husband is not ‘ew’,” you responded petulantly, draping one arm over Baelor’s shoulders and turning to look at Egg who stood behind his father and scowled at you.
“Yes it is, you’re kissing my uncle. It’s disgusting,” he answered firmly, sneering a little.
“It is not ‘disgusting’!” You exclaimed even louder, then just to annoy him, you leant down again and pressed another kiss to Baelor’s lips (who could only chuckle and lightly shake his head at your antics).
“Eugh, it is,” Egg repeated once more, shaking his head and looking at you with exaggerated disdain.
“The boy is right, it’s fucking disgusting,” Maekar grumbled, shaking his head and looking back down at his papers, but you scoffed and let out a sound of indignation. But you could see right through the grump and knew that he was happy to see his family happy.
“I care not for your weak little constitutions,” you dismissed then, waving your hand in the air. “I will kiss my husband freely!” Baelor chuckled and patted your side, but Egg only stuck his tongue out at you, reaching for the door knob.
“Come along Auntie!” He finally called, tiring of your teasing and desperate to get back on the mission for cake. “Or I shall go have it all for myself and tell them to give you none!” Then he rushed through the door with a giggle. You scoffed and smiled in disbelief at Baelor, laughing loudly.
“The little rascal! He forgets that I am married to the Crown Prince, and that it is my nameday that the cake is being made for!” You smiled cheekily, pressed another kiss to Baelor’s cheek, then ran out after the boy, yelling something along the lines of “wait for me you cheeky monkey! I want raspberry jam with mine!”
Devotion in the Dark (Vampire!Baelor x Reader x Vampire!Maekar) - Chapter 1 of 3
Series Masterlist ✦ Chapter 1 ↝ Chapter 2 ✦ read on ao3
Summary: Sent to Dragonstone as the price of your house’s uncertain loyalties, you arrive seeking the favour of two princes, who were powerful enough to help your dying brother. What you find instead is a court of gentle and watchful monsters.
Word count: 8.1K
Tags: 18+/MINORS DO NOT INTERACT, SEXUAL EXPLICIT CONTENT, vampire au, arranged hostage situation/political hostage, power imbalance, dark romance, blood kink, dream sex, fingering, oral sex (f receiving), light choking, masturbation, age gap, she/her pronouns, AFAB reader, English is my second language
Please let me know if I’ve missed anything!
Disclaimer: I do not own the characters, setting, or story of A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms. This work is a fanfiction created for enjoyment and non-commercial purposes only.
Author’s note: I just had to add some plot and it became, well, this 😅 I had a great time writing this story, so I truly hope you enjoy reading it as well. Leave a like, reblog or comment if you do ☺️
You stood at the prowl of the ship, cloak clinging to your shoulders, damp from the sea mist. You hugged your arms tightly as you stared straight ahead, at your new home.
Dragonstone.
Against the evening sky, towers made from living stone etched across the horizon, like smoke made solid. The island and the castle did not just merely sit at the sea, they dominated it. It was as though the waves were forced to kneel before it.
Your eyes followed the shape of the structure. There should have been birds, you thought. Seagulls nested on every rocky coast in Westeros, screaming above harbours.
But there were none around Dragonstone. No flutter of wings, nor any shrill cries. It was as though nothing, no living being dared linger above it.
Behind you, lords, ladies and their retainers crowded the deck in a silence that pretended to be courtly composure. Faces remained carefully blank.
All of you were chosen as honoured guests.
Carefully selected, carefully collected, the third gathering of such an esteemed company.
The first had come shortly after the end of the Blackfyre Rebellion, held within the walls of the Red Keep in King’s Landing. The war had ended, but its wound lingered still, and with them came the procession of those left behind. Sons and daughters, nephews and nieces, cousins from houses whose loyalties lied elsewhere, whose banners were seen beneath the wrong dragon, whose names appeared too often in whispers and uneasy council meetings. Some arrived stripped of titles and inheritance, others burdened only by the weight of their family’s choices, paying for a crime they did not commit. Yet all were gathered beneath the same roof, living reminders of a kingdom still trying to stitch itself back together. The second gathering had followed not long after, as the Crown sought to decide what would become of those whose blood tied them to their sworn enemies.
And now it was your turn.
A little more than a decade later had passed since the second gathering. Peace had settled precariously across the realm and the realm was attempting to heal. Castles were rebuilt and alliances were mended, the scars of rebellion slowly fading from the land, if not from the memory.
Then came the summons.
In the name of the eternal King Daeron II, Prince Baelor and Prince Maekar extended invitations to the sons and daughters of noble houses throughout Westeros, calling for a new court to be assembled in Dragonstone.
An honour, the ravens proclaimed, a privilege bestowed upon them.
Though everyone understood what it truly was.
The Blackfyre Rebellion had ended years ago, the Black Dragon slain upon the Redgrass Field, but victories won upon the battlefield did not so easily erase the loyalties forged. Many who had once raised their banners in his name still lived. Some had bent the knee willingly, others had done so because they had no other choice. Some nursed old grievances in silence, while others simply waited for another opportunity to present itself.
The Crown knew this, and Dragonstone would gather them all beneath one roof.
A court, they called it. A place where the loyal might be rewarded, where uncertain allegiances could be observed, and where dangerous sympathies might reveal themselves with time.
No one was foolish enough to mistake it for anything but a gilded cage.
And should another rebellion ever threaten the realm, the heirs and close kin of every house whose loyalty remained in question would already be in Targaryen hands.
You recognised many banners surrounding you from childhood lessons. Houses that had raised their banners in support of Daemon Blackfyre. Houses that had hesitated until the last possible moment. Houses that had proclaimed neutrality, while quietly supplying coin, men or grain.
Your own house had never openly declared for the Black Dragon. Their support of him was more careful, as if it could be hidden like knives could under sleeves. They believed this sort of loyalty could leave no proof, and could be denied if questioned.
But now all of you stood on a Targaryen ship bound for Dragonstone, pretending you were guests rather than hostages.
Your uncle’s decision echoed loudly in your mind, with a clarity that would never fade.
You were not a noble sacrifice, as many were before you. You were a calculated exchange. At your younger brother’s passing, your uncle stood to inherit everything. And he chose you as the price for securing his future. Not to preserve your family’s dignity, or to protect your house.
Your brother… too young, too sick, too weak… Left behind and dying in a bed you could no longer reach.
The image of him haunted you. Thin fingers clutching blankets, eyes too large for his pale face. Always trying so hard to smile whenever you visited him.
You remembered your last morning together clearly, though you had tried since then not to.
Beren had been propped against too many pillows, his hair damp against his forehead despite the chill in the room. He was three and ten, though the illness had shrunk him smaller than that.
“You are not to cry when you leave.” He told you, with the particular seriousness only a sick child could manage.
“I am not going to cry.” You sniffled softly.
“You already are close to it.”
He pointed a thin finger at your face, delighted with himself and what he had seen.
“Your nose does the thing.”
You could not help but scoff, though tears already welled in your eyes.
“My nose does not do a thing.” You retorted.
“It twitches, like a rabbit’s.”
You had laughed despite everything, and he had looked so pleased with the laugh that you nearly ruined it by crying after all.
“When you come back…” He said quietly. “Will you tell me about the dragons?”
“There are no real dragons left, Beren.”
“There might be.” He replied stubbornly. “You will look for me, and you will write it all down, so I do not miss any of it.”
You gave him your promise, you had meant it entirely.
And you had been sent away, to rot in fear, surrounded by darkness and the stench of blood.
You swallowed hard.
The princes would hear your case. Surely, they would. You would beg on your knees if necessary. Pride meant little to you when your brother’s life and future hung in the balance. Perhaps Prince Baelor, famed for his honour, would listen. Perhaps even Prince Maekar, harsh though the stories painted him, might respect your honesty.
You would tell them the truth, that your house had committed no true treason, that your late father and uncle did everything seeking their own gain. That your brother needed help, needed protection, that you were willing to serve them faithfully if it meant securing his future.
Your fingers tightened against the railing, until your knuckles turned white and ached.
The ship turned into the harbour, the chains of the anchor groaning as they rapidly descended. Torches burned along the docks, painting the black stone in flickering gold. They burned steady despite the wind coming off the water, flames standing upright and untroubled where they should have guttered sideways. You felt no warmth as you passed them by.
Targaryen stewards herded everyone towards the castle. Retainers were separated first, servants directed elsewhere.
You noticed that several other guests were being watched more closely than you were. The guards barely moved, standing with an unnatural stillness, eyes tracking every gesture. You were certain they knew which names mattered, which bloodlines were useful, what loyalties could be broken.
And which blood was free to be spilled and consumed.
A shudder ran through your spine.
After being shown to your chambers, you were given barely enough time to bathe. Servants appeared almost immediately afterward to dress you for the welcoming feast. Their hands were cold, their smiles were hollow, and their eyes were strangely distant. You recognised what they were.
Thralls…
Men and women bound so completely to their masters that little remained of who they once were. Neither fully servants nor fully prisoners, they were living reminders of the power the Targaryens wielded. You wondered whether they remembered their own names, their previous lives.
You had little time to dwell on it before you were escorted towards the great hall.
The feast was too bright to feel real. Torchlight gleamed across polished stone and Targaryen banners hung from black walls. Music drifted through the air, all warmth and gold light, pretending at comfort. The kind of comfort that did not belong inside a fortress carved from volcanic rock.
Laughter echoed carefully, conversations flowing cautiously, as though many wished to test if joy was permitted here.
One by one, new arrivals were presented before the princes.
Baelor and Maekar Targaryen, the Hammer and the Anvil. The princes who had crushed the Blackfyre Rebellion through blood, steel, and ancient Valyrian sorcery.
Your heart thundered as your name was announced.
The crowd seemed to disappear, and only the dais remained.
Only them.
Prince Baelor stood forward. Tall and broad-shouldered, his dark hair was cropped, and his beard neatly trimmed, threaded faintly with grey. His mismatched gaze, one pale violet eye, the other dark brown, settled heavily on you. He was handsome in a way that seemed effortless. His features were gentle where Maekar’s were severe. Noble where Maekar’s were sharp.
Yet nothing about him felt soft. There was immense power hidden beneath his composure.
Beside him stood Prince Maekar and his beauty was far colder. His face looked carved, every angle precise and merciless. He was tall, unyielding, no strand of white-silvery hair out of place. His cheeks were covered by a neat beard, his expression set in a scowl. His pale violet eyes crawled over your frame.
Both men looked young, younger than the stories claimed. Valyrian blood magic had preserved them and made them eternal. It made them something other than men.
And they were looking at you, measuring you.
For one terrible moment, you felt as though they could see every thought you ever possessed. And despite yourself, despite your fear, you found them beautiful. Terrifyingly so.
Baelor inclined his head first. Whether in greeting or appraisal, you were not certain.
“Lady…”
He said your name as though he had spoken it before and found it pleasing.
“You travelled far to reach your new home.”
You found yourself unable to stop looking at them. Their eyes were wrong in ways the stories never properly explained. They were not monstrous, but not human either. There was a stillness in them that suggested patience to be measured differently that mortal men understood.
You realised that neither of them had blinked. Not once, not since your name was called and you approached the dais.
“I had no choice in the matter.” You admitted truthfully, voice trembling despite your efforts.
A flicker passed through Baelor’s expression, recognition and perhaps something dangerously close to offence. As though he disliked the circumstances that had delivered you here.
Maekar gave an amused scoff.
“She is so frightened.” He said, a hint of mocking in his voice.
Your hands tightened at your sides.
“I am not-”
“Lying already.” Maekar interrupted you, snarling. “And you are far from convincing, girl.”
Your pulse betrayed you before any words could. Baelor’s gaze shifted to your throat at the sound. Then, he smoothly stepped, not threateningly, but close enough that you became aware of how little space remained between you.
“You are safe here.” He said.
It should have reassured you, but it felt more like a verdict, a decision already made for you. And you hated how little comfort it gave you, because nothing about the way they were looking at you suggested indifference.
Maekar looked at you a moment longer than necessary, like he was learning the shape of your fear.
“The little dove thinks we will bite her.” He observed. “Or worse.”
Your breath hitched sharply. Baelor briefly glanced at his brother.
“That is enough, brother.” He said softly, and yet somehow it carried the weight of command.
Maekar rolled his eyes, as Baelor’s attention returned to you.
“You will join the others.” He said. His eyes met yours, steady and unreadable.
“And you will find that Dragonstone is not as cruel as the stories suggest.”
The gentleness in his voice almost made you believe him. Maekar smirked at that.
You hesitated only once, not because you wished to disobey. But because you realised, with unsettling clarity that you had not decided what you thought of them.
Only what you felt. And that was infinitely more dangerous.
You lowered your gaze and curtsied before you forgot how.
Then you stepped back into the hall that was already becoming something you could not escape. Not because of the invisible chains, but because of their attention, which you could feel like heat lingering against your skin.
The feast continued to unfold in waves of gold and shadows.
Music drifted through the hall, not lively enough to inspire dancing, yet loud enough to soften the frightened murmurs of the gathered nobility.
You followed the others toward the long tables arranged beneath the high dais.
Servants moved soundlessly through the hall, carrying dark iron platters heavy with roasted meats, spiced vegetables. With figs split open like wounds, their crimson flesh glistening beneath torchlight, and goblets of deep red wine that caught torchlight like garnets.
Everything was rich, everything was plentiful. Yet everything felt wrong.
You could feel them watching. Not just the princes, but the others were watching as well. For Maekar had called you little dove, for Baelor’s gaze had lingered longer than courtesy demanded. People noticed such things.
In any normal court, attention was currency. But here, it felt more like danger.
A young woman from the Reach slid into the seat beside you, shoulders relaxing in visible relief at finding someone near her own age.
“Lady Elinor of House Ambrose.” She introduced herself with a nervous smile.
You returned the greeting politely and offered your own name.
Across from you sat another noblewoman, older than either of you. She was dark haired and sharp-eyed, despite the fear she tried to conceal.
“Lady Bethany of House Bracken.” She said. “Though I wager names matter here less than bloodlines.”
No one disagreed.
As the food was served, the conversation remained harmless. The three of you spoke carefully, of the voyage to Dragonstone, the roughness of the sea crossing, the discomfort of sleeping aboard a ship. Yet inevitably, like driftwood carried by the tide, every discussion found its way back to the same subject.
Back to them.
“They do not age.” Elinor whispered after finishing her second goblet of wine.
“My mother saw Prince Baelor at court in King’s Landing when she was a child. Then again years later, when she visited once more after marrying my father. She swore he looked exactly the same.”
Bethany glanced quickly towards the high table before hissing at her.
“Keep your voice down!”
Elinor pursed her lips. “You speak as if they cannot hear us.”
Perhaps they could, you thought, your stomach tightening.
You did not mean to look at the dais, yet your eyes drifted towards them all the same.
Towards the high table where the princes sat surrounded by their retinue of like-bodied beautiful lords and ladies, like predators gathered beneath a single banner.
Baelor listened patiently as several noblemen spoke to him. His posture remained composed, one hand resting loosely around a bronze goblet. He occasionally offered a quiet reply, earning smiles from those fortunate enough to receive his attention.
There was no plate before him. No food, no untouched scraps. Nothing.
A small knot formed in your throat.
Your gaze drifted towards Maekar, and noted that he had no plate either. His grip around the goblet was tighter, less elegant than his brother’s. He made little effort to entertain conversation. Offering an occasional grunt or dismissive scoff, a scowl was settled permanently upon his sharp features.
Servants replenished both their goblets without question. You noticed, though at first you told yourself you imagined it, that the wine in their cups never quite matched the wine in anyone else’s. Darker, somehow, thicker in the candlelight. No one else at the table seemed to notice, or perhaps no one else dared voice it.
Baelor drank rarely, with elegant restraint, while Maekar drank more often, lazily almost, his pale violet eyes wandering across the room between sips.
And suddenly you became aware of how often they landed on you. Not constantly, but very deliberately. As though he knew precisely when you would feel them on you. And as though he wanted you to.
He was staring at you like that right at this moment.
Elinor followed your gaze, and promptly went pale.
“Oh Gods…” She whispered. “The prince is looking at you!”
“Hush now.” Bethany snapped immediately.
But heat rushed into your cheeks regardless, and you quickly reached for your goblet in an attempt to steady yourself. Suddenly, the edge of the serving knife caught against your finger, barely more than a sting. You barely felt it, yet when you glanced down, a bright bead of blood welled against your skin.
The change was immediate, Elinor froze and Bethany’s expression drained of colour. Stillness spread around your section of the table, and then to the dais.
Slowly, your gaze lifted towards it.
Baelor had stopped moving, unnaturally still, as though every muscle in his body had locked at once. Maekar’s gaze was already fixed upon your hand, his nostrils flared.
Something inside you went cold, for the princes were not the only ones staring. Their companions had gone silent as well. Every pale face at the high table seemed suddenly attentive, as though listening to something invisible.
No, not listening. Smelling...
Shivers ran up your spine as the realisation struck with horrifying clarity.
They could smell the blood.
Baelor carefully set his goblet upon the table, his composure remaining intact. But beneath his mismatched gaze, strain flickered through it. Maekar made no attempt to hide his reaction. Leaning back in his chair, he watched your injured finger with unsettling focus.
Interest, hunger… something older than manners flickered across his gaze.
You quickly pressed your thumb against the wound, but the gesture accomplished nothing. The metallic scent lingered in the air.
“Lady…” Baelor spoke your name softly. The sound carried effortlessly across the room.
“You are injured.”
Gods, you wanted the floor to swallow you whole.
“It is nothing.” The answer escaped from your lips before you could think.
Maekar scoffed loudly, and several nobles visibly flinched.
“It is a small injury, that is true.” Baelor agreed. “But it is not nothing.”
His eyes held yours.
“Not to us…”
A tremour passed through you. Neither prince looked away.
And for one terrible moment, you understood what frightened people most about creatures like them. It was not violence, for men committed violence every day. Knights butchered one another in fields, lords hanged peasants by the dozen. Violence belonged to mankind as much as monsters.
It was attention… their attention.
The feeling of becoming the only thing they could see, the only thing they could think about, the only thing that mattered.
Baelor rose slowly from his seat, the scrape of the chair against stone echoing through the hall. Tension rippled outward like cracks spreading through ice, and whatever conversation was spoken died instantly.
Your heart hammered against your ribs so violently that you were certain everyone could hear it, not just the princes.
He descended the dais without hurry, without taking his eyes from you. He stopped beside your chair, close enough for you to catch the faint scent of smoke and spice lingering on his clothes.
Then he held out a clean linen cloth.
“Please, my lady.” His voice was painfully gentle. “You must clean your wound.”
You stared at the offered cloth, then at him. His eyes remained fixed on yours. And beneath the courtesy, beneath the restraint, beneath the terrifying calm that years had perfected, you could see the hunger suffering itself into silence.
And somehow, that frightened you far more than if he had simply bared his fangs.
The first few weeks at Dragonstone passed as if everything existed beneath deep waters. Time folded strangely within the castle and days vanished before you noticed them.
Sunlight rarely penetrated the inner halls, and even when it did, it seemed pale and uncertain against the black stone. By dusk, however, Dragonstone awakened fully, following the habits of its masters. Torches bloomed to life along endless corridors, servants appeared from nowhere and vanished just as quickly. Doors opened and closed, footsteps echoed, and whispers travelled.
And somewhere, always somewhere, somebody was watching.
The castle attempted to resemble a court. Feasts were held, musicians played in the evenings and guests were encouraged to mingle. None of it felt genuine for every step, every conversation, every glance was observed.
People disappeared. Never enough to cause panic, but just enough to ensure nobody forgot where they were. A young knight from the Stormlands failed to appear at breakfast one morning. Then, a lord’s nephew vanished after loudly proclaiming his admiration for Daemon Blackfyre after partaking in too much wine.
No explanation followed and no one dared ask. The castle consumed questions as readily as it consumed people.
Rumours spread through the halls regardless. Gossips about traitors uncovered, and plots exposed. About conspiracies extinguished before they could take root. Some claimed Prince Baelor personally questioned suspected loyalists, others whispered that Prince Maekar preferred less civilized methods.
You never learned the truth. You only knew that each week the court grew quieter and more careful.
You submitted a request for an audience with the princes within days of your arrival. Then another, then a third. All were acknowledged, but none were granted. Your brother remained far away, and your letters home remained unanswered. The princes remained frustratingly out of reach.
You quickly learned that fear exhausted itself eventually, turning into vigilance.
The other honoured guests began forming alliances, however uneasy. Bethany took charge almost immediately. She gathered companions the way some women gathered jewels. Yourself, Elinor, several other ladies from the Reach and Riverlands. A loose circle of friendship born from necessity. Meals became opportunities for whispered conversations, rumours exchanged like coin.
Yet, despite trying to remain apart from them, you sought their company in the end.
A few days later, you found them in a small solar overlooking the eastern cliffs. It was one of the few solars none of the other noble lords and ladies bothered to claim, because the winds howled too loudly for gentle ears and polite conversation. Bethany had claimed it anyway on the grounds that a room no one wanted was the one room worth having.
Elinor was already curled into the window seat when you arrived, a piece of embroidery held up to the light with visible dissatisfaction.
“It is meant to be a rose.” She said, by way of greeting.
You neared her, watching the embroidery as she tilted it towards you.
“I am told it resembles a boiled turnip.” She pouted.
“It is a very pretty turnip.”
Elinor scoffed dramatically, letting the embroidery fall to her lap before patting the cushion beside her and making room for you.
“Sit. Bethany has wine she refuses to explain the origin of.”
“I made no such claim. I only said I came by some wine.” Bethany exclaimed exasperated.
She stood and went towards the small table, reaching for the bottle and goblets. You sank down beside Elinor, who immediately reached over and tugged a pin loose from your hair, fixing something you had not even noticed had come undone.
“You did not have to…”
“I know.” She said simply.
It was such a small thing, yet you were not used to people doing small things for you without wanting something after.
Meanwhile Bethany poured the wine and offered the goblets to each of you.
“To surviving the first fortnight.” She exclaimed.
“To surviving.” Elinor echoed.
You nodded and found yourself smiling as you drank, the wine sharp and a little too sweet.
“I must confess, I did not expect to like anyone here.” You said once the silence had grown comfortable.
“None of us did.” Bethany sighed. “I certainly did not expect to like you. You have the look of someone who apologises to furniture when she bumps into it.”
“I do not-” You paused. “Well, truth be told I have done that. But only once!”
Elinor dissolved into laughter, and Bethany’s mouth twitched despite herself. Something in your chest loosened that had been tight since the ship first sighted Dragonstone.
“Well, I am glad of it.” Elinor said, resting her head lightly against your shoulder. “That you apologise to furniture, and that you are here.”
“Truly?”
“Yes.” Her voice softened. “It is easier to bear a place like this with someone beside you.”
You would think of that afternoon often, the turnip rose, the mysteriously procured wine, and the comfort of two women who asked nothing but your company.
And all the while the princes’ interest in you growed.
No matter how crowded the hall became, whenever you looked toward the dais, Baelor was already watching, quietly and thoughtfully, as though he was studying something rare. Whenever Elinor managed to make you laugh, his gaze drifted toward you, eyes fixed on your mouth. Whenever you entered a room, his attention followed. More than once you caught him looking at your throat. He always looked away eventually, but he never did it quickly, as though it always cost him to do so.
Maekar was far less subtle than his brother. His attention came like a blade, always sharp and provoking. He enjoyed startling you, relishing at the way your breath hitched and your pulse quickened.
Once, while wandering through the castle with the ladies, he materialised from the shadows. One moment the corridor was empty, the next he was there. Elinor nearly screamed, and you stumbled backward. Maekar merely smirked.
“You stop breathing every time you realise one of us is close, little dove.”
He would inhale deeply, grunting, his gaze lingering on you.
“It is intoxicating.”
Then he disappeared into the shadows before you could think of a response.
Then came the dreams.
At first, you dismissed them as a natural consequence of Dragonstone itself. Of the oppressive heat beneath the stone, the endless roar of the sea, the constant awareness of being watched. Surely your imagination required an outlet, due to living in constant pressure and so far away from your brother and home.
Yet after the third night, you stopped believing they were ordinary dreams.
They felt too real.
Your first dreams were of home. You endlessly wandered the empty halls of your old home, Beren’s wheezing laughter echoing somewhere beyond reach. Every door you opened led nowhere, every staircase twisted into another. Gradually, the dreams changed. Your childhood home began melting into Dragonstone, the familiar becoming unfamiliar. You wandered the endless halls alone, searching for something you never knew what it was.
Then one night you saw him.
Baelor.
He was standing at the far end of the hall, completely still, waiting for you. His mismatched eyes watched you from the impossible distance.
“My prince!” You called out to him before you could stop yourself.
You hurried towards him, tried to reach him, heels echoing against the stone. But the hallway only stretched farther, becoming longer and endless. No matter how quickly you moved, he remained beyond reach, waiting.
Until you awoke with a gasp, sweat running down your neck. Your room stood empty, but you could not shake the feeling that someone had been standing beside your bed.
You told nobody of the dreams. And very soon, Baelor was not the only prince who haunted your sleep.
Another dream found you standing upon Dragonstone’s cliffs during a storm. The sea raged below, black waves shattered themselves against stone. There is no way to escape, watching the waves, mesmerised.
And somewhere behind you stood Maekar. You never saw him at first, only hearing his voice.
“Little dove.” He called out to you. The wind swallowed the rest of the words.
You instinctively turned, and he stood only a few steps away, watching. Waiting like a hunter who already knew exactly where his prey would run, violet eyes gleaming with hunger.
You awake with a start, heart racing violently, the sound of waves still ringing in your ears.
The dreams continued, night after night. And as you settled into life at Dragonstone, they became impossible to ignore.
Yet what disturbed you most was what followed.
You began searching for them, without meaning to, without daring to admit it.
Footsteps in a corridor would catch your attention. A familiar voice would make you glance up. You even paid more attention to your appearance before feasts. More attention to your hair, to your gowns, to how you carried yourself.
You told yourself it was better to be cautious. You wanted the princes’ favour, their goodwill, their protection for your brother. And not that, deep down, you began to crave more than just their attention.
While Baelor maintained his careful distance, and Maekar continued his games, your dreams became more intense. You dreamt of Baelor circling your bed, always watching, but never touching. You dreamt of Maekar, his voice echoing through the darkness around you, before his nose was buried in the crook of your neck.
And then you started dreaming of them both.
You thought you were alone in the feast hall. Until you noticed a third chair stood between two thrones, smaller than either, empty and waiting. Baelor occupied one throne and Maekar the other.
They simply watched at first, patiently, as though waiting for you to understand something. Hunger consumed their gaze as they descended the dais, each grabbing your arm, pulling you closer to them. You felt their lips press against your neck, your shoulders, your wrists. And just as they were about to bite, fangs pressing steadily against your skin, you awoke startled, pulse racing and warmth spreading across your lower stomach.
Ever since then, you always saw them both. But the dreams where they merely watched disturbed you far more than the others.
Because waking up changed nothing.
Their stares followed you through every day. If you crossed the hall, they noticed. If you laughed, their attention shifted toward the sound. If you entered a room, they knew. Their stares had the intensity of a lover’s touch.
Yet neither prince ever touched you, and somehow that felt more intimate.
As nights passed and the dreams plagued your sleep, there was something in you, your deepest and darkest desire materialising into streams of thought.
How would their hands feel on my neck? Cold and hard? What about my arms? Waist? Thighs? And their lips? Would they taste like honey? Or would I taste the blood they drank?
Each time you awoke, you pushed these thoughts deep down, you did not dare voice them.
Your new companions noticed everything as well.
“They want your blood.” Elinor whispered to you one time when you were gathered with the ladies in the small solar.
Embroideries and books rested half-abandoned at your laps.
“By the Seven!” Elinor continued. “They can barely stop staring!”
You snorted softly.
“Men stare when they want something.” You tried to joke.
“But they are not men.” Bethany muttered. “Far from it…”
Dropping her embroidery, she leaned forward.
“How do you remain calm? I saw the way Prince Maekar watched you last night. He looked ready to tear Lord Jasper apart for simply speaking with you.”
“That is absurd.” You retorted softly. “Lord Jasper merely asked about my brother.”
The mention of him brought a familiar ache. Silence was your only reply as letters remained unanswered.
“Is it absurd though?” Elinor asked quietly, while folding the corner of the book page.
No.
You hated how quickly the answer came to mind.
Because you were aware. Even a blind person could discern the situation you were in.
And worse…
The previous evening, a beautiful lady had spent far too long speaking to Baelor, holding his attention. The memory made something ugly twist in your chest.
You knew the feeling immediately. Jealousy, sharp and humiliating, having arrived so suddenly you nearly despised yourself for it.
What right did you have to feel this for the princes? Princes who terrified you, who fascinated you, who likely wanted your blood as much as they wanted you.
Yet, when the same woman later rested her hand lightly upon Maekar’s arm, your chest tightened all the same.
You rose abruptly, the feeling overwhelming you suddenly.
“My apologies…” The words came out stained. “I have need of fresh air.”
“I will join you.” Bethany offered.
You shook your head.
“No need, my dear friend.” You said, forcing a smile. “I wish to be alone with my thoughts.”
Before they could object, you slipped from the room.
You wandered aimlessly through Dragonstone, down winding staircases, past towering windows overlooking dark seas. Eventually you found yourself in one of the balconies overlooking the sea. It opened toward the cliffs beyond and salt wind drifted through arched openings. Below, waves crashed endlessly against black stone.
You stepped toward the railing and leaned against it, closing your eyes.
For the first time all day, you were alone.
Your mind drifted towards home, towards your brother sitting beside a window. They drifted towards the gardens, the warmth of your room during summer, the familiar sounds of a place untouched by the Targaryens and their ancient blood magic.
For a moment you allowed yourself to pretend that none of this had happened. That you were still there and that your brother was safe. That the future remained yours to choose.
“You must be careful my lady. We cannot have you slip and fall to the sea.”
A voice came from behind you.
You gasped and turned quickly, skirts tangling at your feet, the wind catching fabric and breath alike.
“My prince!”
You curtsied as Baelor stepped into view, standing close enough that the air between you seemed to tighten. His presence did not announce itself like a man’s should. It simply was, as though the space decided to become his.
Your heart stumbled traitorously at the closeness, fear tangling with excitement and something far more difficult to name.
“You often walk alone across these halls.” He said.
“You have noticed?” You asked, though you already knew the answer.
“I have.” He answered. “And so has my brother.”
His head tilted slightly. Those mismatched eyes held you with quiet attention, as though you were a thought he had not yet decided how to finish.
“Dragonstone is a dangerous place to wander alone.”
“Because of you?” You whispered, before you could stop yourself.
A flicker passed across his expression.
“Because it belongs to dangerous things.”
The answer should have frightened you more than it did.
Instead, your eyes dropped to his hands.
Baelor wore several rings, each one worked with Valyrian designs you did not recognise. His fingers moved over them absently, turning one slowly between thumb and forefinger, as though grounding himself in something familiar.
A strangely human habit. It unsettled you more than it should have.
You wondered, suddenly and unbidden, how those hands would feel if they were not so carefully restrained. If they were simply allowed to be. Cold, perhaps, or worse, carefully warm only when they chose to be.
At your throat, at your pulse.
The thought struck too sharply. You felt your pulse quicken, and you saw it, the almost imperceptible pause in him. His gaze lowered slightly, lingering at your lips before drifting, inevitably, to your throat where your pulse betrayed you beneath your skin.
He inhaled once, deeply.
Heat flooded your chest, not cleanly fear, not entirely. Something worse for its uncertainty, something that made your thoughts feel suddenly too loud, too exposed.
Baelor seemed to realise what had shifted between you, stepping back half a pace, fingers tightening around his ring. His mismatched eyes were darkened with hunger.
“My apologies…” He said, and for the first time since you heard it, his voice sounded strained.
“No harm done, your Grace.” You whispered.
You should have left then, you knew that. You should have turned away, found Bethany and Elinor, found safety in noise and distance and other people.
Instead, you remained.
Some foolish, selfish part of you wanted to understand what it meant to stand here without interruption. To be seen by him without the room full of watching eyes.
So you leaned lightly against the railing and turned your gaze back to the sea. It stretched beneath Dragonstone in endless dark motion, moonlight breaking across the waves in shards of pale silver. The tide struck the cliffs below with patient violence, over and over, as though it had all the time in the world.
“Is it true your home is near the coast?” Baelor asked quietly.
You nodded.
“My brother, Beren, used to love watching the sea.” You said.
Beside you, he stilled.
“He would sit for hours watching the waves from our castle windows. Even when he became too weak to stand.”
The wind took part of your sentence and scattered it into salt and air, but you knew Baelor heard all of it.
“Is he very ill?” He asked gently.
You nodded. “The maesters said he would not survive another winter.”
The sea crashed below you in endless rhythm, filling the silence between you.
“And your uncle sent you here anyway.” He said at last.
Something dark burrowed beneath the calmness of his voice. Not quiet anger, but disgust, towards your uncle, towards men like him. Recognition of a cruelty he had seen often enough to name without effort.
“That was cruel of him, my lady.”
He moved then, stepping closer to the railing, grasping it. He was close enough that you were suddenly aware of every bit of distance between you.
“You say that as if cruelty surprised you.” You said, looking up at him.
A shadow crossed his expression.
“There are different kinds.” He said. “There are kinds I abhor.”
The way he said it made something uneasy shift within you. Not as a reassurance, but as a conviction.
You became aware again of his hand, so near to yours now, almost touching.
Your heartbeat rose sharply at your throat, and Baelor’s gaze dropped to your there once more. Then returned to your eyes.
And you could see it, the restraint.
He wants to touch me, you understood that with sudden clarity.
His desire sat between you like a third presence in the air. And the horrifying thing was, you wanted to know how it felt. Your small finger brushed against his.
Baelor closed his eyes briefly, sighing deeply. When he opened them again, there was control there, but only just. He said your name like it pained him, caught between warning and plea.
“You should not look at me like that, dōna riña.”
“How am I looking at you?” You asked.
“Like you have stopped fearing me.”
The words settled heavily between you. But they were not quite true.
You still feared him, you were certain of that. And yet, something else had begun to grow beside it. Something far more dangerous for how quietly it had arrived. Because fear made you careful. But this…
This made you stay.
Your encounter with Baelor lingered beneath your skin long after. You returned to your chambers, shaken in a way you could not explain. Not frightened truly, not in the same way you felt when you arrived at Dragonstone. This was different.
Worse.
For it was tangled with longing.
You could still hear his voice if you closed your eyes. Still feel the weight of his attention as though it had not fully left you, as though it settled somewhere beneath your skin and refused to move on. And with it came the unbearable thought that you wanted him to touch you.
The realisation followed you like fever.
Sleep did not come easily. And when it did, it did not bring relief. The dreams returned in fragments, disjointed and restless, leaving you breathless in the dark. Eventually, unable to endure the stillness of your room, you rose.
A walk will do me good, you told yourself.
The castle at night was still dangerous, still strange. But by now it was familiar enough that you knew its rhythms.
You moved carefully through stone passageways lit by low-burning torches. Lost in thought, you did not notice the presence behind you, not until you reached the battlements.
The wind there was sharper. It came off the sea in long gusts that pulled at your cloak and threatened to drag thoughts from your mind before you could hold them.
You stepped closer to the stone edge.
“You have a talent for standing exactly where you could be thrown over easily.”
The voice came from behind you. You spun sharply, heartbeat already betraying you.
Maekar leaned against the archway, as though he was carved into it. His silver hair caught the torchlight in fractured strands, and his violet eyes gleamed with something far too aware for comfort. Where Baelor was composed stillness, Maekar was like violence loosely draped over elegance.
His mouth was curved slightly.
“You are far too entertaining when frightened.”
Embarrassment burnt hot within you as you tried to steady yourself.
“I am not frightened.” You said quickly.
Maekar exhaled through his nose, irritated rather than amused.
“I fucking detest liars, little dove.” He said, pushing off the archway and beginning to close the distance between you. “So do not lie to me.”
Your breath caught as he approached. Closer than Baelor had, closer than anyone else had any right to be. His presence pressed against the air itself, making it difficult to think past him, around him, away from him.
“You do hide it better than when you arrived.” He added, gaze flicking briefly to your throat. “But it is still there.”
“I thought you enjoyed fear.” You whispered.
A faint smile tugged at his lips.
“I do.” He agreed. “Even if it makes the rest of the sheep stupid.”
His eyes sharpened.
“But there is something else in you…” He tilted his head slightly. “I find it intoxicating.”
You swallowed hard.
“I do not know what you mean.”
A low chuckle escaped him, dark and unkind.
“Lies again, little dove.”
Before you could retreat, his hand moved and he caught a handful of your hair at the back of your head and tugged. Not enough to truly hurt, but enough to force awareness into every nerve in your body at once.
Your breath hitched sharply. Instinctively, you steadied yourself against his arm, as though your body had decided before your mind could object.
Lightning split the sky over the sea. For one brief moment, its flash caught his face in something inhuman, something predatory.
“There it is.” Maekar said softly. “That expression.”
His grip tightened slightly in your hair, possessively enough that your heartbeat betrayed you completely.
“The moment you remember what we are.”
“You are enjoying this.” You whispered, your eyes not leaving his.
“Immensely.” He tugged once more. “But so are you.”
Your eyes widened. He leaned closer, studying you as though your thoughts were no longer hidden at all.
“Is this what you thought it would be?” He murmured. “Standing here alone with one of us?”
His expression sharpened suddenly.
“Tell me, did you hope it would be my brother instead of me?”
“No.” You said at once. “Not just him.”
Maekar’s mouth curved into a smile.
“Good girl.”
The words struck something in you far deeper than they should have.
“The first honest thing you have said to me all night.” He added.
His thumb brushed briefly against the edge of your hair where he held you.
“You are beginning to understand.” He said quietly, leaning in, his breath brushing the side of your neck before his nose brushed against it.
“You want us.” He murmured, voice low against your skin. “Just as much as we hunger for you.”
Your breath faltered as his tongue darted out, licking the skin where your pulse thundered..
“My prince…” You barely managed, voice unsteady.
“I cannot wait to taste you properly…” He hummed, stepping back and relishing your current state. His eyes lingered on you a moment longer.
“Let’s see who gets to you first.”
Then he turned.
And left you alone on the battlements with the sea roaring below and your pulse refusing to slow.
⚬ ⚬ ○ ⚬ ⚬
Once more, your sleep was not a sanctuary. You were pinned between the two princes in a way that made your mind and body scream for more.
You were pressed firmly against Baelor's chest, the fabric of your shift a pathetic barrier between you. His nose was buried deep in the crook of your neck, inhaling your scent deeply before pressing open-mouthed kisses. His large hands kneaded your breasts with a fervent, bruising grid, thumbs rolling over your nipples and twisting them into hard, aching peaks that throbbed in time with your heart.
A sharp gasp ripped from your throat as Maekar’s fangs sank into your inner thigh. The bite was a warning, a reminder that while Baelor held your upper body tonight, he claimed everything below.
“Do not tease her, brother…” Baelor groaned, his voice a low, vibrating rumble against your spine.
He forced your head to turn around him, his eyes dark with a predatory lust.
“She has been so good to us.”
Maekar grunted in agreement. His slick fingers prodded at your entrance, feeling how wet you were for them. He leaned down, pressing a kiss to the mark he had left on your thigh, before his tongue swirled over the bruised skin.
“The little dove has indeed.” Maekar rasped, his voice thick with need.
“Tell us what you want, dōna riña.” Baelor commanded, his breath hot against your lips.
You could feel it then, his hard cock pressing against your backside.
“I- oh!”
A loud moan shattered your words, as Maekar dove between your legs. He gripped your thighs tight and devoured you like a starved man. His tongue lashed against your swollen clit, swirling around it with a rhythmic and punishing pressure.
Baelor’s hand slid down to grip your throat lightly, tugging at your lower lip with his teeth.
“Speak, sweetling.”
“I want… I want you both.” You almost sobbed, your hips bucking uncontrollably against Maekar’s mouth.
“To do what, dear?” Baelor whispered.
“To take me! To bite me…” Your hand travelled to Maekar’s head, pushing him closer. “Please, just take me! Make me yours!”
“Good girl…” Baelor growled, before crashing his lips onto yours in a hard kiss.
You awoke with a violent start, your heart hammering against your ribs. The silence of your chamber was deafening, broken only by the sound of your own ragged, heaving breaths. You were drenched. Not just in sweat, but in a flood of arousal that left your shift clinging to your thighs.
Gods preserve you, you never wanted that dream to end. Your inner walls throbbed painfully around nothing. Every instinct, every lesson drilled into you by your septa, vanished beneath a wave of need.
Your hand moved instinctively, sliding beneath your small clothes. You had pleasured yourself before, but never like this. You were never consumed by a hunger so vast it felt like it would swallow you whole. You were not craving only one man, you were craving both of them.
A sharp gasp escaped you the moment your finger pressed against your swollen clit. You rubbed it slowly at first, before trying to mimic the way Maekar’s tongue had ravaged you in the dream. You let out a whimper as you pushed a finger deep inside you, the sound of your own wetness echoing in the quiet room.
You bit down hard on the back of your other hand to stifle another moan, your body arching off the bed. You closed your eyes, imagining Baelor’s weight on top of you, Maekar’s mouth between your legs, wishing that it was their fingers, their lips, their fangs, their breath, their skin on you.
“Baelor… Maekar… oh…”
You did not take long to reach your peak after that, your hips bucked into your palm, your fingers moving faster. Softwhines and gasps filled the room, as your release crashed over you, your body shuddering in pleasure.
When the high finally faded, leaving you limp and trembling beneath the sheets, the reality of what you had just done washed over you.
You whispered their names in the dark.
A part of you clung to the hope that somewhere, in the depths of the castle, they actually heard you calling for them.
A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms: Prince Maekar Targaryen x niece!reader
WC: 2.2k
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Tags/Warnings: Targcest, arranged marriage, pining/yearning, angst, grief, mentions of Baelor's death, gave Baelor two daughters in this canon, no smut, surprisingly enough, happy endings, a bit of fluff, no use of y/n, reader is hinted at resembling Baelor, no beta we die like the mighty Hammer :(
A/n: For a request sent in by @clumsycopy. Comments, reblogs, and likes are appreciated!
Summary: In the aftermath of Ashford, your grandfather suggests marrying you to Maekar to help repair his image in the eyes of the realm.
The bodice of your black dress feels too tight, constricting your breath as the flames burn hotter. The flames burn your father's body to ash. The greatest king who never was. A heavy shadow looms over the dragon house. Tragedy is never far behind. The smoke catches in your throat, making you cough and your eyes water. Egg stands teary eyed next to you, his small hand furling into yours while Maekar stands stoic. But if one were to look close enough, they would see the pain and sorrow etched over the lines of his bruised and battered face.
You are thankful when the funeral rites end, and you stumble into Daeron's embrace. As the eldest of the brood, the two of you share a special bond that only the oldest children could understand. Your ringed fingers brush over his damaged ear, dipping into the empty space where the flesh is missing.
"Don't feel too sorry for me," he whispers in your ear before kissing your cheek. But you always feel sorry for him.
Valarr, Kiera, Matarys, and your younger sister, Aenya, flock around you. Your younger siblings peer at you with damp eyes, searching you for guidance. That is your burden as the eldest; you must be the one to hold everyone together. You must be the beacon. The guiding light.
"Father would not wish us to fall apart; he would want us to find strength in one another. We can't pull away; we must forge closer than ever," you tell them, gathering Aenya, barely three and ten, against your bosom. "Valarr, you are heir now, but we will not let you go the path alone."
"You are the elder, sister," Valarr wishes, squeezing Kiera's hand.
Times have not changed that much, and you do not wish to argue with him, not today. Not as your father's body turns to ash, into cinder ready to blow like dust in the wind.
"Come, let us ready to depart for King's Landing," you tell them, guiding them back to Ashford Castle with Aenya by your side and the other three following behind like ducklings.
Maekar paces the solar upon your return, and you've caught a brief glimpse of Ser Duncan limping away.
"Uncle?" you inquire, slipping through the parted doors.
He slowly turns, shoulders hunched as he faces you before approaching you. Grief clings to him like a dark cloud. The only time you've seen him so bereft before was after your Aunt Dyanna died. See? Tragedy is never far behind for the dragon house. He reaches for your hand, prying your fingers apart and placing your father's rings into it. He catches your gaze, violet eyes boring into your mismatched ones, and anger bubbles through him. He'd rather feel the anger than the sorrow or regret.
"Gods, must you look just like him?" he snarls softly, stepping back, favoring his uninjured leg. Those words cut deep, spilling invisible blood. A phantom sting lingers.
Sharp tears burn your eyes, and you spin on your heels, fleeing the room. How you yearned for a word of comfort, but instead found his ire. You had words of your own you wished to hiss at him. After you had been sent to ward at Summerhall shortly after Dyanna's death, a slow love began to blossom as the seasons turned. The feeling of his hand on your lower stomach, the warmth of his mouth against yours, and how he twisted you up into his love like sharp thorns. He was the reason you and your father exchanged cross words at Ashford; he was the reason this Ser Duncan appeared, and he was the reason Baelor now lay dead. By all rights, you should hate him, but you didn't. Your love for him runs deep and true.
You found comfort with Aenya, moving your fingers through her red hair. She and Matarys were the spitting image of your mother. Baelor loved to call Aenya his little rose. The one left behind as the birthing bed claimed Jena, as it did with countless women. The urge to baby her could not be resisted, especially by your father and yourself, and you began to wonder how she would fare in the shadow of his death. You slipped his ruby ring onto her thumb while you kept his signet on your middle finger. You closed your eyes, breathing in the musky jasmine that clung to her skin, remembering the putrid stench of her vomit from earlier in the day when she saw her father's dead body. The back of his skull caved in, resembling a morose vision from a nightmare.
You had been the one to help dress him in Valarr's armor, some of your anger dissipating since you did not wish to send him into battle with a heavy heart.
"I'm sorry we quarreled," you whispered, kissing his cheek.
He cupped your cheek, his hand warm against your skin. "Mayhaps I was too hasty in refusing you, dearest girl. I promise we will revisit this matter, and I will keep an open mind and heart."
You smiled softly, procuring your handkerchief from your bodice and kissing it. He tucked it next to his heart, beneath his padded tunic, before you helped him into the breastplate.
Now that handkerchief burned with him. At least the two of you had mended ways before his untimely death. You couldn't bear the thought of your last exchange being a hateful one. The journey back to King's Landing was long and silent, with Egg once again missing. One of the guards suggested the boy, when found, be tied over a horse so he couldn't escape. It took Daeron, Valarr, Aerion, and Matarys to drag Maekar off the poor man, who now suffered a broken nose.
You gently dab Maekar's split knuckles, washing away the blood. "Did it satisfy you?"
"Yes."
You frown, applying a thin ointment to the cuts before wrapping a clean bandage around his hand. "You can pulverize all the knights in the realm, but it will not bring him back."
"You might change your mind if you allowed your fists to fly. It can be quite satisfying. You've done your business; now be gone, girl."
"No."
Those eyes burn like a violet fire. He is a beast when his temper flares, but generally he prefers to cut through you with harsh words. Yet those can sting sharper than any knife. The ones from earlier left an invisible scar.
"You were a passing fancy, nothing more," he tells you, and you scoff.
"You are burned on my skin. You linger there, and I know you feel the same. But keep spitting lies if that makes you feel better, Uncle," you hiss. "I wear your fingertips on my flesh."
His jaw clenches, muscles flexing. "Do not tie your hopes and dreams on me, girl."
For a brief moment, you feel as though you are hovering outside your body as your palm descends upon his unbruised cheek, though it will not remain as such. Your mark burns bright. Red and hot. He surprises you by grabbing your wrist and pressing his crimson cheek against your palm.
"See? Satisfying. Don't stop. If it makes you feel better," he whispers, the brokenness overtaking him.
"I don't wish to hurt you. I only wish for you to see me, to love me again like you once did."
"I do not know how you can look upon me. I can hardly stand to be in my presence."
"You are infuriatingly s…"
"Stubborn? Your father would tell me the same."
"Well, he was correct." You caress his heated skin, soothing the sting away. "I know you did not set out nor intend to kill him. You would never do such a thing."
Glassy tears shone in his violet eyes, dulling the fire once burning through them. "I would never."
"Those who matter know the truth. Those who know you the best understand your character. Even if the rest of the realm will whisper."
He pulls you into his lap, pressing his face against your chest and finally allowing himself to weep. Love can wound deeply as much as it can heal.
Once returned to the Red Keep, Myriah takes Aenya under her wing and mourns in her private chambers, wishing for no other company. King Daeron becomes weary with his grief, yet is vexed by the rumors aimed at Maekar. One afternoon, he summons you to the council chambers.
"My sweet girl, I must ask a duty of you, and I hope you will bear it with grace, as you often do," he tells you, taking your hand between both of his.
"As my father would wish me to do. What must I do?"
"Now, I have done my best to marry my sons to daughters of other noble houses. I know the Septons and many of the realm frown upon the incest practiced by our house, and I have done my best to pull us away from that. It helped that I had only sons. However, too many dark, vile accusations surround your Uncle Maekar. I wish to betroth you to him, but I will not force you. If you need time to think, I will give it to you."
Your breath catches in your throat, warning yourself not to come across as overeager or disapproving. "'Tis a big decision, grandfather. May I have until week's end? I will not keep you waiting too long for my answer."
"Of course, my darling. Your Uncle has agreed to follow your lead. He will respect the decision you make."
"Thank you," you smile and kiss his cheek before leaving. A big part of you was ready to scream YES DEAR GODS YES, but it would be wiser to give the illusion of consideration. So you went to find solace in the gardens, splaying on the grass and watching the clouds move above you. The thin golden streams of sun warm your skin. It almost feels like a blessing from the Gods. Mayhaps this tragic curse might be broken.
Two days later, you sought out your Uncle after Maester Yormwell visited him.
"You are healing nicely," you offer softly, standing before him with your hands clasped behind your back. A nervous habit from girlhood that you can't quite shake.
"Must we bother with the small talk?" he huffs.
"No, I suppose we should get to the point. I want to marry you. In fact, I had been feeling that way since before Ashford, from all our time spent together at Summerhall," you admit.
A look of bewilderment crosses his face before he studies you intently. "I thought you would refuse."
"Why?"
"How could you marry a man who killed your father?" How can you want a beast?
"A tragic accident, one that has befallen our family many times. You did not set out to murder him. To strike him down in rage. I will stand proudly by your side as your wife, and the realm will cease its gossip. Yet if they continue, we can cut out their treasonous tongues together, Uncle," you smile.
A small laugh falls from his mouth. A sound you have not heard in such a long while. He stands, moving closer to cup your face. The rough pads of his thumbs stroke your cheeks. Those violet eyes full of softness. Full of adoration for you. The sweet niece who opened up his heart and allowed him to love again. It had been easier to drive you away, but all he wants is to cleave you close and never let you go again. How could he let a small part of Baelor forever slip away?
"You would be suited as queen," he muses. Years later, those words would come back to mind as another series of unfortunate events would see Maekar crowned as king with you by his side as queen.
"Mayhaps in another lifetime. For now, I wish to be your wife."
He bends down to kiss you; old feelings flooding to the surface. The smell of roses clings to the air, the dew on the grass moistening your stockings, pressed against a tree with Maekar's hands on your waist. His beard scratching your cheeks as his tongue explores the warm caverns of your mouth. Perspiration beads down your neck and clings to your cerulean silk gown, making it grow damp. You wish to freeze this moment forever. Where all is perfect.
You are wedded in the spring, wearing a crimson gown and dripping in rubies. It is a perfect day with the sun high and bright in the sky. The Maesters are whispering that it might be a long summer to come. Aenya will accompany you to Summerhall, finally free of Myriah's tight grasp, and you cannot bear to be parted from her. You wait in the wheelhouse, lips swollen from Maekar's kisses and thighs sore from the wedding night, and glance down at your father's signet ring that clings to your finger. You lift it to your mouth to kiss, then look up in surprise as Maekar joins you.
"You are not riding?" you ask.
"Mayhaps later, but for now I want to be by your side," he hums, sliding next to you and wrapping you in his tight embrace.
"That is all I have ever wanted," you smile, letting your head drop onto his chest and breathe in his heated, spicy scent.
Description- What happens when Jack's wife returns from the bar bathroom and finds another woman with her hands on her husband
CW- reader is jealous as all hell, another character attempts infidelity, Jack has a damn good time, casual and not literal mention of violence, takes place in a bar, implied alcohol consumption
AN- This spawned into existence while I was waiting to pick up my gal from the dentist. It's by far the shortest thing I've ever written, but I usually struggle with length anyway (that's what she said)
You’d be an idiot if you thought it would never happen. That no one would ever see Jack Abbot, the handsome, muscular man with beautiful steady eyes and a heart you couldn’t help but trust the first time he smiled, and wish that they had him for themselves.
You knew it happened, that people gave him a second glance when they passed him on the street, subtly looking him over head to toe and admiring the nice shape of him, the way he moved with quiet confidence, not taking up more space than he needed to make a show of himself like some did. He was handsome, he was attractive, he was beautiful and sexy and cute all rolled into one. You knew these things, and you knew others would too. How could they not?
That didn’t make it any easier to see as you returned from the bar bathroom.
The woman was standing between your stool and Jack’s at the bartop, a hand resting lightly on his shoulder as she tossed her head back in a laugh. Her chocolate curls fell down to her shoulders, catching the dim bar lighting and shining like a rich sleek metal as it moved.
Something in your stomach twisted, something dark and ugly that you didn’t care to think about, filling you with an undeserved surge of anger. You wanted to smack her hand away from him, to yell in her face to back off.
The black metal band on his finger was clear as day. You could see it from nearly across the room, glinting in the hanging lights where his weathered hand wrapped around his lowball tumbler. She must have been able to see it with how intently she gazed at him, drinking him in as if she’d never seen a man before.
That made it all the worse. Accidents happened, a stumble turning into brushed shoulders that could be laughed off, but this, this, was purposeful. It was a choice she was making, to cozy up to Jack, to not look at his wedding band as if it would merely poof out of existence.
Fuck that.
You were storming over before you realized it.
Jack’s face lit up as he spotted you, still a few feet away.
“There’s my girl,” he greeted warmly. His arm was outstretched, welcoming you against his side, the spot by your stool still occupied by the pretty brunette woman who’d had her hands all over him.
“Hi, baby,” you said sweetly, stepping into his embrace and leaning even closer, one hand cupping his cheek to steady him as you kissed him deeply. He made a small sound of surprise in the back of his throat, but kissed you back without hesitation, his arm wrapping further around you to hold you close. His eyes were dark when you parted, a faint questioning look passing behind them as you grinned at him coyly, bottom lip caught between your teeth.
“Making friends?” you asked lightly, settling yourself sideways on his lap, making sure to favor his good leg before you pressed one more kiss to his temple, your fingers combing through the thick curls at the back of his head. When you turned to face the woman, smiling overly sweetly at her, you felt a sick twinge of satisfaction to see the way her lips pursed together tightly.
“Sweetheart, this is Jessie,” Jack introduced, gesturing to the woman. His words lilted with faint humor, like he was watching his favorite reality show and the drama had just gotten good. “She was just complimenting my shirt.”
You laughed weakly. Of course she was. Just the thick flannel, surely it had nothing to do with the way he filled it out with his broad shoulders and thick, bulging biceps.
“It looks like really good quality,” Jessie said, desperately trying to sound neutral. “What is it, cotton?”
Jack hummed, looking to you with a faint smirk. “I wouldn’t know,” he admitted. “This one bought it for me.” His arm tightened around you for a moment, giving you a slight squeeze.
You frowned, your hand running up and down his chest to feel the fabric as you thought. She wasn’t wrong, it really was a good shirt. You’d always loved the soft feel of it under your hands when you ran your hands over his shoulders, sometimes bunching the fabric in your fists when he caught you off guard with an especially deep kiss.
“I don’t remember.” You chuckled, giving her an easy smile. “Guess I’ll have to check later when he takes it off.”
Jessie nodded once in silent understanding, swallowing thickly before she picked up her drink from the counter. It was so close to the one you’d left Jack to look over for you that it had left a ring of condensation on the edge of the napkin you used as a coaster.
“Right, well, I guess I’ll leave you to it,” she said, doing her best to paste on a cheerful smile to match her overly chipper tone. Her words sounded hollow, her finger tracing the rim of her glass as her eyes moved between you and Jack.
You only nodded, giving her an almost sympathetic smile to watch her go from your perch on Jack’s lap, fingers still twirling through his curls in a way you knew from countless hours curled up together that he loved. You picked up your own glass to sip, and Jack had to duck his head into the crook of your neck to muffle the sudden laugh he let slip at the way her eyes widened when she saw your wedding ring.
A flicker of pride went through him, glad that even after so long together, he had made the right choice that day. Hours of designing had gone into your set of rings, months spent deliberating every curve of the band and cut of the stone before he finally showed you, wanting to make every detail perfect for you, to give you something as beautiful as you were that you would never want to take off. And you never did.
“Have a good night, Jessie!” you called as she retreated.
Jack gave you a warm look when she was out of earshot, dark hazel eyes trailing over your face like he wanted to catch every detail of it.
“You handled that mildly,” he drawled, amusement curling at the corner of his mouth. His eyes glimmered, the corners creasing the way they always did, bearing the weight of his hidden smile for him.
You laughed, adjusting your position on his lap to wrap both arms behind his neck.
“Careful, Jack,” you teased. “I might think you liked seeing me all possessive.”
He only hummed, the deep vibration carrying through his chest and into your side pressed against it, lifting one shoulder before letting it down into a small shrug.
“You expect me to be upset to have you all over me, playing with my hair?” He gave you a cocky smirk, gaze lowering for just a moment to your lips before flicking back up. Your breath caught, and he noticed, head tilting slightly as he looked up at you through his lashes that had no business being so thick.
“Thought for a moment you might smash a bottle over her head,” he continued, though his voice had dropped. His hand gripped your thigh, pulling you higher up his lap as he adjusted how he sat on the barstool. It couldn’t have been comfortable for him, but he was far from complaining. “That what you want, honey? Me having to stitch her up?”
The thought of his hands on her made you angry enough to bite your tongue.
“That’s exactly why I didn’t,” you pointed out smugly, nestling even closer until the tip of your nose brushed the bridge of his. “I’d much rather keep you as my private doctor, Jack.”
He laughed through his nose, his unblinking gaze meeting yours without dropping. “I’ll be your anything, baby, but I don’t think I should be your doctor.”
You rolled your eyes, giving his scruffy cheek a kiss before fully melting against him, nuzzling into the side of his neck.
“Have it your way then. I’ll just make Robby my emergency contact.”
There is nothing fiercer than a dragon who protects his hoard, especially from his own brood, or in which, after seeing you with your sons, Maekar Targaryen wants another.
Because apparently I am incapable of writing fluff without smut. In this, the Maekarlings are yours, as this will now be dubbed the 𝐒𝐔𝐍𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐄 𝐁𝐄𝐓𝐖𝐄𝐄𝐍 𝐂𝐋𝐎𝐔𝐃𝐒 universe, where you replace Dyanna Dayne and be the mother to the precious babies.
“Maekar..”
“Fuck off, woman, and let me love you.”
The chamber was quiet but for the crackle of the low-burning hearth and the soft rustle of linen. Maekar’s mouth moved against yours in slow, deliberate kisses, each one deeper than the last, stealing the air from your lungs until your fingers were tangled in his hair and your body arched helplessly into his. “Maekar...”
He tasted of wine and warmth and the quiet possessiveness that never quite left him, even in the soft hours after the children were meant to be asleep. “Hmm, shut that mouth and take it.”
You made a small, breathless sound when his lips trailed to the corner of your mouth, then lower, along the line of your jaw. His hand splayed possessively over your hip, thumb stroking idle circles that made your pulse skip.
“Fuck me,” he murmured against your skin, voice rough with want, “you’re still the most beautiful thing I have ever known.”
“Maekar!” You gasped in mock scandal, eyes flying open even as a helpless smile tugged at your lips. “Language. There are impressionable ears in this keep.”
He only huffed a quiet laugh and claimed your mouth again, kissing you until your thoughts scattered and the world narrowed to the solid weight of him, the heat of his chest against yours, the way his arms locked around you like he meant to keep the rest of the realm outside the bed curtains forever.
That was when the soft scrape of bare feet on stone reached you.
A small shadow hovered at the edge of the bed, clutching a wooden dragon, the one Maekar himself had carved years ago for him. Aerion’s hair was mussed from sleep, his lower lip caught between his teeth.
“Mommy,” came the little voice, thin with worry, “I am afraid of the dark. Can you come sleep with me?”
Maekar’s arms tightened around you at once, a low grumble of displeasure vibrating through his chest.
He lifted his head just enough to glare past the curtains, still half-draped over you like a dragon guarding its hoard.
You turned your face toward your boy, soft smile already forming, only for Maekar’s gruff imitation of a child’s plea to tumble out first.
“Mommy,” he mimicked in a deep, aggrieved rumble, arms locking tighter, “I am afraid of the dark. Can you come sleep with me?”
A soft laugh escaped you despite yourself. You flicked the tip of his nose the moment the words left his mouth.
“Oh, hush, you impossible man.” Then, gentler, to the small figure at the bedside: “Oh, my sweet boy…”
You shifted, ready to throw off the linens, but Maekar’s hold only hardened.
“Woman,” he growled, low and final, “you are not leaving this bed.”
“You are insufferable, Maekar.”
“You are my woman. My wife.” His head settled heavily on your chest, eyes still fixed on Aerion with pure parental outrage. “See what your spoiling has caused. Go back to bed, boy.”
Aerion’s lower lip trembled, but his chin lifted with the same stubborn set his father wore. “Please, mommy.”
You reached out, brushing a lock of hair from his forehead, voice warm and firm all at once. “My sweet boy, you are grown now. You must start being independent. The dark is only dark, and your dragon will keep watch.”
Aerion’s eyes widened, pure betrayal shining in them as he pointed an accusing finger at the large man currently occupying the entirety of his mother’s arms. “No! Daddy is bigger than me. Why should he get to keep you? He’s bigger than me, he should be independent too!”
Maekar’s only answer was a deeper glare and an even tighter embrace, as though the very suggestion might somehow pry you from his side.
A bright, helpless laugh tumbled from your lips before you could stop it, soft and fond and utterly undone by the sight of your third son standing there in his little nightshirt, wooden dragon clutched to his chest like a shield, solemnly declaring that his father ought to be independent too.
Aerion’s whole face lit up at the sound. The worried crease between his brows vanished. He beamed so brightly the dim chamber seemed warmer for it, small shoulders straightening with pure, triumphant hope.
You reached up, carding gentle fingers through Maekar’s hair even as he continued to glare daggers over your chest. “It is only until I know he is safe and asleep,” you murmured, voice low and coaxing against his ear. “Just a little while, my love. Then I will come straight back to you.”
Maekar’s answer was a deep, rumbling growl that vibrated straight through your bones, half protest, half pure possessive displeasure. His arms tightened once more, as though he might simply refuse to let the world or his own son claim even a single heartbeat of you.
Yet when Aerion padded closer, bare feet whispering on the stone, Maekar did not stop you from shifting the covers. He only pressed one last, lingering kiss to the hinge of your jaw, silent promise and soft warning both, before reluctantly loosening his hold enough for you to slip free.
Aerion’s small hand found yours at once, warm and trusting, and the wooden dragon bumped against your hip as he tugged you toward the door with quiet, victorious urgency. Behind you, Maekar’s growl followed like a shadow, low and continuous, the sound of a dragon who had temporarily lost his hoard and was already counting the minutes until it returned.
You guided Aerion down the quiet corridor, his small hand warm in yours, the wooden dragon bumping softly against your side with every eager step. The night torches burned low, casting long golden pools across the stone, and the keep felt hushed and safe around the two of you.
His chamber was small and familiar, tapestries of ships and stars, a single shuttered window, the bed piled high with soft furs. You helped him climb in first, then slid beneath the covers beside him, tucking the blankets snug around his narrow shoulders. Aerion immediately burrowed closer, the carved dragon clutched between you both like a shared secret.
For a moment he simply lay there, breathing in the quiet. Then his voice came, soft and hopeful in the dark.
“Mommy… will you tell me a story?”
You smiled, brushing a curl from his forehead. “Of course, my brave boy. What sort of story shall it be?”
He thought hard, nose scrunching. “A scary one. But with a happy ending. And swords.”
“Very well.” You propped yourself on one elbow, voice dropping into the low, dramatic cadence reserved for the best tales. “Once there lived a fierce lady knight, strong and clever and never afraid of the dark. One night a terrible basilisk crept into her castle, its eyes glowing like green fire, its scales black as pitch. It meant to steal her youngest son away…”
Aerion’s eyes went round. You sat up a little higher, one arm sweeping wide as though drawing a blade from thin air.
“But the lady knight would not allow it!” You rose onto your knees in the bed, imaginary sword flashing in great, heroic arcs. “She charged down the corridor, slash! clang!, driving the beast back with every strike. ‘You shall not have my boy!’ she cried, steel ringing against scales. The basilisk hissed and lunged, but the lady knight was faster. She leapt, spun, and with one final mighty swing,” you brought the invisible blade down in a decisive arc that made the covers flutter, “she sent the creature tumbling into the shadows, never to return!”
Aerion giggled, pure delight bubbling up as he clutched his dragon tighter. “And then she hugged her son?”
“And then,” you said, settling back down beside him with a soft smile, “she gathered her son close, tucked him safely into bed, and promised that as long as she lived, no darkness, nor any beast within it, would ever touch him.”
You pressed a gentle kiss to his temple. Outside the chamber door the keep remained quiet, and somewhere down the hall a certain gruff dragon was almost certainly still counting the minutes until his wife returned.
Aerion’s small arms wound tightly around your neck the moment the last words of the story faded. He pressed his face into the curve of your shoulder, the wooden dragon caught awkwardly between your bodies, and held on as though the entire keep might vanish if he loosened his grip even a little.
“Promise,” he whispered, voice already thick with sleep. “Promise you won’t leave me, Mommy. Not ever.”
You stroked slow circles over his back, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breathing begin to deepen. “I promise, my sweet boy,” you murmured against his hair. “I will always be here when you need me. Always.”
His fingers curled into the fabric of your nightgown, a soft, trusting hold that slowly relaxed as the last of his fear melted away. Within moments his body went heavy and warm against yours, the even rhythm of sleep claiming him at last. The wooden dragon slipped a little in his slackening grasp, but he did not stir.
You remained still for a long while, listening to the quiet of the chamber and the soft, steady sound of your third son’s breathing, the promise still warm on your tongue.
You waited until Aerion’s breathing had deepened into the slow, even rhythm of true sleep before you carefully eased his arms from around your neck. The wooden dragon remained tucked against his chest as you drew the furs higher, brushing one last soft kiss to his temple. He did not stir.
The corridor outside was cooler, the torches burning lower still. You moved quietly, bare feet silent on the stone, and turned toward the chamber that belonged to your firstborn.
Daeron’s door stood slightly ajar. Even before you reached it you could hear him, small, broken whimpers that caught in his throat, the restless shift of limbs against the sheets. Your heart clenched the moment the sound reached you.
You slipped inside.
He lay tangled in the covers, hair damp against his forehead, brow furrowed deep even in sleep. Another soft, wounded sound escaped him, and you knew at once what plagued him. The same dreams that had haunted him since he was barely more than a babe, shadows and fire and things too heavy for a child’s mind to carry alone.
It broke your heart.
You crossed the room without a word and sank carefully onto the edge of the bed. One hand found his, small and warm and tightly curled, and you stroked your thumb across the back of it in slow, steady circles. Your other hand brushed the hair from his brow, gentle as a whisper.
“Shh, my love,” you breathed, voice barely more than a breath. “I’m here. You’re safe. The dreams cannot keep you.”
Daeron’s whimpers quieted by degrees, though the tension in his small body remained. You stayed exactly where you were, heart aching, watching over your firstborn as the night pressed close around the both of you.
You leaned down and pressed a lingering kiss to Daeron’s forehead, letting your lips rest there a moment longer than necessary, breathing in the familiar scent of him, warm skin and the faint trace of the lavender the maids sometimes tucked into the bedding. Only when his breathing had evened into something closer to true rest did you rise and slip quietly from the chamber.
Aemon’s door was next.
You eased it open just enough to peer inside, and caught him in the act. The candle flame vanished with a sharp little puff of breath. In the sudden dark a small shape dove beneath the covers in a frantic rustle of linen, leaving only a tell-tale book abandoned on the edge of the mattress, its pages still open.
A soft, knowing smile curved your mouth.
You crouched low, voice dropping into a deep, rumbling growl that filled the quiet room.
“I am the great dragon of the night,” you intoned, claws of your fingers curling against the floorboards. “I hunt for children who refuse to sleep… children who read by candlelight long past the hour they should be dreaming. Those children must climb onto the bed… and then they vanish. Forever.”
A long, dramatic pause.
From beneath the covers a pair of wide eyes peeked over the edge of the blanket.
“Mommy?”
You lunged.
Aemon’s startled squeak turned into helpless, delighted laughter as you pounced, fingers finding every ticklish spot along his ribs and under his arms. He thrashed and giggled and tried to squirm away, but you were merciless, growling dragon-like nonsense between bursts of his bright, breathless laughter until the whole bed shook with it.
You finally relented, collapsing onto the bed beside him in a warm heap of soft laughter, both of you breathless. Aemon’s cheeks were flushed, hair sticking up in every direction, and the abandoned book had been kicked halfway to the floor in the scuffle.
You reached over and gently tugged the covers up around him again, smoothing them with a mother’s practiced hand. Your voice softened, though a thread of fond amusement still lingered in it.
“Now then, my little night-dragon…” You brushed a stray curl from his forehead. “Why are you still awake?”
Aemon’s laughter faded into something quieter. He tugged the covers up to his chin and looked at you with wide, earnest eyes.
“I couldn’t sleep,” he admitted in a small voice.
You tilted your head, fingers still gently smoothing his hair. “Why not, sweetling?”
He was silent for a moment, lower lip caught between his teeth. Then, so softly you almost missed it:
“I just… wanted you.”
Your heart melted. Before you could answer, Aemon sat up a little straighter, expression suddenly solemn, as though he were about to make a formal declaration before the entire court.
“Mommy… can I marry you?”
The question hung in the quiet chamber, perfectly serious.
A deep, familiar voice answered from the doorway before you could.
“No.”
You both turned.
Maekar stood there, bare-chested, hair still mussed from the bed he had been forced to abandon. His violet eyes were serious, though a faint, reluctant warmth flickered in them as they moved from his second son to you.
“She is my wife,” he said, the words low and final, as though the matter had been settled long ago and required no further discussion.
You rolled your eyes at the pair of them, the fond exasperation of a mother and wife who had heard far too many claims upon her in one night.
But something darker flickered across Maekar’s violet gaze, something heated and intent that made your pulse skip. You knew that look. Knew exactly what it meant.
You turned back to Aemon, leaning down to press a soft kiss to his forehead. “Sleep, my little night-dragon,” you whispered. “I’ll be right down the hall.”
You stayed until his breathing evened and his small hand finally loosened its hold on the covers. Only then did you rise.
Maekar was already moving.
He crossed the chamber in three long strides, caught you around the waist, and in one smooth motion hauled you up and over his shoulder as though you weighed nothing. A startled breath left you as the world tilted. One of his large hands settled firmly across the backs of your thighs to keep you steady.
“I want another,” he declared, voice low and rough with certainty as he carried you from the room, the door swinging shut behind you both.
Your bright, helpless laughter spilled out and echoed down the quiet halls of Summerhall as Maekar carried you with single-minded purpose, each long stride a clear declaration of intent. You knew exactly what that promise meant, knew the heat in his blood and the determination in the strong arm locked around your thighs.
Still laughing, you braced your hands against his bare back and asked, voice soft with hope and amusement both, “Do you think the gods might grant us a little girl this time?”
Maekar’s answer came without hesitation, low and absolute, the words vibrating through his chest and into yours.
“Then I’ll keep trying until I give you one.”
You barely had time to draw breath before Maekar’s shoulder met the closed doors of your chambers. He set you down only long enough to press you back against the wood, one powerful thigh sliding between yours as his hands dragged the soft fabric of your nightshift higher and higher, bunching it at your waist.
His mouth found the side of your neck at once, open, hungry, almost reverent, trailing wet heat along the sensitive skin just beneath your ear. A low, broken sound escaped him, something closer to a growl than a word, and you felt the tremor that ran through his entire body as he pressed closer still.
He loved you so fiercely, so completely, that language had long since failed him. Every urgent kiss against your throat, every desperate grip of his hands on your bare hips, every ragged breath he spilled against your skin was the only way he knew how to say it.
Maekar’s mouth never left your neck. His lips brushed the sensitive skin just below your ear as he spoke, the words rough and low and thick with hunger.
“I’m going to fuck you so full you’ll feel me for days.”
The promise vibrated against your throat. His hands tightened on your hips, dragging you harder against him, the hard length of him pressing insistently through the thin barrier of his own clothing.
He rolled his hips once, deliberate and slow, letting you feel every inch of what he intended to give you, then again, deeper, more demanding, as if already imagining the way he would fill you.
Maekar dropped to his knees without warning.
He shoved your nightshift higher still, hooked one of your legs over his shoulder, and buried his face between your thighs like a man who had been starving for the taste of you.
There was nothing gentle about it, only raw, desperate hunger.
His tongue dragged through your folds in long, greedy strokes, then focused on the sensitive peak, sucking hard enough to draw a sharp cry from your throat. He growled against you when your hips jerked, the sound vibrating through your core as he licked and devoured, determined to wring every last drop of pleasure from you before he took his own.
Only when your legs were trembling and your fingers were tangled desperately in his hair did he rise.
He manhandled you across the chamber with effortless strength, spinning you and bending you forward over the edge of the bed. The nightshift was shoved up around your waist, one large hand pressed between your shoulder blades, pinning you down, while the other guided himself between your slick folds.
He thrust into you in one deep, claiming stroke, filling you completely, and a low, broken sound tore from his chest.
Then he fucked you from behind, hard, relentless, each powerful snap of his hips driving him deeper, the slap of skin against skin loud in the quiet chamber. His grip on your hip was bruising, possessive, as though he meant to imprint himself on every part of you.
Maekar’s hips snapped forward again and again, the wet, filthy slap of skin against skin loud in the quiet chamber. Each powerful thrust rocked you hard against the mattress, the ropes of the bed creaking in protest beneath the force of him.
Heat poured off his body in waves.
Sweat slicked the hard planes of his chest where it pressed to your back, and the scent of him, salt and skin and raw, masculine need, filled every breath you took.
His teeth were bared, a low, animal sound tearing from his throat as he drove into you without mercy. The thick length of him stretched you open on every stroke, the drag and burn of it so intense your fingers clawed at the sheets.
“Fuck, look at you,” he snarled, voice rough and broken, hot against the damp skin of your neck. “Taking me so deep. My wife. Mine.”
He leaned over your back, one hand fisting tightly in your hair until your scalp prickled, the other gripping your hip hard enough that you felt the imprint of every finger. He pounded into you harder still, the head of his cock dragging over that perfect, aching spot inside you with every brutal snap of his hips.
“Gonna fill you until you can’t walk straight. Until every fucking soul in this keep knows who you belong to.” His breath scorched your ear, teeth grazing, then biting down just hard enough to sting. “Say it. Tell me you’re mine while I fuck another babe into you.”
He didn’t slow.
Every stroke was deep, punishing, claiming, his body moving over yours like a man possessed, teeth still bared, the wet sounds of your joining obscene and constant, the words spilling out of him in a relentless, heated stream as the whole world narrowed to the overwhelming heat and friction and the raw, consuming way he took you.
Your moans fractured into soft, broken mewls as the relentless drive of his hips stole every coherent thought.
The wet, rhythmic slap of skin filled the chamber, louder now, raw and desperate as heat bloomed low in your belly, sharp and overwhelming, and the words he demanded spilled from your lips without hesitation.
“I’m yours,” you gasped, voice high and trembling. “Yours, only yours. Maekar...”
A savage sound tore from his throat.
He fucked you even harder.
The pace turned punishing, almost frantic, deep, brutal strokes that forced the air from your lungs with every thrust. His grip on your hair tightened, pulling your head back so he could watch the way your body took him. Sweat slicked the places where his chest met your spine.
The bedframe groaned beneath the force of him as you felt every thick inch of him, the stretch and friction so intense it bordered on too much, and still he drove deeper, chasing the promise he had made, determined to leave you wrecked and full and marked as his.
Maekar’s voice was rough, almost broken, as he leaned over you again.
“Do you want another babe?” he demanded, the words punched out between deep, driving thrusts. “Tell me.”
“Yes...” The answer tore from you in a high, helpless cry. “Yes, Maekar, yes...”
Something in him shifted.
The punishing edge softened all at once, though his hips never stopped their steady, deep rhythm.
He released your hair and slid that hand around to cradle the side of your face instead, turning your head so he could press open-mouthed kisses along the curve of your neck.
Soft.
Reverent.
Almost aching.
He still snapped his hips against yours, full, claiming strokes that filled you completely, but the hunger had turned tender, every thrust now laced with the quiet intensity of a man who loved you beyond reason.
His lips trailed warm and lingering over your skin, murmuring your name between kisses, as though the only thing that mattered in the world was the way your body welcomed him and the promise you had just given.
Maekar’s mouth never left your neck as he continued to move inside you, deep, steady, relentless. The tenderness in his kisses only sharpened the way every stroke dragged over that perfect place within you, building the pressure higher and higher until it broke.
You came undone with a broken cry, walls clenching tightly around him. He groaned against your skin but did not stop. He simply held you through it, hips still rolling, drawing the pleasure out until you were trembling and oversensitive, then he kept going.
A second climax tore through you sooner than the first, sharper, your fingers twisting in the sheets as soft, helpless sounds spilled from your lips.
Maekar’s hand slid down your stomach, fingers finding the swollen peak of your pleasure and circling in time with his thrusts, coaxing a third wave that left you shaking and gasping his name.
Only when you were boneless and wrecked beneath him, body fluttering around his cock with every lingering aftershock, did his own control finally shatter.
His rhythm faltered.
A low, guttural sound tore from his chest as he buried himself to the hilt and spilled into you in long, pulsing surges, hot and deep and endless, filling you exactly as he had promised while his mouth pressed one last open, trembling kiss to the side of your throat.
Maekar stayed buried inside you for a long moment after the last pulse of his release, his breath warm and uneven against the damp skin of your neck.
Then, with exquisite care, he eased free and gathered you into his arms as though you were something infinitely precious.
He carried you the short distance to the head of the bed and laid you down among the tangled sheets. His hands were gentle now, so gentle, as he smoothed the nightshift back down over your body, then reached for the soft cloth kept near the washbasin. He cleaned you with slow, reverent strokes, murmuring low, wordless sounds whenever you shivered under his touch.
When he was satisfied, he discarded the cloth and climbed in beside you, drawing the covers over you both. One strong arm slid beneath your shoulders. The other curled around your waist, pulling you flush against the solid heat of his chest. His fingers combed lazily through your hair, untangling the strands his earlier grip had left mussed.
He pressed soft, lingering kisses to your forehead, your temple, the corner of your mouth, each one quieter than the last. His violet eyes, no longer fierce, held only a deep and open tenderness as they traced your face in the low light.
“My wife,” he whispered at last, the words barely more than breath against your lips. “My heart.”
He held you closer still, one large hand splayed protectively over the soft plane of your stomach, and simply breathed with you, slow, steady, and content, while the quiet of Summerhall settled around the two of you like a blessing.
quarterly reminder that if i reblog something ai-generated it is 110% and always an accident and for the love of god please tell me so i can delete it from my blog
Summary: It's just never the right time for you and Jack Abbot, not since you left the first time. Until it is. Or four times you and Jack Abbot miss your chances and the one time you don't. (5.6k)
Pairing: Jack Abbot x fem!childhood friend!reader
TW: Sunshine x grumpy trope used literally; angst; fluff; Jack calls Reader "Sunshine"; Military and war inaccuracies; Jack was injured young; mentions of surviving a car accident; reader loses her husband; jack loses his wife to CF; mentions of grief; Jack is a sap for the reader; reader and jack do end up married.
Credit: Gif by @keeryscupid
i. Before
Jack Abbot was born the same day as you, the same time and hospital, same floor and wing, in the room just beside the one you were born in. It’s the story both of you grew up with, your mother’s deciding that it meant you were bonded for life, fated. Really, you thought, they just wanted grandkids to share. To spoil together as best friends do.
But you can’t deny that the story did one thing as they wanted—it made Jack Abbot your best friend.
Your first steps were taken at the same time, your first words were names for one another rather your mothers or your fathers—as corroborated by video evidence, recorded on a VHS tape stored in your mother’s basement. You were Sunny and he was Gumpy.
When you were able to speak a little more, a little clearer, he was Grumpy and you were Sunshine. Sunshine bear and Grumpy bear being the inspiration for the names. For the first years of your life, you truly thought his name was Grumpy and he truly thought yours was Sunshine.
It wasn’t until preschool, the two of you linked together, small hands linked, tiny fingers curled around tiny fingers that you learned you each had different names. And he became Jackie, your Jackie, but you stayed Sunshine. His Sunshine.
There is not an instance in your early life that you recall where Jack Abbot was not present. Holidays were spent together, vacations and extracurriculars, classes and hobbies done together. He was always there, present in a way that you can’t recall anyone else ever being.
No, when asked what you most remember of your childhood, your answer is always Jack Abbot, your childhood best friend of the hazel eyes like sun shining through tree branches and the auburn curls which were always just a tad too long.
Jack Abbot was your best friend, the one you trusted the most, the one you went to when you were hurt, excited or anything in-between.
It was a friendship forged from birth, quenched in playground tears and jeers. Your first day of kindergarten, you never cried, never clung to your mother’s leg, rather you held onto Jackie’s hand and dragged him after you into the school, into the room which was painted a bright pink and bright blue with posters all over and toys lining shelves.
Every day after was you and Jack. Always you and Jack.
“Jackie,” you had whispered one day in the first grade, the two of you just sitting on the swings at recess, “can you promise me something?”
“What, Sunshine?” he had replied, his attention fixed on the sky as his hands twined around the rusting metal chains of the swing.
“Promise me that we’ll stay together,” you said and he looked at you, his forest solemn and serious in only the way of a little kid.
“I promise,” he told you and he reached his hand across the divide for yours, your fingers interlocking, the two of you swinging softly, gently back and forth while the rest of the children at the school, shrieked and ran about laughing.
“Sunshine,” he had said once in the third grade, the two of you seated on the bleachers at lunch recess, sharing apple slices, “what do you think growing up means?”
“I don’t know,” you’d told him, your brows knitting together as you thought, a slice held in the air, halfway to your mouth, “but I’d like to think we’re together.”
That was the way it always was, you and Jack, Jack and you, always and forever, you always said. Always and forever, though, is the kind of vow a child makes, never knowing that life can change in an instant.
Or it can change in a long span of time, change creeping up over the years until one morning you wake up in a reality that seems so different, but was really coming all along.
Like it did in high school.
Because one day it seemed like you and Jack were friends, just friends and the next, things seemed…different. The next it seemed like every graze of his skin against yours made you feel alive, even when you were alive. The next it seemed like just over night, you had developed a colony of butterflies in your stomach that only came to life around him.
But you ignored it, ignored all the signs, preferring to have him as your friend, have him as you know him. Have him the way you always have. And it worked.
You went to school, went to class with him and did your sports and clubs and waited for each other like nothing had changed even when it felt like everything had.
It wasn’t until senior year that you realized you couldn’t ignore it anymore because the dreams and the butterflies and the sweaty palms and the ache in your chest watching him kiss and date and dance around with others girls was too strong. A force that said, it didn’t want to be ignored any longer.
You wanted to be the lips he kissed, the girl he dated, the body he danced with, twirling around with him on the dance floor. You wanted to be the one he wanted. And that want was slowly killing you.
“Prom,” you said one day, the two of seated on the swing set in your backyard, the one you spent hours on with him.
“What about it?” he replied and you looked at him, really looked, in the way you’d been denying yourself for years in effort to make that ache a little less, the butterflies less strong.
“Do you have a date?” you asked and he looked at you strangely, just a little differently like a recalibration was going on in his mind, the loading circle behind his eyes shining at you.
“No,” he said finally, words slow, kind of drawn-out as if he wasn’t entirely sure what was going on. “Do you?”
“I’ve been asked,” you told him, twisting on the swing, twisting chains around as they creaked, the cracking, aging plastic scraping against your palms as you faced him, chains wound tight around you like a barrier between you. “But not by who I want to ask me.”
“Who do you want to ask you?” he said, brows knitting together, his one hand drifting up to smooth his unruly curls back, the ones he let grow just a bit too long, just enough to drive his mother nuts.
“Jack,” you whispered, raising your eyebrows at him. “Who do you think?” He looked at you, surprised, that pleased glimmer shining in his eyes.
“Me?” he asked, his own finger drifting to his chest, his voice rising in excitement. “You want me to ask you to prom?!”
“Yeah,” you answered, squealing as he jumped out of his swing, over to yours, swinging you right, your legs locking around his waist, his hands just on top of yours on the chain, his body shadowed by the setting sun, eyes on you. Locked on you, the colony of butterflies warring in your gut, rising to your lungs.
“Well, Sunshine,” he said, a teasing smirk on his face. “Do you want to go to prom with me?”
“Of course,” you told him, your lips curving up in a matching grin, “I thought you’d never ask, Jackrabbit.”
“Don’t call me that,” he whispered, the nickname the one he earned playing basketball, his jumps well-known. “Call me what you’ve always called me, Sunshine.”
“I thought you’d never ask, Grumpy Bear.” And, in truth, that which you remember most from your youth is that smile he gave you right then, the one that is light and bright and innocent. One that you dreamt of as you fell asleep, one that you held onto over the years. The long, long years.
But you thought nothing of years and the future then, only disappearing inside your house after pressing a kiss against Jack’s cheek, one that glimmered in the light when he turned to watch you go, a lip gloss print upon the smoothness of his left cheek.
You spent the weeks leading up to prom in a daze, going shopping with your friend Elizabeth, the two of you picking out gowns and laughing. You were excited to finally be the lips that Jack Abbot, your Grumpy Bear and Jackie, kissed.
You didn’t yet realize that sometimes our plans are derailed by the most mundane of things. Like an email sent, a promotion given and a fraying marriage. Last ditch efforts where you’re never truly a consideration at all.
You came home with a dark, forest green ballgown and emerald heels, excited and happy only to walk into your parents sitting on the couch, their hands joined as they looked at you and said; “we’re moving to Seattle.”
ii. The First Missing—A week before Senior Prom
“Jack!” you call out, your bag slung on one shoulder, a notebook clutched in the crook of your arm, a red pen hooked into the circular rings. “Jack!” He’s standing at his locker, attention on one of his basketball friends, but he turns, catching sight of you, his eyes lighting up as his lips curve into a soft and satisfied smile.
“Hey, Sunshine!” he calls out, lifting one hand to you in greeting, two fingers up, signalling two minutes, the final bell having rung minutes before you saw him. You wait, feeling the sting of tears in your eyes and a clamminess in your palms. You thought, you really thought that this was it. That this was your chance.
That maybe, finally, you could have a love story, a high school love story like the ones in all the romance books you’ve read. A friends to lovers story of your own.
But, you suppose, it’s just not your time.
“What’s up, my sunshine?” Jack says, crossing to you, his steps fast and long, the distance closed in no time at all, his locker locked and his friend gone.
“I have bad news, Jack,” you whisper, looking down as your vision begins to go blurry, the tears lining your eyes so fully now that it’s just minutes before they fall, your throat thick and your hand sweaty even as he takes yours, his fingers interlacing with yours as he guides you out the front door, out towards his car.
“Whatever it is, Sunny,” he whispers, “we’ll get through it together.”
“We can’t this time, Jack,” you say, looking up from the ground where you’ve been watching your high-top covered feet as they cut across the green of the lawn, of the dusty gravel on the parking lot. “This is something we can’t fix or get through…together.”
“What do you mean?” he asks and you look at him, really looking, drinking in every detail of his face, from the faint acne on his forehead and his cheekbones, to the now trimmed curls that he must have cut last night and his knitted brow over shadowed hazel eyes.
“Let’s get in your car and just drive for a bit, okay?” you say and he nods, his expression still worried and dark, darkening more as you separate from him, climbing into his car, the one he spent a whole year fixing up, the ’67 Firebird in bright blue.
He climbs in and puts the key in the ignition, turning it and backing out of the parking lot, switching gears to first and getting on the road, the one that leads to nowhere, out to open fields, the one you used to bike on as kids, your bike rides going nowhere. The adventure of little kids.
“I’m leaving tomorrow,” you whisper, your window down, the wind rolling and ruffling the strands of your hair as your hand sticks out, fingers moving, tracing circles in the breeze.
“Leaving where?” he asks, voice soft and quiet, worried and contemplative at the same time.
“Seattle,” you answer, turning to look at him, rather than the open fields of canola and mustard. “My dad got a promotion. I’m not gonna make it to prom.”
“But you were all excited about your dress,” he says, taking his eyes off the road for a minute to look at you, the look in his eyes like yours just moments before, like he’s memorizing every inch of you.
“I’ll save it for a rainy day,” you whisper, face folding down into sadness, the tears falling in a soft and steady way, warm like a summer rainstorm.
“I thought…” he whispers, pulling over to the side of the road, putting his car in park and turning to you, eyes alight with intensity. “I thought this was our chance. Just like our mom’s said…we’re…fated.”
“I guess,” you whisper, swallowing hard around the growing lump in your throat, your hand reaching for his, lacing through his fingers, “it’s not our time yet.”
“So, we’re just gonna…gonna be left with what could have been,” he whispers, lifting your joined hands to his lips, pressing a kiss against your knuckles.
“A beautiful, brilliant…possibility,” you tell him, watching with despair as a single tear rolls down his cheek, slipping down his chin, falling onto the neck of his t-shirt, the one you got him with Grumpy Bear on it. The one he’s fearless enough to wear.
“For now,” he whispers, letting go of you and putting the car back into gear, doing a U-turn back to the town, heading somewhere from nowhere. “We’ll get our time, Sunshine,” he vows, looking back at you, a small, sad smile on his face. “I know it.”
And you want to know it too so you nod, playing along, but in your heart you wonder when?
When will it be the chance you’ve been waiting for? When will you get your love story with this boy, this boy who holds your heart, will always hold your heart?
When will he become a story rather than a dream?
When will the boy that could have been become the boy who was?
iii. The Second Missing—Early Deployment
San Diego has not been what you expected when you first showed up here, your room packed into boxes, hauled from Seattle to San Diego University. It was warm year round and it didn’t snow and the first time you stepped outside in December, you were surprised that you didn’t need a coat.
It’s picturesque and pretty and perfect and exactly what you need to outrun the ghosts of your broken home, your mother having divorced your father, moving back home just as you packed up for half-way across the country. It’s not like you didn’t know it was coming, but you don’t want to see their broken faces when you carry your own ghost, the dream of what could have been.
Letters from Jack just weren’t the same and no one can write letters forever because life gets busy and things happen and then…they just stop coming. The last thing he sent you was a letter that ended with some day, Sunshine, it will be our turn. You never did believe him.
“What med school are you applying to next year?” Paris asks you, her voice low and calm and soothing, the way it’s always been these past three years.
“Stanford, Harvard, Johns Hopkins, Yale, what about you?” you answer, glancing over at her, at the way her dark hair is braided back tightly from her face, the way her light brown eyes look shadowed in a sexy way from her smoky eye.
“The same,” she answers. “I’m hoping for Harvard, but I know you will always be hoping for Johns Hopkins.” Her voice has a teasing lilt that causes your lips to curve up with just a bit of a smile, your eyes rolling affectionately when a voice so familiar that your heart feels like it stops breaks through the din.
“Sunshine?!”
“Jackie?!” you call out, turning around, high-top sneaker laces, twisting under your feet, grinding into the cracked, expanding sidewalk. You see him standing there, but he looks so different, his hair buzzed off and hands clasped behind his back, posture stiff. “Omigod! Jackie!” you cry, running to him as he holds open his arms for you. You don’t hesitate, just launching yourself at him, your arms around his neck, legs around his waist, his arms holding tight to you.
“Hey, Sunshine,” he says, his voice a husky kind of drawl, “miss me much?”
“Shut up! What are you doing here?” you say, hopping off of him, but keeping your arms around his neck, his staying on your waist, warm and giving light to the butterflies you long since thought dormant.
“I’m a Marine,” he tells you, one corner of his lips pulling up into that crooked smile he has, the one that is delicious and perfect and everything you’ve missed. “I chose the recruitment base here in the warmth rather than old South Carolina.”
“Smart choice,” you tell him, stepping to the side, your one arm staying slung around his neck as you pull him down, your fist shaking against his buzz cut, the short hairs on his head, dragging strangely against your skin. “Damn,” you say, releasing his head, but keeping your arm around him, “not as much fun anymore to noogie you, Mr. Marine.”
“Ha!” he says, his one arm still around your waist, Paris shooting wide wtf eyes at you as she ducks into the coffee shop, taking a seat at the window. “That was my plan all along. The entire reason for signing up to serve my country.”
“Uh-huh,” you reply, your voice deadpan as you walk in step with him, stopping just outside of the coffee shop where your study group waits, the one you don’t want to go to because you don’t want to lose out on Jack. Not again.
You feel like this is the chance you’ve been waiting for. Like you can make it work now.
“How long are you here for?” you ask, your voice veering up, hopeful to the last.
“I have four months until my scheduled deployment,” he tells you, lips never once curving down from the crooked grin, that half-lipped smile. “Why? Are you hinting at something, Sunshine?”
“I don’t hint at anything, Jackrabbit,” you counter, the words just slightly venomous, but mostly teasing. Really all the way teasing. “I suggest and you’re supposed to turn my suggestions into reality.”
“Like prom?” he asks and you smile at him, reaching up, placing your hands on his shoulders.
“Exactly like prom,” you whisper and in that moment, you can feel the breath catch in your throat as you look at him, at the ghost of what could have been crosses your mind. He wrote you after prom, saying he didn’t go. That he couldn’t without his Sunshine, that it just wouldn’t work. It wouldn’t be what he wanted.
“So…” he whispers, leaning in, pressing his forehead against yours, that crooked smile still firmly on his lips, just a little tainted as if he, too, is haunted by the ghost of what could have been. “Do you want to go on a date?”
“Are you allowed, Mr. Marine?” you whisper and he smiles a full smile at you, letting out a breathy kind of chuckle as he nods, the movement echoing through you.
“Yeah, Sunshine,” he whispers. “I’m allowed.”
“Then yes,” you tell him and he pulls away, smiling that bright smile, the one that’s haunted you for years now as he turns and waves.
“Tomorrow, nine am, here, okay?” he says and you nod, biting your lip to suppress the smile that’s threatening to grow as he backs up, waving once before jogging off and you turn around, entering the coffee shop, Paris standing there, hands on her hips.
“Is that him?” she demands. “Mr. Possibility?”
“Yeah,” you whisper, your throat thick with the good kind of tears as she squeals, running to you and embracing you, the two of you jumping up and down before composing yourselves, turning to the study group, to the test.
But your mind is on Jack for the rest of the day, the taste of possibility becoming reality heady on your tongue. You should know by now though that nothing goes according to plan.
Because when you get up in the morning, dressing with care in a yellow blouse with flowy sleeves and a light green flowy skirt with sandals, you feel something off in the pit of your gut. You ignore it as you go to the coffee shop, order and sit at a table, waiting. Waiting and waiting and waiting.
Nine ticks into ten into eleven into twelve. Three coffee refills and five sugar packets later, a man walks in, an army uniform on and a letter in his hand. “Is a…Sunshine here?” he calls out and you stand, swallowing hard around a lump as you hold up a hand.
“I’m Sunshine,” you whisper as he walks to you, holding out a letter.
“Private Jack Abbot requested that I give this to you,” he says, “he was deployed this morning for active duty in the Bosnian conflict.” He turns then, leaving as you stand there, unfolding the letter, Jack’s voice jumping out at you, echoing in your ears as you scan his tight, slanting scrawl.
Sunshine,
We just can’t catch a break, can we? I’ve been deployed, leaving this morning, or…I guess when you read this, I’ll already be gone so…now I guess. God, Sunshine, I really thought this was our chance, you know.
But I’ll tell you this: you are the great star-crossed love of my life. The one I feel like I’m meant to be with, but can never quite reach. I’m ever hopeful though, Sunshine. Ever waiting. Because this I know:
One day, we will reach one another. One day, I will give you this kiss I should have given you long ago. The one I should have taken yesterday.
One day, Sunshine, we won’t be star crossed. We’ll just be real. I don’t know where, I don’t know when. I just know that someday. And that’s enough for now, Sunshine, for me at least.
Know that I love you and I’m sorry. Know that I carry you with me always and the dream of what could have been.
Love,
Your Jackie, your Grumpy Bear.
You want to scream as you read it, the letter crumpling in your fist but you can’t. Instead, you fold it up, slipping it into the pocket of your skirt and you walk out of the coffee shop, never looking back at the memory lingering in the window.
The one of you waiting, hopeful, for a chance that was never coming.
It seems like you and Jack are fated to always miss one another.
iv. The Third Missing—The Ring on His Finger
You’re against the wall, waiting for your coffee, your scrubs on your body, doctor badge pinned to your chest as you wait, glancing at your watch every few minutes, the ticking of the second hand just another tick closer to what awaits you on the surgical floor.
Orthopedic surgery is not a place that women are expected to go to, most of your professors and mentors tried to talk you out of it, but you’re set. It’s going to be what you do for the rest of your life because you like putting broken things back together. Putting them together the way you’ve never been able to put yourself together.
“It couldn’t be Sunshine, could it?” you hear a voice call out, one that is familiar and painful as you glance over your shoulder, taking in an older, more battle-worn version of Jack Abbot. The boy who could have been.
“I think it could,” you call out and he crosses the room towards you, his pace excited, lips tugging up into that crooked grin of his. “How are you, Jackie?”
“I’m okay,” he says, leaning against the counter, the one where they set the drinks when they’re finished. “How ‘bout you?”
“Been good,” you tell him, lips curving up of their own accord, “been busy. In case you can’t tell,” you say, spinning slightly, “I’m a doctor now. In my first year of residency, so…you know, woot-woot!” You pump your hands a little in the air as he lets out a small laugh, the sound deep and light at the same time, ringing through the small coffee shop.
“I’ve missed you,” he says and you can feel that twinge in your heart, the one caused by hope, the hope that maybe, finally, it’s time. Then you see the glint of silver on his finger and the hope comes crashing down, shattering again, reminding you that Jack Abbot was just a beautiful possibility when you were a child.
And that you’re not a child anymore.
“Look at you,” you sing-song, “Jack Abbot, a married man. Tell me about her, man, come on.” He just looks at you, his face kind of falling, hesitant and you sigh, rolling your eyes. “Jackie, we were friends first, before we said we were possibilities. I think…maybe, we’re just meant to be friends.”
“Right,” he says, his voice slightly broken before he smiles again, glancing down at his finger, at the ring, the smile shifting to one of softness and joy. “Her name’s Emma and she’s a teacher, elementary school. I told her she shouldn’t, but she doesn’t listen.”
“Why shouldn’t she?” you ask as the barista walks over, nodding at you, your drink set down and you step forwards, taking it and stepping back, looking at the way Jack’s smile is tinged with sadness.
“She has CF,” he says, lips pressing together sadly as he looks up at you. “Kids carry germs, but she loves them and…we can’t have any, so…”
“She sounds perfect for you, Jack,” you whisper, reaching forwards and taking his hand, giving it a brief but meaningful squeeze before you step back and nod. “I wish you well, Grumpy Bear.”
“Where are you going, Sunshine?” he calls out as you turn, heading for the door, adjusting your messenger bag strap as it rides up and cuts into your throat.
“I have my job, Jackrabbit,” you call out, saluting him once. “That waits for no man.” You place both hands on the metal bar of the café door and push out, the cool November air hitting you in the face, burning like the pain of losing out on a dream.
It always hurts when reality hits you in the face.
v. The Fourth Missing—The Ring on Your Finger
Your hand rests on your stomach, the bump protruding in a highly visible way, the six month mark just hit last week, yet you carry twins so you’ve looked six months along since month three. The classical music of the medical awards celebration spins out as people wander from table to table, whispering to one another before the awards are announced.
Your husband, Graham, stands off to the side of the stage. He’s the one responsible for tonight and he sees you looking at him, waving a bit as you wave back, your lips curving up in that smile that only he has ever seemed to bring about.
Jack Abbot was a dream, but Graham is reality. A beautiful, precious reality that you wouldn’t trade for anything.
“Sunshine?” you hear behind you and you glance over your shoulder, your breath hitching in surprise as you see that beautiful dream standing behind you, in a tuxedo.
“Well, if isn’t, Jack Abbot,” you call out, rising slowly to your feet, hand never once leaving your bump, your other stabilizing you on the table as you stand. “I forgot you clean up nice. Now, where’s Emma?”
“She…uh,” he swallows hard as you turn around, his gaze falling to the ring on his finger before back up to you, “she passed. Contracted B. cepacia before new lungs could come in. Five years ago now.”
“Oh, god!” you whisper, your hand flying to your mouth, covering it as you let out a small, choked gasp. “I’m so sorry, Jackie!”
“It’s okay,” he whispers, his expression conveying that it’s not, in fact, okay, but that there’s nothing you could do to make it better. “You know,” he muses, “when I saw you sitting there I thought, maybe…maybe it’s our time, now, but I can see…” his gaze falls to your stomach, to the rings on your finger, “that’s it not.”
“Jack,” you whisper, “I don’t know if there’s ever gonna be a time for us. I think…I think we were just a childish dream and we each have found reality. Whether good or not.”
“Yeah,” he says, shifting, adjusting his pant leg, the fabric riding up to reveal a gleam of metal and plastic. “Lost it not long after I saw you last.”
“It’s badass, man,” you tell him and the two of you laugh, a shared laugh between people with a history not entirely good, not entirely bad. “So, Emma inspired you to be a doctor, huh?”
“You always did know me, Sunshine,” he says, nodding once as Graham’s voice cuts through the room. “I’m sorry that our time never came.” He walks off and you sit back down, watching his retreating back, whispering, “me too, Jackie.”
vi. The Meeting—PTMC Roof
Your hands grip the smooth metal railing in both hands, the outside air refreshing in the way that anything not sterile becomes after a while, the lights of Pittsburgh twinkling all around you. The twins are at a friend’s place for the night and your house rings with silence when they’re gone.
“Of all the rooves, in all the world,” calls a familiar cocksure voice behind you, “you had to walk onto mine, Sunshine!”
“Heard you were in the ED, Jackie!” you call back without turning around, hearing his slightly uneven gait approach, his body appearing beside yours, his hands gripping the railing, one right beside yours, the heat of his skin radiating over to you.
“When did you get to Pittsburgh?” he asks and you lean down, your forearms on the metal as you glance over at him.
“Five years ago,” you tell him. “Moved here…after I lost my husband.” You hear him suck in a breath, his body turning, angling to face you.
“What happened?” he asks and you sigh, standing up, the cool metal no longer kissing your skin as you turn to him, lips pressed in a thin line, his face older but still the same.
“Car accident,” you whisper. “Drunk driver hit us. He was gone the second the car hit us.”
“You were in it?”
“Yeah,” you whisper, hiking up the pant leg of your purple scrubs, the one that say surgery. “Took my leg, that car. I have the matching limb for yours,” you joke, the sound of crushing metal echoing, the feeling of compression, pain and then, blissfully, nothing.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers and you shrug, looking back out at the skyline of Pittsburgh, of the city so different than New York and yet, in so many ways, identical.
“Don’t be,” you tell him, “it wasn’t your fault.”
“How are the twins?” he asks you and you can feel as your lips twist of their accord, your head turning back to him, torso aligning to him, the boy who could have been.
“They don’t know what they lost, to be honest,” you whisper. “They were five. They know they had a dad, but they don’t really remember. They have nightmares and they need me, but…they only have a lack of something, they don’t remember the man who made the shape of the absence.”
“It’s rough,” he says, his arm looping around your shoulders, “but I’m here now. I’ve always been your Jackie.”
“My Grumpy Bear, right?” you whisper, leaning your head on his shoulder, his hand squeezing yours.
“Exactly,” he whispers. “By the way, what do you do?” You loop your own arm around his waist, anchoring yourself here.
“I’m the chief attending orthopedic surgeon,” you tell him and he lets out a small laugh, squeezing you tighter before turning, his hands resting on your shoulders, yours on his waist.
“Is it…” he trails off, swallowing hard and glancing off to the side. “I mean…Emma’s been gone…a long time, like fifteen years now, but…is it…not to be insensitive, but…is it our time now?”
“You don’t mind kids?” you ask and he turns to look at you, his expression entirely serious as he shakes his head.
“No,” he whispers. “I have spent thirty years loving something that never even happened and I want it to happen, Sunshine. I’m tired of missing you every time. I want you.”
“Then I think…” you pause, nodding once, smiling despite the pain in your heart, “I think it’s, yeah, it’s our time.”
vii. After
“Everyone,” Jack says, “this is the Chief Attending Orthopedic Surgeon gracing us with her presence so don’t fuck around.”
“Thank you, Dr. Abbot,” you reply, rolling your eyes at him affectionately as you step into the trauma room, pulling on gloves as you approach the patient, the severed limb, your own prosthetic never feeling heavier than on cases like these.
“No problem, Dr. Abbot,” he says, tone teasing and you roll your eyes. Again.
“Even after ten years, you’re still not tired of saying that, are you?”
“I’ll never be tired of saying it, Dr. Abbot,” he says and you glance over at him, heart singing at the boyish smile on his face. “It’s our time, after all.”
“Shut up,” you tell him, turning to the shocked med students and residents standing, mouths agape. “Present the case, please. I’m doing this consult as a favour to my husband so don’t waste my time.”
And as a med student hurriedly explains the case, you can’t help but share a smile with Jack, your Jack.
Because after all those years of missing one another, of being just a second too late, you can’t help but love the fact that it’s finally your time.
That the boy who could have been became the man who is.
we need to talk more about the fandom experience of "I actually do like the idea of these two characters together and think it would have been an interesting direction for the show to have gone in, but unfortunately everyone who openly ships them is so exhaustingly unpleasant about it that it's barely even enjoyable to engage with the fandom at large anymore so the ship itself is now ruined for me"
