Welcome to my blog! I'm very new to writing Fanfica, but I hope you enjoy my works anyways. You can request fics, even with different fandoms, if I know them I'll list it all in the near future.
I love to reblog fanfics and I'm a multifandom fan.
Only rule I have and can think of for now are:
Minors do not interact with my blog. I tend to reblog 18+ fics, or I may write such fics in the future myself.
Incase you still want to interact, that is your choice and the path that you want to take. I have already done my job of warning you.
Edit : Will be holding off of writing for an indefinite period of time due to health issues and work.
Summary: your relationship with Azriel, as shown through your relationship with Cassian.
Author’s note: this is based on this incredible request. Honestly I could do this forever I’m OBSESSED with Cassian I need to be his best friend like now.
-
The hulking Illyrian general looked down at the woman in front of him, examining her outstretched hand. Azriel stood behind her, watching Cassian with curious eyes.
No one knew how this was going to go, what to expect. Azriel never brought girls home, let alone asking Cassian to meet one of them. The moment clear in his mind, as Azriel walked into the dining room to eat breakfast with Cassian.
The shadowsinger sat down, setting his morning coffee, eggs, and bacon in front of him. Cassian looked at him, nodding in greeting as he shoveled some cantaloupe into his mouth.
His brother spoke first, “are you doing anything after lunch?”
Cassian thought about his day, he had dinner plans, but nothing for the afternoon. He shakes his head no, his mouth still full of cantaloupe.
“Good,” his brother tells him, “I want you to meet someone.” Cassian stops chewing, surprised at this. “You want me to meet someone?” Is what he tried to say, but with the cantaloupe blocking his throat, it came out more like, “boo bant me bo beat bomeone?”
Despite the confusing question, Azriel knew what his brother meant and sighed. “Yes, I’ve been… seeing someone.”
His tone conveys he doesn’t want this conversation to continue, but Cassian will not let him get away without a few answers. “You’ve been seeing someone?”
“Yes,” Azriel states, “and she wants to meet you.”
Cassian finally swallows the hunk of cantaloupe, “so it’s a her?” He asks, waggling his eyebrows. Azriel swallows his bite of eggs, disdain coating his voice. “If you can’t handle it-“
Cassian cuts him off, “Oh, I can handle it, brother. I assure you.”
He looked again at the lady in front of him, a smile adorning her face, making her look so soft, so warm.
He can see why she has Azriel wrapped around her finger - she’s been in front of Cassian for all of thirty seconds, telling him her name and offering her hand to shake, and he already finds her incredibly endearing.
But he also wants to give both of them a hard time. As nice as she may look, this is serious for his brother. His brother, who has always felt so undeserving of love, bringing someone to meet his family.
Well, to just meet Cassian. Azriel figured slow introductions was the best way to go about this, and he started with Cassian. A decision Cassian can tell Azriel is starting to regret.
“Ah,” he takes your hand, giving you a bone crushing handshake. You take it like a champ, he notes, as he calls you by the wrong name. It’s close to your own name, but not exact.
You correct him, prompting him to call you a different, incorrect name. He looks at you expectantly, the eye contact you share telling Cassian that you know exactly what he’s doing. And you don’t back down.
“That’s right, Calliope.” You respond, “nice to meet you.” You smile at him, a sweet smile that he sees through.
Wonderful.
-
Azriel had asked Cassian if it would be okay if he brought you to training. It was something you seemed interested in and, Azriel admits to Cass, if things continue he’d prefer you to have some knowledge of defending yourself.
Cassian had seen you a time or two since your first introduction, the two of you continuing to use incorrect names for each other. He agreed to let you come, as long as he could help your training.
You showed up to training the next morning, a teasing smirk making it’s way to Cassian’s face as you approach.
“Behave,” Azriel warns his brother, as he approaches you. You smile as he gets closer, standing on your toes to kiss him quickly.
Cassian’s desire to tease you both falters for a second, wanting nothing more than to make a comment about the red finding its way up Az’s neck, heating his cheeks. The general goes to say something, stopping as he watches the way you look at his brother. Your eyes show such kindness, such warmth, even from yards away.
You walk up, greeting Cassian as you come up to him. “Good morning, Cassandra.” He chuckles, throwing an incorrect name back at you. “You ready to learn?”
You beam, “yeah! Hopefully you’re a good teacher - maybe I’ll surpass you and take your job.”
You start shadow boxing around him, pretending to hit him. Cassian laughs at you, as Azriel looks at you fondly, your back turned to him.
The two of them lead you through a variety of stretches, they teach you how to throw a punch, and where to strike an opponent for the most impact.
“Can I spar with you?” You ask Cassian, both of the males eyebrows shooting up at your request. “I’d ask Azriel, but I don’t want to ruin his pretty face,” you say, cupping his face in your hands.
Cassian grumbles as you two walk towards the clearing, “I’m pretty too…”
You laugh, as he turns to face you. “Okay, sunshine, let’s spar.”
You two circle each other, and Azriel watches from the sidelines in both amusement and to ensure you don’t get hurt. Cassian throws a lazy punch at you, which you block flawlessly, the shock etching his face. You throw a piss poor punch on purpose, wanting him to lower his guard. He blocks your punch easily, and you two continue in this half-assed dance for a few minutes, until you decide to go all out.
You fake a left jab, causing Cassian to move to defend his left side, leaving the right side of his face open for your fist to collide with.
The impact creates a bone breaking sound that doesn’t come from your fingers. Azriel sucks in a breath, running towards the two of you as Cassian falls to the ground.
He looks up at you, the blood dripping down his face. “Where’d you learn that, sunshine?” He laughs, spitting blood out in the ground.
“I have three older brothers,” you smile down at him. “They taught me how to throw a punch.”
You offer a hand, and he takes it, laughing as you help him up.
-
Cassian’s wings were flapping so hard, so fast. He was exhausted, the events of the day catching up to him. Determination to get to you was keeping him moving.
He vaguely knew where you lived, Azriel mentioning stopping by to see you after going to a bakery. He lands in front of the bakery, and does the only things he knows how to: he starts knocking on doors.
Various Velaris citizens open their doors, ready to be angry at whoever is pounding on their door in the dead of night, until they see the High Lord’s General, asking if anyone with your name or your description lives there or if they know you. Eventually he reaches a door where the woman inside tells him that you live a few doors down, with the green door and flowers on your doorstep.
He approaches the door, knocking until you open the door, only allowing a small sliver to see who is there. “Cassian?” You ask, opening the door wider. He can tell he woke you up, due to your messy hair and sapphire blue nightgown.
You wake up at the realization of Cassian being at your door, immediately asking him if Azriel’s okay. Cassian shakes his head, asking if you want to come see him. You ask how dire it is, and he says you have a moment to change into actual clothes. You find some sweatpants and a shirt Azriel had left at your place, and allow his brother to scoop you into his arms as you two fly towards the House of Wind.
The flight is silent, both of your anxieties practically palpable through the air. You two eventually land, Cassian leading you directly to Azriel’s chambers.
You had been a frequent visitor to Az’s room in the other residences, but you’d only been in the House of Wind once. You’re thankful for Cassian’s lead, following close behind him.
You wind through the halls until Cassian stops in front of a door, knocking softly. He waits a moment, then enters, no response from the other side. He opens the door and Rhys is present, turning to look at the both of you as you enter the room.
You take in Azriel’s form on the bed. He’s asleep, you hope, watching his chest, watching it rise and fall slowly. You match your breathing with his, the deep breaths calming you, the only way Azriel can soothe you right now.
“How- uh- how bad is it?” You ask, unable to look away from his form on the bed. You approach slowly, taking in the injuries as you get closer. You’re a few feet away and you can see the deep bruising on his face, his chest, his arms. You shutter, his knuckles covered in blood.
Rhys grabs your shoulders softly, “he’s going to be okay, sore, but okay. He was asking for you, though.”
You nod, Azriel’s request warming your heart a bit. He always came to you after missions to help bandage his wounds. You smile a bit at the fact that whatever the hell happened to him out there didn’t stop him from wanting to continue that tradition.
Cassian is the first to move, as he moves two chairs to sit next to Azriel’s bed. He gestures for you to sit in one of them, as he takes up residence in the other one.
Rhys rubs your shoulders softly as he asks, “do you want some tea? Water? Anything?”
You clear your throat, trying to keep the tears at bay. “Some tea would be nice, thanks.”
Azriel woke up feeling incredibly groggy and like he had fallen from a balcony. He heard laughing, and he kept his eyes closed to figure out what was happening near him.
The room smelled like his room, the sheets felt like his, and he almost snapped his eyes open at your laugh.
No, not just your laugh, but the loud boisterous laugh of Cassian and the soft amused laugh of Rhys.
The three of you were talking about him.
“The morning he told me he wanted us to meet, he was shaking like a wet dog,” Rhys said, amusement lacing his tone.
“No hr wasn’t,” you say, shock in your voice. “Oh, yes,” Rhys replies, shifting in his seat. “He’s never brought anyone home before, and he’s never talked about anyone before.”
Cassian snorts, “I almost caught him with someone a century ago. I swear I heard something, but when I came in poof they were gone.”
You laugh, the sound filling Azriel’s chest with warmth. “He had told me that you two wanted to meet me!”
Rhys laughs, “he told us you wanted to meet us!”
You all laugh, as Azriel stirs slightly. He opened his eyes to find Rhys in a chair on his right, with you and Cassian taking up two chairs on his left.
“Don’t listen to anything they say,” Azriel rasps, coughing from how dry his throat was. “They’re both liars.”
Azriel closed his eyes again, but he felt your hand wrap around his, and he could see your face in his mind. Your hand squeezed his, and despite the injuries, he couldn’t help the smile on his face.
“Hi, love.”
“Hi Azzy,” Cassian responds, earning a groan from Azriel.
You want to touch his face, but you’re worried you’ll hurt him.
“Well, now that you’re awake, we’ll see ourselves out,” Rhysand told him, offering him a wink as his brothers get up and begin moving to the door.
“A woman’s love is the best medicine,” Cassian says.
“You assholes aren’t even going to see how I am? After staying all night?”
Cassian laughs, “oh, we didn’t stay here out of concern over you. We stayed to keep her company.”
-
Looking at where you and the general stood, you regretted the events leading you here. “I’m just saying he’d love this little black number.”
Cassian currently had an arm draped around a mannequin, wearing the least amount of fabric possible.
“Cassian,” you hiss, embarassment leaking out of you, “why are we here?”
“You asked for help for a gift - this is my help!” He says, gesturing broadly around the lingerie shop. You hiss at him, “this isn’t what I had in mind-“
A chipper voice cuts you off, “good morning! How are you two today?” You turn to find a pretty shopkeeper looking at you and Cassian, her eyes lingerinf on his biceps wrapped around the mannequin. You swear you see him flex a little.
Cassian looks at you with a shit-eating grin as he tells her, “great! I’m helping her find a gift for my brother.”
She looks between you two, confusion on her face. “Is it for him to wear? We have a men’s section-“
“No, no,” Cassian says,”I’ll come back another day to check out that section. We’re looking for something for her, preferably in black or blue.”
He smiles at the shop associate, and she blushes at his attention. He winks at her, as she turns around to find you some options.
“Cassian, I’d prefer it if you weren’t aware of my lingerie choices.”
He raises his hands up, “I can close my eyes if that’ll make you feel better.” He places his hands over his eyes, “just guide me around the store, please, so I don’t fondle any mannequins.”
-
“I know something you don’t know,” Cassian coos at you, swaggering into the room. You’re seated in the library, enjoying a nice book by the fire. At least, you were.
“Hi Cass,” you say, taking a sip of your wine. He plops down next to you, stretching his arm behind you on the couch. You almost recoil at his smell, clearly coming in straight from training or fighting or something.
“Ugh, Cass, can you shower before showing up? You have a smell.” You fake gag at him.
He waggles his eyebrows, “some call it a musk,” he replies, “and I know you like it when Azzie is all sweaty after training.”
You roll your eyes, moving a little away from him. “Yes, but he’s hot. It’s different.”
He gawks at you. “It’s not different!” He insists, “I’m hot!”
You sigh, accepting the turn in conversation. “Yes, but not when you smell like that.”
He waggles his eyebrows, “so you do think I’m hot?” You slap him across the chest. “Yes, you’re a very handsome boy. Now what did you know that I don’t?”
Cassian pauses, trying to remember why he came in here in the first place. Then he remembers, smiling at you. He leaned back, placing his hands together on his stomach.
“Ah, yes. I know something you don’t know.”
You huff, “yes Cassian, and I know plenty that you don’t know.”
“Yes but my knowledge is about a certain pretty shadowsinger.”
You eye him, his grin spanning his whole face. “What do you know?”
Cassian looks at his hands, twiddling his thumbs. “What’s it worth to you?”
You push him, “tell me.”
“What’s it worth?”
“Tell me, tell me, tell me.”
“Value?”
You sigh, “I’ll set you up with my friend Varia.”
He lifts an eyebrow, “promise?”
“If your information is valuable enough.”
“Oh I can guarantee it.”
“Then we have a deal. What do you know?”
Cassian looks around the room, to ensure you’re truly alone, including the presence of any nosey shadows. Once he feels confident you’re truly alone, he tells you, “I saw him in a jewelry store today.”
You pause, “okay?”
“And your birthday isn’t for six months, solstice was two months ago, your anniversary is in 8 months, so…”
He motions his hands, hoping you’ll get what he’s insinuating.
“He’s preparing?” You ask. The general rolls his eyes. He grabs both of your arms, shaking you as he tells you, “he was looking at rings!”
You gasp, “no you did not! Did you see any? What did they look like? Do you think they’d fit my fingers?”
Cassian rolled his eyes, “well he wasn’t shopping at Jewelry for Giants”
You hit him in the chest with a pillow. “No, I didn’t see any of them, but he was there for quite a while. Pretty sure the shop assistant showed him everything he had in the store.”
You squeal, launching yourself onto Cassian in a hug. “This better be real, valid intel Cassian or I swear I’ll cut off your testicles and feed them to Bryaxis.”
He eventually leaves, having had enough of your squealing and questions about rings, opting for a glass of milk before bed. As he’s in the kitchen pouring a glass he hears from behind him, “Cassian I know you saw me.”
He flinches, but just barely, causing the shadowsinger to smile just a touch. “Saw you where?”
Azriel sighed, “stop playing dumb with me Cassian, you saw me at Winston’s Jewelry.”
Cassian’s surprised at Azriel’s forwardness, his lack of dancing around subjects a skill Cassian wishes he shared. “Yes, I did. So? I assumed you were buying a birthday gift.”
His brother doesn’t buy the fib. “You know exactly what I was looking for in that store.”
“Mm, jewelry?”
Azriel closes his eyes, counting to ten, to keep himself from leaping across the kitchen and stabbing his brother. He keeps his eyes closed as he says, “I bought a ring.”
“This is so sudden, brother, I mean how could I say yes when we haven’t even spent a night together?”
Azriel rubs the bridge of his nose, annoyance still there from the moment he saw Cassian watching him. “Not for you, for her.” He pauses and Cassian doesn’t try to fill it, waiting for Azriel to continue.
Azriel sighs, letting the truth fill the room. “I’m going to ask her to marry me.”
Cassian cheers in delight, excitement coursing through him.
“How are you going to do it? A bunch of flowers everywhere? Oh, oh, put the ring on your cock and -“
Azriel balks at Cassian, the headache coming back. He goes to walk away, but stops. “Just - don’t tell her you saw me. Please?”
Cassian pales, but agrees, and watches his brother head towards his room. Once he hears the click of his door, he races across the house to the library, where you’re still seated.
“Don’t-“ he pants, “mention anything about rings.” He pants again, surprisingly winded. “I didn’t tell you anything.” He turns to walk away, but he hears you say, “okay?” before he walks out.
-
You were spreading olive oil across the grape tomatoes as you heard your door open. You didn’t hear movement as your husband walked into the kitchen, your back turned to him.
“You’re home early,” you say, stirring the gnocchi. “How was your day, sweets?”
“It was fine, darling,” you hear Cassian respond, followed by a chair dragging across your floor as he plops down, spreading his legs wide, taking up a considerable amount of space.
You turned around, expecting a different Illyrian in your kitchen, a quick retort on your tongue as you look down and see his shoes. “Cassian!” You scold, “I’ve told you to take off your muddy boots before you come in.”
You walk over to him, flicking him in the ear. He rubs it softly, muttering about something. “Sorry, dear,” he says, emphasizing the term of endearment, as he starts unlacing his shoes.
You begin walking back to continue your cooking. “I thought you were my husband,” you shout to him as he walks back through your living room, the door softly opening. “Well, I’m flattered sweetheart, I thought we could have had something special, too, but my rascal of a brother got you first.”
You roll your eyes at him, stirring your noodles, “We never would have worked out, Cass. We’re both too chipper, we need to share our happiness with the grumps of the world.”
Cassian snorted, opening your fridge to grab a beer, “no we wouldn’t have worked out because Azriel would have murdered me if I made a move.”
He opens his beer bottle with his teeth, chuckling.
You laugh, cutting up your cooked chicken to mix it back into the pasta. “Oh what could have been, Cass. The world wouldn’t have been able to handle us together.”
“I know I certainly couldn’t.”
You smile, feeling your husband ghost a kiss to your cheek. He wraps his arms around you, basking in your scent before he goes to get his own beer.
Cassian rolls his eyes, “you would have skulked for hundreds of years, brother.” Your eyebrows raise, “you think we would have been together for centuries?”
“Oh yeah,” Cassian nods, putting his beer down on the table. “If not out of love, out of spite.” He gives Azriel a little smirk, and Azriel slaps the back of his head.
“Why are you here, Cass, other than to flirt with my wife?” He asks, taking his usual seat at the table.
“Yeah, Cass, didn’t you have a date tonight?” You ask, placing the pan in the oven and setting a timer. Azriel stills at your question. His brother did have a date tonight, one that should have started two hours ago.
You both reach the same conclusion as you say, “oh, Cass,” turning around to look at him. “What happened?”
He shrugs, starting to rip the label off his bottle to occupy himself. “She just.. wasn’t right.” He sighs, a contemplative look overcoming his features. “I just want something real. Not a few nights, not a few months. Something real. Like you two.”
Cassian’s face reddens, his admission in the air. He’s about to apologize, but you wrap your arms around his head, placing your own on top of his.
“You deserve someone incredible, Cass. Someone that isn’t me.” He laughs, patting your arms. “I’m sorry she didn’t work out. But you’re free to stay for dinner tonight, if you want. I’m making pesto chicken gnocchi.”
Cassian sighs, deflating in your arms a bit, “I don’t want to impose-“
Azriel snorts, “yes you do. Go ahead, Cassian. Impose. We’re happy to let you.” Cassian smiles, a real, genuine smile. Most nights the loneliness doesn’t get to him, but this is a rare night for vulnerability, and as the three of you gather around the table, gossiping about the girl Rhys was under the mountain with and how she was now at the Moonstone Palace with Rhys, Cassian feels his friends help carry his burden.
Summary: Based on this ask - you and Azriel present your new babe to the rest of the inner circle, with a surprise for Cassian.
Author’s note: Cassian is a male who is very aware of his emotions and lets them out
The inner circle was buzzing with excitement as they sat in your living room.
Your labor had no hold-ups, however it had been long and exhausting, and afterwards Azriel insisted on making you rest before seeing the rest of your family.
They all had been so concerned, but their worries eased when Azriel had sent Rhys a mental message saying:
Everything’s fine. They’re both doing well. Just tired. We’ll let you know when you can come visit.
The two of you had kept the sex of the babe a well-kept secret between you two, wanting to enjoy everyone’s surprise and amazement.
Rhysand had been going out of his mind with worry for his sister, but he knew Azriel would never lie to him about how you were.
Feyre and Rhysand helped you out of bed, her surprisingly strong arms holding you upright as they helped you to the couch. Rhys propped some pillows behind you, sitting on the arm of the couch next to you, and you leaned into his side, having missed him in the past few days. Everyone else began asking their own questions -
How are you?
How’s the babe?
How’s Az?
You try to answer their questions the best you can. “We’re all okay, rattled with nerves and we’re very tired, but we’re all happy. We have a very happy and healthy babe.”
Right on cue your mate comes into the room, your tiny babe bundled in a black blanket littered with stars.
Mor begins cooing and everyone else moves to crowd around, but Cassian sidesteps the crowd and comes over to sit next to you, putting his arm around you. He nuzzles his head on top of your own as he squeezes lightly.
“Proud of you, kid.”
You smile, “Cassian, don’t you want to see the babe?”
He looks at you, his eyes a little glossy with tears. “After Feyre’s uh, after Nyx, and you’re only half-Illyrian, and I was… I was worried I’d lose you.”
You start crying, hormones making it unbearable to see anyone else cry, sobs racking your body as you wrap your arms around Cassian and cry into his shoulder.
Everyone turns to the two of you, and Rhys says, “Cassian couldn’t make it five minutes without making her cry.”
You feel Cassian crying into your shoulder, causing you to sob out, “everything went well - I’m sorry I scared you!”
Cassian pulls away, looking towards the ceiling to dry his eyes. You realize that during yours and Cassian’s sob show everyone got to hold your babe, so you turn to Cassian, urging Az over.
“Cassian, do you want to hold our babe?”
He nods, a smile taking over his face.
Azriel gently places the babe in his brother’s arms, and Cassian can’t stop the tear that leaks out onto the babe’s face.
A head full of onyx hair, tiny eyes that are closed, and a nose that looks just like yours. He moves the blanket a little and peers at the tiny little wings adorning the babe’s back.
“It’s a girl,” you tell him, and Feyre and Mor melt into each other as they both coo, “a girl!”
“What’s her name?” Rhys asks, taking his place on your other side again.
“We wanted to give her a great name. A name to give her strength and to let her know how loved she is.”
You look at Cassian, his eyes fixated on the babe in his arms, “her name’s Cassie.”
Cassian looks over to you, then inhales sharply, “are you sure?” You nod, and Cassian looks back up to the ceiling to keep the tears from falling. He squeezes his namesake, holding her to his chest.
“Cassie,” he says, looking at her. “She looks just like her dad.” His fingers brush her little cheeks, and she reaches up, wrapping a tiny hand around his finger.
He closes his eyes, a few tears falling onto her blanket.
It was no secret how much Cassian loved you and Azriel - he cried several times in the lead up to your mating ceremony, sobbed through the ceremony itself, but somehow pulled himself together enough to give a speech that left everyone else crying.
No one laughs or makes a joke about Cassian’s emotional display. They all knew what this moment meant for him, the male who was practically bouncing off the walls waiting for you two to let him come meet his niece.
Rhysand looks at you, pride in his eyes as he says, “I can’t believe you named her after him - your brother is right here!”
“Well,” you say, looking at Azriel. He nods, letting you tell them, “we have named you and Feyre as her godparents, and I didn’t like the way Rhysanda sounded.”
Everyone laughs, and Rhysand leans over to give you a kiss on your temple, but Cassian doesn’t even pay attention, his eyes on the tiny babe in his arms. She was comically small, nestled into his massive chest.
His thoughts linger on his brother, about the atrocities he faced at such a young age, how Azriel deserved this happiness.
And how, despite all odds, he was able to find it.
A Court of Shadows & Moonlight | azriel x rhy's sister (OC)
Summary: Daughter of the Night Court's High Lord. Half Illyrian. Half High Fae. Rhysand's little sister. A Dreamer. Only few know her as Valeria and only one knows her truth. She is the moon, a lonely girl cratered by imperfections, and he is her night, the one who helps her shine bright.
-a story in which Azriel and Valeria are mates-
A/N: I am going through ACOTAR withdrawals after finishing ACOSF. Rhysand's sister is a character I think of a lot and I love Azriel so when I saw a theory/imagine of her and Azriel being mates, I couldn't help myself. This was originally just meant to be a collection of imagines but I decided to expand further on the love story between Val and Az. Below you can find “Val’s Early Life,” which consists of stories about her upbringing and early adulthood. It’s not necessary to read them to follow the story but it is a nice backstory and provides context as there is already somewhat of an established relationship between Val and Az. I made another masterlist for the actual story, which you can find below.
I made a playlist for this and you can find it here, if interested.
angst= ♥️ fluff = ☁︎ smut= ☪︎
*the ones that have no symbol are neutral or have subtle hints of angst/fluff and are put at the top of the imagine.
˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊Val's Early Life˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊
-> The Night she was born
-> The Night her powers came
-> The Night she met Cassian
-> The Night she met the shadowsinger ☁︎
-> The Night Azriel took his first flight ☁︎
-> The Night she made her first friend ☁︎
-> The Night she caught Cassian
-> The Night of their first solstice in Velaris ☁︎
-> The Night she asked about Love
-> The Night Azriel found out her secret ♥️
-> The Night she gets her heartbroken ♥️
-> The Night she met Noctis ☁︎
-> The Night of her 18th Birthday ♥️
-> The Night they join the Bloodrite ♥️
-> The Night they return from the Bloodrite ♥️
-> The Night she left Windhaven ♥️
-> The Night she made Azriel dance
-> The Night she made Azriel lose control ☪︎
-> The Night she played the violin for her father ♥️
-> The Night they all went to Rita’s ☪︎
-> The Night Mor was hurt ♥️
-> The Night the High Lord found out her secret ♥️
Summary: You’ve been helping the High Lady with paint classes when a mysterious handsome man stops by to speak with her. You can’t shake the feeling that he could be your mate, especially when his blue siphons look exactly like the jewels you had just painted.
Notes: 18+ only!!! Some smut (mostly kissing), fluff, tension & longing, slight angst, mating bond
Word count: 1k
masterlist
It was a regular evening at the High Ladies studio, teaching the last class of the day. Feyre had stayed this evening to join in on the class you were helping with tonight. Everyone had been painting for almost an hour now. You had been painting a silver crown with vibrant blue jewels on it. You weren’t sure what inspired it but the picture just popped into your head when you sat down, specifically the blue jewels you could not seem to get out of your head for some unknown reason.
Suddenly the front door opens and a tall dark mysterious man stalks inside, large wings barely fitting through the doorway. His eyes meet yours instantly and you stop breathing. He makes his way into the room and walks over to Feyre, your eyes staying intensely connected to his bright hazel ones the entire time. Small shadows seemed to follow and dance around him.
Once he reaches the High Lady his gaze averts to her, the tension in your chest slightly fades and your breathing resumes as you shake your head, trying to focus back on your painting. That’s when you truly notice the vibrant blue siphons on him, exactly like the jewels you had painted.
You watch as he and Feyre step out of the room, noticing his quick glance back to you before they dissapear having a hushed conversation. Soon they return to the room and you watch as Feyre goes back to her canvas and the man walks towards the front door. Once again, your eyes are intensely connected, the feeling of his stare was so overwhelming you begged yourself to look away but for some reason you physically could not pull your eyes away from his. You felt like you were in a trance, seeing nothing in the room but him. He pauses at the door as he holds it halfway open, you see the muscles in his jaw clench as he stares you down for another tense moment before abruptly leaving without a word.
The moment he is gone the tension throughout your body instantly relaxes and your mind comes back to earth. You remember the full class you are in, so many people in this room but for some reason his eyes had remained fixed on only you.
Not long after, the class finishes and everyone packs up and leaves the studio, leaving you and Feyre alone.
“Who was your friend?” You could not help but ask about him.
“Azriel? He is our spymaster, and one of my closest friends.” She explains casually.
You just nod your head in response, trying not to seem too eager about him.
“Why?” Feyre asks, catching you off guard.
“I- uh, no reason. I was just curious, that’s all.” You say awkwardly, your cheeks darkening.
“Mhm…” Feyre hums, a knowing smirk crossing her face that you don’t see. She was very used to women swooning over the shadowsinger.
**********
Azriel flew back to the house, his heart pounding in his ears the entire time. Who were you? Why did you feel so familiar? He knows he has never met you before, he was an expert with remembering faces, and he was certain he would have remembered yours. Gods, you were unimaginably beautiful. He could not help but think of your plump lips, how soft your skin looked even with small paint splatters across your high cheekbones. But what replayed in his mind the most was the way your piercing (e/c) eyes seemed to bore right into his soul.
He had felt creepy staring at you the way he was, but he could not seem to pull his eyes away from you. It took a lot of strength just to break your gaze to speak to Feyre, the whole reason he was in the studio to begin with.
**********
After locking up the studio and saying goodbye to Feyre you rush home, the urge to paint Azriel was pulsing through your veins. The moment you get home you throw your coat and shoes off before instantly walking into the other room to grab a blank canvas and your collection of paints.
You begin to paint in great detail, getting all of his sharp facial features and glowing hazel eyes. It takes extra focus to paint the small details of his large dark wings. The most important detail though, was the vibrant blue siphons that adorned his hands and body, exactly like the jewels you had painted before he entered the studio. Jewels you had never seen before but somehow had felt the need to paint.
You spent hours painting, ignoring your growling stomach and not realizing the time because you were so focused on painting the imagine of the man that’s been burning in your mind since the moment you saw him.
After you make the final touches you wipe the sweat from your forehead and put down your paint brush. You stretch your painfully cramped hand as you look to the window and your eyes widen when you realize the sun is already beginning to rise.
You look back to your finished painting, a masterpiece. Azriel standing boldly, wings resting comfortably as they had been when you saw him, his bright eyes fixed in an intense gaze. You stared and stared at the painting, at him. There was a strange ache in your chest, you weren’t certain because you didn’t truly know what it’s meant to feel like, but you could not shake the thought that he might be your mate.
The way he had stared at you made you wonder if he felt the same thing you did.
Eventually you take your gaze away from his painting and wash up before getting into bed. You did not have to teach today, though you would normally join the classes each day anyway, you were far too exhausted to do so today after staying up all night.
**********
Azriel had been up all night tossing and turning, unable to rid you from his mind. It was strange how his entire body seemed to react at just the thought of you. He eventually fell asleep after giving into his desires that he could not shake, especially picturing those beautiful plump lips of yours all over him, around him.
He makes some half-assed excuse to see to speak to Feyre again, he wanted so badly to see you. He frowns to himself as he enters the studio, his eyes scanning over the sea of faces, none were yours. Feyre raises a brow at him and they step to the side to speak of some random court matters Azriel had thought to bring up, though he could have spoken to Rhys about them.
Feyre notices his eyes searching around.
“She is not here today.” She says, the statement startling the shadowsinger. “Though, I think her painting from yesterday is quite interesting.”
Azriel raises his brow in question and Feyre jerks her head to one of the many paintings lined up along the wall to dry. His eyes instantly find your artwork and he takes in the painting of an intricate silver crown, with vibrant blue jewels adorning it. He looks down to his siphons which matched the jewels exactly.
“Those are…” Azriel begins, studying at the blue jewels on the painting.
“Your siphons? It appears so.” Feyre offers a casual smile. “She painted them before you had even walked in.”
“How?”
“No idea…” Feyre remembers her dresser back in her mortal home, the starry night she had painted on it that resembled the night court, long before she ever seen or even heard of such a place. “She did ask about you once everyone left.”
“Oh?” Azriel said casually, trying not sound too eager. “What did she say, if I may ask?”
“Just asked who you were.” Feyre shrugs.
Azriel didn’t understand why his heart was racing.
“She typically teaches in the evenings by the way.” Feyre winks at him, causing Az to stiffen.
He simply nods to her before leaving the studio.
**********
The next couple days you eagerly waiting for Azriel to return. You even came to the studio for the earlier classes before teaching yours in the evening. Every time you heard the door open your eyes shot up, disappointment crossing your face each time when it was not the shadowsinger. Feyre noticed and your cheeks would darken when she’d smile at you knowingly.
**********
A few days later Azriel tries another subtle attempt at seeing you again. He doesn’t know what he would even say to you, if he would say anything at all. He still felt too nervous to speak to you, which was such an odd feeling for the warrior. Just being able to see you again for a few moments while he spoke to Feyre was enough for him.
He walks into his High Lady’s studio, the sun already beginning to set. He remembered Feyre mentioning you typically taught in the evenings. After stalking his large frame and wings through the doorway, he takes in the room. Realizing it’s completely empty, a few lights still remained on. There’s some rustling coming from the back room so he walks towards it.
“Hello?” He calls quietly, before turning the corner to see you tidying up supplies.
“Oh, hi!” You say in a surprised tone, not expecting to see him.
“Hi.” He says back, serious features studying yours.
“Hi.” You say again shyly.
“Hi.” He says again, this time a small smirk forming in the corner of his mouth.
You chuckle and offer a soft smile. “Hi… what are you doing here?”
“I…” He tried to make himself lie and say he simply came to speak to Feyre again, but the words seemed to slip out beyond his control. “I came to see you.”
“Me?” You couldn’t hide the smile that spread across your face. “Why did you want to see me?”
He looks to the paintings on the other side of the room, his eyes easily finding yours. You follow his gaze to the painting of the dark crown with the vibrant blue gems, you both look back to his identical siphons.
“I think you know why.” He says plainly.
“My mate…” The words slip out in a whisper before you can stop them.
He steps closer to you, causing your heart to race faster, even more so when he cups your cheek with one of his hands.
“My mate.” He whispers back.
Your eyes meet and you lean in until your lips softly meet. Sparks shoot through your entire body and a gasp escapes you, causing you to break the kiss. The look of bewilderment that shines in his eyes when they meet yours tells you that he felt the same thing. The tension between you suddenly snaps as your lips meet again in a hungry, passionate kiss. Both of his strong siphoned hands now cup your face as you stumble back together crashing against the wall, nearby art supplies crashing to the floor. You feel his hardness press against your stomach and the need for him ignites inside you like a fire.
It takes every ounce of Azriel’s strength to pull away from you. You both wanted eachother, badly. The mating bond sparking a feral need between you. But you had only just met and he wanted to be a gentleman, despite the desperate aching of his member straining against his trousers.
“(Y/n)” He breathes and the sound of your name on his tongue sends a shiver down your spine. “I- I want to do this properly.”
“Me too.” You say quietly, hardly able to breathe in his presence. “Would you… will you let me cook you dinner?”
“I would really like that.” The shadowsinger says in a low rumble. “Tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow.” You confirm with a vibrant smile that makes his heart swell.
summary: you nurse gwayne back to life again when the war leaves him for dead, and he finds himself in no hurry to be rescued from you. (5k)
characters: gwayne hightower / fem!reader
contents: strangers to lovers, hurt/comfort, domestic fluff, mutual pining, canon divergent, not proofread, cw for mentions of blood and injuries, smut 18+ (MDNI): sub!gwayne, unprotected sex, premature ejaculation, face riding (this man has been through enough i just need someone to take care of him okay)
( NAVIGATION ) | ( MASTERLIST ) | ( AO3 )
Gwayne’s heavy eyes open first to a low, timbered ceiling made of clay and dry-rotted oak — certainly not the ornately embellished stone of the Red Keep, which would’ve suggested that Daemon’s army had won in their ambush and had since taken him hostage; but it wasn’t the sagging canvas of a war tent either, which also meant that no green army had yet come to his rescue. This place, wherever this place was, was small and warm and heavy with the scent of a home-cooked meal and the coppery tang of his own blood.
The hurt returns to him as slowly his consciousness does. His body aches in a way that tells him, a bit more clearly than his own memory could, that he had been long in the dying not too long ago. All of his bones feel rusted shut and heavy; each breath feels like gravel in his lungs and blades against his ribs.
“Where am I…?” Gwayne wonders aloud in a near-inaudible rasp, almost lost beneath the crackle of a fire and the soft hiss of a pot simmering somewhere close.
His heavy head lolls on the thin pillow beneath him. The cushion propping up his stiff neck smells like something floral and sweet, like a woman. As his eyes scan the room, he finds that this quaint house, if it could even be referred to as such, is made of only one room — there’s a dining nook crowded in the corner by the window, a cluttered living area in the opposite corner by the hearth, and apparently a sickbed in which he languishes now.
Through the haze still clinging in his vision, he spots a figure dressed in tatters stirring at a pot with practiced hands — sleeves pushed up to the elbows, faded skirts flowing just below the knee. You do not startle at the sound of his voice, nor do you turn to look at him right away as you crush a handful of dried rosemary into the bubbling water before you.
“Starry Hill,” you answer plainly, as though you were talking to an old friend rather than a half-dead ghost in your bed. You turn slowly over your shoulder and watch confusion twist at the man’s handsome features — (he’d studied every keep, holdfast, and port in Westeros his father told him to, and yet he’d never once heard of this one). “And no, you haven’t heard of it before.”
The grin is evident in your voice as you turn away to wipe your palms off on a rag. You catch the man’s glassy blue eyes darting around your home — over the crooked shelf of clay jars, past the mismatched chairs around the ancient dining table, and towards the narrow window where dim orange light falls in slanted rays. He cannot yet tell whether it’s dawn or dusk, and the notion disorients him further.
“Apologies for the mess, my lord,” you sigh. “If I’d known I was going to be housing a Hightower for three days, I might’ve tidied the place up a bit first.”
Gwayne’s auburn brows furrow slowly as his face twists in a deeper confusion — both at the thought of having spent three days unconscious in this place, and at the ease with which you seemed to know his name. His house. His blood. “How… How did you know I was a Hightower?”
Your head turns lazily on your shoulder to flash the man a narrow-eyed, almost pitying sort of look. Your gaze falls across his flaming copper hair, the aristocratic slope of his nose, and the inherited Hightower beauty that not even war, nor three days on his deathbed, could manage to take from him. Even halfway ruined, the man still looks like something bred for portraiture. And it would, perhaps, be so easy to tell him as much.
“Well, you were wearing the sigil all over your armor, to be fair,” you deadpan instead and turn back to your cooking.
Only then does Gwayne realize that the heaviness of his armor is long gone from his frame. All of his clothes, in fact, are gone — the pale canvas of his bare chest is on display now, carved lean from a lifetime in the training yard, and now sporting a square piece of plaster across his ribcage. Beneath the heavy quilt thrown over his legs, he can feel a pair of baggy trousers riding low on his hips that do not belong to him.
Which means you had to have undressed him; bathed him; patched up his marred skin. The thought alone is dizzying.
Panic wraps its hands around his throat as he rises onto his elbows, grimacing at the ache it puts in his side and somewhere deep in his bicep — where a linen cloth has been wrapped tight.
“How did I get here?”
“Your guess is as good as mine…” you huff without looking away from the pot ahead of you. “You’re the one who showed up half-dead on my doorstep, if you’ll recall— So I think I have more questions for you than you have for me, in truth.”
Gwayne’s eyes go glassy and distant as he strains to recollect the events that led him here.
He remembers Ser Criston’s words about a death march, and the sudden screeching of his horse when the first volley of enemy arrows came flying every which way. He vaguely remembers his mare rearing up and tossing him onto his back against the heavy forest floor, and the way the world erupted with the shouting of a hundred men or more all at once. But he does not know what became of any of them now.
“I need to leave,” he announces at once.
“Oh, I wouldn’t,” you wince as you watch the man fling the quilt from his body, visibly toned from years of knighthood but still pale from his lingering brush with death. “Not on that leg of yours— I’m still not sure I set the bone just right.”
Gwayne’s jaw clenches tight as he swings his legs over the side of the bed. His tired muscles pull taut in protest, though it doesn’t hurt him nearly as badly as his left shin does when his bare feet hit the ancient floorboards. A white-hot pain sears from ankle to knee; his chiseled face screws tight as he chokes on a scream.
He doubles over in agony and digs his trembling fists into the thin sheets of the down mattress, struggling to take stock of his injuries.
There’s a plaster just below his knee and a sickly yellow-green bruise blooming just below that, from where the bone came through when the weight of his horse fell on top of him, perhaps. There’s a hot, pulsing feeling beneath the plaster on his right arm — a small but concentrated signature that must’ve come from an arrow. And the length of the shallow scrape along his ribs suggests that it came from a kiss of an enemy blade.
All of it is dressed now in clean linen, from the same kind hands stirring supper across the room from him, entirely unbothered by his suffering.
“Seven fucking hells…” you groan, more to yourself than to him. “I forgot the bloody potatoes.”
Gwayne blinks wildly at your passing figure as you trade the wooden spoon in your hands for the dark, beaten cloak hanging beside the door. “P-Potatoes?” he stammers in response, because he can think of a thousand issues much more pressing than potatoes.
“Yes,” you nod, sliding your arms through the thick woolen sleeves gone soft and shapeless with age. “You can’t have rabbit stew without potatoes. It ruins the whole dish— I’d think you’d know that, as a pretty little lord and all.”
He perks slightly at the mention of it — of food, and of the thought that some other man must surely live here to have killed and skinned the meat for your stew.
“Where is your father?” he calls to your retreating form.
There’s a certain edge of command in his voice that tries to surface past the wavers of pain. He attempts to assert some Hightower authority in the walls of your home, despite being half-dressed and hunched over the edge of your bed and completely at your mercy.
“Or a husband, perhaps? Someone I can speak rationally with.”
“No father… No husband…” you sigh and tie the top of your coat, which is a size or three too big for you. “You can speak rationally to me, if you wish, though I fear your current hysterics might render conversation somewhat impossible… But I require no thanks for saving your life, to be sure.”
Your words carry a certain bite that pierces him straight through the chest; the devastating reminder of a debt he has not yet had any sense to acknowledge.
The door opens with a high-pitched creaking sound; the cool breeze that rushes in tells him that the day is ending rather than just beginning. You pause at the threshold, hand on the frame and hood half-raised
“If you’re going to leave, at least remember to shut the door behind you,” you tell him, detached but not totally unkind. “I don’t want the smell of supper bringing the animals down from the hill.”
The door screeches and clicks behind you, punctuating your leaving. The little house — smaller than his bathing chambers back in Oldtown — goes very quiet and very still with your absence. The eeriness unnerves a distant, boyish part of him that wishes most desperately for your return. The rest of him, however, wants nothing more than to be rid of this place entirely — from the strangeness of it and of you most of all.
Gwayne grits his teeth and hauls himself not-quite to full height. He’s doubled over and bracing his white-knuckled grip on the ancient wooden bedframe as he hobbles the short distance towards the door, fighting through the screaming ache shooting up and down his left leg. He makes it not even five steps before it gives out on him completely.
He crumples to the unforgiving ground in a graceless heap of limbs and injured pride, catching himself on instinct with the arm sporting the throbbing arrow wound going down.
He lies there, groaning and writhing and choking down cries of frustration with his cheek pressed to the cold floor. The sound of his ragged breaths fills the small, empty house as he watches the sunset dip low past the window, quietly waiting for the sound of the door to open — and for your presence to follow.
It opens at last; three minutes or three hours later. A silken breeze rushes in alongside you, as you enter with a basket of potatoes and other vegetables on your hip. You falter in the doorway at the sight of the man sprawled out on your floor, a crumpled puppet with all of its strings cut clean.
A strange, satisfied smile creeps across your face as you swipe your hood back with your free hand. “Well…” you croon lowly. “What do we have here?”
Gwayne lifts his heavy head. He looks up at you with watery blue eyes through the strands of wild auburn hair hanging over his brow. He loses every ounce of his composure in that moment, turning into a doe-eyed and pleading thing as his wet gaze peers at you from beneath his lashes.
“Please…” he rasps. “Help me…”
He doesn’t learn your name until the second day. He does not stand on his own until the fifth. And he does not bathe himself unaided until the seventh.
You do not coddle him for any of it. You clean his wounds and change his bandages twice daily, and scold him for flinching at the sting — telling him that he’d spent too many years being pampered by wetnurses and that was precisely why he healed so slowly. But, after that first week, he learned to walk the length of your small home without his leg buckling underneath him; though he still requires the cane you’d fashioned for him out of a stag’s antler if he plans on taking more than a step or two.
“Here. So you can stop looking like a newborn calf every time you cross the room,” you’d said when you gifted it to him. “It’s starting to get hard to watch, if I’m honest.”
He is, if he’s being entirely truthful with himself, entirely unused to being spoken to this way. The ladies of his acquaintance back in Oldtown — the soft, sweet-voiced daughters of high lords and ladies — would never have dared to call him hysterical to his face or handle his wounds with such unromantic efficiency. They never would have laughed, as you had, at the sight of him crumpled on the floor.
You’re nothing at all like the ladies he grew up with.
You swear like a dockhand; you name your goats like they're your kin; you wear your dead parents' old clothes without a trace of shame and speak of your own life with a bluntness that would scandalize every septa he'd grown up with. It should, perhaps, trouble him a great deal more than it does.
Gwayne knows he could’ve and likely should’ve left days ago. He suspects that you know it, too. Tumbleton was not far from here, you told him, and his kin held the fortress now — a real castle with a real maester to tend to him — rather than this strange, sharp-tongued woman with rough hands and a rougher sense of humor. But still, he does not go. He tells himself that it’s his leg; that the roads were surely not safe yet and that he’d be long in the dying should he cross Daemon’s army a second time.
So he stays, and he makes himself useful to you in the waiting, in whatever small ways he can manage. He could not do much, at first — he could not chop firewood or carry water; he could barely carry himself, in truth — but he could mend a fence while seated, and feed the farm animals while leaning on his cane, and shell the peas you bring in from the garden for supper.
Gwayne quickly discovers, to his own mortification, that he takes a strange satisfaction in it all. This was not a life meant for knights, certainly not one meant for a Hightower, but yet he can picture all the rest of his days playing out exactly like this — utterly unremarkable, but his just the same.
It has been three weeks since his arrival, give or take, and his days feel less like exile now and more like routine. He sits propped on the pillows after his bath, milky-white skin glimmering from your homemade oils, with nothing but a pair of borrowed trousers covering his lower half.
You sit on the edge of the bed beside him and redress the stubborn wound on his arm that refuses to heal — the worst of his injuries he came here with, Gwayne insists; a nerve-deep pain that he swears he can feel when he’s dreaming. But even still, weeks into the habit of tending to him, you are no gentler about it than you were that very first night.
“Ow—” Gwayne winces when you press too firmly against the wound. You catch his elbow before he can draw it away and urge it back into place with an unsentimental force.
“Stop squirming,” you scold and continue to dab the homemade, herb-flecked ointment onto the irritated skin.
“It hurts,” the man insists.
“It hurts because you’re squirming.”
Gwayne attempts to glare at you as you reach for the linen cloth on the table beside you. The playful frown softens with a soft smile despite himself. “Has anyone ever told you that your bedside manner is just extraordinary?”
“All the time…” you lilt back and slide the fabric around his arm, tying it off with one particularly harsh tug. “Usually right before they tell me that they're feeling much better and no longer require any of my help.”
“Well…” Gwayne croons, pale eyes glittering in the dancing candlelight. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you wanted me gone…”
You glance finally up at him from beneath your lashes, at the handsome knight sharing your house — with bright copper hair gone soft from his bath, and bright blue eyes a little too earnest for someone meant to be teasing — the kind of man that belonged in the fairytales you’d read as a child; not in your own home in your own bed.
Something in your sharp expression finally gives, like The Wall finally weeping after the first warm day of summer.
“You’re the prettiest thing I’ve seen in years, Ser Gwayne,” you hum lowly. “So if you haven’t realized by now that I’m keeping you hostage here, then I fear you haven’t been paying attention.”
A breathy laugh shakes his toned stomach, and the scar along his ribs no longer pulls to do so. He’s fairly certain that you’re jesting, but even still, he doesn’t think he’d care all that much if you weren’t.
“I find that…” he trails slowly off with a squinted look in his pale eyes, as if the realization were hitting him the moment the words fell from his mouth. His melodic voice carries a sort of airiness in it despite the soft confession. “That perhaps I wouldn’t mind it. Being your hostage… Staying here. With you… I don't think I'd mind that at all…”
“Well… That’s a very dangerous thing to say to a woman with nothing to lose, Ser Gwayne,” you murmur, propping your fists on either side of his waist as you lean in close to him — until he can smell the lavender soap on your skin and count the flecks of firelight in your gaze. “Your army has surely presumed you dead by now… No one will come looking for you here… So if you do not wish to be kept by me, the door is still open…”
Something in his chest flares hot at your words, at the thought of being kept by you.
“For how long?” he teases with an arched auburn brow, pink lips curling into a slow smile.
Your eyes flit away and back again. “…Roughly the next ten seconds.”
“Well…” he lilts as his hand lifts slowly from the blankets to cradle your jaw, urging you that much closer. “That seems like plenty of time.”
He leans off the pillow to press his mouth to yours. His nose smushes into the side of yours as his plush lips slot with your softer ones. Your tongue darts between them with little warning and a degree too eager, swiping against his like velvet on velvet. Gwayne exhales a heavy sigh through his nose at the taste of you — like supper and wine and something foreign that he chases with each languid kiss.
You kiss him long and slow, like biting into the sweet skin of an apple, and shift on the mattress to straddle his waist. Gwayne’s free hand shoves the quilt down his thighs to accommodate you upon them. Your fingers rest around his neck like a collar as you grind your hips over his, up his lap and down again. A groan rumbles like thunder in his throat.
His hands dart instantly for your waist, knotting his long fingers in the skirts pushed up to your thighs, as he pulls off of you with a quiet smack. “Don’t,” he hears himself plead.
“Why?” you pant, blinking back at him with heavy eyes.
“It’s been…” His adam’s apple bobs in his throat. “A long… long time.”
Your lips curl into a grin before your head ducks down again. Your mouth smears along his pulse in a sloppy kiss. “Three weeks isn’t so long, is it?”
A laugh sounds in his throat. You feel it rumbling against your mouth. “The war’s been going on for a lot longer than three weeks, my dear…”
“Don’t tell me Ser Gwayne hasn’t taken his fair share of whores on the road,” you quip against the milky white tendon of his neck.
He smiles with his nose in your hair. “Not many whores on the battlefield, I’m afraid…”
“Oh, you poor thing…” you croon as you pull slowly back from him, more gentle with him now than you were when he was half dead on your porch; though there’s still a playful air about you that he doesn’t yet miss. “No wonder you’ve been so uptight… You’ve just been looking for a little… release, haven’t you? Spit—”
Gwayne’s eyes widen as they flick between your expectant face and the hand you hold under his chin. Despite his obvious diffidence, he ducks his head and spits a glob of saliva onto your palm — and watches with held breath as your fingers dip under the hem of his trousers. They wrap around his cock, laying half-soft on his thigh, and use his spit to work him the rest of the way hard. He feels like heavy velvet in your fist.
His dizzy head tips back against the wall with a quiet thud. Your quiet giggling melts with his pleasured groan as he hardens slowly in your fist.
“I’ll bet you’ll cum the second I tell you to,” you laugh.
Gwayne nods slowly, adam’s apple moving in his long throat as he fights to keep his lidded eyes open. His breath catches in his chest when your thumb swipes over the sensitive tip of his cock.
“I’ll bet you’ll do anything I tell you to… Won’t you?”
Gwayne nods again, jerking in your fist at your words.
“Oh…” you huff a mixture of a contented sigh and a devilish laugh as you squeeze him harder in your fist. “I am going to have… so much fun with you, Ser Gwayne…”
He has little time to ponder the weight of your words when you shift on top of him again. You pull your fingers from his trousers and tuck the hem beneath his heavy balls. His eyes snap open to find you urging your dress skirts further up your thighs. He’s left mourning the warmth of your touch only for a moment, before your hand slides between your bodies once more to guide the drooling tip of his cock into your already weeping confines.
He’s long and slender — not nearly as thick as the butcher’s son in town who’s been tending to your needs for years, but an inch or three longer still — and made of meandering veins you can feel when you pierce yourself upon him. Your head tips back to exhale a moan at the ceiling, mouth curling into a lazy smile as you adjust to the length of him.
Gwayne chokes on a groan in his throat when your hips sit flush with his again, fingers clutching mercilessly at the plush of your thighs hard enough to etch bruises on the skin. The sound turns into a strangled whimper when you clench absentmindedly around him, warmer than velvet and drooling something fierce.
“I can’t…” the man whines, chiseled features twisting into a pained sort of look as he shifts his hips under your weight — trying to chase his pleasure and run away from it all at once. “I— I can’t— Seven fucking hells…”
You smile down at him when he tries and fails to get the words out. He misses the amusement flashing across your face with his eyes squeezed shut, hard enough to make white stars speckle behind the deep black of his eyelids. You clench around him again, just to hear him whimper for you again.
“Can’t what, my lord?” you coo to him, with a gentleness he didn’t think you were capable of before now. Your hands smooth up and around his neck until your fingers twist in the short auburn tendrils at the very nape of it. Chills erupt down the length of his spine in their wake.
“I don’t wanna cum yet,” he protests through gritted teeth. “’S too soon—”
“But I want you to cum,” you tell him, and punctuate your command with a calculated roll of your hips. You tighten around him once more when your clit brushes the coarse, dark-auburn hair above his cock. You swallow his subsequent groan in a sloppy kiss, more tongue than mouth, and run the tip of your nose along the bridge of his after. “And then… after I’ve milked your cock—”
“Fuck…” he swears, though it comes out more like a sob.
“—I’ll let you clean me up with your mouth,” you continue.
A moan tears through his throat at the thought — of pressing his mouth to your cunt until his nose is smushed against your clit, of lapping at the mixture of pleasure leaking out of you like honey, of your hands in his hair pushing him further into your pussy. He bursts at the thought, losing himself completely as he draws you into his bare chest with two strong arms wound up and around your back.
Gwayne hides his flushed face in your neck as he hugs you against him, meeting your thrusts with weaker ones of his own. He buries each of his pitiful moans into your pulsepoint while his cock jerks wildly within your unforgiving confines— spitting ropes of warm cum that your clenching cunt milks from him.
“I’m sorry,” he hears himself say as he shudders just against you. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry… Seven hells— I’m sorry…”
You pet at his wild hair as he comes down from his high, whispering murmurs of praise in his ear as the pleasure ebbs from his trembling body. “There you go… Good boy… That’s it— Give me all of it…”
Gwayne pulls his face from your neck once he’s fully spent. His trembling hands reach for your face again, cupping your cheeks between his calloused palms to meet your eyes with his wide, wet, and pleading ones. “I’m sorry,” he whispers again. “Let me make you feel good— I want to make you feel good.”
“I know,” you coo to him, almost sympathetically so. “On your back.”
Gwayne’s auburn brows knit softly together, but his body obeys like it was designed to submit to you. You remain straddled against him as he descends back onto the pillows. He watches down the bridge of his nose as your hands smooth up his milky white torso — past the fine trail of hair on his lean stomach, over the healed scar on his ribs, and towards his heaving chest.
Your eyes stay locked with his heavy ones as you shift your weight above him, inching up up up. You cage your bottom lip between your teeth as you reach for the hem of your skirt. You drag the heavy fabric of your dress up and over your head. Gwayne has little time to admire your bare body before you’re straddling your knees on either side of his face. His mouth waters instantly at the sight of your glittering pussy as it descends over his mouth — he curls his arms around your thighs to pull you further in.
He groans when the taste of you hits his tongue — a sweet-salty mixture of your combined pleasures — and you feel the vibrations of the sound from your cunt to the top of your spine. You keep one hand braced on the wooden headboard and your other woven through his silken auburn locks, guiding his mouth along your cunt.
“Yes…” you sigh when his mouth meets your clit. “Right there…”
Gwayne moans again at your praise and does everything in his power to make you give it to him again. He focuses on the bundle of nerves — lapping his tongue against it and suckling it between his lips. You make a noise for him he’s never heard before, a high-pitched cry that swells across the quiet room. “Keep going,” he hears you whimper when his mouth wraps around your clit. “Fuck yes, keep going like that—”
Your fingers twist hard in his hair as your hips grind down over his tongue. He moans when you give the strands an especially harsh tongue, and the sound makes you tremble on top of him. You cum for him with a strangled cry, and Gwayne sighs through his nose when a mixture of his cum and yours drops onto the velvety pad of his tongue.
He laps at every ounce of it with an eagerness that you can hear, a chorus of panted breaths and muffled suckling sounds.
He doesn’t stop until you’re shoving him away by the crown of his head.
You exhale a heavy breath and sit back on your haunches, resting your ass over his chest and propping your weight along his ribs. Your heavy eyes rake over his face — cheeks flushed red, pale eyes glassy with desire, pink lips swollen, chin glittering with your cum, hair wild from the pillow and your fingers alike. An angel carved from in.
A lazy smile tugs at the corners of your mouth as you shake your heavy head down at him. “You’re not going anywhere, Ser Gwayne… You understand that, right?”
“Gwayne,” he corrects, glittering lips curling upward. “Not ser.”
“You’re not going anywhere… Gwayne.”
“I’m glad to hear it, in truth…” he confesses on an exhaled breath. “I was starting to like it here anyway…”
𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: Gwayne Hightower x Targaryen!reader
𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 5.0k
𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬: MDNI, Fluff, Smut, Forbidden Love, Mutual Pining, Sexual Tension.
𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: Gwayne Hightower has spent months restraining himself from the princess's advances. Tonight, you decide to test just how strong his honour really is.
: ̗̀➛ [𝐧𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐠𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧] [𝐡𝐨𝐭𝐝 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭] [𝐢𝐧𝐛𝐨𝐱]
𝐚/𝐧: this has probably been done before but here it is anyways, because i could not get the idea of my mind.
As Rhaenyra’s younger sister, the court has never quite known what to make of you.
Where she is fire and defiance, you are the hush that follows a storm. The Realm's Delight burns bright and bold, a dragon in human skin—you, by contrast, are the candlelit glow that softens every sharp edge, the cool hand on a fevered brow. You are poised, graceful, perfect in every way they demand you to be. You are the very portrait of a princess they can understand.
But perfection is a cage, and you have long since memorised the bars. You know the precise weight of your gaze to make a lord nod in approval. You know the exact angle of your smile to disarm a suspicious lady-in-waiting. You know the weight of your crown—figurative though it may be—and you wear it with the practised ease of a woman who learned to perform before she learned to speak. You have honed this mask until it fits like a second skin.
Only a handful have ever glimpsed the woman who paces her chambers at midnight, who laughs too loudly in private, who speaks truths that would curdle the milk in the court's golden goblets. And of that handful, only one has ever made your pulse stutter with something sharper than mischief.
Gwayne Hightower knows you.
He knows the real you—the one who hides behind porcelain smiles and demure silences. He has seen you crack a joke so improper that even Ser Harwin choked on his wine. He has watched you roll your eyes at a lord's tedious monologue and then turn to him with a look that said, save me from this, and he had—he always had, with a gallant and utterly doomed excuse that whisked you both away. He knows you, and that knowledge is precisely what makes this game so dangerously, exquisitely entertaining.
There was a time, in the earliest days of this dance, when you doubted yourself. You wondered if you had imagined the tension—if the heat you felt was merely your own desire reflected back at you by wishful thinking. You are a princess, after all, and he is a Hightower. The wall between you is not made of stone; it is made of duty, of oaths, of the thousand invisible chains that bind a man of honour to his station.
But you watch him now with sharper eyes, and the truth is undeniable.
You see it in the rigid set of his jaw when you enter a room, as if he must physically brace himself against the sight of you. You see it in the way his knuckles go bone-white where he grips his sword belt, the leather groaning under the pressure. You see it in the subtle hitch of his breath when your hand rests on his arm a moment too long—that tiny, betraying stutter that no one else would notice, but you have memorised like a prayer.
And you see it most of all in what he doesn't do.
Oh, he wants you. That much is as clear as the morning sun through the Red Keep's windows. But more than that, he knows you know. And that knowledge is a slow poison in his veins. He is a knight of the Seven Kingdoms, a son of the Faith, a Hightower. He has sworn oaths and signed pacts and built a life on the sacred foundation of his honour. He cannot act on his desires. He cannot even acknowledge them.
So you push.
You push because you can. Because there is a peculiar, intoxicating power in knowing that you are the sole architect of his torment—that a single brush of your fingers against his sleeve can send him spiralling into a silence so deep it borders on prayer. You are the sculptor of his suffering, and you wield your chisel with the precision of a master.
You push because he lets you. Because for all his oaths and his honour and his desperate, clinging restraint, he never once tells you to stop. He never walks away. He never asks you to leave him be. He simply stands there, a man made of stone and duty, and lets you carve your name into his fractures.
You do it in the training yard, when you appear at the edge of the lists with a goblet of water and a smile that says I brought this for you, Ser Gwayne.
His sparring partner stumbles, caught off guard by the sudden presence of a princess where one has no business being. Gwayne does not stumble—he is too disciplined for that. But you see the way his shoulders tighten beneath his tunic, the way his grip on his sword goes white-knuckled. You see the way his gaze darts to you and then away, as though looking too long might burn him, might sear through his carefully constructed walls and leave him bare.
You wait until he has lowered his blade, until the other knight has retreated with a bow and a mumbled excuse, before you step closer. Close enough to count the sweat on his brow. Close enough to see the pulse hammering in his throat.
"Your form is impeccable," you say, soft enough that only he can hear, as you press the cup into his hands. Your fingers linger on his—not a graze, not an accident, but a deliberate, unhurried caress that lasts three heartbeats too long. "Then again, I've always admired how controlled you are."
The word lands like a blade between his ribs. You see it in the slight flare of his nostrils. You see it in the way his jaw tightens, a muscle leaping beneath the skin. You see it in the way his thumb twitches against the goblet, as though he is physically restraining himself from reaching for you.
His swallow is audible. "Princess," he says, and his voice is rougher than usual, like gravel smoothed by too much restraint. "You should not—"
"Should not what?" You tilt your head, all innocence, all wide-eyed confusion that you both know is a lie. "Compliment a knight on his skill? How dreadfully improper of me. I shall have to write to the High Septon and confess my sins immediately."
A ghost of something—frustration? longing?—flickers across his face. "You know that is not what I meant."
"Do I?" You take a step back, just enough to make him lean forward unconsciously, just enough to prove your point. "Then perhaps you should be clearer, Ser Gwayne. I am, after all, only a simple princess. I cannot be expected to read minds."
His eyes darken. There is a storm in them now, a tempest he is fighting to contain. "You are many things, princess," he says, and his voice is barely above a whisper. "But simple has never been one of them."
The admission costs him. You can see it in the way his chest rises and falls too quickly, in the way his knuckles are white around the goblet. He has said too much. He knows it. And you know he knows it.
You smile—slow, satisfied, victorious—and you walk away before he can take it back.
You push him at the feast, when you dance with him—because you arrange it, because you are a princess and he cannot refuse, because you have learned exactly which strings to pull to make the court's expectations align with your desires. A word here, a smile there, a subtle mention to the right lady-in-waiting that you would so enjoy a turn about the floor with Ser Gwayne Hightower, and the pieces fall into place as neatly as stones in a mosaic.
He knows what you have done. You see it in his eyes when he approaches you, summoned by the queen's own hand, his expression a careful mask of courtly composure. He knows he has been maneuvered. He knows you have trapped him in a web of propriety and expectation, and he knows he cannot escape without causing a scene.
And you revel in it.
You take his hand, and you let him lead you to the floor, and you press closer than propriety allows. Your chest brushes his. Your thigh slides against his as you turn. You are a shadow against him, a whisper of silk and warmth, and you feel the tremor that runs through him like a plucked string.
"Relax, Ser Gwayne," you whisper against his ear, your breath warm on his skin, your lips so close that you almost—almost—brush the shell of his ear. "The court is watching. Would you have them think you cannot stand the touch of your own princess?"
His hand tightens on your waist—just for a moment, a reflexive clench that speaks of longing more than any words could—and then he forces it to loosen. You feel the effort it costs him, the way his fingers uncurl one by one, as if he is peeling them away from something precious.
"They would think nothing of the sort," he grits out, his voice so low it is barely more than a vibration against your skin. "They would think a Hightower knows his place."
"And what place is that?" You tilt your head, eyes sparkling with mischief, with challenge, with the knowledge that you hold all the power here. "At my side? In my shadow? Beneath me?"
His step falters. Just one beat, a stumble so small no one else would notice—a catch in the rhythm that lasts less than a breath. But you notice. You always notice. You catalogue it like a victory, like a trophy, like another stone in the fortress of his composure that you have so carefully chipped away.
His eyes meet yours, and there is something dangerous in them now. Something hungry. Something that looks, for just a moment, like he might forget every oath he has ever sworn.
"You play a dangerous game, princess," he says, and there is something raw in his voice now, something frayed at the edges, like a rope that has been stretched too thin for too long. "One day, you will push too far."
"And what will you do then, Ser Gwayne?" You smile up at him, sweet as poison, innocent as sin. "Will you finally catch me?"
The question hangs between you, heavy with implication. You see the war in his eyes—duty against desire, honour against want, everything he has been taught against everything he has come to crave. You see him imagine it: reaching for you, pulling you close, forgetting the court and the oaths and the thousand eyes that watch.
You see him remember himself.
He does not answer. He cannot answer. The words are trapped in his throat, caught between his teeth, held back by a lifetime of discipline. But his eyes tell you everything—that he is drowning, that he is burning, that every moment spent in your presence is a war he is steadily losing.
And you, sweet princess, have never been one to surrender.
You let the dance continue. You let him lead, let him pretend he is in control, even as you feel the tension radiating from him like heat from a forge. You let him hold you, let him spin you, let him guide you through the steps with the precision of a man who is using every ounce of his focus to remember where his hands are allowed to be.
The evening ends with Gwayne Hightower excusing himself early, pleading a headache, and you watch him leave with a knowing smile that curls at the corner of your lips like a secret shared with no one but yourself.
Your sister finds you moments later, eyebrow arched, a goblet of wine in her hand and a knowing glint in her eye.
"What did you do to him?" she asks, and there is no accusation in her voice, only amusement. Only the curiosity of a woman who knows her sister too well to be fooled by innocence.
"Nothing," you say, innocent as a lamb, wide-eyed as a dove. "I simply danced with him."
Rhaenyra snorts, a sound most unladylike and utterly familiar. "You danced with him the same way a cat dances with a mouse.”
You smile and say nothing, because she is not wrong. Because she has never been wrong about you, not really, not when it matters. Because she knows you better than anyone, and she knows exactly what you are doing.
But she does not stop you. She never does.
Tonight, you have reached a brazenness you would otherwise not think yourself capable of.
But that is the thing about walls—once you have chipped away at them long enough, they do not so much crumble as dissolve, leaving you standing in the ruins of who you used to be, marveling at the woman you have become. And tonight, that woman is not content with whispers and glances. Tonight, she wants to hear him break.
You know he stands guard outside your chambers. You know it as surely as you know the beat of your own heart—that steady, traitorous rhythm that quickens every time you so much as glimpse his silhouette in a crowded hall. You can picture him there now: broad-shouldered and impossibly still, his silhouette backlit by the sconces that line the corridor. The flickering torchlight catches the copper in his hair, burnishes the sharp lines of his jaw. His hand rests on his sword hilt in that familiar, easy grip that speaks of decades of discipline—but you know better now. You know the tension that lives in his shoulders like a second skeleton, a permanent weight he carries because he refuses to let it go.
His jaw will be set in that maddening line of stoic resolve as he surveys the darkened hallway. The perfect knight. The unshakable sentinel. A man carved from stone and oaths.
You intend to shake him.
The fire crackles low in the hearth, casting amber shadows across the stone walls, painting the room in shades of gold and crimson. The night air has turned cool, carrying the faint scent of rain from the open window—the first promise of a storm rolling in from the Blackwater, the distant rumble of thunder a fitting prelude to the tempest you are about to unleash. You left the door unlocked. Not ajar, not obvious—just unlocked. A test. An invitation. A trap baited with silk and sin.
You let your shift slip from your shoulders.
The silk pools at your feet like water, a whisper of ivory against the cold stone floor, and the cool air kisses every inch of your exposed skin—raising goosebumps across your chest, your stomach, the sensitive flesh of your thighs. You shiver, but not from the cold. Never from the cold. You are burning from the inside out, a furnace stoked by anticipation, by the knowledge that he is just beyond that door, that he can hear everything.
You lie back on your bed, the sheets soft and rumpled beneath you, and you let your hand drift lazily down the plane of your stomach. You are deliberate in your slowness. You are an artist, and this is your masterpiece—a performance meant for an audience of one, even if he refuses to acknowledge it. Even if he stands rigid and unyielding, pretending he cannot hear, pretending you do not exist beyond the role of princess to his protector.
But he can hear. And he does exist in the space between your thighs, whether he knows it or not.
You make no effort to stifle the sounds that escape you.
They begin softly—small, breathy sighs that could almost be mistaken for restlessness, for a woman turning in her sleep. A whisper of pleasure, barely audible, a thread of sound you let hang in the air like silk. You test the waters, waiting, listening for the telltale creak of leather shifting outside your door. Nothing. Not yet. He is made of sterner stuff than that.
So you push harder.
Your fingers find the heat between your thighs, and you trace slow, aching circles around that sensitive peak with practiced precision. You know your own body like a map you have studied in the dark—every curve, every hollow, every place that makes you gasp. And you let yourself feel it, truly feel it, because this is not merely performance. This is want. This is hunger. This is the fire that has been building since the first moment he looked at you like you were the sun and he was desperate for a taste of the burn.
A moan escapes you—low and throaty, the kind of sound that belongs in a shadowed alcove, in the tangle of sheets, in the quiet space between two bodies that have given up pretending. It is the sound of a woman who has stopped caring about propriety, who has abandoned the mask of the perfect princess and let the woman beneath claw her way to the surface.
Another. This one sharper, catching on the edge of a whimper as your fingers press harder, faster, chasing something that feels perilously close to release. You arch your back against the pillows, letting your head fall back, your hair spilling across the linens like a white halo. Your breath comes in ragged, uneven gasps, and you do nothing to quiet them. You let them swell and crest, filling the chamber with a symphony of your own making.
And you know he can hear you through the oak of the door.
You bite your lip, frustration coiling hot and heavy in your belly. Is he truly that steadfast? That unmovable? That infuriatingly honourable? You have given him every invitation, every provocation, every whispered temptation. You have stripped yourself bare, not just of silk but of pretense, and still he stands there like a sentinel carved from the very stones of the Red Keep.
You press harder, faster, your breathing growing ragged as you chase the thought of him—his hands instead of yours, his mouth on your throat, his weight pressing you into the mattress. You let your eyes flutter closed, let yourself imagine it is him touching you, him drawing these sounds from you. You imagine his breath hot against your ear, his voice rough with desire, whispering all the things he cannot say in the light of day.
The silence from the other side of the door is absolute. No shuffle of boots. No sharp intake of breath. No telltale clink of armour betraying a shift in stance. It is as if he has turned to stone, as if he has willed himself into a statue of duty and denial, carved from the same unyielding marble as the Seven themselves.
You are about to give up. About to abandon this foolish game and finish what you started in bitter, solitary frustration—when—
Knock. Knock.
"Princess?" His voice is low through the door, carefully measured. Painstakingly neutral. The voice of a knight addressing his charge, nothing more. "Is everything all right? I thought I heard... sounds of distress."
You almost laugh. Distress. How perfectly proper. How adorably chivalrous. If you weren't already so wound up, so aching and empty, you might find it endearing. But you are far past endearing. You are past patience, past games, past pretending that the heat between you is anything less than a wildfire waiting to consume you both.
You do not answer.
Instead, you let your fingers slide deeper, the wet sound obscenely loud in the quiet chamber. You let a moan spill from your lips—deliberate, wanton, unashamed—knowing he can hear every shameful, beautiful note of it. You arch your back, let your breath catch in a sharp gasp, and you let his name fall from your lips like a prayer you have forgotten how to stop praying.
"Gwayne..."
"Princess?" His voice is sharper now, edged with something that might be worry—or might be something far more dangerous. The careful mask is slipping. You can hear the crack in his composure, the faint tremor beneath the steel. "I'm coming in. Forgive me."
The door swings open.
He stands silhouetted in the firelight, one hand on his sword, his eyes scanning the room for threats—for assassins, for intruders, for anything that might explain the sounds that have been tormenting him for the past quarter-hour. His body is coiled and ready, a predator prepared to strike, every muscle taut with the promise of violence.
Until they find you.
And then he falters.
Everything about him goes still. His hand falls from his sword, limp at his side, as though the weapon has become an afterthought, as though every lesson of his training has been rendered meaningless by the sight before him. His chest, rising and falling with quickened breath, seems to freeze mid-inhale, the air trapped in his lungs like a prisoner. His eyes—those lovely, terrible, agonized eyes—trace the curve of your body, the arch of your back against the rumpled sheets, the slow, indolent movement of your fingers still buried between your thighs.
You watch the recognition dawn on his face. The moment when the sounds he has been trying to rationalize—the soft moans, the ragged gasps, the whispered invocation of his name—finally find their source. You watch him put the pieces together, watch him realize that every moment of torment he has endured tonight was not an accident, was not a dream, was not something he could dismiss with prayer and denial.
He knows he should look away.
You see it in the way his gaze flickers, just for an instant, toward the door. You see it in the muscle that leaps in his jaw, the desperate clench of his teeth. You see the war in his eyes—the battle between every oath he has ever sworn and every desire he has ever denied.
He knows he should turn. Should close the door. Should pretend he saw nothing and scourge himself with prayer and penance for the rest of the night. He should walk away and never speak of this, never acknowledge this, never let himself remember the way you look right now—sprawled and wanton and utterly, devastatingly his.
But he cannot.
His eyes travel down the column of your throat, past the rise and fall of your bare chest, over the soft curve of your stomach, to where your fingers move in slow, torturous circles. You watch him watch you, and the power of it is intoxicating—headier than wine, sharper than any blade. You have defeated the great Ser Gwayne Hightower without ever touching him. You have brought him to his knees without ever leaving your bed.
He swallows. You watch his throat work, watch the struggle play out across his features—the desperate, agonizing push and pull of duty against desire. "You—" His voice cracks, and he clears his throat, tries again, the words scraping past his lips like broken glass. "You said you were in distress."
"Did I?" You tilt your head, all mock innocence, all wide-eyed confusion that you both know is a lie. "I don't recall saying anything at all."
He flinches as if you have struck him. "Princess, I—"
"Gwayne." You say his name like a command, like a plea, like a prayer. You hold his gaze as you slowly, deliberately, begin to move your fingers again—a languid, unhurried rhythm that you know he can see, that you know he cannot look away from.
The word hangs in the air between you, heavy and charged. For a long moment, neither of you moves. Neither of you breathes. The fire pops and crackles. The rain patters against the window, a soft percussion against the stone. The world goes on outside, oblivious to the cataclysm happening within these four walls.
And then he breaks.
It happens in the space between one heartbeat and the next. One moment he is standing there, frozen in the doorway, a man carved from stone and oaths. The next, he has crossed the room in three swift strides, and suddenly he is there, standing over the bed, looking down at you with eyes that have abandoned all pretense of restraint. His chest heaves. His hands are still fisted at his sides, but they are shaking now, trembling with the effort of not reaching for you.
Your fingers graze his wrist, and he shudders.
The contact is electric, a spark that leaps between you like lightning, like the first crack of thunder before a storm breaks. You feel the tremor that runs through him—the way his muscles jump beneath your touch, the way his breath catches in his throat like a man who has been drowning and has just been offered air. His control shatters.
He falls to his knees beside the bed, his hands finding your hips, gripping them with a desperate, almost bruising intensity. His forehead drops to your stomach, and you feel the hot, ragged puff of his breath against your skin—warm and uneven, a man fighting for composure and losing. He is shaking. The great Ser Gwayne Hightower is shaking like a leaf in a storm, undone by the mere touch of your hand.
"I cannot," he gasps into your skin, the words muffled against your belly, his lips brushing your flesh with each desperate syllable. "I cannot—I swore—"
"To protect me," you say softly, your fingers threading through his hair. The strands are soft beneath your touch, copper and gold catching the firelight, and you gently scratch your nails against his scalp. He moans—a low, broken sound that vibrates against your skin. "You swore to protect me, Gwayne. Not to watch me waste away from wanting you."
He looks up at you then, and the agony in his eyes is breathtaking. His face is flushed, his pupils blown wide, his lips parted and slick. He looks like a man who has been dragged through the Seven Hells and has finally glimpsed salvation—and is terrified it will be snatched away.
"You are a princess," he says, and his voice cracks on the word, splintering like glass. "You deserve—"
"I deserve what I want." You cup his jaw, forcing him to meet your gaze. Your thumb traces the sharp line of his cheekbone, feeling the stubble that scrapes against your skin. "And I want you, Gwayne. I have wanted you since the first moment you looked at me like I was something worth burning the world down for."
His breath catches. His eyes search yours, desperate for something—permission? Absolution? A reason to stop fighting? "You know—"
"I know everything." You smile, soft and tender and achingly sincere. "I know you have been fighting yourself for months. I know you stand guard outside my door every night and pray for strength. I know you dream of me, just as I dream of you. And I am still asking."
The last of his resistance crumbles. You see it go, see the war finally end in his eyes—the way the tension drains from his shoulders, the way his hands loosen their desperate grip on your hips, the way his expression shifts from agony to something rawer, more vulnerable, more his.
And then he is surging up, his hands sliding from your hips to your back, pulling you against him as his mouth crashes into yours.
It is not gentle. It is not chivalrous. It is the kiss of a man who has been starving for years and has finally been offered a feast. It is desperate and hungry and so full of longing that it steals the breath from your lungs. His hands rove across your back, mapping the curve of your spine, pulling you impossibly closer as though he is afraid you will disappear if he loosens his grip for even a moment.
His tongue sweeps across your lower lip, and you open for him like a flower to the sun, letting him taste every last inch of your surrender. He groans into your mouth, a deep, guttural sound that reverberates through you, and you feel the last of his control slip away. His hand tangles in your hair, tilting your head back, and he deepens the kiss—claiming, consuming, devouring.
You kiss him back with everything you have. All the months of longing, all the whispered fantasies, all the nights spent imagining this moment—you pour it all into the kiss, letting him feel the weight of your desire, the depth of your want. Your fingers curl into the fabric of his tunic, pulling him closer, and you feel the solid warmth of his chest against yours, the rapid drumbeat of his heart echoing your own.
When he finally pulls back, he is breathing hard, his forehead pressed to yours, his hands still gripping you like you might disappear. His eyes are closed, his lashes dark against his flushed cheeks, and you watch a single tremor run through him—the aftershock of a lifetime of denial finally broken.
"I am going to burn for this," he murmurs, and there is something like wonder in his voice, something like awe. "I am going to burn in the deepest pits of the Seven Hells for what I am about to do to you."
You laugh, soft and breathless, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw. "Then we will burn together."
His eyes open, and the look he gives you is devastating—raw and tender and full of a love he has been too afraid to name. "You are not afraid?"
"I have never been afraid of the fire," you say softly. "I have only ever been afraid of being cold."
He kisses you again, softer this time, a gentle press of lips that speaks of promises and devotion and a future neither of you can guarantee. When he pulls back, he traces the curve of your cheek with his thumb, his eyes never leaving yours.
"Then I will keep you warm," he whispers. "For as long as you will let me."
Summary: in which Oscar Tully decides he WILL marry daemon's sweet daughter and he does not care what daemon thinks about.
Warning: daemon is a protective girl dad
Note: just a fun one
masterlist
One shot
The first time Oscar Tully met Daemon Targaryen's daughter, she was standing beneath the shadow of her dragon.
Smoke curled lazily around her boots as the beast settled behind her, wings folding with a sound like thunder rolling across the Riverlands. Soldiers instinctively stepped back. Even seasoned knights lowered their eyes.
Oscar simply stared.
Not because of the dragon.
Because she was smiling at one of the younger squires who had tripped over his own feet while trying to look brave.
She helped him stand.
Asked if he'd hurt himself.
The dragon behind her snorted, as if offended its rider was comforting frightened boys instead of inspiring fear.
Oscar smiled before he could stop himself.
"Gods," he murmured.
"She's beautiful."
Daemon Targaryen, who had happened to be walking behind him, heard every word.
"So I've been told."
Oscar turned.
Every story about the Rogue Prince had failed to capture just how dangerous he looked.
Dark Sister rested at his hip.
Caraxes lifted his enormous head several yards away, golden eyes settling directly on Oscar.
Most men would've looked away.
Oscar bowed politely.
"My prince."
Daemon folded his arms.
"You're looking at my daughter."
"I was."
"And?"
Oscar considered lying.
He'd never been particularly good at it.
"I'd quite like to marry her."
Silence.
Complete, horrified silence.
A nearby knight actually closed his eyes as though preparing to witness an execution.
Daemon blinked once.
Then Caraxes let out a low, rumbling growl that shook the ground beneath Oscar's boots.
Oscar looked toward the dragon.
"...Good afternoon to you as well."
Caraxes growled louder.
Daemon pinched the bridge of his nose.
"Leave."
"Yes, my prince."
Oscar turned obediently.
Then paused.
"I still intend to court her."
The growling stopped.
Daemon stared after him with the same expression one might wear after discovering a sheep had just challenged a wolf.
—
"Your father hates me."
Reader nearly choked on her wine.
"He threatened to feed you to Caraxes."
"Only twice."
She laughed.
"Twice?"
"The first time was after I told him I'd make you very happy."
Reader covered her face with her hands.
"And the second?"
"I asked where I'd need to stand during the wedding."
She burst into helpless laughter.
"You did not."
"I did."
"You've known me four days."
"I know."
"You don't even know my favorite color."
Oscar frowned thoughtfully.
"...Red."
She blinked.
"Because of House Targaryen?"
"No."
He smiled.
"Because whenever you're laughing your cheeks turn pink."
Her heart performed a ridiculous little flip.
Gods.
He was impossible.
—
Daemon tried everything.
He assigned Oscar patrols on the opposite side of camp.
Oscar finished them early.
He buried him beneath meetings with Riverlords.
Oscar attended every one before somehow finding Reader again before sunset.
He sent him into pouring rain to inspect supply wagons.
Oscar returned soaked through, carrying wildflowers he'd picked along the road because he'd thought Reader would like them.
She did.
She pressed them between the pages of her book.
Daemon nearly lost what remained of his patience.
"He cannot possibly be this cheerful."
"He usually is."
"There must be something wrong with him."
"There might be."
"He smiled at Caraxes."
Reader couldn't help herself.
"So did you."
"I was threatening someone."
"So was he."
Daemon frowned.
"...I dislike that you're defending him."
"I noticed."
—
It came to a head three weeks later.
Reader found Oscar sitting beside the river with his boots abandoned in the grass.
"You've survived another day."
"I have."
"My father hasn't killed you."
"He seems busy."
She sat beside him.
The evening sun painted the water gold.
For a while, neither spoke.
Finally she asked the question that had been bothering her since the day they'd met.
"Why aren't you afraid of him?"
Oscar laughed quietly.
"I am."
She looked at him in surprise.
"You don't seem afraid."
"I'm terrified."
"You certainly hide it well."
He picked up a smooth stone and skipped it across the water.
"I know exactly what Daemon Targaryen could do to me."
"And yet..."
He looked at her.
"And yet every time I think perhaps I should stay away..."
His smile softened.
"...you smile at someone."
"...or laugh."
"...or stop to help a servant carry something."
"...or spend an hour listening to an old soldier tell stories you've surely heard a hundred times before."
He shrugged.
"I decide frightening your father is the easier task."
She felt her throat tighten.
"Oscar..."
"I don't expect anything."
He spoke so gently that it almost hurt.
"I know this is war."
"I know tomorrow isn't promised."
"I know your father would rather I disappeared."
A pause.
"But if I never told you..."
His voice became almost shy.
"...I'd regret it for the rest of my life."
"I think I've fallen in love with you."
She had been courted before.
Princes.
Lords.
Heirs.
Every one of them had spoken about dragons, beauty, alliances, bloodlines.
Oscar spoke about the way she smiled.
No one ever had.
She reached for his hand.
He froze.
"I think," she whispered, "I've been waiting for you to say that."
His eyes widened.
"Truly?"
She nodded.
He laughed—an honest, joyful sound that echoed across the river.
Unfortunately...
"So."
They both turned.
Daemon stood twenty feet away.
Dark Sister rested casually across one shoulder.
Caraxes loomed behind him.
Reader sighed.
"My father."
Oscar stood.
"My prince."
"I leave the two of you alone for ten minutes."
"It was closer to twenty."
Daemon ignored him.
"You wish to marry my daughter."
"I do."
"You understand that if you ever make her cry—"
"I'll deserve whatever punishment you decide."
Daemon stopped.
That...
wasn't the answer he'd expected.
Oscar continued before courage abandoned him.
"I cannot promise she'll never know hardship."
"We live in difficult times."
"I cannot promise I'll always have the right answer."
"But I can promise she'll never wonder whether she's loved."
Reader felt tears sting her eyes.
Daemon noticed.
His expression softened for the briefest heartbeat.
He looked toward his daughter.
She was watching Oscar the way her mother had once looked at him.
Hopelessly.
Entirely.
There was no changing that now.
Daemon sighed heavily.
"I should throw you into Blackwater Bay."
Oscar nodded.
"I imagine so."
"I should feed you to Caraxes."
"I imagine that as well."
Caraxes lowered his great head until he was eye level with Oscar.
The camp collectively held its breath.
The dragon sniffed him once.
Twice.
Oscar very carefully reached out and scratched beneath one curved horn.
"You are much friendlier than your reputation suggests."
Caraxes made a deep, satisfied rumble.
Reader burst into laughter.
Daemon stared at his own dragon.
"...You've betrayed me."
Another rumble.
Daemon looked back at Oscar.
"I liked you better when I believed you possessed common sense."
"I'm afraid I never have."
"So I've gathered."
A long silence settled over them.
Finally Daemon stepped forward.
He took his daughter's hand.
Then, with obvious reluctance, placed it into Oscar's.
"If she comes home unhappy..."
Oscar squeezed her hand gently.
"She won't."
Daemon searched his face for arrogance.
There was none.
Only quiet certainty.
The sort earned by a man who already loved her enough to challenge dragons.
"Very well."
Oscar blinked.
"...Very well?"
"I've changed my mind."
Reader smiled.
"What changed it?"
Daemon glanced toward Caraxes, who was still watching Oscar with suspicious approval.
"My dragon has dreadful taste in people."
Another rumble answered him.
"But..."
He looked back at Oscar.
"...he has never been wrong."
Oscar grinned.
"Does this mean I have your blessing?"
Daemon sighed as though the words physically pained him.
"It means you're now my problem."
"I can live with that."
"I know."
Daemon began walking back toward camp.
After several steps he called over one shoulder,
"And, Lord Tully?"
"Yes, my prince?"
"If anyone asks..."
"I intimidated you."
Oscar looked down at Reader, whose shoulders were already shaking with laughter.
after an attempted assassination on daeron's life is successfully avoided by you accidentally drinking the poison meant for him, gwayne hightower loses his mind. he must first play knight and avenge house hightower against house baratheon and then as doctor to nurse you back to health, though no role is harder than playing the husband who almost lost his wife.
ser gwayne! x wife! reader, son! daeron. bath time with gwayne (x2!), fluff, angst, more fluff. gwayne strangles ormund. you are vv sleepy. disclaimer: this is not accurate!!! i have changed bits to make the fic work - please do not come for me i know!!
it doesn't hit you at first. ormund in his delight at house baratheon pledging their allegiance had poured the dark liquid into everyone's cups. it sloshes and bounces as ormund clinks the goblets against each other with a grin. "drink!" comes his loud laughter, "in the name of king daeron!"
it burns at your ears the declaration, your heart falling to the pits of your stomach with the way daeron looks at you with a certain sadness in his orbs. as he too is weighted by the fate to come. your goblet remains untouched, your fingers ghosting the icy rims and you notice you're not the only one.
you look over at your lover. the bored stare of annoyance across his face and curled into the soft lips you had kissed just moments before. he's cleaned up now, you had been sent for by daeron with great urgency from oldtown to tumbleton when news of your beloved was to return. it had been months since you had seen him, the words etched with ink and desperation has held your life by snagging threads. but when you had finally laid eyes on him, mud-stained, dishevelled to the core and worse of all, hopeless, you really started to feel yourself unravel completely.
he had all but collapsed in your arms, his body slammed against yours with the pure desire to be held and loved and even as the tiredness from the journey had begun to set in your bones, you held up strong for him.
gwayne hightower was a man of pure strength. a man amongst men. his bravery and reputation would stretch across kingdoms but in the presence of his wife would he let himself not be weak, but only then would he let himself fall and be fussed for. he let you lead him quietly to the bathing chamber, your heart lurching at the small whimpers he made when he rested his weight on his feet for too long and you ignored them, letting him lean his weight into your side, sharing and carrying the burdens of this war between the two of you.
he sat there patiently in the warm waters as you made slow careful work of the washcloths. minutes folded into each other till quite possibly an hour had passed, but what is an hour to what has felt like an eternity in your absence. he bit back the hiss when you had scrubbed a little harder, breaking free the mud and dirt in the crevices and when you let the dirty wash cloth sit in the bucket, you hoped the grime of this tiresome fight would cleanse away too.
"hey," you murmured, your lips pressed between his shoulder blades, the water tickling down his back and he closed his eyes in sweet relief, "you came back," and where your lips parted the distance, your forehead rested deeper into the curve of his spine.
"i told you i would," his voice was gruff, harsher at the edges and he tried to clear it, become softer. your gwayne, the unguarded weightless version of him reserved only for you.
"i know," you hummed, and your fingers make work rinsing the grey from his copper hair. a moan slipped from his lips when you tug just too right and you had teased him, "there'd be plenty of time for that later, lord husband," and his hand had come to catch your wrist. he brings it to his lips, placing a feathered kiss to your pulse, the taste of orange perfumed oils and your heartbeat in his mouth. momentarily, you're brought to standstill. completely at the behold of gywane hightower, consumed by his attentiveness.
"do not tease a broken man," he whispered into your skin and the butterflies in your stomach had been sent roaring.
"you are not broken," his body was wet but you wrapped yourself around him fiercely. skirts could be changed, self-doubt however was hard to shift for someone like gwayne who holds himself to the highest of standards. "you fought valiantly, you have travelled long and far in the name of your family, and despite the exhaustion and fear you still stand. we may not be in oldtown, my heart but you have made it back home to me. you are strong, my love. the strongest man i have ever known. you need rest, time to heal what wounds lay open but you are not broken," and like honey your words had stuck to him, glued together the pieces that were falling free and it warms him inside. "you are not yourself right now and that is fair," your words of love still hold an edge of threat to them, "but i will not let you insult my husband." and he grants you the smallest of smiles but its enough to stretch and expand your heart with more room to love for him, "my protector," you whisper, you kissed away the hard lines between his brows, down to the length of his nose and before you landed at his lips, "my life."
he's mustered some strength since his time in the bath and whilst he misses the feeling of your fleeting touch roaming his body and hair, he's glad he looks sharper. more like himself and feels it so.
his hand is interlocked with one of yours, firmly in his lap. his thumb constantly caressing your own as if its a constant reminder that you're there. you're not leaving. he is safe.
you are loading bites of meat onto a fork, a satsified hum serves as music when he opens his mouth without force and takes a bite. you're patient with him, the way your hand steadies as he drinks some water, your finger catching the falling droplets and wiping them away tenderly. daeron watches on, grateful the two of you are here with him. it's been lonely and tiresome with ormund and though he holds some resentment for his uncle leaving, the overwhelming feeling of missing the two of you replaces it in a heartbeat.
you sip from gwayne's cup, it's only natural to steal a secret kiss from the print of his lips on the rim and he exhales slowly. "it has been so long since we have shared a meal together, i have missed moments like this," daeron's voice draws you to him. you send him a saccharine smile and reach out, gently covering his palm with your own. he feels the warmth of it and returns the contentment.
"it has been hasn't it?" you muse, "as much as i love the air in oldtown, it will never compare to how it feels by your sides," you look at each of your family. your gaze skims over ormund, focusing on daeron and then back at your husband. gwayne murmurs in agreement, your interlocked hands raise from his lap and to his lips, lingering for a moment longer as he breathes you in.
"i've missed you," his admission tickles against your knuckles and you feel your blood pool to the surface.
"and oldtown too?" you tease.
"yes," he grins, "but you so much more," and he decides the distance between the two of you is the most grating thing in existence and his hands find your hips, lifting you with grace and into his lap. your laughter rings in his ears at the sudden closeness and he can feel is you. you've been the missing puzzle piece he's been incomplete the last few months on the road and only now he can finally let himself rest.
"spare us," ormund scoffs at the pair of you and six eyes are already rolling in his direction. "send me to an early death if you must," and he shoves another forkful in his mouth.
"i must," you gasp, "truly?" and it's comical how hopeful you beam his direction and ormund hits you back with a sneer. "careful, cousin, it might be the first wisest decision you've made during this attempt at reign."
"my apologies, lady, but who exactly called you to tumbleton?" he presses in annoyance.
"easy now cousin, play nice," gwayne warns and you fold your arms defensively, leaning back into your husband's hold, his chest firm and solid beneath your melting form.
"yes well, it's truly a marvel as to how you are still without marriage ormund. a man of such charm and great intellect would surely have the women of the cities lined up for leagues," you pick up gwayne's cup, half full with water and guide it gently to his lips, "or men if that's your cup of tea, whoever is unlucky enough to snag you first," and gwayne tries to smother his laughter in your neck.
"or shag," you feel the graze of his teeth just before your jaw.
"gwayne, your wife is cruel," ormund hisses at his cousin in retaliation and shoots at you, flicking a small carrot in your direction. its childish and lazilly aimed that gwayne blocks it with his fist and a scrunch in his brows. he then flips over his palm and uses the force from his middle finger and thumb to direct it back in ormunds direction, knocking him directly in the corner of his mouth.
ormund lets out a cough, a wheeze of incredulity and disgust as he stares down at the vegetable in betrayal.
"my wife speaks of her mind and for the both of us," gwayne mindlessly shrugs, rocking your body alongside his in a slow sway. you lean down to press a kiss to his cheek, your finger sliding where his dimple accentuates and he grins harder, the indent poking deeper.
"for the three of us," daeron joins in, his smile small and a tad bit unsure. you nod your head in encouragement.
"you've picked the winning side," you laugh and daeron reciprocates the sentiment.
"i should send the two of you back to oldtown," ormund mutters to himself and but you catch it. to the naked eye, your falter is so brief it gets carried in the breeze and out the windows of the city. the way your heart momentatily flutters could be accidental, the way you don't freeze but just slow down for a second. but gwayne catches it all in the palms of his hands and he softens.
"soon," comes his whisper as he tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, "i swear it, my heart." your lips turn in a half smile, lopsided and the best you can manage. "for the three of us," he shoots a wink at daeron, who is more grateful for you two as the minutes swing to hours as his words echo.
gwayne's hands rest in your lap as you continue to eat and feed your husband. you're busy engaging with daeron and plans for his upcoming name day celebration with excitement. you had plans to gift him an animal, a pet as a companion- one that would likely irritate ormund further. or even a small trip to the north with your husband, you could show him your side of history, you have a feeling he'd also love cold. a bite suddenly goes down the wrong way and it has you wheezing, oxygen squeezing through your lungs and tightening that you almost dont realise that when you pick up the goblet, it's wine and not your water.
it feels thicker as it runs down your throat, relieving some of the tension as gwayne pats your back firmly, "easy, my love. slowly," and you feel the force of it die down. you take another swig of the wine and it numbs part of your oseophagus and you try to cough.
"water," you croak, using whatever energy you can muster to shake your head, "water, please," and he's there with his cup, the rim resting gently on your lips as he tips your head back letting you sip at your own pace.
"better?" he murmurs.
"a little, though perhaps the wine is past its prime?" you push away the goblet, "do not drink, daeron. it's," you pause thinking of the right words, "like chalk." gwayne inspects the cup immediately, sniffing it, swirling it around its and immediately setting it down. ormund does the same, the scent tickling at his nostrils that he almost gags and reaches into his pocket for a small tube of salt.
the suspicion is heightened however when the smell of horse shit, mud and weeded plants rings through his nose and into the room, you try and pay it no mind. it's not as strong to you as it is to ormund and hardly to gwayne who has seen and smelt far worse. but there's something else in the air, something that's shifted and then you feel the grip of your palm tighten under the table.
gwayne squeezes it twice in warning and shoots you a look in daeron's direction and your heart drops to your stomach as you all make a move to stand in front of your guests. "be discreet," he whispers his order and you stand from his hold and move to your chair next to daeron subtlely, pretending to dust off your gown. it's nothing to draw attention to you.
ormund is talking but you cannot hear, the voices sound muffled as if your head is underwater and your limbs feel a step too behind than your mind can master.
"arrion baratheon," comes the name and you see the moment something passes over your husband's face, he's careful not to let it show suspecting. his eyes harden as they roam the room, counting the swords, the men, the eyes watching his family. he counts the steps he thinks it'll take for you and daeron leave and reach safety, how many throats he'll have to slit to give you enough time to flee.
you see him carefully make his way around the table, pretending to divert his focus downwards and sneaks a reassuring smile to daeron. you can see the downward curl of his lip and your pulse shatters inside your body, loud and begging to start moving but you still wait for gwayne's confirmation. the sliver of a second before he picks up the knife, he nods to you and you turn at the same time the blade slashes against the intruder's throat. you don't catch sight of the blood that leaks down like a river, splashing back on his porcelain skin as he throws the dead weight off of him and reaches for his sword. your flinch is enough as you reach for your son.
his shout of desperation and in the haziness you can't tell whether he shouts for your name or daeron's but the two of you are already on your feet, clutching at each others sides as you make a shift in the direction of the exit.
"stop him!" ormund screeches but daeron grabs your guard firmly.
"assassins," gwayne hisses as his sword slices through another body, "sent for you and daeron," he lands a punch, a jab of the elbow and another cut through before his eyes try to find yours, "go!" his voice cracks at scream, "now!"
the bodies fall one by one till only gwayne and ormund stand at the center of the room, "follow them, do not stop till they are in their chambers, now." he grits out. throwing his sword to the side and your guards turn in the direction of where you and daeron have departed, escorting you safely on route to the chambers.
"arrion baratheon has hair of light chestnut, is about a foot taller" he growls out, his hand tugging on the dark haired scalp, rising its half decapitated head for ormund's view, "and as it happens, is far more comely."
"i will cut her," ormund heaves, "from crown to cunt," the edges of his hands grip the table to steady himself. gwayne opens his mouth but the words die incredulously as his eyes settle on the goblet. its further amplified by the voice gasping from the floor.
"you speak of our queen when you should be worried of your own lady," it croaks and gwayne hightower sees pure read. his forearms grip the bleeding body and throws it against the table looming over it.
"you bastard," he seethes, "what have you done?" and the soldier refuses to reveal anymore information, the lazy smirk taunting gwayne that he reaches for a dagger and lunges it straight into his heart. in then out. in again and out. four swift stabbing motions till the bodies strung lifeless and he kicks it to the floor.
"ormund," he breathes, "the wine, my girl-"
"fuck!" ormund shouts and he reaches for your cup, throws it with great strength as it shatters, the liquid staining the walls as he stares at gwayne in horror. he attempts to let the apologies fall in panic from his tongue but gwayne's too quick, his legs are carrying him into a full sprint to where your body was left. his heart is in his throat as it pounds and swallows him whole, the tears are fresh but he just needs to get to you.
a few metres away, you can still feel yourself being lulled down, your body weight growing heavier by the minute as you reach to daeron's arms, "something doesn't feel so good," you drool, everything just feels so hazy.
"aunt?" comes daeron's worried call, his lips wobbling as he tries to steady you. "hey, hey, please, aunt?" and your eyes are closing in, you just feel so tired. a firm hand grips your side and a flash of auburn holds you tight as the voice screams, ringing in your ears, "gwayne! somebody get gwayne!"
it's bloodcurdling how his nephew's screams pierce his heart and travels across the kingdom as he dives just in time to catch your falling form, to brace the weight daeron's struggling to hold and he presses his head to yours. "i'm here sweet girl, i'm here," he murmurs, his hand at the back of your head and cradling you into his chest. he swings your body into his hold and breaks the distance in half to the chambers. he needs to lie you down, let the maestars work on you but he's so afraid that if he lets go, he'll lose you forever.
you'e heating up, feverish as beads of sweat pool at your hairline and burn into his skin. "gwayne," you mumble, "i don't feel so good," and bile rises in his throat, closing up.
"honey, keep your eyes open for me. look at me," he directs your chin upwards and into his panicked orbs, "just look at me," he begs.
"i feel so tired," you almost whine through the gasps, "i need to just," and your eyes close halfway before he's shaking you awake again.
"darling girl," his palms cup your face, and he tries to slow his thundering heart beat down to hear yours pulse softly. "we can sleep later, right now i need you to just focus on me. don't focus on them," he shakes his head at the shouting of ormund, the stress of daeron as he calls for the maestar and your lady that has pooled at the doors in distress, "focus on me, you're fine, i promise."
"sweetheart," your finger is heavy and you lazily land it on his cheek in an attempt to carress his face. it almost slips but he catches it and holds your palm to his cheek, grasping on as he leans his forehead into yours. his hold on you tightens as concotions are mixed at the table side and your body falls limper in his hands. "daeron? is he-"
"he is safe, my love. just as you will be," and his heart aches at how even at what feels like your final breaths your first thought is still your son. "i love you," you use your last breaths to sweeten his soul before you close your eyes and gwayne's chest heaves, struggling for air. "no, no, no," he shouts and looks to the maestar, "you fix her and you fix her now!" he roars, your body lies beneath him, your chest weakly rising and lifting before deflating every few moments. gwayne has your breathing burned into memory, its far too slow than usual, he doesn't know what to do.
"sweetsleeper" the maestar speaks, thawing his frozen panic. "a thick pasted sedative," he lands a hand on gwayne's shoulder in comfort.
"like chalk," daeron echoes in horror, "she drank from my cup, i did this," his eyes widen and spill with tears, "please uncle, please no i did not mean for this to happen," gwayne doesn't take his eyes off of your body, his hand is still holding yours firmly on your chest as he feels for your heartbeat. he's silent, tucking you into the covers and pressing a kiss to your lips. its longer than he's done in months, he can taste the cherry from the sauce you had eaten earlier and its now bitter. he inhales you in, and a small whimper leaves him.
"i just got you back," he whispers, his voice cracking at the edges with sorrow and desperation, "i cannot let you go, please my heart, please awake and return to me."
"she shall be in this slumber for a while, i am unsure of how long or the strength at which the wine might have diluted its properties so, but i have hopes she will live," the elder speaks to gwayne but he can hear nothing, so ormund nods.
"thank you," he offers and the maestar nods tightly with a promise to return in the next few hours for regular check ups and ormund dismisses everyone but the four of you. "this could have happened to any of us," he starts but gwayne hasn't moved a muscle from your side. the blood has dried from his face and in bis fingernails as the copper strands stick out unruly and wild, he looks terrible.
"they almost killed her," and when he speaks its devoid of its usual emotion as his gaze is stuck on you. they could have killed you, taken him from you and cast him to a life of loneliness far worse than death, one without you. his wife, his greatest companion and sweetest oath.
"they could have killed daeron," ormund attempts but it's the wrong words that rips gwayne from your held hands and straight at his cousin's throat up against the wall. ormund tries to thrash against him, kick him down but gwayne in his fury and rage holds him beneath him. the reds creep up his neck in claw marks until its all he can see.
"cousin," ormund tries to get out. his head bobs as he thrashes but gwayne doubles down, baring his teeth and for a second, gwayne doesn't see his cousin beneath him. he sees the face of the false baratheons, the sly soldier who taunted him before and he almost reaches for his dagger.
"uncle, please," a smaller voice desperately pleads and claws at his back. pale hands reach around him and to his elbows to pull him back, "uncle gwayne please stop, she wouldn't want this" and gwayne reluctantly lets go. ormund scurries away, eager to put some distance between him and tries to regulate his breaths, gather enough air to bring him back to the surface. his oxygen supply may have been temporarily cut off but the scars around his neck will bruise for weeks.
"she is my wife," gwayne's voice is ragged, rough at the edges with a wrenching desperation, "my wife, and they almost murdered her," he feels the rage gnawing at him again as his heart bleeds and bleeds, "do you understand the gravity of this ormund?" he takes a thundering step forwards and ormund has the decency to look ashamed, flinching from the hurt, "my wife."
"i am sorry," ormund apologises. he was the one to pour the wine, to not check the contents, to blindly trust the hope of a high house finally falling into allegiance. admist his excitement, the prospect of treason never ocurred to him. ormund hightower may be a strategist, but he's not perfect.
"sorry will not bring her back to me right now," gwayne's tone is lethally low, rings with a little pity and heartache as he looks back at you sleeping so soundly, so peacefully and blissfully unaware of the torment he is suffering from now. "she was safer in oldtown, she never should have left," he admits in defeat.
"i called for her," daeron lowers his gaze to the floor, "it is my fault. and it was my cup she drank from, i am to blame," and gwayne shakes his head softly. he motions for daeron to draw nearer and holds his arms out tiredly. daeron steps in his hold and can feel the exhaustion of his uncle seeping through his hug.
"you are not to blame," he sighs, "i am, i should have never left."
"you are protecting our house, gwayne," ormund scoffs, "do not forget the cause of your duty, who we are here for," and gwayne's bones tighten. surely the rings of red around ormund's neck are squeezing his one functional brain cell dry.
"what good is it ormund when i could not protect my wife?" he shouts in irritation, annoyance at rhaenrya targaryen, annoyance at aemond for deserting them, for criston cole for leading him to an almost death march, to his damn cousin for plotting this whole hightower parade, "my cause is my love for her, my duty is to her for i am bound, ormund. she is who i am here for, who i live for, sworn to her first and her alone. so do not stand there and lecture me about cause ormund because like those soldiers who you stood squeamishly before, i will kill you," he promises, "another word and i will slice your throat too, or at the very least your tongue," he hisses and ormund sighs, accepting defeat.
"i am sorry," he tries again.
"yes, you appear to be very sorry today," he rolls his eyes and takes a seat at the edge of the bed. "stop being so sorry and start disappearing, you are blocking the light. my lady wife likes to see the light of the sun as it sets," and the dismissal reeks in the air. ormund opens his mouth to say something further but its daeron's warning glance that decides otherwise.
daeron makes a move to your bed and presses a soft featherlike kiss to your cheek, bidding you a goodnight not a goodbye and does the same to gwayne. he'll most likely visit again and longer when gwayne's had a chance to rest, they'll take it in turns to watch guard and take care of you. but gwayne doesn't move a muscle. he wants nothing more to climb into bed next to you and hold you, hold you for life as he nurses you back to health but he's bloodied and rotten and does not want to dirty your sheets or you in the slightest. the last thing he wants to do is ail you further so he removes himself from the edge and sits on the floor next to your bed post, his back against the wall as you sleep soundly on his left, inches above. he presses a kiss to your lips and watches.
he won't sleep. not whilst he knows who did this is is still out there. his legs will most likely ache from stiffness of being outstretched but he sits firm, hand on his blade and eyes fixed on you.
he's only just gotten you back, he'd be damned if he has to let you go once more.
you're out for six days.
it isn't long but for gwayne it might have been six separate lifetimes.
the maestars had deduced that the concentration of the poison and the amount of ingested was not enough to kill you but enough to relax your body and mind that when you awake, your limbs would be likened to a slight paralysis, and you would need aid.
gwayne had not left your room once.
he abandoned his post at meetings, refused to join for meals with servants having to bring his dish to your chamber. and when they had taken it away hours later it may have very well been untouched.
the blood has gone from his nails and face thankfully, a change of clothes but not of heart so he could lie next to you. he cradles you close, he tells you of his time away on the road. the stories of comradarie with criston cole and the worst of it all; the filthy bog that had almost come close to breaking him. he's still restless though he lies in your feather bed, he plays with your fingers and sings your favourite songs.
there was one point where he thought you would wake, he had hummed a melody that had played on your wedding day and for a second you stirred, a small groan released from your lips that had gwayne's heart soaring and mouth screaming for the maestar.
you had slept for two more whole days after that and it added an additional weight to his chest. if you could see the state of him now, so helpless and afraid, you wouldn't know what to do with yourself. he doesn't even know what to do with himself.
as unfair as it seems, he has been avoiding both daeron and ormund. his mind is far too busy occupied with you, he needs to be here when you wake, when you return to him so he can tell you that he loves you back, loves you more. your eyes had closed in on him before you could catch the words but he kisses them into your temples every hour of the day.
he presses cool linen to soothe your fevers, he changes your sheets and nightgowns when the sweat had unconsciously drowned you and he lets in as much light as he can. he thinks of the sunrise of oldtown, the last time he had seen it from the beacon with you and his heart aches to go back home. to be done with this campaign and go back with you. as it sets in the sky now, it reminds him of you as everything does.
ormund has visited daily, regret and pity on his tongue and gwayne lets him wallow in it. he's had plenty to share and daeron visits too. they both had tried to plead with gwayne to get him to leave, to eat, to just live but the knight had refused. it didnt feel right for him to exist without you by his side, not when his purpose is you.
when you awake, he wants to go for a trip. just the two of you tangled in each others limbs, love and laughter that can echo across cities. he wants to show you just as much as he's missed you and he beats himself up for having just a few hours of your love again before it has disappeared on him.
you finally wake just as he draws the curtains with night falling, he's lit a few candle around the room and sweetens it with your favourite lemon fragrance you wear. it engulfs him and surrounds him and its the closest he'll get to you whilst he waits in this torture. part of him no longer longs for revenge, he just misses you and wants you to return to him again. it had been more wretched on the road where at least back then he knew you were safe in oldtown and out of danger's sight.
he hears you stir and immediately turns, his fingers are frozen between the last two buttons of his shirt he had been in the midst of shrugging it off, ready for his slumber watch. you groan, your breath uneven as you attempt to sit up. you've not gathered the strength and will of your limbs yet so the weight crushes downwards and you fall back to the mattress.
"easy," he whispers, tears glistening in his eyes, "easy, my love."
"gwayne?" you call out, "i can't feel my legs properly, or even my arms," you blink on confusion, "am i?" you pause, "am i dead?" and your jaw drops lightly with dread. "no," you breathe not even giving him the chance to respond. he's still starstruck on your voice, music to his ears and he feels himself floating, "if i am dead then why are you here? oh seven hells, are you also dead? which evilness murdered us, husband?"
in a gentle launch he wraps his form around yours tenderly, melting his body like wax into yours that when you seperate itll surely burn and sting him. "you came back," he cries into your hold, broken and bare. "oh my darling girl, we are alive, you are alive" and you pull away slightly.
"gwayne? whatever is the matter?" and the innocence shadowing your face has him stopped clean, "good heavens, what have you done to yourself?" your fingers come to trace the darkness under his eyes and the shadow of stubble streaking his jaw.
"what have i done?" he whispers incredulously, the smile fights at his lips as he beams at you, "my love what have you done to me?" and it stretches into the midnight air. "you have consumed me, completely. i am unravelled at your will and in your absence i am destroyed."
"honey," you start and he quietens you with a kiss, you melt into his touch as your lips part for his, making room for his breath that becomes your air as he swallows you whole. he kisses you like its the first and last time, unspoken with all the words that six days of silence has cost him and he pulls apart just to breathe before sinking in again.
"i thought i lost you," his voice cracks and you still look clueless, "the poison- it was laced in daeron's wine you drank from and it sentenced you to this slumber. i knew you'd fight it but the moment you dropped in my arms, god i was so scared," and you bite down your lip in anguish. he runs his thumb over the spot where your teeth have left a small indent and presses into it gently to soothe "i should've been more careful, i, i should've been watching what was put on the table, i shouldn't have left you i-" and you muster enough energy to push your index finger into his lips.
you kiss your teeth in disapproval and push on his bottom lip playfully, you know exactly how to put a pause on his blaming thoughts, you have to redirect him to an easier task. and when he's distracted enough you can lay down the assurance, "my love," you start, "if we're talking about things that we should do, i think we should for one start with a bath. i have not moved in days and i need a good soak, and i think you should carry me," you tell him sternly, cutting off his starting rant of self-doubt. "i think with whatever time we have been blessed with we should love and live without regret," you lift your finger from his silenced lips and they curl at the edges in a small smile, "are we in agreement ser hightower?"
he bends his back to hook his arms under your knees and one stretches across your back as you're lifted from the bed. he does it with such ease that you hardly feel the weight of it, you're airborne and full of feathers as he pads to the bath chambers. you sigh in his arms, with your own hands hooked around his neck as he rumbles with a "i think we are, lady hightower."
he sets you to the edge of the tub as he prepares the water, he had called for it a while ago just as he has been doing every day in hopes of you waking from your poison-induced sleep. you sit patiently, the coolness of the tumb a nice refreshment against your skin as gwayne makes work of fragranced oils and suds.
"may i?" he asks and you raise your arms above your head, its a struggle and he helps hold them up so tenderly as he pulls the nightgown from over your head and tosses it to an empty basket. the chill of the night bites at your bare skin but as you sit beneath him, his gaze warms you slowly. "come on, petal," he coaxes and lifts you up from under your arms, "in you go," and he lays you down so gently. the warmth of the water welcomes you home and you let out a moan of bliss as your muscles soak it up.
"incredible," you murmur, sloshing around in the water and gwayne watches with a careful fondness, marvelling at how beautiful and serene you are.
"yes," he breathes, and you look up at him, craning your neck slightly, "you are." you smile up at him and then move forwards a few inches.
"husband?" you ask as he waits.
"yes, wife?" he matches your inquisitive tone with a tease.
"what are you waiting for?" you tilt your head to the side in confusion, "get in."
he hesitates for a moment, "i don't think i should," he begins and you scoff immediately.
"i wasn't asking, gwayne," your bare ankle dips out from the water as you splash him with your feet. its a harmless tease but he reaches out and catches your leg, his thumb just above your heel and he clears his throat, "please?" you try, "i'm asking really nicely," you stick your bottom lip out in a pout and he laughs.
it's the first time he's allowed himself to relax in days and he takes his time stripping out of his clothes and into the bath behind you. you feel the water slosh and rise as you make room for him and then he groans.
"what is it?" you ask.
"i forgot the washcloth," he mutters and tries to make a stand, using the edge of the tub to steady himself. it'll take him no more than ten seconds to grab it and return to you but it's not a risk you're willing to take. you almost tug him back down into the tub at such a speed he almost slips.
"you have hands husband," you shake your head, "don't get all shy on me now," and you place your own hands on his to guide them on your body. the suds gently scraping alongside your skin as he helps wash you. you know in moments to come, you'll attempt to do the same for him if you can muster enough strength to move. though youre likely to just give up and let your husband do all the heavy work for tonight.
"you've gotten bolder, wife." the whispers of the water breaks the silence "i've missed you, gorgeous," he murmurs into your hair, and you lean back into him, his hands now come to settle on your stomach and you close your eyes.
"it could be the months apart or the near death," you try and land it as a joke but it lingers stiffly in the air, an uncomfortable ugly truth.
"i am sorry," he apologises to you.
"it is not your fault," you shake your head, "i drank from the cup, though not given the choice i am glad it was me who suffered and not daeron, how is our little dove?" you ask, you make a mental note to visit him when you feel more of yourself and gwayne's fingers drum along your abdomen.
"well," he nods, "misses you terribly, he's been visiting often, leaves just before he's about to cry," and your heart breaks.
"he is precious, our boy. i shall comfort him in the morrow," you plan and gwayne presses a kiss to your temple.
"only if you feel well enough to do so," he warns gently.
"sweetling, a little poison is not going to break me," you chuckle, "nothing could keep me from you, perhaps they did me favour, the journey from oldtown was tiresome and now i feel well rested," you hum and you feel the scowl before you can even see it.
"you jest but it was serious, you almost died," he stresses.
"i heard you, you know. bits of your voice when i was asleep. you were always there and i think it kept me going," you admit, "i don't think you left this room once?"
"i didn't," he confirms, "how could i leave you?"
"i love you, gwayne," he encloses your palm with his, "i don't think i've ever loved someone so much," and it leaves him purely defenseless.
"thank the seven," he closes his eyes, "because you're the only one for me, i mean it, truly. these six days have been pure agony, my heart has been broken in ways that only you can heal, my love."
you close your eyes, feeling the warmth of the water, your husband and his love engulf you at once. it's oddly healing and despite sleeping the past six days you feel the rest calling you once more. you snuggle into your husband, humming as he slips his fingers through your hair and rinsing the suds. your soft snores fill the air that it almost pains him to gently wake you.
it's endearing as he wraps you up in the towel, taking his upmost care and patience to dry the water droplets off of you, stealing kisses to keep you awake whenever he senses your eyes drooping a little longer. you sit and wait for him to wrap you up in one of his shirts, the smell thick of him that you beam at him, pure sunshine setting his heart alight and he ruffles your hair.
"almost, sweet pea," and he carries you for a final time, when he lays to rest next to you this time he still watches over for a few moments. your chest rises and falls in the normal even steady beats he could recite for years.
"gwayne," you murmur, one of your legs is swung over his hip as you're curled tightly into his side. your face plastered across his bare chest, "i can feel you awake, go to sleep," its an incoherent slur of mumbles as you swat him gently in annoyance, pressing your face further into him till he flinches in tickles.
"i am!" he moans and draws the covers over the two of you, "goodnight sweetheart."
"goodnight, honey."
it's silent for a few beats and you can still feel a pair of eyes burn holes into your head
"gwayne! i can still feel you staring!"
"just checking you're still alive." you groan and grab his palm and place it on your chest, just where it beats gently
"there," you complain, "still alive."
and for the first time in months, gwayne finally lets himself fall asleep. its soft and sound and all he's ever wanted. you by his side. he'll hold you forever, and even when forever falls apart, he'll build a new dimension, timeline or earth where you and him co-exist no matter who, when or what could ever try to tear you apart.
disclaimer!: in my head the poison is supposed to drug yall so that you guys are slower and easier to kill. but only you drank it- silly banana smh
could i request something cute between daeron and a fem!reader who's ormund's daughter, or something like that? i haven't been able to find much about him, and he's just so adorable
what a girl wants | d.t
Pairings: Daeron Targaryen x Hightower!Reader
Summary: your father always forbidden you to talk with the prince, suddenly he wants you to marry him.
WARNINGS: reader is Ormund daughter, times misogyny, shy Daeron
A/n: i already miss my boy i can’t wait for the next season
masterlist | wc: 3.4k
THE GARDEN of the Hightower lay wrapped in a stillness so deep it seemed capable of stifling even the distant sounds of the war looming beyond the walls. The wind moved gently through the manicured hedges, making the leaves tremble, while the afternoon sun glimmered across the stone fountains and the small droplets of water that fell rhythmically into the basins below. You walked slowly along the gravel path, letting the soft crunch of your steps blend with the whisper of your gown. The fabric brushed against your ankles with each movement, while the scent of roses, rich yet delicate, mingled with that of damp grass and the warm air. It was one of those afternoons that ought to have brought serenity, and yet there was nothing serene within you. You felt your heart beating steadily in your chest, with that stubborn calm that precedes something inevitable. Every step seemed to lead you toward a decision already made by someone else, a decision of which you were merely a part, and the closer you drew to the place where your father had arranged for you to meet the prince, the harder it became to ignore what you had already understood.
You knew perfectly well why you were there. Your father, Ormund Hightower, never did anything without a precise purpose in mind, and the fact that he had summoned you on that particular day, in that particular garden, with such vague instructions, could not possibly be a coincidence. Ormund was a man who rarely needed to say outright what he wanted: a slight shift in his tone, a pause just a little too long, or a glance deliberately avoided at the right moment was enough for you to grasp what lay beneath his words. And you knew him well enough to understand that this time was no different. He had not told you that you would marry Daeron, of course. He would never voice such an intention before everything had been settled and made useful to his designs. But he had not needed to. You had recognized the hidden meaning behind the way he had spoken the prince's name, behind his sudden suggestion that you keep the young Targaryen company, and above all, behind the way he had avoided meeting your eyes when speaking of the family's future. Your father desired power more than anything else, and his wish to see Hightower blood drawn ever closer to the throne had become impossible to ignore. You were his daughter, a lady raised to be flawless, obedient, and useful. And perhaps, for that very reason, you were also the perfect pawn.
You had not seen Daeron often during childhood. Your worlds had brushed against each other only on rare occasions, enough for his face to be familiar, but not enough for you to truly know him. You remembered a few fleeting encounters in the halls of the Hightower, when you were younger and he walked accompanied by his tutors, always with that curious air that seemed to betray his attentiveness to everything around him. You remembered the endless banquets, during which the adults spoke of politics while you searched for something of interest to observe, and more than once your eyes had met those of the young prince across the hall. They had been only glances, brief and innocent, and yet you had remembered them far longer than you should have. Your father had always been extremely clear on the matter: you were a lady, and your place was among the ladies, in drawing rooms, among embroidery, prayers, and proper conversation. Not beside princes. Not beside men. And certainly not beside Daeron. A Targaryen.
You still remembered perfectly the day your father had reprimanded you after catching you speaking too long about the prince. His voice had been stern, cold, leaving no room for reply, while his gaze had forced you to lower your own. He had told you it was not appropriate to become familiar with him, that every word could be misinterpreted, and that a lady of your standing must know her limits. You had nodded, of course. You had always learned to nod when your father spoke that way. And yet, even then, you had sensed something different in that dark-haired Targaryen boy. It was not merely curiosity toward someone you had been forbidden to know. There was something in the way Daeron looked at the world, something gentle and melancholic that set him apart from the other men you had encountered. For that reason, even when you had been ordered not to speak to him, you had continued to observe him from afar. You would see him training with a sword in the courtyards, focused yet never arrogant, or sitting beneath the shade of a tree with a book in his hands. Sometimes he would lift his gaze and seem to search for someone, and you were forced to look away before he could realize you had been watching him. In the end, you had never disobeyed. You never interacted with him, just as your father had ordered.
Now, however, everything had changed. The war had altered balances that until recently had seemed impossible to break, and the men who once merely observed the political game had begun to move their pieces with greater urgency. Your father was no different. You had learned to recognize ambition in his eyes, and you knew that for him, every bond could become an alliance and every marriage a tool. He had never openly told you what he expected of you, but that unusual suggestion—to keep the prince company—had been enough. Never before had he encouraged you to spend time with a man, let alone a prince. And precisely for that reason, the request carried more weight than any explicit command. You knew what it meant. You knew that if Daeron became part of your father's future, you might become part of his. The thought stirred a strange feeling within you, suspended between resignation and curiosity, because although you understood that you were a pawn, you could not deny that a part of you wanted to know what would happen if, at last, you could speak to him without fear of being discovered.
When you finally saw him approaching along the path, time seemed to slow. Daeron walked toward you with a slightly uncertain step, as though he were not entirely sure he was truly allowed to cross the distance that separated you. His dark hair shone under the sunlight, stirred gently by the breeze, and the contrast with his pale skin made the faint flush that had begun to color his cheeks even more noticeable. He looked at you, then quickly lowered his gaze, as if meeting yours had suddenly become too difficult. That reaction caught you by surprise. You had expected a self-assured prince, accustomed to attention and aware of his own name, someone capable of stepping into a garden and immediately demanding that others adjust to his presence. Instead, before you stood a young man who seemed almost intimidated by you.
You stopped and clasped your hands in front of you, maintaining the elegant posture that had been taught to you since childhood, as you watched him draw nearer. He slowed even more when he was close enough to speak, swallowed, and seemed to search his mind for something appropriate to say. For a moment he looked as though he were about to speak, then changed his mind. He lowered his gaze and took a deeper breath, almost drawing a smile to your lips.
"My lady." he said at last, his voice slightly uncertain but gentle. He gave a small bow, perhaps a little too formal for the situation.
You responded with a slight inclination of your head, observing him calmly. "My prince."
The silence that followed was distinctly awkward, almost tangible. Daeron remained still for a few seconds, as though he had suddenly forgotten every word he knew. Then he began to speak, about the garden, the weather, the roses, even about how pleasant the afternoon was and how that part of the Hightower was quieter than the others. They were insignificant details, things that would normally not deserve more than a moment's attention, and yet they suddenly seemed immensely important to both of you, simply because they filled that uncertain space between you. You merely listened, nodding now and then, allowing him the time to find his words without interrupting him. And as you watched him try so hard to appear at ease, you began to wonder whether, perhaps, beyond the war and beyond all your father's plans, there was something neither of you had yet dared to admit.
You walked together along the gravel path, side by side, while the garden continued to live around you in its almost unreal quiet. The sound of your footsteps alternated with the distant song of birds and the gentle rustling of leaves stirred by the wind, and for a moment you could almost pretend that nothing had changed, that this was merely an innocent walk between two people who were finally getting to know each other after years spent watching each other from afar. And yet, despite being close enough for your hands to brush accidentally with each step, there still seemed to be an immense distance between you, a distance made of years of silence, orders, and unspoken words. He kept talking, making a clear effort to keep the conversation alive. He moved from one topic to another with a certain awkwardness, as though every detail might become interesting enough to keep you from falling back into silence. You listened, replying now and then with a word or a small smile, but your thoughts were elsewhere. You could not stop thinking about what your father had decided. Daeron did not know. Or perhaps he suspected. Perhaps he had already guessed something from the way Ormund had arranged that meeting, but no one had yet told him outright. And as you watched him speak, with that almost disarming sincerity and that lingering nervousness he still could not hide, you wondered whether it was truly right to leave him in ignorance, even for a few moments longer.
At last, you slowed your pace until you came to a stop, forcing him to notice the change. Daeron took another step before turning toward you, and when he saw that you were standing still, he stopped immediately, almost startled by your sudden decision. His lilac eyes met yours, and for an instant everything else seemed to lose its importance. The wind seemed to still among the roses, the sound of the fountain grew distant, and even the beating of your heart seemed to slow. You studied him carefully, trying to understand what he was thinking, but his expression already revealed enough to make any question unnecessary. He was still faintly flushed, and in his eyes there was a hint of hesitant curiosity, as though he feared that the words you were about to speak might completely change the meaning of that day. You drew a slow breath, maintaining the composure that had been instilled in you, and finally broke the silence.
"You know," you began calmly, "that my father has decided we are to be married?"
The words came out softly, almost gently, but their weight fell between you at once. There was no accusation in your voice, no resentment, only the acknowledgment of a truth that could no longer be ignored. For a moment, Daeron remained completely still, as though he had not understood what you had just said. Then you saw him start, truly startle, and his eyes widened. The flush already coloring his cheeks deepened, spreading to his ears and neck. He swallowed visibly, lowering his gaze for a few seconds before slowly lifting it back to you. He seemed to have forgotten even how to breathe. His lips parted, but no words came at first. At last, he gave a small shake of his head, still incredulous, as though denying it might make the revelation less real.
"No, I— I didn't knew..." he admitted, his voice quieter than before.
For a few moments, he seemed completely lost, as though his mind were trying to piece together everything from the past weeks, every glance, every word, every behavior from the adults that until then had held no clear meaning. You could almost see his thoughts passing across his face. Perhaps he was reconsidering your father's behavior, the way he had arranged that meeting, and the strange insistence with which he had been encouraged to spend time with you. Perhaps only now was he beginning to understand why you were there. You nodded slowly, without taking your eyes off him, giving him all the time he needed to process the news. There was no anger in your gaze, nor fear, because in truth you had already had time to grow accustomed to the idea. You had thought about it during the hours spent alone, wondered what it would mean, imagined a future you had never before considered possible.
"I suspected as much." you said softly. "My father rarely shares his plans ahead of time."
A faint smile brushed your lips, though a trace of melancholy lingered in your eyes. You knew Ormund well enough to understand that, for him, certain decisions were like games of cyvasse that had begun long before the other players realized they were involved. You were one of his pieces, and Daeron had likely become one of his most important ones. You wondered what that revelation meant to him, whether he felt trapped, whether he was angry, whether he wished none of it had ever happened. Or perhaps, whether some small part of him was capable of accepting that fate without too much resistance. It was a question you wished to ask, but you did not find the courage to voice it. Instead, you allowed the silence to settle between you once more, heavier than before, like an invisible fog surrounding you both and forcing you to confront reality.
You drew a slow breath, watching Daeron's hands as they shifted slightly at his sides. He still seemed nervous, yet he had not stepped away. That small certainty gave you the courage to speak.
"I..." you began, stopping after that single word. You were not used to speaking of your desires. Your father had always decided what was right for you, what was convenient, what was proper. No one had ever truly asked what you wanted. And yet, as you looked at Daeron, you felt that perhaps with him you could allow yourself to be honest, at least a little. "I have always wished for a peaceful marriage." you continued, your voice softer. "I do not need it to be perfect. I would only like to live beside someone who does not make me feel as though I am constantly walking on eggshells."
Daeron looked at you as though your words had lit something within him. For a few seconds, he remained silent, then took a deep breath and straightened slightly, lifting his chest. The shyness was still there, but something had changed. Perhaps he had finally understood that you were not there to judge him, nor to remind him that your future had been decided by others. He took a step closer, enough to reduce even further the distance he had so carefully maintained. Your heart quickened slightly. You said nothing when his hand moved slowly toward yours. His fingers brushed yours first, hesitant, as though asking permission without having the courage to do so aloud. When you did not pull away, his hand gently closed around yours.
The contact was warm and unexpectedly natural. His fingers intertwined with yours delicately, as though he feared holding too tightly and breaking something fragile. You felt the warmth of his skin travel through your hand and slowly up your arm, while a strange sense of safety began to take root within you. Daeron briefly lowered his gaze to your joined hands, almost incredulous that you had allowed it, then looked back at you. The shyness was still in his eyes, but now it was accompanied by a new determination.
"I will do everything in my power to make you happy, my lady. And I will make sure you want for nothing, I promise." he said, his voice steadier.
He looked at you with such sincerity that, for a moment, you almost forgot that this marriage had been arranged by your father. His eyes traced your beautiful face with care, lingering on your eyes, your lips, the features he had likely studied many times from afar without ever having the right to come close. He did not seem to speak those words out of duty. He did not seem to be merely trying to play the perfect prince before the daughter of a powerful ally. He truly wanted to be worthy of the promise he had just made. And that realization struck you.
A smile touched your lips. You had not expected to feel this way. You had not expected him to be like this. You had imagined a prince, you had imagined a political marriage, a life built around the interests of men who would never ask your opinion. You had not imagined Daeron. You had not imagined that kindness, that shyness, that almost sincere way of looking at you. You nodded slightly, accepting his words like a precious gift, and before you could think better of it, you stepped closer. Rising slightly on your toes, you placed a light kiss upon his cheek.
You lingered there for a moment longer than necessary. You felt the warmth spread instantly beneath your lips, and when you drew back, the flush on Daeron's face had become impossible to ignore. He stood completely still. Completely still. As though such a simple gesture of affection had affected him far more deeply than any words could have. He felt so warm, very warm. Daeron felt every fiber of his being ignite, as though Tessarion herself had lit a fire directly within his chest. His hands trembled at his sides, and he had to curl his fingers slightly to keep you from noticing. His heart pounded so hard it almost hurt, while his chest felt suddenly weightless, as though he had plunged into water and forgotten how to breathe above it. A trace of your scent enveloped him, and for a brief moment, he felt as though he stood in a field of flowers, far from war, from duty, from the expectations pressing upon his shoulders. As though he had been blessed by the Seven themselves.
You felt him stiffen for a moment, as though the entire world had stilled with him. When you pulled away, his face was even redder than before, a bright, vivid red that nearly made you laugh. His eyes immediately avoided yours, and he seemed suddenly fascinated by anything in the garden except you. He did not know where to look, what to do, or what the proper response to such a simple gesture might be. You, on the other hand, could not hold back your smile. There was something incredibly endearing in the way the prince, who ought to have been accustomed to such things, seemed completely undone by a mere kiss on the cheek. Without thinking too much about it, you took his arm again and slipped yours through it naturally, as though it were the most ordinary gesture in the world.
Daeron looked down at you, surprised once more, but this time he did not withdraw. On the contrary, you felt him relax slowly beneath your touch, as though that closeness finally gave him the courage to stop worrying about every single movement. You began to walk again along the path, this time much closer than before, your shoulders nearly brushing and your hands still joined. The future had not changed. The war was still out there. Your father continued to weave his plans, and your marriage remained a decision made by others. And yet, for the first time, it no longer felt like something you simply had to endure. You could feel the beating of his heart, or perhaps it was only your own pounding too loudly in your chest, and as the sun slowly began to sink beyond the towers, you realized that the fear you had carried with you into that garden had grown much smaller. Beside you, Daeron was still as red as a newly bloomed rose, and you found that you could no longer stop smiling.
synopsis: You die completely at random and wake up in the manhwa you were reading… as the villainous wife of the Duke of the North, no less. The same woman who spent the last six months giving her husband the cold shoulder, ruining their marriage, and basically speedrunning her own execution.
Now you have exactly one job: fix this disaster of a relationship before your husband decides to finish what the original plot started.
a\n: longest fic i’ve written so far. nearly lost my mind, almost scrapped it entirely, questioned every life choice that led me here, but somehow, against all odds… it’s done. so glad its over LOL
You died while reading a manhwa.
One moment you were curled up in bed at 3 a.m., a blanket pulled up to your chin, the only light in your dark room coming from your phone screen. Your eyes were glued to the latest chapter of The Duke’s Black Heart, thumb hovering over the final panel as frustration and reluctant longing twisted in your chest. The illustration was breathtakingly brutal: Duke Ryomen Sukuna standing tall amid swirling snow, pink hair tousled by the wind, crimson eyes empty of mercy, black tattoos stark against his skin as he looked down at the broken body of his wife.
The page loaded one last time. The panel filled your screen. Then your vision blurred, the room spun violently, and everything went black. No pain. No final breath. Just sudden, heavy nothing.
And then you woke up somewhere else.
Cold air rushes into your lungs, sharp and biting. Your eyes flutter open slowly, lashes feeling unusually heavy. You’re lying in a massive four-poster bed, the canopy above you made of thick crimson velvet that drapes down like heavy curtains. The silk sheets beneath you are cool and slippery against your skin in a way that feels far too expensive, far too unfamiliar. Thick blankets weighted with fur press down on your body, carrying a faint scent of woodsmoke and aged iron. Your limbs feel wrong — too slender, too delicate. When you lift your hands, they are smaller, with smooth palms and perfectly manicured nails that catch the dim morning light filtering through tall, frost-laced windows.
You push yourself up into a sitting position. The silk nightgown slips off one shoulder. A large, ornately framed mirror stands across the room, reflecting the lavish bedchamber: dark wood furniture, heavy tapestries on the walls, a fireplace crackling faintly in the corner. You swing your legs over the edge of the bed, bare feet meeting cold stone that sends a shiver racing up your spine.
You turn toward the mirror.
The face staring back at you is not your own. It is strikingly beautiful in a refined, aristocratic way that feels both alien and intimidating.
You have transmigrated.
You are now the villainess.
Duke Ryomen Sukuna’s wife of exactly six months.
The realization slams into you like ice water. Memories that don’t belong to you flood your mind in vivid, unrelenting flashes. The forced marriage ceremony under the Emperor’s decree. The wedding night where her body had lain stiff and unresponsive beneath his, silent tears tracking down her cheeks as she called him a beast under her breath and swore she would never allow him to touch her again. Six agonizing months of total, deliberate silence: never speaking a single word directly to him, never sharing his table, never sharing his bed. Only curt notes passed through servants, hidden schemes whispered to outsiders, and a cold, hateful distance that grew sharper every day. Sukuna’s contempt had hardened into something lethal.
In the original story, he kills her. Publicly. Brutally. Before the year is out — dragging her into the courtyard and ending her life with the same large, scarred hands you’ve fantasized about for months.
And now I’m her.
Your breath catches sharply in your throat. Panic explodes in your chest, tight and suffocating. Your hands fly up to press against your sternum, feeling the frantic thud of a heart that isn’t supposed to be yours. Cold sweat prickles along your hairline and down your back. The room feels smaller, the air thicker. If I don’t change this right now, he will kill me. I have to win him over — the man I’ve been completely obsessed with — before he decides I’m still that same woman who deserves to die.
The heavy wooden door creaks open. Two maids slip inside, heads bowed low, shoulders hunched like they’re expecting the worst. They carry a tray between them with a pitcher of steaming water, neatly folded linens, and a small bowl of scented oil. Their footsteps are quick but nearly silent on the cold stone floor, as if they’re trying to disturb you as little as possible.
“My Lady,” the older maid says quietly, almost whispering as she carefully sets the tray down on the side table. “We’re here to help you dress. Your usual silks today?”
You swallow and keep your voice soft. “No, not the silks. Something simpler and warmer, please. I’m going down to have breakfast with the Duke in the dining hall.”
The younger maid’s eyes go wide. She almost drops the pitcher, water sloshing dangerously over the rim and dripping onto the floor. “Breakfast… with His Grace?” she blurts, voice cracking with surprise. “In the dining hall?”
The older maid quickly elbows her and forces a nervous smile, though her hands are visibly shaking. “Are you sure, My Lady? He always eats alone. He might not… like it if you show up.”
You nod, sliding your legs over the side of the bed. The stone floor is icy against your bare feet, sending a shiver up your legs. “I’m sure. Please help me get ready.” You pause, then add gently, “And thank you. Both of you.”
The maids go completely still. The younger one stares at you with her mouth slightly open, pitcher forgotten in her hands. The older one blinks rapidly, her hands freezing mid-air above the tray. They exchange a wide-eyed, startled glance, the kind that speaks volumes without a single word. The silence stretches for a long, awkward moment, thick with confusion and unease.
Finally, the older maid clears her throat. “Of course, My Lady. Right away.”
They hesitate for another heartbeat, still stealing uncertain glances at you, before hurrying into motion. Their hands are a little clumsier than usual as they help you out of the nightgown and into a heavy charcoal gown with long sleeves. The soft wool feels warm and comforting against the chill in the air. While they brush out your hair and pin it up in a simple style, they keep darting quick, nervous looks at your reflection in the mirror. The younger maid’s fingers tremble slightly as she works, and the older one’s breathing is a touch too shallow.
They finish dressing you in tense, heavy silence. Once they step back, you thank them again. They both bow deeply, still visibly unsettled, and you step out into the torch-lit corridor. Servants you pass press themselves flat against the walls, whispering frantically the moment your back is turned. Your heart hammers louder with every step toward the grand dining hall.
The massive double doors swing open with a low creak.
There he is.
Duke Ryomen Sukuna sits alone at the head of the long oak table. Pale morning light filters through the tall windows, casting sharp shadows across his face. Loose strands of pink hair have escaped their tie and fall across his forehead. His dark tunic stretches tight over broad, powerfully muscled shoulders, the collar open just enough to reveal the edges of intricate black tattoos that swirl across his collarbones and down his arms. Crimson eyes are narrowed in concentration as he cuts into a thick slab of meat with slow, deliberate strokes of his knife. Old scars mark the visible skin of his neck and the backs of his large, calloused hands. He radiates raw, quiet danger — the kind that makes the air feel heavier. This is the man you’ve spent months fantasizing about, the one whose every appearance in the manhwa made your pulse race.
You walk straight to the chair on his right — the seat that has stayed empty for the entire six months of your marriage — and sit down.
His knife stops mid-cut.
The silence is immediate and suffocating, broken only by the soft crackle of the hearth fire.
Sukuna’s crimson gaze lifts slowly. It locks onto you with raw disbelief and burning disgust. His jaw clenches, the scar along his cheek tightening. For a long moment he simply stares, like he’s trying to decide whether you’re real or some new form of insult.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” His voice is low and rough, laced with irritation.
You swallow hard, hands trembling under the table. You force a small, nervous smile and say softly, “Good morning, husband. I thought it might be nice to have breakfast together for once.”
The words hang in the air.
Sukuna’s expression darkens. He sets the knife down with a sharp clink that echoes through the hall. Slowly he rises to his full height, towering over you — tall, broad-chested, every inch the warlord who has killed without hesitation. The look he gives you is ice-cold.
“You thought it would be nice?” His voice is low, cold, and dripping with contempt. “Six fucking months you couldn’t even be bothered to speak to me… and now you suddenly decide to play house?”
He pushes the chair back with a harsh scrape and rises to his full height, towering over you. His large hand clenches so tightly around the back of the chair that the wood groans in protest.
“Just looking at you ruins my appetite.”
Without another word, he turns sharply on his heel. His cloak snaps behind him like a whip as he stalks out of the hall. The heavy doors slam shut with a deafening boom that echoes through the room and makes the silverware rattle on the table.
You’re left completely alone at the long table, staring at his abandoned plate as the food rapidly cools. Your heart pounds violently in your chest.
This is going to be so much harder than I thought.
But you don’t run. You pick up your fork with still-shaking fingers, take a small bite of the now-lukewarm food, and force yourself to swallow. A heavy, determined weight settles in your stomach alongside the food.
The rest of the morning dragged by in a haze of nervous energy. You moved carefully through the castle, speaking softly to the servants, thanking them for small things, and trying not to overwhelm anyone with your sudden change in behavior. Every time someone flinched or stared too long, your stomach twisted. You knew they were waiting for the old you to snap back into place.
By mid-afternoon the light outside had shifted to a softer gold, and the castle felt a little less oppressive. You decided it was time to try something more direct.
You found one of the kitchen maids and asked her to prepare a simple tray — strong black tea, warm bread, and a few slices of roasted meat. These were the things you remembered him enjoying in the manhwa, the small details you’d clung to while reading late at night. Nothing too elaborate. When the tray was ready, you took it yourself, ignoring the wide-eyed, startled looks from the staff as you carried it down the long corridor toward Sukuna’s private study. Your heart beat faster with every step.
Your heart was hammering so hard it felt like it was trying to climb out of your throat. Two guards outside the heavy double doors stared at you in open confusion but didn’t stop you. You paused for a second, took a steadying breath, and knocked once.
A gruff “Come in” came from inside.
You pushed the door open and stepped into the study.
The room was exactly the kind of place you’d pictured him in — tall shelves lined with old books and rolled scrolls, a massive oak desk covered in maps and scattered letters, weapons mounted neatly on one wall. A fire burned low in the hearth, filling the air with the faint smell of smoke and polished leather. Sukuna sat behind the desk, quill in hand, pink hair tied back messily with a few loose strands falling forward. He didn’t look up right away, focused on whatever he was writing.
Then his crimson eyes flicked up.
The moment they landed on you holding the tray, the temperature in the room seemed to drop. His expression shifted from irritation to pure suspicion in a heartbeat.
“What the hell is this?” he asked, voice low and flat, like he was already tired of whatever game he thought you were playing.
You stepped further inside and carefully set the tray down on the edge of his desk, trying not to let your hands shake too obviously. “I noticed you didn’t eat anything at breakfast,” you said quietly. “So I brought some tea and a few things. It’s nothing fancy. I just thought… maybe you’d be hungry by now.”
Sukuna leaned back in his chair, studying you like you were a problem he couldn’t quite solve. The silence stretched out, thick and uncomfortable. He glanced at the tray, then back at your face.
“You brought me food,” he said slowly, almost like he was testing the words. “You suddenly show up with tea and bread like we’re… what? Friends now?”
He pushed his chair back and stood, circling around the desk with slow, deliberate steps until he was standing right in front of you. He was so tall you had to tilt your head back to look at him. Up close he was even more overwhelming — the heat radiating from his body, the faint scent of leather and steel and something darker, the way his broad shoulders seemed to fill the space between you.
You forced yourself to hold his gaze. “I know I’ve been terrible to you,” you said, voice soft but steady. “I don’t expect you to believe me right away. I just… I want to try and do better. That’s all.”
Sukuna’s jaw tightened. He reached out and picked up one of the slices of bread, turning it over in his large hand as if checking it for poison. Then he dropped it back onto the tray with a quiet scoff.
“You want to try,” he repeated, the words laced with disbelief and a sharp edge of mockery. “How convenient. Tell me, wife — what exactly changed overnight? Did someone put you up to this?”
His hand suddenly came up, fingers gripping your chin firmly but not harshly, tilting your face up so you couldn’t look away. His touch was warm, rough from years of fighting, and the closeness made your pulse spike.
“Or are you just scared I’ll finally do what everyone’s been expecting me to do for months?” he asked, voice low and dangerous.
Your breath caught. Being this close to him — feeling the intensity rolling off him in waves — made fear and something far more complicated twist together in your stomach.
“I’m not here to scheme,” you whispered. “I just don’t want things to keep being like this.”
Sukuna stared at you for a long, heavy moment. His thumb brushed once over your jaw, almost absentmindedly, before he let go and stepped back.
“Get out,” he said, the words cold but quieter than you expected. “And take your pity tray with you.”
He didn’t move away any further. He stayed standing there, arms crossed over his broad chest, watching you with dark, unreadable eyes — like he was waiting to see whether you would actually leave… or do something else.
You didn’t argue.
You simply picked up the tray with both hands, gave him a small nod, and left the study without another word. The heavy doors clicked shut behind you. The hallway felt longer than usual as you walked back toward your chambers, the tray growing heavier with every step.
Once inside your room, you set the tray down on a side table and closed the door. Then you sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the floor.
That went badly.
You let out a slow breath, rubbing your hands over your thighs. The memory of Sukuna’s cold stare and dismissive words kept replaying in your head. He hadn’t even touched the food. He’d barely listened.
Of course he didn’t. Months of silence doesn’t just disappear because I brought him tea.
You leaned back on your hands, looking up at the canopy above the bed. The situation felt heavier now. Fixing this relationship was going to be a lot harder than you’d hoped. He clearly still saw you as the same person who had ignored and schemed against him for half a year. And why wouldn’t he?
If you couldn’t turn this around, things were only going to get worse. You didn’t want to think about how the original story ended, but the possibility lingered in the back of your mind anyway.
You sat there for a while, the afternoon light slowly shifting across the room. Eventually you stood up, walked over to the window, and looked out at the grounds. Your mind kept turning over what to try next. Another small gesture? Giving him more space? Something else entirely?
It was going to take time. A lot of it. And patience you weren’t sure you had.
You sighed quietly and moved away from the window, already thinking about what you could do tomorrow.
The next morning arrived quietly.
You woke earlier than usual, the soft grey light filtering through the tall windows pulling you from a restless sleep. For a few minutes you lay there, staring at the velvet canopy above the bed, thinking about yesterday. The rejections still stung, but you refused to give up after just one bad day.
You got up, washed, and chose a simple but elegant deep-grey gown. After eating a light breakfast alone in your room, you decided on a different approach today. No trays, no forcing your way into his meals. Just quiet presence.
You made your way to the castle’s main library — a spacious, peaceful room lined with tall shelves of books and scrolls. You picked a thick volume on regional history from the shelves and settled into a comfortable chair near the window where the light was good. Not too close to his usual spot, but not hiding either.
About an hour later, the door opened.
Sukuna walked in, still wearing his cloak from whatever business he’d been handling outside. He stopped short when he saw you already there, book open in your lap.
For a brief second his expression flickered with surprise before settling back into that familiar guarded look.
“You’re here too now,” he said, voice flat as he moved toward the large table in the center of the room. He pulled out a chair and sat down, spreading some documents in front of him. “Is there anywhere in this castle that’s still mine?”
You closed your book slowly and looked up at him.
“I can leave if you want,” you offered calmly. “I just thought it might be nice to read in here. It’s quiet.”
Sukuna didn’t tell you to go. He leaned back in his chair and studied you for a moment, crimson eyes sharp and assessing.
“You’ve been talking quite a bit these past two days,” he said, tone dry. “More than I’m used to.”
You gave a small, honest shrug. “I know. I’m trying to change that.”
He tapped his fingers once against the table, watching you openly now. “Trying,” he echoed, like he was testing the word. “That’s what you keep saying. But I still don’t know why.”
You hesitated, then answered simply, “Because I don’t like how things have been between us. And I think we could be… better. If we tried.”
Sukuna let out a short, humorless breath and leaned back further, still studying you.
“Better,” he repeated. “That’s a bold claim.” He paused, then added quietly, “Don’t get your hopes up. I’m not interested in pretending.”
But he didn’t ask you to leave.
You stayed in the library for another hour, reading in silence while he worked across from you. He didn’t speak again, but every so often you caught him glancing in your direction — wary, confused, and just a little unsettled.
It wasn’t much.
But it also wasn’t outright rejection.
You stayed in the library for another hour, the only sounds being the occasional rustle of paper and the soft crackle of the fire. You kept your eyes mostly on your book, though you were barely absorbing the words. Every now and then you felt Sukuna’s gaze on you — heavy, searching, and still full of suspicion.
Eventually, he set his quill down with a quiet tap. He leaned back in his chair, arms crossing over his broad chest as he looked at you directly.
“If you’re serious about wanting to fix things,” he said, voice low and even, “then maybe you should start by actually appearing publicly with me.”
You looked up from your book, surprised. He continued before you could respond.
“There’s a ball tomorrow night at the capital. I’m expected to attend.” He paused, studying your reaction. “Rumors have already reached half the empire that my wife hates me. It would be good to change the public perception a little. At least act like a fucking couple for once.”
The invitation — if it could even be called that — hung in the air. It wasn’t warm or romantic. It was a test, plain and simple.
You closed your book slowly and met his eyes. “I’ll go with you,” you said without hesitation. “If that’s what you want.”
Sukuna watched you for a long moment, as if waiting for you to take it back. When you didn’t, something unreadable flickered across his face.
“Good,” he said simply. Then he stood up, gathering some of his documents. “Be ready by evening tomorrow. Don’t make me wait.”
He headed toward the door, cloak shifting over his shoulders. Just before he left, he paused and glanced back at you one last time.
“And try not to embarrass me,” he added, though his tone was less biting than before. Almost… cautious.
The door clicked shut behind him, leaving you alone in the quiet library once again.
You let out a long breath and leaned back in your chair, heart still racing. A public ball. Tomorrow. With Sukuna.
This was a big step — and a dangerous one. You’d have to be careful. Very careful.
But it was also an opportunity. A chance to stand beside him in front of everyone and start showing that you were different.
You stood up, clutching the book to your chest, a mix of nerves and quiet determination settling in your stomach.
Tomorrow it is.
The next day passed in a quiet blur of nerves and preparation.
You spent most of the afternoon trying not to overthink everything, but as evening approached, the anxiety crept in anyway. When the maids finally arrived to help you get ready, they moved around your room with careful, slightly confused energy — still adjusting to this gentler version of their mistress.
You chose a deep crimson gown made of rich, heavy silk that flowed elegantly to the floor. It had long, fitted sleeves and a modestly elegant neckline that showed just enough collarbone to feel refined rather than daring. The maids helped you into it, lacing the back with steady fingers while you stood in front of the large mirror. The fabric felt cool and luxurious against your skin, the color bringing out a quiet intensity you hadn’t expected.
They brushed your hair until it gleamed, working through every tangle with patient strokes. Most of it was pinned up into an elegant style with delicate silver pins, but they left a few soft strands loose to frame your face. One of the maids added a simple but beautiful necklace with a single dark gem that rested just below your collarbone, along with matching earrings. A touch of rose-tinted balm was applied to your lips, and a light dusting of powder to even your complexion.
You stared at your reflection the entire time, heart beating faster. This version of you looked every bit the refined duchess — poised, beautiful, and completely unlike the cold, silent woman the public had come to expect at Sukuna’s side.
“You look beautiful, My Lady,” the older maid said softly as she stepped back, a hint of genuine surprise in her voice.
“Thank you,” you replied quietly, smoothing your hands down the front of the gown. Inside, your stomach was in knots. This would be your first real public appearance with Sukuna. Everyone would be watching. Waiting for the usual tension or outright disdain they’d grown used to seeing between the Duke and his wife.
A firm knock sounded at the door.
“He’s ready for you, My Lady,” a servant called from the hallway.
You took one last steadying breath, thanked the maids again, and stepped out.
Sukuna was waiting in the main hall, dressed in formal black with subtle gold embroidery along the collar and cuffs. His pink hair was neatly tied back, and the sight of him in full formal attire made your chest tighten. He looked every bit the powerful duke — tall, imposing, and dangerously handsome.
His crimson eyes swept over you slowly, from head to toe. For a moment his expression was unreadable.
“You’re actually coming,” he said, voice low. It wasn’t quite a question.
“I said I would,” you replied simply.
He gave a short nod, then offered his arm. The gesture felt stiff, like he was still testing whether you’d take it or pull away at the last second.
You slipped your hand through his arm without hesitation. His muscles were tense beneath your fingers, but he didn’t pull away.
As you walked together toward the waiting carriage, he spoke again, keeping his voice low enough that only you could hear.
“People talk. A lot. If we’re going to do this, at least try to look like you don’t hate being next to me.”
You glanced up at him. “I don’t hate it.”
Sukuna didn’t respond, but his grip on your arm tightened just slightly — not painful, just… firmer. Like he was anchoring himself.
The carriage ride to the capital was quiet, the only sounds being the wheels on the road and the occasional shift of fabric. Sukuna sat across from you, watching the passing scenery with a distant expression. Every so often his gaze would drift back to you, as if he still couldn’t quite believe you were really there.
When the carriage finally slowed to a stop outside the grand hall, music and warm light spilled out into the night. You could already hear the murmur of voices and feel the weight of the eyes that would soon be on both of you.
Sukuna stepped out first, then offered his hand to help you down. His palm was warm and steady against yours.
“Ready?” he asked, voice gruff.
You nodded, slipping your hand back into the crook of his arm.
“Then let’s go act like a fucking couple.”
The grand hall glowed under hundreds of crystal chandeliers, casting warm golden light across marble floors and velvet-draped walls. Music from a full orchestra swelled through the air, mingling with the low hum of conversation, the clink of champagne glasses, and the rustle of silk and satin gowns. The scent of expensive perfumes, fresh flowers, and roasted meats from the banquet tables hung heavy in the room.
The moment you and Sukuna stepped through the tall arched entrance together, the entire atmosphere shifted.
Conversations faltered. Heads turned. A ripple of surprised murmurs spread through the crowd like a wave.
You felt every eye on you. Some were curious, some shocked, many openly calculating. The Duke and Duchess of the North rarely appeared together in public — and when they had in the past, it had always been marked by cold distance and icy silence.
Tonight was different.
Sukuna’s arm was solid beneath your fingers as he guided you forward. His posture was straight and commanding, every inch the powerful Duke Sukuna the empire feared and respected. You stayed close, your hand resting lightly but deliberately on his arm, chin lifted with quiet confidence.
A portly lord with a heavy gold chain and an embroidered waistcoat approached first, bowing deeply.
“Your Grace, Duke Sukuna,” he said smoothly, then turned to you with a slightly wider smile. “And Duchess… what an unexpected pleasure to see you both together this evening.”
Sukuna gave a curt nod. “My wife wished to attend. I saw no reason to refuse her.”
The lord’s eyebrows rose, but he recovered quickly. “How wonderful. The two of you make quite the striking pair tonight. The Duke and Duchess of the North, united at last.”
You offered a polite, gentle smile. “Thank you, my lord. It’s a pleasure to be here.”
Sukuna’s arm tensed slightly under your hand, but he didn’t pull away. As the lord moved on, more nobles drifted closer, drawn by the unusual sight. You heard the whispers clearly now.
“...the Duke and Duchess actually look civil…”
“I thought she hated him…”
“Look at them. She’s practically standing with him…”
Sukuna kept you close the entire time, one large hand occasionally resting at the small of your back as you moved through the hall. The touch was possessive, almost protective, even if his face remained cool and composed.
Later, when the orchestra struck up a slower, more intimate melody, Sukuna leaned down, his voice low against your ear.
“Dance with me.”
It wasn’t a question.
You nodded. He led you onto the polished floor, one broad hand settling firmly on your waist while the other held yours. He moved with surprising grace for someone of his size and power — confident, controlled, guiding you effortlessly through the steps. You followed his lead, hyper-aware of every point of contact: the heat of his palm burning through the silk of your gown, the solid wall of his chest so close to yours, the faint scent of leather and smoke that clung to him.
For a few moments the rest of the room seemed to fade.
“You’re doing better than I expected,” he muttered, voice barely audible over the music. His crimson eyes flicked down to meet yours. “People are staring less like they’re waiting for us to start arguing in the middle of the floor.”
You looked up at him, a small genuine smile tugging at your lips. “I told you I wanted to try.”
His grip on your waist tightened just slightly. His thumb brushed once over the fabric of your gown, almost absentmindedly.
“Don’t get comfortable,” he said, though there was less bite in his tone than usual. “This doesn’t mean I trust you yet.”
“I know,” you replied softly. “But thank you for giving me the chance anyway.”
Sukuna didn’t answer. But he also didn’t let go of you when the song ended. Instead, he kept his hand on your lower back as he guided you off the floor, staying closer than strictly necessary.
A short while later, a group of older lords approached Sukuna. One of them — a tall man with silver hair and sharp features — gave a respectful bow.
“Your Grace, if we could steal a moment of your time? There are some matters regarding the northern border that require your input.”
Sukuna’s jaw tightened for a brief second. He glanced down at you, then back at the lords.
“Fine,” he said curtly. “I won’t be long.”
Before he stepped away, he leaned in close to your ear, voice low. “Stay here. Don’t wander off.”
You nodded. His hand lingered on your waist for one extra second before he pulled away and followed the group toward a quieter side balcony for their discussion.
Suddenly, you were alone.
You stood near the edge of the dance floor, champagne glass in hand, trying to look more relaxed than you felt. The weight of curious stares hadn’t faded. A few noblewomen still whispered behind their fans, and every so often someone would glance your way with open speculation.
A deep, smooth voice spoke from your left.
“Duchess, I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure of a proper introduction tonight.”
You turned to find a tall, broad-shouldered man with dark hair and sharp green eyes watching you with a lazy, confident smile. He was dressed in deep emerald and black, a marquess’s insignia pinned neatly to his lapel.
“Marquess Toji Fushiguro,” he introduced himself with a respectful bow of his head. “I’ve heard quite a bit about you over the years. Though I must say, seeing you here with the Duke tonight is… refreshing.”
His tone was warm and easy, without any obvious scheming edge. You felt yourself relax just a little.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Marquess,” you replied with a small smile. “I’ve heard your name mentioned before. You handle the eastern trade routes, don’t you?”
Toji’s smile widened, looking genuinely pleased that you knew. “I do. Though I’m surprised you’re familiar with such dull matters. Most duchesses prefer to stay far away from trade talk.”
The conversation flowed surprisingly well. He was charming in a straightforward, slightly roguish way — asking light questions about the northern estates, commenting on the music, and even making a dry joke about how stiff most balls tended to be. You found yourself smiling more naturally, the tension in your shoulders easing as you chatted. For the first time that evening, talking to someone felt… comfortable.
Toji tilted his head slightly, green eyes glinting with curiosity. “If I may be bold, Duchess — you seem different tonight than what the rumors suggested. Happier, perhaps?”
You were about to respond when a large, familiar hand suddenly slid around your waist from behind, fingers gripping your hip with clear possessiveness. A warm, solid body pressed against your back, and you didn’t need to turn to know who it was.
Sukuna.
His grip tightened, pulling you back against his chest in one smooth motion. The heat of his body seeped through the silk of your gown, and his thumb brushed slowly over your hip bone — a blatant, territorial claim.
Toji’s easy smile faltered for half a second before he recovered, inclining his head respectfully.
“Duke Sukuna,” he greeted calmly. “I was just keeping your wife company while you were occupied.”
Sukuna’s voice was low and dangerous, rumbling against your back. “I can see that.” His hand stayed firmly on your hip, fingers pressing in just enough to make a point. “Though I don’t recall asking anyone to entertain my duchess.”
You felt the tension rolling off him in waves. His other arm came around your other side, almost caging you against him in front of the entire hall.
Toji raised an eyebrow, still perfectly civil. “No offense meant, Your Grace. It was an honor speaking with the Duchess.”
Sukuna didn’t reply immediately. Instead, he leaned down, lips brushing the shell of your ear as he spoke loud enough for Toji to hear.
“We’re leaving this conversation,” he said flatly. Then, louder, “Come, wife.”
Sukuna didn’t stop walking until he had guided you into a quieter corner of the grand hall, partially shielded by a tall marble pillar and heavy crimson velvet drapes. The music and chatter of the ball felt distant now, muffled. His hand never left your hip. If anything, his grip tightened, fingers digging possessively into the silk of your gown as though he needed the contact to ground himself.
He turned you to face him with surprising care, then backed you gently but firmly against the cool marble pillar. One large hand stayed locked on your waist while the other came up to brace beside your head, effectively caging you in. His body heat enveloped you instantly — warm, solid, and overwhelming. The faint scent of smoke, leather, and something darker clung to him, making your pulse stutter.
“You seemed to be enjoying yourself,” he said, voice low and rough, almost a growl. His crimson eyes burned down into yours with unmistakable intensity. “Laughing with him like the two of you were old friends. Did you forget you’re here with me tonight?”
The jealousy in his tone was unmistakable — sharp, dark, and barely leashed.
You kept your voice calm, though your heart was racing. “We were only talking. He was civil. Nothing more.”
Sukuna’s jaw clenched visibly. His thumb began to trace slow, deliberate circles over the curve of your hip through the thin silk, a possessive caress that sent heat rushing across your skin.
“Civil,” he repeated, the word laced with pure disdain. “I saw the way he looked at you. The way he smiled at you.”
He leaned in closer, his breath warm against the shell of your ear, voice dropping into something dangerously intimate. “And here I thought you were trying to mend our relationship. Yet the second I turn my back, you’re chatting and smiling with another man like it means nothing.”
His grip on your waist tightened, pulling you flush against the hard wall of his chest. You could feel the tension coiled in every muscle, the barely restrained frustration rolling off him in waves. One of his fingers slipped just beneath the edge of your gown, brushing bare skin at your hip — a deliberate, claiming touch.
“I don’t like sharing what’s mine,” he growled softly, lips brushing your ear. “Especially not with bastards like Toji Fushiguro.”
You swallowed hard, breath shallow. “I wasn’t trying to make you jealous. I was just being polite while you were busy.”
Sukuna let out a low, dangerous sound in the back of his throat — half a scoff, half a laugh. His free hand moved to your jaw, tilting your face up so you had no choice but to meet his burning crimson gaze.
“Polite,” he murmured, thumb stroking slowly along your jawline. “You’re lucky I didn’t drag you out of here the moment I saw his hand move toward you.”
His eyes dropped to your lips for a long, heavy second. The air between you felt charged, electric, like the tension might snap at any moment. For a heartbeat you thought he might kiss you right there — hard, claiming, in full view of everyone still watching from across the hall.
Instead, he leaned in until his lips ghosted against your ear again.
“Next time someone approaches you while I’m gone,” he said, voice dark and velvet-rough, “you tell them you belong to me. Clearly. Because if I have to remind them myself… I won’t be nearly as polite.”
His fingers flexed on your hip in one final, possessive squeeze — a silent promise — before he slowly stepped back. His hand remained at the small of your back, heavy and unrelenting.
The music swelled again around you.
Sukuna’s expression smoothed into something cooler and more composed for the public eye, but the heat in his eyes stayed locked on you.
“Come,” he said, voice still low. “We’re dancing again. And this time, you’re not leaving my side for the rest of the night.”
Sukuna led you back onto the dance floor without another word, his hand firm on your waist, pulling you closer than strictly proper for a public setting. The orchestra had shifted into a slower, more intimate melody — strings and soft piano weaving through the air. Couples swirled around you, but you barely noticed them. All you could focus on was the heat of Sukuna’s body pressed against yours, the way his fingers splayed possessively across your lower back, and the unmistakable tension radiating from him.
He moved with controlled grace, guiding you effortlessly through the steps. Your bodies were flush together, chest to chest, his thigh occasionally brushing yours as you turned. Every point of contact felt electric.
“You’re quiet now,” he murmured, voice low enough that only you could hear. His crimson eyes locked onto yours, dark and intense. “What happened to all that polite conversation you were having with the marquess?”
You tilted your head slightly to meet his gaze. “You told me not to leave your side. I’m listening.”
A low sound rumbled in his chest — not quite a laugh. His hand slid lower on your back, fingers pressing in just enough to make your breath hitch.
“Good girl,” he said softly, almost mockingly, though the heat in his eyes was anything but. “Keep listening. I don’t want to see you smiling at anyone else like that tonight.”
The jealousy was still there, simmering just beneath the surface. You could feel it in the way he held you — tighter than necessary, almost like he was daring anyone to try approaching you again.
As you turned under his arm and came back into his embrace, he leaned down, lips brushing the shell of your ear.
“He thought he had a chance,” he continued, voice rough. “Like he didn’t know exactly who you belong to.” His fingers flexed against your waist. “Maybe I need to make it clearer.”
Your heart hammered against your ribs. Being this close to him — surrounded by the swirl of music and watching eyes — made everything feel heightened. The scent of him, the solid strength of his body, the barely restrained possessiveness in every touch.
“Sukuna…” you started softly.
He cut you off by pulling you even closer, until there was almost no space left between you. His breath was warm against your temple.
“You wanted to mend things,” he reminded you, tone dark. “Then stop giving other men reasons to think they can talk to my wife like that. Smile at me. Stay close to me.”
The song began to slow, but Sukuna didn’t release you. He kept you locked in his arms even as other couples started drifting apart. His hand slid up your back, fingers tracing your spine through the silk, a silent claim in front of the entire hall.
When the music finally faded, he didn’t let go right away. He stared down at you, crimson eyes heavy with something dangerous and hungry.
“We’re leaving,” he said abruptly, voice low. “I’ve had enough of these people watching us.”
He didn’t wait for your agreement. His hand stayed firmly at the small of your back as he guided you through the crowd toward the exit. Nobles parted for him instinctively, eyes wide at the sight of the Duke and Duchess leaving together so early — and so obviously entangled.
The cool night air hit you the moment you stepped outside. Sukuna kept you close as you waited for the carriage, his arm wrapped around your waist like he still wasn’t ready to stop touching you.
Once inside the carriage, he sat beside you instead of across from you. The door had barely closed before his hand was back on your thigh, gripping possessively through the fabric of your gown.
The carriage started moving, carrying you both back toward the estate through the dark roads. Sukuna’s hand remained on your thigh the entire ride, heavy and warm — a silent reminder of exactly who you belonged to.
By the time it finally rolled to a stop in front of the castle, the moon hung high in the sky. The journey had been quiet, thick with lingering tension. Sukuna hadn’t spoken a word, but his grip on your thigh never loosened.
When the footman opened the door, Sukuna stepped out first and offered you his hand. You took it, letting him help you down onto the stone steps. The cool night air felt refreshing after the stuffy ballroom, but it did little to calm the nerves fluttering in your stomach.
He walked you inside, his hand resting possessively at the small of your back the whole way through the dimly lit halls. Servants bowed and quickly disappeared when they saw you both. The castle felt unusually still.
When you reached the point where the corridors split — one leading to his private wing, the other to yours — Sukuna stopped. He turned to face you, his expression unreadable in the low torchlight.
“You did well tonight,” he admitted grudgingly, staring at you for a long moment before glancing away. “But if I see him — or anyone else — near you again like that…”
He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t need to.
Sukuna gave a short nod, almost like he was dismissing you. “Goodnight.”
He turned to leave, heading toward his own chambers.
You stood there for a second, heart pounding, before the words slipped out — soft, shy, and a little nervous.
“Wait…”
Sukuna paused, looking back at you over his shoulder.
You swallowed, cheeks warming as you forced yourself to speak. “You know… we can’t really fix things as a couple if we keep sleeping separately"
The words hung in the air between you. They sounded bolder than you felt.
Sukuna went completely still. For several long seconds he simply stared at you, crimson eyes narrowing slightly as if he couldn’t quite believe what he’d just heard. The silence stretched, thick and heavy.
Then, slowly, the corner of his mouth twitched — not quite a smile, but something darker, more dangerous.
“Is that so?” he said, voice low and rough. He took one step back toward you, then another, until he was standing close again. “You’re asking to sleep in my bed now?”
He tilted his head, studying your face like he was trying to find the trick in your words. His hand came up, fingers lightly brushing your jaw as he looked down at you.
“Careful, wife,” he murmured, thumb tracing your lower lip. “You keep pushing like this… I might start thinking you actually mean it.”
His gaze dropped to your mouth for a long second before returning to your eyes. The tension between you crackled again, even stronger than it had been at the ball.
Sukuna didn’t move away. He waited, watching you closely, as if daring you to take it back… or push further.
The silence stretched, heavy and charged. His thumb was still resting against your lower lip, warm and rough, while his crimson eyes searched your face for any sign of deception. You could practically feel the suspicion rolling off him in waves.
Finally, he let out a slow breath, almost a scoff.
“…Fine,” he said, voice low and guarded. “If that’s what you want.”
He stepped back slightly, but his hand stayed on your waist, fingers still gripping you with quiet possessiveness. His expression remained cold, cautious, like he was waiting for the other shoe to drop.
“Don’t expect this to mean anything,” he added, tone flat. “I’m still not convinced you’ve changed. But if you’re so determined to play the part of a real wife… then come.”
He turned and started walking down the corridor toward his private wing, keeping his hand on the small of your back to guide you along with him. The touch was firm — not gentle, but not forceful either. It felt like both an invitation and a test.
The halls were quiet at this hour, lit only by flickering torches. Every step echoed softly. Sukuna didn’t speak again until you reached the heavy wooden doors to his chambers. He pushed them open without hesitation and stepped inside, holding the door for you.
His rooms were large and unmistakably his — dark wood furniture, a massive bed with black silk sheets, a low fire burning in the hearth, weapons and scrolls neatly arranged on shelves. It smelled faintly of smoke and leather.
Sukuna closed the door behind you with a heavy click. He leaned against it for a moment, arms crossed over his broad chest, watching you with that same calculating stare.
“You wanted this,” he said quietly, almost like he was reminding both of you. “So here we are.”
He pushed off the door and walked further into the room, loosening the ties on his formal tunic as he went. The movement was casual, but you could feel the tension still radiating from him.
“Get comfortable,” he told you, glancing back at you over his shoulder. His voice was low, almost seductive, but the suspicion never fully left his eyes.
He didn’t say anything else. He simply waited, watching to see what you would do now that you were truly alone with him in his space.
You stood there for a moment, suddenly very aware of how large his chambers felt and how small you felt inside them. The fire crackled softly in the hearth, casting warm light across the dark wood and black silk sheets. The air smelled like him — smoke, leather, and something faintly metallic.
You swallowed and moved toward the side of the room where a large wardrobe stood. One of the maids had already brought a few of your things here earlier, as if the servants had anticipated this. You picked out a simple black silk nightgown and hesitated.
Sukuna had turned away slightly, pulling off his formal tunic and tossing it over the back of a chair. The movement revealed the strong lines of his back and the black tattoos swirling across his skin. He didn’t look at you, but you could tell he was still aware of every move you made.
You changed quickly behind the privacy screen in the corner, the silk cool against your skin. When you stepped out, Sukuna was already sitting on the edge of the massive bed, wearing only loose black pants. His pink hair was untied now, falling messily around his face. He looked up when you approached.
For a long second he just stared.
Then he let out a slow breath and patted the space beside him.
“Come here,” he said, voice low.
You walked over and climbed onto the bed. The mattress dipped under your weight. Sukuna watched you the entire time, suspicion still clear in his crimson eyes even as he pulled the covers back for you.
You slipped under the sheets, lying on your back. The silk felt cool and smooth. Sukuna stayed sitting for another moment, then finally lay down beside you. The bed was large, but he took up so much space that you could feel the heat radiating from his body.
He turned onto his side, facing you. One arm rested above his head while the other lay between you, close enough that his fingers almost brushed your arm.
The silence was heavy.
“You’re really here,” he muttered, almost to himself. His gaze traced your face, still guarded. “In my bed.”
He reached out slowly and brushed a strand of hair away from your cheek. The touch was surprisingly gentle, but his eyes remained cold and watchful.
“Don’t make me regret this,” he said quietly. “If this is another game… I won’t be kind about it.”
Then he shifted closer. Not enough to touch fully, but close enough that you could feel his breath against your skin. He didn’t pull you into his arms. He simply laid there, watching you like he was waiting for you to prove something — or reveal your true intentions.
The fire crackled softly in the background. The weight of his presence beside you made it hard to relax, but you stayed there, heart beating steadily.
Sukuna’s voice was barely above a whisper when he spoke again.
“Sleep, wife. We’ll see how long this little performance of yours lasts.”
He didn’t close his eyes right away. He kept watching you in the dim firelight, guarded, suspicious… and just a little intrigued.
Morning light filtered softly through the heavy curtains, pale and hazy, casting long golden stripes across the dark wooden floor. You woke slowly, cocooned in warmth that felt both foreign and strangely comforting. Sukuna’s arm was draped heavily over your waist, his broad chest pressed against your back, one leg loosely tangled with yours beneath the black silk sheets. His breathing was deep and steady, the faint rise and fall of his chest brushing against you with every inhale.
For a long moment you didn’t move. This was the first time you’d ever woken up beside him — sharing the same bed, the same space, the same air. Your heart beat a little too fast as the reality settled in. The Duke of the North was holding you in his sleep, even if it was only out of habit or unconscious possession.
Sukuna stirred a few minutes later. His arm tightened around your waist for a brief second, pulling you closer on instinct, before his body went still. You felt the exact moment consciousness returned to him — the subtle shift in his breathing, the way his muscles tensed ever so slightly against your back.
He didn’t pull away immediately.
“You’re still here,” he said quietly, voice low and rough with sleep. There was a hint of genuine surprise beneath the words. “Figured you’d sneak back to your own room before I woke up.”
You turned your head slightly on the pillow to look at him. His crimson eyes were half-lidded, messy pink hair falling across his forehead. Up close like this, without the usual cold mask, he looked almost human — though the sharp suspicion in his gaze reminded you he was anything but.
“I told you I wanted this,” you replied softly.
Sukuna let out a slow breath, almost a huff. He propped himself up on one elbow, looking down at you properly. His hand stayed on your waist, thumb brushing slow, absentminded circles over the silk of your nightgown. The touch was light, but you could feel the weight of his attention — guarded, calculating, searching for any crack in your resolve.
He watched you for a long, heavy moment, suspicion still clear in his expression. The silence between you felt intimate and fragile at the same time. His fingers flexed once against your waist before relaxing again.
“Don’t get too used to this,” he said eventually, tone flat but not cruel. “One night doesn’t fix anything. One night doesn’t make me trust you.”
Then, almost like he couldn’t help himself, he added more quietly, “But… you can stay for breakfast if you want.”
Sukuna rolled away and got out of bed, stretching his powerful arms above his head. The morning light traced every line of muscle and the intricate black tattoos that covered his shoulders, chest, and back. He moved with the casual confidence of someone completely at ease in his own space, yet you could still feel the tension humming beneath his skin.
God, he’s even hotter in person… no wonder I was obsessed.
He grabbed a fresh tunic but didn’t put it on. Instead, he leaned against the wardrobe, watching you in his sheets with that dark, cautious gaze. The fire had burned low, leaving the room quiet and heavy with unspoken tension.
Sukuna tilted his head slightly. “Well?” he asked, voice still rough from sleep. “Are you going to lie there all morning?”
You didn’t make him wait long.
You slipped out of bed, the black silk nightgown clinging lightly to your skin as you moved. The morning air in the chamber felt cooler than the warmth of the sheets you’d just left. Sukuna watched you the entire time from where he leaned against the wardrobe, arms crossed over his broad chest, expression unreadable but intense.
“Breakfast will be brought here,” he said simply, voice still rough from sleep. “No need to go to the main hall today.”
A short while later, servants arrived with silver trays. They moved quickly and quietly, setting the table near the tall windows with practiced care — a pot of strong black tea, warm crusty bread, thick slices of roasted meat, fresh berries, and a small dish of honey. The scent of the food filled the room, warm and savory. They kept their eyes lowered, clearly unsettled by the sight of you in the Duke’s private chambers wearing only a nightgown and robe, but they left without a single word.
Sukuna sat down first. You took the seat across from him.
The morning light streamed in through the tall windows, casting a soft golden glow across the table and highlighting the sharp angles of his face. It traced the black tattoos visible at the open collar of his tunic and the faint scars on his hands as he picked up his knife. For several long minutes, the only sounds were the quiet clink of silverware and the distant crackle from the hearth.
Finally, Sukuna set his knife down with a quiet click and leaned back in his chair, crimson eyes locking onto you with that familiar guarded intensity.
“So,” he said, voice low and guarded, “what made you change?”
You looked up from your plate, heart skipping a beat. Just died and woke up in the body of the woman you’re supposed to kill. No big deal.
There was no point in holding back anymore.
“I like you,” you said simply, meeting his gaze. “I’ve liked you for a long time.”
Sukuna stared at you for a long, heavy beat. Then he let out a short, bitter laugh that didn’t reach his eyes.
“Bullshit.”
The word landed blunt and cold. He leaned forward, elbows on the table, watching you with sharp suspicion.
“You expect me to believe that? After months of silence, after treating me like I was beneath you, after making sure everyone knew how much you despised this marriage… you suddenly like me?” His voice dripped with disbelief. “Try again.”
You didn’t look away. Your voice stayed quiet but steady.
“No, really,” you said. “I do. I like you. That’s why I’m trying so hard.”
Sukuna’s eyes narrowed. He studied your face like he was searching for the lie, the manipulation, the trick. The silence stretched between you, thick and tense. His fingers tapped once against the edge of the table before he leaned back again, the corner of his mouth curving into a slow, dangerous smirk.
“Okay, little liar,” he murmured, voice low and rough. “Then prove it to me.”
You blinked, heat rising to your cheeks.
“Prove it to you…?” you repeated softly, the words coming out a little breathless.
Sukuna’s smirk deepened, but his eyes stayed sharp and watchful. He leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on the table, closing some of the distance between you.
“Yes,” he said, voice dropping lower, almost velvet-smooth. “Prove it. You say you like me. You say you want to fix this marriage. So show me.”
His gaze drifted slowly down to your mouth, then back up to your eyes. The air between you felt heavier now, warmer. He reached across the table and brushed his fingers lightly against the back of your hand, the touch deceptively gentle.
“You’re in my chambers. In my bed,” he continued, thumb tracing a slow line over your knuckles. “If you’re actually serious… then stop hiding behind pretty words and prove it.”
His touch lingered, possessive but controlled, sending a slow shiver up your arm. He didn’t pull away. Instead, he watched your reaction closely, crimson eyes dark with suspicion and something much hotter underneath.
“Prove it, wife,” he said again, voice low and seductive. “I’m right here. Show me how much you like me.”
The breakfast table suddenly felt far too small. The tension had shifted — still laced with his suspicion, but now crackling with slow, deliberate heat as he waited for you to make the next move.
Your pulse thundered under his thumb. You could feel the weight of his stare, the way his crimson eyes darkened as they traced your face, your lips, the line of your throat. He wasn’t touching you anywhere else, but it still felt like he had you pinned.
You swallowed, heat blooming across your cheeks and down your neck.
“…How?” you asked, voice quieter than you intended. “How do you want me to prove it?”
Sukuna’s smirk deepened, slow and dangerous. He leaned in a little closer across the table, his thumb still stroking lazy circles over your knuckles.
“That’s the fun part,” he murmured. “You figure it out. You’re the one claiming you like me. So show me what that looks like.”
His free hand moved, reaching across to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear. The gesture was almost gentle, but his fingers lingered at the side of your neck, tracing lightly down the column of your throat before pulling away.
“You can start by coming here,” he said, voice low and commanding. He pushed his chair back slightly and patted his thigh once. “Don’t make me ask twice.”
Your breath caught. Heart racing, you stood up slowly and rounded the table. The moment you were close enough, Sukuna’s hand caught your wrist and pulled you down onto his lap. He settled you sideways across his thighs, one arm wrapping securely around your waist while the other rested on your leg, fingers splayed possessively over your thigh.
Up close like this, you could feel the heat of his body, the solid strength of his chest against your side, the way his breath brushed your temple.
“Better,” he said, voice rough. His hand slid slowly up your thigh, stopping just below the hem of your nightgown. “Now… show me.”
He tilted his head, lips hovering near your jaw.
“Kiss me,” he ordered softly. “Like you mean it. Like you actually want your husband.”
His crimson eyes were locked on yours, still guarded, still waiting for the lie to slip through. But beneath the suspicion, there was clear hunger — dark and patient, daring you to close the distance.
Sukuna’s fingers flexed on your thigh, a silent reminder of his patience running thin.
“Well, wife?” he murmured, voice velvet-rough against your skin. “I’m waiting.”
You didn’t hesitate any longer.
Leaning in, you pressed your lips to his. The kiss started soft — tentative on your end, testing. Sukuna stayed still for half a second, as if surprised you’d actually done it.
Then he took control.
His hand slid to the back of your neck, pulling you harder against his mouth. The kiss deepened instantly, turning hungry and demanding. His tongue swept past your lips, claiming your mouth with a low growl that vibrated against you. He tasted like black tea and heat, and the way he kissed you was nothing short of possessive — like he was trying to erase every other man who had ever looked at you.
You gasped into his mouth. Sukuna used the opening to tilt your head and kiss you deeper, tongue stroking yours with slow, filthy intent. His other hand gripped your thigh tighter, fingers digging into the soft flesh as he pulled you more firmly onto his lap until you were straddling him.
“Better,” he rasped against your lips when he finally pulled back just enough to breathe. His crimson eyes were dark, pupils blown wide. “But not enough.”
He kissed you again, harder this time. One hand slipped under the hem of your nightgown, palm sliding up your bare thigh, pushing the silk higher and higher until his fingers brushed the edge of your underwear. He didn’t go further yet — just teased, stroking the sensitive skin there while his mouth moved to your jaw, then down to your neck.
“You say you like me,” he growled against your throat, teeth grazing your pulse point. “Then prove how much.”
He sucked on your skin, hard enough to leave a mark, and you couldn’t stop the soft moan that escaped you. Sukuna’s grip on your thigh tightened in response, and you felt him growing hard beneath you, the thick length pressing against your core through his pants.
Your hands moved on instinct, sliding up his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his tunic. He made a low, approving sound and rocked his hips up once, grinding against you deliberately.
“Touch me,” he ordered, voice rough. “If you’re serious, then fucking touch me.”
You obeyed, sliding your hands under his tunic, palms running over the hard planes of his stomach and the tattoos that covered his skin. His muscles tensed under your touch. Sukuna rewarded you by biting down on your neck again, then soothing the spot with his tongue.
He pulled back just enough to look at you, breathing heavy, eyes burning.
“Keep going,” he said, voice dark and commanding. His hands gripping your ass firmly as he pulled you down harder against his growing erection. “Show me exactly how much you want your husband.”
His hips rolled up deliberately, grinding the thick ridge of his cock against your clit in slow, filthy circles. The friction was maddening, heat building fast between you.
You moaned into his mouth. The sound seemed to snap something in him.
He growled low in his throat and rocked you harder against him. “Fuck,” he rasped against your lips, breath hot. “You’re already so wet for me.”
One large hand slipped further under your nightgown, calloused palm dragging up your bare thigh until his fingers found the soaked fabric of your panties. He groaned at the feeling, pressing two thick fingers against your clothed slit and rubbing firmly, spreading your wetness.
“So fucking wet,” he muttered, voice dark and rough. “All this from just sitting on my lap?”
He pushed your panties aside with impatient fingers and dragged two thick digits slowly through your slick folds. The first direct touch made your hips jerk sharply. Pleasure shot through you like lightning — hot, electric, and overwhelming. You were already soaked, embarrassingly wet, and Sukuna could feel it.
He chuckled darkly against your throat, the low vibration sending shivers racing down your spine as he kissed and bit along your neck, marking you with teeth and tongue.
“You’re dripping down my fingers, wife,” he growled, voice rough and filthy. “This greedy little cunt is making such a mess already.”
He pushed one thick finger inside you slowly, stretching your tight walls. Your inner muscles clenched hard around the intrusion, hot and silky. The feeling of being filled by him — even just one finger — made your breath hitch. He added a second finger almost immediately, scissoring them lazily while his thumb found your swollen clit and rubbed tight, relentless circles.
The wet, obscene sounds of his fingers pumping into your soaked pussy filled the quiet morning room — lewd squelching noises that would have made you blush if you weren’t already trembling with pleasure. Your arousal coated his hand, dripping down his wrist and onto his lap as he worked you open with practiced, unhurried strokes.
You whimpered, hands fisting tightly in the front of his tunic. Sukuna’s free hand yanked the neckline of your nightgown down roughly, exposing your breasts to the cool air. He leaned in and sucked one sensitive nipple into his mouth, tongue flicking roughly over the peak before his teeth grazed it. The sharp sting mixed with pleasure made your back arch, pushing your chest closer to his hungry mouth.
“So fucking sensitive,” he murmured against your skin, voice muffled as he switched to the other nipple, sucking harder. “Look at you. Falling apart just from my fingers like a desperate little whore.”
He curled his fingers inside you, stroking that perfect spot with devastating accuracy while his thumb pressed firmer circles on your clit. Your hips rocked desperately against his hand, chasing every thrust, every stroke. The wet sounds grew louder, filthier, echoing obscenely in the quiet chamber.
Sukuna pulled back just enough to watch your face, his crimson eyes dark with lust and that ever-present edge of suspicion.
“Cum for me,” he ordered, voice low and rough. “Let me feel how much this supposed ‘liking me’ makes this tight little pussy squeeze around my fingers.”
His fingers curled harder, stroking that sensitive spot relentlessly while his thumb worked your clit faster. The pleasure coiled tighter and tighter in your core, burning hotter with every thrust, every filthy word.
It snapped.
You came hard with a broken moan, walls clenching violently around his thick fingers. Your thighs shook uncontrollably as slick gushed over his hand, soaking his palm and dripping down his wrist. Pleasure crashed through you in waves, leaving you gasping and trembling.
Sukuna groaned deeply at the feeling, still pumping his fingers slowly through your spasms, drawing out every last pulse until you were shaking and oversensitive, whimpering softly.
He finally pulled his fingers free, glistening with your release. Without breaking eye contact, he brought them to his mouth and licked them clean, tongue dragging slowly and deliberately over his skin, savoring your taste.
“Sweet,” he murmured, voice husky and dark. His eyes never left yours.
He lifted you effortlessly and stood, carrying you toward the massive bed. He laid you down on the black silk sheets, hovering over you with that same dark, hungry look.
“Take the nightgown off,” he commanded, already pulling his own tunic over his head, revealing the full expanse of his tattooed, muscled torso. “I want to see all of you.”
His hands moved to his pants, loosening them as he watched you, eyes burning with lust and that ever-present edge of suspicion.
“Prove how much you actually want me, wife.”
You sat up on the bed, heart hammering against your ribs. Under his burning gaze, you reached for the hem of your nightgown and pulled it up and over your head, letting the silk fall to the floor. The cool air of the chamber brushed over your bare skin, making your nipples tighten instantly.
Sukuna’s eyes raked slowly over your naked body — from your flushed face, down the curve of your breasts, your stomach, and the glistening wetness already coating your inner thighs. He let out a low, rough sound deep in his chest, almost a growl.
“Fuck… look at you,” he muttered, voice thick. “So small. So fucking pretty.”
He shoved his pants the rest of the way down his hips and kicked them aside. His cock sprang free, heavy and thick, the veined shaft curving slightly upward. It was meaty — obscenely so — the girth making your mouth go dry. The flushed head was already leaking, a bead of precum glistening at the tip. Even fully hard, it looked almost too big, too heavy, the weight of it making it hang thick and full between his powerful thighs.
You couldn’t help the soft, shaky breath that escaped you.
Sukuna noticed. His smirk was dark and satisfied as he crawled onto the bed, the mattress dipping deeply under his much larger frame. He settled between your spread thighs, his broad shoulders forcing your legs wider apart. The size difference hit you all over again — he was so much bigger than you, his body completely eclipsing yours as he hovered above you.
He gripped his thick cock in one large hand and dragged the heavy head through your soaked folds, coating himself in your wetness. The blunt, meaty tip nudged against your entrance, pressing just enough to tease the stretch.
“You’re tiny compared to me,” he rasped, voice low and rough. “Gonna feel every inch when I split you open.”
He pushed forward slowly.
The thick head of his cock breached you, stretching your entrance with a slow, burning pressure. You gasped sharply at the sheer girth — he was so thick that your walls had to part around him, fluttering and clenching as he sank deeper. The heavy, meaty weight of his cock filled you inch by inch, dragging against every sensitive ridge inside you until you were full, so full, your back arching off the bed with a broken moan.
Sukuna groaned deeply, the sound vibrating through his chest as he bottomed out, hips flush against yours. His balls rested heavy and warm against you.
“Shit,” he breathed against your neck, voice strained. “So fucking tight… this little pussy is sucking me in like it was made for me.”
He stayed buried deep for a moment, letting you adjust to the overwhelming stretch, the way his thick cock throbbed inside you, hot and heavy. Then he started moving — slow, deep rolls of his hips that dragged his meaty length along your walls with every thrust. The wet, obscene sound of him sliding in and out of your soaked cunt filled the room, slick and filthy.
You whimpered, nails digging into his broad shoulders. “Sukuna… you’re so big—”
He growled at your words, hips snapping harder, driving his thick cock deeper. The drag was exquisite, every vein and ridge rubbing against your most sensitive spots. His size made you feel impossibly full, stretched wide around his girth, the pressure bordering on too much but so, so good.
“Take it,” he rasped, voice dark and possessive. “Take every fucking inch like the good little wife you’re trying to be.”
He leaned down and captured your mouth in a messy, hungry kiss, tongue fucking your mouth in time with his deep thrusts. His heavy balls slapped against you with every powerful stroke, the wet sounds growing louder as your arousal dripped down his shaft and soaked the sheets beneath you.
You moaned into his mouth, legs wrapping tighter around his waist, heels digging into his back. The size difference made everything more intense — his broad chest crushing your breasts, his muscular thighs spreading you wide, his massive frame completely dominating yours as he fucked you into the mattress.
Sukuna pulled back just enough to look at you, breathing hard, eyes dark with lust and that lingering edge of suspicion.
“Tell me again,” he growled, hips grinding deep, the thick head of his cock pressing against that perfect spot inside you. “Tell me how much you like your husband’s cock while I’m ruining this tight little pussy.”
You could barely think through the overwhelming fullness. His cock was so thick it felt like he was splitting you open with every slow, deliberate thrust. The heavy drag of his veined shaft against your walls made your toes curl, pleasure bordering on too much.
“I like it,” you gasped, voice breaking on a moan as he rolled his hips again, grinding the fat head against your g-spot. “I like your cock so much— fuck, Sukuna, you’re so deep…”
A low, satisfied growl rumbled in his chest. He hooked one of your legs over his arm, spreading you wider, and drove into you harder. The new angle made his thick cock hit even deeper, the heavy weight of his balls slapping wetly against your ass with every powerful thrust. Your juices coated his shaft, dripping down to soak the sheets beneath you, the lewd squelching sounds echoing obscenely in the quiet room.
“So fucking tight,” he groaned, voice rough and strained. “This greedy little cunt is sucking me in like it doesn’t want to let go.”
He leaned down, capturing your mouth in a messy, dominating kiss. His tongue fucked into your mouth in time with his cock, deep and filthy, while his hips snapped forward harder. The sheer size difference made everything more intense — his broad, muscled body completely covering yours, his weight pressing you down into the mattress as he fucked you with long, punishing strokes.
You whimpered into his mouth, nails raking down his back, leaving red lines across his tattooed skin. Sukuna hissed at the sting and rewarded you by pounding into you even harder, the thick head of his cock bullying that sensitive spot inside you over and over.
“Again,” he demanded against your lips, breath hot and ragged. “Tell me who this pussy belongs to.”
“You,” you moaned, legs shaking as another wave of pleasure crashed through you. “It belongs to you— only you—”
“Good girl.”
He sat back on his heels, pulling your hips up with him so your lower back was off the bed. The new angle let him drive even deeper, his thick cock stretching you wide with every brutal thrust. His thumb found your swollen clit again, rubbing tight, firm circles while he fucked you senseless.
The wet slap of skin against skin mixed with your broken moans and his low grunts. Your breasts bounced with every powerful snap of his hips, nipples tight and aching. Sukuna’s gaze was locked between your legs, watching hungrily as his thick cock disappeared into your soaked pussy again and again, stretching you obscenely around his girth.
“Look at that,” he growled, voice dark. “Taking every inch like you were made for me. So fucking pretty when you’re stuffed full of my cock.”
The pleasure coiled tighter and tighter in your core, burning hotter with every deep thrust, every swipe of his thumb on your clit. Your thighs trembled violently in his grip.
“Sukuna— I’m gonna—!”
“Cum,” he ordered, hips slamming into you harder. “Cum on your husband’s cock like the desperate little wife you are.”
It hit you like a wave. You came hard with a broken cry, walls clenching violently around his thick length, pulsing and fluttering as slick gushed around him. Your whole body shook, back arching sharply as pleasure tore through you.
Sukuna groaned deeply at the feeling, hips stuttering. “Fuck— that’s it. Milk my cock.”
He fucked you through your orgasm, prolonging it until you were whimpering and oversensitive. Then, with a low, guttural groan, he buried himself to the hilt and came hard, thick ropes of hot cum flooding deep inside you. He kept grinding his hips in slow circles, pushing his release even deeper as he emptied himself completely.
“We’re not done,” he said quietly, a dangerous promise in his tone. “Not even close.”
Sukuna pulled out of you with a wet, filthy sound, your combined release dripping down your thighs. Before you could catch your breath, he flipped you onto your back and manhandled you like you weighed nothing. He sat on the edge of the bed, pulled you into his lap facing away from him, and hooked his powerful arms under your knees, folding you in a full nelson.
Your back pressed flush against his broad, tattooed chest. Your legs were spread obscenely wide, knees pushed up toward your shoulders by his strong arms. The position left you completely helpless — folded in half, pussy exposed and dripping, his thick cock sliding hot and heavy between your slick folds.
“Fuck, look at you,” he growled right against your ear, voice feral. “So small and folded up for me. Perfect little fucktoy.”
He thrust up hard, burying his massive cock back inside you in one brutal stroke. The new angle made him feel even thicker, even deeper. You cried out, the sound raw and broken as his meaty length stretched you wide open again, the fat head bullying against your cervix with every thrust.
Sukuna went feral.
He fucked you like an animal — hard, fast, and relentless. His hips snapped up with powerful force, slamming his thick cock into your soaked pussy over and over. The wet, obscene slap of skin against skin filled the room, mixed with the lewd squelching of your dripping cunt taking every inch. His heavy balls slapped against your ass with every brutal thrust, the impact jolting through your body.
You were cockdrunk almost immediately.
Your mind went hazy, eyes rolling back as pleasure overloaded your senses. All you could do was moan helplessly, body limp in his hold as he used you. His thick cock dragged against every sensitive spot inside you, the sheer girth stretching you so wide it bordered on pain, but the pleasure was so intense you couldn’t think straight.
“S-Sukuna— ahh— too deep—” you slurred, voice broken and whiny.
He only fucked you harder, arms locked tight under your knees, keeping you folded and helpless as he pounded into you. His chest was slick with sweat against your back, his hot breath panting against your ear.
“Take it,” he snarled, voice feral and animalistic. “Take every fucking inch. This is what you wanted, isn’t it? My cock ruining this tight little pussy.”
You could only moan incoherently, head lolling back against his shoulder. Drool slipped from the corner of your mouth as he fucked you senseless, his thick cock bullying your insides with every savage thrust. The wet sounds were filthy — your juices coating his shaft and dripping down his balls, soaking the sheets beneath you.
Sukuna suddenly pulled out, flipped you onto your stomach, and yanked your hips up so your ass was high in the air. He slammed back into you in one brutal thrust, fucking you in deep, punishing doggy style.
“Fuck— yes,” he groaned, voice wrecked. One large hand came down hard on your ass with a loud smack, the sting blooming hot across your skin. He did it again, harder, the sharp crack echoing as he pounded into you from behind.
Your face was pressed into the sheets, ass up, completely at his mercy as he railed you. His thick cock drove so deep you felt it in your stomach, the heavy drag of his veined shaft making your eyes roll back. He smacked your ass again, gripping the soft flesh hard as he used you.
“You’re mine,” he growled, hips snapping forward relentlessly. “This pussy is mine. Say it.”
You could barely speak, mind blank and cockdrunk, but you whimpered obediently between moans, “Yours… it’s yours—”
Sukuna snarled in satisfaction and fucked you even harder, the bed creaking violently under the force of his thrusts. His heavy balls slapped against your clit with every brutal stroke, pushing you closer and closer to the edge again.
He was relentless now — grunting low and animalistic, cursing under his breath as his hands gripped your hips hard enough to bruise. He claimed you with deep, punishing strokes, each one driving his thick cock so deep you felt it in your stomach.
“Fuck— this pussy is sucking me in so greedily,” he growled, voice wrecked and animalistic. One hand left your hip and came down hard on your ass again with a loud smack, the sharp sting blooming hot across your skin. He did it again, harder, gripping the soft, reddened flesh and spreading you wider as he railed you.
Your mind was completely melted. All you could do was moan and whimper into the sheets, drool slipping from the corner of your mouth as he pounded into you. His thick, meaty cock stretched you so wide it felt like he was reshaping you from the inside. Every deep, punishing thrust made the fat head kiss your cervix, sending sparks of overwhelming pleasure-pain shooting through your body.
“S-Sukuna— too much— ahh—!” you slurred, voice broken and whiny, barely coherent anymore.
He laughed darkly, low and breathless, and smacked your ass once more before gripping both cheeks and spreading you obscenely. He watched hungrily as his thick cock disappeared into your soaked, fluttering pussy again and again, your juices coating his shaft and dripping down his heavy balls.
“Look at this greedy little hole,” he rasped, hips snapping forward brutally. “Taking my fat cock so well. You’re dripping everywhere, wife. Making such a fucking mess on my sheets.”
He leaned over you, chest pressed to your back, one arm wrapping around your waist to hold you in place while the other braced beside your head. The new angle let him drive even deeper, his heavy cock bullying that perfect spot inside you with every savage thrust. The wet, filthy plap plap plap of his hips slamming into your ass filled the room, mixed with your broken moans and his guttural grunts.
You were shaking, thighs trembling violently, another orgasm building fast. Your mind was blank — nothing but the overwhelming stretch, the heat, the relentless drag of his thick veined cock inside you.
Sukuna’s breath was hot against your ear. “You’re mine,” he growled, teeth grazing your shoulder. “This tight little cunt is mine. Say it while you cum on my cock again.”
You could barely form words, but you whimpered obediently between moans, voice slurred and cockdrunk. “Yours— it’s yours— Sukuna— please—!”
He fucked you harder, hips pistoning relentlessly, the heavy slap of his balls against your clit pushing you over the edge. You came with a shattered cry, walls clamping down around his thick length like a vice, pulsing and fluttering as another intense orgasm ripped through you. Slick gushed around his cock, soaking his thighs and the sheets beneath you.
Sukuna groaned loudly, the sound raw and feral. “Good fucking girl—”
He didn’t stop. He fucked you through your orgasm with deep, stuttering thrusts, hips snapping erratically as he chased his own release. With a final, powerful drive, he buried himself to the hilt and came hard. Thick, hot ropes of cum flooded deep inside you, pulse after heavy pulse filling you until you felt impossibly full, the warmth spreading through your core. He kept grinding slowly, rolling his hips in lazy circles to push every drop deeper, making sure you took all of him.
You could feel it leaking out around his thick cock — warm, sticky, and messy — dripping down your thighs and soaking the sheets beneath you.
Sukuna stayed buried deep inside you for a long moment, his massive body pressing you firmly into the mattress. His chest heaved against your back, hot, ragged breaths fanning across the side of your neck. The scent of sweat, sex, and his skin filled the air with every shaky inhale. One of his hands stroked slowly up and down your side, almost possessively, while the other stayed gripping your hip, fingers digging in like he still wasn’t ready to let go.
“…Not bad,” he muttered, voice hoarse and low against your ear. “For a little liar.”
He finally pulled out slowly, inch by thick inch. A heavy trickle of his cum immediately leaked from your abused, fluttering pussy, warm and obscene as it ran down your inner thighs. Sukuna let out a low, satisfied hum at the sight before he rolled you onto your back and collapsed beside you.
Without a word, he pulled you against his chest, one strong arm wrapping around you possessively. His skin was hot and slightly damp with sweat, his heartbeat still racing steadily under your cheek as he held you close.
His fingers traced lazy patterns on your skin as he caught his breath.
But he didn’t let go.
a\n: honestly didn't know how to end this but hope you enjoyed! likes and reblogs appreciated!!
Fandoms Included: Batman, Call of Duty, Genshin Impact, Jujutsu Kaisen, Original Works, Supernatural, The Pitt…
Last Updated - 04/04/2026
Dragon’s Treasure - Dragon Prince x Reader
By monstermeat666
"A student of alchemy and ancient occulticate practices, you are the only human attending a prestigious university dominated by monsters, with Dragon shifters sitting at the top of hierarchy. Already being an object of curiosity, it’s no surprise you somehow manage to attract the Dragon Prince’s attention and lust- much to your irritation."
Jaguar Hybrid Bf x Reader
By monstersholygrail
HAVE THE EMPEROR'S BABY?! - Alpha! Emperor & Omega! Concubine x Omega Knight! Reader
By awawage
Yandere 1920s Imagines: Parlor Maid - Yandere Socialite x Fem Maid Reader x Yandere Nobleman
By yandere-writer-momo
Yandere Short Stories: Den of Wolves - Yandere Mobsters x Waitress! Fem Reader
By yandere-writer-momo
imagine damian wayne who plays the normal child card every time he’s outside of the wayne manor (yet his vocabulary and manners far exceed the one of a child) — compared to you, an actual normal and silly child if it weren’t for your mind reading abilities.
By kumasakka
Secretary - CEO! Damian Wayne x Secretary! Reader
By clemmmmmmmmmmmmmm
A Kiss, For Luck - Batboys x Lipstick Using! Reader
By kay-imma-head-out
Strawberry Secrets & Sweethearts
Part 1 , Part 2
By ilunaako
"damian wayne hates strawberries, so why does he suddenly love them?"
"meeting damian wayne's family after a few months of dating."
「 OBSESSIVE FIXATION 」 - Damian Wayne x Reader
By damselneedssaving
"You just got your nails done, and Damian is obsessed with the feeling of them scratching against his skin."
vow to be yours. - Damian Wayne x Fem! Reader
By fawnindawn
"you're convinced your betrothed, damian wayne, despises or at most—tolerates you for the sake of his duty. it takes only one moron to try and steal your hand to prove that damian takes the promise of being your future husband as a role he will never let anyone else fulfill."
The Day Before: Batfamily Proposal Accident - Batboys x Reader
By jellyfishsthings
how gojo makes love vs how he fucks
By megumour
satoru respects your celibacy, differently - BSF! Saturo Gojo x Virgin! Reader
By sakuami
higuruma with a sweet, oblivious wife who always writes small encouraging messages on sticky notes before signing them off with a prominent red kiss mark on the paper and sticking it onto the inside his briefcase.
By getoville
Earl Grey & Cucumber - Dark Alpha! SatoSuguShoko x Beta! Reader
By envy-of-the-apple
"Your favorite junior asks if you could find a mate for her pack."
Business Proposal - Yandere! Gojo, Nanami, Sukuna, & Toji (Separate) x Reader
By sapph22
"Your family sets you up with potential husbands….. rich, influential JJK men… for a business marriage. You try to scare them off by acting weird but it backfires… and now you have 4 men obsessed with you."
𝓐 𝓥ERY 𝓡OYAL 𝓡EVERSE 𝓗AREM 𝓢TORY - Alpha! JJK Men x Omega! Fem! Reader
By epicderpface
"a pack of alphas stumble upon the princess running away from her betrothed. instead of sending her right back to the crown, they begin to take a liking to her."
King! Ghost x Queen! Reader
By dante-mightdie
Meal Sharing - König x Reader x Simon
Part 1 , Part 2
By iridreams
"taking turns being eaten out by König and Ghost"
Alpha! TF141 x Neglected Omega! Reader
Part 1 . Part 2 , Part 3
By beloveds-embrace
Line-Up - Alpha! TF141 x Omega! Reader
Part 1 , Part 2
By ladykelsi
you cannot stop staring at lieutenant riley's tits.
By beebymoonlight
Omega!Soap finds Omega!Reader for his pack
Part 1 , Part 2 , Part 3 , Part 4...
By mousy-muses13
Imagine being soaps partner, and deciding to start going to the gym, build some muscle, right?
Alpha! John Price x Omega! Reader who's scared of mating bite
By rawme-price
FUCKED BY THE FATUI! — STAMINA RATELIST
By kzrosa-writes
"fatui male harbingers smut headcanons w f!reader , ranked from highest to lowest stamina (headcanon) | includes all male harbingers except pulcinella."
PAVLOV'S WHITAKER - Coworker! Dennis Whitaker x Fem! Reader
By missmanlykink
"out of curiosity, you see if you can classically condition your cute co-worker using snaps and swedish fish–spoiler: you definitely can. "
Please picture how Dennis Whitaker crumbles the moment you start using pet names for him
By scarletttries
bf!dennis whitaker who gets marked up by reader for the first time and it’s a lot.
By missmanlykink
“Oh! My ring… It’s kind of a funny story. I uhm.. I’m not actually married.” - TF141 x Bartender! Reader
By devil-in-hiding
all the nights (and the days too) - Dean Winchester x Reader
By lunexiax
"You got the wrong end of the stick with Dean. He clearly wants sex from you and nothing more. (Except that's not actually true, is it?)"
⋆✶ ˚｡⋆ Demolition Lovers. - Dean Winchester x BSF! Reader
By sacr1ficialang3l
"Dean always thought the end of the world would come with exploding suns and the walking dead—not in the shape of his best friend suddenly flirting with him."
Beard - Dean Winchester x Reader
By midnightfragment
"You spend weeks shamelessly begging Dean to grow a beard — armed with increasingly horny “scientific” reasons — until he finally caves. Two months later you’re straddling him, stupidly happy, shamelessly admitting the beard made him 100% hotter… and he’s never shaving again."
Dean discovering you used to be a Playboy bunny!!
Dean having an obsession with thongs - Dean Winchester x Reader
By midnightfragment
thinking about dean winchester with an awkward, "weird" partner.
sick!dean headcanons . . .
Intimacy with Dean
By andmeiamherdagger
˖ ꫂ᭪ ֗ full focus ✿ - Munch! Dean Winchester x Reader
By flwrlea
how supernatural character's react to your first orgasm in their lap
how supernatural character's react to you sitting on their lap
୨୧ ― Caleb has spent his entire adolescence and young adulthood rejecting every admirer who threw themselves at him- returning their homemade lunches, turning down their confessions, never once letting anyone get close enough to touch him like that.
He was too focused. Too loyal. Too busy dreaming about the girl who'd grown up beside him, the one whose birthday made up half of his passwords.
His girl.
And now, finally, after all this time, he has you exactly where he's dreamed of you for almost a decade- beneath him, looking up at him with those wide, trusting eyes.
God, she's really here. She's really letting me-
His internal thought cuts off when he hears your sweet voice.
"C-Caleb-," you whine pitifully, fat tears beginning to bead along your lower lashes as you squirm beneath him in his apartment you've slowly been turning into a home... "I- I don't think-"
"What's wrong?" He sounds almost boyish in his confusion, purple eyes soft with concern as he brushes sweaty hair from your forehead, "Did I do something-"
"S'too big."
He blinks, tilting his head like the adorable idiot he is, "I'm... no, I'm sure I'm average? I mean, I haven't really compared, but…" his words trail off…
Caleb can do nothing but stare...
How your poor little cunt is struggling, quivering, lips stretched obscenely trying to swallow the first few inches of him...
His length is ridiculous- he realizes that now with sudden, dawning clarity, watching nearly half of his shaft still jutting out from where your bodies meet.
Despite how wet he's gotten you with his fingers and tongue and desperate grinding- despite the slick mess coating your inner thighs, the way you'd gushed around two of his knuckles, the way you'd soaked his chin when he'd eaten you out… you're still barely able to take him.
He'd always assumed those whispered comments from classmates back in high school were idle gossip. Locker room flattery he was too humble to believe -even now during showers on the fleet-. Girls giggling behind cupped hands, guys clapping his shoulder with that knowing look...
But now-
Fuck.
Now he understands as he watches you try to adjust.
Watching how your belly flutters with each shallow breath, watching your thighs tremble where they're spread wide around his hips. Watching the visible bulge of himself pressing up against the soft give of your lower stomach when he sinks another inch deeper and you let out this broken little whimper that makes his balls tighten.
He's ruining you. Reshaping you. Your tight little hole wasn't built for this, wasn't made for a cock this fat, this long, this mean- and he can't decide if the thought makes him want to pull out and apologize or grab your hips and bury himself to the hilt just to watch you fall apart.
"Shh, shh, hey." His voice has dropped low, rougher than you've ever heard it, and there's something dark flickering in those usually playful eyes. That possessive edge he's hidden for years, now surfacing as he stares down at where his thick cockhead is trying desperately to sink into your fluttering hole, "I've waited so long for this, Pips... For you. We're going to make it fit, okay? I'll take care of you, just like i always have."
His hand cups your cheek, thumb brushing away the tears that threatened to spill. So gentle. So caring. So him.
And then his other hand pins your hip to the mattress as he snaps forward, burying every fat inch inside you in one brutal thrust.
"AHHH- CALEB!!" Your scream tears through his quiet apartment, back arching clean off the sheets as your cunt is forced to stretch around him, walls clenching and spasming helplessly against the intrusion.
It's too much -he's too much-, splitting you open on a cock that has no business being attached to a man who watches you like that. All soft, starving devotion. A loyal pup at the feet of its goddess, even while he wrecks you.
"Pips- oh, fuck, there we go," Caleb groans, and his voice is absolutely wrecked, those pretty eyes rolling back slightly as he bottoms out. His pelvis grinds against yours, the root of him stuffed so deep you can feel him in your goddamn stomach. "You're so tight- shit, is it always like this? Is this-"
"Y-you're my f-first too, you idiot," you sob, and something breaks in his expression.
First. I'm her first. She waited for me too.
"Oh, Pipsqueak," he breathes, and now both hands are cradling your face while his hips stay perfectly still to let you adjust. His cock twitches inside you, and you keen. "My sweet girl. I didn't know. I didn't-" He drops his forehead to yours, breath ragged, "I thought- I would've been gentler, I would've-"
"N'just-" You gulp for air, body quaking, "just stay still. M'need to -hah- adjust"
He nods, pressing apologetic kisses all over your tear stained face while his massive length pulses inside your stretched out cunt. But even as he soothes you, that darker part of his mind is calculating.
If I keep her on my cock long enough... if I fuck her through it over and over... her body will learn. She'll mold to me. Only me. She won't be able to take anyone else after this...
Good.
And when your walls finally relax enough for him to move, rolling his hips in a slow, devastating grind that makes your eyes roll back... Caleb learns something else about himself that night...
after a long day, it’s no surprise that you’re left with no energy to take care of yourself, let alone clean up and drag yourself off to bed. luckily for you, your two boyfriends— satoru and suguru, the infamous strongest duo who are as weak as kittens for you— take it upon themselves to bathe you and wash your hair. princess treatment has never felt this good.
⋆.˚ content: SFW but MDNI 18+, fem!reader, canon jujutsu universe (alt au where geto doesn’t defect), fluff fluff fluff, humor, established polyamorous satosugu x reader, gojo and geto are WHIPPED for you and for each other, domestic intimacy, a fair amount of suggestive jokes (but the entire fic stays non-sexual), mentions of battle wounds & scars
a/n: this is a requested drabble for the non-sexual acts of intimacy prompts “taking a bath together” and “having their hair washed by the other” for a fewww different anons 🙂↕️🫶🏽 hope you all enjoy cos this was sm fun to write 💓 masterlist.
Bathwater laps softly at the porcelain edges of the tub, warm enough to turn your skin dewy beneath the draping of steam that hangs hazily over the air like a wedding veil. The bathroom's steeped in the mellow glow of an amber and blossom-pink sunset filtering through the windows that overlook Tokyo. More jasmine-sweetened steam drifts in languid, translucent ribbons from the oversized tub fashioned to fit three (thanks, Gojo clan money).
Lounging with your lovers, everything is pleasantly heavy— your limbs, your eyelids which have long fallen together, your subdued thoughts— and softened by the calming ease of being in Suguru's and Satoru's presence.
You sit between them, back resting against Satoru's steadily beating chest, his ridiculously long legs fallen open for you to sit between them with all the careless assurance of a man who has never once worried about taking up space. Suguru rests against the opposite edge of the tub with one arm curled along the rim and his legs similarly extended. Satoru's and Suguru's calves and thighs skim against each other where they border yours beneath the water, neither inclined to break the comfort of simple touch.
"You've gone quiet." Suguru's observation echoes off the tile.
"Mhm." Your answer is only half there.
"You awake?"
"Ehhh… Kinda sorta, sorta kinda," you mumble, seesawing a hand.
Satoru leans forward until his forehead lightly bumps your nape. "No sleeping yet, pretty girl. Ragdolling while we try to get you clean is a surefire way to go down Ben Drowned-style,” he teases.
You whine a little in protest even though the reference makes your lips tick. "But you guys made me so comfortable already..."
And they truly have.
The bath had been waiting for you before you'd even thought to ask for one. Actually, the idea was planted in Satoru and Suguru's heads the moment you texted that you were dead-tired and grimy to the group chat from the back of Ijichi's car. You had been the only one to head out on a mission today, Satoru spending the day teaching and training the first years and Suguru mirroring him with the third years— Satoru had weaseled his way into a full hands-on day with his students, claiming he needed somewhat of a break, and Suguru spent most of his time teaching rather than hunting curses anymore, anyways.
(You and Satoru have been on the offensive with the higher-ups for years to nail down this arrangement for Suguru. Sure, Suguru still took on the occasional mission when everyone else was stretched thin by their own duties, but for his mental health’s sake, it was best that he stuck to guiding and nurturing the current generation.
You never want to see him as hollowly depressed as he was after everything that went down when he was a student.)
When you'd finally wandered into your shared house with knotted shoulders and your thumbs aggravatedly digging out the soreness from your temples, both your boyfriends snatched you up at the genkan and herded you like wildly insistent border collies to the master bedroom's ensuite, which had been transformed into a luxury spa during your twenty minute commute.
Towels were folded up in their warmer, candles swaying happily, the massive tub brimming with fragrant bathing oils and mineral salts— literally the whole nines. All the tiny things you'd long forgotten mentioning you preferred for a long soak were present, that information lovingly archived inside two impossibly attentive minds.
Before you could burst into happy tears at the lengths they went to for you, Suguru helped peel away your clothes before passing you off to Satoru, who offered both hands the moment you stepped toward the siren call of the water on sore legs, smoothly bowing as though escorting you into a ballroom instead of a bathtub.
Between them, lowering yourself into the steaming water (which was the fucking perfect temperature, holy hell) was less like climbing into a bath— another chore to hustle through before bed when you were already so worn-thin— and more like mindlessly handing yourself over for what they both dubbed your 'princess treatment.'
Suguru's smile is a ray of gentle light coloring his words, "Are we supposed to apologize for being good boyfriends?"
"Yeah. And you have to live with the consequences," you sigh, slumping further back into Satoru. The water rocks with you.
"You hear that?" Satoru says to Suguru over your head. You feel his chin nestle into your crown, arms loosely coiling at your waist. "She's blaming and threatening us."
"This is what happens when we go out of our way and draw us all a nice bath, huh," Suguru kisses his teeth, theatrically disappointed in you and what his and Satoru's efforts have come to. "Shame. I guess we won't be doing this ever again."
That finally gets your eyes to crack, blinking past the steam shrouding your slivered vision. Suguru watches the both of you with a sleepy beam curling the corners of his mouth, midnight lashes dampened and beading at their tips from the humidity. In spite of his long hair being wound up in a picture-perfect bun straight from Pinterest— his thorough wash-day took place yesterday and he's in no hurry to rewash his hair all over again— the baby hairs coiling at his nape and hairline are helplessly frizzy, fallen victim to the moisture in the air.
Suguru's gorgeous, a fallen angel meant to tempt you into the salacious temptations of the forbidden— much like the equally stunning blue-eyed beauty cuddled up to your behind, fluffed up white hair as refreshing as winter's first snowfall and his innate charming smile ten times more devastating than the cursed techniques sown into his very DNA.
"Hey," you protest, somewhat impressed by how he's twisted this situation to his benefit. "I didn't say all of that…"
A big warm palm finds a home on your shoulder, the callouses at the base of Satoru's fingers dragging a satisfyingly scratchy path over your skin. "I didn't agree to that either. Who's gonna appreciate all our hard work and dedication to pampering her if not, well, our princess?" Satoru wonders aloud, each richly pronounced syllable traveling in a velvety rolling rumble through his chest to your back.
Suguru cocks a brow, though he soaks up the reminder with a smoothly executed drag of the wooden bath tray closer to the corner of the tub's edge. Fancy crystalized bottles rattle, winking rainbow prisms across the walls; the oceanic waves of Satoru's irises, the deep earthiness of Suguru's.
You see them in everything, the two men coloring the world you traverse in a gallery forever curated in their likeness, to the point that you couldn't name a single thing on this planet without your lovers tinting your glasses.
Sometimes, you wonder whether the sky was always that boundless, cotton-candy blue, whether the nature crawling dense coils up Tokyo Jujutsu High's mountain campus had always carried such comforting shades of chocolate-brown, or if loving them has simply trained your eyes to always pay homage to Satoru and Suguru. Whatever the case, you're ridiculously smitten.
"Appreciation isn't the point, Satoru," lightly sniffs Suguru.
You wish you could see the stupid grin smeared across Satoru's countenance as he counters, jokingly, "It absolutely is."
"It really isn't," Suguru deadpans, looking to you as if to say get a load of this guy. You giggle.
"I don't know about you, babe, but I wanna be praised for my generous deeds," Satoru announces. "It hits like a line of coke after a long day."
Suguru slowly nods his assent. "That is true… though in your case, I'd say that cake is more your style than coke of all things."
"Snoooore," you loudly mime, deadpanning.
Satoru's laughter sears through your skin, beating a hearty rhythm between your shoulder blades. Suguru fans his fingers over his mouth as he joins in on Satoru's chuckling, amusement blossoming in the air. "Alright, alright. The deluxe princess treatment package is on its way now, promise," Suguru sing-songs with a little flap of his hand, finally easing up now that he's found a way back on track. "Satoru, you'll wash her hair and I'll do her body?"
"For sure," he chirps.
Ah, how nice it feels to lounge around like prized, celebrated royalty without a care in the world while your boys work a plan to pamper you.
All it takes is a simple curl of Suguru's black-painted finger for Satoru to obediently thrust his hand past your head, palm paralleling the ceiling as Suguru pops the glass stopper of a bottle and drizzles a generous heaping of shampoo into his hand's cup.
Satoru loops his arms around your front and works the shampoo between deft palms before your eyes, vanilla and camellia blossoms wafting up to your face, which you dip towards the comforting smell with a hum. It's Suguru's favorite shampoo— you're always surprised when he shares some of it and his conditioner with you, given how he treats it like the holy grail that he alone was blessed and entrusted with.
(Even funnier how he flat out refuses to let Satoru get his hands on it. Not that the white-haired sorcerer cares all that much anyhow; he uses a 3-in-1 shampoo and calls splashing tap water on his face a 'proper face wash.' You'd think a man so prideful about his vanity would splurge on products to properly care for himself and his Adonis body— the same way he buys from luxury clothing brands on the daily— instead of winging it like a head-in-the-clouds college fratboy, but alas…
You've gotta give it to him though: his genetics are killer. Curse Satoru and the goddamned perfectly pretty Gojo bloodline. It's not fair for the rest of you 'simpletons' who actually have to put in the work to groom and maintain yourself in order to look even half as unfairly attractive as he does on a random Thursday morning. The universe shamelessly plays favorites, and Satoru is its dazzling golden child.)
"Tilt your head back for me," he murmurs, long fingers immediately finding your hair— already sufficiently wet— the second you obey.
Humming an absent tune that lulls you into closing your eyes once more, Satoru gathers up all your hair, his usual boundless energy replaced by surprising patience. You can envision the way he's likely got his tongue peeking slightly between his teeth as he smooths the shampoo down your head, working up a rich, pearly lather from your crown to your ends with painstaking care exactly as Suguru once taught him.
Nobody from Jujutsu Tech— not Shoko, not Ijichi, not even any of the students— would expect such gentleness from the strongest sorcerer alive. The same man that tears into curses with calculated, almost joyous violence and blows them apart with a well-placed Red and a dry “oopsies,” is unbelievably tender in his task of shampooing the outer layer of your hair before diving to your roots, firm yet gentle. Reverent, really.
His nails glide along your scalp in purposefully light scrapes that send shivers down your spine. A contented sigh escapes you before you can stop it. "Satoruuuu…" You subconsciously roll the r in the same purring cadence that Suguru speaks his name in.
"Yooo, chill," Satoru splutters behind you, sounding alarmed by who knows what.
Suguru fills in the blank with a suggestive smile and thinning of his eyes: "Moan my name next, baby. I'm feeling left out."
Ah. Curious, you shuffle your hips back further into the cradle of Satoru's pelvis, glad to feel a distinct lack of engorged arousal insistently pestering your back; he's as flaccid as the day he was born. Your foot goes splashing water Suguru's way next. He catches your ankle beneath the surface and chuckles sunnily beneath the playful heat of your half-hearted glare.
"You're such a hater," he chastises.
"Excuse me for trying to enjoy my bath and the princess treatment you both promised me while you two horndogs try to make something out of nothing," you say dryly, though the pretense of sarcasm is rendered null by the next (accidentally) suggestive noise that floats its way past your lips when Satoru tugs a strand of shampooed hair just shy of too roughly.
"I didn't mean to do that, sorry!" Satoru jumps to apologize, presuming you'll give him shit for it and kick him out. But the joint snickers that both men promptly share over your head informs you that they're not exactly remorseful; and they're not even trying to play it sly.
"There's gonna be floggers and pillories in my online shopping cart by the end of the night if you two keep it up," you warn even though you're chuckling yourself. "That, or a sounding rod for you to share."
"Yes, ma'am. Sorry, ma'am," Satoru and Suguru innocently chorus.
Devils, the two of them.
But you're not any better, for you praise them in the sweetest purr possible, "Thank you. Good boys," and you all too joyfully reap the color budding across their already bath-flushed cheeks, tipping your head back against Satoru's shoulder to see his properly.
Suguru and Satoru: 1.
You: also 1.
You'll break that tie soon.
Fingers still wrapped in a delicate snag around your ankle, thumb sweeping over the protruding bone, Suguru one-handedly pumps a decent dollop of body wash into his palm, making a fist and dragging his fingers through it to warm it up a tad. "Lift your leg a little higher for me, sweetheart," he instructs, voice no louder than twinkling rain shimmering in silvery ribbons from the sky.
Conscious yet uncaring of the fact that you're already flashing him your most private parts (both your boyfriends have literally seen it all in every sexual and non-sexual scenario possible), you do just that, trusting that Satoru's solidity will keep you from sliding forward on your ass and submerging your face. Your hip flexor and quadricep tighten in a show of undemandingly easy dexterity— the movement of the latter has Suguru's eyes flicking down to watch as though you're his favorite film made human.
He scrunches his legs up in order to fit into the 'v' your own make. Shifting his grip to the back of your calf, he paints your skin in fragrant body wash from your foot, kneecap, to the crease connecting hip to thigh, coating you thoroughly and treating you to an impromptu massage along the way, thumbs kneading tenderly into muscle.
You're practically purring once he's done with your left leg. Suguru eases it back into the steaming bathwater and rinses you off with sweeping strokes of his broad hand until the jasmine-scented suds melt into the surface. Then, without breaking the tranquil rhythm you'd both settled into, he gathers your right leg in his grasp and starts anew from your foot upward, every motion as meticulous as the last.
You don't startle an inch when Satoru picks his task up again whilst Suguru works his soothing magic up your shin. Circles that bloom sweetness through your body are drawn into your scalp with the pads of Satoru's fingertips, thumbs gliding behind your ears before sweeping upward along your crown, coaxing the rich lather deeper through your roots.
His fingertips dance across your hair in broad, enthusiastic circles, working the shampoo in with enough vigor to make your head tip slightly. It's embarrassingly effective in making you lose track of where one minute ends and another begins. The little remaining tension loosens from your body like water through a sieve.
"Oh my godddd," you moan, blissful, completely swept up in their pampering that comes without a price. You melt between Satoru and Suguru without thinking, trusting the secure cradle of their bodies as completely as breathing itself. "This is exactly what I needed. This is heaven."
"You deserve only good things, especially tonight," Suguru murmurs affectionately, gently dunking your right leg and rinsing that one off, too.
"All the time, really," Satoru agrees. He leaves your hair once he's sure each strand is thoroughly lathered up. "Seeing you turn into a cute little puddle is the best bonus I could ask for. Just let us take care of you, yeah?"
He returns to you with a wooden rinse pitcher that Suguru hands to him. He cups warm bathwater into it, stray droplets sprinkling across the bath's surface when he pulls the pitcher free with an audible gulp of water. Anticipating what follows, you tip your head back and stay still as Satoru pours the first cascade of water over your head to cleanse you of the fragrant foam, his free hand shielding your forehead to keep it from spilling over your face.
"You wanna know a neat trick I thought of?" Satoru asks, voice overflowing with prideful excitement. You and Suguru rumble low noises from your throats at the same time, encouraging. "If Blue allows me to pull buildings apart at minimum output by drawing everything towards the impossibility, then it makes sense that if I put the tiiiiniest possible output into Blue—" you feel a tempered spike of cursed energy that makes the dampened hair at your nape prick to attention, "—the field of attraction is weak enough that I can siphon water from hair."
Before the dirtied water can rejoin the pooling bathwater lapping over you all, it peels from your hair like a clean, satisfying strip of tape as though the laws of nature, too, submit to the wonder that is Gojo Satoru.
You feel each saturated lock of hair lighten by degrees more than you see it. Suspended at your sides where you can spy it from the corner of yout eye, the extracted water gathers into a lazily revolving sphere no larger than a melon, pale with diluted shampoo that swirls in pearlescent ribbons beneath the bathroom's amber light. You can tell that Satoru's flicked his fingers behind you when it all goes gliding into a bucket by the tub— he probably thought to put it there in advance, you realize— with a muffled sploosh. Suguru whistles, impressed.
"There!" Satoru chirps, grin crystal-clear in his voice as though he'd unveiled the world's greatest scientific breakthrough instead of an absurdly overengineered bath hack using one of the greatest cursed techniques in history. "No gross rinse water in the tub."
"That was cool, Toru," you gush.
Suguru's laugh slips free in a quiet puff. "Good idea, baby."
The dual praise has Satoru radiating like an overjoyed sun behind you. "Right? Right?" He boasts with no modesty whatsover, chest jutting proudly against your back.
"You'll have to do that for my hair sometime, too," Suguru sighs longingly, tilting his head with a charmed look on his face. He's so cute. "I could use one of my curses, but Blue'll save me so much time. My hair's getting even longer than it already is, if you can imagine."
"Please never cut it," you and Satoru pipe up in genuine agony.
Suguru titters, enchanting brown eyes creasing in a blinding smile, brighter somehow for it. "Relax, you two. I won't. Aside from trimming split ends— knock on wood." He raps the wooden bath tray with his knuckles.
The exchange coaxes an involuntary smile of your own, the stretch of your lips so overly fond that your cheeks ache. It is so wonderfully, unmistakably the three of you— Suguru's easy indulgement forever balanced alongside Satoru's irrepressible enthusiasm and your habit of matching them both exactly where they stand.
Suguru re-lathers his hands to work on your abdomen, muscles fluttering in delicate butterly wings behind the bountiful garden of your skin at the ticklish feeling of his slickened touch; Satoru ladles another pitcherful over your head and repeats the process of gathering and discarding every soapy drop with Blue. Suguru glides soap up the valley between your perked breasts and beneath them as well, even massaging your tits without a lick of sexual intent; Satoru gives you one last rinse before passing curious fingers through your hair until the strands slide cleanly through his hands, gently teasing apart the few stubborn knots left over. The bathwater gently rocks against your ribs whenever they both shift, focused on their individual tasks but nonetheless in tune with one another.
By the time Suguru finishes off your front by washing your collarbones and shoulders and Satoru's just teased apart the few stubborn knots left over in your hair, your hair hangs sleek and impossibly clean, you're feeling squeaky clean from head to toe, and the bathwater around your bodies remains as clear as when you'd first slipped into it, aside from the body wash that's sluiced off of you.
You feel as though they’d somehow washed away not only the day's sweat and oils, but every bothersome thought that had settled there alongside them. You could seriously fall asleep any second without realizing you'd slipped into unconsciousness.
"Look at us working together in sync," Satoru lilts, signaling for the conditioner over your shoulder. Suguru hands it off from the bath tray without missing a beat. "The G.G. Salon is taking off."
"G.G.?" You ask, faint laughter already bubbling through your nose before he even elaborates. You're anticipating something so stupid that it's somehow funny.
"Get gucked," Satoru supplies, only to shriek a soprano's pitch and jackknife his leg through the water when Suguru aggressively pinches Satoru's big toe. "Yeesh, can't a guy joke around here? I meant the Gojo-Geto salon."
Suguru smiles serenely.
They make quick— but not rushed— work of the rest of your treatment. Suguru reaches between yours and Satoru's bodies to bathe your back while Satoru conditions the ends of your hair with the creamy fixture.
Clearing your hair of conditioner after it soaks in is easy as it was for Satoru with the shampoo. He splashes water along your back to finish off Suguru's work, and Suguru leans in to nuzzle a brief kiss against your forehead, lips lingering for only a second before he settles back against the tub's rim again, the picture of handsome relaxation. A moment later, Satoru cranes his head to smooch the side of your neck as if unwilling to be left out, then ducks past you to peck Suguru's mouth.
No words are needed in the wakeful peace that draws a curtain over you; you, Satoru, and Suguru seemingly come to a silent agreement to soak in the jasmine-fermented bath a while longer, all of yours eyes closed in bone-deep gratification. Heat loosens muscles and peels the firm grip of old aches and pains stemming from battles old and new, determined to ease your bodies that've been carved out from years and years of sorcerery. You only clamber out when the bathwater is cool enough to be drained, yours and Satoru's and Suguru's fingers and toes pruny from the extended soak.
The tired little shiver that quakes you when the air hits your damp skin is noticed immediately by Suguru, who quietly directs Satoru to empty the bucket of dirtied water down the tub before turning to you with towels straight from the tower warmer. He wraps one loosely around your hair and gently squeezes away the excess water.
His sweetened cooing of how cute you are when you're all sleepy and doted-on makes you duck your head into his touch if only to hide your face from the loving searchlights of his eyes. You allow Suguru to similarly wrap your body up in a second towel and you gleefully burrow into the fluffy comfort of it.
Satoru zips to your side in literal seconds with two more towels bunched under his arm, blue eyes alight and completely comfortable in his nudity. "My turn," he announces.
"Didn't you have plenty of turns in the bath?" Suguru amusedly points out in a lowered tone. "She's already dried off, anyways."
Satoru pokes his pretty pink lips out in a pout, sulky as a cat denied its dinner. "I want another."
"You always want another," you hum, eyes half-closed and about ready to conk out on the tile of all places. A plane could crash outside and you wouldn't even be fazed, your mind too up in the clouds and doped up on the princess treatment your boyfriends gave you to care.
“Well, I like taking care of you both,” Satoru admits with some sheepishness, scratching his shorn-short nape that you're sure is soon to be warmed pink as you and Suguru look at him with hearts for eyes. "Can't blame a guy for being in love, yeah?"
You really can't; not when you're just as stupidly infatuated with them both. Especially when, adorably, he surprises you both by turning to Suguru and toweling him off with great attention, making your dark-haired partner flush an even ruddier red than the hot water gave his body. For all of Satoru's impossible strength and impossible speed, his hands fuss with deliberate care as they work the plush fabric around Suguru's waist, folding one edge neatly over the other before tucking it securely against his hip. Then Satoru guides a stray bang that fell loose from his bun behind his ear, fingers lingering sweetly.
Suguru blinks once, twice, as though momentarily caught off guard by the simple gesture. "... Thank you, Satoruuu,” he purrs warmly.
The words are accompanied by a smile so soft it melts years off of Suguru's face, leaving behind only the boy who'd once looked at you and Satoru with that same impossible tenderness after late-night konbini store runs and shared umbrellas beneath summer rain as you all ran back to campus after shared misions— long, long before that accursed village sent him into a year-long spiral. Affection settles visibly into every elegant line of him, warming his browned eyes until they resemble polished amber.
Color rushes into Satoru's ears as he's blasted with the full superlunary rays of Suguru's love, almost shying away from his exuberant beam. "Don't mention it," he mutters, already smiling despite himself as he finally slings his own towel around his hips.
A laugh escapes you before you can stop it, sleepy and airy, and both pairs of eyes snap toward you with such immediate fondness. Your heart gives such a smitten start that it damn near ping-pongs off your ribs.
And then you open your unfiltered mouth, "You're both so cute. You two act like you guys haven't explored each other's holes for literal years."
Their expressions slacken into ones of pained amusement immediately. "Sweets, I love you so so sooo bad, but do you ever think before you reduce years of heartfelt intimacy to digging out each other's asses?" Satoru snorts.
"Please don't say it like that," Suguru bemoans, propping one hand on his towel-wrapped hip while the other drives a thumb into his creased forehead. Even so, he's openly snickering, even moreso when he slaps Satoru's chest. "Are you under the impression that you're any better?"
Satoru touches his heart with theatrical offense. "I've never said anything outrageous as her."
"You literally just did?" Suguru points out, exasperatedly tickled.
You attempt to muster a joke to chip in with, but a yawn stretches your jaw instead, eyes watering as exhaustion overtakes any dignity you might have had left.
"Awww," Satoru breathes out an impossibly stricken coo. "She's gonna fall asleep standing up like a horse."
"I was thinking the same thing," Suguru murmurs, tilting his head at you.
"I am awake and alert and alive," you mumble automatically.
Clearly, neither of them believes you for even half a second. Suguru chuckles beneath his breath before stepping forward, large hand finding the small of your back through the towel. "Looks like the delirium's getting to you, huh, angel? You've had a long day."
Satoru immediately appears at your other side. "For sure. Let's go get dressed and go to bed." Without ceremony, he bends his knees and scoops you into his arms bridal-style as though you weigh nothing at all. You let out the weakest little noise of surprise imaginable before instinctively curling against his warm chest, your cheek finding the familiar place beneath his collarbone.
"I c-can…" Your own yawn slashes the sentence in half, making Satoru throw his head back laughing as he turns towards the bathroom's entrance, "… walk."
"Oh, sweetheart," Suguru rumbles out a laugh.
"I can,” you grumble.
"You just lost consciousness mid-sentence."
"Mmmf," you say intelligently.
Suguru reaches over to straighten the towel atop your head one final time, brushing his knuckles fondly across your temple. "So spoiled," he whispers.
You hum contentedly, already halfway to sleep. "Your fault."
"Our fault," Satoru corrects, carrying you toward the door with Suguru walking beside him, shoulder brushing his every few steps. Then, as an aside to Suguru, "To be fair, we kinda made her expect this."
"I think I deserve princess treatment everyday," you exhaustedly pipe up, words dragging as you gradually drift off.
Satoru and Suguru exchange looks over your lolling head. So cute.
Oh my God, Oh my God. Who wrote this? - Twenty Seven
Neglected!Reader x Yandere!Batfam
Tim laments. And, Reader decides to eavesdrop on Dick. But, it goes horribly wrong.
Warnings: Yandere themes, GN!Reader, Pesudo-Incest (Reader does NOT see themselves as part of the family), Reader’s age is ambiguous (i.e. They're not a minor, but there's no official number), CRACK, Timmy actually has somewhat wholesome thoughts, Dick and Reader not so much, mind the slight NSFW warning
Platonic Route
Prologue
Master List
It was the shot of simple shot of you smiling that did it for Tim.
He knew he got passionate when it came to you. Which he also blamed you for. It wasn't his fault you were beautiful.
Attraction was a key factor, but it was the that smile that go him every time. Bruce had a charming one and he'd done research on your mother. And, it looked like hers. But, different. It was both more awkward and more confident than either. As if you were nervous, but could still power through it.
He hadn't even bothered to scroll through the other pictures you'd posted. Though, he would later in private. But, really he just wanted to see that confident little walk you did. The one where you were happy and carefree for five seconds before you usually and comically tripped on air.
And, instead he finds you somehow asking a mugger to get coffee. Of all the damn things.
Tim would've laughed if he hadn't felt that flicker of fear for you shoot down his spine like an electrical shock. He might have hit the goon harder than necessary, but Barbara had quickly confirmand he was a suspected trafficker for Black Mask by the time he slammed him into the pavement. It was much harder to feel guilty for it.
He expected it to be different. You've interacted with Nightwing, the friendly one, and Red Hood had been the gentleman. Now, here REd Robin was knocking a guy out in front of you. he didn't expect to be treated like Tim Drake. The much too young neurotic CEO and genius nerd.
So it took him a little by surprise when you teased him after his terrible excuse of wanting to do so many dirty things to you on this supposed first meeting.
"Would a lil' kiss help?"
"Yeah, it would. Thanks." God, he was getting punched in the face for this. But, it was so worth tasting that silly little mouth. Feeling those lips that wore his favorite smile so frequently. He wasn't crazy enough to take it to far, but he was eager. Too damn eager. And, pulling away had been torture and watching you walk away had been brutal.
That snap of the man's ribs had been his coping mechanism of choice for the evening. And, had brought him back to reality enough to focus on the rest of his night. But, worth it. You were worth every bit of it.
“I kissed them first. And, neither one of you can change that."
"Motherfucker, you didn't-"
"It's not going to mean much in the long run, asshole. Not when their mine."
"Oh, shut up, dickface. Possessive much?”
“Pot calling the kettle black.”
"It doesn't matter if either of you win them over, I still kissed them first. And, they asked. I will always have that. And, I'm still gonna win."
"Shut up, Timbo. You're acting as if they’re some prize. They're everything."
"Agreed. Still winning though."
"I'm helping Dick punch you in the face."
"Worth it."
"Fuuuuuuuuuck." You're whispering it for once, mostly because it's morning, early morning, and crashouts are scheduled for after 7:30 am. Unless it's before 5:00 am. In which case, go fucking nuts.
Anyway, you were currently dealing with your new reality. The one in which you had made lip contact with Red Robin. AKA, Tim Drake.
Sure, a few nights ago you'd nearly seen Dick's penis, but there had been no contact or actual penis in your vision. Just your radius. And, now that Jason was officaially on the dark side of sweet smut you had realized, shit just got a little too real.
The slow burn you'd imagined might be burning a little hotter and faster than anticipated.
Great. Great.
Not like you have any experience to go off of other than Babs’s plans. Which was drastic. It wasn't even about the adoptive sibling aspect anymore.
"I can't fuck them." That was a line you had to draw. This was clearly a strange competition and you couldn't add that into the mix without hurting someone. And, that was another horrific thing you realized.
Someone was going to be hurt, unless they all the sudden decided to team up and share you. Of which, RIP your ability to walk. Although…
"No. No, no, no. Too naughty. Focus, you're not that slutty. Maybe." Eh, it was better to think about what information you did have. They were too jealous from what you could tell via writing. You're not quite certain how jealous or to what level. But, there was enough evidence there to say it was there.
God, you should probably go eat breakfast. But, you might run into one of them. Unless they were all sleeping off patrol in their rooms.
Which… Might not be a bad thing. Might be able to see if anyone was affected by your little photo shoot yesterday. Hehehe. Time to get sneaky sneaky.
Crawling from your bed, you don't exactly bother getting ready for the day. No point, you were nearly mugged yesterday. You had to look somewhat traumatized and pathetic from it. Pity points meant none of them would suspect a thing.
As you made your way to the stairs, you cursed. The only room you could pass without drawing suspicion was Dick's. Which was at least something. But, not enough.
So you made sure to move extra slow. Sometimes he stayed in the manor, sometimes he stayed in Bludhaven. Really, now that you think about it, one of your plans should be to visit his—
“Fuck, you’re so beautiful.”
Why thank you— OH MY FUCKING GOD THAT SOUNDED LIKE A MOAN!
Dick was in— Dick was in his room. And, there were noises coming from it.
Freezing on the steps, you quickly throw your morals out the window, and sneak over towards the door. Fist raised to knock. But, you don’t. It’s just incase you get confronted by anyone else walking by. Proper planning.
But, holy fuck, were you listening to this shit. For research purposes.
Hey, you needed to know which picture did it for him and this was faster than waiting for him to post another fic or update his.
Thus far, all you could hear was only a bunch of moans and groans, and little gasps of air that had your insides doing slippery things. Lots of murmured praises too. Some that definitely had you getting hot and bothered. But, which picture was it.
“Want to spread you apart and have you watch me slide my—“ Oh, mirror pic. It was the mirror pic and you were totally not imagining that. Fuck, no. No. No.
It wasn’t like you already read a fic he wrote about that. Not at all.
Oh, who were you kidding. You were, and you were imagining what he was doing on the other side of that door. Which hand he was holding the phone with and which hand he was using to tease himself. The color he flushed as he got close.
“What are you doing?”
“Oh, my god.” You whisper scream, for once in your life. Slowly turning around with the look of utter guilt and embarrassment as Jason stands in the middle of the hallway looking at you with a raised brow.
“Nothing.” Bitch, you had been caught in the middle of being a voyeur. You were never going to emotionally recover from this. Sign your ass up for Arkham now. Get the padded cell ready. You were busted.
“Really? Because you’ve been standing there for roughly two minutes—“
And, Dick chooses that exact moment to let out the loudest groan of his early morning meat beating session. For both Jason and your ears to hear the pleasant sound of.
That wasn't even the finale. Because now you just hear faint sound of what you think and maybe pray is your name being said over and over.
"I don't know what to do." Cover your ass and play dumb, you stupid little pervert.
"I fucking do. Move."
🌥️Ko-Fi Link
A/N: I feel like this chapter was too simple despite my attempts to push it. How frustrating. At least I outlined some of this now. I will now be adding freak ideas, suggestions are welcome.
A/N: And, yeah, no smut. At least not in the main storyline. Sequels and multi endings on the other hand.... maybe. No promises.
⏾⋆.˚ pairings: Jason Todd x reader, Fatson Todd x reader
⏾⋆.˚ summary: Jason needs your kisses and cuddles to have sweet dreams, but Fatson keeps getting in the way, and it’s making Jason very jealous.
⏾⋆.˚ warnings: none just fluff!
The soft, low hum of a lullaby had barely left your lips before a deep, aggrieved groan vibrated straight through the mattress, causing the edge of the duvet to shift violently.
You paid it absolutely no mind, carefully tucking the tiny, frayed edge of the blanket right up beneath a round, plush chin. You smoothed down the tiny felt tuft of white hair on the plushie's forehead, pressing a ridiculously sweet, gentle kiss right between its wide, embroidered safety-button eyes.
"Sleep tight, baby," you cooed softly, patting the absurdly sphere-shaped body. "You’ve had a big, long day of being perfect."
"You have got to be out of your fucking mind."
Jason’s voice came out as a low, gravelly rasp from the far right side of the bed. He was lying flat on his back, staring up at the ceiling with an expression of betrayal. His broad shoulders were tense, his arms crossed tightly over his chest, and his lower lip was pushed out in a pout so profound it looked almost painful on a man built like a brick wall.
"Don't speak so loudly," you whispered sternly, casting a sharp look over your shoulder at him. "He's trying to wind down for bed. You know how sensitive he gets after eight o'clock."
Jason snapped his head toward you, his dark brows furrowing into a deep, furious line. "It’s a blob," he hissed, pointing a giant, scarred finger at the cuddled bundle in your arms. "It’s a literal stuffed doll, sweetheart. It doesn't have a sleep schedule, it doesn't have feelings, and it certainly isn't sensitive."
You immediately gasped, quickly cupping two fingers over the plushie’s embroidered ears to shield him from the harsh words. "Jason! Do not talk about him like that right in front of his face! He is a delicate boy!"
"He is polyester fill and cheap felt!" Jason groaned, throwing his hands up in the air before flopping them back down onto the mattress with a loud, dramatic thump. He rolled onto his side, propping his heavy head up on one giant hand, glaring at the plushie nestled securely against your chest. "I cannot believe I’m getting sidelined by that thing. Look at him! He doesn't even have neck features! He’s just a ball with legs!"
"His name is Fatson," you corrected him instantly, drawing the blanket up higher over the round plushie shoulders. "And you will address him with the proper decorum."
"Fatson," Jason repeated, his tone dripping with utter disbelief. He dragged a palm down his face, dragging his fingers over his heavy jawline. "You bought him off some shady internet listing that literally called him 'fat hood', and now he’s somehow usurped my rightful position in this bed?"
"When I ordered him, he was listed as 'fat hood', yes," you admitted smoothly, giving Fatson’s plush tummy a loving little squish. "Because the creators lacked vision. But the second he arrived in the mail, soft and squishy and perfectly round, I knew his true identity. He became Fatson. And he has been the light of my life ever since."
"I am standing—well, lying—right here!" Jason whined, his voice pitching up in a way that he would fiercely deny to anyone else in Gotham. He dragged himself a few inches closer across the bed, the mattress dipping under his broad frame, though he still kept a cautious, pouting distance. "I am your actual boyfriend! The guy who buys you late-night takeout! The guy who lifts heavy boxes! I am six-foot-two and made of muscle, and you're cuddling a stuffed potato!"
"Fatson doesn't steal the covers," you noted reasonably, resting your cheek against the plushie’s squishy head. "Fatson doesn't come home at two in the morning smelling like gunpowder and motor oil. Fatson doesn't kick in his sleep."
"I kick once because I’m having a dream about beating up the Riddler, and suddenly I’m worse than a plush toy?" Jason scoffed, his blue-green eyes narrowing with intense jealousy as you leaned down to plant another loud, smacking kiss on Fatson’s plush cheek. "Okay, now you're just doing that on purpose to drive me crazy."
"Doing what? Giving my sweetest boy his bedtime affection?" You stroked the soft material of Fatson’s little red felt helmet hood. "He works hard, Jason. He holds down the bed all day while we're gone. He deserves a loving home."
Jason let out a long, dramatic huff, throwing his head back onto his pillow and rolling onto his back again, staring up at the ceiling fan with a scowl that could wilt fresh flowers. He crossed his arms over his chest, his bicep bulging against his dark t-shirt, resting in supreme, petty silence for all of four seconds.
"I’m your sweetest boy. Not him. He doesn't even look like me," Jason muttered bitterly into the quiet room. "My chin isn't that round."
"It's an artistic interpretation," you replied softly, adjusting the blanket so Fatson’s tiny felt feet didn't get cold. "It captures your core essence. Round, soft, slightly grumpy, but overall completely harmless."
"Harmless?!" Jason sat bolt upright at that, looking utterly scandalized. "I am a Crime Lord. I’m the Red Hood! I strike fear into the hearts of Gotham's underworld! I am a dark, brooding lethal weapon!"
"Shh!" you hissed, glaring at him over your shoulder. "You’re going to wake him up! Look at him, he was just settling down!"
Jason looked down at the plushie. It sat there, totally inert, staring straight ahead with its black bead eyes and a perpetually stitched-on neutral line for a mouth.
"He's not asleep!" Jason yelled in a harsh, forced whisper, leaning over toward your side of the bed. "He's not awake either! Because he is cotton stuffing, babe! He doesn't have a nervous system!"
"You're just jealous," you said simply, pulling Fatson closer into your arms, tucking your chin over his round little head. "You're jealous that Fatson gets prime cuddle real estate without having to do any of the emotional heavy lifting."
"I am not jealous of a lump of fabric," Jason snapped, though his body language betrayed him entirely. He scooted even closer, his large frame practically invading your half of the mattress now, his chest just inches away from your back. "I just think it's ridiculous that I'm lying over here on the cold, lonely side of the bed while you're pouring all your warmth and affection into something that came out of a vacuum-sealed plastic bag."
"If you're nice to Fatson," you offered generously, "I might let him share a sliver of the blanket with you."
"I don't want a sliver of the blanket from Fatson," Jason grumbled, though his hand subconsciously reached out, hovering over the soft duvet. "I want my girlfriend."
"Fatson says he's open to sharing, but only if you apologize for calling him 'that thing'."
Jason stared at you like you had completely lost your mind. "You want me to apologize to a doll?"
You just held his gaze, unblinking, casually patting Fatson's back in a steady, soothing rhythm.
Jason let out a groan that sounded like a dying engine, rubbing his knuckles over his face in defeat. He leaned down until his nose was just inches away from the plushie's tiny felt face.
"...Fine," Jason muttered, his voice dropping into a deep, grudging rumble. "I'm sorry I called you 'that thing', Fatson. You're... a very structurally sound lump of stuffing."
"And?" you prompted softly.
Jason gritted his teeth, his cheeks flushing a faint, adorable pink in the dim light of the bedside lamp. "And... your white streak looks very handsome."
You tried. You really, truly tried to keep a straight face. You squeezed your eyes shut, bit the inside of your cheek, and buried your nose right into Fatson’s soft, velvety head to muffle the sound. But watching a giant, ruthless vigilante gravely apologize to a tiny, spherical plush toy was simply too much for your body to handle.
A small, choked noise escaped your throat, followed immediately by a sharp snort.
Jason froze. His eyes narrowed as he leaned in closer, catching the way your shoulders were violently trembling. "Are you... are you laughing at me?"
"I can't help it," you giggled, finally catching your breath. Very carefully, with exaggerated gentleness, you placed Fatson onto the nightstand right next to the lamp, pulling the edge of a stray coaster over his tiny feet. "There. Fatson’s asleep now."
You turned back around, flipping over to face Jason properly.
Before he could grumble another word, you slid across the sheets and threw your arms around his neck, tucking yourself directly against his chest. Jason didn't hesitate for a single second; his heavy arms immediately wrapped tight around your waist, hoisting you flush against him like he’d been starving for the contact all night. He buried his face right into the crook of your neck, letting out a long, heavy sigh of absolute relief.
"Finally," he muttered, his voice muffled against your skin as his big hands smoothed down your back. "Felt like I was waiting in line at the DMV over here."
"You are such a big baby," you teased gently, running your fingers through the thick, soft dark hair at the nape of his neck, catching the faint texture of his own white streak.
"I am not a baby," Jason grumbled softly, though he nuzzled deeper into your warmth, resting his heavy chin on your shoulder.
"You were jealous of a seven-inch doll named Fatson."
"I wasn't jealous," he lied smoothly, his broad chest rising and falling against yours in a steady rhythm. "I was just enforcing proper bed distribution rules. He was taking up valuable real estate."
"He weighs four ounces, Jay."
"Four ounces of pure evil," Jason corrected, though his grip on you was loose and comfortable now, his thumbs lazily rubbing circles into your waist through your shirt.
You smiled softly into the dim quiet of the bedroom, tilting your head back just enough to look at him. His eyes were half-closed, long dark lashes casting soft shadows over his cheekbones, the faint line of his jaw finally relaxed.
You leaned up and pressed a sweet, lingering kiss to his cheek, right over a tiny scar near his jawline. Then another one to the bridge of his nose. And finally, a soft, warm kiss right against his lips, holding it for a long beat until he hummed softly in approval, leaning into the contact.
"What's all this for?" Jason murmured, his eyes fluttering open, glistening with a soft, affectionate light in the dark.
"Just making sure my actual favorite boy gets his bedtime routine," you whispered back, tracing the line of his cheekbone with your thumb. "Since Fatson gets all the credit."
Jason hummed, a small, triumphant smirk spreading across his face as he tightened his hold around your waist, pulling you so close there wasn't a single breath of space left between you. He pressed his forehead against yours, his warm breath fanning across your lips.
"Good," he murmured lazily, his voice thick with rising sleepiness. "Because I actually need cuddles and kisses to have sweet dreams, you know. It's a medical condition."
"A medical condition, huh?" you laughed quietly, kissing the corner of his mouth once more. "Did Alfred diagnose that one?"
"It's a very rare ailment," Jason insisted, closing his eyes contentedly as he tucked you under his chin, wrapping the heavy duvet over both of your shoulders until you were completely cocooned in his heat. "Only cured by staying right here all night."
"Well, we wouldn't want to risk your health," you murmured, resting your hand flat against his chest, listening to the steady, comforting thrum of his heart beneath your palm.
Jason let out a deep, satisfied sigh, his body melting completely into the mattress as he finally got his way. On the nightstand, Fatson sat quietly in the dark, but in the center of the bed, wrapped up in the arms of the biggest pouty baby in Gotham, you closed your eyes and let the quiet warmth wash over you both.
tonight’s food for thought: frat!geto lying about his age on dating apps and thirty something reader uses him as a one night stand to get pregnant so she doesn’t have to pay for a sperm donor or ivf only to discover the morning after that he’s like ten years younger…playboy geto pathetically pining after his baby mama and she wants NOTHINGGGGG to do with him lmfao bc she thinks he’s too immature…
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