Maekar Targaryen’s Very Reasonable Safety Measures
Maekar Targaryen x wife!reader
Word cont: 2.4k
Summary:
The floors are dangerous. The terrace is dangerous. The wind is dangerous. The servants are incompetent. The children are too loud.
According to Maekar Targaryen, the only safe place for his pregnant wife is buried under a mountain of pillows.
English is not my first language!
☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆ .。.:*
The council chamber of Summerhall was cool, but the atmosphere was thick enough to cut with a sword. Maekar Targaryen stood at the table, both hands braced against the surface, fixing his steward with a stare sharp enough to make it seem as though the man had just confessed to treason. His stern face, framed by pale Targaryen hair, revealed no emotion beyond a deep, nearly permanent irritation.
“Repeat that,” Maekar demanded, his voice like two stones grinding together.
“My prince… I only noted that purchasing another twenty soft featherbeds from Myr and summoning yet another maester from the Citadel might be… a slight excess,” the steward stammered, nervously adjusting his collar. “With all due respect, the princess has already given birth six times. Your elder children are healthy. The princess knows perfectly well how to care for herself in this condition, and the household-
Maekar straightened slowly, and the knights present in the chamber suddenly became very interested in the tips of their boots. When the prince took on that posture, a wise man looked for the nearest shield. He was not his brother. He did not soften situations with a smile or a diplomatic word.
“The household,” Maekar began, taking one step closer, each footfall striking the stone floor like a warning, “is made up of a band of careless idiots. My wife carries our seventh child beneath her heart. The fact that the previous six times did not end in tragedy is not due to chance, the whim of the Seven, or, gods forbid, your competence.”
The steward swallowed audibly, not daring to interrupt.
“It is due to this,” Maekar continued, slamming his fist into the table hard enough to make the heavy brass inkwells jump, “that I personally eliminate every potential danger. If I say the stone floors in the family wing are to be covered with three layers of thick carpeting by dusk, then they will be. If there is still so much traffic and noise in the corridors that my wife cannot have a moment of peace, I will personally see to it that you and your men seek new employment at the Wall. No one there will complain of too many luxuries. Have I made myself clear enough?”
A chorus of panicked nods was the only answer given in the chamber.
Maekar did not dignify them with another glance. He pushed back the heavy chair, adjusted the collar of his outer robes, and strode toward the door with quick, decisive steps.
Officially, the council was over.
Unofficially, the clock in his mind had already counted far too many minutes since he had last seen you sitting safely in your chair. The entire castle, with its drafts, sharp-edged furniture, and clumsy servants, seemed to him in that moment like one vast field of hidden traps.
When you finally managed to rise from bed, you found your chambers in the midst of a revolution-one Maekar would, without blinking, have called “the implementation of safety measures.” Every rug runner, even the smallest, had vanished from the floors so you could not so much as think about slipping on one. The heavy carved chair you loved so much had been moved away from the window and buried beneath so many cushions it resembled the nest of some enormous bird.
The room was unbearably stuffy. The heavy, stagnant air of Summerhall made every breath feel like a challenge. You sighed, resting a hand atop your very advanced belly, and started toward the terrace doors to get even a mouthful of fresh air.
You did not even manage to touch the handle.
The door flew open with force, and Maekar himself appeared in the doorway. His severe face hardened instantly at the sight of you. In a few swift steps, he blocked your path like the walls of the Red Keep.
“Where are you going?” he growled, his deep voice vibrating through the stifling room. “The air outside is too damp. Sit.”
“Maekar, for the love of the gods, it feels like a forge in here,” you answered, setting your free hand on your hip and looking at him with a mixture of irritation and amusement. “I only want to step out onto the terrace. Get some air. I’ll be fine.”
“No,” he cut in shortly, crossing his arms over his chest and not moving an inch. “The wind from the hills is treacherous at this hour. You will not risk it.”
You took one step forward, lifting your chin high to meet those ever-stern violet eyes.
“My dear husband,” you began softly, but with emphasis, patting your belly pointedly. “This is our seventh child. Nothing went wrong the previous six times. You truly need to rest and let me breathe.”
Maekar did not even blink. His face remained deathly serious as he leaned slightly toward you, radiating that unshakable, stern certainty of his.
“My love,” he said, his voice carrying absolute, almost immovable gravity, “there is a direct correlation between my actions when you are with child and the fact that we have six healthy children. Do not question success.”
You froze for a moment.
Then a loud, helpless laugh burst from your lips.
“Are you serious?” you laughed, shaking your head in disbelief. “Are you truly trying to convince me that all of this paranoia is simply a well-considered plan?”
“It is not paranoia. It is caution,” he muttered, but in that same moment his gaze softened by the smallest degree. Before you could protest, his strong hands settled on your shoulders, and with remarkable care for him, he began steering you back toward the safe nest of pillows. “Now sit.”
Once Maekar had made certain you were seated comfortably and had no immediate plans to storm the terrace doors, he stepped out into the corridor, closing the heavy door quietly behind him. He had not taken even three steps when he heard hurried, muffled little footsteps and a distinctive shuffling sound.
Daella appeared around the corner, holding the hand of one-year-old Rhae, who was still taking rather unsteady, wobbling steps. Just behind them walked five-year-old Aegon. At the sight of his father, little Aegon immediately slowed, though his large violet eyes still shone with curiosity. In his hand, he clutched a hastily gathered bouquet of slightly crushed marigolds from the garden.
Maekar stopped and crossed his arms over his chest, looking down at them with his traditional stern expression. The children, however, did not flinch. They knew that look too well. To them, their father was not a monster, but rather an exceedingly grumpy commander whose moods simply had to be endured.
“Where are you going?” Maekar asked, his voice quiet but carrying like an order.
“To Mother,” Daella replied matter-of-factly. “I brought her fresh figs from the kitchens so she won’t be hungry.”
“And flowers!” Aegon leaned forward, waving the crushed stems. “Rhae wanted to come too!”
Maekar looked at the bouquet, then at the figs, and finally at little Rhae, who had just let go of her sister’s hand and, with a soft, delighted squeal, toddled straight toward his legs, grabbing the hem of his robes. He frowned so deeply his brows nearly became one line, but he immediately crouched so the little girl would not lose her balance.
“Your shoes.” he observed grimly, though his large hand guarded the one-year-old with incredible gentleness. “They click against the stone. And you, Rhae, stomp louder than all of them. I told the steward clearly that this corridor was to be quiet. Your mother must rest. If you wish to go in, you will walk on your toes. Like scouts. Not a single sound.”
Daella gave her father a faint, amused look, then obediently lifted her heels.
“Yes, Father.” she whispered.
Maekar turned his stern gaze on his son.
“And you, young man.” he muttered to Aegon. “You watch your sister. No running around the chamber. No jumping on the bed. You give her the flowers, sit on the stool, and behave as befits a prince. Understood?”
The boy nodded vigorously, almost saluting with his little hand.
Maekar lifted one-year-old Rhae onto one arm-making sure her small hands did not dirty his robes-and opened the door for the little troop with his other hand. He let them in, then entered right behind them, shutting the room away from the rest of the world.
As soon as the heavy door closed behind Maekar, the room immediately felt brighter. Daella, faithful to the promise she had made her father, walked on her toes, though her ear-to-ear grin entirely ruined her “scout-like” seriousness. Aegon hurried straight toward your chaise, holding the crushed marigolds as if they were the greatest treasure in the world, while little Rhae, still carried on Maekar’s arm, reached her chubby hands toward you.
“Did he terrorize you in the corridor again?” you asked with a smile, opening your arms as Maekar, with extraordinary care, set the one-year-old girl on the bed beside you.
“He told us to walk like scouts,” Aegon whispered conspiratorially, climbing onto the stool and placing the flowers in your lap. “Mommy, are you really going to burst because of the seventh baby? Because Father looks like he’s about to burst himself.”
Daella snorted with laughter, setting the bowl of fresh figs on the bedside table.
“Aegon, stop talking nonsense.” his older sister scolded, then came closer and kissed your cheek gently. “Father is just in one of his moods again. The castle steward nearly fainted when he ordered the floors torn up so thicker carpets could be laid down.”
You laughed softly, tucking little Rhae against your side. She immediately became fascinated by the tassels on your coverlet, babbling happily under her breath. You adjusted the crumpled marigold stems Aegon had brought and glanced toward the wall, where Maekar stood near the window. He watched all of you in silence, arms crossed over his chest, but there was the slightest softening at the corners of his eyes.
“Your father simply… cares about us very much” you said gently, stroking Aegon’s white hair. “But I promise, my darling, everything is all right. Nothing is going to happen to me.”
“That’s good,” Aegon muttered, reaching for one of the figs, which Daella immediately swatted his fingers away from. “Because when Father gets nervous, even the knights in the castle are afraid to breathe too loudly.”
You spent the next hour with them, listening to Daella talk about her lessons and Aegon complain that one-year-old Rhae had ruined his favorite toy. In that warm, safe nest of pillows, surrounded by your children, you could almost forget for a while about the fear that paralyzed your husband so completely.
When the sun finally began to set, Daella-as befitted an elder sister-gathered her siblings. She led sleepy Aegon away and lifted half-asleep Rhae into her arms, promising they would bring you more flowers in the morning. They slipped out quietly, leaving you and Maekar alone in the chamber.
The silence that followed slowly thickened with the approaching night, and your stern guardian finally pushed away from the wall and came closer to the bed.
Late night brought Summerhall the relief it had been waiting for. The heat had finally eased, giving way to a cooler breeze that gently stirred the heavy curtains in the bedchamber. The candles burned low, casting long, trembling shadows across the walls.
You sat on the bed, propped against a mountain of pillows, listening to Maekar’s steady breathing as he moved around the room. He had already removed his heavy outer garments, setting aside his belt and family signet. He wore only a simple, loose linen tunic now. Without all the layers of expensive fabric and harsh tailoring, he seemed strangely… human. Though still powerful and broad-shouldered, in the half-dark he looked simply like a man who was deathly tired.
He approached the bed with astonishing quiet. Despite his size, he could move soundlessly when he wished to. He sat on the edge of the mattress, which dipped beneath his weight.
For a long while, he said nothing.
He simply looked at you, the faint glow of the last candle reflected in his violet eyes. At last, he reached out one great, scarred hand and, with hesitation-almost reverence-laid it on your belly. Beneath his warmth, you felt the seventh child move faintly, as though answering its father’s touch.
Maekar flinched slightly, and that rare, almost painful grimace of tenderness appeared on his stern face-the one he never showed anyone else.
“You’re still awake.” he murmured, and his voice carried none of the rough command he had used in the corridor. It was low, raspy, and filled with exhaustion.
“I was waiting for you.” you answered softly, placing your hand over his fingers. “You spent the entire day running through the castle and terrorizing the servants. I thought you might at least stop at night.”
Maekar exhaled loudly through his nose, which was probably his version of a sigh. He moved his hand higher, stroking the taut skin of your belly with his thumb. Then he leaned forward, resting his forehead against your shoulder as if he had finally allowed himself to set down the weight he had been carrying all day.
“I cannot.” he whispered against the fabric of your nightgown. “When I lead men into battle, every movement has purpose. I know the strength of my arms. I know how long a shield wall will hold and when the enemy will break. Everything depends on my command. But here?”
He lifted his head to look into your eyes, and in his gaze was such deep, grim fear that it stole the breath from your chest.
“Here, my anger is useless. I could take the head of anyone who looked at you wrongly, but I cannot stop a fever or ill fate. Even if I placed guards at every step and covered all of Westeros in carpets, in the end my orders mean nothing against nature.”
His hand left your belly and moved to your cheek, his rough fingers impossibly gentle.
“You have survived six births, and every time, I feel as though I stand alone before an entire army without a sword in my hand. You are the one thing holding me together, (Y/N). If anything went wrong this seventh time… if you were gone… there would be nothing left to gather. Only ashes. So yes, I will be a tyrant to the servants. I will growl at every lord in this castle. But you and this child will live.”
You smiled faintly, drawing his head closer and threading your fingers through his pale hair. Maekar muttered something unintelligible, but in the end, he lay down beside you, one hand still resting on your belly like a guard unwilling to leave his post before dawn.
☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆ .。.:*
Thank you so much for reading 🤍
I had so much fun writing Maekar’s version of “being calm.”
Apparently, for him, that means threatening to send people to the Wall, treating terraces like enemy territory, and making sure his pregnant wife is surrounded by enough pillows to survive a siege.
But beneath all of that, I really wanted this story to be about fear — the kind Maekar cannot command away, fight away, or frighten into obedience. He is a man who knows what to do on a battlefield, but when it comes to the woman he loves, all that strength suddenly has nowhere to go.
So he becomes impossible. Overbearing. Terrifying. Ridiculous.
And completely, hopelessly devoted.
Thank you for reading this little piece of Maekar domestic chaos 🤍
i want food truck simon slinging some hot, shit food that tastes crazy good when you're hammered. smokes cigarettes and wears his big ass boots. sweating and grunting; terrible customer service.
fucks the cute health inspector when she rolls up with a disgusted face and bad attitude. makes fun of her cute clothes after he's rolled down the service window, got her propped up against a wedge of a wall, his nasty mouth up against her neck and his hard prick fat in her fancy cunt.
he fails the inspection, but gets her number. fucks her stupid and cooks in her kitchen instead. still smokes.
thinking about garrick and reader on a gruellingly long stakeout, stuck in a cramped bachelor apartment where a queen mattress is tucked into the only space a bed could go, with a thin cotton sheet as a separator when someone needs to catch a few zzz's while the other camps out.
there's an ac unit that blasts somewhat cool air over the dining room where all the gear and notes are stored. so many bottles of water. shitty, carb-heavy snacks, nothing fresh unless it crosses someone's mind (it doesn't). when ghost and soap come by on occasion, the toilet's never flushed properly. garrick's a decent roommate; not the best, but not the worst. usually remembers to close the lid and shut the fridge and offers you the best shifts unless you're bitchy.
and you are bitchy. it's the job, but fuck me, trailing these dead end leads in their shit apartments, watching through night vision goggles that hurt your scalp and make you sweat buckets is fucking brutal work. you scrap at each other like cats, claws never fully extended, but scrapping at the nearest thing. better than bringing it home to your boyfriend, who hates when you're on stakeouts. gets jealous easily. you tell him you sit in parked cars and try not to piss yourself for hours.
but, it turns out, he had reason.
garrick starts getting antsy. must be the heat, the tedium, the proximity — give it any sort of origin you want — but there hasn't been a better way to pass the time than getting railed at the dining room table while garrick forces your chin to table, eyes locked on the window to make sure you don't miss any movements from the target's apartment, your body bent over the shiny laquered wood, your pussy squeezing its tight fist around his thick cock. he's mean to your tits, scratches at them when he wants, knows it'll fade by the time you go back home. your pants are never yanked down further than your knees, just enough to find the hole he wants, and smear his dripping cock all over your ass, your crack, your lower back, until he slides down just so, into your pussy. likes to mark you up with it. pisses you off and makes you cranky as fuck when he does it; you gotta stand in the bathroom on the edge of the tub, twisting this way and that with a wet rag, wiping the evidence off your skin before it dries.
when the target suddenly moves, something out of the ordinary that a street unit's got coverage on, garrick bullies you onto the mattress and fucks you so hard that when dispatch trills through, he has to answer for you — she's in the toilets — as his thick, pearling cum leaks out of you onto the fucked up bedsheet. the look on his face when you stare at it, fucked-dumb and pissed off all in one, has him rolling you onto your side, legs still tangled in pants, so he can make you squirt with his two middle fingers curled up inside your cunt until you have to muffle your growling screams into the yellowed pillow.
"fuckin' sick of me, yet?" he grins as you use a spare t-shirt of his as a cum rag right before you chuck it at his head. "'m fuckin' proper sick of you."
thinking about teasing ghost all day, making suggestive jokes in every meeting, walking way too close every time you go past him, finding any excuse to set a hand on his arm or shoulder.
and he’s really trying to stay unfazed, he knows you’re doing it just to get under his skin, probably a stupid bet with the two sergeants that send him knowing looks whenever you walk by.
that is until late afternoon, when everyone’s responsibilities are done for the day and all that’s left to do is wait for supper while playing some poker in the rec room.
you get there and despite all the available chairs, you sit on his lap, happily announcing you’re a team now. you make sure to place your ass right on the half-chub he’s been sporting all day due to your actions, hiding your triumphant grin behind your cards. the whole time you insist on being the one to pick new ones and pushing forward your shared chips, making sure to rock back-and-forth against his more than evident bulge.
no one says anything when ghost suddenly slams the cards down, nor when he grunts a strained “word with you, runt” before he’s tugging you up and out of the room.
that’s how you end up here, folded up in half, knees pressed to your chest and held down by the bulk of ghost’s weight. tears stream down your cheeks, a bit of drool catching on the corner of your lip as you barely have time to recover from the third orgasm he’s pulled from you just with his mouth and fingers.
“this what you wanted?” he asks with a scoff, sliding his cock against you, just so you feel how hard and fucking big he is. “this what you’ve been begging for all day, isn’t it?”
your head falls against the pillows, back arching as much as it can while he pins you down, when he pushes into you. he’s so thick and so big and hard- it feels like your hole is being stretched thin, like you’ll just be spit in half.
“Simon!”
It makes him laugh, the fact that only now, all brainless and fucked out, do you actually use his name. Perhaps the fact that you’re cumming again just from the stretch also amuses him, pushing a little further in despite the way your walls clench around him.
“ ‘s too much,” you whimper, words slurred and thick, your tongue feeling heavy and like it’s covered in molasses. “w-wait… d-don’t— holy fuck! don’t move yet.”
“move?” yet another scoff leaves him, and he adjusts over you, guiding one of your hands down and between your bodies, wrapping it around his base and showing you everything he hasn’t pushed in yet. “we’re not even halfway in, runt.”
Pornstar!Simon who’s been told he can’t fuck you anymore because the way you sound when he’s inside you makes every other costar you’ve had in the past look bad.
The Director pulling him aside with the footage still looping on the monitor, voice low, telling him it was obvious your moans dripping out wet and broken were real in a way you’ve never given the cameras before, obvious now that every gasp and whimper you’d faked with the others was thin and breathy and hollow compared to this and your former costars were bound to complain.
Said it made the lads before him look like they couldn’t even get you properly wet, let alone fuck the sense out of you. Said pairing you with Ghost again was asking for trouble. Too risky. Too fuckin’ real.
Swinging the monitor around to show Ghost the way he had angled his hips so the camera caught his cock stretching your silky cunt half an hour before, thick enough that your walls flutter around him without any acting, slick spilling out around the base every time he bottomed out.
Your fingers scrabbling along the bed every time he ground himself down, too fucked out to really run from the pleasure the way you wanted to, body shaking brain reduced to static goo.
You having a hard time remembering the scripted words you were given, eyes rolling in your sockets, little whimpers and moans punched out “hn-hn-hn-“ every time his hips met yours and the head of his cock kissed your cervix.
Ghost cooing down at you when you miss your cue for the third time, hand pinning your wrists above your head while the other kept your thigh shoved wide, voiced amused when he asks “wha’s amatter? Cat got your tongue, dove?”
Ruined any possibility of you answering when he fucked you deep, making your cunt visibly pulse around him on the monitor, arousal drooling down his balls.
You tried. You really did. You mouth opened, some broken attempt at the first word, but it dissolved into another punched out moan the second he angled just right, letting the camera see the way your eyes rolled in their sockets.
His thumb stroking once over your clit, almost gentle, almost fond. “Tha’s it,” he murmured, “take it. Fuckin’ take it.”
Another missed cue. Another low, rough chuckle. He didn’t really give you room to think. Just kept you pinned and full and dripping while the cameras roled and the script stayed forgotten on the floor somewhere behind the lights.
The director was still talking but Ghost wasn’t listening, instead, just reached over and rewound the tape instead. Watched the part where you tried to speak again. Watched the way your body gave out for him and only him. Watched his own hand on the screen, thumb stroking your clit.
He hit play once more. Let it loop. Thumb hovering over the button, already deciding he didn’t give a fuck what the director had to say about it, he was gonna fuck you again no matter what.
picturing being a tourist on vacation, and you come across a masked soldier (similar to the king's guard) that can't move from his station, nor acknowledge if you try talking to him.
you've been on a pub crawl all day, you're feeling sauced and bold. you whisper the filthiest things you can conjure into this big ass man's ear, watching his eyes for any reaction whatsoever; nothing.
you feel sorry for being gross to a stranger doing his job.
but that's ok. simon learned enough about you in the few minutes you spent with your hot mouth pressed by his ear. your friends calling you by name; a mention of a hotel; you're here for another four days. it's enough for a man like him.
it's cute that you thought you were being so dirty. he'll teach you loads more by the time he's had you for a solid 24 hours. have you on your back, on all fours, taking his cock so deep you don't have any words left at all. no teasing left in your sweet voice; just the most pitiful sobs and whimpers for him instead.
it's even cuter that you think you're leaving to go back home.
until we're rotten; a AKOTSK AU (Ghost x Johnny X F!Reader)
AN: your honor, they're all toxic and we love them for it.
Summary and complete CW (contains smut, violence, sex work and mentions of abortion)
Ghost had buried his sire beneath a tree in a field in a land that had no proper name. The hedge knight had stayed by the man's side until he drew his last breath, and even after that he had stayed, wondering what words he was supposed to say over the man who had been the closest thing to a father to him. His sire had not been a kind man, had never shown him anything akin to love, but he was honorable in the ways that mattered to Ghost.
Ghost had promised that dying man he would find the closest tourney, that he would fight the way Ghost had always fought with a brutality that most could not and that win or lose at the end of the tourney he would find himself a new master to follow. Ghost had never wanted to enter a tourney, he saw no point to play fighting when there were actual battles to prepare for. The only things he had to prove were on the battlefield. But the dying wishes of an old man were hard to say no to, even harder when that man bled out from a wound meant for him.
The tourney grounds are already lively when he arrives. The division between the common folk and the knights and the nobles is clear as he makes his way between tents and bodies. The common folk are densely packed together near the edges of the grounds, their tents shabby compared to the ornate fabrics that decorate the tents of the lords and noble knights that come from houses with prestigious names.
Ghost causes a stir. How could he not with his size, his mask and his mysterious origins. Each theory is more wild than the next. He’s the bastard of a lord come to seize his rightful place, he’s the crowned prince in disguise, he’s one of the old gods made man here to test his followers.
He hears the whispers and pays them no mind, he has always been a spectacle even before he joined his sire. He had been a large child and an even larger teen. Though, he hadn't always been so violent. Much like the sharpest blades, Ghost had been forged in the flames, his will and his desires beaten and ground and hardened until he was a weapon for others.
When it comes time to add his name to the roll, the master of the games is hesitant to add a man without a title wearing battle beaten armor who know one seems to know? There are noble knights fighting here, they shouldn’t have their reputations sullied by some common hedge knight with no master and no name. He tells Ghost to come back with someone who will vouch for him.
Ghost is smart enough to know that he is no proper knight, there were no fancy words shared between him and his sire, no oath, only his loyalty and his accomplishments in battle. He has fought alongside many of the men, he recognizes their banners and names, but it was always his sire who took the lead, who broke bread with the lords and their families, who had jokes for the men, soft words for the women. His sire was the one they should know and yet they all feigned ignorance.
Only one man claims to know of Ghost, even more shockingly that man is willing to vouch for him.
Ser MacTavish is a known scoundrel and rake. The other knights and lords know to keep their women away from the unruly and boisterous northerner, despite the fact that he had traveled to the tourney with his own pets. It was said that he could never be truly satisfied.
MacTavish stands out among the others knights of noble birth, today his hair shorn short on the sides, the rest plaited down his back and adorned with flowers. In place of pants or a tunic he wears a tartan kilt, often forgoing a shirt. As he follows along with Ghost to visit the master of games he complains about the southern heat while winking at him.
He reminds Ghost of the old gods he saw stitched into a tapestry in a sacked keep. There was a man surrounded by other ethereal beings dancing among the weirwoods, but the one with the flowers in his hair had caught Ghost's attention the most. He had only ever seen men adorned in metal, leather and blood. He had never seen a man look so soft, so pretty.
Ghost observes him, curious and apprehensive of his sole supporter. The man is more than a pretty face, his chest covered in thick hair and battle scars, each more ragged and raw than the last. Ghost studies each, a mace, a broadsword, the glancing blow of an arrow. His own body is much the same only he would never put it on display in such a garish way.
MacTavish drags Ghost to join him in his tent for a pre-tourney banquet, the northerner telling Ghost it's the only way to repay his kindness. The cups overflow with wine, the plates with meat, and pretty men and maidens dance around the crowd moving in ways Ghost has never seen before.
It’s at this banquet that he sees you for the first time. He sits next to MacTavish, a seat of honor according to his host who has one arm slung over the back of Ghost’s chair, the pressure heavy and hot, while the other swings around a chalice of wine that seems always on the verge of spilling over despite the way that MacTavish drinks heavily from it.
You are not alone. Your arrival, and the arrival of the other dancers is announced with cries from around the room. Each dancer moving with a gracefulness that Ghost could only dream of achieving. The moves seem both planned and spontaneous, bodies twisting around each other and undulating, pulsing as they fill the empty spaces between tables, between seats, between the throngs of people who feast on MacTavish's generosity.
Each dancer is more pretty than the last.
But you are the one that Ghost cannot look away from.
You move like gravity is only a suggestion, something to keep others tied to the world while you move about untethered and free of its weight. The dress you wear is made of a fabric that looks like smoke, it moves as fluidly as you do and covers nothing. Every inch of your skin is on display as your body twists languidly to the music. Ghost can't look away as you pass through the crowd, each time you appear he sees another part of you, another glimpse of the woman who is surely not of this world.
You are a whore.
Even now as you dance around the tent giving the guests a taste and a tease of what you can offer there is only one man who will enjoy the soft caress of your fingers, the plush press of your thighs and that is because he pays with the prettiest piles of gold coin.
You’ve played this game before with him. Pretend to be the entertainment, pretend you aren’t one of his pretty pretty pets that he drags from tourney to tourney, to battlefield to feast. You don’t look his way, you don’t break the illusion that you are some random woman he has never met before. It’s the same every time. He pretends not to see you, while you pretend to ignore his advances.
Johnny likes the chase. Likes to think he’s worked for your pussy. And you would be lying to say you didn’t enjoy it, Johnny might have a voracious appetite but he leaves none of his lovers wanting.
Tonight though you can't help but peer up at the head table, it's as if something pulls you there, calls to you. Through the throng of bodies you see him. Not Johnny, although you see him as well, a woman on one knee, his beefy hand kneading at her thigh as he speaks to the man next to him.
Can you call him a man? The top half of his face is covered with what looks like a mask made of bone, only his eyes visible from two black pits. The lower half is covered by a cloth that he pulls down to eat bites of dripping pieces of meat or swigs of his wine. Each time you hope to see more of his face before he pulls the cloth back up.
He is the biggest man you have ever seen and you wonder if he is big everywhere, for certainly it would be a waste if that was not the case.
This is the man the others have been whispering about, the secret prince or the beast sent to slay them all. A hedge knight that comes from nowhere yet claims to have been everywhere. You've also heard he is honorable, he's curried the favor of the lowborn attendants in some unspoken way. You have not cared to listen to them because you are not honorable. You are a whore from a disgraced house who sold your body to the highest bidder until you got lucky. 'ave tae call me Johnny if yer goan tae suck mah cock like ye like it he had whispered to you the first night you met after dragging you out to the stables when you should have been entertaining the man who had already paid for your services.
You are also smart, you know it's only a matter of time before Johnny loses interest in you.
Perhaps he is already losing interest in you. He stares up at the mystery knight enraptured by him, the same as everyone else. You know what it feels like to have those blue eyes peer into your soul, you know what it feels like to have the heavy hold of his arm grounding you, you know what it is like to have that man whisper to you switching between the common tongue and the language of his ancestors.
It is more intoxicating than even the finest wine. And when you dine with Johnny, Ser MacTavish, you only drink the best.
You are certain he will lose interest in you soon because you have a secret, easy enough to deal with if you found yourself a maester. But every morning as you wake up feeling more and more sluggish, the fatigue creeping up your spine as you perform your duties, dance this same dance from place to place, you start to think that maybe you don't want to get rid of it. If you had someone honorable, someone strong who could protect you and the babe maybe you wouldn't have to sell yourself anymore. Maybe you could sell yourself one final time, give one man the rest of you.
Maybe it could be enough.
When Johnny catches your eye you are shocked that he bids you forward, a wolfish smile across his face as he whispers to his companion. The other man watches you too, his eyes just as hungry.
This is not the game you are used to, but you allow yourself to be swept up in Johnny's hold, arms sticky with sweat as he pulls you against him, jostling you until your barely covered pussy is flush to his cock that strains against his kilt. The tartan rough through the silk of your dress.
He leans his chin on your shoulder, pressing his face to yours as he looks at the knight by his side.
Nae a bastard in the realm luckier than me. tae 'ave such bonnie company, ah must be favored by the old gods
You've thought the same of him, because how could he be so careless and so carefree, not once in his employment had you ever seen him training and yet not once had he been unseated in a joust, or bested at hand-to-hand. After battles and skirmishes he always returns alive, bloodied, bruised and later scarred, but never anything that doesn't add to his allure.
You don't know about the old gods, but perhaps he is blessed by The Warrior so that no true harm will come to him in battle, or by The Crone so that he has the foresight to keep himself safe.
Or, perhaps he is blessed by The Stranger. It feels the most right as you meet the eyes of the hedge knight, his mask hiding his face, the mystery that surrounds him almost suffocating this close up. With Johnny pressed to your back, his thick forearm around your waist and the hedge knight sat in front of you, his eyes heavy where they trail over every place that you touch Johnny.
It's hard not to imagine being pressed between the two of them in a much more private location. Spread out over the furs in Johnny's tent, the air thick with heat and the smell of sex. It wouldn't have been the first time you had shared a night with the northerner and a second partner, but never had it been with someone so large, so arresting.
is it the gods or your lord father's coin that buys your luck
You aren't surprised that the masked man's voice is deep, it matches the aura that surrounds him. His accent isn't one you recognize and you have been dragged across the realm and have met all kinds of folk. It bothers you that you cannot place this man, that you cannot see his face properly, that the tease of his lips when he pulls down the cloth to drink only drives your curiosity. And that when he speaks to Johnny, it is with a strange mix of the deference demanded by his high born name and a familiarity that speaks to years of camaraderie that the two men do not share.
The night melts in on itself in the way it does when the wine flows and no one seems quite ready to call it. Many of these men are meant to fight in the morn and yet the revelry continues until the light in the lanterns burns low and only flagons of wine remain on the tables. At some point Johnny left you to take a piss and when he stumbled back in it was with a woman on either arm, the three of them finding their way to the makeshift dance floor.
Johnny's raucous laughter could be heard over the instruments and the hum of voices.
Perhaps tonight he is the one playing hard to get.
The hedge knight is a mostly quiet companion, sipping his wine and watching the comings and goings of people around you. You didn't mind it for the most part, the rumors of the other folk could paint him some kind of saint and it would likely be far from the truth. The longer you had sat with him and Johnny the more you thought that to be the case.
He found humor in death and destruction. He is crass just like the other knights that you have met. You consider the possibility that he is honorable and that you could bed him and claim that the babe is his. Even if he is not honorable, he is strong and could protect you.
y'know 'im well
You wish he had asked you anything else. You don't want to talk about Johnny, don't want to see the way those other women paw at him, the way their fingers creep beneath the waistband of the damned kilt, the way their lips touch his skin.
It's not jealousy, but it burns all the same.
Don't know that anyone can truly know Ser MacTavish
Ghost is not known for his tact, he knows this and despite many attempts by his sire to teach him to talk proper, it had never really stuck. He just doesn't see the point in it, why should he bend the knee and talk all prettily to some pockmarked, backwards lordling who doesn't know how to hold a sword or his cock just because his father is lord of some shithole corner of the realm. And yet, he can sense it enough that you don't want to talk about the man currently spinning across the floor with two ditzy maidens.
He can try to talk prettier for you but he doesn't know how to spin fun little tales like Ser MacTavish, Johnny as you called him as he held you in his arms. Ghost doesn't know how to ask someone about their family, where they were raised, how they are liking the view. He can't very well tell you how he looks forward to bashing in the head of the man at the back of the tent, the one with the red hair and missing finger for no other reason than he was fuck ugly and once pissed himself in battle.
Do you have a tent, Ser Ghost
When you are the one to break the silence next he feels deficient in some way. He should be the one entertaining you after the way you entertained the crowds. He should live up to his knightly name somehow. He's even tried to keep his gaze away from your body, it's too easy for his hungry eyes to feast on the slopes of your shoulders, the line of your throat, the peak of your nipples through the dress you wear. He got more than enough of you when you were perched on Johnny's lap looking so pretty.
Aye
He answers while not meeting your eyes, looking back over the dwindling crowd. He knows that he should bid his host good morrow as well, even though he knows sleep will not come easy to him. But it will come better to him if he were in his own tent and not here, sat on this uncomfortable chair, surrounded by strangers and avoiding the first woman to have caught his eye in ages.
It's when you laugh that he finally drags his attention back to you. Back to the way your lips twist into a smile, the way the fire light casts shadows across your skin, the way you reach a gentle hand out and place it on his knee, fingers tightening as you lean closer.
Too close.
Would you like company
He can't help the way he looks to MacTavish before he answers, the man no longer dancing but now arm wrestling with some knight's squire, the baby faced boy looks no older than Ghost was when his sire found him.
Your hand leaves his knee, only to reach up and guide his face back to you. He wonders if you will shy away from his scars if you have no issues with MacTavish's. Ghost's are more, he's not a bonnie lad like the other knight, but perhaps he could be as eager of a lover? MacTavish strikes him as someone who wants to please.
Is it wise to steal you away from his more than gracious host, from the man who vouched for him even though they had never before crossed paths? A man who seems to crave violence and bloodshed with the same fervor as Ghost but with a touch more desire for debauchery and indulgence than Ghost has.
Yet, you are not married to the other knight and if you offer yourself up to Ghost who is he to pass up on the very generous hospitality of his host.
He stands, the movement shaky and abrupt after hours in that chair drinking wine and listening to Mactavish's stories. You stand as well, as if having decided for him that you will be joining him. Or maybe that is wishful thinking, maybe you only intend to retire for the night.
You follow him out the back of the tent into the dark night.
The tourney grounds are not quite quiet, not the way Ghost has grown accustomed to after years living off the land. Besides battles and skirmishes, he's spent most of his nights beneath the stars but MacTavish had insisted on him taking a tent for himself, calling it an investment in Ghost's performance at the tourney. Ghost had never needed it before, but, as he had quickly learned, MacTavish always got his way.
Ghost worries that you are used to finer things than a romp in a tent on a bedroll that is scarcely large enough for himself, however, you do not seem dissuaded by his accommodations because as soon as you are both plunged into the complete darkness of the tent your are plucking at the ties on his shirt.
He bats your hands away, capturing them both in one of his own and holding them between your bodies.
i am not some pretty little lord like MacTavish
don't need you to be pretty
i don't have any fancy words for you
don't need fancy words
what do y'need
i need you to fuck me like the whore i am
He doesn't need more direction than that. Ghost drops your hands, before tearing away the top of your dress, freeing the tits he had been coveting all night. You gasp as he takes each in a hand, pawing at them with calloused fingers. He wants his mouth on you and knows in the dark of the tent you won't be able to see his face, but you wouldn't be able to ignore the feel of his scars once his lips are on you.
You do not have the same qualms. Your own hands pull blindly at the mask, yanking it harshly until you have freed it from his head and toss it into a dark corner of the tent. You drag your nails over his scalp and through his roughly cut hair, uneven tufts that he hasn't properly seen for ages. It sends tingles down his spine, a sensation that is unfamiliar to him and yet leaves him craving more when your hand slips behind his neck in order to pull his mouth to your own.
You don't shy away from his rough kiss, from the cleft in his lip that leaves him face in a permanent scowl, or from the gnarled burn that took one of his ears and mars most of the left side of his face.
Folk believe the masked hedge knight named Ghost to be a monster but the skull mask is a kindness. Even the magnanimous Ser MacTavish would be tempted to turn him away if he were to see Ghost fully. Even his sire hadn't been able to stand the sight of him after a point, it was the old man that had given Ghost the mask, the skull of some unlucky bastard long bleached by the sun on the beaches of Dorne.
You pant into his mouth as his hands venture lower, tearing more and more of your dress until you stand before him bare. He might not be able to see you, but his hands paint a pretty picture as they explore each valley and peak of your body. The heft of your tits, the firm press of your peaked nipples, the soft skin of your stomach, pliant and warm, before his fingers dive between your legs, your wetness caught in the downy hair that covers your mound.
He wants to taste you, but you want to taste him more.
You drop to your knees hard, the ground unforgiving but you are determined to find out if he truly is big everywhere. You do not wait for his assistance, if he can ruin your dress you can rip open his trousers before you suck his cock.
You wish you could see it properly, because the moment you are yanking his pants down his cock springs free, thick and curved as your fingers dance over the only part of this man that is soft. The air is thick with his musk and you lean forward, trailing your tongue down the length of him until you find the tip, a pearl of pre-come waiting as your prize. His hands are quick to find the back of your head when you swallow down the head of his cock. You might be skilled but even you know your limits and taking him fully would only hurt you.
With time though…with time you could take more of him. For now you settle for sucking on what length you can take while you cup his balls in your free hand.
Above you Ghost grunts, his hands tightening where they hold you. You want to hear him come undone, truly undone. Would the giant of a hedge knight cry pretty tears as you bring him to climax over and over? Would he shout as he came? Or curse your name? Or maybe he is silent except for the prettiest little whimpers?
Maybe he would have no patience for your games and simply bring you to heel?
You could be happy with either, but if tonight is the only night you have to convince him to be with you, then you will need to focus.
Ghost pulls you away just when you are sure he is about to come. You whine, annoyed that he stopped you when you had been about to pull away anyway but then he's kicking off his boots, ripping off his tunic and pulling you down to the bedroll.
It's certainly not the most comfortable place you have taken a man, but then it's not the worst, and you are only there for a moment before his is moving your body as if you weigh nothing so that he is upon the ground and your legs are straining to straddle his waist, his cock pressed between your bodies.
You lean down and take is mouth again, enjoying the way he fights for dominance from beneath you. His cock is hot and hard as you grind down on it, it drags against your clit with each move, the tingle of pleasure more than you expected from a partner who isn't Johnny.
does Johnny fuck y'proper till ya come
You snort into his mouth at the outrageous question. Leave it to a man to have your pussy on his cock worrying about how another man fucks you. Would it bother him more to know your Johnny's whore? That you had fucked countless men before the northerner?
You bare down on his cock this time, his head notching just right, his hands flexing where they hold your hips as you press down further. He rolls his own hips up, pushing down with his hands. He is far from fully seated but already you feel the sweat dripping down your back. You take a deep breath, your hands pushing against his chest so that you can sit back, taking more and more on him until he is fully sheathed, his fingers so tight on your hips you are sure you will be bruised.
You certainly won't be able to walk right with the way his cock presses into your womb.
will you fuck me proper till i come
Ghost needs no further encouragement. He doesn't let you set the pace, he lifts your hips with ease before pulling you back down on his cock. Your nails dig into his chest as he pounds into you from below. You don't know that you have ever felt so full, so desired, so wanted.
You collapse forward on his chest as his hands continue to guide your movements. You pray to The Seven that he is not yet close, not at all ready for this night to be over and unsure if he will please you as promised, but perhaps at this pace you could come before he has had his fill of you.
When Ghost’s hips falter and you are certain he is ready to come you almost cry out in desperation, it’s too soon. Only the hedge knight slips a hand between your bodies, pinching your nipple hard before the wide expanse of his palm comes to rest on your throat, his fingers holding loosely as he pushes you up to ride him properly.
You roll your hips, relishing in the feel of him, the change in angle glorious, his own breathing is labor, his fingers twitching around your throat. His other hand drifts, kneading at your thigh first before shifting so that his thumb can press firmly against your clit, even just the pressure is enough to send a zing of pleasure up your spine, the heat growing beneath your skin until you can't help but clench around him, your own movements becoming unpracticed.
Come on my cock this time and next time I can ‘ave ya comin’ on my tongue.
You don't know if it is the promise of a next time or the press of his thumb, but you can't hold back your cry as you tumble over the edge. You slump forward into his hold, the hand against your throat holding you in place as he fucks up into you, finding his own release only moments after. The warmth of him spreads through you, and leaks out around his still hard cock.
Can he truly go again?
Perhaps you will find out.
Dawn comes slowly across the tourney grounds. Already squires, and servants and the hosts own staff bustle from here to there. You are already gone when Ghost wakes. It is the first time since he was a young child that he had shared a bed with another and he finds that he strongly wants to do it again. Maybe it was fucking you that had tired him out or it was the comfort of your face pressed to his chest, your warm breath against his skin, your hand clutching on to his wrist as you slept.
Ghost doesn’t expect to see you again, certainly not as he stands in the shit and the mud that leads into the makeshift fighting pit. He's there among the other fighters, most scarred and while not as frightening a visage as Ghost just as lethal. Sprinkled through the group are squires, baby faced and eager to please. Ghost has never had much use for a squire, but as he watches the boy nearest him fetch the knight he is with a wineskin he thinks it wouldn’t hurt.
It’s as he muses the benefits of a squire that he spots you.
You walk alone through the throngs of men, your face impassive as if unbothered by the sights and sounds and smells that surround you. When you spot him you smile and though you cannot see it he smiles back.
He doesn’t miss the way the other men watch you, some of the squires openly staring as you walk by.
You make your way to him with dainty steps, carefully avoiding the worst of the muck and the grime, but not all of it. The hem of your dress is quickly dirtied. This one more modest and far more fine, yet still not capable of hiding the curves on your hips, the thickness of your thighs, or the plushness of your tits. Is there a way Ghost could steal you away now? Or rip the eyes out of every one of these green little boys who don’t deserve the sight of you?
Ghost had come to the tourney in search of a master, but maybe what he was in search of all along was a wife? He could fuck you again tonight and pray to The Mother for her blessing, certainly you wouldn't leave him if it was his child that took root in your womb.
He shifts his stance, cock hard and uncomfortable in his armor but he can't stop his fantasies of filling you with his seed even as you come to a stop at his side. Still radiant, still smiling only for him.
Would you accept my favor, Ser Ghost
A lady’s favor?
He had seen other knights and noblemen receive favors from their women before battle. Tokens of luck and well tidings. A thing that he had never once received himself. He never made an effort to speak to the men around him, he was most certainly not talking to the women.
Ghost simply nods, not finding the right words to accept such a blessing. Your eyes shine with an admiration he does not deserve as you pull from your pocket a wispy piece of fabric, delicate and fragile, a piece of the dress he had savagely ripped apart because he had not been able to handle even that insignificant of a barrier between your skin and his touch.
You grab his wrist and pull it towards you. He cannot feel your touch through the gauntlet he wears, but he can remember the feel of your fingers, warm and persistent the night before. With ease you undo the gauntlet, handing it to him before wrapping the delicate strip of fabric around his wrist. You don't wrap it tightly, but you take care to ensure it is secure before replacing the gauntlet. You don't let go.
I'll pray to The Warrior for your safe return
You lift his hand up and place a single kiss to the cool metal of the gauntlet before pulling away. He watches you leave until he can no longer see you in the crowd of tourney goers. He is happy you left, for had you stayed by his side for any longer he was not sure he could have remained a gentleman.
Ghost eyes his competition again, this time with a far more discerning eye, each man here was an obstacle between him and you. He could not accept your favor and not win for you. Once he is victorious he will be deserving of you.
And if he must spend the whole night fucking a baby into you in order to convince you to stay with him, then he will do just that.
The tourney starts the same as all tourneys start. Johnny has grown bored of the airs that the nobles around him put on at these things. It's just folly for old men who were past their prime and green wee lads who had yet to see true war.
Johnny has done his part since coming of age to defend his own ancestral lands as well as fight the king's wars. The excitement of battle, the glory of victory, the parades of admirers had all grown old to him. Even the lavish banquets and perfectly decorated tents left him feeling unsatisfied.
The first thing to have caught his eye in a very long time had been you. Devious, discerning and oh so damaged. It hadn't taken much for him to convince you to follow him after he found you in that rundown, backwaters tavern. A few piles of gold coins and you were his.
Of course, you weren't his sole source of entertainment then, but it hadn't taken long for you to become his favorite. Yet, you vexed him so as you sat next to him in the viewing stands, using his position as a lord's son to get a prime spot to watch the fights. Never before had you been so engaged in the men fighting in the tourney, your attention had always been on him.
That is what he pays you to do, but he had come to hope that maybe a bit of it was a mutual fondness.
Although, he can't blame you when it is Ser Ghost who is taking the field. Johnny has seen many kinds of men in battle from all across Westeros. Never has a man drawn him in the way Ser Ghost has. He had heard talk of a hedge knight's companion who was inhumane on the field, a monster that haunted his enemies' dreams, the kind of warrior that played the villain and never the hero.
Johnny had been curious about him long before they had met.
Even Johnny can't help but lean forward as Ghost approaches his opponent. In full armor Ghost is stunning, with Johnny's help and coin he could be a sight to see, polished steel with gold trim would not do for a man with such a dark aura yet Johnny can't help but imagine him so before imagining the other knight covered in blood as Johnny removes each piece of armor before revealing the man behind the mask.
Have you seen his face?
It had been hard to ignore the fact that you had abandoned him at his own feast. That his guest of honor had absconded with his favorite pet had hurt, but to think that you had had the honor of seeing Ghost's face first? Johnny felt a stab of jealousy that he was not quite used to.
You gasp at the first hit, hand finding his and gripping it tightly. You wore the dress Johnny had brought for you, the kind of thing that wouldn't stand out among the other noblewomen who sat around you. You did not often talk of your past, but you wore this type of garment with ease, too much ease for someone who had been born to a lowborn family. Over time Johnny has dressed you more and more like the type of lady he was expected to be seen with, so slowly, and so carefully that he is certain you haven't realized what he is doing.
You also had yet to realize that he no longer took pleasure in his other companions, all of them knew not to tell you. It surprised him as it was your wit that endeared you to him after your beauty had lured him in. You were oh so clever until it came to this one thing. And had you noticed, you would have realized that by leaving him last night you had sentenced him to servicing himself.
Johnny had come twice to the image of you sucking his cock while Ghost fucked your pretty pretty pussy.
Does it hurt through the armor
Ghost doesn't even flinch when the other man's long sword hits him in the chest. A well calculated blow that allows Ghost to disarm the man as he attempts to pull back the sword that is far too heavy for him. If it hurts, Ghost makes no move to indicate it as a man runs onto the field to claim him the victor of this match. Two more opponents and Ghost win the prize for hand-to-hand. A handsome sum of money awaits the victor, but not nearly what Johnny could offer him.
Will ye kiss it better if it does
You drop his hand in shock, turning away from him and pretending to look very interested in the next pair of fighters.
Could it be that you like Ghost more than him?
You choke down a squeal as he pulls you into his lap, the boning in your dress sticking into his chest as he holds you tight, resting his chin on your shoulder the same way he had done the night before so that he can still see the fight. It does not seem this one is nearly as interesting to you as Ghost's.
Johnny wishes he hadn't given you such a well-structured dress for today, the stiff bodice is tragically separating him from feeling your plush stomach, it comforts him to feel just how alive you are. He settles for one hand holding you in place while the other grasps your thigh through layers of thick fabric. He hopes you will let him fuck you in the dress before dinner, then it will be his come dripping down your legs while you sit between him and his guest of honor.
It does not surprise him when the last match of the day is between Ghost and a knight from Storm’s End who looks like he has been mauled by a bear and put back together. Johnny has met this man, more than once, and luckily only ever as allies. While not quite as tall as Ghost, he is broad and barrel chested, and Johnny once saw him rip a man'ss jaw off with his bare hands. Ser Ulric the Jawbreaker.
Johnny would be terribly disappointed to see Ghost meet a similar fate today.
Seriously maiming or killing your opponent wasn't the goal of these tourneys, the lords and king would not approve of all of their best knights dying for the spectacle of it. Yet, on a day like today where the crowds pressed in close, the sun bared down on the folk gathered and the wine skins had been drained thoroughly it wasn't a surprise to hear calls from the crowd demanding blood.
You stiffen in Johnny's hold when the match starts, your nails digging into his skin where you grasp his wrist. He doesn't mind it, he is the one who has gotten the pleasure of keeping you in his lap all day, feeding you fruit from a bowl and sips of wine from a chalice.
Your hold on him tightens each time Ghost takes a hit from Ulric. From the viewing platform most are on the edge of their seats, many have coin bet on this match. Ulric is the favored fighter, despite the rumors around the tourney grounds that Ghost is some unworldly being, Ulric is known to the nobles. The gathered lords and ladies have seen him at tourneys before, the other knights have fought along side him. He is more than just speculation and whispered rumors.
Even you have seen The Jawbreaker take down countless opponents.
It's why you are crying out when you see Ulric land a blow on the back of Ghost's leg, the place unprotected by armor, the move of a swordsman who knows how to take down an opponent one-on-one. You squirm in Johnny's hold until you can hide your face in his neck, a completely undignified move that gets you curious stares from a few of the ladies that sit nearby. Johnny does not care, let those other ladies sit stiffly next to their husbands, stuffy old fucks who probably couldn't even get it up.
Johnny holds the back of your head gently, keeping your face turned away from the fight but not able to look away himself. He whispers to you in words he knows you do not understand but have always found comfort in, even now you melt into his hold, flinching each time the crash of swords on metal echoes through the field.
Ghost is limping now, blood dripping down his leg and pooling on the crushed grass as he studies his opponent. Both men are breathing heavily, this has been by far the longest match and they won't stop it until the winner is clear and by the cacophonous shouts from the crowd it will only end when one of the two has died.
For the briefest moment Ghost's gaze flicks up to the crowd, to the stands where Johnny sits with you. Its' a subtle movement, something that Johnny only notices because he hasn't once looked away from Ghost. He can't make out the other man's eyes from here, shaded by the helm he wears, but Johnny can feel that gaze, heavy and dark.
Is the other man jealous? Does he covet you, the woman Johnny holds so carefully in his arms? Does Ghost think there is a future with you that does not include him? Does Ghost think there is a future where he is not at Johnny's side?
Johnny grins, because he knows Ghost can see his face, can see the way you are tucked in close. He leans in and kisses the side of your head, smoothing his hand down your back in a move that to anyone else looks like he is comforting you, but its more than that. Ghost needs to understand that you are his, that it doesn't matter that you fucked the masked man, the knight with the skull helm, the mysterious hedge knight who might be a god that walks among them.
None of that matters because at the end of the night it was Johnny's tent you came back to smelling of sex with another man's come dried on your skin. It was Johnny who held you now in the stands with the other fancily dressed folk that even as a proper knight Ghost wouldn't be able to join.
Ghost knows this, knows that Johnny could never beat him in the field but has him beat in so many other ways. Maybe it is jealousy, or rage, or simply Ghost's nature, but the man merely tilts his head in acknowledgement before his gaze turns back on the other knight.
They circle each other, each step leaving behind a print in the mud, the trodden grass a map of their fight, each divet and scrap tracking their path. They come together again, swords clashing, one man grunting as the other swears, the two scrambling for control, for dominance. Even Johnny freezes as they fall to the ground, no longer a fight between two knights, they are simply animals who know that the only way to live is for the other to die.
The crowd has reached a fever pitch, there's no way you can hear Johnny's voice as he tries to assure you its almost over. Ulric has Ghost on his back, a heavy knee bearing down on Ghost's chest. In the fray Ulric has lost his helm, but Ghost has lost his sword. Ulric spits in Ghost's face, bloody globs drip down his helm as the other knight grins, his mouth full of bloody teeth. Its the look of someone who knows that they have won.
Johnny doesn't often pray to the old gods, it has been ages since he stepped foot in the godswood of his youth. There may be no heartrees in this southern land and no gods to hear his prayer, but he asks it of them anyway. It has only been a day but he does not want this knight to die. How utterly disappointing it will be to win you merely because Ghost has died at the hands of another man?
He will never know if it was the will of the gods, or simply the determination and strength of the man who has captured his attention, but Ghost raises hand, Ulric's discarded helm clasped in his fingers and smashes the other man in the side of the head. It is enough for him to lose focus, allowing Ghost to flip the two of them. Ulric is still armed, his sword now pressed beneath the fauld and grazing Ghost's stomach.
Ghost doesn't give the other man a chance to gut him. With the might of a knight not fully man, Ghost bring down the helm again, Ulric crying out first in surprise and then in pain as his face is hit over and over, the ornate edge of the helm breaking through his nose, then his eye socket and then the soft grey matter of his brain.
Ghost doesn't stop until there is nothing left but viscera. When he stands, the other knight's sword falls to the ground with a clatter, covered in blood. A man runs to the field, grasping Ghost's hand and raising it to the crowd as he proclaims him the victor.
When Johnny tells you it's over, you pull away from him, face tear stained and eyes wide. It doesn't seem you believe him until you see Ghost for yourself.
I want to go to him
Of course you do, not even a day since you met this man and you are pulling away from Johnny for him.
he's injured, he needs help
The tourney has a maester that will tend to him, Johnny had spoken to him when you had snuck away to give the knight your favor. Johnny knew what you were doing, saw the little strand of dress wrapped around your fingers as your nervously searched the grounds for the man you had only left hours before.
Johnny lets you go.
If he is in a foul mood that night no one mentions it to him. No one approaches him to dance, no one dares to take the seat next to him, no one dares to ask about you or Ghost. But he hears them whispering about Ghost regardless, late in the night when he typically would have sought you out, when the lights shimmer and the world spins, that's when he hears them.
'e's a monster, a'right
aye, 'eard 'e snatches up men's wives in the night
well i 'eard 'e eats the 'earts of the men 'e kills
ah 'eard 'e steals bairn tae bathe in they're blood
You do not return to his tent in the morning. He dresses for the joust, attendants scurrying around him as they attach his armor. You've never missed sending him off, never not given him a kiss to his helm before he mounts his horse. It reminds him of the days before he found you, different women in his bed each night, none lasting more than a few, very few willing to follow him into battle.
Johnny learns how Ghost felt the day before. The other knight is in the crowd of common folk, his height making him easy to spot. You are with him, huddled in between his arms, peering over the barrier to watch the knights who joust before him. When he is announced you smile and cheer for him just as you always did, but this time you are not alone.
The joust ends with little fanfare, Johnny lets himself be unhorsed early in the day. It would have been more dangerous to continue on distracted as he was. He doesn't see you after the joust, nor at his tent that night. It isn't until the next morning that you reappear in his orbit, your shadow not far behind.
There is a defiant challenge written across your face as you approach, some decision having been made between when he saw you last and this moment. Ghost is unreadable behind his mask, but he drapes a possessive arm over your shoulder.
Cannae believe ye stole mah pet
Ghost's hold tightens and Johnny doesn't miss the way you lean into the other man's touch.
I'm pregnant and it's Ser Ghost's and we are leaving together.
Pregnant? Your hand comes to rest on your stomach, the move drawing both men's attention down. You look no different, tired maybe but you spent the last three nights with a man that strikes Johnny as a thorough lover. And you shouldn't look different, its far too early for you to be showing, too early for you to even know. How could you know unless...
Johnny smiles. It's too early for you to know that you are pregnant by Ghost, the man could have spent all night fucking his come into you and it would still be too early to know, but it wouldn't be too early for you to know if it was someone else's.
Johnny congratulates you, praises The Mother for your good fortune. Ghost nods, but says nothing. Johnny lets them leave thinking they will part ways, start their new life with Ghost's winnings, but Johnny has other plans.
Even if that child were to be Ghost's it wouldn't matter. Johnny has grown tired of tourneys, and fighting, and sleeping in tents and pissing in the woods. His father has grown old, maybe he will suffer a fall, catch a cold from which he cannot recover or pass peacefully in his sleep and it will be time for Johnny to take his place as the lord of their lands.
And a lord needs a lady, and an heir, and a knight dedicated to his service. Lucky for Johnny, he knows where to get all three.
coworker!Soap sending "us ❤️" texts to his coworker and it's a mix of cutesy animal pics and genuinely concerning kidnapping fetish content. HR has spoken to him about it twice but he keeps getting away from it because he's a family friend of the CEO.
Summary: Tensions arise during a Targaryen family vacation, which prompts Daemon to step up as a husband and agree to relocating. Warnings: family drama, humor, angst, fluff, smut.
a/n: In honor of Daemon's comeback in ep2. He's so maniacal but he made me laugh so many times.
The first time you mentioned divorce, Daemon had laughed. Not a cruel laugh, more like the sound someone makes when a child insists they’re running away to join the circus. Dismissive. Almost fond. He’d kissed your forehead and told you to spend the weekend at the spa, his treat, and the next day a black card arrived by courier with a note in his sharp, slashing handwriting: For whatever you need. —D
That had been four months ago. The card was still in your wallet. You’d used it exactly once, to pay the retainer for a divorce attorney.
Now you stood on the balcony of the hotel suite in Pentos, watching the Narrow Sea churn itself into a gray-green froth as a storm rolled in from the west. Behind you, through the open doors, you could hear the muffled sounds of your sons arguing over a video game and the lower, smoother cadence of Daemon’s voice as he settled whatever dispute had arisen. Aegon, at six, was already developing his father’s talent for theatrical indignation. Viserys, barely four, just wanted to be included.
The Targaryen family vacation. Two weeks in a luxury resort that Daemon’s brother Viserys, the elder Viserys, had booked for the entire clan. A chance to “reconnect,” Viserys had said in that ponderous way of his, as if family bonds were something you could schedule into a Google Calendar and tick off like a board meeting.
You’d tried to get out of it. You’d tried to tell Daemon that going on a family holiday while you were actively meeting with lawyers was absurd, farcical, the kind of thing that would make you the villain in a made-for-TV movie. He’d listened with that infuriating half-smile of his, the one that said you’re adorable when you’re worked up, and then he’d informed you that the flights were booked, the boys were excited, and he’d already told Viserys you’d be there.
“I’m not discussing this with you,” you’d said, standing in the kitchen of your King's Landing townhouse, hands braced against the marble island. “I’m telling you. I’m filing for divorce.”
“You’re not.”
“Daemon...”
“You’re not filing for anything.” He’d crossed the kitchen with that predatory grace he’d never lost, even in a cashmere sweater and trousers. His hands had settled on your hips, his thumbs pressing into the small of your back in a way that made your body betray you with a shiver. “You’re tired. You’re stressed. You’ve been dealing with my brother’s wife and her...” He’d paused, searching for a word that wouldn’t quite cross the line into outright insult. “Her ambitions. Let me handle it.”
“You can’t handle this, Daemon. You can’t throw money at me until I forget I’m unhappy.”
Something had flickered in his eyes then, a flash of genuine confusion, perhaps even hurt, before it was swallowed by that practiced Targaryen hauteur. “Unhappy,” he’d repeated, as if tasting a foreign word. “I’ve given you everything.”
“You’ve given me things. There’s a difference.”
He hadn’t answered. Instead, he’d done what he always did when a conversation veered into territory he didn’t want to explore: he’d withdrawn, not physically but emotionally, the drawbridge coming up behind his eyes. “We’ll talk about this later. The boys need to be put to bed.”
And that had been that. The next morning, suitcases had appeared in the foyer, and Daemon had been all brisk efficiency and paternal warmth, directing the children, consulting with the nanny, and you’d found yourself swept along in the current of his will, as you always did, as you had been since the day you met him at an event ten years ago.
The storm was moving faster now. Lightning split the sky to the west, a jagged white scar that illuminated the darkening sea. You started counting automatically, a habit from childhood: one, two, three, four, five, and the thunder rolled across the water, a deep, bone-rattling growl. Five seconds. About a mile away.
“Storm’s getting closer.”
You didn’t turn. You’d felt him before you’d heard him, that particular awareness you’d never been able to shake, the way your body seemed to know when Daemon Targaryen was in a room. He stepped onto the balcony beside you, close enough that his shoulder brushed yours, and you saw that he was holding two glasses of wine.
“Red,” he said, offering one. “The Pentosi varietal the sommelier recommended. Viserys ordered twenty cases for the cellars.”
“Of course he did.”
Daemon’s mouth twitched. “He’s planning a gala for the autumn. Apparently, Alicent has been nagging him about entertaining more. Networking.” He pronounced the word with a particular disdain, the way another man might say vermin.
You took the wine, mostly because you needed something to do with your hands. “Alicent’s networking is called ‘securing her position.’ She’s smart.”
“She’s a social climber with a spreadsheet and a prayer book.”
“Daemon.”
“What? It’s true. You know it’s true. Even Rhaenyra knows it’s true, and Rhaenyra is pathologically incapable of thinking ill of anyone her father deigns to marry.” He took a long drink of his wine, his eyes fixed on the horizon. “I still don’t know what Viserys was thinking. Otto Hightower’s daughter. It’s like bringing a fox into the henhouse and handing it a napkin.”
You wanted to argue, mostly on principle, but you were too tired. Three days of enforced proximity to Alicent’s brittle smiles and Viserys’ oblivious paternalism and Rhaenyra’s increasingly desperate attempts to play peacemaker had worn you down to a nub.
Rhaenyra was the only one of Daemon’s family you genuinely liked, she was fierce and funny and surprisingly self-aware for a woman who’d been raised to believe she was the center of the universe, but even she had been grating on you today. She’d cornered you at breakfast to ask if everything was “okay” between you and Daemon, her violet eyes too knowing, too sympathetic. You’d deflected, but barely.
It was Daemon’s fault. All of it. If he hadn’t insisted on moving the family back into the Targaryen ancestral pile, if he hadn’t dragged you into his obsessive crusade against Alicent’s influence, if he hadn’t treated your unhappiness like a software glitch that could be patched with shopping and sex and those devastating smiles he deployed like weapons...
“You’re thinking very loudly,” Daemon observed.
“I’m thinking about divorce.”
He didn’t flinch. Didn’t even blink. “The storm’s getting worse. We should go inside.”
“Daemon.”
“The boys are waiting for dinner. Viserys wants to eat at eight, which means Alicent wants to eat at seven-thirty, which means if we’re not in the dining room by...oh, the look on her face.” He grinned, sharp and wicked. “It might almost be worth being late.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I. Her face goes all pinched, like she’s sucked a lemon. Rhaenyra and I used to have a drinking game around it.”
“Daemon, I want a divorce.”
This time, he did react. A tightening around his jaw, barely perceptible. The way his fingers flexed against his wine glass. But his voice, when he spoke, was perfectly even. “We’re not having this conversation on a balcony in Pentos while our children are inside.”
“We’re not having this conversation anywhere. That’s the problem. You refuse to engage with it. You act like if you ignore it long enough, I’ll forget.”
“Will you?”
“Will I what?”
“Forget.” He turned to face you, and there it was again, that flicker of something raw beneath the arrogance, gone so fast you might have imagined it. “Will you forget that you love me? That we have a life together? That we have two sons who adore you and a home and a history and...” He stopped himself, jaw working. “No. You’re right. We’re not doing this here.”
He drained his wine and walked back inside, leaving you alone with the storm.
Dinner was excruciating.
The dining room was all white tablecloths and soft candlelight and sweeping views of the coastline, the storm pressing against the windows. Viserys sat at the head of the table, beaming benevolently at his assembled family as if he’d personally arranged the weather for their entertainment. Alicent was at his right hand, her auburn hair pulled back in an elegant twist, her expression one of careful serenity that you knew from experience masked a constant, low-grade anxiety.
Rhaenyra and her husband Laenor were visiting from their place in Spain, their three boys seated between them in various states of restlessness. And then there was your family: you, Daemon, and the two small boys who were currently attempting to build a fort out of bread rolls.
“Aegon, stop that,” you said quietly, removing the roll from his hand before it could be added to the precarious structure. “We don’t play with food.”
“Uncle Laenor said the Pentosi build forts to keep the sea monsters away,” Aegon protested.
“Did he.”
“It’s true,” Laenor said, his expression perfectly solemn. “Ancient maritime tradition. Very sacred.”
Aegon turned to you with the triumphant expression of a child who had just been validated by an adult, and you made a mental note to have a word with Laenor later. Probably with a heavy object.
“How are you finding the resort?” Alicent asked, her gaze fixed on you with an intensity that suggested she was already composing a report for some internal database. “The spa here is supposed to be excellent. I booked a hot stone massage for tomorrow morning, if you’d care to join.”
“That’s kind of you,” you said, “but I think I’ll pass.”
“Oh, you should go,” Rhaenyra said, leaning forward. “I went yesterday. There’s a sauna and everything. Very relaxing.” She caught your eye and added, with just a hint of emphasis, “Good for stress.”
You smiled tightly. “I’m sure it is.”
Daemon, seated beside you, had been uncharacteristically quiet throughout the meal. He’d exchanged a few barbed pleasantries with Alicent, agreed with Viserys about the superiority of Westerosi wine, and otherwise devoted his attention to his plate with the air of a man who was planning something. You knew that look. You’d seen it before board meetings, before confrontations with business rivals, before the night he’d decided to move your family into Dragonstone Manor without consulting you. It was the look of Daemon Targaryen marshaling his forces.
It made you nervous.
“I heard the most interesting thing today,” Alicent said, and something in her tone made the entire table go quiet. “About the Ashford deal.”
Viserys looked up from his lamb. “My dear, perhaps business at the dinner table...”
“It’s just that I understood we weren’t pursuing Ashford anymore. The board voted on it, I thought. And yet I received a rather curious email from our legal team this afternoon suggesting that Daemon had reopened negotiations.” Her smile didn’t waver. “On his own authority.”
Daemon set down his fork very carefully. “The board voted to table the discussion, not to abandon the acquisition entirely. There’s a difference.”
“Is there?”
“There is to anyone who actually understands corporate governance.”
“Daemon,” Viserys said, a warning note in his voice.
But Daemon was already leaning forward, his eyes glittering in the candlelight. “The Ashford portfolio is worth forty million pounds. Their logistics network alone would give us a foothold in three new markets. I wasn’t about to let it slip away because the board is too risk-averse to see past next quarter’s earnings report.”
“The board is risk-averse because we’re still recovering from the Dornish expansion,” Alicent said, her voice cool. “Which you also championed. And which went significantly over budget.”
“It went over budget because we were sabotaged by incompetents you personally recommended for the project.”
“I recommended no one. I suggested a shortlist of candidates, which Viserys approved.”
“After you’d spent three months whispering in his ear about how essential they were.”
“That’s enough,” Viserys said, and for a moment he sounded like the patriarch he was supposed to be, his voice carrying the weight of decades of authority. “We’re not discussing this here. We’re on holiday. There are children present.”
Everyone looked at the children. Aegon had abandoned his bread fort and was now trying to teach Viserys the younger how to balance a spoon on his nose. Neither of them had appeared to notice the adult tension crackling around them.
“I’m just saying,” Alicent said, her tone now one of wounded reasonableness, “that it might be wise to keep the family informed of major business decisions. For the sake of transparency.”
“Transparency,” Daemon repeated. “Rich, coming from someone whose father just happened to acquire a significant stake in the shipping company we use for all our Narrow routes. Purely coincidental, I’m sure.”
Alicent’s face went stone cold. “My father’s investments are his own business.”
“Are they? Because from where I’m sitting, it looks an awful lot like a conflict of interest. Or would, if anyone were looking.”
“Daemon.” This time it was Viserys, his voice heavy with disappointment. “We talked about this. Otto’s investment was vetted by our ethics committee. There’s no conflict.”
“The ethics committee that reports to you. And that you appointed. After Alicent suggested the members.”
The silence that followed was the kind that made you want to crawl under the table. Rhaenyra was studying her wine glass with intense fascination. Laenor had developed a sudden interest in the storm outside. Even the children seemed to sense something was wrong; little Viserys had stopped his spoon-balancing attempts and was looking at his father with wide, uncertain eyes.
You reached for your wine and took a very long drink.
“I think,” you said, into the silence, “that we should perhaps change the subject.”
Alicent’s gaze snapped to you, and for a moment you saw something ugly there: resentment, perhaps, or suspicion. It was no secret that she considered you an extension of Daemon, his ally in whatever Valyrian power struggle was currently consuming the Targaryen family. The fact that you’d spent the last several months trying to extricate yourself from precisely that role was not something you could exactly explain over lamb and roasted vegetables.
“You’re right, of course,” Alicent said, her smile returning like a curtain falling back into place. “I apologize. This was entirely inappropriate dinner conversation.” She touched Viserys’s arm with practiced tenderness. “I’m sorry, darling. I let my concerns get the better of me.”
Viserys patted her hand. “No harm done. Daemon, we’ll discuss the Ashford matter tomorrow. Privately.”
“Can’t wait,” Daemon said, in a tone that suggested he would rather have oral surgery.
The rest of dinner passed in a haze of forced small talk and barely concealed hostility. By the time dessert arrived, some elaborate chocolate confection that you ate without savoring the taste, you had a headache building behind your eyes and a desperate longing to be anywhere else. Alone. Away from Targaryens and their endless, exhausting drama.
You caught Rhaenyra’s eye across the table, and she gave you a small, sympathetic smile. She, at least, understood. She’d grown up in this family. She knew what it was like to be caught in the crossfire.
But even Rhaenyra’s sympathy couldn’t pierce the cold knot of resentment that had settled in your chest. Because this, this dinner, this family, this entire suffocating situation, was exactly why you wanted out. Not because Daemon was a bad man. Not because he didn’t love you, in his way. But because being married to Daemon Targaryen meant being constantly, endlessly embroiled in Targaryen affairs.
The feuds, the power plays, the ancient grudges dressed up as business disagreements. Alicent’s machinations. Viserys’s willful blindness. The way the entire family seemed to orbit around some invisible sun of their own making, pulling everyone else into their gravitational field.
And Daemon, for all his talk of protecting you from it, was the worst of them all. He didn’t just participate in the drama, he was the drama. He generated it, cultivated it, fed on it like some kind of chaos vampire. And now he’d dragged you back to the family estate, back into the heart of the storm, and expected you to just…endure it.
You couldn’t. You wouldn’t.
After dinner, you put the boys to bed in the adjoining room of the suite. Aegon went down with minimal protest, exhausted from a day of swimming and running and terrorizing his cousins with a water pistol. Viserys was fussier, clinging to you with sticky fingers and demanding a third bedtime story, but eventually even he succumbed to sleep, his small face slackening into that angelic expression that always made your heart clench.
You stood in the doorway between the children’s room and the master bedroom, watching them sleep. Aegon had kicked off his blankets already, sprawling across his bed like a starfish. Viserys was curled around the stuffed dragon he refused to sleep without, the one Daemon had bought him when he was born, its silver wings worn soft from years of clutching.
They were the reason you’d stayed this long. The reason you’d tried so hard. Every time you’d been ready to walk out the door, you’d looked at their faces and thought: I can endure a little longer. For them.
But you were starting to wonder if enduring was actually doing them any favors. If growing up in a house with parents who were slowly, silently falling apart was any better than growing up in two houses with parents who were, at least, honest about what they were.
Behind you, the door to the suite opened and closed. You didn’t turn.
“They’re asleep,” you said.
“Good.” Daemon’s voice was quiet, stripped of its usual sardonic edge. “I’m sorry about dinner. Alicent has a talent for getting under my skin.”
You turned then, leaning against the doorframe. He was standing in the middle of the room, his jacket discarded, his shirtsleeves rolled up to reveal the tattoos that snaked up his forearms, dragons, of course, and something in High Valyrian that he’d gotten in his twenties. His silver-gold hair was disheveled from running his hands through it, a nervous habit he’d never been able to break.
“She gets under your skin because you let her,” you said. “You seek her out. You look for fights.”
“Someone has to. Viserys won’t.”
“It’s not your job to protect your brother from his own wife.”
“It’s not about protecting Viserys. It’s about protecting the family. The company. Everything our forefathers built.” He moved closer, and you caught the scent of his cologne, woody and dark and infuriatingly familiar. “Alicent and her father are parasites. They’ve been trying to sink their hooks into Targaryen holdings for years, and Viserys is too besotted to see it.”
“And what does that have to do with us? With our marriage?”
He stopped. “Everything. You’re part of this family. What affects us affects you.”
“I don’t want to be part of this family.” The words came out harder than you intended, but you didn’t take them back. “That’s the point, Daemon. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life watching you wage war against your sister-in-law over business deals. I don’t want to raise our sons in the middle of a battlefield. I want a normal life.”
“Normal.” He laughed, but there was no humor in it. “What does that even mean? A house in the suburbs? A nine-to-five job? Bake sales and PTA meetings? That’s not who we are. It’s never been who we are.”
“Maybe it’s who I want to be.”
“No.” He was close now, close enough to touch, his eyes burning into yours with that intensity that had first drawn you to him all those years ago. “You think you want that, but you’d be bored within a month. You’d miss this. You’d miss me.”
“You arrogant...”
“I’m not being arrogant. I’m being honest. You married me knowing exactly who I was. You knew what my family was like. You knew what you were getting into.” His hand came up to cup your face, his thumb brushing across your cheekbone. “You’re just tired. It’s been a long year. Let me take care of you.”
“I don’t need you to take care of me. I need you to listen to me.”
“I am listening.”
“No, you’re not. You’re waiting for me to stop talking so you can tell me why I’m wrong.” You pulled away from his touch, stepping back into the children’s room and pulling the door partially closed behind you. “I’ve been trying to tell you for months. I’m done, Daemon. I want a divorce.”
His expression shifted. The mask slipped, just for a moment, and you saw what lay beneath. Fear. Then it was gone, and he was the Daemon Targaryen everyone saw, the charming rogue, the untouchable prince.
“We’re not discussing this tonight,” he said. “The boys are right there.”
“They’re asleep.”
“I said, we’re not discussing this.” And then, softer, almost a plea: “Not tonight. Please.”
You had never heard Daemon Targaryen say please before. Not like that. Not as if the word had been dragged out of him against his will.
The storm was directly overhead now. Lightning flashed outside the window, bright enough to cast the room in stark white relief, and you started counting instinctively, one, two, and the thunder cracked so loud and so close that the windows rattled in their frames. Two seconds. Right on top of you.
In the children’s room, Viserys whimpered in his sleep. You slipped back inside to soothe him, stroking his silver-blond hair until he settled, your heart pounding from more than just the thunder.
When you returned to the master bedroom, Daemon was standing by the window, watching the storm with his hands in his pockets. He didn’t turn when you approached.
“Do you remember our honeymoon?” he asked quietly. “The villa in Myr. There was a storm like this on the third night. You said you’d never seen lightning so beautiful.”
You remembered. You remembered everything, the way the rain had hammered against the shutters, the way the candles had flickered every time the thunder rolled, the way Daemon had pulled you onto the bed and made love to you until the storm passed and the sky cleared and the stars came out like scattered diamonds. You’d thought, lying in his arms afterward, that you’d never be happier than you were in that moment.
You’d been right.
“That was a long time ago,” you said.
“It was eight years. That’s not so long.”
“It feels like a lifetime.”
He turned then, and the look on his face made your breath catch. He looked older, suddenly. Tired. The weight of all those years pressing down on him, on both of you.
“I know I’m difficult,” he said. “I know I’m not…easy. To be married to. I know I drive you up the wall.” A ghost of a smile crossed his lips. “You’re not the first person to tell me that.”
“Daemon...”
“Let me finish. Please.” He took a breath. “I know I’ve been…distracted. The situation with Alicent, with the company, it’s consumed more of my attention than it should have. More than you deserved. I can see that now.”
“It’s not just the company. It’s everything. The way you handle things. The way you handle me.”
“I know.”
“You throw money at problems and expect them to go away. You treat my concerns like they’re inconveniences to be managed. You make decisions that affect our entire family without consulting me.” The words were pouring out now, a dam finally breaking. “You moved us to Dragonstone Manor without even asking me. You just...announced it. Like it was a done deal. Like my opinion didn’t matter.”
“I was trying to protect you. All of you. Viserys was already changing, Alicent was already getting her hooks in, and I needed to be closer. I needed to be able to watch what was happening.”
“And what about what I needed? What about what our children needed? Aegon had just started at his school. He had friends. I had a life in London. And you ripped it all away because of your paranoia about your brother’s wife.”
“It wasn’t paranoia. Everything I suspected has turned out to be true.”
“That’s not the point!” You were almost shouting now, and you forced yourself to lower your voice, acutely aware of the children sleeping in the next room. “The point is that you didn’t talk to me. You never talk to me. You just…act. You decide what’s best and you do it, and I’m supposed to just fall in line.”
Daemon was silent for a long moment. The storm was moving past, the thunder growing more distant, the lightning flickering further away. Rain drummed steadily against the windows.
“You’re right,” he said finally.
You blinked. “What?”
“You’re right. I should have talked to you. About Dragonstone. About everything.” He ran his hand through his hair again, and this time the gesture seemed less nervous than helpless.
“I’m not asking you to stop being who you are. I’m asking you to include me in it. To treat me like an equal instead of an accessory.”
“I know.” He moved toward you, slowly, as if approaching a wounded animal. “I know. And I’ll try. I swear to you, I’ll try.” He stopped in front of you, close enough to touch but not reaching out. “You want to leave Dragonstone? Fine. We’ll leave. We’ll move back to London, or anywhere else you want to go. You want me to step back from the family business? I’ll step back. Viserys can handle his own mess. You want me to stop antagonizing Alicent at every family dinner?” A wry smile. “That one might take some practice. But I’ll try.”
You wanted to believe him. You wanted it so badly it was a physical ache in your chest.
“I’ve already spoken to a lawyer,” you whispered.
Something flickered in his eyes, but he didn’t look away. “I know.”
“You...how?”
“The retainer on the new black card. I’m not an idiot. You think I don’t check the statements?” He shook his head. “I’ve known for months. I’ve just been…hoping you’d change your mind.”
“Daemon…”
“I’m not going to make this easy for you.” His voice was steady but hollow. “I’m not going to sign papers and smile and pretend this is what I want. It’s not. I want you. I want our family. I want to grow old with you and watch our sons become men. I want all of it. Every messy, frustrating, complicated part of it.”
“Then why didn’t you say that? Instead of just...ignoring me and hoping I’d give up?”
“Because I’m a coward.” He laughed shortly. “I was terrified. Terrified that if I actually talked about it, if I actually acknowledged what was happening, it would become real. And I couldn’t bear that.”
Another flash of lightning, further away now. This time you didn’t count the seconds.
“I’m not saying I’ll withdraw the petition,” you said. “I’m not saying everything is fixed. There’s too much damage for one conversation to repair.”
“I know.”
“But I’ll…think about it. About whether there’s something left worth saving.”
His eyes lit up. “That’s all I’m asking.”
The storm was dying now, the thunder reduced to a distant grumble, the rain softening to a gentle patter against the glass. The room felt different than it had an hour ago. As if the lightning had cleared something in the air.
Daemon reached for you, and this time you let him. His arms came around you, pulling you against his chest, and you felt the steady thump of his heart beneath your ear. He was warm and solid and so familiar it made your eyes sting.
“Come to bed,” he murmured against your hair. “We don’t have to sort out everything tonight. Just…come to bed.”
You should have said no. You should have slept in the children’s room, or on the sofa, or anywhere that wasn’t wrapped in Daemon’s arms. But you were tired, and you were sad, and despite everything, you still loved him. You had never stopped loving him. That was the problem.
“Fine,” you said. “But I’m still angry with you.”
“I know. You should be.”
“And I’m still thinking about divorce.”
“I know that too.” He pressed a kiss to the top of your head. “Let me try to change your mind.”
The hotel bed was vast and soft, dressed in linen that smelled faintly of lavender. Daemon undressed with his usual careless grace, tossing his clothes onto a chair in a way that would have annoyed you if you hadn’t been so tired. You changed into your nightgown in the bathroom, taking longer than necessary, staring at your reflection in the mirror and trying to decide if you were making a terrible mistake.
Your reflection stared back, offering no answers.
When you emerged, the room was lit only by the intermittent flashes of lightning and a single lamp on Daemon’s side of the bed. He was already under the covers, propped against the pillows, watching you with an expression you couldn’t quite read.
“Get in,” he said. “You’re letting the cold in.”
You climbed into bed beside him, keeping a careful distance between you. The sheets were cool against your skin. Outside, the storm was circling back, the thunder growing louder again, the lightning more frequent.
“Remember how we used to count?” Daemon asked quietly. “Between the lightning and the thunder. When we were first married.”
“I still do it,” you admitted. “I can’t help it. It’s automatic.”
“Me too.” He turned onto his side, facing you. “What do you think? How far away is this one?”
As if on cue, lightning split the sky, illuminating the room in stark white. You counted, one, two, three, and the thunder rolled, a low, grumbling bass note that vibrated through the windows.
“Three seconds,” you said. “About more than half a mile.”
“I think it’s closer. Two seconds at most.”
“You’re wrong.”
“We’ll see.” Another flash, brighter this time. One, two, and the crack was immediate, sharp and loud. Daemon smiled. “Two seconds.”
“That one doesn’t count. It was a different bolt.”
“Lightning moves. It’s getting closer.”
“You’re insufferable.”
“You love me anyway.”
You didn’t answer that. You couldn’t. Because he was right, and you both knew it.
The next flash came almost immediately, and this time the thunder followed so fast it was nearly simultaneous, a tremendous crash that made you jump despite yourself. Daemon’s arm came around you, pulling you closer, and you didn’t resist.
“Right on top of us,” he murmured. “The hotel probably has lightning rods.”
“That’s not as reassuring as you think it is.”
His hand was moving on your back now, slow circles that were probably meant to be soothing but were doing something else entirely. You could feel the heat of him through your nightgown, the familiar geography of his body, the way you fit against him.
“Daemon.”
“Hmm?”
“This doesn’t mean I’ve forgiven you.”
“I know.” His lips brushed your forehead. “This doesn’t mean anything. We’re just two people in a bed, waiting out a storm.”
“Is that what we’re doing?”
“For now.”
His hand slid lower, tracing the curve of your spine, and you shivered in a way that had nothing to do with the cold. You knew what he was doing. You’d always known. Daemon Targaryen had many weapons in his arsenal, and seduction was one of his favorites.
You should have stopped him. You should have pulled away and reinforced your boundaries and reminded him that nothing was resolved, that you were still furious, that sex wasn’t going to paper over the cracks in your marriage.
But his hand was on your hip now, his thumb pressing into the hollow there with expert precision, and you were tired of fighting. Tired of being angry. Tired of the endless, exhausting distance between what you wanted and what you had.
“Come here,” he said, and it wasn’t a command but a plea, raw and honest in a way Daemon rarely allowed himself to be.
You went.
His mouth found yours in the darkness, and it was like coming home after a long, lonely journey. Familiar and strange all at once, the taste of him, the way his hand cradled the back of your head. You’d kissed him thousands of times, millions, maybe, but this kiss felt different. Desperate. As if he was trying to pour everything he couldn’t say into the press of his lips.
“I love you,” he breathed against your mouth.
“Daemon...”
“Let me finish. Please.” He pulled back just enough to look at you, his violet eyes dark in the dim light. “I know I’ve failed you. I know I’ve been selfish and arrogant and dismissive. I know you have every right to walk out that door and never look back. But I’m asking you, begging you, to give me a chance. Not because of the children. Not because of the family. Because of us. Because what we have is worth fighting for.”
Thunder crashed outside, shaking the windows, but neither of you flinched.
“I’m so tired of fighting,” you whispered.
“Then stop. Stop fighting me. Stop fighting this.” His hand cupped your face, his thumb brushing away a tear you hadn’t realized you’d shed. “Let me take care of you. Let me love you. Let me prove to you that we can be better than we’ve been.”
“And if we can’t? If we try and it’s still not enough?”
“Then I’ll let you go.” The words seemed to cost him a lot. “If we try, really try, and you’re still unhappy, I won’t fight the divorce. I’ll sign whatever you put in front of me. Just please, let's strike a truce for now.”
Part 2: coming soon...
a/n: Comment if you'd like to be added to the taglist. Also, I lowkey hate the title of this fic, so if anyone has a better idea, let me know.
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pls i’m begging PLEASSSEEEEEE more butcher simon x mother reader
Continuation to this little thing with Butcher!Simon and Single mom!Reader
Thinking about Butcher Simon slowly encroaching in your life, chipping away at the wall piece by piece, till he can fit his big hat through the whole and take a good look around.
Simon likes how careful you are, how you don't let go of your boy no matter what, how even around someone as, now, familiar as Simon you are mindful to keep an eye on your lad. Can't be too careful in a big city when you've got no one to look out for you, no one to soften the blow if it comes to knock the wind out of you.
You mention in passing that the father is not in the picture, only he gets a feeling that the dad was left in the other frame that you squeezed yourself out of the first chance you got, running. Took your boy with you, took his things and his stuffed toy and his favourite book.
Took only a backpack of your own things. Simon saw them, when he got into your apartment while you two were out. A couple sweaters, jeans, one good pair of boots and a coat.
He toys with the idea of rummaging through your underwear drawer, but it wouldn't be fair. You don't have much right now, you are in no position to splurge for more than necessary for your kid. Not even for yourself.
You are a good mom, he thinks, stomach tightening hot and slow, when he lies on your bed for a couple minutes, nose in your pillow. Swallowing your scent, sleep-soft and a little salty with the hint of your sweat.
You must taste delicious, Simon noses at your pillow, hand snaking down to unbuckle his belt. He's been popping up here and there all over the narrow road of your life to offer some extra meat, a helping hand or a kind word. He knows the importance of making himself a safe unchanging fixture in your life.
You don't need no surprises, you need someone dependable. Someone you can rely on and someone who's not going to strain you any further.
Someone you can trust, Simon thinks, scarred palm wrapping around his cock when he presses his face into your pillow. It's hard to breath like that, air hot and cotton stuffing his mouth when he pants into it, stroking himself, calloused finger rubbing the underside of his head, till his hips twitch.
Till he's even hungrier, rocking his hips in the hand, cool air of your bedroom nipping at the hot sensitive skin of his. Your pillow smells like you and Ghost burrows his face in it, so he doesn't breath much, so his head goes light and empty - your careful glances up at his face imprinted on the inside of his eyelids.
You are so good, he murmurs, slurred and wet, drool filling his mouth, gums itching for him to sink his teeth in. Such a good mum, gonna be good to him too, yeah? Gonna let him take care of you in turn, won't you?
Orgasm shudders through him, spills into the tight fist of his hand so it doesn't marr your duvet covers. He didn't bring you anything proper this time, can't go getting too greedy now.
Simon heaves into your pillow, wet spot of his drool forming and fucking hell, he'll need to do something about it before leaving.
You don't have to know that he was there, not yet. Not until he got an actual invitation in your home, marking another goalpost reached.
He tilts his head at you next time you walk into his shop, bundled up in your coat, eyes shiny with glee at the first snow and something in his chest warms up, like a faulty heater that finally got a proper kick to start working.
Maybe it was worth getting sent to early retirement and work right back where he started 15 years ago.
You smile at Simon for the first time since he met you, shoulders no longer as tight and the corners of his lips twitch. Pretty.
Wonder if you are gonna smile at him too when he's got his mouth on your-
"What can I get you today, luv?" He cuts his train of thought before it can reach the station, because the counter is high enough but there is no need to pop a boner out in the open. Can't afford to spook you before the teeth of the steel trap called 'Ghost' close above your head.
"The usual, please." You respond, no longer that scared exhausted thing from the first day in his shop, nowadays you have more and more smalltalk with your favourite butcher. "The weather's chilly today, but God, the snow's absolutely lovely."
He's got to be your favourite, Simon thinks, weighing the meat and like always throws in a little something in addition, no way you are going to any shop other than his. Not like any other dimwit can feed you as good as he does.
"That it is." He just hums in response and glances at your son staring him up. "You take care of yer mum, lad?" Simon asks, eyes flickering to the way your smile widen's when your 3-year old nods immediately.
"He does." You respond instead of your son and the affection in your voice is so thick that Ghost in him tugs the air in, aching to stretch out in your direction and curl around like a big beast that he was. "Don't know what I'd do without him."
Your boy always sticks close to you, watching strangers with curious eyes, his hair disheveled when in the warmth of the shop you take his knitted hat off, tucking it under your arm so he doesn't sweat too much while you two wait.
"Think the feeling's mutual." Simon says, without planning too, but you giggle, short happy sound and something in his brain sparks to life. So that's how you sound when you laugh.
"I sure hope so." You grin at him, eyes crinkling and Simon doesn't know what to do with the traitorous heat in his face when he passes you the meat, grazing your fingers as you take the bag.
How stupid is that?
Simon would like to hear you laugh at things he says for the rest of his empty life.
He watches you leave, eyes following you and your boy walking down the street - his hand in yours as he starts chatting your ear off about something immediately. A chatterbox when he's around his mum, huh?
You are warm in the best way possible, when you look at him and hold the elevator when you spot him in the entrance to your apartment building, eyes crinkling again. Like he's a friend.
Ghost in him itches to crack your locks and sink into the space behind your bedroom door so he can watch you sleep, so he can stay there in close proximity to the light that you emanate, to the family that you have with that little boy, to the prospect of belonging someplace warm and soft.
Could maybe give you another baby, he thinks idly in the evenings, staring at the orange light of his oven. There is beef inside, slowly baking until he knows its gonna be soft and tender enough for you to swallow without chewing. Something else to sustain you, to fill out the hollowed out edges and bring some shine to your eyes.
Being mum is hard, Simon reasons, palms clasped together in his lap. His kitchen is small and dark, only light of his oven softening the shadows around him. And you ain't taking any of his money, even if he offered, he knows that you won't. But you'll take food.
Can't say no to a good bite and if there's something that Simon knows it's meat.
He didn't cook much since he joined military, but nowadays he's got a lot more free time and space in his head that needs to get stuffed with something other than an occasional urge to sharped the knives again and get out in the dark to split someone's skin under his knuckles.
More of a habit, really, his bones aren't used to not getting strained and cracked every once in a while. It's been a minute since he's got an adrenaline crash and he'd like to say that he hates it.
He did.
And then you walked in, nervous and tired, your boy on your hip - head tucked against your shoulder.
Being retired wasn't that bad after it, eh, mate? Ghost hums in the still quiet of his flat, deft fingers wrapping the cooked meal in tinfoil and packing it up for tomorrow.
Maybe he could talk you into eating with him if you go all shy on him all of a sudden, his mind continues the chain of thought, weaving a picture for him to press his face into. The almost of it stratching over his skin like saran wrap, tight around the misaligned bridge of his nose, pressing insistently over his cheekbones.
You probably ain't letting him handfeed you, but a bloke can dream, right?
For now he could settle for just watching you eat something he made. Cutting into bite-sized pieces for your boy if he'll be with you tomorrow.
Good thing Simon so used to being painfully patient, swallowing down every urge and every want, choking down the impulse to rush in and make a mess of a perfectly good timeline of this relationship.
Hell, was he even ten years younger, he would have probably already squeezed himself in your doors, inviting himself over to your dinner.
Would have taken all of the space and then some, would have molded his whole body against every corner of your life, smothering even the flicker of resistance.
Ghost would have moved in with you while you were sleeping, knowing that you aren't going to outright tell him to leave.
Ghost would have bitten off the entire hand if you gave him a single finger and then he would go for the throat, sinking his teeth in to rip at the carotid.
But Simon isn't Ghost anymore.
And Simon doesn't want to smother your flame. He'd like to warm himself up on it and for that you need to let him closer. For that, he'd need to be patient for you.
He sucks his teeth, inspecting the packed dish. Makes sure nothing's going to leak.
Gotta make a good first impression with this small offering, right? So when he comes back with more you wouldn't have the itch to pretend you've got to run.
He sighs heavily, eyeing the clock the next day, restless urge within him growing when you don't come at your usual 4 o'clock. Should've been here by now, he knows how long it takes you to get from your job to daycare to him and then home.
Simon walked the route a couple times, following you and your son, just to time it for himself. A little self assurance, can't be too prepared in matters of war and love.
When the bell above his entrance door sways, alerting him, Ghost in him is scratching slow and annoyed to go see what's wrong and what caused the deviation in usual routine when usually there isn't any.
"The usual, luv?" He calls out, walking out of the backroom, wipes his hands off on the towel before he turns to you (knows better than to come in with his hands bloody and shoulders tense). "You'r a bit later today." Simon points out, glancing at the spot you usually occupy by his cash register.
You aren't smiling at him, is the first thing that pops into his head before he assesses the situation and wordlessly opens the latch to herd you behind the counter.
Sits you down on a stool, murmuring 'come on, luv' so you'd let him help you out of the coat. Maybe the roast will come in handy after all.
Just not the way he hoped for.
You are quiet and glassy-eyed, your eyelids swollen and hands trembling when you let Simon tuck you behind the counter and silently accept the fork that he passes you.
"This is delicious, Simon." You say after another few minutes of chewing, fat tears welling in your eyes when you look at him and it's not his roast, Ghost thinks. He ain't that good at cooking to make you actually shed a tear because of it.
"Somethin' happened?" He just asks, looking you in the eyes and you look back down at the plastic tupperware he brought out for you. The meat is in fact good.
Really really good.
Your first meal of the day, you remember distantly and sniffle, taking another bite.
It isn't right to burden Simon with your problems, not when he has already been good to you since you walked into his shop. But you just...you just want to tell someone before you might have to run again.
You don't look at him when you do, words spilling about the man you have left behind, about the way money was never enough, about the yelling and the smashed dishes.
About him throwing the dish at you.
You've dodged it, you joke, fingers tight around the fork and Simon sits there, quiet, his eyes a physical weight on your nose.
But your boy was crying and then you noticed that he's got glass in his hair, you share after a moment, throat tight. You had to spend an evening just picking out all the shards to make sure he's not going to cut himself on it.
"Had to go after that." You murmur, swallowing another wave of tear and Simon nods. "We left before he came back and I just...small country, I suppose. He wants to meet up and says that its his son too, that I can't keep him from his child and-" You suck the breath in, lightheaded and ice cold with terror, voice cracking in half.
Simon makes a quiet affirming sound, his wide palm landing on your back and you blink through the tears, trying not to sob again when he slowly pulls you a little closer, giving you a hug.
It will be embarassing later how you just sob into his sweater, chest gurgling with tears and panic, arms wrapped around the big butcher who has been so nice to you and it's not fair, it's so unfair that you have to leave everything again.
"D'you want to see the bloke again?" Simon asks, tone calm as he hunches his shoulders to let you cry into him as much as you need to. "And do you want your boy to see 'im again, luv?" He adds, palm stroking your shivering back.
When you shake your head, hiccuping, Ghost nods and presses a small kiss to your hair, not tightening his hold on you because this is not what you need right now.
What you need is for the problem to go away.
"Where'd you leave the lad, luv?" Ghost murmurs, voice coarse and low when you finally look up at him and explain that you left your son with a friend from work because she lives nearby. That you didn't want to take any chances if you run into your ex outside.
If he maybe waits for you back at your flat.
"I feel so fuckin' daft." You mumble, suddenly angry at yourself and Ghost huffs out air, kisses your cheek then, eyes calm and dark.
"You'r not daft, luv. Go to your friend, okay? I finish in 'bout an hour. I'll walk you two home. Check for any...surprises." He doesn't offer, but state, wrapping up the rest of the roast for you.
Ghost kisses your other cheek as goodbye, knowing that you are too out of it to process everything right now. And that's okay.
You've got Simon, don't you?
And Simon's got a couple mates that still go all dark behind the eyes at the offer of doing some work in their spare time. Something a bit off the books for their lieutenant.
The phone gets picked up on the second ring, cheery voice on the other end familiar like his own right hand.
"Didn't pack yer bags yet, did you, Johnny?" Ghost in him humms, phone pressed between the shoulder and his ear. "Got a bit of a rush job for you 'nd Garrick."
Soap on the other end laughs like the mean bastard he is, promising to wake up Kyle and be there in ten, all too happy that their trip to Manchester isn't going to be boring after all.
"We goin' for a ride, l.t.?" Johnny asks like he knows the answer and Simon thinks for a moment.
"No rides." Ghost says, dragging his apron off. "Got an hour to get it done. I've got dinner plans."
Simon doesn't know much about how good families work, doesn't always know what's the right thing to say, but Ghost in knows what to do when there is someone breathing his sweetheart's air and dimming her shine.
"Tell Garrick he's on clean up tonight." He says and sergeant grumbles in the back of the phone call, audibly sleepy.
After all, Kyle did tell him a couple years back that he always wanted to see if anyone other than Ghost could get out after getting buried alive.
Mmmmmm….. knight!Simon who fell in love with whore!reader and promised he’d return when he had earned enough to buy her freedom and take her as his wife. He disappears, and you hear rumors of his capture, that he has almost certainly died. You weep for him— of course those romantic dreams were too good to be true.
Only for a knight in dark armor to approach your brothel on horseback, a skull plate welded to his helm, a sword with blood still flaking from its pommel at his hip. The madame has you all lined up, smacking those who dare to tremble in front of an honored guest with her riding crop. A bag of gold, far more than the price for a single night, gets tossed on the counter as a hand gauntleted in black steel points at you.
“Sir, this is more tha—“
“Not ‘ere to stay the night. Oi’m takin’ that one with me.”
you think that you are sooo good at hiding the fact that you like missionary and prone bone because of the way that john is pressing against you—crushing you with his weight, and rutting the two of you on the bed in a messy tangle of salt and warmth —until john finally croons at you about it. he praises you, says how you are so cute in the way that your body is anticipating the drop of john's weight—cunt clenching around him even tighter, your moans splintering into shattered rasps of john's name.
the denial comes quick. "no- john, i-"
john tells you that you don't have to deny it. that you don't have to lie.
"i love it," john murmurs, a satisfied preen coating his words. he nuzzles his scruff against your shoulder, nipping at his baby's flushed skin because vulnerability is closing in. "i love how you love my body, baby."
you cry, cumming weakly at john's confession and throughout the tremors overtaking you, john holds you tight. he humps into you shallowly, trying to coax one more orgasm, and you do give a weak squirt just as his cum fills you, and it is thick and hot and delicious.
he slides his hand down to cup your gut, fingers dimpling your skin. "there," he rumbles. "now you're full too."
Like, imagine trying to move on with your life after your divorce and Simon just… won’t let you. Your car doesn’t start? That’s odd, even odder when he happens to be driving by as you’re standing stranded on the side of the road. That guy you went on a few dates with? Ghosts you. You find out later he moved faaaar away too, like he couldn’t get far enough away from you. If your kid has a game, Simon is right there on the sideline, a shadow at your back. Afterwards, he suggests getting ice cream, and you can’t bring yourself to deprive your son of this time with his dad. So you have to sit there, on a wooden bench, as your kid excitedly recaps the game and Simon dutifully nods along, commenting and offering praise here and there. It’s infuriating because where was this a year ago, when you were begging for more effort? Where was this time and attention when you were practically raising your son alone? Nowhere. He was always gone, and you were always left to pick up the pieces.
He knows you’re frustrated too, though you’re not doing much to hide it. It’s boiling over as he buckles your son into his seat and leans down to your window, small smile tugging his mouth to the side.
“Alright?”
“No.” You snap. “Aren’t you supposed to be on a mission or something?” He shakes his head.
“I’ll be around,” he tells you casually, and your mouth drops open in shock. His hand darts into the car so fast you can’t track it, and then his thumb is pressing, hard, into your bottom lip. “Got a new mission now, closer to home.”
Ghost who doesn’t know how to flirt like a normal person, instead asks “How much d’you weigh?”
Shadow falling over you, broad enough to swallow the reflection in the mirror behind the machine you were just using at the gym. You look up and find Ghost standing there in a black compression shirt stretched tight across his chest, mask in place even here, eyes flat and unreadable above the fabric. One gloved hand resting on the frame of your machine.
The question lands blunt, no lead up, no softening. Like he’s asking for the time or the weather. Your mouth goes dry. He’s too close, too big, the sheer width of him making the space between you feel airless.
You could tell him to fuck off. Should. But the words stick somewhere behind your teeth, and what comes out instead is a mumbled number, barely loud enough to carry, your eyes dropping to the seam where the mat meets the floor.
He doesn’t react at first. Just tilts his head a fraction, that slow, assessing cock of it Then, low and rough through the mask: “Lighter than I’m used to.”
Confusion flickers across your face but he’s already moving, already loading the bar next to you with plates that match the number you gave him exactly, no hesitation, no adjustment. The barbell settles across the padded support with a dull clank.
You should look away. You don’t.
He lies back on the bench, plants his feet wide, and rolls the bar into place across the jut of his hips. One smooth motion and he drives up, hips snapping high, the loaded bar rising clean with the power of it, his body locking into a straight line from shoulders to knees. The muscles in his thighs flex hard under the fabric of his shorts. Up, hold, lower. Up again. The bar doesn’t even tremble under the weight.
It takes a beat for the meaning to sink in. Heat crawls up your neck, tightens in your chest, but it doesn’t stop there. It drops lower, coils hot and insistent right behind your navel and settles between your legs with a heavy, liquid pulse, cunt clenching around nothing. The reaction is immediate and traitorous, slick gathering hot and fast, soaking into the seam of your leggings, clit throbbing in time with every snap of his hips.
Oh.
(Ghost who doesn’t know how to flirt but somehow it works every time.)
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