Could you write something about Ormund Hightower defending his wife after an insult from a lord or lady?
Loose tongues
Ormund Hightower x reader
wc: 968
You'd spent the better part of the month preparing for Ormund's nameday, and yet you still looked a mess, right before the festivities were about to start.
Your hair refused to stay in any style, frizzing loose around your temples no matter how many times your maidservant brushed it down. The hem of your gown caught on something in the corridor, and though the tear was small, you were certain that everyone else would notice it as well. You'd barely had a moment to catch your breath since dawn: overseeing the kitchens, the maids, making certain everything was perfect for a man who deserved nothing less.
This was your first nameday as his wife. Gods be damned if this went poorly.
By the time you reached the great hall, you were certain you looked exactly as harried as you felt. The other ladies, by contrast, looked as though they'd done nothing all day but ready themselves. Silks pressed, hair set in perfect waves, not a single thread out of place.
You found a quiet corner near the kitchens to ensure that all food was prepared while still greeting your guests, plastering a saccharine smile on your face.
A gaggle of minor ladies swanned towards you, their gowns every hue of the rainbow. Their pleasantries were nice enough, though their smiles waning. Most terrifying of them all was Roslyn Crane, a woman close to your own age with eyes like daggers.
Your nerves eased when Ormund strode into the hall.
The entire evening was meant to be a surprise. You'd spent weeks fretting that the secrecy of it all might throw him off, that he'd somehow sense something was wrong before you were ready to show him. But the moment he saw the hall, the banners, the faces of half the Reach gathered in his honor, his expression dissolved into something unguarded. Pleased. Almost boyish.
He found you first, weaving past well-wishers with a singular focus that made your heart pound in your chest. "You did all this?" He murmured, close enough so that only you could hear, pressing a kiss to your temple.
"I had help," you admitted, unable to hide your blush.
"My lord." Roslyn's voice slipped between you before you could say more, sweet as honeyed wine. She dipped into a curtsy a fraction too low, lingering a fraction too long. "Happy nameday. Oldtown is lucky to have you for another year."
Ormund inclined his head, polite but unbothered, already turning away from her
It was only as he stepped away to greet another lord that Roslyn leaned close enough for you alone to hear, her smile never faltering.
"Aye, if I spent more time getting pretty for my husband, I'd come down looking better than that."
A chorus of snickers rose around you. The other ladies hit their giggles behind their hands, unable to look away.
You froze, unsure of what to do. Small jests and japes were something you were used to from the girls you grew up with, but never before had you been belittled by another woman your age - in public, no less.
A pink flush spread across your cheeks, your mind going blank from the shame. Was it better to speak or to stay silent? Risk saying something foolish, or stand there like a prey animal?
You had no time to decide when Ormund opened his mouth, drawing in a breath.
"Lady Roslyn." His voice cut through the voices before you could find your own. He rarely raised his voice towards women - it was unseemly for a man to - but an insult to his wife was inexcusable. "I don't believe I asked your opinion on my wife's appearance."
All laughter died. Roslyn's smile faltered, color rising in her round face. "My lord, I only meant-"
"I know precisely what you meant." Ormund's hand found the small of your back, his large hand pressing into the curve reassuringly. The knot in your chest loosened from the touch. "My wife has spent endless hours to plan this feast tonight. I'd wager that's worth more than whatever hour you've spent in your cups."
A ripple of laughter ran through the hall - no longer at your expense. Roslyn opened her mouth to speak, found nothing to say, and shut it again, casting her eyes to the floor.
"Enjoy the rest of your night," Ormund said, already turning away, his hand guiding you. "I hear the music's about to start."
True to his word, the first notes of a song drifted from the alcove. Without saying anything else, Ormund led you to the dance floor. He didn't slow until you'd reached the center of the floor, turning to face you with a hand outstretched.
"My lord, you don't have to-"
"I wanted you." His eyes held yours, his gaze fierce. "Besides, I've been waiting all day for an excuse to have you to myself."
You placed your hand in his, and the moment his fingers closed around yours, the rest of the hall seemed to fall away. Ormund pulled you close as the music swelled, holding you against his chest as you swayed.
"You look beautiful tonight," he said quietly, just for you. "You've looked beautiful every moment of it. Anyone who says otherwise isn't worth a second of your time."
"You're too kind." A laugh bubbles in your throat.
Ormund grinned as he spun you around "Though if I had it my way, these halls would be empty and I'd have you walk naked each day."
You swatted at his shoulder, and he only laughed, pulling you back in before you could put any real distance between you.
For the rest of the night, the hall watched its lord dance with his lady, and not once did either of you look away from the other.
-
Hope you enjoyed reading! As always my inbox is open for requests :)
Omg can u write something about ormund x targreader who is soo similar to helaena (autistic diva )?
Birds of a feather
Ormund hightower x targ!reader
wc: 1433
It was too hot in King's Landing.
The summer heat fell on the Red Keep like a great beast, warming the stones to no avail. The maidservants had covered all the windows with dark sheets to keep the sun out, but that did little to alleviate the heat.
You wandered through the halls, sweating in your gown, the fabric clinging to your skin. The silk had seemed like a reasonable choice this morning - light and airy, perfect for the heat - but now it was insufferable against your skin.
The gardens had been worse. Numerous courtiers flocked to the courtyard to escape the heat inside, instead sitting in the shade of the trees, fanning themselves. You had sought solitude from the court, only to find the court had done the same thing.
You'd turned back inside almost immediately.
The halls of the Red Keep were marginally quieter.
though the heat followed you regardless of where you went, settling into the stone and radiating back at you from every surface. Your gown clung to the back of your neck. Somewhere nearby a group of ladies were laughing at something, and the sound scraped against the inside of your skull.
You pressed yourself into a narrow alcove between two tapestries and tried to remember how to be still.
Birds, you thought, squeezing your eyes shut. Think about birds.
The kingfisher. Small, bright-colored, with a third eyelid that allowed them to see underwater. There were few birds in -
Footsteps in the hall interrupted your thoughts. Heavy, with the heel scuffing against the stones briefly.
You knew those footsteps already. Three weeks of marriage taught you that much.
Ormund rounded the corner, startled to find you in the alcove. He didn't say anything at first, his eyes sweeping over you with the same swift assessment you assumed he gave on the battlefield. A better soldier than a lord, perhaps.
"Princess." His voice was even and unassuming. You were grateful for that, at least.
"I needed air." The words tumbled out, and you were painfully aware how meek you sounded. "The gardens were full."
Ormund's lips twitched. "I know. I tried the gardens first." He lifted his hand towards you, and only then did you notice that he was holding a glass of water. "I thought you might be thirsty."
You looked at the cup, then him. Your initial instinct was to refuse it, to say I'm fine, but your mouth was dry and it was too damn hot.
You bowed your head in thanks as you took the glass. You didn't entirely trust him yet - Ormund was a revered military commander, a looming presence in any room he was in, but the gesture was kind, and you were thirsty.
Ormund leaned against the opposite wall, drinking from his own cup, looking down the corridor as though he had nowhere particular to be. The laughing ladies had moved on.
"I hate the summer," he grumbled. "King's Landing sucks in all the heat. Oldtown is different - the sea air comes in off the harbor and moves through the streets." A pause. "You'd like it, I think."
You weren't sure if that was an observation or a promise. Your silence didn't seem to trouble him, though, so that was something.
Ormund continued on, not looking at you directly. "There's a passage on the east side of the Hightower," he said, still not quite looking at you directly. "Higher up. The stones hold less heat by evening." He finished his water and straightened. "There's a window at the end of it. You can hear the swifts from there — they nest in the towers. I noticed you watching them in the gardens here."
You look at him properly then, violet eyes widening. He said it plainly, almost offhandedly, as if it were a simple fact of life. No performance of sensitivity. Just - I noticed. Here's what I did with it.
It was so unlike what you were used to, you weren't sure how to react.
"Common swifts," you finally said, your voice a bit louder now. "They eat and sleep in the air. Only land to nest."
"Is that so?"
"Most people find it strange." You shrug, looking down at your shoes.
"Most people find a lot of things strange that aren't." Ormund looked at you now, his current expression far warmer than what you'd seen from him before.
You looked at him for a long moment. This rough-edged, plain-spoken man you'd been handed to three weeks ago. He wasn't what you would have chosen, and perhaps he wouldn't have chosen you, but Ormund had come looking for you. He'd brought you water, mentioned the birds, and hadn't asked you a single question you didn't want to answer.
You step out of the alcove, a small smile stretching across your face. He was a full head taller than you, broad enough that he blocked out the light from the corridor sconce behind him, and yet somehow the space between you felt less threatening than it had a few minutes ago.
"I'd like to see the swifts with you," you said.
Something in his expression shifted. You could have sworn Ormund almost smiled, but it was replaced by his usual stoicism. Instead, he extended his elbow toward you, a silent offering in the dim corridor.
You looked at it for a moment: at the solid line of his arm, the worn fabric of his doublet.
Then, carefully, you tucked your hand into the crook of his elbow.
He didn't say anything. Ormund turned and led you down the corridor, your hand light on his arm. For the first time all day, you weren't thinking about the heat, or the noise, or the chaos of too many people around you.
The east passage was narrower than the main corridors, and cooler, just as he'd said. You felt it first on your forearms, then the back of your neck. Without thinking, you exhaled slowly.
Ormund stopped at the window at the end of the passage and stepped aside to let you see.
The city spread below in the evening light, all amber and fading gold, and above the towers - circling, diving, cutting sharp arcs against the darkening sky - the swifts moved in the dozens.
"Oh," you said softly, your attention divided.
A small falcon sat perfectly still against the stone, its rust-red tail fanned slightly, watching the city below with an imperious calm that suggested it had no interest whatsoever in the swifts wheeling overhead.
"Kestrel," you said. "A female. You can tell by the brown barring on the wings. The males have grey heads." You leaned forward slightly, forgetting yourself entirely. "She's hunting. She'll hover before she drops. They follow the trails mice leave in the grass."
"How?"
"Heat. Essentially." You glance back at Ormund. His skin was painted gold from the sun, his eyes warm, and only then did you notice that he was watching you - not the bird.
You looked away again quickly. "It sounds strange, I know."
"You said the same thing about the swifts," Ormund replied. "And I didn't think that was strange, either."
The kestrel shifted on the ledge, tilting her head. Then, without warning, she dropped down, plummeting straight down before pulling up sharply, wings snapping open, rising again with empty talons.
Unsuccessful. The kestrel landed on the balustrade and resumed her watch with no apparent concern.
"She'll try again," you said. "They're patient."
"Good quality in a hunter." Ormund had moved to stand beside you at the window now, close enough that you could feel the warmth of him against the cooling evening air. He was looking at the kestrel properly, you noticed. Actually looking.
Above her, the swifts continued their endless circle, filling the air as the city below went about its evening, indifferent to the small falcon on the ledge and the two people watching her from above.
"What's that one?" Ormund asked, nodding toward a dark shape gliding low over the rooftops.
You followed his gaze. "A black kite. See how the tail forks — like a notch cut into it. They follow the fishing boats in Oldtown, I'm told."
"They do," he said, with the mild certainty of a man confirming something from memory. "Along the harbor. I never knew what they were called."
You looked at him again, and this time you didn't look away quickly.
"Now you do," you said.
The corner of his mouth shifted. Not quite a smile, but close enough that you filed it away carefully, the way you filed away the markings of a bird you wanted to remember.
---
Sorry if this seemed so rushed!! I love this request sm, usually when I get targ!reader I don't like to assume whose child they are so it's up to whoever reads it.
A soft moment between two parents and their children.
Sun streamed in through the windows, all open to let in the fresh, warm air, skies clear and bright.
Outside, people went about their days, the streets quieter than usual. A lazy day. For normal people, today was like any other. But for one particular couple–
“They're so tiny.” You can't help but repeat, grinning as you lay on your stomach, staring down at the two little forms nestled on the bedding.
For one couple in particular, today was special. Not because anything was planned or anything important was going to happen, but simply because of the two little lives they'd created together.
Hand idly stroking up and down your spine, Thragg offered a hum of agreement, something content in his gaze as he looked upon you and his heirs.
Ursaal and Onaan were truly tiny, both of them fitting into one of his palms each. Thragg struggled to comprehend how such small beings came from him. They must get it from you, or it was from having to share a womb. How else could the children of Grand Regent Thragg be so miniscule, so… adorable?
An useless sentiment. Insulting, even. No Viltrumite child should be called cute, they were born to be killers, conquerers who installed fear into their enemies hearts with only one–
Onaan sneezed, a squeak of a sound escaping him as he did. His entire body jerked, startling his dozing sister. Both made whimpery noises that had you and Thragg hurriedly soothing them.
Well… cute for now, at least. It would be a different story when they were grown.
“How big do you think they'll grow?” You ask quietly, glancing up at him as you drew circles in your daughter's open palm. “I bet they'll both be as tall as you, if not as bulky.”
Giving you an indulgent look, Thragg tilted his head, imagining the puny little things grown, as true Viltrumite warriors.
He smiled.
“I think… that our children will take more after you.” He said lightly, something endeared in his tone as he said it; gently, he reached and stroked a finger over both of their heads, hair black and curling slightly as it grew. “They have my colouring, but I do believe they'll resemble you more.”
You pursed your lip. “… I'm pretty sure they have your nose–”
“And they will have more of you in their features.” He interrupted, shifting his weight a bit, bed creaking under him. “You should be proud. Long after you're gone, you will live on in them. In the shape of their eyes, their lips, their stance, their smiles…”
Thragg trailed off. He sounded almost wistful.
Leaning your cheek against your palm, you stared at him before humming.
“You think they'll have my smile?” You ask, leaning in a bit.
Thragg blinked, then dipped his head towards you, accepting the affection you placed upon his cheek. “I hope they do. It is an… enchanting sight.” He whispered, watching it appear as his words land.
Yes, Thragg truly did hope his heirs all took after you. For diversity, of course. No other reason. Certainly not a sentimental one.
Soo I asked this about conquest before but I wanna know how Thragg would react to a premie baby. He can do so much, but uh his child still needs to be in an incubator to live
:)
Thragg had known human babies were born small. Of course he had. They were born months earlier than they should be, not to mention when there were multiple. The twins had been born half the size they should've been. But that made sense. They were sharing a womb, resources, feeding from the same host.
This... this did not.
Staring down at the little incubator where his child lied, Thragg couldn't help but feel angry.
Not at the babe.
Not at you.
But at himself.
This was his fault.
Thragg had been impatient. He'd been blessed, given a gift in the form of twins and yet it hadn't been enough. He'd wanted more, been more focused on the numbers of Viltrumites rather than the words of your doctor and hadn't given you enough time to heal.
The recommended time between pregnancies was 18-24 months.
Thragg had only given you a year.
He should've–
He shouldn't have–
If only he thought it through–
Regret was a familiar weight on the Grand Regent's shoulders. Every time he made a decision, it always teetered between blowing up in his face or working out.
Usually, it blew up in his face.
Like now.
You had had twins, two babies sapping your body of all its nutrients– and yes, Thragg had taken care of you. Made sure you were fed before and during the pregnancy with healthy, nutritious meals, gave you all the required medicine you'd needed, ensured you were always resting and stress free. But it hadn't been enough.
Not when there was only one year between the birth of Ursaal and Onaan and the conception of this one. Not when your body hadn't recovered enough.
Azul had been born premature. A month early. And Thragg had only himself to blame.
The little creature opened its dark little eyes then, tiny limbs twitching. Thragg watched him, remaining still as his second son opened his mouth soundlessly before going still again, back to sleep.
He watched that tiny chest rise and fall, eyes glued to paper thin skin and the heartbeat visible through it.
It was only Thragg and his son in the room. You were at home resting, tending to the twins. You hadn't wanted to go, to leave your baby, but Thragg had put his foot down.
You needed rest. Needed to recover. And you couldn't do that while worrying over Azul.
And the twins needed at least one of their parents.
So Thragg remained, stalwart as he guarded his weak child, waiting until he began to grow healthier and could survive outside of this contraption.
"You are a Viltrumite," he'd whisper late into the night, never once resting. He'd gone weeks without rest before. He could do it again. Had more reason to now than ever before. "You are destined to conquer, to claim the stars." He said, carefully sliding a hand through the slot in the side, resting a finger in his son's palm. "You will survive this. I know you will."
Because this was Thragg's son, son of the strongest Viltrumite there has ever been.
Because this is your son, son of the only human worthy of him, the only person whose ever softened him.
He doesn't have a single doubt in his heart that his son, his Azul, is a fighter and will survive this, no matter his father's foolishness that led to this situation in the first place.
So Thragg stood there, continuing to whisper encouragements to his child while rubbing circles in his delicate little palm until the sun rose and you came to visit.
THIS is shrimpteresting because like. be thingol. you don’t know what an orc is yet. see orcs. think, maybe it’s those other elves? think, probably it’s fine to attack them with weapons. this is followed quite soon by ‘the sindar were well armed, and they drove off all the creatures of evil’ so like. they did do that. me when kin (?) slaying (!) is literally ok i guess
Thinking about ghost who's method of care is food....
Something about feeding the ones he loves, about keeping them nourished and alive. He used to cook with his ma, dented cans and store-brand pasta. Despite how his ma hated it, simon would often give his lunch to the kid at his table who never had any.
Maybe that's why he notices you, the intern of some mechanic on base.
You, who always carries around a lunch box, but never actually eats anything. In fact, when ghost got the chance to look inside, it only held water bottles.
At first he thought it was a situation better handled by kyle but he noticed how you'd scarf down any food given to you. The same way he sometimes does and– oh.
Doing some digging, ghost learns interns are paid like shit.
"This is for you." A lunchbox slams down on your little table in the corner of the shop. You flinch, then look up to see the ghost nearly glaring down at you.
He crosses his arms "open it. Eat."
You remember the blood-splattered engine of the car you helped repair last week, your boss explained exactly what to expect from ghost. Oh shit, did you mess it up somehow? Is this how you die?
Ghost doesn't move. You slowly unzip the box.
The smell hits you first, absolutely delicious ham with rice, some grilled veggies on the side. Did he just make this?
Ghost hasn't moved from his position. He tilts his head, as if daring you to tell him no "yer not allergic to anything, I read your med file. If you want something else say it."
What.
Tentatively, mentally saying goodbye to your shitty job and your old ass car, you take a bite.
Flavor explodes across your tongue, warm and delicious and actually filling. You hardly take a moment to breath before shoving down the next bite, and the bite after that. Somewhere between one thought and the next you've completed cleared the dish.
Only then do you look at ghost and realize that squint to his eye is a smile under the mask.
"Good. Meet me in my office tomorrow, we'll need to discuss what foods you like." He nods, takes back the box and just...leaves.
Well. You'll never say no to free food. Assuming you haven't been poisoned.
No thoughts just decorator crab!reader stealing the teams clothing....
It's in your instincts to try and blend in, caked in there with the need to survive. You've always been twitchy being the odd one out. Unfortunately, that means you get the urge to steal your teammates clothes as the best camouflage. You'll fit right in with them!!
Which is how you end up snuggled into prices winter coat during a meeting. It's so large on you that it really feels like a shell. Underneath, ghosts shirt, soaps socks, and one of Kyle's caps.
None of them comment on it anymore. They've learned that only makes your fickle instincts worse and severely drains their wardrobes...
Their clothes are...nice. safe. Warm.
You like to wear at least one of them around base, it helps you calm down.
Now if only you could stop people from assuming you're sleeping with the team....
I had to redraw this as Maekar for obvious reasons. I'll let you decide why he's using a hello kitty phone case but I think we can all agree either Rhae or Daella had something to do with it
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