like a daydream

so call it what you want to ♡

[sunkissedjedi]

"Keep me alive, keep me believing. <3 That now is the time to take it or leave it."

Hi there! ♡ I'm "Fi". | she/her | late-twenties

Simply here to reblog and comment on fics that I’ve read, along with some writing prompts etc. Feel free to say hi ♡ but this is a sideblog so I can't follow back. </3

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Multifandom, but my current faves are:

COD (esp. Ghost) and Superman (David Corenswet's Version)

[lustedbby]

ormund hightower is the man who presses his forehead against yours when he finishes

[targlocket]

(18+) thinking about ormund's rings. he likes to run the back of his hands on your skin, so you can feel the coolness of the stone and steel. when he grips your thigh, the fat of your hips or throat, ormund loves the marked indents remaining behind from his rings. it's also delightful when you suck on his fingers and choke a little because the emerald brushes the roof of your mouth. even more so when your pussy clenches around two or three of his digits, and he can watch how the rings push in and out of you, coated in slick, glistening in the low light of your chambers. ormund doesn't wash them afterwards. loves to bring the steel to his nose and breathe in the remaining scent of you the next day.

[lady-doe-eyed]

a random thought: Y/N marries one of the Hightower brothers and just so happens to keep a diary, a little book she scribbles in EVERYTHING and keeps either on her person or hidden away.

husband! Gwayne Hightower would never even look at her diary. Like, ever. He respects her privacy too much to intrude and even gives her time to write alone if she wanted it. And if she ever offered to let him read a bit for whatever reason, he would be so touched over it, like oh she really loves and trusts me like that, I'm the luckiest man alive i love my wife ♡♡♡

husband! Ormund Hightower, however, reads that shit weekly. Outright comes up with some little errand or thing she needs to do, something that would likely make her hide the diary in their chambers, and than searches the place when she leaves and does some light reading. Tells the servants to leave him alone a while, makes a cup of tea, and just enjoys his little wife's inner thoughts. And he's not even sorry if she finds out, Ormund's just like...I'm literally your husband, it's my right, love you, babe ♡♡♡

Because Ormund is a little toxic even when he loves you and Gwayne is a Wife Guy 100%.

[sunkissedjedi]

this has me twirling my hair and kicking my feet !!!

[winterstellars]

courtship with gwayne hightower

notes: headcanony mini drabble, fem reader, fluffy romantic chivalry, briefly suggestive but sfw (shocker i know)

courtship with ser gwayne hightower means a fresh-cut flower and a kiss on the back of your hand each time you meet. it means chaperoned walks through the gardens and him noticing which hue of roses your eyes linger on. it means chivalry and courtesy: he’ll rise when you enter a room even if every other lord remains seated. he’s quick to offer his arm while you walk or his hand while you navigate a staircase in your skirts. he’ll drape his cape around your shoulders if you’re shivering and make you laugh with a joke about how it’s good practice for the wedding ceremony. courtship with gwayne means dozens of inkwells drained from all the letters traded while you’re apart. formal at first: it is my hope that we may come to know each other better, he writes. but they soon evolve into longing so potent that the words seem to leap from the parchment and curl around your heart. as i write to you, my lady, i watch the sun setting over the roofs of oldtown and i long to share this moment with you. the sky’s beauty would certainly dim in comparison to your own. courtship with gwayne means your favor adorning his lance at tourneys. it means a moment of pure terror when you see him unhorsed. it means a hurried kiss to the bruise on his cheekbone when no one’s looking. courtship with gwayne means quiet hours spent in the sept just to be near each other, trading glances instead of words or touch. you ask the gods to bless your marriage, to grant you years of good health and happiness. he asks the gods to watch over you when he cannot, to give him strength and wisdom so he can ever be your devoted husband and your defender. courtship with gwayne means discovering the less ‘knightly’ aspects of his personality. he’s lucky that his teasing and his clever tongue amuse you. how fortunate i was to, at last, receive your reply, he writes after you take an entire fortnight to respond to his last letter. i feared perhaps you might have been taken captive by some terrible beast; how relieved i am to tell my soldiers they may stand down. not to mention his jealousy. you’ve barely spent a minute dancing with some lord whose name you’ve already forgotten, and here he is, stealing you back. terribly sorry to interrupt, but might i have a word with my betrothed? urgent wedding matters, i’m afraid, he’ll grin, and he’ll take all of your teasing about his need for attention with good grace. courtship with gwayne means you’re both hiding thoughts that you’re too honorable to act on. it means that when you watch him sparring one afternoon, your eyes drink in the sight of him. the strength of his hands. the sweat on his brow. it means that you pray to the maiden to forgive your lust. it means that his heart burns with barely-restrained want, that he’ll lie awake and think about your exposed neck and imagine what it might feel like to kiss the soft, vulnerable skin there. courtship with gwayne means that he will strive every day to be your champion, your confidant, your comfort. it means that he will work to earn your love. it means that even before you’re wed, his heart entirely belongs to you.

[sunkissedjedi]

OH MY HEART STOPPP this was incredible !!!

[winterstellars]

gwayne hightower learning his wife's ways

notes: headcanony mini drabble, afab/fem reader, mentions of periods, potential body image issues if you read into it, briefly suggestive, sweet and fluffy.

ser gwayne hightower is somewhat of a stranger to the world of women. he remembers little of his mother. alicent was raised away at court. his faith and honor would not permit him to frequent brothels. yes, he has lived among soldiers. he hears the crude jokes about their wives and mistresses. yes, he knows what a corset is. he wagers he could even unlace one without any assistance (how different could it be from unlacing a pair of boots?). but in the finer matters of the ladies of the realm, he must admit his ignorance.

but you, his lady wife, find in him an eager learner. where other men might scoff, he possesses only curiosity. he’ll watch you embroidering, eyes narrowed, puzzling over how you can create so many different shapes just with needle and thread. and what’s this one called? he’ll ask each time he sees a new stitch. whip stitch, chain stitch, back stitch, he’ll learn them all and file them away in his mind so that when he looks over your shoulder and says blanket stitch? you’ll give him a proud smile and a yes! that makes his chest swell.

there are some assumptions that need undoing, of course. he quickly finds that what he did think he knew of women are mere generalizations. perhaps his confusion is too obvious when he finds you deep in the pages of a book on the flora and fauna of the reach. detailed anatomical drawings and measurements adorn the pages. do you think ladies only read poetry and romances? you’ll tease (and perhaps, indeed, he had not expected you to have such scholarly interests).

then there is your daily routine: hair, jewels, perfume, layers upon layers of skirts. what is this made of, valyrian steel? he mutters whilst attempting to undo the clasp of your necklace. it takes him several evenings before he masters the art of unlacing your corset (a skill which, he insists, any good husband ought to have). does this not pain you? he asks, genuine worry etched onto his forehead. it’s the price one pays to be shapely, you reply, though that does not seem to ease his concern. the only shape i wish to see you in is this one, he’ll murmur, smoothing his hands down to your hips once your corset has been discarded to the floor. he’ll show you exactly how much he venerates your bare body when it’s free of all the vestiges of daily life.

not to mention the matter of your moonblood. he’ll find you abed with a cool cloth on your forehead or a hearth-warmed stone pressed to your back. when you teach him that there’s far more to your cycle than merely bleeding, it’s as if you’ve unveiled a dark secret. but gods be damned if he doesn’t see to it that every month hence, you’re brought warm compresses and teas to soothe an aching head before you even need to ask.

he may never come to understand all the unspoken rules and customs of womanhood. but he realizes that is not his quest; what he wishes to understand is you. he wants to learn the vocabulary of your world, to memorize each small habit and preference of yours so that he might be the kind of man who is worthy to be your husband. to study you (if only to win one of your sweet smiles) becomes his life’s purpose. how else should a devotee worship his goddess? how else ought a husband honor his beautiful, wondrous wife?

[sunkissedjedi]

THIS IS INCREDIBLE - i actually could freaking CRY !!!

and these parts??? oh my heart!! 💚

but you, his lady wife, find in him an eager learner. where other men might scoff, he possesses only curiosity.

you’ll give him a proud smile and a yes! that makes his chest swell.

the only shape i wish to see you in is this one, he’ll murmur, smoothing his hands down to your hips once your corset has been discarded to the floor. he’ll show you exactly how much he venerates your bare body when it’s free of all the vestiges of daily life.

what he wishes to understand is you.

[sergwaynez]

00:01

sleepy cuddles and kisses with your husband! gwayne. fluff!

it's just gone past midnight when you feel the familiar dip of your side sinking into the mattress on where your husband! gwayne has settled his weight. he's tried to be as quiet as he could, the heavy clunk of his boots removed before he set foot in your chambers, the subtle pitter patter of his bare feet as he enters a rhythmic dance to your bed, knowing exactly where and when to step, avoiding the common creaks and bend of the wood sure to raise a stir. he even stood near the fire, hoping and praying that when your body rolls from the sinking mattress and right into his arms you won't feel the cold of the night he's been subjected too. he breathes out a sigh of relief at how easy your limbs tie and tangle, your hearts interlocking in the seal of a promise you swore to him moons ago. "gwayne," comes your soft mumble against his skin, your breath hot like a furnace, melting into his bloodstream as a sure imprint in permanence. your voice is like honey sticking to him in pure sweetness and suddenly he's free falling. "i'm here, sweetling," he caresses the soft skin of your cheek as the other arm firmly wraps around your waist pressing you into him, the cuddle squashing any spare atoms of space within miliseconds. you let out an incohesive mumble and instantly a grin stretches across his pink lips, you are so adorable he might just explode. and then your eyes open in a hazy squint and a finger lazily smushes against his lips. "you shouldn't be smiling like that husband, i waited up for you," and with your words comes a stream of drool across his bare chest that he doesn't mind in the slightest. the gentle push of his lips has him gently nipping your finger, teeth pulled in a soft bite and you snatch your finger back instantly. he then presses the most fleeting kisses to your lids as they are lulled back to sleep. his heart tugs with regret and the fear of having you disappointed that his lips find yours in a sweet slow tug. you melt in his embrace as he whispers a river of apologies in whatever air escapes the two of you. its lazy, its messy and it seems to go on forever until you rest your head against his chest, your hair tickling his pearly skin as his heartbeat serves as a gentle lullaby. "i'll be better for you wife," he promises into the dead silence of the night save for your long gone snoring. he knows he'll never be able to abandon the duty to his house, the roaring dread of his father and the trapment the future holds for him. but he does know that with you sleeping in his arms, ser gwayne could take on the whole world, only because you are his whole world. and you make living a lot easier for him. tomorrow he'll return as ser gwayne, the noble knight. but tonight? here and now? he is forever yours.

[sunkissedjedi]

OH MY HEART AND SOUL - THIS WAS BEAUTIFUL !!!

[flockoff-featherface]

"cause you make me feel like, i've been locked outta heaven~"| dilf! ormund hightower x baker! reader

Chapter 2: "Sorry about that, I was trying a new reci- Oh! It's you! And who is this?"

masterlist ★ chapter 1 ★ chapter 3

★word count: 3.4k ★series summary: Lord Hightower had lost his wife a few years back. Grief was still fresh on his mind, as was the wellbeing of his young son. Yet, he cannot bring himself to take on a new wife - and then you whisk your way into his life. The niece of his favourite baker, new to Oldtown without the slightest clue of exactly who he is - neither you nor him can help but to fall so very deeply in love with each other. This is sure to spell disaster, no?

roe speaks: this took longer than i thought (mostly bc my period started and then i was in unbearable pain but i am so real now). anyway i hope we're enjoying this so farrrr~! this is still most definitely ooc for ormund but we move <3

Later on that very same day, as the sun begins to cast a comfortable evening glow across the land, you find your thoughts drifting as you clean up the bakery. Your mind could not rip itself away from the man who had captured it, lured it in with his snares and tied it up - holding it hostage as you desparately tried to think of anything but him. The way his hands flexed as he contemplated taking the tart you had recommended, how his arms wrapped around you as you fell into his arms…

You sighed, shaking your head in an attempt to clear your mind.

It does not work.

Instead, your thoughts shift to his smile next. The way it broke out across his face - small lines etching out from his eyes. You could not ignore the giddy warmth that bloomed out from your heart, nor the warm feeling in your stomach. You try again. And again. And a final third time, as you walk back to your uncle's dwellings. Yet try as you might, you truly cannot shake him from your thoughts.

Naturally, as you are plagued by him, he finds himself similarly plagued by you.

He had just put Silas to bed (Silas, of course, would not sleep without Oofy bundled up close beside him. And so, between that and the three stories he had demanded kindly requested his father to read him, the whole process had taken around two hours. Though, seeing the young boy wrapped up in bed with his favourite plush toy with little sheep casting his dreams off to sleep, Ormund could not fault the poor boy), and finally lay in bed.

Sleep rarely came easily to him as it was. Worries of his duties, his son and every other potential concern would always flood his brain as he lay. He had spent many a night staring up at the ceiling above him, rather than actually sleeping.

Tonight was no different, but instead of the usual worries (for example, when would Silas stop putting up a fuss every morning? Would he have to manage this every morning?), his brain floated back to the bakery. Specifically, to you throwing flour at him as he approached you - a simple mistake, of course. A smile worked its way on his face as he thought about how your eyes widened at the idea of throwing flour at the customer who your uncle had spoken of so kindly.

He wondered - would your eyes widen the same when you finally realised who he was? Would you stop being so sweet and kind, so bubbly and filled with what he can only describe as the Heavens' own light? Perhaps you would grow cold, turn your heart away from him. Perhaps you would not say his name so sweetly again.

Oh, what a fool he was! Allowing his mind to spiral so far and so quickly over the course of the evening. He mentally smacked himself, shaking his head and huffing as he attempts sleep again. But he cannot take his mind from you. Specifically, how your form felt in his arms when he caught you. A perfect fit, he thought to himself. And your eyes when you looked up at him, so bright and shining with something he could not name, but he knew all too well.

Seven forgive him, he thought, as his hand lowered down his body - past his chest and abs (long adorned with the scars of war), slipping into his undergarments. Part of him knew he should not, for you were the baker's niece, and were entirely unattainable. To act like this was to form an attachment, and to form an attachment was dangerous. You would not ever take him, so to even allow his brain to think so would be risky. This, and the fact that he was older than you, strengthened the part of him that attempted to remain rational.

Another part of him - perhaps a part that he should focus more on keeping quieter - whispers into his ears. Sinful desires, and how this was not really wrong - after all, he would not act upon his thoughts. To touch oneself was not inherently wrong, surely, and he must relieve himself somehow. Besides, it had been so very long..

The night is not the time for rational thoughts. Not when he was buried under covers, hidden from the prying eyes of the Heavens, with none but his own hand for company.

His hand finally wrapped around the base of his cock, slowly working up and down his length. He could not bring himself to rush - not tonight. As he closed his eyes, he could not help but to imagine you - on your knees as you would pleasure him so sweetly. A groan hangs out of his mouth - he allows his imagination to run wild, and his hand quickens its pace.

The picture of your hand, rolling up and down his cock as he watched you through hazed eyes all taunted him. Dragging him to ruin. Lips teasing the very head as your tongue darted out - yes, you probably would tease him like that, all with a sweet smile that he would not be able to refuse. He would take your head in his hands, cradling either side as he slowly rocked his cock in and out of your mouth-

His thoughts are interrupted by a hot liquid spilling over his stomach, the sheets and his nightclothes. He cursed himself, and the shame of having to ask someone to clean for him was far too embarassing to endure. In his defence, he had not thought it would last this long, and had initially planned to move to the bathroom in time.

"Heavens above…"

Half an hour later, he had a bath drawn for him. Ormund sat in hot water, surrounded by the scent of oranges and a chamomile tea that sat just in reach for him to sip at. He could not help drifting at the scent of oranges, mind once again finding you as servants collected his sheets, quickly replacing them and rushing back out of his chambers as he lay in the bath.

Neither you nor him was quite willing to name what exactly it was that had clearly happened to both of you.

"PAPA!"

"Oof!"

The young boy threw himself at his sleeping father, who had been dreaming and snoring well into the morning. He knew his father would wake up like this, and a small part of him knew it was somewhat evil to do this, but that did not stop him (for children are rarely deterred by the aspect of such evils). Nor did the gaggle of maids and servants who truly had tried their very best to hold sweet Silas back.

Ormund awoke very abruptly - as anyone who has ever had a child jump upon them does, of course - eyes wide open as his body lurched forwards. In the distance, he just about makes out several maids and servants slowly creeping back out of the chambers - eyes wide as the doors quietly close behind them. His arms immediately found and wrapped around Silas, pulling the boy closer as he groaned,

"It is far too early, sweet child."

"Noooooooo."

"Yes it is."

"Noooooooooooo!!"

"Silas.."

"Papa, up up!!"

"Not up up, Silas. Down down. Sleep. Please."

"No."

"Yes."

"No."

"Ye- must we do this every morn?"

"Papa wakeyyyyyyy."

"Papa sleepy, methinks."

"Papa wrong."

"Silas."

"Papa."

Ormund let his head hit the pillow as defeat almost took over, only for his eyes to catch on to Oofy on the side of the bed. Grabbing the plush toy, he employed a tactic that had been used far too many times (to the point that it was honestly luck that the boy had not realised it). Lifting it up to his ear, he (groggily) pretended to listen,

"Oh, is that so? Hmm.. very well, I shall tell him. But next time, Oofy, it must be you who tells him, not me! No! Of course not! Fine, fine, here I go - wish me luck!"

Somehow, everytime Ormund had done this, Silas would be entirely enticed and entrapped by his father - unable to look away. His big eyes peered up at his father, hands reaching out towards him and wiggling closer and closer,

"Oofy!"

"Yes, yes, Oofy. Here - hold him carefully! He has had terrible sleep last night, Silas."

"Why?"

"Why? Well, Oofy did not tell me that. But he did tell me that a certian little boy had stopped him from completing his sleep in the morning."

"But morning!"

"Yes, Silas. Early morning. Outside, the rooster has not yet crowed my sweet child. Come, come, allow m- Oofy to finish his sleep - unless you would like for him to be tired and angry all day..?"

The little boy considered his options. Play now, but have a grumpy Oofy who would not want to play with him, or sleep now and have a not so grumpy Oofy who would be much more willing to play.

It is not difficult to guess what he picked.

"…sleepy Papa?"

"Sleepy Papa."

The sun had not yet risen, slowly beginning to cast a soft yellow glow into the sky as it began its journey across the day. He pulled the boy into his arms properly now, nestling him into his chest as they both drifted off to sleep once more. Poor Oofy, on the other hand, had been discarded by his owner on the side of the bed!

You were not so lucky, far away from Hightower with no big, strong man to wrap his arms around you and read you tales in a voice that would melt away all your worries as you would fall asleep. Instead, you had spent the whole night staring at the ceiling. When the clock struck four, you pushed yourself out of bed - writing new recipes into a book (because if you are going to be awake, would it not be better to do something productive than to rot away?) until your head hits the table.

The rooster crows less than two hours later, and you jump up from the incredibly uncomfortable position you had slept in. Everything felt sore and stiff - even after you tried to stretch and fix the small ache in your neck. Nonetheless, a new day of work awaited you - and perhaps a certain customer, too.

You pass your uncle's room as you walk to the kitchen, and throw in a quick "good morning!", alongside some easy morning conversation. Both him and your aunt wave, reply with their own "good morning!" and return to breaking their morning fast together. Your heart both swoons and pangs at the sight - swooning, for there truly is nothing like true love, but panging at the nagging voice in the back of your head. You shake the thoughts away as you begin your journey to the bakery once more.

Part of you hopes your uncle would recover quickly, but there is a slightly selfish part of you that wished he would take his time. You try to admonish yourself for such thoughts, but you cannot help it - not when you think back to him again.

Today, you attempt a new recipe. Yesterday may have been the day for a lavendar and orange tart, but today is the day for the brand new blood orange cake you had been aching to try! Blood orange flavouring both the cake and the curd - both blooming with a tart freshness that sprung out - combined with a beautifully bright orange buttercream.

You take time when you bake, for no good thing is rushed. As you work through the process, you find yourself grateful for preparing the day's pastries the night before.

Time passes quickly though, and before you know it, the bell at your counter is already ringing. Your eyes widen - flicking towards the clock as you almost drop the piping bag in your hands. You quickly neaten things up before making your way out of the kitchen, praying you do not look too unpresentable,

"Sorry about that, I was trying a new reci- Oh! It's you! And who is this?"

Now, I hope you do not mind a little detour, back to the morning. For as Ormund rattled through his very particular morning schedule, he was unable to stop himself becoming more and more irate with every passing minute. Every minute that he spent peering over boring accounts, dull papers and petty disputes was another minute he spent further away from you, and he would not have that.

Unfortunately, sweet Silas absolutely could not have his father travelling alone - what an absolutley absurd notion! (You know, despite the fact that Ormund is a grown adult, Lord Hightower and Lord of Oldtown. Seven forbid him travelling alone..) After a lengthy back and forth (which mostly consisted of Silas screaming and Ormund promising him anything, anything to let him leave), Ormund settled his son in his lap.

He could not hold back the smile from his face as the boy clutched on to his father throughout the whole ride - fast asleep, with drool dripping into Ormund's clothes. As he approached the bakery, the awful voice in his brain finally spoke - what if you were put off by the idea of a child? Would that do it - would that be enough for you to push him away? Yet he had already come so far, and could not exactly leave him behind now.

Especially not when he yawned and stretched open an arm, still clutching Oofy in one hand and his father in the other.

So now, returning to the scene we were in - you finally acknowledged Ormund's presence, before your eyes flicked down to a very sleepy child. A stuffed toy in one hand, his father's hand clutched tight in the other and eyes that threatened to send him back to sleep at any given moment - how could you not immediately coo at him?

"Oh, hello you! Aren't you a sweet thing, hmm? My, my - you never mentioned this adorable little munchkin yesterday, did you?"

"Well…"

"Papaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa-"

"Papa?"

"Yes, Silas?"

"Silas hungry. Very hungry."

You tried to ignore your heart, and how a guilty feeling appeared in your throat - too thick to swallow down and repress. Instead you went absolutely silent, choosing to watch the two,

"I did tell you to eat first, Silas."

"But then Papa go?"

"I would have waited."

"Noooooooooooooooooo."

"Yes."

"Nooooooooo!"

"Ye- Silas, we are not doing this, please just pick something to eat."

The little boy - Silas, as you had just learned - peered at the various trays that stood at his eye level, entirely unaware of the awkwardness that surrounded the air around them. Meanwhile, you rose to your full height, looking at Ormund,

"His mother probably would not like him eating something like this, right? I'm sure I could make something a little less swe-"

"His mother passed a few years back, she.. she would not know."

It was as if a force had grabbed you by the shoulders, screaming in your face and smacked you until you had lost all sense. Your mouth fell open as you searched for the correct words for such a situation.

"Oh."

"Yes."

"Oh, erm-"

"Whatever is the- oh dear I ha-"

"No, no, it is not your fault, I should not have assume-"

"You had no way of knowing, truly."

"…"

"…"

"Still, I am sorry-"

He pinches the bridge of his nose, waving a hand as he sighed. It is now that you take in the messy hair, bags and slight wrinkles under his eyes - clearly lacking sleep. The drool on his clothes, which of course must have been young Silas. Your heart goes out to him, yet you do not know how to comfort a man in such a situation.

"Nonsense. I should have responded in a less pushy manner. Nonetheless, I believe Silas has finally chosen his pastry."

Silas' chubby fingers point at a lemon and elderflower cake you had baked last night, and decorated just this morning (before your brand new experiment, of course). A three layer lemon and elderflower flavoured cake, filled with a blackberry jam between each layers, an elderflower buttercream on the outside and an elderflower drizzle all around - topped with blackberries and candied lemon slices.

You smile, nodding and cutting a (slightly bigger than usual) slice for the boy, who stares at the cake as if he has fallen madly in love with it. You can practically see the stars and hearts in his eyes, shining as his mouth begins drooling again. Ormund bends down to his son's height - wiping his mouth with a handkerchief and apologising profusely,

"No need to apologise so much - how about you both take a seat, and I'll bring the cake over with some milk and some tea for yourself?"

He nods, and as he walks away, an idea comes to you,

"Actually, Ormund?"

"Yes?"

"Would you mind trying a recipe for me?"

"As long as it is not mud and grass in a bowl-"

"Why would it-"

"Silas."

"Oh. Oh, I see. Well, how does my good sire feel about a blood orange cake?"

He runs his tongue across his teeth, musing over it before eventually nodding, You smile and turn towards the kitchen - preparing a slice of the cake, and a kettle of earl grey tea - and he makes his way to the table where Silas sits, playing with Oofy.

"Papa likes her."

"Hmm?"

"Papa likeyyyyyyyy!"

"What?"

He refuses to give him any further explanation, falling into a fit of giggles at his father's confusion. Ormund ruffles his hair in response, and the two wait patiently. When you appear with a tray of their cakes and milk/tea, Ormund has half a mind to invite you to sit with them.

However, it is of course then that your customers choose to make their appearances. First, sweet old Harriet and her huge, scary looking dog Daisy (a real sweetheart, of course) come in. Harriet takes a small plate of apple roses with some tea, and Daisy rushes towards Ormund and Silas. The latter immediately finds himself enamored with the big dog, playing endlessly with her as he quickly forgets his cake and milk.

Second are Lyon and Jemma - the lovely couple from the day before. The two, upon Ormund's own recommendation, take a slice of the blood orange cake to share between them.

You pretend his recommendation does not make your heart sway closer to his.

He notices anyway, of course.

Silas pokes his father's leg, looking up at him with a smile that could only mean evil, and for a moment Ormund cannot shake the horrible pit in his stomach that his son will once again cause a ruckus of some sort. The young boy gestures towards his father, encouraging him to come closer. The older man bends down again (trying to ignore the slight pain in his knees as he does),

"Silas…"

"Papa," the sweet boy whispers, "Papaaaaa!"

"Yes, my boy, I hear you."

"You like her!"

"Who? Daisy??"

Oh Ormund, you huge, blithering fool. Not Daisy!

"No!"

"No?"

"The nice lady!"

"Harriet?"

"No!"

"Jemma? My sweet son, I fear Lyon will not take to this idea quite so kindly-"

"No!"

"No- Oh?"

"Yes!"

"Silas, it is not like that-"

"Yes it is!"

Despite what he had tried to convince his son (or was he trying to convince himself?), it was in fact, exactly like that. Somewhere between the tarts, cakes and how the two of you immediately clicked with each other - Lord Ormund Hightower had very quickly fallen in love, and did not know how to safely fall out of it. And so, instead of tackling the problem head on, Ormund wrote a note.

Blood orange cake was lovely - absolutely perfect! If I recall correctly, tomorrow should be the bakery's day off, right? How about I take you to the market - my treat? O x (and Silas and Ooooooooooofy!)

It was the end of the day when you finally saw the note, smiling at the little addition scrawled on at the bottom of it - presumably by Silas himself. Perhaps it was slightly foolish of you, but you found yourself rushing home and rifling through your dresses to find the perfect one.

All the way back in Hightower, Silas drooled over his father's shoulder - fast asleep as the man stood tall, ordering servants to find the perfect set of clothes for him. He could not wear exquisite silks, nor expensive leathers, but he did not wish to wear a sack of burlap across his body either.

After what felt like forever, he had finally found the perfect outfit, draping it across hangers and allowing it to breathe in the air as he lay down for bed. His thoughts raced all over and around him as sleep evaded him.

Though, tonight, it did not feel so bad.

[sunkissedjedi]

GIRL, the way I will hold this OOC Ormund - and any loving, sweet version of him - tightly to the very depths of my heart. 💜 Man, I'm still shook at how the Dark!AU fans of him WON that latest episode. 😭🤣 I still love him but nevertheless... dang. lol.

But as for this chapter, I love how Silas was so involved and reading of Ormund being a father to him was just SO sweet!! 🥺💜💜💜 I wish I were an artist because the way I'd paint him holding Silas standing before reader in the bakery - like that visual was just beautiful!!! 😭💕

And speaking of visuals, these parts - and the shaded purple text being my fave - just ugh, WERE SO BEAUTIFUL too!!! This was just such a beautiful chapter fr!! 😭💕 I keep saying beautiful because it was!! 😠💖💖💖💖💖

Oh!! And I love the "storytelling" way you've been doing so far with the POV switches etc. (hope that makes sense lol)

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Instead, your thoughts shift to his smile next. The way it broke out across his face - small lines etching out from his eyes. You could not ignore the giddy warmth that bloomed out from your heart, nor the warm feeling in your stomach.

He wondered - would your eyes widen the same when you finally realised who he was? Would you stop being so sweet and kind, so bubbly and filled with what he can only describe as the Heavens' own light? Perhaps you would grow cold, turn your heart away from him. Perhaps you would not say his name so sweetly again.

The sun had not yet risen, slowly beginning to cast a soft yellow glow into the sky as it began its journey across the day. He pulled the boy into his arms properly now, nestling him into his chest as they both drifted off to sleep once more. Poor Oofy, on the other hand, had been discarded by his owner on the side of the bed!

He could not hold back the smile from his face as the boy clutched on to his father throughout the whole ride - fast asleep, with drool dripping into Ormund's clothes. As he approached the bakery, the awful voice in his brain finally spoke - what if you were put off by the idea of a child? Would that do it - would that be enough for you to push him away? Yet he had already come so far, and could not exactly leave him behind now.

and THE WAY I GASPED when I read this part !!! 🤩😍🥰💜💜💜

Blood orange cake was lovely - absolutely perfect! If I recall correctly, tomorrow should be the bakery's day off, right? How about I take you to the market - my treat? O x (and Silas and Ooooooooooofy!)

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so excited to see what happens next chapter. 😝💖 very random but - i haven't baked anything in... man like a decade. i am so scared of the kitchen honestly rn - but the way this dang fic is making me want to bake again 😭🧡🧡🧡 like i'm actually excited for when it cools down so I can try, wtfff, thanks OP. (i have to wait until fall/winter like there is no way I can in this summer heat lol)

[chuluoyi]

once upon a broken heart

- ormund hightower x wife!reader

in the crucible of war, tying the two strongest houses in a holy matrimony is a scheme easier than any other. you’ve known ormund hightower your entire life, but he is also the man who has broken your heart... in a play of power and game of love, how will you protect your heart from him?

genre/warnings: suggestive, marriage of convenience, unrequited love, slight enemies to lovers, hurt/comfort, yearning, age gap, mentions of pregnancy, kidnapping, fluff, tyrell!reader (reader is ormund's second wife), takes place during the dance of dragons, spoilers! from house of the dragon season 3

notes: gif by @/alysmond. wc. 5.5k ! so ormund hightower makes an appearance, james norton is hot and i just watched house of guinness... so here's some brainrot concocted in my brain <3

They said... the best fairytale is the one that begins with a wedding.

The lady of the roses and the lord of the high tower. There was no union more perfect in the eyes of the Reach as the drums of war began to echo across Westeros. You were the vision of genteel grace and elegance while Ormund stood beside you as a stalwart protector.

Men mourned the loss, for the fairest maiden of Highgarden was no longer theirs to dream of, while women looked on with envy, wishing for a husband with the strength and stature of the Lord of Oldtown.

If only they have known…

Had it been ten years past, you would have been the happiest woman in the Seven Kingdoms.

And if fairytales begin with a wedding, then yours was doomed from the start— because long before the day you wed him, your story had taken root in heartbreak of your own making.

You had known Ormund Hightower all your life, loved him when you were young and foolish enough to believe that your innocent heart mattered to him. For years, you had molded yourself into his ideal—you kept yourself pretty, perfected your manners, and stayed up late reading tedious books just so you could casually strike up a conversation on subjects he cared about.

“Only you would throw yourself in the studies of the arts of war. What a charming young lady you are.” He would smile and be amused, and you would bite the inside of your cheek, genuinely believing you were winning him over.

You had carefully crafted your image as a prim, intellectual lady, dedicating every ounce of your grace and intellect to a singular, desperate goal: enticing him.

And you really thought you were at the forefront of his thoughts too—

“I present my victory to you, my lady. And at my behest, name you as the queen of love and beauty.”

The day you were crowned by the dashing heir of Oldtown right after he won the tourney before the entire court was the day you truly believed your girlhood dreams had come to life.

However... Ormund Hightower was apparently a man of distinct taste— and the young flower of House Tyrell was not on his list of potential brides, despite his fondness of you.

“Any good man would be delighted to be the object of your affections, no more so than I.”

It was the night after the news had broken of him asking for the hand of the vivacious Lady Tarly. He had a crooked smile, even as you stared at him with heartbreak shining in your eyes.

“Alas, I am a man soon to be wed. We must cease these meetings, so I ask you not to call on me any longer.”

Your heart died then, and stayed cold for the next ten years.

But fate, working its cruel irony, returned Ormund to you just as the war of succession for the Iron Throne began to tear the realm apart. Although the man before you was no longer the posh new lord of Oldtown, but a seasoned man hardened by politics and a wife who died in childbed.

“Declare Aegon the rightful heir and commit five thousand of your men. In exchange... my protection and the hand of the Lady Tyrell.”

Your good sister, the Lady of Highgarden, who was the regent for her infant son, had wished to remain neutral amidst the ongoing civil war. But the Hightowers were kin to the queen dowager and had been fiercely loyal since ancient times. Confronted with Ormund Hightower’s formidable host and the threat of dragonfire, she simply could not refuse his offer.

However, you had not forgotten the man who had broken your heart.

. . .

“Who would have thought that you would remarry? Your poor wife must be weeping in her grave.”

That was the first thing you said to his face after ten years, and he was entirely unfazed and amused instead.

“Of course, no one is more delighted than I to accept this most generous proposal,” you followed, your voice dripping with sweet venom as you paced before him. “But I wish to settle an arrangement first.”

Ormund leaned back, an intrigued glimmer in his dark eyes. He had a small smile and gave you a nod, gesturing for you to continue. “And what might that arrangement be, my lady?”

“I wish to maintain my freedom. I expect to be allowed to live on my own terms, and that includes being permitted to keep my own counsel, travel as I see fit, and take my own companions.”

Ormund’s lips twitched, as he tilted his head. “Companions? Do you mean lovers?”

You lifted your chin and looked down at him with haughty defiance. “I suppose so. Because frankly, I cannot see either of us engaging in romance in our otherwise unfortunate union.”

How was it that the man who once meant the world to you be the one you felt nothing for when fate twisted its narrative so you could become his wife?

“The rose has grown rather sharp thorns, I see.”

For the first time, you saw how Ormund’s eyes lit with distaste, even if he was ever amused. “As much as I could imagine, I couldn’t possibly allow that. At least for old times’ sake, shouldn’t you grant me the grace of fulfilling the role of your lord husband?”

“Let us speak freely here. If I recall correctly, it is my house’s bannermen you seek, and ten years is a long time,” you scoffed. “We might have been fond of each other once, but we are, at present, not.”

“Oh, but I am,” he countered smoothly, “still very fond of you, Lady Tyrell.”

Ormund finally rose from his seat and approached you with ease. His blue eyes narrowed, and a wicked, knowing smile curled his lips.

“And I have no intention of sharing what is mine, least of all with men lesser than I am. If it is a lover you want, then you will find I am more than sufficient.”

He stepped into your space, a particular yet pleasant smell—from his collection of pomander, no doubt—filled your senses. Leaning down, he whispered directly into your ear:

“At least let me prove to you that we don’t need romance to find… a common ground.”

This man was far more cunning than you had ever given him credit for, seamlessly crafting a trap for you to fall into.

But if he thought he could effortlessly master you like a piece on a chessboard, he was sorely mistaken.

He might have broken your heart a decade ago, but now, you held the shards.

Ormund Hightower, however, seemed intent on making good on his word.

He lavished you with his wealth, stood beside you like a devoted and gallant husband, and before long, even the smallfolk began singing praises of your match—utterly charmed by the sight of their Lord and the new Lady Hightower.

And he wanted the exclusive rights to your bed? Fine. You would grant him lordly dues, but—

—seven hells, you would have never expected that sex with him would be this great.

One time, it had started with him pinning you against the walls of your chambers, devouring your lips like a man in heat. The other time he took his time, worshiping every inch of you until you were weeping his name into the silk pillows, begging for a release he purposely delayed.

And now—

“Haah...”

The breath hitched in your throat as you sank down onto him, the heat and friction from where the two of you were joined striking like a sudden fever. You sat astride his hips, your skirts pooled around you, anchoring him beneath you.

Ormund’s calloused hands were gripping your waist as he let out a grunt, trying to steady himself against a shifting tide. He looked up at you, his blue eyes hooded, blown wide with a hunger that melted away the facade of composed lord from the war council.

This was him entirely at your mercy—

You rolled your hips with a fluid, agonizing grace that drew a ragged groan from deep within his chest. You kept your chin tilted high, meeting his lustful gaze with a mocking smile.

“Is this all it takes to render the Lord of Oldtown into submission?” you taunted, your voice trembling slightly with the pleasure of him, though you forced the words out like a dare. “A woman’s touch?”

Ormund’s jaw clenched, a breathless grin on his face. “Since when... have you become so sharp-tongued?”

“Since I realized pretty words are wind and noble lords are fickle liars,” you provoked, leaning forward until your tangled hair brushed his cheek, your breath hot against his ear. “Now, are you content to let me rule your bed just as Highgarden rules over you?”

Crafty little lady. That was his breaking point.

With a low roar, Ormund seized control. He didn’t unseat you—instead, his hands locked onto your hips like iron clamps, guiding your body into a bruising rhythm that completely shattered your cool. He drove up into you with fierce thrusts, proving with every deep stroke just how formidable he truly was.

The smug defiance bled out of you, replaced by needy gasps of pain as he chased your peak, drowned in his carnal dominance until the world blurred into a haze of white-hot heat and mutual ruin.

. . .

When it was over, the heavy silence of the chamber returned, and you woke to find yourself tangled in his arms.

Ormund lay with his eyes shut, his broad, bare chest pressed against you, holding you fast.

His hair was disheveled, his eyelashes were long, and for a moment you saw your first love again, who stood tall amidst the rose gardens.

How is a man well-known for his faith luring you into thinking of sins?

You immediately tried to pull away as your pride demanded that you re-establish your distance. However, when you moved to swing your leg off him, a sudden ache between your thighs made you wince slightly.

Ormund noticed instantly as his eyes fluttered open. He shifted beside you, his voice unusually soft in the dim light. “Are you sore?”

“I am perfectly fine,” you snapped, brushing his arm away as you reached for the sheets to cover yourself, trying to regain a semblance of independence.

You had expected him to either offer an argument or wear that infuriating smirk. He did neither. Instead, he quietly rose from the bed, and you watched him, expecting him to leave you be.

However, a moment later, Ormund returned to the bedside. He gently pulled back the linen sheet and before you could protest, the soothing, comforting heat of a warm towel pressed against your inner thigh, wiping away the slick remnants with tenderness.

You froze, the sharp retort dying in your throat.

His touch was gentle, devoid of the lust from moments ago and completely stripped of the smugness he wore by day.

“Do not coddle me, Ormund,” you croaked, your voice tight as he pressed another clean, warm towel gently over your lower abdomen for comfort, before pulling the sheets over you.

“You ride like a wanton, yet you are far from used to it,” he sighed softly, as if lamenting. “I would have been gentler, if I had known.”

You fell silent as shame coiled in your chest—a mirror of when you were just a young girl vying for his attention only to face the news of his impending wedding to another woman.

But he is taking care of you now, and you have become his lawfully-wedded wife. And in this quiet gesture, a dam broke in your memory— of a young man who draped his coat over your shoulder as you basked amidst the roses of Highgarden.

“You must be cold. Go inside already,” he would say, a smile crinkling the corners of his eyes.

You used to dream of his touch, his love, his everything. It was bittersweet how he was yours now, but you were torn between heartache and a desire to pay him back in full for what he had inflicted on you—the bitter, humiliating pain of not being chosen.

“Must you hate me that much?”

You blinked up at him, caught off guard. Ormund met your gaze with a certain sternness you had rarely seen from him.

“...to the point of hurting yourself?” he went on, his brow furrowing as he looked down at you. If you were bold enough, you would presume that it was concern that you saw in his eyes.

Yet… it only made that part of your heart clenched instead.

Why now? Why only after you had hated him enough to last a lifetime? Why only after you had spent nights crying yourself to sleep that he finally turn his eyes on you?

It was so fucking unfair.

“You presume too much, Ormund Hightower.”

Your response was biting cold, yet so soft and whispery. He blinked, a flicker of surprise crossing his features.

“Rest assured, in this very contractual marriage of ours, I have no intention of feeling anything for you,” you continued, your lips curving into a cruel smile. “Other than with my body.”

To your relief, not a single muscle in his jaw twitched, burying whatever thoughts your words had stirred in him.

He shook his head lightly, finally breaking your gaze, a ghost of a smile returning to his lips, though it never reached his eyes.

“So be it then,” Ormund murmured, his voice dropping to a low baritone that carried no warmth, only the absolute finality. “How regrettable though. One may mistake you as the rose, whereas you have long since become its thorns.”

Without waiting for your answer, he straightened, turning his back on you to dress, leaving you alone in the quiet wreck of the bedsheets.

You have done it. You had ensured that his affection would forever remain beyond your reach.

That may be so, but it did not mean the physical hunger between you regressed in the slightest

You had laid with him a few more times afterwards. Each encounter in his chambers was an exercise in numbing hearts— he took you with a demanding dominance that left you breathless and slick with sweat and pleasuring you as if you were the only woman he worshipped.

Yet, as soon as the sun rose, Ormund was back to his cynical self, his crooked smile and calculating gaze ever keen on you. He kept you at an arm’s length though since that night, strutting through the halls of the Hightower as the proud lord he was.

You truly believed you could kill that fragile part of your heart that still yearned for him, matching his coldness with your own pride.

Until the turn of the moon, at least.

“My lady... this is strange.”

The pale morning light filtered through the arched windows of your solar as your maid, Ellyn, tugged firmly at the laces of your corset. You stood before the tall silver mirror, waiting to be cinched into your dress.

“What is?” you asked, feeling how her fingers slipped on the laces.

Her hands smoothed over the small of your back as she tried once more to force the edges of the bodice together. “The laces simply won’t meet. It is as though it has shrunk.”

“Do not be foolish. Pull harder.”

“I am pulling, my lady, but...”

Ellyn hesitated, her eyes shifting to your reflection. Slowly, a realization dawned to her as she stepped to the side. “Oh, my...”

You looked at your reflection then, and for a moment, you forgot how to breathe.

There, beneath the unlaced corset, your normally slender waist held an unmistakable curve—a slight protrusion in your belly that had not been there a moon ago.

“Bless the Mother,” Ellyn whispered, her hands dropping away as a smile broke across her face, entirely unaware of how your breath had caught in your throat. She beamed at you, asking:

“My lady... your courses— when did you last bleed?”

. . .

“We will march for Tumbleton.”

You were pulled from your daze at the dining hall when Ormund’s voice broke your thoughts.

“You, however, are to remain in Oldtown,” he continued, adjusting the signet ring on his finger. “You know the city and the ledgers. I need a steady hand to rule it in my stead.”

His words passed by at first.

“I’m bringing my ward Daeron and his beast. I have also arranged for the merchant boy to have his hair dyed to stand in his place—”

“A double?” you asked, almost in disbelief. “If anyone notices the deception—”

“They won’t,” Ormund interrupted smoothly, a cold smile touching his lips. “People see what they expect to see. Silver hair, a fine cloth, and the right escort would do to make one a prince. It keeps the boy safe, and more importantly, it keeps our leverage intact. I’d wager sooner or later they’re going to demand his head.”

It was this exact cunning that had captivated you. He was a man who saw the board three moves ahead, possessing an intellect forged for the cruelties of war. The fact that your child would have him as father brought a wave of reassurance, somehow.

But at the same time, dread creeped in— with the news of his departure, the secret beneath your skirts suddenly felt twice as heavy.

Ormund paused, his sharp eyes narrowing as he caught the hollow look in your eyes. His lips crooked.

“No counsel to give? You already wear the expression of a widow grieving a husband lost to the war.”

The barb pierced through your fog, sparking a sudden flash of ire as you gave him a look. “Do not flatter yourself.”

“That’s more like it.” He rose from his seat with a low chuckle. He didn’t see the ghost that seemed to settle over you, nor the way your hand instinctively wanted to press against the fabric of your skirts.

There were barely two days before his banners moved out, and somehow you didn’t have it in you to let him go without any parting words.

“May the Seven guide your path.”

The hollow blessing tasted like ash in your mouth, but it caught his attention. Ormund paused and turned back to face you.

However, there was no warmth in his expression—only an expressionless stare that bore straight through your soul.

“I thank Her Ladyship for her blessing,” he said, his voice dropping into a formal cadence. “Though I find it unnecessary.”

Three weeks had passed since then, and even the air in Oldtown was thick with the apprehension of war.

With Ormund riding out to lead his host, the governing of the city fell upon your shoulders. While it was your first time doing so, you found that you possessed the head and patience for it.

And thankfully, it kept you busy enough to keep the ghost of him out of your thoughts.

Yet at the same time, unbeknownst to you, your devotion to the city made you a conspicuous target.

It happened on a gray morning while you were overseeing the distribution of rice near the harbor. Before your household guards could even draw their steel, men in dark cloaks had surrounded you and cut down the soldier closest to you—

“Lay down your swords!” you screamed, trembling as the smallfolk were sent into a cries of horror after the man’s blood splattered across the cobblestones.

The crowd erupted into a panicked frenzy, scattering like birds before a hawk. Your remaining guards hesitated, their blades shaking in their hands as the cloaked men closed the circle around you.

From the shadows of the docks, a man stepped forward. He wore a dun-colored cloak, his brigandine bore the banners of Targaryen black and red. Men loyal to the Queen Rhaenyra.

“Yes, yes...” the leader sneered, his voice cutting through the screams of the fleeing smallfolk. “Tell them to keep their steel sheathed, Lady Hightower, or we will turn these docks into a slaughterhouse.”

“You dare bring violence to Oldtown?” you demanded, your voice finding its steel despite the frantic pounding of your heart. “Lord Ormund will have your heads on spikes before the moon turns.”

The man laughed, a harsh, grating sound. “Oh don’t you know, my lady? Lord Ormund bit off more than he could chew. Even as we speak, he lies dying in a pool of his own blood in Tumbleton.”

The world seemed to tilt beneath your feet, leaving you hollowed out by an icy shock. Without thinking, your hand flew to your abdomen, your fingers pressing firmly against your velvet gown, trying to find something to hold.

Dying. The word echoed in your mind like a funeral knell. The fortress of ice you had built to protect your heart shattered. For all your vows of indifference, the thought of him bleeding into the dirt tore a jagged wound through your chest.

Your captain of the guards stepped in front of you, his sword raised. “My lady, we can take them. Run for the gates!”

“If a single blade is drawn, my men will cut these peasants,” the leader warned. “We will burn these docks, and every innocent soul on them will die because of your pride. Come with us quietly, or watch Oldtown bleed.”

You looked at the terrified faces of the very people you had spent weeks watching— the women holding their children close, the old men trembling behind the grain carts.

For years, Ormund had protected them as their lord. Even if he is now— No matter how, you couldn’t let his city fall.

You placed a firm hand on your captain’s arm , forcing his blade down. “Lower your sword,” you commanded quietly.

“But my lady—!”

“I said, lower it.” You stepped past him, lifting your chin, refusing to let these dogs see you tremble. Looking at the leader in the eye, you spat, “I will go with you. Spare the city, and let these people go.”

He gave a mocking bow. “A noble choice, Lady Hightower. The realm will remember your piety.”

A rough hand seized your arm, dragging you towards a waiting carriage. The smallfolk of Oldtown wept aloud as they watched their lady—the sweet rose who had looked after them these past few weeks—spirited away into a cage.

Only when the heavy door slammed shut and the iron bolt clicked into place did the stark reality finally crash over you.

Tears welled in your eyes, spilling down your cheeks as you cradled your belly and struggled to breathe under the crushing weight of the very possibility that the man you had once again fallen in love with might well be dead.

There were many things, in truth, that Ormund favored in you.

You always smelled of sweet roses— out of everything, that was probably what he liked the most.

The vast gardens of Highgarden suited you, and he remembered the girl you used to be, the one who had been too timid to look him in the eye at first, but who had beautifully worked herself up to be able to do so.

He knew of your affections— he has always known. It flattered him, though none but himself and the Gods would ever know that he, too, harbored a quiet fondness for the innocent Lady Tyrell.

His little rose. In truth, he had believed that someone so young and sweet as you shouldn’t be bound to a man like him. His late wife—rest her soul, for he had been fond of her too, though it was never a blind, consuming love—had been different. She had been compliant, and more than ready to submit herself to her wifely duties, and she was who he needed when he first took on the mantle of the Lord of Oldtown.

The Gods are cruel, as all men know, especially when his dutiful wife died in a tragedy and he had to turn to House Tyrell to aid his house in its conquest for the throne— only to find you, his rose, still very much beautiful and unwed.

However, that sweet rose has grown thorns. So sharp the thorns that he has almost forgotten how soft the petals are.

You no longer stuttered and conducted yourself with pride that both vexed and captivated him. In the beginning, he had been intrigued by the woman you had become because he was convinced that the gentle little lady of his memories was still there, waiting to be coaxed out.

That was why on the day he took you to his bed and realized the truth—that you were merely performing and he had been anything but gentle—he drew the line.

But you merely looked at him with eyes as cold as winter.

“Rest assured, in this very contractual marriage of ours, I have no intention of feeling anything for you.”

Every time those words echoed in his mind, it felt as though a dagger were piercing his lungs.

. . .

“Lord Ormund! My lord! Thank the Gods you’re back!”

Tumbleton had been a bloodbath, and he barely survived it himself—a blade having pierced his armor and a hair’s breadth from his heart. But the market city had fallen, the Blacks had been broken there with the betrayals of two of their own dragonriders, and in the grand game of thrones, that was all that truly mattered.

However, the moment he stepped his foot back at Oldtown after six weeks, the atmosphere in his own home were grim— his household servants were openly relieved, some almost weeping, as if he was a ghost returned from the grave.

“They told us you were dead, my lord,” the head guard told him somberly. “We thought all was lost.”

“A blatant lie made to weaken our morale,” Ormund hissed, his hand dropping to the pommel of his sword as his wound ached. “Tumbleton has fallen, and I’m far from the grave.”

Still, he sensed something dreadful had occurred by how mournful the maidservants were—

“My lord!”

Before Ormund could demand what had happened in his absence, a shrill voice cut through. Ellyn, your faithful handmaiden, pushed past the other servants, her eyes were red-rimmed from days of crying.

She fell to her knees, clutching desperately at the hem of his traveling cloak.

“You must help her, Lord Ormund! You must bring her back!”

A cold knot of dread coiled in his stomach. He looked down at the trembling girl, his brow furrowing deeply.

And the words she uttered next, as she looked up at him with tear-streaked cheeks, made his blood run colder than when he saw dragons burning Tumbleton.

“The lady! Three weeks ago, while the city was fooled by the news of your death, the false queen’s men took her away!”

They had taken you to Tumbleton.

The market city was ravaged beyond repair. For three weeks now, they had held you hostage in a makeshift holdfast. They gave you barely enough bread and water to keep you alive, and as the days bled together, your hope withered to nothing.

Your unborn child, who grew heavier by the day beneath your heart, was the only thing left to give you the strength to survive this madness.

And as if your situation weren’t desperate enough, through the timber door of your cell, the muffled voices of your captors reached your ears. They were conversing in frantic, hushed tones.

“The smallfolk are rioting in King’s Landing. They’re storming the Dragonpit. The Queen is fleeing!”

“Then what of us? What of the woman?” another rasped.

“Leave her. If the Hightowers find us here, they’ll flay us alive. Set the fire. Let the ashes cover our tracks.”

Alarmed and struck by a sudden, feral terror, you flung yourself against the door.

“Let me out!” You screamed for help, your voice raw, hitting the wood until your knuckles bled.

But the only response was a thud, followed by the crackling of fire and pitch. Smoke and heat began to seep through, as the chamber was slowly being consumed. You were trapped.

Realizing you would soon meet your demise, the strength left your legs, and you collapsed into the dirt, trembling with tears.

I would die, Ormund already did, and I have never told him.

You bitterly regretted never telling him that you were with his child.

As the heat grew unbearable, your mind drifted away to the sun-drenched rose gardens of your home, where you and Ormund Hightower had first met.

He is devilishly handsome and gentle. Your first love who had broken your heart once, but still owns it to this very day, when you would breath your last.

The black smoke filled your lungs, choking the breath from your throat. Your vision began to tunnel, the edges of the room blurring into darkness as you surrenderred to the Stranger.

Then, through the flames, a sudden, violent crash echoed— the sharp ring of steel slicing through. Through your fading, tear-blurred sight, a figure burst through the burning doorway.

You could have sworn you saw the shimmering edge of Vigilance cleaving through the smoke, its blade gleaming. That was the Valyrian steel your husband wielded.

Was it a cruel figment of your dying imagination?

But then, the heat of the fire was eclipsed by the fierce, solid weight of heavy arms wrapping around you, lifting you from the ground. And right against your ear, came a trembling voice you recognized:

“I have you,” Ormund whispered, his voice cracking with a raw emotion you had never heard from him before.

“Hold on to me. I have you, dearest.”

The next time you awoke, you were in his bedchambers in the Hightower.

The suffocating stench of smoke and pitch was gone, replaced by the familiar, comforting scent of the crisp sea breeze blowing off the Whispering Sound. The moment your eyes fluttered open, you saw him.

He was staring down at you, his dark eyes ringed with exhaustion, but shadowed with a profound relief. He was only in a loose linen tunic that showed the bandages wrapping his chest.

“Ormund...?” your voice was a broken rasp. You reached out a trembling hand, terrified your fingers would pass right through him. “Are you... are you truly here? T-they told me you were slain—”

His eyes softened, and he smiled. Not the crooked one or a smirk, but the sincere, tender smile you had fallen in love with ten years ago.

“I’m here,” he assured, his deep voice and scent wrapping around you as he took hold of your hand.

Your first tear fell, and your voice broke into a sob then. Ormund pulled you gently but fiercely into his arms, tucking your head beneath his chin, and you clung to him, burying your head into his chest, weeping for the horror you had survived and the miracle of his embrace.

Slowly, he pulled away. His hand moved from your hair to cup your jaw, tilting your face up. The sorrow in his eyes flared into something primal— and he pressed his lips to yours in a deep, passionate kiss.

He drank you in as if you were the only life-giving water in a world reduced to ash, and you kissed him back with everything you had left. You had the man you loved returned to you, and he had the sweet rose he cherished safe in his arms.

When he finally pulled away, both of your breaths coming in ragged gasps. The tender silence stretched between you, but then Ormund’s gaze drifted downwards.

His large, warm palm rested against your belly, a knowing look in his blue eyes.

“Must you hide so many things from me?” he asked softly, his gaze boring into yours with an intensity that made your heart skip.

“I... I was—”

“Would you continue to do so if I told you that now, it is you who holds my entire heart and soul in the palm of your hand?”

You didn’t even dare to blink, and he held your gaze and a bittersweet smile touched his lips.

“I have always longed for that lady amidst the field of roses,” he murmured, his voice dropping to a rough, impassioned whisper. “Even though she knows nothing of it, even though I know she is too pretty for the likes of me, and even though I have broken her heart... I still selfishly wished I could have her for myself.”

“Ormund...” Your lips wobbled, ingesting every word as the tears pooled fresh in your eyes.

His vivid blue eyes, so warm and tender, crinkled faintly as he brushed a fallen tear from your cheek with his thumb.

“So even if roses bear thorns, I would gladly suffer a thousand cuts from now on… so long as I am the only one who gets to hold you.”

That was everything you needed to hear. You surrendered yourself to his embrace again, letting him kiss the crown of your head.

Dragons might continue to dance and the kingdoms would burn, but in that fleeting moment within the walls of the Hightower, the bloodstained game of thrones ceased to matter—

For the lord had reclaimed his lady, and their story might lead to a fairytale after all.

[sunkissedjedi]

i'm never gonna recover from this in all honesty. how could i?!! like i need a moment!! 😭💜💜💜 and if i always think of him now when i see roses, that is your fault.

but I need to talk about these parts !! 😭💖 (i shaded blue the text that - just hit me SO in the feels!)

⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡

HOLD ME WHILE I CRY - that part was so emotional 😭but these lines had me just!!

His little rose.

However, that sweet rose has grown thorns. So sharp the thorns that he has almost forgotten how soft the petals are.

Every time those words echoed in his mind, it felt as though a dagger were piercing his lungs, as much as he hated to admit it.

this part was just pure cinema; right out of a movie!! 🥺😭💛💛💛

Then, through the flames, a sudden, violent crash echoed— the sharp ring of steel slicing through. Through your fading, tear-blurred sight, a figure burst through the burning doorway.

You could have sworn you saw the shimmering edge of Vigilance cleaving through the smoke, its blade gleaming. That was the Valyrian steel your husband wielded.

Was it a cruel figment of your dying imagination?

But then, the heat of the fire was eclipsed by the fierce, solid weight of heavy arms wrapping around you, lifting you from the ground. And right against your ear, came a trembling voice you recognized:

“I have you,” Ormund whispered, his voice cracking with a raw emotion you had never heard from him before.

“Hold on to me. I have you, dearest.”

AND THE ENDING !! HAVE MERCY. MY HEART. SOUL. EVERYTHING. 😭🥺💜💜💜💜💜

You had the man you loved returned to you, and he had the sweet rose he cherished safe in his arms.

“Would you continue to do so if I told you that now, it is you who holds my entire heart and soul in the palm of your hand?”

“I have always longed for that lady amidst the field of roses,” he murmured, his voice dropping to a rough, impassioned whisper. “Even though she knows nothing of it, even though I know she is too pretty for the likes of me, and even though I have broken her heart... I still selfishly wished I could have her for myself.”

“So even if roses bear thorns, I would gladly suffer a thousand cuts from now on… so long as I am the only one who gets to hold you.”

[samthegreenapologist]

A/N:im so sorry to the anon who sent this in but again I started it in a draft that wasn’t a respond to your ask. My bad! Drabble Masterlist

Lenient

Ormund Hightower X F!Wife!Reader

Prompts: jealousy, bath sex

WC: 1.1k

“leave us.”

“m’lord you requested a bath be made up” the woman was carrying in a bucket of the soaps and oils that were used when you got cleaned.

“leave.” He reiterated to the maid, his eyes not leave you for a moment.

“Ormund,” you sighed as soon as the door to your shared chambers was closed. The feast had been uncomfortable for basically the entirety of it. Ormund shifting in his seat, eyes glaring your direction. He made conversation with anybody but you but the moment you attempted to stand to go join some of the dancing he had laid his palm across your lap. The messaging was clear. He wanted you to remain sat beside him. “I bathed this morning, my skin will grow dry.”

Lord Ormund Hightower, the man you’ve been wed to for close to four namedays now paid little mind to your concerns about skin irritation. Much larger concernes plagued his mind.

“I see now that I’ve been far too lenient.” He stood before the bath and tipped in a few vials of oil.

“lenient?” You almost laughed at that word choice. It felt like a scolding. That word hadn’t been directed at you since you were ten and two and your septa had been disappointed in some mostly innocent quest you’d gone on.

“I must be a better husband to you.” He continued and that made you frown, he was a fine husband. A entertaining and thoughtful one infact. Your hand touched his back and your brows furrowed.

“you’ve not done anything incorrectly husband-“ you began to assure him but he turned swiftly and his eyes sealed to your shoulder, collar and chest.

“I was not clear enough with you, nor firm enough.” You swallowed and your hands rose up to hold to your shoulders crossing over your chest as well, blocking where he was looking. Unease trickling down your spine.

“galavanting though my halls in something fit for a courtesan? I’ve let your humiliate yourself infront of the entire court!” His voice raised and you startled a bit.

“it’s a gown Ormund! It’s not anything proactive-“

“you do not see how they look upon you. What filthy thoughts they have about lady Hightower while you sit beside me, while you assure people they will be in your prayers on the morrow!?” You attempt to pull back from this entire confrontation but Ormund grabs your hip pulling you easily until your legs are flush to the large soaking tub. “Do you know what they think?” He growls into your ear from behind.

“I liked the color…the lace.” You reason.

“they imagine you knelt in that sacred space, bare in nothing but your veil while their name rolls off your lips.” It felt like a very specific depravity to be imagined.

“That is what you think of husband-even my collarbone startles you so?” You challenge looking over your shoulder at him. He clearly had been effected by the gown, by you specifically within in. Perhaps the dress was a bit less modest than normal but you did not think it was so shocking that lords were gawking at you?!

“I have already admitted my fault.” His hands were undoing your gowns laces, watching as it slipped down inch by inch until you had nothing but smallclothes on.

“which is?” You shive because his hand had wrapped around your waist and is currently drawing up towards your neck from your midsection.

“not controlling your beastly tendencies, letting you run about my city putting things on your body for you desire and allowing it because of mine.” His voice was deep and you felt warm in your stomach. Back leaning against him slightly. “I will cleanse you…so we might severe the gods and realm as intended.” His hands steadied over your shoulder once you were bare. He was notably still completely dressed. You assumed because whatever he was going to do if he became undressed at the same time as you would not serve the realm.

“I’m not a whore.” You sigh, slightly offended still by these dramatics. His seamstresses made the gown, it wasn’t as if you went to the markets and found some unwarranted style.

“And it is my duty to see to it that you never become one, never are perceived as one.” He nodded down to the water and waited for you to step into the tub and sink down before he went about rolling up both his sleeves. “Now,” he knelt beside the warm water and his hand touched your cheek first. “Allow me to look after you as a husband should…” he ticked on and he took up the soap and a cloth scrubbing them together and then moving it across your shoulders.

“they are too enticing to be seen by all.”

Your eyes lifted to look at his focused ones. “The gods warn against selfishness to Ormund.” You remind him knowing the next thing that was going to fall out of his mouth was going to be that only he shall see them moving forward.

You eased back until your back was against the edge of the tub and your legs were stretched out in the water, a hand holding the side so you wouldn’t drift about as Ormund made all your exposed skin sudsy.

“did you like my gown?” You ask softly when his hand dragged the cloth down the valley between your breasts. Which were bobbing in the water a bit, the occasional exposure to the cold air making your nipples bud.

“I’ve made my passion clear, have I not?”

“Yes, on others seeing me in it. But did your eyes enjoy it?” Your fingers let go of the tubs lip and your damp fingers wrap around his upper arm.

Ormund Hand lost focused and somewhere near your hips he dropped the drag. His eyes closed and brow struggled to remain stern. He had truly meant to be strict about this matter.

“you minx.” He huffed while leaned over some to meet his lips with yours. You kissed him back, small little pecks and giggled when his tongue probed for more. He was bold for alluding to your wanton-ness when he was now persuading you physically.

“Mm-I thought I needed c-cleansing?!” You gasped because his large hand settled over your mound and his fingers expertly found your clit between kisses.

“hush wife,” he growled into your neck sucking a mark roughly into the flesh there. One you’d need to cover, it was in a spot that would ensure your necklines were more than modest! “This is what you wanted?” His thumb took up position over your clit and two of his long fingers pushed down into your core. The water sloshed some, wetting his sleeve and you arched your hips up nodding.

“yes, gods yes.” You agree voice already fluttery. He knew just how to please you. “Ugh-“ your knees drew up and an arm shifted to hand around his head. He wasn’t kissing your neck any longer, he was simply just savoring feeling your pulse against his lips and inhaling the warm scent of you.

“I feel that…” he grinned and his fingers curled more. “Let go for me,” he urged and you nodded nails digging into the back of his neck. “Go on wife, get your fix so we might behave like civilized people for the rest of the night.”

You came with a gasp and when he saw you were about a give out a shout he pressed his mouth over yours.

“Will you wear that gown again?” He asked as you started to settle, limp and floaty in the tub.

Your head shook softly. “No…not if you keep making me feel like that.” You smiled softly blinking up at him.

“you are truly a test sent by the gods.” He sighed, shaking his head but the warm charmed smirk told you how much he loved this, how much he loved you.

[sunkissedjedi]

all of this was fantastic - the setting, the theme, him ?!! 🧡 but when I got to this line:

You came with a gasp and when he saw you were about a give out a shout he pressed his mouth over yours.

I DIED. Made my heart go skippy skip. ABSOLUTE INCREDIBLE IMAGE in my mind now.

[awearywritersworld]

as you are

gwayne hightower x reader summary: to be a good wife, a woman must sacrifice a part of herself. at least, that's what you've always been taught. gwayne just might prove your expectations wrong. w/c: 1.5k tags: fem!reader. tyrell!reader. hurt/comfort. mentions of reader's parents' unhealthy relationship. mentions of misogynistic/canon typical expectations. hotd masterlist

the day that marked your union with ser gwayne hightower was a lavish affair hosted in oldtown, but while most everyone else seemed to be of joyful spirit, the feeling of dread in your gut threatened to consume you.

it'd been growing there ever since otto hightower first proposed the match to your father, lord tyrell. with the looming matter of succession, otto endeavored to strengthen ties with highgarden ahead of any assured potential conflict.

it's not that you took issue with the man you were to wed. he is, after all, known to be a knight most handsome and noble. it was the prospect of becoming a wife at all that dampened your would be celebration.

your entire life, you've never once witnessed your mother and father share a moment of affection. it's quite the opposite, a marriage characterized by icy remarks and disregard.

your septa, in a misguided attempt to save you from the same fate, was always steadfast in her most important lesson— once you were wed, you would no longer be a lady of highgarden. you would be a wife, and wives are meant to be agreeable, lacking in opinion, and obliged to bear heirs.

thus, as you pledged yourself to the son of oldtown, that is what you resolved to be. nothing more, nothing less.

and it worked. for a little while, at least. ser gwayne is completely taken with you— poised, polite, and beautiful in the way that men write songs about.

but the man you married is quite clever, and it doesn't take him long to realize that you are perhaps too gracious.

for three moons now, he has toiled to earn your trust. to see what lies behind your mask of docile courtesy. truthfully, he finds it more challenging than any foe's sword or diplomat's politic.

his efforts have not been entirely fruitless, and he looks forward to the moments it seems he has earned your confidence to some degree. just days ago, you petitioned him on behalf of a young servant boy who's shoes had fallen to disrepair.

he acceded without pause, and watched later on as you presented new boots to the boy. a tender expression decorated your features as you spoke with him, a sight that was new to gwayne.

it tugged at something in the very center of his chest and strengthened his resolve.

while you took note of the way your husband's demeanor softens around you, especially when you are alone in his chambers, you surmised it must simply be fatigue, pity, or some mix thereof.

what other conclusion is there to draw, when he has only lain with you in the way a husband does his wife but once since your wedding night?

to think he must find you undesirable despite all your efforts is disheartening, to say the least. in your attempts to initiate intimacy, he returns your kisses briefly, but eventually pulls away and suggests, "shall we turn to slumber, wife?"

unbeknownst to you (and thankfully his father, as it would surely inspire his ire), gwayne cannot bring himself to bed you again. not when all he has found behind your eyes is obligation, rather than desire or affection.

so while he cannot help the indecent thoughts that sometimes invade his mind— like how you might look beneath him, blissful and desperate— he makes restraint a priority.

until he proves himself to you.

until you want him too.

as the sun begins its ascent above the horizon, you're perched on the ledge of your chamber window, staring down at the port of oldtown. while gwayne readies himself for the day, the dock workers and fisherman are already hard at work.

"you know..." your tone, somewhat pensive, draws his attention. "the mornings here are an oddity to me."

your hands fidget with one another in your lap, a display that does not escape his notice. "how do you find?"

"they are rather.. overwrought. the blinding light reflected off the sea. the salt that carries in with the breeze. the cries of the gulls..."

gwayne begins to suspect that your words are not meant for him— more so a personal observation spoken aloud. there's an element of your disposition that feels solemn, a circumstance that has grown more frequent in recent days.

approaching where you sit, he peers out of the window before turning his gaze to you. a thought occurs to him as he studies your face.

"what time i spend in highgarden, i find myself overextended with little opportunity to appreciate the scenery— tell me of the mornings there."

a fond smile graces your lips, much to his relief.

"oh, they are beautiful. periwinkle skies. the soft croons of doves. the smell of roses, sweet and faint. i... i miss it fiercely."

your eyes meet his, and frightened realization dawns upon your countenance as you mistake the sympathy written on his face for disappointment.

"b-but i am grateful to be here, husband. being in oldtown, with you, is doubtless a privilege many a lady has dreamed of."

his brow furrows and he takes a small step forward, closing the space between you.

"it aggrieves me that you oft refrain from speaking freely, my sweet wife. your words bore no offense. surely anyone would miss a home so lovely."

you look away bashfully, feeling as if you've been ensnared in some intricate trap.

hoping to relieve your apparent doubt, gwayne adds, "i should like to see one of these highgarden mornings together, wife. what do you say?"

your eyes widen as your gaze meets his, astonishment dominating your every feature. "you would go to such lengths on my behalf?"

"well, certainly." his head tilts ever so slightly. "is it not my duty to ensure your happiness?"

the question leaves you speechless. never had you been taught any version of marital duty that involved your own contentment.

you stand with a sigh, brushing past him and pacing the length of your chambers as you ponder his words. "i.. i could not possibly trouble you with my childish whims—"

he catches you by the wrist, his tone full of sincerity. "be assured, petal, it's no trouble at all. the journey is scarcely a day."

the term of endearment, a recent development, makes your cheeks feel warm. "my gratitude is yours for even entertaining such a notion, husband."

"husband.." he repeats, smiling at you softly. "when shall i have the honor of hearing mine own name from your lips?"

it's quiet for a moment as you try and fail to recall a time you heard your mother and father refer to one another so familiarly.

"is that your desire?" you finally ask.

he hums, considering the question. "my sole desire is to have you as you are— not the duty bound wife of this undeserving husband, but your true self, wherever she may be hiding."

your heart stutters violently in your chest. "oh."

he lets out a breath of amusement, your brief response potentially the most candid you've ever been with him.

"i'd wager i could make the arrangements to leave for highgarden in three days time. would that be agreeable?"

a small gasp escapes your lips. "truly? you mean it?"

"of course—"

you're both caught off guard when you press upon your tip toes and throw your arms around his neck. you miss the way his cheeks flush pink before he returns your embrace in earnest.

your next words are spoken quietly, but your husband hears them quite clearly. "thank you, gwayne."

you pull away just a few inches, and his smile is so wide that small dimples form upon his cheeks and his eyes shine brightly. you've always found him handsome, but the sight before you makes your knees feel a little weak.

"very well, then. i will see to our travels today," he affirms. emboldened by your proximity, he cannot refrain from leaning down to place a chaste kiss to your cheek. "i shall see you for supper this evening."

before you can process what's happened, much less muster up a response, you're left alone.

staring after the doors through which he disappeared, the pads of your fingers move to the place his lips met your skin.

an idea occurs to you that is equally exciting as it is intimidating— perhaps with ser gwayne hightower, there could be more to marriage than empty vows and hollow duty.

[sunkissedjedi]

*claps hands rapidly* absolute EXQUISITE read. pure sweet treat. so LOVELY ৎ୭ it's so perfect and canon of him; and when he hears his name? kiss on your cheek? LOVE that SO much. 💜

But this part though !!!!

gwayne cannot bring himself to bed you again. not when all he has found behind your eyes is obligation, rather than desire or affection.

so while he cannot help the indecent thoughts that sometimes invade his mind— like how you might look beneath him, blissful and desperate— he makes restraint a priority.

until he proves himself to you.

until you want him too.

and this part?!!!! YESSSSS

an idea occurs to you that is equally exciting as it is intimidating— perhaps with ser gwayne hightower, there could be more to marriage than empty vows and hollow duty.

[twolegsandbleeds]

lowkey obsessed with the idea of a usually quiet simon ‘ghost’ riley who's loud during sex. saw something which was like ‘fucking louder than the voices in our heads’ and like, yeaaaah. that's a vibe. also just… men that actually make noise when fucking you. ungff.

the first time you get him under the covers with you you're prepared for him to be one of those blokes that breathes heavily in your ear and let's out a little grunt when he cums. he's not exactly chatty - usually the most you get is a grunt or eye roll or dry comment.

but you were very, very pleasantly surprised.

he whimpers as your nails drag down his back; arching into the touch like he's chasing the pain. moans into your cunt as you grind against his tongue - actual moans that start in his chest and drag themselves out of his throat unbidden. soft, tiny gasps when you wrap your hand around his cock and stroke him slowly.

when he sinks inside you he growls; hips stuttering as your walls clamp down around him. even whilst he's fucking you he's letting words fall from his mouth and into the skin of your neck; practically narrating the entire experience like you're not also actively participating in it.

“fuck, ya feel so good love. so tight fer me. reckon if heaven fuckin' existed it's this.”

“could fucking stay here forever, yer fuckin’ perfect love.”

“yer gonna make me cum if you keep doin’ that. want that love? want me to fill yer pretty little cunt up? ‘ave me leakin’ out of you all night?”

at some point the words stop and shift into unintelligible gasps and curses; moans of your name and of a god's he doesn't believe in.

and when he actually does cum it's with a noise that you feel as much as you hear. pressing his hips flush against yours so he spills deep inside you as a cry claws its way out of him; something semi-feral that you'd think was pain if it wasn't for the way he's looking down at you with glassy brown eyes rimmed with blonde lashed and an expression of utter peace.

[awearywritersworld]

now and always

ormund hightower x reader summary: ormund learns of the whispers that plague his wife, the second eldest targaryen princess. w/c: 1.6k tags: fem!reader. targ!reader. hurt/comfort. angst to fluff. not canon compliant - ormund's first wife and child die during birth. likely ooc ormund. hints of suicidal ideation from reader. references to canon typical violence. set mainly in oldtown. hotd masterlist

from the very first time he saw you, some vision of otherwordly beauty and grace, ormund hightower found himself enamored with the younger of the two targaryen princesses.

fate would deign your paths to cross many times throughout your youths.

he can still recall quite clearly the time he bid you to dance at an early summer feast. you smiled up at him, all warm and radiant, as you placed your hand in his.

or when you offered him your favor at a tournament, and how madly you blushed when he told you his victory was yours entirely.

you had written back and forth throughout the years, but he knew he could never presume himself worthy of your hand. when he wed his first wife, your correspondence stopped entirely.

some time later, you heard she and their firstborn died in the childbed. you prayed very hard to the mother that night, that she might grant all three souls peace.

after a few years had passed, he received word that your sister made off to dragonstone and his uncle was to return as hand of the king.

he began thinking of you again. often.

you had remained unwed and in the capital, the purported whim of dying, foolish king.

viserys failed to see the reality that laid before you, but it was nauseatingly clear to ormund— one in which his family took advantage of your position, or threw you in the black cells, or worse.

so he conspired with his father and uncle.

"were she to be a lady of oldtown, it would bring further greatness to our house, solidifying our blood with dragons and royalty."

truthfully, that was of no concern to him. not in any meaningful way.

"⁠in the name of the mother, i charge you to defend the young and innocent. in the name of the maid, i charge you to protect all women"

those vows are what mattered, and you were the one he desired to prove it to most.

at first, you were unspeakably pleased. he was the charming knight you remembered so fondly, and oldtown was a beautiful city.

but as viserys' health continued to decline, whispers traveled the halls of the tower, stares of disdain weighed heavily upon your heart, and your safety felt less and less assured.

you came to realize you may have been naive.

ormund is in the middle of a meeting with oldtown's most important officials when your handmaiden enters. "begging your pardon, my lord."

she whispers in his ear, taking care not to let anyone else hear. his eyes stay trained on the table before flitting up to the door.

"very well."

he clears his throat before addressing the others in the room with a wave of his hand. "that will be all for today."

he doesn't wait for them to leave before he makes his way to you, long strides carrying him in the direction of your shared chambers.

he finds you out on the balcony, sitting on the stone wall with your legs dangling freely over the far side. your hair is at the mercy of a strong sea breeze, a sure sign that a storm approaches.

he steels himself against the anxiety that arises in his chest. just one wrong move...

"wife."

"husband."

"far be it from me to ruin your amusement, but i must beseech you come down from there."

you sigh. "my last handmaiden understood discretion much more aptly."

"she was simply concerned for your well being."

you let out a laugh, entirely humorless. "a rare concept these days."

"oh? and what of me? have i not proven my care for you?"

of course you have.

but what if it's easier to pretend otherwise? to paint this impending war in black and white (or more appropriately, black and green). after all, his betrayal is inevitable. right?

"deceit is unbecoming of you, husband. you care not for me, but the leverage your hostage grants."

"you and i both know that to be un—"

"besides, i am a dragon. can dragons not fly? such heights are scarcely of consequence." you lean forward and peer down at the earth below.

"scarcely of consequence?" he repeats, dumbfounded.

taking a hurried step in your direction, he stops short, lest he startle you right over the edge.

"please come back here, princess. you will be the death of me, i swear."

"perhaps i should like to see that— my one and only contribution to the war your family insists on waging against my own."

"you do not mean that," he contends definitively.

"no." you look back and meet his eye for the first time. "i suppose i do not."

"join me for a drink, then. won't you?"

he finally approaches you, intent on ensuring your return to safety.

"if you insist."

as you swing your legs over the ledge, his hands find your waist, firm and careful. you bat them away despite yourself. "i am quite capable on my own."

when your feet meet the ground, he follows behind you and pulls out your chair. moving to sit across from you, he tops off your half empty wine glass before pouring one of his own.

his gaze holds yours as he takes his first sip. "now, what has gotten into you?"

you scoff before averting your eyes. "there is little more to do in this prison, than take to drink and stare at the sea."

he raises a brow. "you needn't remain in our chambers. i seem to recall you used to walk the gardens most every day."

"you would have me bear the hateful gaze of those who dwell in this tower, so that i might quell my boredom? i'll spare myself the agitation."

"of what do you speak?" he asks, confused. "has someone treated you unkindly?"

"the suspicious disregard would be poison enough," you answer quietly. "but one hears whispers."

his expression darkens. "what whispers?"

you'd been under the assumption he was aware of the murmurs shared among servants and noblemen alike. cursing yourself, you attempt to downplay the situation. it would be most unfortunate, were he to deem your presence more trouble than it's worth.

"nothing more than cynical folly, i am sure."

he fixes you with a stern expression. "folly would not have you so perturbed. tell me what troubles you."

"i... i cannot speak it."

"please, wife. i must insist."

you study his face, a fine portrait of concern and something too complicated to name.

"t-they say that they feel sorry for you."

"go on."

"for it is only a matter of time... before you... before you must take my head."

the next few moments of ormund's existence are marked by a ringing in his ears and the constricting of his throat. to you, it's as if he's frozen in time.

perhaps that would be best— to stay here forever, alone with him, rather than face the coming war.

then his expression shifts, and all that lies before you is pain.

in the blink of an eye, he appears at your feet, his knees meeting cruelly with stone. "why have you kept this from me?"

"i... i thought you knew. i thought you—"

his pain turns to agony. "no. i... never. i would sooner fall on mine own sword. you must believe that."

panic blooms in his chest when he realizes that you doubt him. "who spoke such unfounded blasphemy?"

you shrug. "the words belong not to one person alone."

he growls in frustration. "if i hear a word of this, i care not from who, i will lay their head at your feet. i swear it."

"should that be, i fear you may find yourself without an army."

he rises to his feet, pulling you with him. calloused hands find your face, holding it gently like one does something priceless.

"you are my wife. mine. i will lay down my life before i let you be taken from me. tell me you know this to be true."

when you don't answer him, your name passes his lips in a quiet plea.

"what of duty to your house? what of honor?" you question.

"protecting you is the most honorable endeavor i should ever hope to undertake." his voice is full of a fierce earnestness that makes you tremble.

he searches your face, and he detests the tears that have sprung in your eyes. detests that he is the cause.

your tone is laced with uncertainty. "ormund..."

"kiss me," he murmurs. "kiss me and then tell me you doubt me still."

you give into him, leaning into his broad frame and allowing yourself to feel the comfort of his warmth.

his lips meet yours in a sorrowful sort of way— wretched and precious all at once.

large hands move to your hips, gripping your flesh and pulling you closer as if he fears it may be the last time he ever has the chance.

a small groan escapes him when he finally feels your body relax in his grasp.

"i love you," he promises against your lips.

"and i you," you return.

he pulls away only an inch or two, and there's an air of resolution about him.

"then put your faith in me, sweet girl. i will take care you, now and always."

you offer him a small nod, and he wastes no time in pulling you against his chest with crushing strength.

burying his face in your hair, he breathes deeply, inhaling your scent. it's faint, floral, and more effective at easing his nerves than any tonic the maesters could brew.

"now then, shall we take a stroll in the gardens together? the flowers have been lackluster of late— lost, no doubt, without your exemplary beauty."

[sunkissedjedi]

i am TRULY at a loss for words over this fic; MY GOODNESS !!! 🥺😭💜💜💜 (i shaded purple the text that - just hit me so in the feels!)

⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡

if I were an artist - the way I would draw this part !!! it's like a painting through words!! 💜💜💜

then his expression shifts, and all that lies before you is pain.

in the blink of an eye, he appears at your feet, his knees meeting cruelly with stone. "why have you kept this from me?"

"i... i thought you knew. i thought you—"

his pain turns to agony. "no. i... never. i would sooner fall on mine own sword. you must believe that."

no words. like how? MY SOUL 💜🤍🤍🤍

he rises to his feet, pulling you with him. calloused hands find your face, holding it gently like one does something priceless.

"you are my wife. mine. i will lay down my life before i let you be taken from me. tell me you know this to be true."

"protecting you is the most honorable endeavor i should ever hope to undertake." his voice is full of a fierce earnestness that makes you tremble.

and this part?? I am an emotional MESS 🥺

"kiss me," he murmurs. "kiss me and then tell me you doubt me still."

you give into him, leaning into his broad frame and allowing yourself to feel the comfort of his warmth.

large hands move to your hips, gripping your flesh and pulling you closer as if he fears it may be the last time he ever has the chance.

and are you kidding me?!! MY HEART 😭🤍🤍🤍

"i love you," he promises against your lips. and i you," you return.

he pulls away only an inch or two, and there's an air of resolution about him.

"then put your faith in me, sweet girl. i will take care you, now and always."

you offer him a small nod, and he wastes no time in pulling you against his chest with crushing strength.

burying his face in your hair, he breathes deeply, inhaling your scent. it's faint, floral, and more effective at easing his nerves than any tonic the maesters could brew.

[flockoff-featherface]

"cause you make me feel like, i've been locked outta heaven~" | dilf! ormund hightower x baker! reader

Chapter 1: "You know, this is the kind of thing bards sing of - a maiden, falling into my arms, hmm?"

masterlist ★ chapter 2

★word count: 3.5k ★series summary: Lord Hightower had lost his wife a few years back. Grief was still fresh on his mind, as was the wellbeing of his young son. Yet, he cannot bring himself to take on a new wife - and then you whisk your way into his life. The niece of his favourite baker, new to Oldtown without the slightest clue of exactly who he is - neither you nor him can help but to fall so very deeply in love with each other. This is sure to spell disaster, no?

roe speaks: put ormund hightower and i in a room together rn. also this might be kinda ooc for ormund? i. am not sure.

The Gods know that losing one's wife is already a difficult situation alone. But losing one's wife, and being saddled with a wailing newborn and the responsibility of a city and its people looking to you for guidance without ever giving you a moment to mourn is even worse.

Lord Ormund Hightower knew this all too well. The last three years in particular had been difficult - between raising young Silas, governing Oldtown and dealing with whatever messes his family had created, the man had little time for love, or even any duty to himself. Very rarely did he exist outside the role he was to fulfil. Now, it is not that he did not receive marriage candidates - quite the contrary! But he often found himself rejecting them - finding some reason or the other He truly was unable to find it within him to truly move on, despite everyone around him urging him on.

"No," he would say, "I have.. responsibilities."

He would not elaborate any further.

And so, those close to the Lord would sigh, toss papers into a fire and walk away as he would be left frowning over petty disputes.

These days in particular, he took little pleasure in anything. Horse riding, hunting, reading - none really called to him in the manner that it would before. But there was a very particular bakery, located far enough from the busier streets of Oldtown to grant him a sense of privacy. Of course, he was still recognised - after all, who would not recognise their Lord? Only a fool would do such a thing. But he was not harassed, hounded and irritated. Instead, the people further out would often treat him much kinder than others.

Granted, many of them were elderly, and perhaps they looked upon him with pity. Nevertheless, it had quickly become his favourite place to be - especially when life had become far too hectic. For example, this very morning:

"NO!"

"Sila-"

"NO NO NO! I WANT OOFY! NOW!"

"Oofy.. Oofy needs a bath, Silas, please?"

"NO!!!!"

"Silas."

"GO AWAY!"

"Seven give me strength - Silas Hightower, Oofy will return to you when he is washed and clean. And you will return to me when you are washed and clean - is that understood?"

"…"

"I said, is that understood?"

"…"

"Silas-"

"NO!"

Oofy, named for the noise dogs make (except the young boy could not quite pronounce the 'w' sound, and added an extra sound on the end for whatever reason children do such things) was young Silas Hightower's stuffed dog soft toy. A gift from his late grandfather before he had passed and left the burdens of responsibility upon his son.

Unfortunately, Oofy had suffered an incident that morning (been dragged through wed mud by Silas as the two of them played outside before breaking their morning fast) and had no choice but to be rushed into an emergency operation (desperately needed cleaning before Ormund Hightower lost his mind and soul). Similarly, his owner also required a deep clean. The stench of wet mud clung to the young boy! It did not help that he kept flinging his arms around as maids wrestled him into the tub - flicking chunks of mud around the room.

Ormund pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling slowly in an attempt to remain calm. He instructed the maids to not find him until after noon had passed, and to take good care of the young boy until he returned. And so, despite the protests of his young son echoing behind him, Ormund left Hightower for his favourite place in the world.

Whenever he travelled through Oldtown, It always stuck out to him how different people were the further away he was from Hightower. It was almost as though people were less strange, the further he was from his seat. Though, part of that was probably the clothes too. He felt no need to don exquisite silks and velvets on days like these, and so it was much easier to get by. The less who recognised him, the better.

As he rode, he felt the stress ease from his shoulders first, and then his temples, his eyebrows and finally his jaw had fully unclenched by the time he approached the bakery. The sweet smell of baked goods wafted past him, and he sighed happily for the first time in what felt like forever. Outside, the flowers bloomed - their own scents layering perfectly in a way Ormund could only describe as his own heaven. The sun beamed down quite comfortably - not too hot nor too cold, and the perfect breeze blew through the blades of grass below. Dismounting from his horse and tying him to a post, he walked inside, expecting the usual.

"Ah, good morning! You are our first customer today, sire - what is it that you will take today?"

Erm… hang on… this was a problem, no?

That was not what the baker sounded like! For a start, the baker most certainly had a deepset voice - that of a man who had lived a long life. Sure, he did not have a raspy, rugged voice - but he did not have a voice that sung of honeyed flowers and sweetened fruits either! His eyes quickly moved in the direction of the voice, where you stood behind a counter, still setting out pastries. No, no - the baker was not a young woman with soft strays peeking out from her hair, flour dusted across her apron and a warm smile that was slowly turning into a concerned frown,

"…Sire?"

"You are not the baker."

"???"

"No. Where is he?"

"I presume that by the baker you refer to my uncle, yes?"

"I.. hope.. so..?"

"You hope so..?"

"How am I to know if he is your uncle or not? I have not seen you before!"

"Ohhh, you're the dedicated customer."

"The what?"

"My uncle mentioned you! He said you would likely come visit the most of everyone else. My uncle unfortunately has a small health issue - just his back is not quite working the same as it should - and because I have the time, my mother sent me to come and help!"

All of a sudden, he felt like an ass. A complete, total ass. He had not even tried to be kind, rushing straight to suspicion. He should have asked politely, calmly - but instead he threw unnecessary anger at you. Guilt struck his chest as he tasted it - akin to a bitter liquid poured down the throat. He smoothed down his tunic, walking closer with an apologetic smile on his face. Meanwhile, you grabbed a fistful of flour - you know, just in case.

As he got close, opening his mouth to speak…

"I would like t-????"

"Do not even dare to think of attacking me!"

"What???"

"Not a step further!"

"I-?"

"No!"

"I am not attacking yo- is this flour?"

"…"

"Well?"

"You are not attacking me. I see that now."

"And my secon- yes this is flour."

"In my defence, sire, I did not know that you would not attack me-"

"You did not know that I would attack you either!"

You pause, mouth dropping open and close until you sigh and nod. He did have a point, after all. A point, and flour all over his face. (His handsome, chiselled face that you really are trying so very hard to ignore. Had the Gods carved him themselves?) Embarassment begins to creep up your face, heat rising as you feel ashamed that you have somehow attacked the customer that might have just been your uncle's best one. Oh dear. Fear begins to fill your brain as you start to spiral. Your lip begins to tremble, and tears begin to prick the corners of your eyes as you think about your sweet uncle,

"I.. I am so very sorry sire, please do not hold it against my uncle! This bakery is all he has, and if you are the customer he speaks so kindly of, then you know that he needs you, right? And, and I truly did not mean to throw flour like that-"

"Shhh now, it is only flour."

Flour, that he would have to wash aggressively out of his tunic, of course.

"But-"

One raise of his eyebrows has you quickly shutting your mouth, unintentionally pouting at him. He cannot ignore how his heart jumps slightly, but he can quickly divert attention to the matter at hand. Pastries.

"So - I presume the usuals are all available.. hmm. Today feels like something more flower-y, I should think."

"Perhaps the Lavender and orange tart?"

"Lavender and orange?"

"Yes! It is not one of the usual pastries we sell, but it is something I have personally been working on - perhaps you would enjoy it?"

You raise a tray up for him to see - rectangular tarts, filled with a soft purple cream, orange curd and decorated with edible flowers. Truly a tempting little dessert - fresh and citrus-y and a completely different type of pastry from that which your uncle would usually keep for him. Any other day, and he would have refused. Any other person, and he would have shook his head - ever-stubborn in his choices. But he glances up from the tray, his own eyes finding yours - filled with a hope that he could not ignore. So, somehow, he finds himself nodding,

"And what would you recommend to go with this? Usually, I have a plain coffee when I come by, but then I also end up having something less interesting to eat with it."

"I have a lavender, chamomile and rose tea that I could brew for you?"

"Lavender, chamomile and rose.."

As he parrots back each flavour to you, he swears he can taste it across his tongue. You wait patiently, praying he says yes, and find yourself releasing an unintentionally held breath when he finally nods,

"Perfect! In that case, you should take a seat - I'll brew your tea and bring both tea and tart together for you."

He smiles before nodding, turning and finding a seat. Not by the window, because when he had last made that mistake, he found himself busy and riddled with more work on the one day he had chosen to take to himself. Instead, he picks a table that is not quite easy to see from outside, but not too far inside either. Unbeknownst to him, it happened to be the table you could see clearest from the kitchen behind.

Was it such a bad thing to admire your uncle's customers? Surely not, right? You had already cleaned the kitchen, baked the pastries of the day and prepared for tomorrow - what else were you supposed to do as you waited patiently for the tea to brew? You allowed yourself (somewhat shamelessly too~) and your eyes to settle across his form. How his shoulders dropped with every deep breath he took, how his hair fell in just the right places - soft curls that were neither overly messy nor overly polished. You took note of how he drummed his fingers across the table - not impatient, just passing time. And your brain registered how he appeared to be aged, at the very least he must be older that you.

Not that you particularly minded.

Soon enough, the tea finished brewing. You pour out a colour that can only be described as a mix between a soft purple and pink, placing the cup and teapot onto a tray beside the tart. He would not know that you picked the most perfect slice, but you would, and that was enough for you.

The door should have swung open with ease. Yet try as you might, you would not be able to open it without letting go of the tray in your hands. The first few times you tried to open the door alone - attempting to push it with your elbow without impacting the delicacies on the tray.

You could not open it alone.

Unfortunately for you, he had noticed. Fortunately for you, he comes to help you open the door. It appears luck is not quite on your side though, as you place the tray down and push the handle down, swinging it open at the same time that he pulls. As the door swings into him (and he narrowly avoids being hit in the face), you stumble forward - tripping over your feet.

This is it.

Your uncle's best customer will never come by again, and you will fall flat on your face. All in your first week in Oldtown. Oh Gods, the rumours - you can already imagine! The old women stood in circles - gathering as they whisper unkindly about you. And then you would never bake again, forced to live a life without your favourite thing to do! Oh, the horror!

However, you do not meet and greet the floor. But you are not suspended in air either. Two hands grasp you from underneath, strong arms holding you up from the ground. In the fall you have somehow spun - allowing yourself to make direct eye contact with your saviour. Tall, with soft brown hair, chest heaving as he looks down to you - lips slightly parted.

Not only had he come to help you open the door, he had also caught you as you fell. Into his arms.

"You know, this is the kind of thing bards sing of - a maiden, falling into my arms, hmm?"

His voice does not carry the type of mean tone that you had thought it would. Nay, it is still soft - carrying the type of teasing that does not make you feel uncomfortable or weird, but pushes a heat to crawl up and across your neck instead. It does not help that you find yourself almost face to face with his gorgeous, handsome, perfectly formed face, looking down in concern as he helps you to stand back up. His eyes look up and down - checking that you have not somehow hurt yourself - before smiling at you once more,

"Thank you, sire. If I may ask, what is your name?"

"Oh, it is no proble- hmm?"

"Your name, please?"

"My name..?"

"Well, I must know the name of the kind man who has saved me from falling so ungracefully, no?"

It is then that he realises - you have no idea who he is. By nature of his position, he should be somewhat angered, filled with a rage fuelled by how disrespectful this is. He should then make a big show of who he is, proving himself to all who witness him. But an excitement fills his heart. Perhaps he could finally have a normal connection with someone - not based on his name, title or who he was.

"Erm.. Ormund."

"Or..mund.."

Ah. The way you had tasted his name across your tongue almost had him weak - but he could not give in so easily. Not when he barely even knew you.

"Very well, Ormund! Thank you kindly, I'll bring your tray to your table now."

"Of course- ah, and your name, please?"

"My name?"

"Consider it a trade of sorts?"

You think it over, nodding as you give him your name. He repeats your name after you, a smile etching across his face, and you think you have not seen a sight that is sweeter. Ormund sits back down at his table, you bring the tray over and place down the teapot, cup and tart.

As you walk away to tend to the kitchen once more, his eyes follow after you, unable to tear themselves away from you.

The bakery is never really full - this much you knew. Your uncle had insisted upon you being prepared for days of barely any customers, days where you would end up donating extra food to those who were needy at time of closing instead of handing bundles to customer after customer.

Still, it was not quite as quiet as you had thought it would be.

One woman had come in with her dog - a small, elderly woman (Harriet, as you had learned) with a large dog that almost towered her (Daisy, who was in reality just a big sweetheart. She immediately found Ormund, kneeling for pets before investigating you.). She took a tart too (upon Ormund's own recommendation, actually), and you found the food your uncle kept for Daisy. Another came in with her husband (Lyon and Jemma, who both offered sweet smiles as they asked about your uncle. The two took their pastries with teas, sitting beside the window after greeting Ormund.).

In fact, you had busied yourself amongst customers that you did not realise Ormund had left until you chanced upon his table again. An empty tray, a pouch of gold (far more than he had owed you) and a little note just underneath the plate. Your eyebrows furrowed, fingers pinching at the note.

I must say - that tart was far better than I had ever expected!

I hope I will see you again soon.

Thank you,

O x

You read the note over twice, a small smile blooming across your face as you pocketed it for safekeeping, going about the remainder of your day. Outside, you see a figure that looks close enough to him - sat atop a horse, trotting away. He leaves with a heavy heart, unwanting to return to the chaos that naturally awaited him. Every step back home had him frowning more and more, as the lightness that just blossomed across his soul begins to slowly drain away. Hightower grows taller and taller as he rides closer, and he dreads to think of what mayhem would unfurl when he returns.

As he approaches Hightower, a servant rushes out to him, already filled with a panic that he knows he must deal with,

"Milord, the young Master Silas refuses to bathe still!"

"Still?"

"Indeed. I must apologise to you, Lord Hightower, but he has caused a ruckus once more."

Once more.

He sighs, dismounting and allowing another to return his horse to the stables as he follows the servant up to where his son remains. As Ormund opens the door, there he lies - in a puddle of mud as two servants cower in a corner. A small smile threatens to break out onto his face - how could a child of three cause so much terror?

"Silas."

"Papa. No."

Ah. The young boy's voice had worn out. Not ideal, of course, but a good sign - he was tired, and much more pliable to his father's words than he would have been a few hours ago. With a hand signal, Ormund dismisses everyone else (servants immediately scurry out of the room, dashing as far away as possible) before closing the door behind him.

"Where Papa go?"

"Well, I went to go check on our friend - Oofy."

From behind his back, he brings out the now clean Oofy (luckily for him, a servant had quickly passed it to him on his way up). The boy's eyes immediately lit up, hands opening and closing as he reached out towards it. Yet Ormund holds Oofy close to his ear - pretending to hear the toy speak. Silas watches (slightly dejected, poor thing) as Ormund holds conversation with… a soft toy.

If the other Lords had seen him like this…

"Oofy says he will not come closer until you are clean and dry - is that so, Oofy?"

"Do I have to?"

"Unfortunately, yes."

He sighs. Actually, genuinely sighs. As if he had just fought a war. This time, a wider smile spreads on Ormund's face as he kneels to his son's height - patting him on the head before scooping him into his arms. He truly is grateful that he does not care too much about the clothes he wears today, and briefly thinks back to the flour incident from earlier. A bath had recently been drawn, water still warm enough for a bath (likely one of many attempted baths for the young boy today), and the two of them sit in the tub together. He would never admit it, but he enjoyed little moments like this. Moments where Silas would look up at him with big eyes as Ormund cleaned him thoroughly, only to be met with a wave of splashing water hitting him in the face.

A thorough bath followed by three waterfights with duckies leads to a very tired child, snuggled up in a soft towel as Ormund carries him back to his solar. He brings two servants in to clean up the mess that still remained, tucks Oofy into his son's arms and finally gets started on the work he should have been doing today. The sun shines into the solar, casting a warm glow into the room.

Unfortunately, he cannot help but let his mind drift off to the pretty baker who fell in his arms mere hours ago.

Ah.

[sunkissedjedi]

Gosh, I feel like this should've been read with autumn weather outside and a nice warm drink in hand; it was that cozy and sweet - but also just such a lovely read!! ৎ୭

him falling for a baker? the overall plot line? involving little Silas? (Oofy! 🤍 Ormund holding conversation with the toy almost brought me to happy tears. That overall part at the end with his son was so beautiful and precious!!)

her not knowing who he is? him catching her in such a prince-charming way? AND THE NOTE he left her? Ugh, got me twirling my hair and kicking my feet!

[levanswrites]

𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐫

“Your what shower?” “My everything shower.” “The hell's an everything shower?”

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: gator tillman x reader 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: established relationship, touch-starved!gator, soft!gator, grumpy x sunshine, suggestive content, domestic fluff, mostly non-sexual nudity, hair washing, massaging, grumpy man gets exfoliated against his will, angst if you squint 𝐚/𝐧: shoutout to this ask for pushing me to finish this!

♡ · · · ♡ · · · ♡

“What the fuck is all that?”  

The question stops you halfway through the bedroom doorway.

You nearly lose your grip on everything at once. Three different bottles wobble dangerously in your arms, your oversized tub of vanilla sugar scrub pressed against your chest hard enough to leave an imprint. A fluffy white robe hangs from your elbow, and the container of hair mask is clenched between your teeth because you made the mistake of thinking you could carry just one more thing.

From the bed, Gator stares at you like you’ve just walked in hauling tactical equipment.

The room is dim except for the glow of the TV, some hunting show droning quietly in the background, forgotten the second he noticed you. He’s sprawled out on top of the comforter in gray sweats, one hand shoved under his shirt while the other holds his phone against his chest.

His eyes drag slowly over the pile in your arms.

You've been caught red-handed. 

“It’s... for my everything shower.” 

“Your what shower?”

“My everything shower.”

“The hell's an everything shower?”

You walk farther into the room, dumping everything onto the dresser with loud plastic clacks. “It’s my full routine. Hair mask, exfoliating, shaving, skin care. The whole thing.”  

“A hair mask,” he repeats slowly.

“Yes.”

“You put a mask on your hair.”

“Well, it’s basically just deep conditioner.”

“But y’call it a mask.”

“Yes, Gator.”   

He squints harder, visibly trying to work through the logic of that.

Honestly, you can’t even blame him. 

You’ve seen your boyfriend's shower routine. 

Well, calling it a routine is generous. 

One sad, dented bottle of cheap 3-in-1 shoved in the corner of the tub with the label peeling halfway off. Shampoo, conditioner, body wash, face wash—it probably doubles as dish soap and engine degreaser too. You once asked him what face cleanser he used and he looked at you like you’d started speaking French.

You walk over to the bed with a sigh, hooking your fingers into the waistband of his sweats.

“C’mere. I’ll show you.”

“I know how showers work.” 

“Do you, though?”

“Real funny.”

Still, he lets you tug him up. Peels off the mattress with a groan, warm and sleepy, hair sticking up everywhere from laying around all evening. His shirt rides up when he stretches, exposing a strip of skin and the soft trail of hair disappearing beneath his sweats.

He follows you toward the bathroom, scratching absently at his stomach while he grumbles under his breath. 

“You women use too much shit.”

“Yeah, and you use dish soap to wash your whole body.”

“It cleans me, don’t it?”

“Mm, debatable.” 

He snorts, stepping behind you as you twist the shower handle. Water blasts against the tile, steam already beginning to curl through the air. The bathroom warms quickly, mirrors fogging at the edges while you line up bottles along the shelf with practiced precision.  

Gator leans against the sink watching you.

The second your shirt hits the floor, he goes dead silent. 

You feel it before you even turn around—that heavy, heat-soaked stare settling low on your back and dragging slowly downward.

You glance up toward the fogging mirror and catch him watching openly, head tipped back while his eyes track the slow slide of your shorts down your thighs.

Teeth catching on his bottom lip, pupils gone dark.

There’s nothing subtle about the look on his face.

By the time your shorts pool around your ankles, he’s already pushing lazily off the sink.

You barely get half a breath in before his palm cracks sharply against your ass.

The sound echoes off the tile.

You jolt with a gasp, shooting him an unimpressed look over your shoulder while he just stands there grinning crookedly at you.

“Gator.”

“What?” he smirks, all fake innocence, though his voice has already dropped rough around the edges. His hand lingers where he smacked you, fingers spreading possessively over the curve of your hip. “You standin’ there lookin’ like that... ain’t my fault.”

You turn away before he can catch you smiling.

By the time you step into the shower, the room is thick with steam. Warm water pours over your shoulders the second you step under the spray, heavy enough to make you sigh. Heat slides down your spine, loosening every tight muscle in your body.

A second later, the shower curtain jerks open.

Then:

“Oh—jesus CHRIST—!” 

You burst out laughing as Gator physically recoils the second the water hits him, one hand slapping against the tile wall to keep from slipping on his bare ass.

“Why the fuck is it so hot?”

“It’s not that hot!”

“My skin’s peelin’ off!” 

“It’s just warm.”

“Goddamn, it’s like Satan’s asshole in here.”  

You laugh harder, grabbing his wrist before he can escape.

“C’mere.” 

“No, wait—hang on, hang—babe—”

You yank him fully under the spray.

Hot water drenches him instantly.

His hair flattens against his forehead, dark strands dripping into his eyes. He squints through it with a look of genuine betrayal while the spray beats against his shoulders.

“Shit—” He jerks slightly, hissing through his teeth when the water hits the back of his neck. “Y’tryna boil me alive?”

“Oh my god, you’re so dramatic.”

“I’m serious.” His hands land on your waist like he needs support through this deeply traumatic experience. “I’m literally cookin’ in here.”

The heat has already flushed his skin pink across his chest and up into his cheeks. Tiny beads of water cling to his lashes every time he blinks, steam blurring the usual sharpness of him—the hard set of his brows, the tension around his mouth.

He looks so soft like this.

Prettier, somehow.

Especially with those flushed, perpetually pouty lips.

You can’t help but smile.

“You’re such a baby,” you coo softly, reaching up to smooth his soaked hair back. “C’mere, you big baby.”

He grumbles something vaguely offensive under his breath, even while leaning into your touch.

Your palms slide over warm, wet skin, fingertips tracing through the damp hair over his sternum before your arms curl loosely around his neck. Water streams between your bodies in hot sheets, slicking your skin together every time he shifts closer.

And he is close now.

Chest pressed against yours, big hands spread over your waist. He’s radiating heat under your palms, muscles slowly relaxing despite all his complaining.  

You cup his face in both hands, rubbing your thumbs affectionately over his flushed cheeks.

He sniffs once, still pretending to pout, though his eyes have already started drooping heavier from the heat. A bead of water slides down the bridge of his nose before disappearing against his mouth.

God, he’s gorgeous like this.

Dripping wet, hair hanging in his face, lips pink from the heat and pulled into that stubborn little pout he gets whenever he wants attention but refuses to ask for it directly. 

You kiss him before he can start complaining again.

And, for all his dramatic huffing and bitching, a quick press to his baby-pink lips is all it takes.

The second your mouth touches his, he melts.

A low sound rumbles deep in his chest as his arm snakes tighter around your waist, hauling you flush against him beneath the spray. The kiss starts lazy, warm and lingering, and he sighs into it like he’s been waiting for it since the second he stepped under the water.

“Mm,” he mumbles, mouth curling against yours, “So this ‘everything shower’ thing…”

You already know what he’s about to say.

“…that include me bendin’ you over in five minutes or...?”

You laugh into his mouth.

“Gator.”

“What? You said everything.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“False advertisin’, then.” 

He steals another kiss before you can answer, smiling into it this time, all smug and pleased with himself. His hands spread possessively over the curve of your waist, thumbs rubbing slow circles against your hips.

When you shove lightly at his chest, he barely moves.

“Focus,” you tell him. 

“I am focused.”

“On the shower.”

“I can multitask.”

“No, you cannot.” 

He grins against your temple, pressing one lingering kiss there before finally loosening his grip enough to let you move around him.

Barely.

Even then, his hand stays planted firmly on your hip while you start reaching for products. 

And despite all his whining about how hot the water is—despite the way he keeps distracting you every thirty seconds by kissing your shoulder, squeezing your ass, groping your tits, dragging his hands over your stomach whenever you lean forward— 

He’s fascinated.

You can see it all over his face, clear as anything.  

His eyes follow every little thing you do. The loofah hanging from the hook. The jars lined neatly along the shelf. The soft clicks of lids opening and the thick, sweet scents blooming through the steam one by one: vanilla, cocoa butter, orange blossom, lavender.

“So what’s all this shit for?” he asks eventually.

“Language.” 

He snorts and picks up one of your body oils carefully, turning it over in his massive hand while water drips from his wrist.

“Why’s this bottle so fuckin' tiny?”

“’Cause it’s expensive.”

“How expensive?”

You hesitate.

His eyes narrow immediately. “How expensive.”

“…Thirty dollars.”

“For that tiny-ass bottle?”

“It’s good oil!”

He looks genuinely horrified.

“Holy shit. You could buy, like… a car part with that.”

“Yeah, because those are definitely comparable purchases.”

He rolls his eyes, turning his attention on the scrub jar in your hand.

He squints at the label through the water dripping into his eyes.

“Sugar scrub?”

“Yeah.”

“The hell’s that mean?”

You grin instantly. “Hold still.”

His eyes narrow with immediate suspicion. “Why.”

“You ask too many questions.”

Before he can move away, you scoop a handful into your palm. 

It’s your favorite scrub too—the ridiculously overpriced strawberry pound cake one that smells good enough to eat, warm brown sugar and whipped vanilla frosting.

You rub it over his forearm without warning. 

He flinches immediately. “Ow, what the fuck—"

"Relax."

Sugar crystals drag slowly across his skin while your hands work over the hard muscle of his arm. The scrub softens beneath the heat, turning slick and grainy between your fingers.

His brows pinch together while he watches you.  

“…What’s it even doin’?”

“Gets rid of dead skin.”

“I don’t got dead skin.”

“Everybody has dead skin.”

“I don’t.”

“Sure, babe.”  

He eyes the scrub suspiciously while you keep going. "Is this gonna make my arm all... glittery, or whatever?"

“...No.”

“You hesitated.” 

“No, I didn’t!" you insist, laughing. “I do have a glitter shower jelly though.” 

“A what.”

“A shower jelly.”

“The fuck is a shower jelly?”

The grin spreading across your face makes him immediately point at you.

“No.”

“Too late!”

You twist around beneath the spray, reaching behind him toward the crowded shower shelf. Your fingers close around the little plastic pot wedged between your body wash and conditioner. It jiggles in your hand when you pick it up—golden and translucent, packed with tiny flecks of glitter that catch under the warm bathroom light. 

You plop it directly into his palm.

The jelly slips against his skin, wobbling in his hand like a living thing, and his entire face twists in genuine alarm.

“What the fuc—why’s it doin’ that?”  

You dissolve into laughter, doubling over against him while he stares down at the jiggling soap with genuine distrust, holding it out at arm’s length like it might suddenly grow teeth. 

“This ain’t right,” he mutters, poking it cautiously with his thumb.

“It’s just soap!” 

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes while you hide your face in his shoulder, laughter shaking out of you in muffled bursts against his warm skin. His chest hitches once beneath you, reluctant amusement creeping in despite himself.

When you finally manage to pull back and look at him, his expression has changed completely.

Water slides slowly down his face in shimmering trails, gathering at his jaw before dripping down to his chest.   

He’s not looking at the shower jelly anymore.

He’s looking at you. 

Hazel eyes much softer than you’re used to, focused in a way that makes your laughter taper off.    

It still manages to catch you off guard, even after all this time.  

Because Gator’s never been good at saying things straight out. He jokes, he deflects, he fills silence with anger and attitude—whatever comes easiest.

But sometimes, when he looks at you like this, it feels like he doesn’t need to say anything at all. 

You’re still peering up at him when he blinks, huffing as he tosses the shower jelly toward the shelf without even looking where it lands. 

“Thing’s fuckin’ haunted.”

Then his hands settle on your waist.

Big, warm palms slide around your hips without hesitation, dragging you forward until there’s no space left between you.

You squeak when you lose your footing against the slick tile.

“Gator—!” you gasp, grabbing his shoulders to steady yourself, laughter spilling out of you again even as your pulse jumps.

“What?” he says, mouth curling into that lazy, knowing grin.

“I almost slipped,” you breathe, trying to find balance against his chest.

“Nah.” His smile widens. “Got you.”

Then his nose nudges along your neck, inhaling deeply.

“Why’s all this shit smell like food, huh?” 

You huff a laugh, squirming when his lips skim the damp skin just below your ear.

“Jelly,” he mutters between kisses. “Sugar scrub. Vanilla frosting. Coconut whatever… what’s next? Rotisserie chicken lotion?”

That gets another laugh out of you, helpless and bright, the sound buried as you press closer into his shoulder. Your arms slide up around his neck, fingers threading through the damp hair at the nape.

“I’m serious,” he mutters, though you can tell he’s smiling too. You hear it in the lazy drawl of his words, feel it in the way his chest vibrates beneath your cheek. “Like I’m showerin’ inside a damn bakery.” 

You love moments like this.

Doing nothing else but being close with one another, swaying under the steady press of warm water, cocooned in steam while the rest of the world falls away.

His hands move absentmindedly over your back, gliding up and down your skin in a comforting rhythm.

Then, naturally, his grip slides lower on your hips.

You feel the shift in him before you even see it, his grin turning cocky in a way that always spells trouble.

“So…” he murmurs, voice dropping low in his chest. “Can we fuck now?”

You snort, pushing lightly at his shoulders so you can look at him properly.

His expression is completely shameless, nothing but open, unapologetic confidence.

You wouldn’t expect anything less from your boyfriend.  

“No,” you say flatly.

His expression sours. “No?”

“We still have to exfoliate.”

Gator rolls his eyes so hard you’re surprised he doesn’t injure himself.

“You’re killin’ me.”

But he doesn’t let go. 

And honestly, the longer this goes on, the less he even pretends he wants out of the shower.

Especially once your hands slide higher over his shoulders.

The second your thumbs press into the tight muscle at the base of his neck, his whole body jerks beneath your hands. 

“Jesus…” he mutters under his breath.

“Too hard?”

“No,” he says immediately. “Just... keep goin’.”

That alone makes you smile again.

Because two weeks ago this man would’ve rather thrown himself into traffic than let something pink and strawberry-scented anywhere near him. 

Now he’s standing beneath scalding water while you rub sugar scrub into his shoulders, massaging the tension out of him like a spoiled housecat.

You take your time with him, working your thumbs into the tendons there. 

God, he’s tight everywhere.  

The muscles across his shoulders feel hard as stone beneath your palms, thick bands of tension packed so tightly they barely move under your touch. Every time your thumbs drag across another knot, his breathing catches slightly.

Your smile fades little by little.

“Baby,” you murmur quietly, “when’s the last time you relaxed your shoulders?”

“Uh, dunno.”

“You don’t know?”

He shrugs, though even that movement looks stiff. 

“Never really think about it.”  

Your fingers drag slowly down the back of his neck again, pressing into another rigid knot there.

“Gator,” you say softly, brows pulling together, “you’re hard as a brick back here.”

He snorts quietly at that. 

You roll your eyes, but the innuendo doesn’t land quite the same now. 

Because once you really start paying attention—really feeling him beneath your hands—you realize how tense he actually is.

Every inch of him feels wound tight.

His shoulders sit high even while he’s supposedly relaxed, thick muscles rigid beneath your palms no matter how much steam fills the shower or how hot the water runs over him. 

Like he’s always bracing for something. 

The realization tightens something in your chest in return. 

And maybe he notices the shift in you, because after that, he goes unusually quiet.

No more smartass comments. He just stands there under the spray while you finish working the scrub over him.

The pink sugar crystals melt gradually beneath the water, dissolving against warm skin while your fingers work over the hard planes of his chest and shoulders.

Gator watches your hands more than anything else.

You notice it every time you glance up.

His eyes tracking the slow circles of your palms, the drag of your nails lightly scratching through the damp hair on his chest. The way you smooth water over his shoulders afterward. 

You catch yourself wondering, briefly, if this is something he’s ever really experienced before outside of sex—outside of anything physical and fleeting. Being touched without it carrying an expectation, without it needing to lead anywhere else or turn into something more.

His shoulders begin to drop first. Then his jaw loosens. Then the permanent little line between his brows eases until he stops looking so guarded all the time.

"Kinda feels nice, I guess,” he admits after a while, voice quieter than usual.

You smile to yourself.

“Yeah?”

“Mm.” 

When you reach for the shampoo, he tips his head forward without being asked.

You work the product through his hair slowly, fingers sliding into damp strands as the scent of citrus and jasmine fills the steam around you. It lingers warm and clean, cutting through the heavy sweetness left from everything else.

Then your nails scrape lightly across his scalp.

And the sound he makes is... well.

Your gaze lifts slowly.

Gator’s standing completely still beneath the spray, eyes shut tight, brows pinched together while a slow breath slips through his parted lips. 

“Gates, was that...?”

His eyes snap open. 

“No.”

The denial comes way too fast.

You stare at him for exactly one second before laughter slips out of you.

“Oh my god, it was!”

“It was not.”

“Yes, it was!”

“No, it wasn’t. Shut up.”

You bite back another laugh at how seriously he suddenly sounds about it.

His cheeks are already flushed pink from the heat, but now the color creeps higher—up the tips of his ears too.

Interesting. 

Purple-tinted shampoo runs in slow trails down his temples as he glares at you through wet lashes, mouth twitching while water streams down the sharp slope of his nose.

“You’re annoyin’,” he murmurs. “I’m leavin’.”

“No, you’re not.”

To prove your point, you drag your nails lightly against his scalp again.

A gruff noise slips out of him before he can stop it this time, low and helpless, pulled up from somewhere deep in his throat. His eyes squeeze shut and his hands tighten briefly at your waist.

“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath. “I hate you.”

“Liar.”

He makes no move to leave.

If anything, his grip on your waist tightens when you start rinsing the shampoo from his hair, angling his head toward you so you don’t have to reach so far.  

You’ve known Gator long enough to understand how big this actually is.

Because for all his flirting and constant touching, genuine softness doesn’t always come naturally to him.

Not receiving it, anyway.

He’s good at grabbing your waist to pull you into his lap while you’re trying to cook dinner. Good at kissing your neck in the kitchen while murmuring filthy things against your skin just to hear you laugh.

He knows how to want, how to take up space. 

But this? 

Standing still while somebody takes care of him?

That’s different.

And for the first time since he stepped into the bathroom, he looks completely calm.

You don’t think you’ve ever seen him be this still for so long.

Usually there’s always something twitching in him somewhere—a bouncing knee, fingers tapping against his thigh, shoulder bunched up to his neck and his jaw locked tight like he’s perpetually gearing up for a fight. 

But right now, he just looks tired.

Like he doesn’t feel the need to bury it, for once. Safe enough to let the exhaustion sit in him without pushing it away.

So you keep touching him gently. Combing your fingers through his hair while water pours through the strands in dark rivulets, nails scraping softly over the base of his skull until he shivers.

By the time you finally finish rinsing him off, Gator looks completely wrung out.

His cheeks are flushed deep pink from standing under the heat too long, damp hair sticking up in uneven directions, his eyes gone heavy-lidded in that sleepy way they get late at night. 

You step out first, wrapping a towel around yourself while he stands there dripping on the bathmat, rubbing absently at his own forearm.

His brows furrow thoughtfully.

“Huh.”

You glance over while tightening your towel. “What?”

He rubs his arm again slowly, fingertips sweeping over the skin where you used the scrub earlier.

“…Feels different.”

The smile that breaks across your face is immediate.

“Right?!”

You sound so aggressively excited about it that he snorts quietly, shaking his head.

Still, he keeps touching his arm. 

Testing the skin with obvious confusion, thumb brushing over the softness there.

“Huh,” he says again, quieter this time. 

Then, because he physically cannot allow himself to sound too impressed for longer than thirty seconds, he shrugs and reaches for a towel.

“S’fine, I guess.”

Which, translated from Gator-speak, is basically a standing ovation.

You grin to yourself while he drags the towel roughly over his hair—

Then immediately shakes his head like a dog, spraying droplets all over the floor.

“Oh my—Gator!”

...

Afterward, you settle onto the bathroom counter in one of his oversized shirts, rubbing lotion into your legs while the room stays thick with leftover warmth.

Everything smells sweet, vanilla and strawberry sugar lingering heavy in the humid air. 

Gator sprawls across the closed toilet seat nearby in a fresh pair of sweatpants, elbows planted on his knees while he watches you through heavy-lidded eyes.

You try not to stare too much at how pretty he looks like this too, softened and comfortable, relaxed enough to practically fall asleep upright. 

You hold up a bottle.

“This one’s toner.”

“Uh huh.”

“This one’s moisturizer.”

He gives you a flat look.

“Yeah,” he drawls slowly. “I know what moisturizer is, babe.”

You ignore him.

“And this one’s hyaluronic acid.” 

“You put acid on your face?”

“It’s not that kind of acid.”

His skeptical hmph makes you laugh quietly while you pat serum into your cheeks.

And even though he’d rather chew glass than admit it out loud, something about all of this clearly gets under his skin in a way he doesn’t entirely hate.

It's starts small at first.

Lingering in the bathroom doorway while you do your nighttime routine, pretending he’s only there because he’s “waitin’ for you to finish the hell up already.”

He picks up random bottles in the meantime, squinting suspiciously at labels.

“What’s body butter supposed to be?”

“It’s moisturizer.”

“So lotion.”

“Thicker lotion.”

“That’s stupid.”

Three days later you catch him using it. 

Only because, apparently, “my hands are dry as shit.”

Then he uses it again the next night.

And the night after that. 

After that, it stops being occasional. 

You start catching him using your products without even asking first.

Rubbing lotion into his hands while standing in the kitchen. Swiping your expensive lip balm across his mouth while pretending not to notice you watching him.

And honestly, you think part of it stops being about the products pretty quickly.

You think he likes the familiarity of it. The closeness.

Smelling your body wash on his skin. Coconut lotion rubbed into his knuckles and vanilla sweetness clinging faintly to the collar of his shirts.

Little pieces of you following him around. 

It becomes most obvious after rough days.

The kind where he comes home exhausted down to the bone, shoulders slumped, smelling like sweat and engine oil.   

Sometimes he barely makes it through the front door before he drops, collapsing face-first into your chest with a groan. His forehead presses into your shoulder while his arms wrap loosely around your waist.

And when you run your fingers through his hair and murmur, “Everything shower?” he’ll let out a long exhale against your neck before mumbling a tired little, “Yeah,” into your shirt. 

Some nights he’s too drained for anything else. 

He just stands beneath the spray with his eyes closed while you wash his hair slowly, his hands resting heavy on your waist more for grounding than anything possessive.

Other nights, though, he’s more awake. 

More opinionated.

“Wait,” he says one evening, catching your wrist before you grab a scrub jar. “Not that one.”

You blink over your shoulder. “What, this one?”

“Nah.” He points lazily toward the shelf. “The other one.”

“The cotton candy scrub?”

“…Yeah.” 

You can’t help it—you grin a little, slow and knowing. 

“What? It smells better than that strawberry cake shit.”

Soon enough you’re rubbing cotton candy and shea butter into his skin, pink suds sliding down his tattooed bicep while he stands there acting like this is all one giant inconvenience he’s tolerating for your sake. 

And in return, he starts taking care of you too.

Not always gracefully, and definitely not innocently.

His hands wander plenty, soap-slick palms gliding over your hips, sudsing up your tits and ass under the excuse of “helping.”  

Sometimes it’s worse when he’s half asleep. Distracted kisses pressed against your shoulder while you’re mid-sentence, mouthing lazily along your neck as he absentmindedly drags the loofah across your stomach.

You’ll be talking about your day and suddenly realize he stopped listening five minutes ago because he got distracted kissing your collarbone.

But underneath all the flirting and grabbing and constant horny commentary, something softer grows there too.  

Comfort in the repetition of it.

In knowing that no matter how exhausting the week gets, eventually there’s this: warm steam, your skin pressed up against his, the familiar clutter of bottles lined along the shelf and your voice explaining what each one does while he pretends not to care—even though he remembers every single one.

It becomes yours. 

This quiet little thing that belongs only to the two of you.  

Most nights, things do escalate eventually. Slow kisses wrapped up in steam-heavy air, wet skin sliding together while his mouth finds your throat and your fingers tangle in his hair.  

But sometimes he’s honestly too tired for any of that.

Sometimes it ends exactly here. 

With dryer-warmed towels and sleepy silence afterward, the bedroom dark and cool against freshly showered skin while Gator stretches across the bed with a groan, head dropping heavily into your lap.

You scratch lightly against his scalp, carding your fingers through his damp hair while he drifts in and out of sleep.   

His arms slide around your waist eventually, a little clumsy with exhaustion before settling properly. He pulls you closer until his face presses into your stomach, breath warm through your shirt. 

“Mmfh…” he mumbles, words blurred heavily by sleep. “You’re the… the best thing that ever happen’ to me, y’know that?”

You know there’s a good chance he won’t fully remember saying it tomorrow.  

Not because he doesn’t mean it; just because honesty comes easier when he’s too exhausted to keep it buried. 

You smile, fingers never stopping their slow rhythm through his hair.

“I love you too,” you murmur back, just as gentle. 

And you think, as he drifts into sleep in your lap, that he looks most like himself when he stops trying to be anything at all.

♡ · · · ♡ · · · ♡

[sunkissedjedi]

i respectfully don't know who Gator is - but I saw Keery so gave this a read - and this is one of the most BEAUTIFUL things I've ever read!!! 🥹 It made me so happy, smiling like a fool and almost in damn happy tears near the end of it. This was just so precious and sweet and loving!!! 😭💖💖💖

[aspinny]

leon kennedy (re9) is the kind of man that kisses his wife while shes asleep when he wakes up early to go to work.

he’ll wake up and get ready dreadfully, silently cussing under his breath because he could’ve been sleeping right next to you all warm and soft.

as soon as he’s done he gets closer to the bed and leans on it so he can reach you for a kiss on your forehead.

you shift a little, opening your eyes a little but still in a sleepy state, and hold on to his cheek as he smiles and catches your hand with a kiss between his shoulder.

ultimately, he gives you a kiss on your lips and promises his return soon, right next to you.

and he does, he never breaks a promise.

a/n who here wants more of him bc i do

[harbours-lighthouse]

leon s. kennedy as your mission partner, and all he wants to do is kiss you but there's never any time & it's just not the right time - so he has to make do with pecking your temple or cheek.

he needs to check something? okay, but wait! he has to leave a quick and tender kiss on your cheek before running off. you've both just narrowly avoided certain death and are hiding in a corner to catch your breaths? yeah, leon's cupping the back of your head to press a swift kiss to your forehead.

the only time he's ever kissed you on the lips during a mission was after a particularly gruelling fight with too many close calls to count. that's when he decides that, screw it, an extra second to kiss you properly is worth it, so he does :)

but also, also. these small kisses aren't overly common, so when he does leave behind those small pecks on your face, it's basically like having the reclusive & slightly gruff neighbourhood cat decide that it likes you and bumping its head into your leg to show affection.