in which jason comes home from patrol, notices you're struggling with food and your body tw eating disorders
Jason walked into the living room, stripping off the heavy leather jacket that still smelled faintly of ozone and street rain. Underneath, his black henley was worn thin at the seams. He caught your eyes as you sat tucked into the corner of the sectional, legs pulled up tightly against your chest, blanket wrapped around your shoulders like armor.
He didn't make a big spectacle of entering. He never did when he knew your mind was running in circles. Instead, he just kicked off his boots by the door, crossed the floor with quiet, deliberate steps, and leaned back against the edge of the coffee table right in front of you.
"Hey," he said softly, his voice low and gravelly from a long night out on patrol. "How’re you holding up?"
You gave a small nod, keeping your chin rested on your knees. Jason looked at you for a long moment, those sharp turquoise eyes reading every subtle sign of exhaustion in your face. He knew the drill. He knew the specific look in your eyes when the noise in your head got too loud—the quiet war you fought every day with food, with your own reflection, with the exhausting feeling that taking up space was somehow wrong.
He reached out, his calloused thumb gently brushing across the cheekbone above your blanket line. His touch was warm, a sharp contrast to the cold draft creeping in from the fire escape.
"You're running on empty," he said gently, not as an accusation, but as a plain fact spoken with pure concern. "I can see it in your eyes. When was the last time you had a few bites of anything?"
You looked down, picking at a loose thread on the blanket, struggling to find the words. The guilt, the friction, the sheer mental fatigue of the disorder always made standard conversations about food feel like navigating a minefield.
Jason didn't push. He just crouched down so he was entirely at eye level with you, leaning his forearms on his knees.
"Look at me," he murmured, waiting until your eyes met his. "No guilt trip, alright? You know I don't play those games. I just care about you. I care about you, every single bit of you. And it breaks my damn heart seeing you wear yourself down like this."
He reached out and gently took your hands, wrapping his larger, rough hands over your cold fingers.
"You look beautiful tonight," he said softly, his voice entirely devoid of pretense. "You always do. Even when you're tired, even when your head is telling you a bunch of lies about how you look or what you deserve. You're absolute perfection to me, sweetheart. I mean that."
He squeezed your hands lightly before standing up. "I'm gonna make something light. Nothing heavy, nothing scary. Just some warm broth and a piece of toast with a little butter. Or whatever sounds manageable right now. You pick the terms, okay? I just want some fuel in your system."
You watched him move toward the small kitchen alcove. Jason wasn't the kind of guy who tiptoed around things, but with you, he showed a patience that felt entirely reserved for this quiet apartment. He moved around the kitchen with practiced ease, setting a small saucepan on the burner, keeping the light dim so it wouldn't strain your eyes.
After a few minutes, he walked back over carrying a small mug of hot, clear broth and a single piece of crisp toast cut into small quarters on a saucer. He set them down on the coffee table, then slid onto the couch right beside you, pulling you back against his chest so you were completely surrounded by his warmth.
His arm settled around your waist, holding you firmly, offering a heavy, steady anchor against the anxiety.
"Here," he said, handing you the mug first. The steam rose gently between you. "Just small sips. Take all the time in the world. I'm right here."
You held the warm mug in your hands, feeling the heat bleed into your palms. You took a tiny sip, the warmth settling instantly in your stomach.
"Good," Jason murmured into your hair, resting his chin on top of your head. His voice vibrated against your shoulder. "That's it. Just like that. You're doing great."
"It's hard," you whispered, your voice cracking slightly under the weight of the effort.
"I know it is," Jason said immediately, his grip tightening around you in a solid, comforting hold. "I know your brain is throwing a fit right now. But you're stronger than those thoughts, even when it doesn't feel like it. And on the days you don't feel strong enough, you lean on me. That's why I'm here."
He reached over, picking up one small quarter of the toast and holding it out toward you, entirely patient, without a trace of pressure or impatience.
"One bite for me?" he asked softly, a faint, encouraging smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "And if that's all you can manage right now, we stop. Deal?"
You took the bite. It was simple, warm, and manageable. As you chewed slowly, Jason shifted slightly to look you in the eyes, reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear.
"Look at you," he said gently, genuine pride in his voice. "Every small step counts. You're doing the work, and I couldn't be prouder of you. You deserve to be nourished, babe. You deserve to feel strong, to live comfortably in your own skin. And I'm gonna keep reminding you of that every single day until you start believing it yourself."
He kissed your forehead gently, letting his lips linger against your skin while you held the warm mug between your hands, feeling safer in that quiet room than anywhere else in Gotham.
I may be a frequent bucky customer..but i was thinking of another awkward bucky fic, preferably male reader, where his relationship with reader is kinda new and he’s struggling to bring up the topic of sex. INEEDAWKWARDBUCKYICRAVEHIM
Lost in Translation
$ log - armed with terrible advice from his friends, bucky barnes tries to talk about sex, only to sound like a man reading you a breakup verdict. once the panic clears, your deadpan decision to put it on the schedule leaves him completely outmanoeuvred.
$ warn --sfw --fluff --amab!reader --awkward!bucky --soft!bucky --miscomm(heavy)
$ wc -w 2.7k
$ cd masterlist / bucky-barnes
# note = steve and sam are shit wingmen again, except they’re giving horrible advice.
Sam placed both hands flat on the table like he was about to deliver a TED Talk.
"Intimacy," he said, with the gravity of a man who had read exactly one book on mindfulness and let it rewire his entire personality, "is about presence. It’s about being here, fully, with another person."
Bucky stared at him.
"Breath to breath." Sam wasn't finished, of course he wasn't. "Soul to soul. You gotta quiet yourself first, Bucky. Settle the noise. Find the stillness inside the storm." He touched his own chest. "It's in here. It's always been in here."
"My brain is a whirlwind every single hour," Bucky said. "I don't have stillness, Sam. I have rotations."
Sam nodded slowly, deeply, like that was exactly the kind of spiritual obstacle he'd anticipated — was, frankly, honoured to shepherd Bucky through. "Then you gotta slow the rotation, man. Let the body lead. Not the mind, not the history, not the what-ifs. You just —"
His eyes fell shut. One long inhale through the nose, one deliberate exhale through the mouth, the whole performance so measured it could have been choreographed.
When his eyes opened again, he looked like a man who'd just returned from somewhere profound. "You arrive."
"Arrive," Bucky repeated.
"At the moment."
"I need to arrive at the moment."
"With your whole self."
Bucky looked at him for a long time. Sam looked back with the serene conviction of a man who had solved something.
"Sam, I'm asking you how to tell my boyfriend I want to have sex with him."
"And I'm telling you." Sam leaned forward. "Vulnerability is the doorway. Walk through it naked — not literally. Emotionally, metaphorically." A beat. "Unless it literally works for the situation, in which case, also yes."
That was the full scope of Sam's contribution: vulnerability and breath. Arriving at the moment with his whole self — which was, as a set of instructions, the equivalent of handing a man a compass and telling him to find east by feeling it.
Steve, when consulted separately (because Bucky was nothing if not thorough, because he believed in second opinions even when the first opinion had been essentially useless), took a different approach entirely.
He leaned back in his chair. His gaze drifted past Bucky's left shoulder as though he'd found a frequency only golden retrievers and supersoldiers from 1918 could hear.
"When you find the right person," he said, "it's like the heavens open up."
Bucky blinked.
"Everything aligns." Steve was warming to his theme now, his voice taking on that particular swell it got before he said something that belonged on a monument. "The physical, the emotional, the spiritual. You stop being two separate people. You become—" The word took a second to surface, but when it did, he held it up like something precious. "A union."
"A union," Bucky said.
"A sacred union."
"Steve."
"The body is the vessel, Buck, but the connection is the current." Steve's eyes were glistening now — not with tears, just with that particular luminosity of a man who felt things at an architectural scale. He looked like he was about to grab Bucky by the shoulders. "When you give yourself to someone — truly, wholly — the heavens open up. Everything you've carried, all of it, gets lighter. Because you're not carrying it alone anymore."
It was, objectively, a beautiful sentiment. The kind of thing you'd cross-stitch on a pillow or hear narrated over a montage of two people sprinting through a field at golden hour.
It was also completely, devastatingly unhelpful.
"I don't think I'm invited to heaven, Steve."
Steve frowned. "Of course you —"
"I'm being serious. I've done things that would get me turned away at the door. I think the heavens are opening for other people."
"That's not what I —"
"You said sacred union, Steve. I'm asking how to bring up sex without making it weird."
Steve blinked, before recalibrating. His hand landed on Bucky's shoulder with the tenderness of a man awarding a Purple Heart.
"Just speak from the heart, Buck."
Bucky stared at him. The hand stayed. Steve's eyes were so sincere they could have powered a small city.
He left with both their voices rattling around his skull, no practical information to show for any of it. One question. That's what he'd walked in with. One question — he'd walked out carrying two incompatible philosophies, one man telling him to breathe his way into the moment, the other telling him the sky would crack open when he got there, while the original problem sat exactly where he'd left it.
Word for word. Syllable for syllable. Completely unresolved.
Your apartment ran warm.
You couldn't tell; it was just your apartment, the thermostat set to whatever number you'd chosen in October and never touched again.
But Bucky could tell.
His body calibrated temperature at a frequency that had nothing to do with comfort, everything to do with survival, so your living room registered against his skin the second he stepped inside. Every time. The residual humidity from the kettle you'd boiled twenty minutes ago. The particular dry heat of your old radiator fighting a losing battle with the window drafts. All of it settled over him like a hand on his back.
He liked it here.
You were on the couch with a book propped against your knee, a coffee cup balanced on the armrest in a way that would've given anyone with a cleaning compulsion a heart attack. You didn't look up when he came in.
You didn't need to. You'd long since acclimated to the particular rhythm of Bucky in your space — the near-silent footfalls, the way he drifted from room to room like he was mapping exits.
Except the exits were just your hallway, your bathroom, the kitchen where he sometimes stood in front of the open fridge for two full minutes without taking anything out.
Your boyfriend haunted your one-bedroom like it was a Victorian manor. you'd made peace with it.
Tonight, though, he didn't drift, he came in. His jacket went on the back of the chair — not thrown; placed, which was the first red flag — before he walked to the couch. Not to sit, no, he stopped beside you, close enough that you had to tilt your chin to see his face.
He was looking down at you with that expression. The one you still hadn't cracked. Too steady to be casual, too soft to be anything tactical. Just fixed on you, like you were a sentence he kept rereading.
"We need to talk."
Your eyes left the page.
That wasn't his vocabulary. Bucky didn't announce conversations. He started them mid-thought, three sentences deep, as though you'd been listening the whole time. Bucky said things like "so the problem with the faucet is" without preamble, "I had a theory about your neighbor" without warning.
"We need to talk" was a press conference. "We need to talk" was structural.
You set the book down.
"I've been thinking," he started and stopped. You watched the machinery of his jaw tighten, release, reset. "About us."
Your coffee was in your hand now. You weren't drinking it anymore, just holding it.
"Not bad things," he said quickly. "Good things. Things that could be — that I want to be —" Another stop, another reset. You could almost see the index cards shuffling behind his eyes, the rehearsed version collapsing in real time. "There's a direction. That I think we should explore together."
"Okay," you said steadily. You gave him nothing to bounce off of, which, in hindsight, might have been worse than interrupting.
"A physical direction."
Your stomach dropped about three inches.
"I've been having these dreams," he continued, because apparently the man had chosen devastation tonight. "About you, about us. They keep — they're not just—" His left hand went to the back of his neck, which meant he'd already lost the ability to track which hand was doing what. "They're frequent. They're... vivid. I wake up, I think about what they mean, and I think they mean something. Because I don't dream about things that don't —"
He was still talking. You'd stopped hearing individual words.
Dreams about you. Vivid, frequent, meaningful dreams about you — dreams that kept him up at night, that he'd thought about long enough to come here, to stand over you with that face, to tell you there was a physical direction he wanted to explore.
This was it.
This was the three-month rule. The exact thing that influencer said in that video you scrolled past three separate times while thinking that's ridiculous, that doesn't apply to real life.
Your partner starts having dreams about you. Not the fun kind, but the processing kind — the subconscious rehearsal where the brain runs simulations of leaving before the body catches up. By the time they sit you down for "the talk," the decision is already made. They've already left in every dream. They're just delivering the paperwork now.
"I think we should address it," Bucky said, somewhere above you. "Before it becomes... bigger than it needs to be."
Before it becomes bigger. Before the breakup becomes bigger. Before the wound gets worse. Jesus Christ, he was being considerate about it. He was standing in your living room at eight o'clock on a Tuesday being gentle about dismantling your entire relationship, so you couldn't even be mad, because that's who he was. Careful, always careful, even when he was leaving.
"So I think," he said — you could hear him summoning every remaining shred of courage he had left — "that we should discuss positions."
You took a very slow sip of your coffee.
"Positions," you repeated.
"Or preferences. Whatever the — whatever the terminology is. I'm not sure if there's a standard..." He faltered. "A framework."
"There's a framework for this?"
"I don't know. I assumed there might be. Everything has a framework now." One hand gestured vaguely at the concept of modernity. "I thought we could talk through the options. Figure out what works for both of us."
Your mental math was running at full capacity. Positions in a breakup context — maybe he meant logistics. Who keeps what? Who stays, who goes? Division of assets, except your shared assets were a drawer he kept a change of clothes in plus a toothbrush he'd brought over in month two that neither of you ever acknowledged.
Oh god. He wanted the toothbrush back.
"I don't know what the key ones are," he continued, apparently committed to this wording now. "I figured you might have more experience with this than I do. Given that I've been —" That same vague gesture, this time aimed at the last eight decades. "Out of circulation."
"Right," you said. Your voice was impressively level for a man whose chest cavity had been hollowed out. "Positions in breakups. I guess — I mean, there's the standard—"
"Breakup?"
The word landed between you like a glass hitting the floor.
Bucky's face did something extraordinary — a complete system shutdown, every microexpression flatlined at once. He looked at you the way a frozen computer screen does: present, powered on, absolutely incapable of processing input.
"Is that not what this is?" Your voice came out smaller than you meant it to. "The dreams, the physical direction, you standing over me like you're about to read a verdict —"
"Why would I be breaking up with you?"
"Because you said 'we need to talk' like a man who rehearsed it in the car, Bucky."
"I did rehearse it in the car. That doesn't mean —"
"The dreams. You said you've been having vivid dreams about me. That's — there was this influencer who said that's exactly what happens before someone leaves. Your partner starts dreaming about you because their subconscious is processing the separation —"
"What influencer? What are you —"
"And you want to discuss positions." You were gaining steam now, the coffee cup trembling slightly in your grip. "Like there are positions in a breakup. Like it's a — a procedure with steps."
"Is it a procedure?" Bucky asked. Entirely sincere. "Is that a key position? Breaking up? Because I'm not familiar with the —"
"What the fuck are you talking about."
It wasn't a question. It was a structural failure — yours, his, the conversation's. Two parallel misunderstandings collapsing into each other like buildings leaning until they met in the middle.
With an absolute-zero, plain face, Bucky looked at you. Every rehearsed speech, every philosophy, every detour he'd taken to avoid this exact syllable — all of it burned away until the word was the only thing left.
It sat on his tongue like something he'd been carrying for weeks.
"Sex."
The apartment held its breath.
"...Oh."
The silence lasted exactly long enough for every single thing he'd said in the last five minutes to reorganise itself in your head. A shuffled deck, finally clicking into order.
Physical direction — not leaving. Wanting.
Vivid dreams — not the processing kind. The other kind, the kind that made a hundred-and-six-year-old man stand in your living room unable to finish a sentence.
Positions — not breakup logistics. Actual, literal positions.
The influencer was wrong. Or at least, not applicable to situations involving supersoldiers with a compromised ability to say the word sex without looking like they'd swallowed a grenade pin.
He was still standing there. He hadn't moved, but something in his expression had shifted; the blankness was cracking into something cautious, almost unbearably hopeful.
He watched you recalibrate with the patience of a man who had waited through worse silences than this. His whole body was angled toward you — a dog who'd just dropped something at your feet, fighting every instinct to nudge it closer with his nose.
You set your coffee down. Your book went back to the side table with your hands folded in your lap.
"Yeah," you said. "We can do that."
He blinked. "You —"
"When are you free?"
The hope curdled into bewilderment so fast you almost heard the gears strip. "When am I free?"
"I just think it's better if we both stay calm tonight." You said this with the measured, reasonable tone of a man scheduling a dental cleaning. "So what day works for you?"
"What day —" He looked like he was trying to determine whether this was still the same conversation. "You want to — schedule it?"
"I want us to work through this properly. Physically. In person." Your arms folded. You considered the logistics with the same energy you'd give a grocery list. "Take our time. Show each other what we're working with. Figure out the dynamic. No rush."
"The dynamic," he echoed faintly.
"I'll make it romantic. Rose petals, candles, the whole thing." You said it the way someone would say I'll pick up milk on the way home. "Maybe some music. I don't know what you're into yet. We'll figure it out."
Bucky's mouth opened, closed, then opened again.
Because somewhere behind his eyes, two voices were stirring back to life.
Sam, one hand pressed over his heart, eyes shut, that measured breath still cycling in, out, in — it's about presence, Barnes, being fully here, breath to breath, soul to soul.
Steve, his gaze fixed on something luminous that no one else could see, voice swelling like a hymn — it's sacred, Buck, the heavens open up, everything you've carried gets lighter, because you're not carrying it alone.
Romantic, physical, presence, rose petals, candles. The body as a vessel. The connection as a current. The heavens opening.
Those absolute saints. They'd known.
Every word, every impossible piece of advice he'd dismissed as philosophical nonsense — all of it was landing now, rearranged, radiant, slotting into place like prophecy.
"So," you said. Your phone appeared from between the couch cushions with the casual efficiency of a man checking a calendar. "Friday work?"
Carefully, Bucky sat down beside you in slow motion. He looked like a man who had survived something enormous; the dust was only now clearing, the shape of what almost happened becoming visible beside the much better shape of what was actually happening instead.
"Friday works," he said.
You picked your coffee back up. A sip. Your book found its way to your knee again.
He stayed exactly where he was, shoulder pressed to yours. He ran warm in a way you couldn't detect, but he could feel it all the way through — your apartment, your radiator, your coffee steam still hanging faintly in the air.
summary: Jason finding the profound, gentle, calming love he deserves.
warning: tooth-rotting fluff, JASON IS A LOVERBOY
The little supermarket closed an hour ago. You sit cross legged on the curb with empty cookie box on your lap, while Jason sits next to you, sleeves pushed to his forearms, looking more at you than at anything else outside.
He always looks surprised whenever he realizes that you’re not running away from him. As if some part of him still expects the universe to remember who he used to be and come take this away.
You notice it in the way his shoulders stay tense for the first few minutes, in the way his eyes stay focused on you. The city has taught him that peace is temporary and love is dangerous, and those lessons do not disappear just because someone kisses him gently and asks how his day was.
So you never demand that he forget. You simply make room for him.
“Did you know that there is a planet mostly made from diamonds?” you ask him softly.
Jason glances down, then huffs a quiet laugh. “55 cancri e, right?”
“Yes! You’re so smart.”
His gaze lifts to you, and there is love written plainly across his face. “Oh really? Thank you baby.”
Jason pushes himself closer to your side, moving with that careful grace that still carries traces of old violence. He settles his side completely against your side, his long legs stretched out, shoulder pressed against yours.
You feel the exact moment he relaxes.
It is small enough that most people would miss it. The slow release of breath, the weight of him leaning just a little more fully into you, the unclenching of hands that have spent too many years and years ready to fight.
But you notice. You notice because you love him wholeheartedly. Your fingers slip into his, intertwining.
For a while, neither of you speak.
The quiet is never awkward with Jason. It feels more sacred, like standing beneath a sky so full of stars that it feels like heaven is accepting you with open arms.
Jason traces absent patterns across your knuckles, and you think about all the versions of him that have existed before you came into his life and changed it for a better version.
Then you think about this version. The one sitting on the curb at midnight, holding your hand as if he is afraid to let go.
“I had a thought earlier.” he admits, voice low.
“You can think?”
“Very funny.” He rolls his eyes, trying to look annoyed but you catch him smiling faintly. “I was on patrol, and it was quiet for once. No gunfire, no criminals, no rooftops collapsing. Seriously nothing.”
He pauses, looking down at your joined hands. He still finds it hard to believe that your soft hands are holding his round ones. “And I caught myself wanting to come home.”
The word lands gently between you. Because you hear him say this for the first time. Jason wanted to come home.
Home. Not the manor. Not a safehouse. Not Roy who acts like he’s in a relationship with Jason, and not you. Not some temporary place to sleep with one eye open. Home.
Your throat tightens. “We can go home if you want Jay.”
He closes his eyes for a moment. When he opens them again, they are softer than the city has any right to make them.
“I know we can,” he says quietly. “Now that’s the weird part.”
You turn toward him fully. The street light catches the white streak in his hair, the scar near his throat, the tiredness that never really leaves him. You cup his face with both hands, and he leans into the touch immediately, like a man who has spent too long cold and is desperate to feel the warmth everyone talks about.
“There’s nothing weird about being loved baby.” you whisper. Something in him breaks then. Not in the violent way things used to break, but in the way where his brain stops screaming at him for a moment. His forehead rests against yours, and you feel his breath tremble before it steadies.
“I can’t believe this,” he murmurs. “I used to think happiness was for other people.”
“And what do you think now?”
“Now I think it’s this.” He kisses you slowly, with the kind of care that makes the whole world narrow to warmth and breath and the soft brush of his mouth against yours. There is no urgency in it, no desperation, only pure love. When he pulls back, he stays close enough that your noses still touch.
Jason looks up where the clouds reveal a scattering of stars above Gotham’s sky. The city is nowhere near perfect with all the criminals living inside, but tonight the sky seems gentler somehow. Revealing its stars. It almost feels like a hidden message for Jason, are the stars trying to tell him that he can finally stop swimming in the deep ocean because you came to his rescue.
“Come here.” he says.
He rises and draws you with him to the front of the store. Together you stand, your arms wrapped around each other as you look up at the clearing sky.
“You think stars can fall from the sky?” he asks with curiosity in his voice.
“I don’t think so.” you laugh at him. What does that even mean? Can stars fall from the sky?
“Funny,” he says, resting his chin on your shoulder. “Feels like one fell right into my arms.”
You smile, and he feels it against his cheek. You try your absolute best to not cry at how sweet and sincere he is.
For so long Jason has lived as if he is waiting for the next loss, the next betrayal, the next disappointment, the next hand reaching into the dark to drag him back under. But here with your heartbeat steady beneath his palm, he finally understands something he never lets himself believe.
Love is not something that blinds people and lures them into a trap. Love does not ask for permission to be let in.
Love is a place. A place where he can just sit down and breathe for a little while. A place where his name is spoken gently. A place where he is not a warning or a tragedy, but simply a man who is tired and loved and safe.
And Jason is sure that love is a beautiful person, too. A person who chose him and his problems, and turned him into a man he usually reads about in books.
You tilt your head back against him. “What are you thinking about?”
Jason presses a kiss into your hair.
“That I’ve spent my whole life surviving,” he confesses. “And with you, I finally get to live.”
The events of this blurb take place after "Wrapped around your finger..." but this can also be read as a standalone blurb. Content tags are canon divergence, reader uses she/her pronouns, no physical description of reader, smut, fluff, pet names, gwayne and his wife are both bi and i love that for them, oral, slight overstimulation, reader continues to walk him like a dog :) thank you to @httpsvalarr for suggesting this part <3
While Gwayne is putting his arms through the sleeves of his shirt, he feels like he is stepping out of a dream, and coming to terms with reality again. He notes the sights and sensations around him: green curtains, woolen rug beneath his feet, rose fragrance from your hair, the sticky aroma of sweat and spend lingering on his skin.
And then he remembers. "A letter came for you while you were out." Gwayne nods to the wax sealed parchment lying on your bed.
Your fingers snatch up the letter, hastily ripping open the seal. "It's from my sister!" Your exclaim, face lighting up at the realization. Your eyes flash across the page and you look up at Gwayne "The babe came!"
He nods at you to continue.
You pace the bedchambers as you read aloud, unbothered by your bareness. It was only your husband in the room with you. And you'd just had sex - given yourselves fully to each other - there was no need for embarrassment now. “The babe came quickly and without too much pain for my sister. He is a boy, black of hair, and he already has a strong set of lungs. Both he and my sister are healthy and happy. And she named him after our grandfather."
Gwayne pulls a chair next to the copper tub beside the fireplace. Servants had prepared a hot bath for you, at his request, and the steaming aroma permeates the air with the addition of floral perfumes. He sits with a quiet groan (that last tourney wore on his knees especially) and leans over to test the water with his hand. “Come get in. The water is cooling. On the morrow you can write back your congratulations.”
You stare at the letter, beaming, and scan it again. “I wish to go the Eyrie to see them. To meet my little nephew and see my sister."
He shakes his head at your suggestion “The Vale is a great distance from here, dove. I don’t want you away for so long.”
You say nothing, but everything at the same time. You don't neet to utter words to convey how you feel. Gwayne notices the slightest shift in your body language; your shoulders slump, shifting away from him, and you reach for your robe on your vanity to cover yourself.
Panic grips him like a vice. He cannot go back to having you at a distance, not now. Not when he's just only been able to have you fully. Before he's even realizing what he's saying, he blurts, “I am sure we will find a way to you to visit them.”
The look on your face - pure unbridled joy - makes the icy panic melt from Gwayne's veins. Abandoning the robe, you skip across the room, where he sits beside the copper tub. He hasn't driven you away. You drift to him, curling yourself around him like a cat, practically purring with satisfaction that he bends to your whims. He may be spineless, he thinks, but his cooperation has enormous benefits. Your favor, your affections - they are worth more than his spine anyways. His hands find yours to hold you steady as you step over the side, and into the water. You go to lower yourself into the bath, but Gwayne holds you firmly by the hips to stay standing.
"Wait" he breathes, eyes locked on the junction of your thighs. Gwayne leans forward to press a gentle kiss at the split of your cunt.
"Husband" you voice is laced with a half-hearted warning. "What are you doing?"
His hands tighten, securing into the fat of your hips, lips landing again and again onto your folds. "It's alright" he mumbles. He kisses your low belly- stubble that has emerged late in the day scraping the soft skin of your stomach. "Please, let me taste you. Just a little." You fingers that clutch his shoulder for support dig into the velvet material of his shirt. But Gwayne is undeterred as he dips his head lower. As his mouth finds your puffy clit. When his tongue splits the folds of your cunt, you squeak, hands flying to his long, auburn strands.
Even though your center is sensitive, and admittedly a little sore, your husband soothes the area with a gentle touch. His fingers, callused from the sword, carefully part your folds and nudge the flat of his tongue, then the tip of his nose into your clit. You inhale sharply as he slightly sucks the puffy bud.
"You taste so good, dove I can't help it" He mumbles apologetically. His scratchy chin grazing your thighs is a new sensation that is turning your knees to jelly with each passing second.
When he looks up at you with wide blue eyes, you notice the lower half of his face shines with slick. "You're insatiable, husband. Greed is a sin cast down by the Seven." you tease, running a thumb across his pink lower lip.
"The Seven would understand if they tasted this." he responds, before dipping his head again into the junction of your thighs. His long fingers plunge into your soaked folds, parting your thighs so he can kiss your clit again. Gwayne latches to your center, drinking up the juices from your dripping cunt. The beginnings of your peak ignite low in your belly as his lips suck your hypersensitive clit.
"Gwayne, please" you whisper, your thighs beginning to tremble around his head.
All your husband can do is moan as he devours pleasure from you, and when you come, he practically whimpers, pressing his face even deeper into your cunt. "So perfect" he mutters when he comes up for air, and you are regaining your breath.
He leans forward to greedily indulge in your cunt once more, but your grip tightens in his hair to hold him stationary. "No. Come in the water with me." You state. Not a question - a command to your husband.
You lower into the bath and watch him fumble with his shirt, and step clumsily out of his pants, nearly tripping in the process.
"I didn't hurt you before, did I?" he asks as he lowers himself into the water, sloshing it over the side. You find yourself reaching for him before you even realize it. Settling into his lap, your knees straddling him on either side. A smile tugs at your mouth at his concern for you. His hands run over your back, and settling a firm hold on your arse.
"No, you didn't hurt me. It just felt a little different." You admit.
He asks "Different how?"
"Oh." Your face heats at what you are about to confess "Different than with Sara."
"And you and Sara..." he trails off watching bashfulness cover your face. "I see." He chuckles, pulling your chin up so you meet his gaze. "Dove, you have no reason to hide that from me. Thank you for being so forthright."
"You're not angry with me?" You squirm, eyes brightening at the realization that Gwayne is pleased with your honesty.
His cock twitches underneath you. Not only from your movement, but from the taste of you every time he runs his tongue across his teeth. You’re opening up, not running away. He’s finally undoing the distance that started between you at the start of your marriage.
"No, of course not." He shakes his head at the ridiculous thought. "It would be hypocritical of me take lovers and expect you to not have any."
"Wait." Your eyes flash with something Gwayne cannot name. "Lovers" you repeat, emphasizing the plural. "You did? Who were they?" Your mouth curls in giddy amusement, eyes widening at the new information.
Now it your husband's turn to flush under scrutiny. He sputters, pink creeping into his face, "Surely you cannot expect a man of my standing to be - to be chaste."
"Who. Were. They?" You repeat, the glint in your eyes is mischievous, not malicious. "Tell me the last person at least" You deliver a small, playful punch to his chest.
"Arrion Baratheon." He hangs his head at the admission.
You gasp. It's over exaggerated and completely dramatic. You're having too much fun tormenting your husband. Some strange cocktail of jealousy and arousal stirs in your belly. Fingers tightening, curling into the roots of his hair, you interrogate "Was he more handsome than me? More comely?” Manipulating the auburn strands tighter in your fist, you remind yourself to never let him cut his hair short - it’s the most satisfying way to bend him to your will.
"N-no" Gwayne chokes out "Gods no."
You laugh at his trembling hands holding you, his watery eyes. “Oh husband. I hope you don’t favor these past lovers more than me.” Under the water, you feel his cock stiffening against your thigh.
“I do not. Gods help me, I love you.” He rasps. His voice comes out broken, composure crumbling at your torment. He looks up at the darling girl in front of him and unconsciously gulps- your mouth contorting into a knowing smirk. You’re finding great amusement in this, making him sweat and balk in the damned bath water, boiled like a frog under your prodding questions and incessant pressing against his erection. But honestly, he cannot think of anywhere else he’d rather be.
Hello, how are you? I hope I am not bothering you. I am writing to you as I am living through the hardest moments of my life. Hashem is slowly dying in front of my eyes and our children. He needs an urgent surgery, and I am helpless to save him. Please, your donation and sharing of our story could be the reason my husband's life is saved! My children deserve not to lose their father. Verified by @/gazavetters #53 @qamar2026
i just finished watching ransom canyon so i need hot cowboy!bucky: just think about it, he's a cool and popular son of the richest man in town; lives on a giant ranch, every woman in town wants him; he is in his late 20s and the only one he wants is his high school crush — you.
you two never worked out, right person wrong time type of thing; you were always dating other people, but now? now you are both single. you are a bartender in a local tavern and he's there every friday evening just shamelessly flirting with you-
— "good evening, ma'am, lookin' as beautiful as ever."
— "oh c'mon barnes- this is not working and you know it."
— "one day it will, sweetheart." oh and that wink!!
you just roll your eyes at him, but the truth is you love it. he wants you and this feeling of being desired is exciting, but you also know he's not good for you. he never was. you are playing this game of cat and mouse for long enough to know it. this is a small town, you know his reputation... but damn, isn't his face gorgeous?
a princess wed to a dashing knight should be living a fairytale—but gwayne hightower is also the son of the schemer who would soon plunge the realm into civil war. how long can you resist his charms... when he proves time and again that his affection is as genuine as his honor?
genre/warnings:
arranged marriage, unrequited love, hurt/comfort, yearning, jealousy, mentions of injury & blood, fluff and lots of kissing afterwards, sunshine!gwayne and grumpy!reader, political drama, targaryen!reader (reader is rhaenyra's younger sister), spoilers! takes place in season 1 of house of the dragon
notes:
gif by @/bladeofdreadfort. wc. 4.5k ! hotd s3 is finally here and so does my man gwayne <3 i really loved writing this so i hope you’ll enjoy it!
For the longest time, Gwayne had known that the matter of his marriage were not his to ponder. As the son of the Hand of the King, his future was a tapestry woven by him in a series of cunning, calculated moves.
Yet, he had never truly expected to be betrothed to you—a princess of the realm.
The young princess for the queen’s brother. By every measure, it was a masterful stroke of politics and his father had once again outdone himself. After binding his sister to the king, it was now his turn to seek the heart of the realm’s most coveted maiden after the Princess Rhaenyra.
However, to Gwayne, you were more than just a political alliance. You were a paragon of beauty, the girl haunting his dreams, the princess who has stolen his heart—
But seven hells, were you also one hard lady to entice.
Every charming smile he threw your way was met with an arched, unimpressed brow. Every poetic compliment he rehearsed tasted like ash and shattered against your coldness. You didn’t swoon like the ladies at the tourney grounds, nor did you soften at his obvious attempts to woo you.
Instead, you looked at him as if you could see right through the nervous man underneath.
Your assessing gaze was currently fixed on him from the shade of the courtyard gallery. Down in the dirt, Gwayne was sweating through his padded doublet, trying his absolute best to look formidable as his sword clashed against his squire’s shield—because he knew you were watching.
He has to look good. Your wedding was in three weeks, so he was fighting to impress—determined to give you a show of how your betrothed was as dashing as the realm claimed him to be.
With theatrical flair, he executed an aggressive sequence before driving his squire back with a heavy strike, deftly sweeping the poor lad’s legs out from under him, and sending him sprawling into the dirt with a breathless thud.
Breathing heavily, Gwayne smoothly rested the point of his sword near the fallen boy’s chest in a classic pose of victory.
“You are just dead,” he declared with his signature grin, before turning to where you were.
You leaned against the stone balustrade, looking down at him with an expression of mild, patronizing amusement. He flashed you a hopeful, boyish grin that begged for even a shred of your approval.
And as if deciding to grace him with your presence, you descended down the stone stairs. Gwayne’s smile widened, and he met you halfway as you reached the bottom.
Ignoring the staring stableboys, he dipped his head and took your hand, placing a kiss on it.
“Princess,” he greeted, his dark blue eyes meeting yours with an excited crinkle.
“An impressive display, Ser Gwayne,” you replied, smoothly pulling your hand back from his grasp. He was giddy, about to thank you for the compliment, when—
“I must commend your passion. It takes a truly remarkable knight to exert such effort against a boy half his size who is actively paid to lose to him.”
Gwayne winced slightly, but the grin quickly returned to his face, refusing to let your sharp tongue deter him.
“A knight, no matter the age, must practice for all manner of foes. It shall be a good lesson for my squire to learn,” he countered softly. He had always been a naturally courteous man, but he had been practicing an extra measure of gentleness ever since the betrothal was announced, even when you remained frosty.
He hoped that you would recognize it—that you would see he was willing to bend his pride just for you.
However, you merely lifted your chin higher, your eyes flashing with a challenge.
“Is that so? My, what a chivalrous soul you are. I suppose I shall sleep soundly knowing you are defending the realm with your immense prowess and formidable army of squires.”
One thing he could never truly understand, though... he hadn’t asked for this match any more than you had, yet why did you look at him as you would a liar?
And it hurts because... he remembers how the more innocent, younger you, who had wiped blood from his face, hadn’t looked at him as you do now.
“We are to be married in no less than a moon,” he reminded you, still with a smile. “Tell me, Princess... what must a man do to earn a genuine compliment from his bride?”
You held his gaze for a beat, letting the silence stretch just long enough to watch the slight twitch in his jaw. Then, a devastatingly sweet smile graced your lips as you tilted your head.
“Compliments are but wind, my good ser. If we are to marry soon anyways, what use would flattering you with empty words do?”
Gwayne let out a defeated chuckle. “I shall just continue striving to become a man worthy of your hand, then.”
You had just insulted him and mocked his swordsmanship in the same breath, and yet, somehow, he still found himself tethered to you still.
What a fool he was.
He didn’t give up just like that, of course. Gifts was also Gwayne’s language of affection.
He had commissioned a seven-pointed star necklace for you in Oldtown, crafted from the finest silver and diamond. He had watched his late mother and sister find such profound comfort in it, and so he had believed it would make a fine gift for you.
Yet, now that he presented the gleaming jewelry to you, you were rendered silent.
“You do not like it,” he realized, a note of disappointment building through his usual confidence.
“It is exquisite. Truly,” you started, your voice gentle but lacking the reverence he had anticipated. “But... you must not expect me to wear it often.”
“Is it the design? If it offends your sensibilities, I can have it redone, or—”
“I assure you, I know your intentions are kind,” you looked at him, a certain sternness in your eyes. “It is just a matter of preference, is all. I treasure this necklace from my mother rather greatly, and wearing it is how I keep her close to me.”
The tragic death of Queen Aemma was not so easily forgotten, least of all when you resembled her so much. Gwayne’s smile faltered, the enthusiasm in his eyes dimming when his gaze found the sapphire necklace of Arryn falcon on your neck, a heirloom passed down.
He looked down at the silver star resting in the wooden box, suddenly finding it so plain, before forcing himself to meet your gaze again.
“I just want you to know that... you are in my thoughts, constantly,” he murmured, his gaze rising to meet yours again. “Whenever I see something I consider beautiful, I think of you. I want you to have it. You should know I have no underlying intentions other than that.”
You gave him an appreciative nod, pursing your lips together. “Your kind thoughts are much appreciated.”
So he had failed, again. Sigh.
What better way to impress your betrothed and prove to the entire realm that you were worthy of her hand than by claiming victory at the King’s nameday tourney?
Even you would at least bestow a real smile upon him. That was what Gwayne was after.
Or at least, it was until his gaze drifted to the edge of the battlement grounds where the knights were assembling. There, he saw you.
With Criston Cole.
The sight struck him. You, who usually looked at him with indifference, were attentive, your eyes bright in a way Gwayne had never managed to make them. Cole, in turn, had a reserved smile, his attention entirely locked onto you.
It could have been anyone but Criston—the Dornishman!—Cole. Why him?!
A sharp spike of resentment flared in his chest. He decided right then and there that this cannot stand, and marched towards you both.
“Good day, Ser Criston,” Gwayne greeted with a forced smile, his voice dripping with a courtly cheer that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
Cole returned his greeting, and he turned to you then. “My betrothed, fancy to have found you here. You shouldn’t have to sully yourself with the dirt.”
“I was merely wishing Ser Criston luck in the lists.” As always, the corners of your lips curled into that faux smile whenever facing him. “The competition looks fierce today.”
What about him? You hadn’t thought of wishing him, your own groom, luck?
“Fierce for some, mayhaps,” Gwayne nodded, his smile sharpening as he took another step forward, deliberately cutting off Criston Cole’s line of sight to you. He reached out, his gauntleted hand gently but firmly taking yours.
“But I sure do not fear a crowd of knights of modest beginnings and second sons. And I have hoped that I might find you in the stands later, and you would bestow upon me your favor to assure me of my victory.”
He looked down at you, the forced arrogance in his eyes momentarily cracked. He wanted you to look at him the way you had just looked at Cole, really.
But cruel, relentless you never granted it so easily.
“Your romantic sensibilities are commendable, ser.” You let out a soft sigh, as if lamenting, “but victory is still guaranteed by skill and the favor of the Seven, and not merely from a scrap of silk.”
The rejection was subtle, but in the presence of Criston Cole, it felt like a public execution.
“It is said even a scrap of favor from one’s bride can turn the tide of many battles,” Gwayne replied, his voice dropping an octave as the last traces of courtly cheer evaporated. “Unless, of course, your favor has already been promised to someone else?”
His eyes flicked towards Cole, searching for a reason to draw steel before the tourney even began. And that Dornish wretch had the gall to look at him in the eyes and retorted:
“May the best knight win, ser.”
Your betrothed had become terribly displeased and you knew it. Your hollow smile deepened, you stepped forward and smoothly slid your hand into the crook of his arm.
“No, no. You are free to ask me for it later, of course, my dear.”
Gwayne knew better that the honeyed words held no real affection. Yet, like a moth drawn to a flame, he couldn’t help but fall for it each and every time.
You held his leash, and you knew exactly how far you could play with and stretch it. But as he looked at you, a quiet ache settled in his soul.
Is it truly so wrong of him to seek your heart? How much longer would he have to endure this torment, giving everything while his affections remained completely unreturned?
“From today to the day we breathe our last, all that I am is yours.”
That was the first thing he told you when the betrothal was announced. In a den of vipers, Gwayne Hightower was entirely his own man.
He didn’t possess the calculating ambition of his father, who viewed every living soul as a piece in his game of thrones. Nor was he prudent like his sister, Queen Alicent, whose motto in life was duty and sacrifice.
You know that. You really knew that your chosen betrothed was everything but unkind. He was everything the songs promised a knight should be— genuine, posh, with a touch of arrogance that made him charming. He held you in high regard, and his attempts to make an impression on you were sweet.
Despite how you behaved around him, the truth was... it took everything in you not to fall for Ser Gwayne Hightower.
But he is still Otto’s son. You hated the Lord Hand with every fiber of your being—the man’s thirst for power had already forced your childhood companion Alicent into your father’s bed, turned your sister Rhaenyra into a scheming cynic, and your own betrothal to Gwayne was just another piece of his grand design.
However, watching the tourney unfold from the royal box, your thoughts swirled with guilt and anxiety. In the end, he hadn’t asked for your favor at all. Ironically, his sudden silence unsettled you far more than his persistence ever had.
Looking back on your interactions, the weight of your biting marks pressed heavily against your chest. You had rejected him so many times, using your faux smiles and sharp wit as shields. Every time you remembered the look of hurt that crossed his face before he masked it with a patient smile, a fresh wave of guilt washed over you.
Did he deserve to be punished just for pursuing you? Was it fair to make him pay for his father’s sins?
Down in the dirt, Gwayne rode beautifully, unseating two seasoned knights from the Reach and splitting lances with a Lannister to thunderous applause from the crowd. For a moment, watching his silver and green armor gleam in the sunlight, a spark of pride flared in your chest.
Then, Ser Criston Cole rode onto the field.
The tension between the two men was palpable even from the high stands. They charged— one lance shattered, then a second. By the third pass, it was clear it was a matter of pride.
And on the fourth pass, the collision was catastrophic.
With a terrifying crack that echoed across the grounds, Cole’s lance struck dead center. Gwayne was violently unseated, flung from his saddle to hit the earth with a sickening crash.
A collective gasp sucked the air from the stands. Through the rising dust, you saw your betrothed lying completely still. Cole’s lance hadn’t just broken— it had compromised his armor. His steel breastplate was shattered to pieces, the shards visibly lodged into his chest, dark blood already pooling through the fractures.
Your breath hitched, your hand flying to your mouth in horror.
Six years ago, a similar scene had paralyzed your heart the very same way. Blind to the rules of propriety, you bolted from the royal box. Pushing past lords and ladies, you sprinted down into the arena—desperate to reach him.
The maesters and several squires had already swarmed him, unbuckling the undamaged pieces of his armor with hurried hands. Gwayne was propped up against a wooden barrier, half-conscious, his head lolling to the side as his eyes struggled to hold focus.
“Will he be alright?” your voice cracked, almost shrill, the composed facade of a princess shattered as you hovered over the maesters working on him. “Tell me he will be alright.”
“The steel hasn’t pierced the heart, Princess, but we must move him to immediately to extract the shards,” one of them mumbled, wrapping a temporary cloth around the wound to stem the bleeding.
Gwayne let out a low, guttural groan at the pressure, his eyelids fluttering. Through the haze of pain, he recognized your voice. He knew you were there.
Driven by a sudden, overwhelming surge to comfort him, you dropped to your knees beside him. Your hands were trembling as you reached out, using the hem of your sleeve to wipe away the grime and blood that smeared his pale cheek.
But before your fingers could trace his jawline, Gwayne’s gauntleted hand came up. With a sudden burst of remaining strength, he swatted your hand away—
“Do not touch me,” he rasped.
The words were raw and bitter, dripping with an icy venom you had never heard from him before.
. . .
Gwayne refused to meet your gaze. He pressed his eyes shut, his jaw clenched so tightly the bone practically strained against his skin.
It wasn’t just the physical agony tearing him apart. It was the suffocating, absolute humiliation.
He had lost. He had been unseated and laid low in the dirt in front of the entire realm—and worse, in front of Criston Cole. He couldn’t bear to see the pity in your eyes. He couldn’t bear to look at the woman he loved and see confirmation that he was exactly what you always thought of him: unworthy.
“I’m— fine,” he choked out then. “So... go back to the Keep.”
It was funny how this was the same thing that had happened to him six years ago, during the Heir’s Tourney. He had been brutally unseated by Daemon Targaryen then, and just like now, you had come running to him, wiping the blood from his broken nose with your kerchief.
He fell in love with you then... and he has been in love with you ever since.
The girl holding his heart was a princess, and he had never dared to hope for more, never dreaming his conniving father would actually arrange your hand for him. He had thought it a blessing.
But his pursuit of you the past three moons had yielded nothing but a bitter truth— you despised him.
So he preferred to choke on the blinding pain, to let it consume him entirely, rather than suffer the indignity of your comfort.
You are in love with him.
You had spent weeks trying to resent the circumstances that led to your marriage with Otto Hightower’s son, reminding yourself over and over that he had fractured your family, sowing seeds of rebellion that would break once Alicent’s son came to age, and it would spell disaster upon you all—
But the wounded knight with broken nose six years ago had long since owned a part of your heart, and one week without Gwayne Hightower persistent on your heel, you had found yourself... sad.
“Mrawgh...”
“I’m not lonely,” you mumbled petulantly, brushing a hand against Grey Ghost’s silver scales as the dragon curled up, blinking his golden eyes shut to rest.
To occupy yourself, you spent the days with your dragon in the Dragonpit. Tending to Grey Ghost made the long hours pass faster— he was a recluse and not keen on flying often, but his quiet presence matched your somber mood.
Leaving him to his slumber, you walked away lost in your thoughts, entirely failing to notice how slippery the stone ledge had become.
Your foot caught on a heavy iron ring embedded in the floor. The world tilted as you stumbled backwards, losing your footing entirely. You braced for a painful impact against the stone floor, but a pair of strong arms wrapped securely around your waist, arresting your descent.
A sharp, ragged gasp left your savior’s lips. As you stabilized, you realized your hands had instinctively braced against his chest—pressing right over the bandages of the fresh wound.
“Steady there,” the redhead managed, a strained smile tight on his lips as he gently set you back on your feet. His green tunic made you realize who he was—
“Gwayne!” you breathed. Your hands hovered over him, trembling, almost terrified to touch him again. “Why are you—your wound! I didn’t mean to—”
“I am fine, truly,” he assured you, his voice softening as he offered a warm, comforting smile. “It is but a scratch, Princess. It takes more than a clumsy tumble from you to injure me.”
Just like a hundred times before, Gwayne Hightower sought you out. You could see the sheen of sweat on his forehead and how he looked pale still—
From today to the day we breathe our last, all that I am is yours.
“You are supposed to be resting!” Your voice rose despite yourself. “Why are you here?!”
This wasn’t what you wanted to tell him. You wanted to tell him a lot of other things! Like he was a fool, and that you would forbid him to enter the lists once you two were wed, that you couldn’t bear the thought of losing him—
His blue eyes crinkled with that familiar kindness as he reached out, softly tucking a stray strand of your loose hair behind your ear.
“If I wasn’t here, then you would take a fall.” His voice a soothing balm to your frayed nerves. “I can’t very well let my betrothed hurt herself before our big day, can I?”
This was the first time since King Viserys announced your betrothal three moons ago that you looked genuinely worried for him. It made something inside him burst with joy, even if it was tinged with a bitter aftertaste.
Gwayne’s thumb gently brushed across the back of your hand that was still pressed against his chest.
“Tell me... Is this the only way I could truly have your attention? Must I be grievously injured, a step away from Death’s door, for you to look at me like this?”
Your eyes widened by a fraction. Precious, precious girl. He chuckled softly, a teasing glint brightened his eyes.
Just this once, could he be allowed to be just a little bit cruel?
“Even if you keep looking at me with those beautiful eyes...” he whispered, his smile turning a little wistful, “...my heart might just run out, one of these days.”
He gave you one last, kind smile—a look of affection that no longer held expectations, or reeked of the politics that bound your families. Then, he gently gripped your hand, pulling it away from him before turning on his heel to leave you to your own devices.
When your fingers fell limp into the cold air, a stinging realization pierced through you like a dagger:
Is this how he feels? Is this what he endures every time I evade him? How has he survived it over and over?
As his warmth retreated into the shadows of the Dragonpit, something sharp tore deep inside your chest.
You didn’t want him to go. The walls you had spent weeks building to protect your heart against the Hightower name crumbled into dust. Your eyes burned with tears that blurred his retreating figure.
He was nearly out of the pit when you gathered your skirts, abandoning your pride, and ran after him.
“Ser Gwayne!”
Before he could turn back, you lunged, throwing your pride and your fears to the wind. You crashed into his back, your arms wrapping tightly around his waist, burying your face against his spine. He stiffened, almost flinching—
But then he heard you sob.
“Princess...?” he asked softly. His tone shifted, turning from startled confusion to a protective concern as he carefully turned around within your embrace. He reached up, gently tilting your chin up, only to find your cheeks flushed and wet with tears.
Realizing you were truly, genuinely weeping, Gwayne’s breath hitched in his throat.
He didn’t think. He didn’t let past rejections dictate him. He immediately wrapped his arms around you, pulling you close against his uninjured side.
“Shh, please do not weep,” he said in your ear, his own voice suddenly thick with emotion as he rocked you slightly. “Darling... please.”
Darling. Why did the word sound so devastatingly sweet in your ears? As you clung to him, you realized with absolute certainty that you wanted him to call you that for the rest of your days.
As he held you, feeling the warmth of your hands anchoring yourself to him, the pieces finally fell into place:
Has she... returned my feelings?
When your sobs finally quieted and your breathing turned calmer, you gently pulled back just enough to look up at him. Your eyes met his, and an ache settled in your chest.
He was such a beautiful man. Red hair, blue eyes, with ghost of dimples— still the very same wounded knight you had secretly harbored affections for with all those years ago.
Driven by a clear wave of clarity, you didn’t wait for him to speak. Reaching up, you stood on your toes and pulled him down by his collar—
—and pressed your lips to his.
Gwayne went rigid at your sudden boldness. But as your fingers tangled into his soft hair, any lingering shock vanished. With a low groan, he leaned into you, capturing your mouth in a kiss that felt like the bursting of a dam.
He drank in your sighs, his lips moving against yours with a desperate longing, as if he were trying to memorize the taste of you. He pulled you closer, his hands tilting your head back, anchoring you to him.
“You really are—” he growled against your mouth, his breath hot and ragged, “my utter undoing, Princess.”
Before the words could even fully register, you gasped as he gathered you up and hoisted you backwards, setting you down onto the broad stone railing.
Gwayne stepped between your thighs, pinning you to the ledge as his mouth descended on yours once more, even more ravenous than before. The kiss became a blur of lips, tongues, and breathless gasps—
His hands left your face to map the lines of your body, his palm sliding down the column of your throat to the curve of your shoulders. In his mind’s eye, he was already stripping away the heavy, suffocating layers of your gown, picturing the soft, aching swell of your breasts and the intoxicating dip of your waist.
In less than a week... as soon as you swear your oaths before the Seven, he would be graced by that sight.
Gwayne dragged his lips down from your mouth, leaving a trail of scorching kisses along your jawline before burying his face in the crook of your neck.
“Ser Gwayne—” your voice came hitched, and that what brought him back to reality.
He bit softly at the sensitive skin there, swallowing the fire that was about to consume him. When he finally pulled away to breathe, his lips lingered against yours.
“Well, you did kiss me first, Princess,” Gwayne murmured, his eyes twinkling, voice delightfully raspy as his arms settled loosely around your waist. “If I had known a broken rib would finally get you to kiss me, I would have marched up to Grey Ghost and asked him to toss me by the tail weeks ago.”
“Please don’t,” you giggled, circling your arms around his neck.
“Ah, but think of the romance— a dashing knight, battered and bruised, crawling back from the Dragonpit just to collapse into his bride’s arms.”
A breathless laugh escaped your lips, giving way to a very sweet, genuine smile. To Gwayne Hightower, this was the prettiest you had ever been, and his heart throbbed.
Oh, so she does, he realized, a quiet reverence settling into his soul. She does return my affections.
Gwayne leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, finally certain that his heart was safe in your hands.
“You might not know it,” he whispered, “but I have been in love with you for a very long time.”
You looked up at him, your eyes bright with unshed tears, and he met your gaze with a look of such devotion it stole the breath from your lungs.
“So let me say this once again. From before, now and until the day we breathe our last, all that I am... is yours.”
In that moment, you couldn’t have known that the realm would soon be plunged into a senseless civil war, pitting your sister against his in a dance of dragons and blood. You couldn’t have foreseen the ashes, the betrayals, or the heavy price the Hightower green and the Targaryen black would have to pay.
None of that matters right now. All you wanted was to lose yourself in his embrace and savor the fragile perfection of your wedding to the man of your dreams... for as long as it would last.
Pairing(s): Gwayne Hightower x TagaryenWife!Reader
Description: You were a Targaryen princess who married a Hightower, the people will whisper, of course, and especially undermine your marriage; however, you were raised under prim and poise. But who knew that all it took was a few flirtatious moves on your husband to ignite such an egoistical wife?
WC: 3.5k
CW: Reader is an icon and a very mean diva. No physical descriptions of Reader. Gwayne is smitten (and breedable, but the roles are reversed for this one). SMUT, just smut and a tiny little plot. PinV. A slight spit/saliva kink if you use a magnifying glass or a scanning tunneling microscope. My favourite word: breeding. Cunnilingus. Cum eating. More breeding. Slight cockwarming in the end. Reader tops but gets tired, but a diva still has needs.
GIF Credit (TYSM!): @/dracaria-dracarys
The tourney had grown boring, unbearable, and hot. It was a tourney for pleasantries and other obnoxious reasons for more chatter.
Knights were swooning over you which in turn had caught the malicious attention of the other noblewomen who were in the bylines. You could not help but roll your eyes at the next Lord that would introduce themselves to you, but prim and poise was your vice, you were high on it, surely you must be. Gwayne is far more better than you in exchanging civilities, it is his strong suit and you? You were the complete opposite, which had confused the others of your marriage. The most righteous man in all of Westeros chose the egoistic sensualist of a wife he could ever find—it stunned you as well at the match, but it worked in your favour.
However, you had places to be, if not with your husband, then on your husband.
You made your way in the sea of people who had been going through similar struggles as you in this heat. Thankfully, the wine makes everything somewhat bearable in the scorching heat, your silks clung onto your skin as you aggressively fanned yourself to cool down, it was hot and you were tired.
Your servants did their best to alleviate the effects of the warm weather and the stuffy environment as you made your way through the many nobles that looked at you like you were a fresh piece of meat for the taking, for gossip, position, and whatever else they can gain from you.
Finally, a cool breeze had brushed over your skin, soothing your strenuous toil but that was only for a short while. Your gaze landed on the ladies that were unashamedly doting on your husband, Gwayne. A blonde noblewoman had been faking her laughter to get his attention, only for her to finally gain it when she forcibly interlocks her arms with him. You took immediate notice of the recoil in his reaction, he knew better, good. Disgust was an understatement that painted his features.
The lesser blonde goads and toys with him as other ladies made this their chance to vie for his attention. It was an uncommon occurrence for some to slip past you but it is uncommon for a reason. Even so, it did not do any wonders to your ego, the skin you that you wore had shed and the dragon beneath it had finally revealed itself.
“Ser Gwayne? Your thoughts on the lovely knights today?”
“Have you tried the wine? Absolutely delicious!”
“You’ve great hair, is that lavender I smell?”
Their shrill voices rang in your ears as you made your way to them. Prim and poise. Which still rang true … but that was for occasions that it is appropriate, this was not.
“Princess! I did not realise you were here, you were gone for some period of time, but do not worry, your husband had better company to attend to,” the Lady exclaimed in such a fake manner that it heated your face to a flush of pink as the words landed like a strong blow. It only worsened the feeling as you see her holding Gwayne like she owned him, like he was her property. To your advantage, you knew how these played out, you were not idle and stuck with cross-stitching and other thugs, you were either on dragonback or training with your sword, an unbecoming image for a princess but you were no ordinary princess—you have the blood of old Valyria running through your veins and you have dragons.
You retaliate.
“You speak as though my presence requires your acknowledgment, rest assured, it does not.”
It deepened the disdain that took root in your bones, as it did not easily sway the Lady beside your poor husband who is caught in the crossfire. The look on your face was not quite subtle anymore, the disrespect you had experienced fueled the scorn on your face.
You carefully designed the woman that stood right in front of her, through years and years of defiance and spite, you’ve learned to mask the arrogance with humility and the animosity with kindness. However, your arrogance took matters into her own hands, Gwayne knew upon entering your marriage that there would always be a third, your ego.
You ignored his innocent stare, reminding yourself to take care of him … later.
Much to your annoyance, another lady from yet another house spoke, “dragons tend to blend into the scenery until they choose to open their jaws.”
You gave her a small, pitying sigh, “how quaint. You speak of dragons as if they are beasts to be feared, rather than kin to be commanded. Do not mistake my silence for blending in, for I am merely deciding if you are worth the breath.”
The opponent had weakened, only then, you had struck the final blow.
It was simple. Unnerving. Scorching.
You held your gaze to their embarrassed ones, a sickly sweet smile you mimicked the first lady from earlier, your quaint fingers toying with the fabric of her dress, “although …you must pray I keep mine closed. Your silks are far too pretty to be reduced to ash.”
With a gentle grip, you pulled Gwayne’s arm from her grasp, walking away from the group of vipers and snakes.
You could care less of the broken proper princess act in front of the noble men and women who were practically slithering from the sides just to take a piece of their gossip. The air as you walked right passed them grew cold and icy. They hold no worth to you, regardless of their miniscule jabs at you and your house.
The proud dragon princess. The defiant heir. The evil Hightower wife. The tyrant Targaryen.
At least they knew what the Gods have granted you before you even drew your first breath: the divine, unyielding right to rule, which left the rest of Westeros to pray the coin lands on the side that spares them from your fire. You hailed from the royal house that many feared … but most of all, you were in love.
Gwayne had softened the rougher edges you wore when you met him, which had stunned you, you never bowed to anyone, no, not until he arrived into your life. He has earned the softness of your heart and you promised yourself that he will have it for the rest of your days together.
You endured to heat as you scurried towards your guest chambers, your husband following suit. He knew better than to defy you and your authority.
“You are angry,” he pointed out, a pout could be seen from his lips. Gods, he was handsome.
“I am fine, I do not partake in such folly,” you said wryly.
“Are you mad at me?”
That question stopped you in your place, you turned back to him as if he went mad.
“Absurd.”
He sighs, “you are tense.”
“They treat you as if you are a toy to play with, I simply reminded them of who warms your bed.”
That reply made Gwayne blush. The sight made your heart soften.
You circled him like a dragon ready to devour its prey, guiding him towards your bed unknowingly, again, he knew better than to defy you of all people.
He sits at the edge of your bed, you rightfully took your place between his legs, your hand gentle as you grasped his chin to look up at you. Your eyes never left his, you were furious of course, no one deserved to touch him like you did, to love him like you did, to pleasure him like you did.
“You are pliant, husband.”
“Of course I am. Only to you,” his statement encouraged the uproar in your thinly veiled arrogance, the mix of pride and ego had egged on your arousal. It claws on your stomach as he submitted, caved into your touch alone, reminding you once more that he belonged to you.
His hands slithered up to your waist, undoing your laces as he maintained eye contact with you, serving you. His grip possessive and needy, the heat you had complained about was erased from your memory as a fresh wave of fire began in your body. Your dress pools down to your feet as he strips the rest away, pulling you in, making you straddle his lap.
He kisses you earnestly and eagerly, his hands cupping your breasts as you press yourself closer to him, the erotic sensation of your nakedness that is opposite to his clothed body is vibrating between your bodies.
He hums into the kiss as he deepened it, taking claim of you, his tongue sliding against yours in an indulgent dance that rendered him weak. There was no urgency in the act, it was just two people who willingly adored each other in secrecy and in public. You attempted, hard, to keep up your strong appearance, to stay mad but you were oh so soft for your husband. The feigned hatred in your face began to dissipate as he pathetically moaned into your lips, owning him, needing him. You submit.
On the other hand, Gwayne felt almost unworthy of having you all to himself, the unashamed greed made him run hot to the touch. He holds your body against his, his kisses more insistent and that was all you needed to undo you. Gwayne feels the love that is radiating from you and he plans on using that to his advantage, to win you over, carefully, lovingly, intimately.
He pulls away to look at you and then to your pouted lips, a string of saliva connecting you both. He notices that you look … softer in the ambient light of the chambers, although he loves you just the same even when the fire in you sparks aflame. Your hair is a mess but it sat pretty on you, you have this effortless beauty and sensuality that you exuded and he envied almost anyone who will ever come across you—but he would never tell you that, it must be a safely kept secret but it would not matter if he considers you a god. The Seven truly took their time with you and he was grateful that you chose him, he could not bear spending a life without you by his side.
Gwayne never indulges himself, he rarely does, not until he met you. His earnest gaze appreciated your features, he notices the smallest of things, the faint scar on your neck from your cousin’s dagger, that crooked smile you have whenever you are content, the pattern of your breathing is different when you turn supple and needy—these are some of the things he notices about you, because he listens and he knows.
Your clingy sounds had urged Gwayne’s light kisses on both of your tits, which soon evolved into sloppier ones that made you sigh in relief as he grips the back of your thighs, pulling you closer to him, your puffy cunt brushing up against his clothed cock, a needy moan slips past between his lips.
To him this was vulnerability but to you this was opportunity.
You ground your hips against him, feeling your slick arousal spreading on the fabric of his breeches, the action sending waves of pleasure to your body. You pushed his body against the bed, your hands placed on his chest as you continued the rolling motion of your hips as you made him watch you take your pleasure from him.
“You only look at me,” you moaned, your gaze fixed on his face as you rode him, your movements provocative and needy, only for him. Only for Gwayne.
If it was humanly possible, Gwayne could have peaked at the sight before him, his cock twitched needily under your wet cunt. His hands were snug at your waist, your movements were encouraged by him, his groans were like hymns of worship to you and you lived for it. The heat from earlier took a toll on your stamina but you were bound to endure it, lest your claim be proven hollow—you were stubborn.
Gwayne touched you everywhere as you rolled your hips against him, you threw your head back as you felt yourself closer to the edge, the friction between your sexes is delicious. It relaxed your complaining body and pleasured it further. Another wet spot had appeared on his breeches from his precum and tantalizingly mixed with your wetness. Your moans had increased and your nails scratched at his chest as you quickened your movements.
There was a fire that had awoken in your belly, it was only spurred when Gwayne moved against your hips, intensifying your pleasure, the action provoking your climax. Your hips stuttered as you came, your pants and mewls were of his name and that made Gwayne groan deeply.
It tamed you. Your body took comfort on top of his, Gwayne pulled you closer, his movements subtle yet noticeable, he partially slid his breeches off, his hard cock instantly meeting your sensitive sex.
He whispered praise to his sweet wife and that alone had lulled the fire in you, only a little bit before it gave out on you and gave more way to him. You were still sensitive from your high but the want is still etched into your body, Gwayne caressed your buzzing body, his fingers feeling every crevice you have.
“My sweet dragon … I need to feel you around me, come home.”
That usual sweet tone of his stirred you out of your bliss, your consciousness coming back to you fully as he tapped the enraged head of his cock to your hardened pearl, you reacted to the sensation as he collected more of your previous honeyed arousal to lubricate himself with.
He fixes your position, raising your hips a little for him to move properly beneath you, his cock nudging into your hole, the squeeze of it made Gwayne twitch beneath you.
His free hand guided your hips down his length, practically splitting you in half at the sheer size of him when he enters, it overwhelmed the both of you at this point. Your wetness emitted a sound so scandalous that Gwayne was livid for it, he tested his rhythm as he bounced you on his cock, the air left his lungs as he moved you up and down.
Your body was still pressed against his body, your hips met his, Gwayne controlled your movements, using your sensitive cunt for his pleasure. He made sure to revel in moments like these, taking charge of your shared pleasure when you were typically the one in control.
His hold on you was intimate, it weakened your defences and had your walls fluttering around him which earned a soft whine from your husband, he accentuated his movements, his tip nudging against the spot that made you spasm and shake, exactly where he belonged.
“Gods,” you mewled, the walls around you collapsed, there was no reason to shield yourself with your ego, you were snug in his arms and you were being ravaged in full force, what more could you ever need in this moment?
You cried out as your cunt clamped down his twitching length, his orgasm following suit as you felt him coat your walls with his cum. He needed to stuff you full to the brim and to hope to the Gods that it takes root in your womb. He felt himself softening as you both came down from your highs, he could feel himself leaking out from your pretty hole, your essence running down from your thighs to his.
Gwayne then kisses you silly, as egoistical as you are, you were ticklish and he used it to his advantage, you giggled softly and before you knew it, you were laying down on your bed. His unabashed gaze took you apart, like always, with care.
You were not going to finish this day without a fight.
You slightly opened your legs, your cunt oozed what was left of your mixed arousals and that had fogged the goodness in your husband’s eyes, almost completely. Gwayne went weak when he saw you leaking more of him, puffy and pretty.
His mouth was on you, his hands on both your thighs as he opened you up to him. To some, this endeavour was mechanical, to Gwayne, it was pure love, for you.
His tongue dipped right between your folds, lapping up the leaked evidence, the sweetness and the saltiness was almost like a drug to him. You moaned wantonly and called out to him in your pleasure, your hands on his hair and on your tits. Gwayne’s strong hands fought with your thighs that had threatened to close in on him, but he wanted to worship you first before indulging himself. The obscene wet noises fell from his lips, guttural grunts and groans as he tasted you both on you.
“Yes, Gwayne, yes!”
The words that came out of you was a plea instead of a command, your fingers tugging tightly at his hair. Gwayne sucked the last of his cum from your cunt and resurfaced with a pussy-drunk smile on his face.
By the time you pull him on top of you, closer to you as your lips meet for another kiss, his length has hardened once more. Gwayne’s words of love and praise fell muffled to your lips, his cock heavy on his hand as he supported himself with the other.
He pushed himself inside you once more, purely for the reason of belonging there, of completing you—making you full. His free hand plays with the pearl of your cunt, earning him scratches on his arms as you hold onto him.
“My sweet wife, you are perfect … you are all mine,” he grunts into your ear.
His demeanour softens at your blissful face, the cacophony of sounds emitting from the both of you across chamber walls which turned into intimate hymnals that billowed around your connected bodies and fine silks you lay on top of.
Gwayne was determined to push for another peak for you, to make sure that his sweet wife was satiated, to forget her woes, to remember that he belongs to her—Gwayne needed it like the air he breathed, like the uttered prayers under the Seven’s eyes, like his sustenance to live for you. Gwayne wanted it now more than ever, his thrusts became rough, your sounds more high-pitched, melodic even. You could feel his slicked up balls slap your ass, making a plapplapplap sound as he quickens his pace.
He could feel you swarm around him, like flames and he was unaffected by it, your cunt does the fluttering around his hammering length once more and it sends him to the Seven Heavens and Seven Hells and back.
His movements erratic, panting as he holds your body closer to him as he finishes inside you once more, coating your tightening walls, your orgasm making his length even more slick.
Gwayne pulls out momentarily, patiently watching both your essences ooze out you again before collecting it with the tip of his cock and fucking it into you, you moaned lazily as he thrusts deeper, slower. He emphasises his movements, the belonging and need, his message was not lost on you. You were beyond saving from the very moment you submitted to him, from the moment you met him, leaving your ego no choice but to watch your carnal affair instead.
“That is it, my sweet dragon, you did good, so good.”
His voice a soft whisper to your ears as he peppered your face with kisses, his hips halting their movements, staying right there and inside you.
Gwayne is not a man of pride but this time … he indulges for his egoistical wife, smugly.
The heat inside Malone’s was always thick, a heavy combination of bass frequencies pulsing through the floorboards, the scent of spilled whiskey, and the collective, chaotic energy of the Briar University student body packing themselves shoulder to shoulder on a Friday night. The air was alive with the bright, victorious noise that always followed a home rink win, the entire bar buzzing with the distinct, electric thrill of a hockey crowd in full swing.
You were sitting in one of the deep wooden booths near the center of the room, surrounded by the familiar comfort of the team’s inner circle. John Logan was sitting right next to you, his broad, athletic frame leaning back against the leather cushion, one of his arms casually resting along the top of the booth just behind your shoulders. He had spent the first part of the night in a relaxed, comfortable mood, his dark hair slightly rumpled, his deep brown eyes softening and crinkling at the corners every single time he looked down to check on you or listen to whatever you were saying over the roar of the music. He was the starting defenseman, a guy whose intense, unyielding focus on the ice could easily intimidate a crowd, but in the private space between the two of you, he carried a quiet, charming sweetness that always left you feeling entirely centered. He would lean in close, flashing that easy, devastating smile just to whisper a quick joke against your ear, making you laugh before he gently nudged your shoulder with his own.
To your left, Hannah and Allie were laughing, their faces illuminated by the neon beer signs flickering along the brick walls. The DJ had just transitioned into a heavy, seductive rhythm, the bass vibrating directly against your ribs and sending a sudden, restless surge of energy through the room. Hannah reached across the table, grabbing your hand with a wide, infectious grin, while Allie stood up, gesturing toward the packed dance floor just a few yards away.
"Come on," Hannah shouted over the noise, tugging at your wrist. "You are not allowed to sit in the booth all night just because Logan wants to relax. Let's go dance."
You looked over at Logan, a playful question in your expression. He let out a soft, dry chuckle, his thumb lightly tracing the bare skin of your shoulder before he dropped his arm to let you slide out of the booth, his brown eyes warm with amusement.
"Go ahead," he murmured, his low, gravelly voice cutting through the ambient noise easily. "I'll be right here. Don't let them keep you away too long."
The transition into the center of the crowd was a blur of flashing lights and moving bodies. Walking away from the booth felt like stepping into a different temperature altogether, the rhythm of the music taking over as you joined Hannah and Allie in the middle of the floor. For the next three songs, the weight of the week dissolved completely. You moved together in a tight, easy circle, laughing as Allie tried to mimic a ridiculous dance move she had seen online, your hips swaying easily to the heavy, continuous beat. It was exactly the kind of unhurried, carefree fun you had been waiting for all week, a chance to simply lose yourself in the loud, sensory rush of the environment.
But that comfortable sense of security broke down completely when you happened to glance back toward the bar.
Through the shifting gaps in the crowded room, your eyes automatically found the exact spot where the hockey guys were gathered. Garrett and Tucker were standing near the taps, fully engaged in a conversation with some of the coaching staff, leaving Logan leaning against the dark mahogany wood of the main bar top alone. He was holding a glass of whiskey, his expression completely detached, his sharp jawline tight as he stared absentmindedly into the crowd, clearly waiting for you to return.
He wasn't alone for long.
A girl in a cropped top walked straight out of the crowd, stepping into Logan's personal space. You recognized her instantly, realization hitting you as you remembered she was in one of your large lecture seminars, a girl who spent most of the class period whispering to her friends. She moved right up next to him, her hand coming up to rest boldly against the hard expanse of his chest as she leaned in close to try and say something over the music.
Logan didn't lean in toward her. His posture went slightly rigid, his brown eyes narrowing with an immediate, clear lack of interest. He tilted his head back slightly, creating space between his face and hers, his hand remaining anchored around his glass as he gave her a polite but entirely cool, flat stare that should have sent her walking in the opposite direction. But Logan, ever the gentleman, didn't want to make a massive scene, so he simply stood there, waiting for her to finish talking so he could excuse himself. The girl, however, didn't quite get the picture, leaning a little closer, her fingers sliding up to play with the collar of his jacket.
A sudden, fierce territorial instinct flared deep behind your ribs, a hot, electric current that completely erased the rhythm of the music and the presence of your friends. The easygoing composure you usually maintained dissolved in the span of a single heartbeat. You didn't want to be mean, and you certainly didn't want to start a public fight, but the sight of her hands on him made your blood run hot with a sudden, undeniable need to reestablish the boundaries.
You turned on your heel, your boots clicking with a sharp, deliberate friction against the floorboards as you cut straight through the packed sea of bodies, your focus locked entirely on the bar.
You stepped right into the space between them, your movement smooth and intentional as you placed yourself firmly within his periphery.
"Hey," you said, your voice calm, steady, and entirely polite, though there was an underlying weight to it that instantly arrested the girl's attention.
The girl blinked, her hand freezing against Logan's jacket as she looked at you, a flicker of recognition crossing her features. "Oh, hey. Aren't you in my morning class?"
"Yeah, I am," you replied, offering a small, measured smile that didn't quite reach your eyes. You didn't back down an inch, your gaze steady. You reached out, your hand sliding naturally around Logan's waist, your fingers anchoring into the belt loop of his jeans. "Sorry to interrupt, but I just wanted to come back over. This is actually my boyfriend."
The girl’s face flushed a deep, embarrassed red, her mouth parting slightly as the quiet, uncompromising reality of your words hit her. She looked from your hand on his waist up to Logan, clearly looking for any sign of contradiction.
But Logan did absolutely nothing to dispute you.
The second you had stepped in and placed your hand on his hip, the cool, detached boredom had vanished from his face entirely. His brown eyes widened slightly, flashing with a sudden, dark intensity as he watched you claim him right in the middle of the crowded bar. A slow, deeply wicked smirk began to curl the corners of his mouth, the sheer, unexpected force of your jealousy turning him on so violently that his breathing had instantly shifted. He raised his glass to his lips, taking a slow sip of his drink, his gaze locked entirely onto your face, his posture shifting from polite defense to pure, unadulterated amusement. He was thoroughly enjoying the charm of the moment, completely captivated by the raw, possessive energy radiating from your body.
"Oh," the girl stammered, backing up a step, her hands dropping immediately to her sides. "I'm sorry, I didn't realize. I was just saying hi."
"It's totally fine," you said, your tone soft but final, keeping the interaction completely classy. "Have a good night."
She didn't wait for another word, turning quickly and disappearing back into the safety of the dance floor, her friends quickly swallowing her up as she vanished from view.
The moment she was gone, the tension in your shoulders didn't fade; it simply shifted, transforming into a heavy, electric heat that made the air between you and Logan feel completely suffocating. You turned fully to face him, your chest heaving slightly from the sheer adrenaline, your eyes flashing with the lingering remnants of your possessiveness.
Logan didn't say a word at first. He set his empty glass down on the mahogany bar behind him with a slow, deliberate click, his brown eyes dark, heavy, and burning with a lazy, sensual heat that made your knees instantly feel weak. He stepped away from the bar, his massive frame completely eclipsing the light from the neon signs, closing the remaining space between you until his chest was practically brushing against yours.
"Well, well," he murmured, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that vibrated straight through your core. The charming, sweet boy from the booth was gone, replaced by something much hungrier. He leaned down, his lips brushing the sensitive edge of your ear as he spoke, his breath hot against your skin. "My boyfriend, huh? I like the sound of that."
"Don't start, Logan," you muttered, though the edge was quickly melting into something much more dangerous under the intensity of his gaze. "She was practically attached to your jacket."
"I was trying to be nice," he teased, his hand rising to slide around the back of your neck, his large, calloused thumb tracing the line of your jaw with a firm, possessive pressure. He tilted your face up, forcing you to look into the dark, heavy heat of his eyes. "But watching you walk over here like you owned the place? God, that was the sexiest thing I've ever seen in my life. You're beautiful when you're protective."
"I'm just making sure people know exactly where you belong," you whispered, your hands coming up to grip the lapels of his jacket, pulling him down a fraction of an inch closer.
"I belong right here," Logan repeated, the word rolling off his tongue like a dark vow, his grip on your neck tightening just enough to make your breath hitch. A wicked, challenging gleam entered his brown eyes as he looked down at your parted lips. "You're pretty confident tonight. You think you can just claim me in front of everyone and not face the consequences?"
"Try me," you challenged, your heart hammering a frantic, heavy rhythm against your ribs.
Logan let out a low, rough growl, his patience completely snapping. He didn't care about the crowded bar, didn't care that Garrett and Tucker were standing just twenty feet away, and didn't care about the loud music pulsing around you. He caught your wrist in a firm, unyielding grip, his fingers locking with yours as he turned and began pulling you aggressively through the sea of people, his broad shoulders easily clearing a path toward the back exit of the building.
The cold, damp air of the alleyway hit your skin like a sudden shock, a sharp contrast to the suffocating heat of the interior of Malone's. The sky above was dark, illuminated only by a distant streetlamp that cast long, heavy shadows across the brick walls. But before you could even take a full breath of the fresh air, Logan had shifted his weight, his hands catching your waist and lifting you slightly as he pinned your back hard against the rough brick wall of the alley.
The impact wasn't painful, but it was solid, completely trapping you between the unyielding building and the massive, hard length of his body. His hands slid up from your waist, his fingers tangling desperately in your hair as his mouth came down to meet yours in a deep, devastatingly seamless kiss that left you completely undone. It wasn't a gentle reassertion of your relationship; it was a fierce, demanding possession, his tongue sliding past your lips to claim your mouth with a raw, full-throttle hunger that made your head spin.
You let out a quiet sigh against his lips, your hands sliding up his broad chest to lock behind his neck, pulling him down even harder against you. The contrast between the cold brick at your back and the burning, suffocating heat of his body over yours was completely overwhelming. Logan shifted his weight, his thigh sliding between yours, pressing up against your core with a firm, deliberate friction that made you arch into his touch with a desperate gasp.
"You're mine," he muttered against your lips, his voice incredibly rough, his breathing ragged as he pulled back just an inch to look down at you. His brown eyes were completely consumed by darkness, his thumbs wiping a smear of lipstick from the corner of your mouth. "You don't get to step in like that, looking like a brilliant, terrifying force of nature, and expect me to let you go easily. You brought me to this place, and I am going to make sure you remember exactly who you belong to."
"I don't need a reminder, John," you whispered, your fingers digging into the hard muscles of his shoulders, your body trembling from the sheer, intoxicating adrenaline of his touch.
"Yeah?" he asked, a lazy, dark smile briefly touching his lips before vanishing. He reached down, his hand sliding under the hem of your top, his calloused palms burning against the bare skin of your waist as he lifted you higher against the wall. "Let's see if you can still say that in five minutes."
He dropped his head back to your neck, his teeth lightly grazing the sensitive skin just below your jawline, making you shiver violently as his hands mapped every curve of your body with a fierce, unhurried focus. The noise of the bar inside was entirely forgotten, replaced by the heavy, electric reality of the dark alley, the cold wind, and the absolute, undeniable certainty of his love. There was no room for confusion, no room for silly games, and no room for doubt. The boy was yours, completely and utterly, and as his mouth found yours once again in the shadows, you knew he would be yours for the rest of your days.
Notes - I really like this one imma be honest. I hope you enjoy my loves MUWAH
↳ Warnings/Themes: Mature (🔞). Smut. Oral (F!receiving) Only a sliver of plot. Not proofread.
↳ Pairing: John Logan x F!Reader
↳ Words: 1378
↳ Summary: your boyfriend is insatiable.
☁️: wrote this in like an hour cause i #needdat. can you really blame me for this? logan is teeewww fine and is a certified munch and so here we are. Requests are open! ❤︎ (esp for munch!logan hehe)
Requested: No. General Masterlist here. Logan Masterlist here.
There are several things that Logan is known for, and, unfortunately for you, subtlety wasn’t one of them. The party had been going for not even an hour before Logan was trying to catch your eye from across the kitchen.
“No,” you mouthed to him, turning back to your conversation.
It lasted maybe a minute or two before you were checking to see if he was still looking at you. He was.
He was laughing with Garrett over something, beer bottle hanging loose from his fingers, but his eyes were still on yours. The second he notices you looking, he mouthed, “Upstairs?”, tilting his head towards the stairs.
“No,” you mouthed again.
This time, you moved from his line of sight, away from temptation and to the makeshift dance floor in the middle of the living room. It was a useless effort, not even two minutes passed before Logan followed you to the dance floor. His hands found your waist as your hips moved to the music.
“Logan,” you warned, even as you ground back into him.
“Let’s go upstairs,” he begged, warm breath tickling your neck. “I’m so thirsty.”
“Then have a glass of water.”
The world blurred for a dizzying second as he spun you around so you could face him.
The corner of Logan’s mouth pulled up into a wicked smirk. “I’m not that kind of thirsty.”
You wrapped your arms around his neck. “You’re insatiable.”
“And that’s entirely your fault,” he said it solemnly, as if it were a rational thing. “I think I deserve compensation.”
You let out a soft laugh, the vibration caught between your chests as the bass from the living room speakers thudded around you. “Is that so? And what exactly does compensation look like, Logan?”
“You know exactly what it looks like,” he murmured. His hands shifted from your waist, to the strip of bare skin exposed by your short skirt. The touch sent a familiar rush through you, enough to make it harder to remember why you'd been saying no in the first place. “Upstairs.”
“This would be like the fourth party I’ve missed,” you pointed out, though your fingers were already tangling into the short hairs at the back of his neck, betraying your own words.
“I’ll be quick,” he promised, though his voice lacked a shred of sincerity.
You knew he was lying. Logan had been finding excuses to eat you out every chance he got lately and he always took his time. It was like he'd somehow forgotten that he'd already won you over, and was trying to prove his worth.
Without waiting for a third no, Logan tugged at your arm, and you easily followed. Dean and Tucker let out a loud ‘Woop!’ as Logan hauled you past them and up the steps. He ignored them, entirely focused on getting you into his room, but you felt a warmth flood your cheeks.
The bedroom door had barely closed before Logan pinned you against it, boxing you in.
He kissed you like a man starved, and like he hadn’t just finished doing so two hours ago. A low and needy groan rumbled deep in his throat when your hands scrambled up his chest, clutching at the fabric of his shirt just to keep your balance.
His knee slid in between your legs as he continued kissing you and you shamelessly ground yourself down on it. For all your protesting downstairs, heat pooled at the bottom of your belly quickly, panties dampening. It wasn’t long before the throb between your legs became unbearable, desperate for real stimulation.
“Logan,” you gasped against his lips. “How do you want me?”
“Bed,” Logan grunted.
The best was yet to come, but that didn’t stop the soft whine that left you as he removed his leg from between your legs and pulled back. A second later, his hand was slipping underneath your skirt, hand on the waistband of your panties. He impatiently tugged at the fabric, tutting loudly when it got caught on your thighs.
“Let me,” you laughed. Batting his hand away, you pulled your panties off and stepped out of them, leaving them on the floor.
Anticipation, and impatience, clung to Logan like a second skin, mouth practically salivating as he watched you settle on the edge of the bed and spread your legs wide.
Kneeling on the floor at the foot of the bed, he hiked up your skirt further, eyes hungrily tracking the way your arousal glistened on your pussy lips.
“I’ve been waiting all day for this,” he murmured as leant forward, pressing his nose where you ached most.
“You literally ate me out this morning.” Your voice came out breathily as he used his nose to circle your throbbing clit.
“It’s not enough,” he sighed. His warmth breath fanning your pussy had your hole clenching around nothing.
Calloused hands came to the backs of your thighs, pushing them slightly wider so you were even more exposed to him. The cold air hit your pussy, and your hips shifted on the bed.
“You promised to be quick,” you whined.
At that, Logan’s tongue darted out, licking at your clenching hole. It took everything you had to contain your moans to a reasonable level as he circled your hole with his tongue. All the while his nose kept bumping against your clit.
Your back arched off of the mattress as his tongue plunged into your hole.
“Fuck~.”
“Feel good, baby?” He asked, tongue vibrating against your hole as he spoke.
You responded with another moan, lewd and loud as your fingers slipped between your legs. With two fingers, you spread your folds wider for him, toes curling as his nose nudged your exposed clit.
It was almost overstimulating how his nose rubbed against where you were most sensitive again and again. You cried out, back arching off of the mattress. The sounds coming from your mouth only encouraged him to move harder and faster against you.
“I’m too close,” you gasped. The pleasure felt too good, and you so desperately wanted to prolong it. “I don’t want to come yet.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Logan pulled his tongue from your hole and begun licking flat and long stripes up your pussy. He paused on your clit, sucking it into his mouth before moving back down your pussy again.
“Yes~ Loge. Yes~!” You purred.
Blunt nails dug into the flesh of your thighs as he pressed you back further, lifting your hips higher off of the bed. Logan hummed and cooed around you, loudly slurping and sucking up your slickness. He was purposely messy with it, letting your juices coat the lower half of his face.
“Mmmm, delicious, baby,” he groaned against you. “Wish I could bottle this up, have a taste whenever I want.”
“How much more do you need?” you laughed, only half-joking though. In the past week alone, you couldn’t remember how many orgasms he’d pulled out of you from just his tongue alone. most times, he didn’t even want anything in return, entirely content to get high off of your scent.
“24/7, baby.”
He emphasised that by pressing an all to chaste kiss to your pussy lips. Raising your head, you looked down between your legs, watching as he continued pressing delicate kisses and soft licks between your legs. For some reason, that turned you on more than anything and your clit throbbed.
“Need to come. Now,” you said, head falling back against the mattress.
Logan got to work immediately, tongue flicking against your clit relentlessly and sloppily as he eased two fingers into you. the room was filled with his soft moans of delight and the sounds of his fingers squelching within you.
Your eyes rolled back as you felt the orgasm build up, starting as a knot in your stomach before tightening and exploding electric pleasure throughout your body. You came with a loud cry of his name, hips gyrating on his tongue.
His mouth stayed on you the entire time, licking up every drop that you could give him.
Despite his promises that he’d be quick, he’d make you cum several more times before he had his fill, and it was yet another party that you missed because your boyfriend was insatiable.
If you enjoyed, please consider leaving a comment, ask, reblog etc. it means a lot x
hi there!! would you maybe write a logan x reader insert where she's part of the drama club but in the costume department and allie begs her to step in when one of the actors can't perform because she has learnt every line whilst working in the background! and logan sees her in a completely new light, and he can be in the audience or somehow on stage too with her, whichever you feel is best 🥰 thank you, i really love your work!
Stage Lights - John Logan
ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ
Blurb: When an actress loses her voice on opening night, you’re dragged out of the costume department and into the spotlight. You expect to survive the show. You don’t expect Logan to be watching you like he’s seeing you for the first time.
That felt important to remember when Allie burst into the costume room with her hair half-pinned, one earring missing, and the expression of someone who had just seen the gates of hell open under a community theater stage.
“No,” you said immediately.
She stopped in the doorway, one hand braced against the frame, the other clutching a script she absolutely did not need. Allie never carried scripts this close to opening night unless she was using them as emotional support. “You don’t even know what I’m about to say.”
“I know your face.”
“My face is beautiful and expressive.”
“Your face is asking me to do something illegal.”
“It’s theater,” she said, stepping fully into the room. “Everything is either illegal, emotionally manipulative, or held together with spirit gum.”
You looked back down at the jacket in your lap, because the safest thing to do when Allie Hayes looked desperate was pretend thread had suddenly become the most fascinating object in the world. The costume room was already chaos in a way only drama club could manage. Dresses hung from every available rack, garment bags were unzipped on the floor, a row of character shoes sat abandoned beneath the makeup table, and someone had left a half-empty iced coffee beside a crown that absolutely should not have been sticky.
You had been here since three, sewing a button back onto Nick’s Act Two vest because Nick treated costumes like they were suggestions rather than pieces of clothing. You liked this part. The fixing, the adjusting, the last-minute saves nobody noticed unless you failed at them. There was comfort in being backstage. The lights never found you there.
Allie, unfortunately, had never respected comfort when a crisis was available.
“Marissa can’t go on,” she said.
You froze with the needle halfway through the fabric.
Allie took that as an opening and rushed forward, talking fast enough to outpace your panic. “She has no voice. None. She opened her mouth and sounded like a haunted kettle. The director is one missed cue away from lying facedown in the lobby. We tried calling her understudy, but her understudy is apparently in Boston for her cousin’s engagement dinner, which feels fake, but I don’t have time to prosecute that right now.”
You stared at her. “Allie.”
“You know the part.”
“I know the part because I’ve heard it eight hundred times while hemming skirts.”
“You know the part because you whisper everyone’s lines under your breath when you think nobody can hear you.”
“I do not.”
“You recited half of Act Two yesterday with three pins in your mouth.”
Allie crossed the room and dropped into the chair beside you, which was dramatic considering she was in a satin gown and had no business sitting anywhere near the lint roller pile. “Please. I know you hate this. I know you like being back here, and I know you’re going to tell me you’re not an actor, but you know every cue, every scene change, every line Marissa has. You know where she stands. You know when she crosses. You even know when she’s supposed to cry, which is more than Marissa knew until yesterday.”
That made you want to laugh, which was unfair. Allie weaponized humor when begging. It was one of her strongest and most irritating gifts.
“I can’t just walk on stage because I’ve been in the room a lot,” you said, though your voice had lost some of its certainty.
“You won’t be walking on because you’ve been in the room. You’ll be walking on because you’re the only person who can save us from performing a romantic drama where one of the main women is represented by a lamp.”
“A lamp?”
“It was Dean’s suggestion.”
“Dean is here?”
Allie’s mouth twitched. “The hockey boys are here. Dean came because he heard the phrase ‘costume department’ and misunderstood the tone of the evening. Garrett came because Dean promised there would be snacks. Logan came because…”
She stopped herself, which was your first warning.
You pressed your hands over your face. “That is not helping.”
“I know,” she said, sounding a little too pleased with herself, “which is why I’m only going to mention the relevant part. Logan asked if you were around.”
Your hands dropped.
Allie watched the information land with an almost unbearable amount of satisfaction. She was one of your favorite people on campus and also, at times, a woman who deserved to be locked in a prop closet for everyone’s safety.
“He asked if I was around?”
“He said, ‘Is your costume girl here?’ which I found reductive, but he meant you.”
“That could mean literally anyone in this room.”
“There’s only one girl he looks for when he comes backstage.”
You hated that your stomach did something stupid at that. Logan had been around a handful of times, usually when post-rehearsal plans somehow migrated to the green room or when one of the guys got dragged into carrying set pieces because the drama club had no budget and too much faith in hockey-player upper body strength. You knew him in pieces. His laugh in the hallway, his habit of picking up whatever someone dropped before they realized they had dropped it, the way he acted like every conversation was casual even when his attention made your skin warm.
He was easy to talk to, which made him dangerous. Guys like Logan could make you feel like you were standing under a spotlight even when they were only asking if you wanted the last slice of pizza.
“That still does not mean I can perform in front of him,” you said.
Allie’s face softened, and that was worse than the begging. “You won’t be performing for him. You’ll be performing because you can. And because if you don’t, I’m going to have to watch Dean’s lamp idea come to life and I may never recover.”
You let out a breath that felt like it had been living in your chest for the past five minutes. Outside the costume room, someone shouted for tape, someone else shouted that the tape was not where it was supposed to be, and the director’s voice rose above both of them with the brittle calm of a man preparing to lose his mind artistically.
You looked at the dress hanging on the rack. Marissa’s dress. Your dress, technically, since you had taken it in at the waist, shortened the sleeves, replaced the buttons, and stitched the inside seam after she stepped on it during tech week. You knew how it moved because you had made it move properly. You knew the character because you had dressed her.
Allie followed your gaze and wisely said nothing.
“I’m not kissing Nick,” you said finally.
Allie sprang up so fast the satin of her skirt snapped around her ankles. “The stage kiss was cut yesterday because Nick has the romantic presence of a damp sock. You’ll be emotionally yearning from three feet away, which is basically theater’s entire brand.”
“I need the script.”
“You don’t need the script.”
“I need it so I can panic with structure.”
Allie shoved it into your hands, then grabbed your shoulders with both of hers. “I owe you my life.”
“You owe me coffee for a month.”
“Done.”
“And you’re telling the director this was your idea when it goes badly.”
“It won’t.”
“Allie.”
She squeezed your shoulders. “It won’t!”
You wanted to believe her. The problem was, believing Allie Hayes had gotten many people into many situations, most of them loud, glittery, and poorly planned. Still, twenty minutes later, you were standing in the wings wearing Marissa’s dress, your own clothes folded over a chair in the costume room, your hair pinned up by Allie’s frantic hands. The director had looked at you like you were both his salvation and his next cardiac event. Nick had tried to give you an encouraging thumbs-up and immediately hit his knuckles on a fake bookcase.
Everything smelled like hairspray, dust, and hot stage lights.
You heard the audience settling on the other side of the curtain. Low voices, shifting seats, someone laughing too loudly near the front. Your pulse seemed to have relocated to your throat.
Allie appeared at your side, radiant in her costume and only slightly terrifying. “Remember, you enter after my line about the letter. Cross to the table, pick up the envelope, stare at it like it ruined your life, then Nick enters.”
“I know.”
“I know you know. I’m telling you because I need to be doing something with my mouth or I’m going to scream.”
That almost loosened the knot in your chest. “You’re very calming.”
“I’ve been told I have the energy of a beautiful emergency.”
Before you could answer, a familiar voice came from the side hallway. “That explains a lot, actually.”
You turned.
Logan stood just beyond the curtain line in dark jeans and a Briar Hockey hoodie, a folded program in one hand. He looked like he had wandered backstage by accident, except Logan never really looked lost. He looked curious. Curious and a little caught off guard as his eyes moved over you, not in the obvious way that would have made you want to disappear, but with a quiet pause that made everything feel suddenly too warm.
Allie pointed at him. “No. Absolutely not. You cannot be back here being distracting. She is saving the entire production.”
Logan’s gaze flicked to Allie, then back to you. “You’re going on?”
“Apparently,” you said, trying not to sound like your bones had turned to paper.
His expression shifted. The teasing eased out of it, leaving something softer behind. “That’s kind of badass.”
You laughed before you could stop yourself. It came out nervous, but real. “I’m replacing a girl with laryngitis in a student play, Logan. I’m not storming a castle.”
“Feels castle-adjacent.”
Allie made a strangled noise. “John Logan, if you make her laugh so hard she forgets her blocking, I’ll make you sit through every musical I’ve ever loved and test you afterward.”
Logan held up both hands, the program still caught between his fingers. “Leaving. I only came to tell you Garrett spilled soda on Dean and they’re arguing about whether that’s a bad omen.”
“It is not,” Allie said.
“Dean says sticky thighs are never neutral.”
You pressed your lips together, trying not to smile, and Logan caught it. There was a tiny beat where the backstage madness blurred around the edges, where he looked at you like he was going to say something else and decided against making it a joke.
“You’ve got this,” he said.
It was simple. That was what got you.
Not loud confidence, not a big speech, not some teasing line about being impressed before you had done anything. Just his voice, steady and certain, like he had no trouble imagining you walking out there and surviving it.
Then Allie shooed him away with both hands, and the stage manager hissed for places, and the curtain went up before your body had a chance to catch up with your choices.
For the first few minutes, you waited in the wings and listened.
You had heard the opening scene so many times you could practically see it without looking. Allie’s entrance, the laugh from the audience when she delivered her second line, Nick’s first missed pause, recovered quickly enough that only the people backstage winced. Your fingers curled into the skirt of your dress, smoothing fabric you had already smoothed six times.
Then Allie said the line about the letter.
Your cue.
For half a second, your feet did nothing. All the confidence you had borrowed from Allie, from Logan, from the fact that you knew the play better than some of the people performing it, slipped out of reach. Beyond the wing, the stage stretched wide and bright. The audience was a dark shape past the lights, hundreds of eyes hidden in shadow.
Then Allie turned slightly, just enough that only you could see her face, and widened her eyes like she was trying to physically drag you into the scene.
You stepped out.
The lights hit first. Heat across your cheeks, down your neck, over the front of the dress. The room was both enormous and impossible to see. Your hand found the table because you knew exactly where it was. Your fingers closed around the envelope because you had placed it there yourself before curtain.
You stared at it like it ruined your life.
The first line came out quieter than Marissa’s usually did, but it came out. Then the next. By the third, your voice had stopped shaking. By the fourth, you were no longer thinking about the audience.
You were thinking about the letter, the room, Allie’s character watching you with pity she was trying to hide. You were thinking about the argument you had heard rehearsed for weeks, and how, somehow, standing inside it felt different than listening from a stool in the corner with a seam ripper in your hand.
In the audience, Logan forgot about Dean’s ongoing whisper campaign against the sticky soda on his jeans.
At first, he had been watching because you were you, and because seeing you walk onto a stage in a dress he knew you had probably altered yourself was enough to make his brain stall for a second. You were always in motion when he saw you backstage. Carrying hangers, pinning hems, ducking past actors with a headset around your neck, smiling when someone thanked you and then vanishing before they could say anything else.
He had thought you were shy. Not in a bad way. Just quieter than Allie, which was not hard, and less interested in being the center of the room than pretty much everyone in the drama club.
Then you started speaking.
It was not the kind of performance that announced itself. You did not walk out and demand attention. You earned it line by line, until the audience stopped rustling, until someone in the row ahead of him leaned forward, until Dean whispered, “Wait, she’s actually good,” and Logan elbowed him without looking away from the stage.
Because you were good.
Not cute-good. Not impressive-for-someone-who-got-dragged-into-this good. You were good in a way that made Logan feel like he had been missing something obvious for weeks. You knew when to pause. You knew how to let a line sit. When Nick came in too early, you shifted half a step, lifted the envelope, and made his mistake look like impatience written into the scene.
The audience laughed in the right place. Allie looked like she might cry from relief.
Logan watched your face change under the lights and had the unsettling thought that maybe you had been this interesting the whole time, and he had only been catching glimpses from the hallway.
By the final scene, you were flushed and a little breathless, but you were still there. Still holding your own. Still making the room follow you.
When the lights went down, the applause came fast. You blinked into the darkness as if waking up. Allie grabbed your hand for the curtain call and squeezed so hard your fingers hurt, but she was beaming, and the sound of the audience rose as you stepped forward with the rest of the cast.
You found Logan by accident.
He was standing with Garrett and Dean near the middle aisle, clapping with a look on his face you did not know what to do with. He was not laughing, not teasing, not performing his own ease back at you. He looked proud, which felt impossible and strangely intimate for someone who had only learned you were acting twenty minutes ago.
You looked away first.
Backstage after the show was worse than going on.
At least on stage, you had lines. Backstage, you had people touching your arm and telling you how amazing you were, the director saying something about instincts, Nick apologizing for the missed cue while also trying to pretend it had not happened, and Allie announcing to anyone within hearing distance that she had discovered you, like you were a small Victorian orphan she had pulled from the fog.
You escaped to the costume room under the very legitimate excuse of changing before someone made you talk about your feelings.
The second the door closed, you leaned back against it and exhaled. Your body felt floaty and exhausted, like all your nerves had burned through their fuel at once. The dress itched under one arm. Your hair was falling out of its pins. Your cheeks hurt from smiling.
You had just started unfastening the top button when someone knocked.
“If that’s Allie, I’m not doing interviews,” you called.
“It’s not Allie,” Logan said through the door. “And I don’t know enough about theater to conduct a good interview.”
Your fingers stopped on the button.
You opened the door partway, mostly because leaving Logan in the hallway felt more embarrassing than facing him. He stood there holding a small bouquet wrapped in green paper, looking faintly uncertain in a way you had never seen on him before.
“Hi,” he said.
“Hi.”
He glanced down at the flowers like he had only just remembered they existed. “The woman in the lobby said these were for performers. I believed her because she had a cash box and seemed powerful.”
You took them before your hands could decide to shake. They were simple, a few bright flowers tucked together with baby’s breath, the kind of bouquet probably meant for parents to buy at the last second. Somehow that made it sweeter.
“You didn’t have to get me flowers.”
“Yeah, I’m getting that vibe from you.”
“What vibe?”
“The one where compliments make you look like you’re searching for the nearest exit.”
You huffed a laugh and stepped back into the room, letting him follow because standing in the doorway suddenly felt too exposed. “I’m not good at this part.”
“The acting part?”
“No, weirdly that part was fine after the initial terror.” You set the flowers gently on the makeup table, away from the sticky crown. “The after part. People saying things.”
Logan nodded like that made sense, and instead of filling the room with easy jokes, he looked around. At the racks of costumes, the spools of thread, the labeled bins, the dress forms with half-finished pieces pinned to them. His attention moved over the room the same way it had moved over you earlier, taking things in rather than skimming past them.
“You made all this?”
“Not all of it. Some pieces were pulled from storage. Some were altered. Some were built by the department.”
His mouth curved, but his eyes came back to you with that same open steadiness from before. “You were incredible.”
Warmth rushed up your neck. You busied yourself with removing a pin from your sleeve that did not need removing. “I knew the lines.”
“Knowing the lines explains the words. It doesn’t explain the part where the whole room went quiet because they were waiting to see what you’d do next.”
That silenced you for a moment.
Logan did not look pleased with himself for saying it. He looked almost surprised, like he had meant to keep it lighter and failed. That made it harder to brush off.
“I almost didn’t go out there,” you admitted.
“I saw.”
Your eyes lifted.
He leaned back against the edge of the table, making sure not to disturb the makeup brushes or the crown. “You had this half-second where you looked like you were going to run straight out the back door. Then Allie did something with her face.”
“Allie’s face has ruined many lives.”
“Probably saved a few too.”
You smiled down at the pin in your hand. “She knew I could do it before I did.”
“She was right.”
The room seemed quieter than it had a minute ago, even with the muffled noise of people celebrating in the hallway. You could hear the cast laughing, Allie’s voice rising above the rest, Dean complaining about something with full commitment. In here, with Logan standing close enough that you could see the place where his hoodie sleeve had been pushed up his forearm, everything felt softer around the edges.
“I’m not auditioning for the next one,” you said, because you needed something between you that was not the way he was looking at you.
“I didn’t ask.”
“You were about to.”
“I was thinking about it,” he admitted. “But I’m learning you respond badly to pressure.”
“Smart.”
You laughed, and his smile deepened, not triumphant, just pleased that he had gotten you there. It made you remember every other time he had found you backstage or in Allie’s room or at a party where you were never quite part of the loudest group. How he always seemed to notice when you went quiet, but never made a show of it. How he asked questions that sounded casual until later, when you realized he remembered the answers.
Maybe he had been seeing you more than you thought.
Logan’s gaze dropped briefly to the dress. “Do you need help getting out of that?”
Your eyebrows shot up.
He immediately closed his eyes for half a second, like he was replaying his own sentence and suffering through it. “I meant in a respectful, theater-costume, probably-a-row-of-buttons-you-can’t-reach way.”
“You’re very smooth.”
“I was before I watched you emotionally destroy an audience. Apparently that had consequences.”
The laugh that came out of you was softer this time. You turned, gathering your hair over one shoulder, and presented him with the back of the dress before you could overthink it. “Three buttons. Then you are leaving so I can change.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
His fingers brushed the fabric at your back, and the quiet shifted again. He was gentle with the buttons, slower than he needed to be, or maybe you were just aware of every second because it was Logan standing behind you in the costume room, undoing the dress you had spent a week fixing for someone else.
He finished the last button and stepped back immediately, giving you space.
“All set,” he said, voice lower than before.
You turned around, holding the dress in place with one hand. “Thank you.”
He nodded, but he did not move toward the door yet. “For the record, I liked you backstage too.”
Your chest tightened.
Logan looked a little nervous after saying it, which was absurd because Logan had once flirted with a waitress while Dean loudly knocked over an entire basket of fries beside him and had not lost focus for even a second.
“You liked me backstage?” you asked.
“I mean, yeah. You’re kind of hard not to like.” He rubbed the back of his neck, then let his hand fall. “But tonight was different. Not because you were suddenly someone else. More because you were already you, and then everyone else got to notice.”
You had no idea what to say to that. It was too much and exactly enough, and it landed somewhere deeper than a compliment about the play.
The hallway door flew open before you could answer, and Allie appeared, stopping short when she saw you and Logan facing each other in the tiny, overstuffed room.
Her eyes flicked to the flowers, then to Logan, then to the undone buttons at the back of your dress that you were still holding closed.
“Oh,” she said, delighted in a way that promised future problems.
“Allie,” you said.
“No, no, I’m not here. I’m a hallucination brought on by applause and emotional vulnerability.”
“Go away,” Logan said, but he was smiling.
“I am going away. I’m leaving so naturally that nobody will even remember I entered.” She backed out slowly, still pointing between the two of you with the kind of silent excitement that made you want to throw a spool of thread at her. Somewhere in the hall, Dean called her name and asked if theater people kept snacks backstage, which finally dragged her attention away.
The door closed again.
You and Logan stared at it for a beat before you both started laughing. It broke whatever had been hovering between you, but not completely. It only made it easier to breathe around it.
“I should change,” you said.
“Right. I’ll wait outside?”
“You don’t have to.”
“I know.” He picked up the program from where he had set it on the table and tapped it lightly against his palm. “But I want to walk you out after. If that’s okay.”
It was more than okay, which was why you had to look down at the flowers instead of directly at him. “Yeah. That’s okay.”
Logan smiled like he knew exactly how much effort it took you to sound normal. “Good.”
He left, and you changed into your own clothes with shaky fingers, the dress going back on its hanger with more tenderness than it probably deserved. When you stepped into the hallway a few minutes later, Logan was waiting by the wall of old production posters, talking to Dean and Garrett. Dean was mid-sentence, gesturing dramatically with a pretzel he had found, but Logan’s attention shifted to you immediately.
It should have been embarrassing, being noticed that quickly.
Allie hugged you so hard you nearly dropped the flowers, then got swept away by three cast members and a director who wanted to discuss tomorrow’s performance. Garrett gave you a warm congratulations. Dean told you he had always believed in you, despite absolutely not knowing you were in the show until intermission, and then wandered off when someone mentioned pizza.
Logan stayed.
The two of you left through the side exit, away from the lobby and the last of the audience. Outside, Briar’s campus was cool and dark, the theater lights spilling gold across the pavement. You clutched the flowers against your chest as you walked, your shoulder occasionally brushing his.
For once, Logan did not rush to fill every silence. He let this one sit until it felt less like awkwardness and more like a place to rest.
“So,” Logan said eventually, “when you become famous, I’m going to need everyone to know I brought you your first bouquet.”
You glanced over at him. “That was my first bouquet?”
“For theater, probably.”
“You’re making a big assumption.”
“Am I wrong?”
You tried to hold back a smile and failed, which was apparently answer enough because his grin softened in that quiet, pleased way that made your chest feel too small for your ribs.
You walked a few more steps before you said, “I’m really not auditioning.”
“Okay.”
“I mean it.”
“I believe you.”
“You sound like you don’t.”
“I sound like a guy who would sit through another play if you were backstage,” he said. “Or onstage. Or running the whole thing from a headset.”
The warmth in your chest returned, slower this time, spreading all the way down to your fingers around the bouquet.
“You’d come just because I was backstage?”
Logan looked at you under the theater’s side lights, the teasing still there but softer now, almost secondary. “Yeah. I would.”
The answer was too easy for him. Not thrown out for effect, not polished into something it wasn’t. Easy because it was true.
You stopped near the edge of the steps. He stopped too, close enough that the night air between you felt thinner than it should have.
“I don’t really know what to do when people look at me,” you admitted.
Logan’s gaze moved over your face with enough restraint to make your stomach flip. “I can look away.”
You shook your head before he finished saying it. “I didn’t say I wanted you to.”
His smile faded into something quieter.
From somewhere behind you, the side door opened and Allie’s voice carried into the night. “I’m not interrupting. I’m just witnessing something, hopefully magical.”
“Allie,” you called back, mortified.
“I’m gone,” she said, immediately not sounding gone. “I’m disappearing. Like a supportive ghost.”
The door shut again before either of you could answer, and for a second, you and Logan just stared at each other. Then he laughed under his breath, warm and disbelieving, and the sound loosened the last of your nerves.
“We’re never hearing the end of this,” he said.
“Probably not.”
“Worth it?”
You looked at the flowers in your hand, then at him. For the first time all night, being seen did not make you want to hide. “Maybe.”
Logan’s eyes dipped to your mouth, then came back to yours like he was giving you every chance to change your mind. You didn’t. His hand lifted to your jaw, his thumb brushing lightly beneath your cheek, and the bouquet crinkled softly between you as he leaned in.
The kiss was gentle at first, almost a question, but it did not stay uncertain for long. You tipped closer, one hand curling into the front of his hoodie, and Logan made a quiet sound against your mouth that you felt more than heard. He kissed you like he had been waiting through the entire play for the chance, like every line you had spoken under the lights had somehow led him here, to the side steps of the theater with your first bouquet pressed between you.
When you pulled back, he stayed close, his forehead nearly touching yours.
“I’m still not auditioning,” you whispered.
Logan smiled against your mouth. “That’s fine.”
Then he kissed you again, and this time, you stopped thinking about the lights altogether.
summary: there is a fine line between worship and desire, and ormund hightower has long forgotten where it lies. (2k)
pairing: ormund hightower / fem!witchy!reader
contents: mutual pining, worship as a love language (and a form of manipulation kinda), unhealthy devotion, sub!ormund lowkey, mild smut 18+ (MDNI)
Beyond the yawning arch of your open balcony, the Reach lay sleeping beneath a haze of silver mist. Green banners, bearing the sigil of House Hightower, whip against their posts — stirred by the cool night breeze that carries in the scent of damp earth, dewy grass, and the lingering smoke of dying cookfires. The air slipping through your doors mingles with the smell of incense and beeswax from prayer candles stained permanently within your chamber walls.
The room glows shades of amber from flickering torchlight, which dances across the pale stone and polished oak. The shelves lining the walls bow slightly beneath the weight of a hundred tiny glass vials, shimmering like emerald, sapphire, and ruby jewels beneath the guttering flames. An iron brazier burns sweet myrrh in one far corner, and in the other, steam curls lazily from a copper bath.
You laze in the scalding water; eyes lidded in quiet contemplation while your fingers skim the soapy surface, disturbing the white jasmine petals floating gently there. The sudden knock at your door does not startle you when it comes — in three measured, half-shy raps against the wood — as though a part of you had expected its coming somehow.
“Come,” you call into the quiet.
The heavy oak opens inward with a slow creaking sound. Lord Ormund enters with all the solemn reverence of a man stepping into a holy sanctuary. He freezes instantly in the doorway at the sight of you there, resting in the bath like an angel in a painting hung along an ancient sept wall — head lolled back, bare breasts rising and falling from ribbons of steam. For a long moment, he could not fathom looking away from it.
“Oh—” The noise escapes him like a punched-out breath. He falters in the doorway, turning his head and lowering his gaze, as speckles of pink creep up the collar of his green doublet. “I— I didn’t mean to disturb you, my lady.”
“You could never disturb me,” you hum with a tender smile. “Please. Come in.”
Ormund obeys. Ormund always obeys. He commands thousands of knights as leader of his house by day, but the simplest request from you always threatens to unravel him completely. He bends entirely to your will, perhaps more desperate for your approval than The Father’s.
The door clicks shut behind him. The room seems smaller for it, warmer, as the heat of the candlelight grows the moment he’s alone with you. He shifts on his weight like a shy child before you, clasping his pale hands behind his back like a squire awaiting instruction. He was a six-foot, broad-shouldered knight, but a single smile from you makes him want to get on his knees and pray.
“There is a vial on that shelf beside you,” you tell him, lifting your chin slightly to motion to it. “The clear one— If you would?”
His body answers before his mind. Ormund turns, as if every bone in his body was made to be under your control, and skims the shelves with a broad hand until his fingers find a slender bottle. “This one?”
“Yes.”
His boots pad firmly along the cobbles as he crosses the distance between you, towering over your copper tub. The candlelight turns his wild curls a deeper auburn shade of Hightower red; the dancing flames carve out half of his chiseled features in blurred shadow.
Water slips from your arm in clear rivulets as you raise a waiting hand, glittering breasts rising once more from the still water. Ormund clears his throat, adam’s apple bobbing as he glances politely elsewhere. “Is this another one of your… miracles?” he wonders aloud, because it felt too ungodly to call them potions.
You uncork the small bottle with a faint pop. You tap your pointer finger against the glass to empty a few drops into the warm bathwater below. “It’s only lavender, I’m afraid,” you confess.
“…Lavender,” he echoes with an owlish blink.
Your eyes gleam with amusement when they flit back up to his. “Do I disappoint you, my lord?”
“No. N-Never,” he stammers with a shake of his head. “I— I quite prefer the smell, actually.”
“I’m aware…” you lilt with a wider smile. “Perhaps, I should lend you a bottle when we march.”
Ormund swallows hard and forgets to speak. His mind reels at the thought of keeping a pomander of your bath water chained to his armor — to inhaling the sweet scent of your musk and bathing oils while in the heart of battle.
“The gods spoke to me in prayer this morning…” you start with a sigh, eyes fluttering shut as you relax further into the water, with the vial hanging loosely at your fingertips. “The Warrior said, ‘Tonight, you will enjoy your last bath before the war… Make it count.’”
Ormund’s strong brow furrows in a grave sort of look, appearing almost stricken.
Your lip lifts into a smile. “A joke, my lord,” you tell him. “Though not a very good one, I’m afraid.”
“Oh,” Ormund says with an awkward chuckle, as relief crosses his strong features in slow confusion. “Forgive me, my lady— Humor is not my strength, I’m afraid.”
“That’s because most jokes are lies… And you are devoted to the truth.”
He nods once, then frowns thoughtfully. “Well… If they are lies, my lady… Are they not best avoided?”
You tilt your head to your bare shoulder, regarding him with an unmistakable fondness. “Not always… Sometimes, a soul must first be led astray before it can discover the proper road… A trick that leads them to the truth.”
You motion your head towards the shelves across the room.
“Like those bottles…” you tell him and watch as his head swivels in the direction of them almost instantly. “The green one sends a pillar of emerald flame into the heavens if thrown into a fire… The blue one creates a cloud of black smoke that would make the most seasoned knights piss themselves in fear… And that pink one…”
Ormund turns back to you when you trail off, chest tugging at the smile that graces your lips.
“Yes?” he presses.
“If slipped into a man’s wine… Drives him absolutely mad with lust.”
Ormund freezes, breath hitching somewhere in his chest. It feels, for a moment, like he’s finally got an answer for his own insanity — an explanation of why his mind cannot seem to roam anywhere without bumping into thoughts of you.
“Did… did you… Did you use that on me?” he stammers.
That question hangs between you for several long moments. You tilt your head and peer up at him in a thoughtful sort of look. “…Would I have to?” you press with an arched brow.
His face flushes pink to the tips of his ears. His light eyes widen as the answer spills immediately from his lips. “No! N-No. Of— Of course not,” he stammers, lowering himself to his knee beside your bath like a scolded squire, like a pilgrim before an altar. It was instinct almost, to kneel at your feet. “Forgive me, my lady— I exist only to serve you.”
The words leave his mouth as if pulled out by a hand down his throat. It frightens him, how easily his faith has entangled with you — how often his eyes sought yours before the Seven-Pointed Star. He could no longer tell if he worshipped you because of the gods, or if he worshipped the gods because of you.
“There is nothing to forgive, my lord, I assure you,” you coo to him, as gentle as The Mother herself, though something mischievous dances in your eyes even still. “But… if you truly wish to serve me… Then serve me.”
Ormund’s breath catches, heart thundering hard behind his ribcage.
Your brows lift in an expectant look. “Take off your clothes.”
The man rises slowly to full height again, towering once more before you. You watch with an unwavering stare as he reaches for the buckles of his doublet, unlatching the golden buttons there with a pair of trembling hands. The emerald jacket falls to the cobbles with a quiet thud. His pale tunic follows, which he unties and then tugs off at the collar.
The canvas of his milky white torso is exposed to you, toned from years of knighthood, and sprinkled with sparse brown hair along the stomach and sternum.
He has to remind himself to breathe as his hands fumble with the button of his trousers, toeing off his boots simultaneously. The fabric falls to his ankles. He steps out of them with two firm steps, a lot more confident than his pounding heart. The cobbles are cool beneath his feet, and damp from the steam of your bath.
Ormund fights the instinctive urge to cover himself as your eyes part finally from his to trail down the length of his lean body. You find his cock hanging heavy between his scruffy thighs, favoring the left one as it curves slightly in that direction. Your head tilts once more to your shoulder in observation. Your eyes dart suddenly back to his face.
“Get in the bath,” you command.
So Ormund gets in the bath.
The water trickles as you shift within its depth to make room for the man. He steps in, one leg at a time, and braces the edge of the copper as he descends into the steam. His thighs spread between both of yours, knees bent to accommodate his taller form.
You set the vial on the edge before inching towards him. Ormund’s hairy chest hitches with an unsure breath when you straddle his waist, delicate hands braced along his broad shoulders. He’s imagined having you like this for so long, on him and all over him, that he can scarcely tell reality from his own boyish dreams.
The velvety skin of your inner thigh brushes his half-hard cock, and he feels half-heretic for it. He hates himself for imagining your cunt as it brushes the tip of length — hates how easily he can picture the petal-like folds parting around him and the way it would feel to pierce them with his manhood. He feels like he should fall to his knees and repent for it.
“I’m sorry, my lady,” he says on bated breath, adam’s apple bobbing when he tips his chin to meet your gaze. “It’s— It’s been a while. Forgive me.”
“It’s only flesh, my lord,” you shrug with a tender smile, stiff nipples brushing his bare chest. “It needs what it needs.”
Your fingers twist into the auburn tendrils curling at his temple and smile softly when Ormund leans instinctively into the warmth of your touch.
“There is no act done in service of the gods that could ever be called a sin,” you remind him.
He exhales a held breath. His hands rise from the water to reach for your body at your words, at your permission. They tremble with a strange hesitance he thought he lost in boyhood — yours was certainly not the first he’d ever touched, but perhaps the only one he truly revered. His palms are calloused from decades of training as they smooth up your soft stomach and over your ribs, before cupping the underside of your plush breasts.
“I thank the gods every day for bringing you to me,” he says on bated breath— a confession you can read all over his face every time he looks at you.
“Don’t thank me yet,” you remind him, tipping up his chin with your pointer finger when his lidded eyes lock on your breasts. “Not after I’ve won you this war.”
