bug what's nurse shane up to rn.....i gotta know......
Shane’s said four words since he woke up fifteen minutes ago. He’s sat at the counter, stool pulled up to it, hunched tiredly over a bowl of cereal. He’s in his scrub pants and no shirt, as usual for pre shift dinner to avoid any spills or smells on his top.
Ilya is leant in the doorway of Shane’s kitchen. He’d finished his short shift at three in the afternoon, been at Shane’s place by half past.
He’d let himself in quietly, (using the key Shane had given him two months ago now to come go and he pleased) very careful as he moved around the home, to stay quiet and not wake Shane from his pre night shift sleep as he changed into the sweats he bought with him.
Shane would be up at four thirty to stretch, shower, do his skincare change and then out in the kitchen by five. Ilya had folded and stacks Shane’s clothes from the dyer, and filled Shane’s waterbottle while he waited for his boy to wake up.
They’d have and hour and half before Shane would have to leave before shift, it wasn’t much, but Ilya hadn’t seen Shane outside of in passing at work in a few days and he’d missed him. The chance to kiss and cuddle and sit with his boy was worth it. Ilya was curled up on the couch when the door to Shane’s bedroom clicked open, and his Shane had shuffled out, in his scrub pants and socks, rubbing at his right eye with his fist.
Ilya had gotten so absorbed in real housewives that he’d not even realised the time, and his eyes darted to his phone. His stomach flipped a little at the 5:21 on the screen. Ilya’s eyes darted back to Shane, who had come to a stop at the end of the couch. He’d leant down and pressed his lips on Ilya’s head, mumbled “hi baby” and sniffled before shuffling onward to the kitchen before Ilya could reply.
Ilya watched the slump of his retreating boyfriends back. This was bad, late out of bed and no kiss on the lips. Ilya had managed to sit still for all of five minutes before he was climbing off the couch and following after Shane. He wanted to give him space, to wake up, to settle, to seek out Ilya when he was ready for him. But Ilya had missed him, and a Shane out of pattern was unpredictable.
It bought them to now, Ilya leant in the door with Shane bringing spoonfuls of cereal to his mouth, the soft clink of his spoon and the distant noise of the tv the only sound in the room.
“Sleep okay?” Ilya asked softly, and then went about making Shane’s pre shift coffee- half to do something with his hands and half because Shane was already late to get up, late to have his coffee in hand warm and fresh ti help wake him up.
“Mmhm” Shane hummed, nodded, muffled a yawn into his hand.
“Work ok?” Shane asked then, voice low and scratchy with sleep. Ilya turned to look at him as the coffee machine spluttered and spilled smooth coffee into Shane’s mug. Shane had a pillow crease down his cheek, his eyes were hazy with the edges of sleep, chest flushed with sleep warmth. Ilya wanted to bundled him up whole, maybe bite him a little. Maybe kiss and suck at the warm skin of his neck while he got him all cosy in his lap and touched him until that bunch of his shoulders dropped and the loosened into something softer, warmer, loose limbed.
Shane looked at him with expectant brows and Ilya bit down a smile as he turned the espresso shot into an iced long black. Of course Shane would check on him with the few words he managed to get out, those somehow worked past the tangle in his brain.
“Was good, not too busy” Ilya shrugged and crossed the kitchen to place the coffee in front of Shane, looked down at the grumbly shape of his boyfriend, he could feel his stewing radiating off him. Ilya placed a gentle hand on the back of Shane’s neck, rubbed the pads of his fingers up against Shane’s hairline. He dipped his head to kiss the top of Shane’s head.
“Thank you” Shane mumbles and its wobbly, and ha lingers, pets at Shane’s neck but Shane doesn’t lean back into him, doesn’t chat to him about last nights shift in slow hazy words, doesn’t catch Ilya’s hand to hold while he eats. Ilya hums, and pulls back.
Sometimes his Shane is quiet and sometimes his Shane needs space; especially on his last shift on a block of nights. Ilya is familiar with the way they untangle you, leave you spacey and backwards. Like you’re jet lagged or a toddler or a tiny bit drunk and hungover at the same time.
Ilya strolls out of the kitchen and goes to mute the tv, incase the sound is too much, and then goes to his bag for the three item he’d thrown in there for Shane this morning. He wordlessly makes his way back to the kitchen where Shane is rinsing his bowl, his backpack sitting unzipped on the bench, now containing his lunch bag.
Ilya places the small box of peppermint tea inside the bag (Shane said it helped with the bloating and nausea he sometimes got on nights and shane had texted Ilya with many sad faces that he was out of it last night) and well Ilya had stock for Shane at his place so it just made sense to bring some.
He lays the jumper he has in his arms over the top of the bag. It was Ilya’s, a sweatshirt he’d had for years, worn in thin and comfortable, soft in that way that only came with time. Shane’s favoured jumper to take of Ilya’s when they were at his place. Shane could decide if he wanted it for work- but at least the offer was there.
Ilya takes himself back to the couch, sits down and clicks the volume up to a soft murmur. Tells himself that he’s doing well not to hover, even though he kind of needs a smile and a kiss from Shane before he leaves to feel confident that is boy is alright. But then again, maybe he’s simply too tired for that- or overstimulated by Ilya’s presence. And yes Ilya’s missed his boy, but even if his time with Shane, being in Shane’s orbit consisted of only this, that was okay- they knew, time together between shifts like this, in overlap, they were just whatever they could find energy to be together.
Two weeks ago Ilya had come home with such a migraine post work that date night with Shane had been a cool shower and then laying in the dark of Ilya’s room in silence with the fan on, not touching because Ilya’s skin felt throbby.
A week before that, both post a 12hr day they had drunk wine directly from one shared bottle, and ate Thai food on the floor in front of the tv as they ranted about their equally fucking cursed days. It would change, what they needed but, what they needed would always be from each other, to exist together.
Ilya is halfway through a text to Sveta, when he suddenly blinks and oh, that’s a lap full of Shane. He’s warm and heavy and no longer shirtless, in his scrub top and Ilya’s jumper and he’s shoving his face into Ilya’s neck, tucking his arms in between their chests and his thigh pressing to either side of Ilya.
Ilya lets out a soft breathless laugh, knocked out of him the the weight of Shane, but then, then he feels the ripple of Shane’s shoulders, hears his big drawing breath in the way it’s coming faster than usual. Oh. Oh Shane.
“Hey, hey” Ilya is cooing, his hand is soothing over the back of Shane’s silky soft hair, other arm wrapping tightly around his waist, pressing Shane into his chest.
“Hey” ilya coos, low, draws out the vowel and tucks his face down against the side of Shane’s face. Ilya focuses his breathing, makes it slow and gives Shane a moment before he rushes in with questions, gives him space for words.
“I just-“ Shane’s voice wobbles where it’s tucked into the space between Ilya’s jaw and collarbones.
“I just want to go to bed with you” Shane gets out, voice small, and there’s a tiny sniffle and then he’s perfectly quiet. It makes Ilya’s stomach ache. Ilya can imagine Shane’s stubborn wet lash line, the way he’s refusing to let tears fall. His stubborn, exhausted sweetheart.
“It’s fine I’m ok.” Shane’s voice is flat
“I don’t know maybe I could be tired, but last night wasn’t so busy, nothing bad, just. I’d just really like to go to bed with you right now and fall asleep together” Shane explains and Ilya nods, nods, begins to gently sway them side to side.
Ilya wants to tell Shane to call in sick, to just put himself first please and let his body get some rest. It gets like this for Shane, handling the long hours- juggling it with workouts and seeing friends and dinners with his parents and helping his dad fix the deck and doing it all, till the exhaustion finds him suddenly and he just, gets heavy, slow- and frustrated with himself for feeling effects of the full life he has, the standards he holds himself too. Ilya has to remind him, at times the large stretches of sleep that Shane has surrendered for years. How it might be okay to be exhausted.
But Ilya knows Shane, his Shane, and knows that telling him to stop is futile, trying to persuade him that he could call in, come to bed with Ilya, the unit would be okay, wouldn’t fly with Shane, especially not so close to shift. Ilya knows how important work was to Shane, and that Shane is important to that place. That he cared, it mattered to him, showing up and being present, helping. Being reliable. Most of the time Ilya could just make himself a soft place for Shane to land, to come apart, to need, even if for a short while, to try and fill the exhausted spaces of him, hold him up.
“It’s been a little while huh?” Ilya agrees, (it had been four days, and even one felt too long to Ilya so he was helpless to do anything but agree) and starts his kisses, from the top of Shane’s ear all along his hairline, nose brushing in his hair with the pecks.
“Stupid hospital” Ilya adds, and it gets a small scoff laugh from Shane who nods. “Stupid hospital” he mumbles because it’s easier, to blame the building than all the other parts of it.
“I miss you” Shane adds, and Ilya nods, cups Shane’s face in his palms and eases him back from his neck, keeps him close and looks down at him, drops his neck to drop little kisses over Shane’s brow, the high of his cheeks. Ilya’s hand slides to the back of Shane’s neck and starts rhythmic squeezes.
“And I woke up. I don’t know angry? Or just-“ Shane waves a hand. “Frustrated. I kept waking up through the day and I was I thought it was- I kept rolling over or reaching out expecting to find you in bed but then I’d remember and” Shane shrugs and blinks his eyes half open, eyes heavy and brow frowny as he looks up at Ilya.
“Then it took me ages to wake up cause I was groggy and then I didn’t even say hi to you properly when you came here from work and pushed back going to the gym just to see me before shift and it’s just because I was feeling sorry for myse-“
“I miss you too” Ilya interrupts, leaning in to knock noses with Shane, lingering in his space. His pinkies tuck down past the neck of Shane’s shirt, fidget against the skin.
“Benjamin does not cuddle like you” Ilya teases and he sees a tiny smile flicker at the corner of Shane’s lips at the mention of Benjamin.
Benjamin was a giant stuffed bear Shane had won Ilya on their fifth date at an old refurbished arcade in the city. The thing was stupidly large but Shane’s heart had felt stupidly large at the time; he’d wanted to show off, to win the dumb biggest prize for the cute boy he was on a date with.
The game had aptly been called “Benjamin’s Hammer” with a scarily drawn off brand imitation of the marvel character of Thor that was distinctly off putting, not to mention the strangely out of place name. They could have at least tried to go with a name similar to Thor.
Ilya had whispered to Shane that Benjamin seemed more like a man you’d find in a cross fit gym than a super hero and Shane had agreed. The weird characters six fingers did confirm Shane’s suspicions it has been made by AI. His cape was too short and eyes weirdly formed, a smile that was sinister. Of course they had to play it; they decided.
The ‘game’ had consisted of using the large wooden hammer to swing and hit the target as hard as you could. The harder the hit, the higher the score, the bigger the prize.
Ilya’s smile had been blinding when Shane’s swing had pushed the red light just shy of the top of the large screen that displayed the force of the swing. It had somehow grown even more when Shane had selected the too big bear and passed it into Ilya’s arms with a shy smile. Ilya had thanked him with a kiss to the cheek, a sigh of “my hero, my Benjamin” Shane had replied “ew” at being compared to knock off Thor and dug his fingers into Ilya’s side but his flush had gone down his neck.
Ilya lugged the large brown bear around on his back the rest of the night, proudly declaring his name to be Benjamin of course. The large soft floppy dark coloured bear had taken residence in Ilya’s flat since then, usually sat in the armchair in his room or at the end of his bed (in his bed when he was missing the warm figure of Shane beside him most).
“I think you love him more than me” Shane grumbles and Ilya nods, unable to help but tease, and presses a feather light kiss to Shane’s nose, then his top lip. “Very much so” he whispers and wraps his whole hand over the back of Shane’s tense neck, massaged with his full hand working, firm presser and watches Shane’s eyes flutter.
Shane whines and huffs and oh his poor tired boy. Ilya kisses his top lip again, then his bottom lips pulls back just enough for Shane to tilt his chin up to chase his mouth and then kisses him properly, slow and soft, a hungry lick of his tongue that Shane returns, tightens his arms around Ilya’s shoulders. He tastes like coffee and the sweet residue of cereal. Ilya kisses Shane until he feels his neck and head slacken in Ilya’s grip, feels the weight of his head back into his palm.
Ilya hums against Shane’s mouth and pulls back, bites down his smile when Shane’s head lulls closer to him as if hypnotised.
“Shane” Ilya whispers and Shane blinks his eyes open, small frown working its way back between his brows.
“What” he asks, and Ilya kisses the crease of his brow.
“I do not love Benjamin more than you, he is just an affair, for when my lover is busy being be very important at his job” Ilya whispers and he feels a small laugh draw from Shane.
“Besides he does not wear glasses so” Ilya shrugs, sucks his teeth. “Is no contest” he concludes and Shane whines, that annoyed sound when Ilya carries on. Ilya loves it.
“Okay okay” Ilya concedes and then twists and lays back on the couch, shane curled on top of him.
His eyes flicker to Shane’s Apple Watch, 5:52pm
Shane nuzzles his face into Ilya’s throat and Ilya’s hand is steady massaging over Shane’s neck, pressing out along the lines of his shoulder with steady pressure of his fingers.
They don’t have enough time for Ilya to bring Shane back to himself the way he wants to, the way they both know works best, doesn’t have time to let his Shane get the full sleep he needs, doesn’t have the ability to give Shane what he wants, a night together just them, falling asleep at the same time. So he problem solves.
“Here is plan” Ilya says and he feels Shane hum, nod slightly Ilya distantly thinks of those videos of owners saying dogs favourite words in front of them, how they perk up and their ears twitch. Ilya values his safely so he doesn’t voice this thought.
“I will drive you to work, we will leave at 6:45 yes because you will not need extra time for parking so extra time for us. Then you will work and it will be okay, and you can keep my jumper so you are warm and is like I am not far. I will go to gym very nice and early and then come and pick you up, we will come home, have gross smoothie you like and eggs on toast that I like and then we will shower, and then I will fuck you to sleep yes?” Ilya keeps his voice low and calm, washing it over Shane like the ocean pushing in, the movements of his hands on Shane’s neck and back rhythmic, his breathing steady.
“We will sleep, together, in bed, us- and then when we wake up we can go for a walk or to sauna or to the couch to watch a movie or we stay in bed and I fuck you some more” Ilya shrugs listing Shane’s prefers post last night shift activity. “You will pick from these options- what you want and I will make happen” Ilya kisses the shell of Shane’s ear, slides his hand down to press and rub at his lower back.
“You do the next twelve hours and then I’ve got you for the next whole day okay? You just let me have you” Ilya mumbles the instruction, hand slides to Shane’s hip and holds, rubs his thumb.
“Yes?” Ilya prompts and Shane nods, nods, his hands are fisted into Ilya’s shirt, breathing steady and even.
“Yeah. Please” Shane replied and illya kisses kisses kisses the crown of his head.
“Okay” Ilya confirms and feels Shane snuggle down into him, loose like some of the strings pulling him have slackened.
“Okay” Shane echoes, the slightest lilt to his voice that makes it fall like Ilya says the word. It makes Ilya kiss his head, makes something warm like pride pulse in his chest.
“Good boy” Ilya whispers, a secret for just them and his hand slides up to Shane’s ear, rubs over the shape of it, his earlobe.
Shane shivers against him, yawns so wide it makes his jaw click.
Ilya checks the time again, eyes on Shane’s watch. 6:04pm
“I’ll get you up when we need to go okay?” Ilya mumbles, waits till he feels Shane nod. He wishes he could put Shane on his knees for the next half an hour or so, take his brain out of where it was rattling, but he knows there is no chance Shane would be in the right headspace to work after that. But this, this was good too. A moment of rest, a moment together.
“I’m right here, just rest now” Ilya whispers and pushes his hand up under Shane’s scrubs and his jumper, palm flat against warm skin, rubbing wide steady circles.
Ilya tilts his face down, nose to the top of Shane’s head and closes his eyes, not worried about falling asleep, not when he had the job of looking after his Shane, looking over him while he got to rest with Ilya. A moment of something warm and true and real to take into his shift with him, something Shane could keep tucked against his chest when it got to the seven hour of decision making, being in control, in charge, calculating and compassionate and alert and open and ready.
When it got too much. Like a worry stone Shane could rub his thumb over and over and over and over, smooth from use, this memory of being soft and warm and held. Safe.
Ilya’s chest tingled with the delight of helping Shane carrying the weight of it all- the everything- and he let the steady sound of Shane’s breathing clear his mind as he focused on the weight and warmth and smell of his boy, his favourite person in the world, right there safe against his chest.
Summary: You were tasked with looking after four members of the King's Guard who stumbled into your Lord's keep in the middle of a stormy night. One of them was the Crown Prince in disguise and badly injured. You helped him, but now there are consequences that you must face alone...
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By the time you extract yourself from your hiding place in Lord Havarn's solar, it is well past the noon bell. Unseen, you creep from the room and into the hallway. It would not do for you to have made it through that lengthy meeting unnoticed, only to be caught at this last stretch.
The meeting had been incredibly long, but thankfully for your memory they did not spend a great deal of time on the topic of rebellion. You've been at this for more than a decade, but every so often you are surprised yet again at how people can truly spend hours talking about nothing really of any importance or note. Not even to a spy trying to collect as much information as possible. You know that the Bloodraven will take any kind of information you can get, but even he would be at a loss of what to do with the hour those men spent speaking about the recent lambing season.
And gods, the complaints about their wives. That kind of thing can be useful at times, but rivers, it is tedious to listen to.
You have been reciting the important part of the overheard conversation over and over to yourself for the past two hours, fixing it in your memory as you have done many many times before. The Bloodraven will be happily surprised you think, when you are able to give him more or less a copy of the lords' entire discussion in full.
The men in that room are planning another rebellion for true. The actual uprising is still years away if you judge their intentions right, but what they discussed here will be of great interest to the Bloodraven. You're not sure how he's going to make use of it, but over the years you have learned to trust him. After all, the two of you working together has gotten you placed in the right houses, at the right time for you to gather crucial information. Where money is being directed, who is taking long sea voyages that might include stops across the Narrow Sea, who is speaking with who about their complaints about the current Targaryen Dynasty – all topics you have quietly listened, gathered and passed on.
It is a strange thing, you think to yourself as you stride more confidently in the hallways, finally reaching areas that you would not have to justify your presence in, that your work amongst these houses is likely reaching its conclusion.
Once you reach one of the main hallways, you take a second, pressing yourself into a quiet alcove. The windows are open, and the air, still cold from last night's storm, blows in cooling the sweat from your brow. You press two fingers over your father's ring and try to breathe.
This has been your life for so long, you don't know how to describe what you're feeling. You never really let yourself think about what would happen 'after'. You were never even sure you'd ever get an 'after'. There is always the chance you'd have been caught, or that one of the people you have trusted to pass your information on would betray you. There has always been a sword hanging over your head, it was always just the question of who would be wielding it. One of the lords who's house has kept you in reserve might have gotten tired of you cluttering up their space at any time, and…well. There are worse ways to leave this life than the end of a sword. You know if you had to choose, you'd ask for the block and thank them for letting you have the option.
The breathing is not working, your father's ring sits on your hand as it ever has, but you take no comfort in its shape or etchings like you normally do. Tears spring to your eyes, and you can't even say why. Your head aches, your throat is dry, and the world around you shrinks to just this little alcove. You haven't slept in more than a day, everything is happening too fast now, you can scarcely keep up.
What are you going to do?
If he'd just come one night later, you think to yourself helplessly. You would have gone with them, in a heartbeat. Even if the Prince had come to his senses later after healing a little. Realized that he didn't really have any interest or connection to some poor noble woman too old for marriage, and too much a painful reminder of the past, at least you'd be away from here. Away from these people and whatever they have planned for you. Even if he'd left you on the side of the road to Summerhall, you think, at least you'd have been free.
You press your father's ring into the skin of your thumb, take in one deep breath and hold it, forcing yourself to count slowly to ten before exhaling. You do this three more times, going slow, trying to think of nothing at all except the wind on your skin, the faint sounds of the forge below, the smell of the wet marshes.
Then you straighten, wipe your eyes, shake out your skirts, and walk confidently out of the alcove. You need sleep. You need to figure out what your next move is going to be. You need to write down what you heard in Lord Havarn's solar. You need to maybe have a good cry. You need to carefully go over the memories you have of Prince Baelor, the shape of him, the feel of him, so you can fold them up like precious parchment and keep them safe in your heart.
You do none of these things. You do not have the time. Instead, you go looking for Lady Havarn.
Her solar is empty when you get there, but you're not surprised. The mid-day meal is probably close to being announced and she is likely changing her gown with Lady Marissa. You take a seat in one of the chairs in front of her desk. Lady Rae keeps a neat work space. You know this, because you're the one often helping her clean it. You don't even know how many valuable secrets you've managed to extract from this woman just by helping her organize her correspondence.
The door swings open behind you, but you don't turn around. You stay sitting too, seemingly relaxed in your red dress that has got mud from the yard on the hem, and streaks of dust from where you'd been hiding in the Lord's solar. You don't even want to know what state your hair is in, you refuse to be self conscious about any of it however. Appearing neat as a pin for this meeting wouldn't have saved you at all. In fact, Lady Havarn probably would have taken it as additional proof you had something to hide.
Besides. Your hair is like that from his fingers. You have nothing left of him but the signs he left on your body. You'll keep every one for as long as you can.
The lady takes her seat behind her desk, eyeing you with distaste. You don't take it personally, you're aware after more than a year, that when she's sober she just always looks like that. Which isn't to say that her face just looks like that, no, just that she always exists in a state of distaste. You're not sure you've ever seen her crack a real smile unless she's three sheets to the wind.
"You asked me to remind you: you need to send a note to the Ashfords, congratulating them on the tourney." You say plainly.
"Thank you for reminding me," she replies and makes a note to herself with a stub of charcoal pencil on the back of some report from the local holdfasts. "Now then, I suppose we must discuss your future. After what I saw last night…I'm sure you can understand that I am not going to be able to allow you to stay under my roof. We do not allow -"
"I did nothing wrong," you interject. She pauses, she hates being interrupted. You would normally not start off this conversation with so confrontational a tone but well, you are tired.
"I know what I saw -"
"I was administering healing, something that you have bid me to do many times while I have been in your employ. And something you would expect me to extend to your guests."
"You were on the floor -"
"He fainted, I helped catch him. You ordered me to keep them in the kitchen, I could not take him to the sick room, or a guest bed where I could have tended to him with more propriety. I did what I could within the confines of the orders you gave me," you say. You know with every interruption you are winding her up tighter but you can't help it. You are so, so tired.
"Oh, so this is my fault -"
"You left me, unchaperoned, with three men!" you shout finally, leaning forward and gripping the armrests of the chair to hold yourself back.
"We were short staffed! They arrived in the small hours when all the servants had already gone to bed!"
"You wanted me left alone with them! You wanted me compromised! If they'd violated me you would have delighted in it! By the rivers, my lady, it is just us here, can we speak plainly between us at least!?"
The Lady Rae pauses, her chin shifting down, that look of distaste deepening. She doesn't like speaking plainly. It goes against her idea of herself as some great player of the game. She's better at than most people you've spied on, but that isn't saying much really. It would probably go better for you to play along with what she wants, but rivers take you, you don't have the energy anymore.
"Your situation in this house is a delicate one," the Lady Rae begins, her tone less argumentative now. "You must understand that we are…limited in our options when it comes to you. My husband placed you in my care, you are my responsibility while you are here. And I felt that since you were not amiable to my offer to send you to a motherhouse…I would take this as an opportunity to demonstrate that there are certainly worse fates. It was meant as a lesson, my lady, you were never in any real danger."
You think you're going to get splinters under your fingernails with how hard you are gripping the armrests of the chair. She's still obfuscating, but at least she's actually talking about your status as a hostage.
"If you didn't want me here, you could have negotiated with another house to take me."
"I think you are overestimating your worth, my lady."
That rankles. You don't think you overestimate your worth at all, it's these people who continue to think your existence will pay off for them at some point. They've told themselves this for so long they don't know how else to think about you. You have managed to leverage that at different points, skillfully navigating this little conspiracy to hop from house to house. It is almost refreshing dealing with Lady Rae, who also shares your view – you are just woman with no house, no lands and no family. You don't even have any real skills beyond some herb craft.
Well, that and the spying of course. But they don't know about that one.
"Very well," you say and slowly you draw yourself up. Sitting up straight, you take your hands off the arm rest and let them rest demurely in your lap. The state of you probably ruins the effect a little, but you like to think that things like posture and confidence can make up for a great deal. At least that's always what your mother told you when you worried about spots or frizzy hair.
"Let's be honest with one another, and discuss terms," you continue.
"Terms?" Lady Rae scoffs.
"Yes, terms. You want me gone, fine. You want me gone in a way that means I'm no longer a politically inconvenient thorn in yours or anyone else’s sides, fine. You will need my cooperation, so let's discuss terms."
"I don't need your cooperation for anything. I can have my guards drag you all the way to the motherhouse and make you take your vows."
"I wouldn't go quietly."
"What does that matter to me? Let me disabuse you of some misapprehensions one more time." She leans forward, folding her hands on top of the desk. "No one cares about you. It has been thirteen years, girl. No one even remembers your house's name. My husband and his friends might think there's at least some worth in hanging on to you, just in case you might be useful in the future, but I know the truth - you're nothing but a burden now. Using you would just hurt us in the long run, it wouldn't help us a single whit."
"And the motherhouse is nicer than a grave, is that it?" you jibe.
"I am many things, my lady, but I'm not interested in being responsible for the death of a fellow noblewoman. You are bound for the motherhouse. You will take your vows as a Silent Sister, forswear your name and claim to property forever and your house will finally, truly be dead. And your existence no longer a threat to me and mine."
"And if I go to your husband? Tell him you've been scheming about nullifying the hostage him and his friends have been keeping secret for all these years?"
"Do it," she sneers waving her hands as if to welcome you to do so. "He is welcome to be mad at me about it. It doesn't change that I'm right. And to be honest, my lady, I don't think you'll want to stay here with your virtue so compromised. A woman's chastity is a very thin shield, but it can be a kind of protection since it gives us value. Once people think it's gone…well. No use in protecting the stable if the horses have already fled."
You don't clench your fist, you don't tense or even flinch. You didn't want it to come to this, because this is the only slim piece of leverage you have over her and if it snaps, or she counters it, then there really is a good chance she'll have you killed, motherhouse or no.
"Lord Crassus Peake." you say to her, and for just a split second, enjoy the way her face pales and she turns faintly green around the edges.
"What did you just say?"
"Lord Crassus Peake. One of the lords of the Peake House, up until the rebellion. He was stripped of all titles and lands for supporting the Blackfyre pretenders and shipped across the Narrow Sea with the rest of the traitors. He was well known for having startling green eyes, and auburn hair. Was a real looker from what I've been told."
"I don't know what you are trying to -"
"Much like your son does. Crassus' had a middle name, not many people knew it – Leon. Strange that, it's not really a common name in the Marshes. But I did think it always suited your son. Leon Havarn."
She stares at you. Just stares. Finally that look of distaste has fallen away, and she looks at you like you've started speaking tongues. This leverage was your one piece of backup that the Bloodraven had sent you to this house with. It isn't much, but it was all he had to give you at the time. Hopefully, it will work as intended - an escape hatch.
"Did you think people would forget? Did you think that they wouldn't remember your indiscretions? That people wouldn't notice how much that boy looks like his father? His real father? I wonder you know, what the Lord Gormon Peake thinks when he visits this house and sees a dead ringer for his cousin sitting at the head table. I imagine he probably thinks some very uncharitable thoughts of you, Lady Rae."
Her nails looks like claws on the surface of the table.
"Who told you these things," she whispers. "How could you know these things? You were barely out of small clothes when my son was born!"
You lean forward, just a little, like you're sharing a secret.
"I told you already: did you think people wouldn't remember? People talk, my lady. And yes, they talk a great deal about you."
"No one would dare -"
"Of course they do, you've got that reputation you know. I probably wouldn't even have to bring up the fact that Leon looks like Crassus. I probably would only have to tell Lord Havarn about Crassus' middle name and he'd -"
"Be silent!" she thunders, slamming a hand on the desk.
You fall quiet. You have learned when to push and when to stop, when to press an advantage and when to retreat. Reading people was always something you had some talent in, pressures of being the eldest child. But being a spy? That made you a master at it.
"You will not spread such spurious rumors about my person and my son to the Lord Havarn. Or I will have you flogged in the square."
"I do not agree to those terms," You say stiffly.
"Terms?" she near screeches at you.
"I will hold my tongue, I will go meekly and without complaint to the motherhouse. I won't even protest your version of events if you like. But I have two terms."
She stares at you, surprised at your gall. "Alright, call me curious. What are these terms then?"
You cannot relax. She's listening because right now it costs her nothing.
"I want to go to the motherhouse in Oldtown. If I'm to swear, then I'd do it at the motherhouse of the Starry Sept."
She doesn't react, so that's an easy one then. Not surprising, she probably had been planning for you to go to a motherhouse far away anyways. Likely Highgarden, it was large enough and far enough for you to disappear truly into the confines of the Faith.
"And I want my pay. All of it. Including the amount that House Ambrose gave you for 'safe keeping'."
Her eyes harden at that one.
"You have some cheek. Asking for money when you cleaned out our larders for those honorless knights."
"I gave them some meager supplies for the road. Some potatoes, a piece of fish -"
"A flagon of beer! The cook also says she was missing one of her pails."
"The beer was the demand of a guest, not the knights. I had no reason to turn them down. The pail I will reimburse the cook for myself. From my own wages."
"You're going to a motherhouse, they forswear all money, what would you even need it for?" she demands.
"It doesn't matter. It doesn't matter because it's my money. If I want to hand it out coin by coin to every beggar child between here and the Starry Sept that's my business. But it's mine."
"It's a paltry sum," she spits. "And I am taking the cost of the ruined linens, and the fish from it first."
"Fine," you retort. "But you take that from my wages for working for you, I expect the full amount from House Ambrose."
"Your keep alone -" she starts.
"Don't even try it. You kept me in nothing. No budget for new clothing, no fabric to even make my own clothes. Everything I have is either bought by trade with other people, or from Lady Marissa's kindness."
"Your lodgings -"
"A room no one uses because it's drafty and full of mice." You're actually enjoying interrupting her at this point. The look on her face twists up a little more each time you do.
"Your food," she tries once more.
"I have treated every single person you have brought to me, including yourself, and your son, at no cost. Not even to charge you for what I used from my own stores."
She grips the edges of the desk. Her breathing is a touch rough. You don't press your advantage, you know you have to wait. She has to decide herself, and if you try to twist it anymore you know the lever will snap. Lady Rae prefers the game of whispers and half glances, she hates the scandal that follows her about. You know she can scarcely bear to be the subject of such gossip, and if rumors about the parentage of her son started going around – that likely represents her worst nightmare.
The fire crackles and pops in the fireplace, it seems to break her from her frozen state.
"Fine," she hisses bitterly. "I suppose you could make a nice donation to the motherhouse before you join it."
"That is a good idea," you say with only a minimum amount of sarcasm. "I'll do just that."
"I want you gone immediately then. I mean right now. I will go and organize your escort from the household guards. You are leaving today."
You expected to be sent away fast once you threatened her with this secret, but you were not expecting it to be quite this fast.
"My lady -"
"No," she says, interrupting you this time and clearly taking pleasure in it. "You do not get to threaten me with that knowledge and then think you are going to stay here for a moment longer than is absolutely necessary. You are going to back your things, and you are going to get out. The guards will take you to Oldtown and they will be under orders to see you take your vows or kill you in the street, do you understand?"
You swallow. She means it. You're actually a little concerned that the guards are going to be ordered to just kill you once out of sight of the keep.
There is no choice, however. She will not suffer you to stay, not now that she knows what knowledge you hold. You are at the end of your line with her, if you try to fight any more she's going to pull you into the river and drown you.
"I'll go see to my things then," you say getting up. Time to cut the line and be done with this place, you will just have to risk the guards. If they have been ordered to kill you, you have a better chance of escaping them outside of the keep than you do inside of it.
You turn on your heel, and go to leave. You make it almost to the door before you hear her get up as well.
"Did you tell them?" she asks and you tense.
If there was ever a question you did not want her to ask, it is that one. You'd gone on the attack so quickly in the hopes that she'd never circle around to it. It's not that you have no faith in your ability to lie. You know you can. You know you can and fool her. It's just…you didn't want to. Not about this.
"Tell them what." you say.
"Tell them who you were. The Kings Guard. Did you tell them about your dead house, about how you were being kept here?"
You stay silent. Let her build her own story in her head, you tell yourself quietly. Let her build her own story and then do the minimum you have to to confirm it. There is no lie that will settle itself more firmly into anyone's mind than the one they create themselves.
"I'll bet you did," she says, you can hear from her voice that she's gone smug again. Gloating as she drifts across the solar towards you.
"I bet you told them. And I'll bet they did nothing."
You grip the handle of the door, letting your shoulders tense, rising towards your ears.
"Let's be honest with one another," she mocks, using your words from earlier. "You're not going to the motherhouse because you think you're finally escaping this. You're going to the motherhouse because you've finally realized I was right – no one cares. Your house is already dead, my lady. You're just its corpse, walking around."
Hold, you think to yourself. She may be speaking your darkest fears aloud, but you have to hold. You take in a shuddering breath, and try to remember what it felt like when Baelor held your hand tight just a few hours ago while you cried. You try to remember his arms around you, holding you fast from flying apart. You remember the touch of his hands on you, and the warmth in his eyes when he looked at you. He wanted to help, he wanted to save you. He remembered your house, the tea fields at least. That is something, right?
But you will never see him again, you know. He's going to heal, and go on to be a good king. And maybe he'll think fondly of a woman that helped him once, when he needed some tending, maybe he'll wonder what happened to you, but that will be all. The promises he made, the kisses he gave you, they were real in that moment you shared, but the were the result of an addled and healing mind, he will think differently in a week.
Still, for two hours, someone cared enough to hold you while you cried. It will have to be enough. You don't have anything else left.
"I expect my money from House Ambrose in cash. You are welcome to sign a money lenders note for your House's debt."
You say, letting your voice tremble at the end, as she would expect of you. It isn't an act, you wish it was.
"Very well, my dear. You'd best be on your way now, much to pack I'm sure. I want you on the road before sundown."
"As you wish, Lady Havarn."
You open the solar door and sweep out, slamming it shut behind you. You don't let the tears come until you are upstairs in your little drafty room with the mice. You pace its length twice, holding your hand over your mouth to muffle the sounds of your crying. You're not even sure why, there's no one in the rooms below you, all the other ladies in waiting are at the mid-day meal by now. But you can't stand the idea of hearing your own sorrow.
Alone, all alone, with no one to turn to, no one to call for help, no one to even offer you a kind word or a commiserating smile. You are going to be forced to disappear yet again, no sign you were ever there in the first place. If you're very lucky, that will take the shape of vanishing into the bustle of Oldtown. If you are unlucky, it will be an unmarked grave in the marshes. You sit on your bed, and wrap your arms around yourself, trying desperately to call back the warmth of him.
pleading guilty to being overly freaked idgaf anymore
warnings: improper use of x-ray vision, overstimulation, creampie 🍦
clark kent who uses his x-ray vision to watch himself slide in and out of you, his cobalt eyes lidded and his pupils blown as his fat cock bottoms out over and over again, stretching you out with each intrusion. his breathing is shallow and his dark brows are furrowed, the obscene sounds of your wetness ringing in his ears with every thrust; he’s got you squished in half with your thighs pressed against your torso, and god, he’s trying to be gentle with you, but you just feel so good gripping him like this.
he can see your muscles ripple under your skin, and his toned stomach contracts as he splits you open, your warm walls squeezing his length like you’re trying to trap him inside you. there’s a heat bubbling in his belly at the sight of his pink tip brushing your cervix that prompts him to sink into you more roughly, drawing a desperate gasp from your lips. the residual slick of your previous orgasms drools out of you and smears down his pelvis, amplifying the sound of his hard muscles against your soft skin.
it’s all too much for clark; your shaky moans, your weeping pussy, the hazy look in your eyes and your bite-swollen lips. he’s fucked you through at least six climaxes in the time he’s had you in his bed tonight, but he can’t resist it anymore. he needs to fill you up now. “almost done, baby,” he mumbles—not for the first time tonight—and his voice is thick like honey. “you’re doing so good, sweetheart.” you look up at him with wide, pliant eyes, your response reduced to a string of whines that makes his skin feel hot.
he leans down to plant a hungry, molten kiss on your lips that brings you back to earth just long enough to realise what’s coming, and you can’t help the arousal that pools between your legs in anticipation. his plump lips linger on yours just a second longer before he props himself back up, using his big, strong hands to push your soft thighs back as far as they’ll go—one last adjustment to give him an unfettered view of your aching cunt. his touch is gentle but his hips slam into you harshly as he chases his own release, his eyelids fluttering with lust at the sight of you swallowing him whole from the inside.
he wants to tell you how beautiful you look like this, but before he can muster the words, thick, hot ropes of cum are spilling out into you, coating your walls and dragging a shuddering groan from clark’s lips. his cheeks turn a deep, rosy shade as he watches his seed fill you up, and christ, there’s so much of it. he keeps fucking into you, gently now, hypnotised as he sees your cunt clench around his cock, slowly pushing his release back out of you and down his length.
he knows using his x-ray vision like this is depraved, but he can’t help himself; you look so perfect from inside, like your body was designed to take him. he feels a pang of guilt when he realises his cock is still rock hard and rutting into you, and your nails are digging into his muscular arms as you whimper, sensitive and fucked-out. he knows he said you were almost done, but if he could just watch that happen one more time…
