Saw someone say they think the person in the foreground of this shot is Steve and if it is it makes the poses and expressions on Sam + Bucky's faces so much funnier.
hi. loki x reader. time in a bottle by jim croce as inspiration song. angst & hurt but later comfort. hi. yes? just an idea, i have practically nothing prepared. i'm open to suggestions for more ideas.
a running list of thoughts re: one trickster god, in no particular order (part 1):
the first time you call him laufeyson and he doesn’t flinch. because it doesn't sound like a threat, or like gnashing teeth. it sounds like laughter. feels like dawn on the horizon.
when you don’t believe that he’d conjure a constellation for you. it’s not because you didn’t think he couldn’t, but that you didn’t think he’d be bothered to. because surely there’s a measure of logistics that going into that sort of thing.
and yet—he does it. with the same effort, the same motion, it takes you to turn a page in a book.
when you put your cold feet against him, he grumbles. calls it undignified, reminding you that he's a prince, and not a space heater. still, he doesn't move you away. if you're on the couch, he tucks the throw blanket a little tighter over your legs. his hand fits across your ankle, his palm notably warmer, his hold saying don't float away. in bed, it surprises him, elicits a sharp intake of breath before he adjusts, curling against you.
his fingers are always smudged in ink because he's always writing something. usually in the margins of his books—for some reason you always thought he'd keep his books pristine, but it's the complete opposite. his textbooks show his thoughts, expansions on ideas, cross-throughs on where he disagreed with little arrows that explain the why.
you like the he explains the why. he's a good teacher, despite what he says, if you know how to listen.
and then there's notes. he leaves notes everywhere. for himself: a grocery list on the desk, an arbitrarily to-do list tucked somewhere deep in his pockets. for you: on your nightstand, when he leaves before you wake, a simple i love you. have a good day. in your notebook, on the final page: tell me everything. in the inside pocket of the jacket you only wear during the coldest parts of winter, a sliver of paper with runes that you recognize as keep warm.
"i think...i think i'm in love with you."
"tell me again when you're sober..."
The call came a little after midnight.
You were half asleep already, curled beneath your blankets with a book facedown on your chest when your phone buzzed across the nightstand.
“Hello?”
A pause. Bar noise in the background. Loud music. Men shouting.
Then Chibs sighed heavily into the receiver.
“Need a favor, lass.”
You sat up immediately.
“What happened?”
“Nothin’ catastrophic yet,” he muttered. “But if somebody doesn’t come collect Tig soon, there’s a good chance he’ll either start a bar fight or cry. Possibly both.”
You blinked.
“Cry?”
“Exactly my point.”
That dragged a laugh out of you despite your exhaustion.
You rubbed your eyes. “Where is he?”
The clubhouse smelled like beer, smoke, leather, and bad decisions.
Normal.
You stepped inside wearing an oversized hoodie, and the kind of exhaustion that made your limbs feel heavy.
Several heads turned when you walked in.
A few of the guys grinned knowingly.
You ignored them.
“Where is he?”
Chibs jerked his chin toward the pool table. “Been spiralin’ for hours.”
You looked over and immediately spotted him.
Tig sat slouched in a chair, knees spread wide, whiskey glass dangling loosely from tattooed fingers. His kutte hung open over a black shirt, curls messy, silver rings catching dim light.
He looked devastatingly handsome.
And deeply miserable.
His eyes lifted the second you walked in.
The change in him was instant.
Like the whole room narrowed into focus.
“There she is,” he mumbled.
Your chest did a stupid little flip.
God.
That man was dangerous to your emotional stability.
You walked over carefully. “Hey, trouble.”
Tig stared at you for a long moment like he was trying to remember every detail of your face.
“You came.”
“Chibs called.”
“Traitor,” Tig muttered toward the Scot.
Chibs raised his beer. “You’re welcome.”
You crouched slightly in front of Tig’s chair.
“How drunk are you?”
He considered this very seriously.
“Emotionally?”
You snorted.
“Tig.”
“Pretty drunk.”
“Thought so.” You gently took the whiskey glass from his hand before he could spill it. “C’mon. Let’s get you home.”
He frowned immediately.
“Don’t wanna.”
“Tough.”
“I like lookin’ at you here.”
Your stomach tightened.
The guys nearby suddenly became very interested in literally anything else.
You ignored the heat climbing into your face and hooked your arm beneath his.
“Up.”
Tig let out a dramatic groan but allowed you to haul him to his feet.
The man was huge. Warm and solid and heavy with muscle beneath leather and denim.
The second he steadied himself, his hand landed automatically at your waist.
Possessive.
Instinctive.
Like it belonged there.
Your breath caught.
Tig looked down at you slowly.
And for one dangerous second, the entire room disappeared.
Then he stumbled slightly and ruined the moment.
You rolled your eyes. “Okay, Casanova. Let’s move.”
Getting Tig into your car was an ordeal.
Mostly because he kept staring at you instead of cooperating.
“You’re pretty.”
“You’ve said that six times.”
“Still true.”
You shut the passenger door on his grin before he could say anything worse.
The drive was quiet for a while.
Tig leaned against the window, watching passing streetlights blur across the glass.
You glanced over occasionally.
Even drunk, he looked tired.
Not physically.
Soul tired.
There was always something aching about Tig when people looked closely enough. Most people didn’t. They saw the violence first. The recklessness. The sex jokes and chaos and instability.
You saw the man underneath.
Which was probably why this was such a bad idea.
You cared about him too much already.
“You mad at me?” he asked suddenly.
You glanced over. “Why would I be mad at you?”
“‘Cause I keep callin’ you.”
“You don’t call me. Chibs calls me.”
“Yeah but everybody knows I want him to.”
Your fingers tightened slightly on the steering wheel.
“Tig—”
“You always come.”
The softness in his voice hurt worse than flirting ever could.
You swallowed hard.
“Somebody’s gotta keep you alive.”
“Maybe I just like you takin’ care of me.”
Your heart betrayed you completely.
You parked outside his place and turned off the engine.
“Tig.”
“Hm?”
“You’re drunk.”
“Very.”
“You’re also saying things you won’t remember tomorrow.”
His head turned slowly toward you.
The look in his eyes nearly wrecked you.
Because underneath the alcohol, there was something terrifyingly sincere there.
“I always remember you.”
Silence.
God.
You looked away first.
“Okay,” you whispered. “Let’s get you inside.”
You’d done this enough times that getting him settled had become routine.
Shoes off.
Aspirin and water on the counter.
Make sure he didn’t pass out in some ridiculous position that would destroy his spine.
Tig sat on the edge of the couch while you moved around his kitchen.
Suspiciously quiet.
Which was concerning.
You glanced over.
He was watching you again.
Not lustful.
Not playful.
Just… looking.
Like he couldn’t stop.
“What?” you asked softly.
Tig’s throat bobbed.
Then he said, very carefully:
“I think…”
Your pulse quickened immediately.
“I think I’m in love with you.”
Everything stopped.
The air.
Your breathing.
Your ability to think.
Tig looked almost surprised by his own words after they left his mouth.
Like they’d been trapped inside him too long and finally forced their way out.
You stared at him.
He stared back.
Vulnerable.
Terrified.
Drunk enough to be honest.
And suddenly every moment between you over the past year came crashing together all at once.
The lingering touches.
The late night phone calls.
The way his entire body softened around you.
The jealousy he tried and failed to hide.
The way he looked at you like you were something precious.
Your chest ached.
Because you loved him too.
And that was the problem.
You stepped closer slowly.
Tig’s eyes tracked every movement.
“Tell me again when you’re sober,” you whispered.
Pain flickered across his face instantly.
Like he thought you were rejecting him.
“Tig,” you said quickly, softer now. “Please.”
He looked down at his hands.
“You think I don’t mean it.”
“I think you’ve had a lot to drink.”
“I still mean it.”
Your heart cracked a little.
You moved carefully until you stood between his knees.
His hands twitched like he wanted to touch you but didn’t trust himself to.
“You’re drunk,” you repeated gently. “And emotional. And tomorrow morning I need to know you still want this.”
Tig finally looked up at you.
“You scared?”
The question hit too close to home.
“Yes.”
His expression softened instantly.
Not smug.
Not victorious.
Just understanding.
“Me too.”
God.
You cupped his face before you could stop yourself.
Scruff rasped against your palm.
Tig closed his eyes immediately and leaned into your touch with a quiet, shaky exhale that nearly destroyed you.
“You have no idea what you do to me,” he murmured.
Your thumb brushed across his cheekbone.
“I probably do.”
His hands settled carefully on your hips then.
Not rough.
Not greedy.
Like he was afraid you’d disappear.
“I’m too old for you,” he whispered.
You almost laughed at the absurdity of that coming from a man currently looking at you like you put the stars in the sky.
“You really think that’s the issue here?”
“Ain’t it?”
“No.”
“What is it then?”
You looked at him for a long moment.
“The issue is that if I let myself love you, I’m never doing it halfway.”
Tig stared at you like nobody had ever offered him something so terrifyingly gentle before.
Something in him visibly broke open.
His forehead pressed against your stomach.
You felt his arms tighten around your waist.
And very quietly, almost painfully, he said:
“Nobody’s ever stayed long enough to love all of me.”
Your eyes burned.
You threaded your fingers into his curls.
“Well,” you whispered, “that sounds like their mistake.”
For a second neither of you moved.
Then Tig tilted his head back just enough to look at you.
“So if I say it again tomorrow…”
You smiled despite yourself.
“Then maybe I’ll answer properly.”
His mouth twitched.
“Think I’m gonna throw up from nerves.”
You laughed softly.
“There’s the Tig I know.”
“Baby, I been panicking for like six months.”
Your cheeks warmed instantly at baby.
He noticed.
Of course he noticed.
A slow grin spread across his face.
“Oh my God,” he whispered dramatically. “You love me too.”
“Tig—”
“You do.”
“You are unbelievably drunk.”
“You didn’t deny it.”
You shoved lightly at his shoulder while trying not to smile.
He caught your wrist gently before you could pull away.
And then suddenly all traces of teasing faded.
He lifted your hand carefully to his mouth and pressed one soft kiss against your knuckles.
Slow.
Reverent.
“I’ll tell you again tomorrow,” he promised quietly.
Your heart absolutely folded in on itself.
Because somehow you already knew he would.
The next morning, you woke up to thirty-seven missed calls.
Twenty-eight from Tig Trager.
Nine from Chibs Telford.
You stared at your phone for a full five seconds before groaning into your pillow.
“Oh no.”
The voicemail notification glared at you ominously.
You clicked the first one.
“Tried makin’ coffee. Burned myself. Think the machine’s possessed.”
Second voicemail.
“Okay listen, important question. Did I actually tell you I loved you or did I dream that?”
Third voicemail.
“…if I dreamed it that’s honestly worse.”
Fourth voicemail.
“Chibs says I gotta ‘court you properly.’ Don’t know what the hell that means.”
You laughed helplessly into your blanket.
Fifth voicemail.
“I am sober now though. So. That’s… y’know. Relevant.”
Your stomach flipped.
You sat up slowly.
The sixth voicemail was just silence for ten seconds before Tig muttered:
“Jesus Christ, I’m in love with a woman young enough to know how TikTok works.”
Click.
You laughed so hard you nearly dropped the phone.
Then another call came through immediately.
Tig.
You answered before you could overthink it.
“Hello?”
Silence.
Then:
“…hi.”
The roughness in his voice sent warmth straight through your chest.
“Hi.”
Another pause.
“You awake?”
“No, Tig. This is actually my ghost.”
“Smartass.”
You could practically hear him pacing.
“You okay?” you asked softly.
“No.”
That made you sit up straighter.
“What happened?”
“I remember everything.”
Your heartbeat stumbled.
“Oh.”
“Yeah.”
Silence stretched.
Not awkward.
Just fragile.
Then Tig cleared his throat.
“So unfortunately I am still deeply in love with you.”
You covered your face with your hand instantly, smiling helplessly into your palm.
“Tig—”
“Nope. Lemme finish. I had a whole thing planned.”
“A whole thing?”
“You’re ruinin’ the dramatic tension.”
“There’s dramatic tension?”
“There was until you started mocking me.”
You laughed again.
God.
You were already gone for him.
“What’s the whole thing?” you asked.
There was rustling on the other end.
Then a car door slamming.
Then Tig saying, “Okay don’t be mad.”
Immediately suspicious.
“…why would I be mad?”
“I might be outside your apartment.”
You blinked.
“What?”
“And before you say anything, this is romantic.”
You hurried out of bed and pulled your curtain aside.
Sure enough, Tig stood beside his bike in the parking lot.
Holding flowers.
Well.
What remained of flowers.
They looked… battered.
Like they’d lost a fight.
You stared.
He looked up at your window immediately.
And actually waved.
Your heart nearly stopped.
Because this terrifying man — this fifty-year-old outlaw biker covered in scars and tattoos and violence — looked genuinely nervous.
You opened the window.
“Tig.”
“Morning!”
“…why do those flowers look concussed?”
He looked down at them.
“I dropped ‘em.”
“Tig.”
“Twice.”
“Oh my God.”
“I got nervous!”
You were laughing too hard to function by the time you made it downstairs.
Tig straightened the second you stepped outside.
His eyes dragged over you slowly — oversized shirt, messy hair, sleep-heavy eyes — and his entire expression softened in a way that felt devastatingly intimate.
“There she is,” he murmured.
Your stomach flipped hard.
“You’re ridiculous,” you told him.
“Yeah.”
He held out the flowers awkwardly.
They were peonies.
Your favorites.
Bent slightly sideways.
One stem looked broken.
And somehow that made it even worse.
“You remembered my favorite flowers?”
“I listen when you talk.”
Your chest physically hurt.
“Tig…”
“And before you say they look bad,” he rushed out, “there was an incident.”
“With what?”
“A fence.”
You stared at him.
“The flowers lost.”
A laugh burst out of you before you could stop it.
Tig looked absurdly relieved by the sound.
Then suddenly nervous again.
He rubbed the back of his neck.
“I also brought muffins.”
“…muffins?”
“Didn’t know if flowers alone were enough romance.”
You looked down.
Sure enough, there was a bakery box strapped poorly to the back of his bike.
You started laughing again.
“Tig, what is happening right now?”
“I’m courtin’ you.”
The sincerity in his voice absolutely wrecked you.
Because he was trying so hard.
Trying in the only ways he knew how.
You stepped closer slowly.
“You hate muffins.”
“Yeah but you like blueberry.”
Your expression softened instantly.
“You remembered that too?”
Tig looked almost offended.
“Course I did.”
God.
He looked exhausted.
Like he’d barely slept.
Like he’d spent all night wrestling himself bloody over this.
“You really remember everything from last night?” you asked quietly.
His face turned serious immediately.
Every trace of teasing disappeared.
“Yeah.”
“And?”
“And I meant every word.”
Your breath caught.
Tig stepped closer carefully.
Like he was approaching something fragile.
“You asked me to tell you again sober,” he said softly. “So I am.”
His voice got rougher after that.
Less polished.
More honest.
“I love you.”
The world genuinely seemed to still around you.
Tig swallowed hard.
“I know it’s messy and probably a bad idea and I know I got more issues than a damn magazine stand, but…” He laughed nervously. “Jesus Christ, honey, I love you so much it’s makin’ me stupid.”
Your eyes burned instantly.
He kept going anyway.
“I think about you constantly. I look for you in every room. Every time somethin’ funny happens, you’re the first person I wanna tell.” His voice cracked slightly. “And when things get bad… you’re the only person that makes me feel calm.”
Your throat tightened painfully.
Tig looked terrified now.
Fully terrified.
“But if you don’t want this—”
You kissed him.
You couldn’t help it.
His words disappeared against your mouth with a startled sound.
Then Tig froze completely.
Like his brain genuinely stopped working.
You cupped his face with both hands and kissed him again, softer this time.
Warm.
Certain.
When you pulled back slightly, he looked completely stunned.
“You talk too much,” you whispered.
“T-that usually ain’t the complaint.”
You laughed shakily.
Then Tig’s hands finally found your waist.
Careful at first.
Then tighter when he realized you weren’t disappearing.
“You mean it?” he asked quietly.
You looked up at him.
At the man who brought you crushed flowers and muffins he hated because he wanted to love you properly.
And God help you, you adored him.
“I love you too.”
Tig made the softest, most broken sounding noise you’d ever heard.
Then he kissed you like he’d been starving for it.
Big hands cradling your face.
Mouth warm and desperate and unbelievably gentle beneath all that roughness.
You melted into him immediately.
His forehead pressed against yours when the kiss finally broke.
“You got any idea what this is doin’ to me?” he whispered.
You smiled against his mouth.
“Probably.”
“Think my heart’s havin’ a fistfight.”
“That sounds medically concerning.”
“I’m serious.”
“I know.”
Tig stared at you for another long second before suddenly blurting:
“I told Happy I was in love with you.”
Your eyes widened.
“…why would you do that?”
“He threatened to kill me if I hurt your feelings.”
“That’s actually kind of sweet.”
“It was horrifying.”
You snorted.
Tig smiled helplessly at the sound.
Then his expression softened again.
“So…” he murmured. “You wanna maybe let me take you out tonight?”
“Like a date?”
“Yeah.”
You eyed him suspiciously.
“Does your version of romance always involve near-fatal flower incidents?”
“Baby, you haven’t even seen me try yet.”
And somehow that promise made your entire body warm.
Tig doesn't realise he's in love because loving you is a second nature to him
Everybody else knew before Tig did.
That was the truly embarrassing part.
Not the fact that he was in love.
Not even the fact that he was catastrophically, hopelessly gone for you.
No.
The embarrassing part was that the entire goddamn club figured it out months before Tig Trager managed to catch up.
Which, in hindsight, probably should’ve been expected.
Tig wasn’t exactly emotionally self-aware.
He was impulsive. Violent. loyal to the point of self-destruction. A man who felt everything too loudly but understood almost none of it.
So the fact that he loved you long before he realized it himself wasn’t surprising.
It was inevitable.
Because loving you had become instinct.
Breathing.
Reflex.
It lived in his bones so naturally he stopped seeing it as anything unusual.
Of course he saved you the last beer from the clubhouse fridge.
Of course he checked your tires before long drives.
Of course he automatically positioned himself between you and any potential threat without even thinking about it.
That wasn’t love.
That was just you.
“Tiggy.”
“What?”
“You’re staring at her again.”
Tig blinked and looked away from where you were laughing beside Chibs near the pool table.
“I ain’t staring.”
Happy snorted from the couch.
“You absolutely are.”
“I was thinkin’.”
“Dangerous hobby,” Juice muttered.
Tig flipped him off automatically.
The guys laughed.
Across the room, you glanced over at the sound and smiled the second your eyes landed on Tig.
Instantly — instantly — his entire posture softened.
Like a dog hearing its favorite person come home.
Jax watched it happen in real time and actually looked pained.
“Oh my God,” he muttered.
Tig frowned.
“What?”
Jax stared at him for a long moment.
Then:
“You seriously don’t know?”
Tig looked between all of them.
“Know what?”
The silence that followed was almost offensive.
Chibs burst out laughing first.
Happy shook his head slowly like he’d given up on humanity entirely.
Juice looked genuinely fascinated.
“Tig,” Jax said carefully, like speaking to a concussion patient, “you’re in love with her.”
Tig barked out a loud, immediate laugh.
“What? No.”
“You bought her a heated blanket because she said her feet get cold.”
“She gets cold.”
“You threatened a guy at the grocery store for hitting on her.”
“He was creepy.”
“You learned how to make that stupid caramel coffee she likes.”
“She likes it.”
Everyone stared at him.
Tig stared back.
Then frowned.
“What the fuck’s your point?”
Chibs nearly fell off the couch laughing.
The thing was, Tig genuinely didn’t understand why everyone was acting weird about it.
You were his girl.
Not girlfriend.
Not officially.
Just… his girl.
The person he gravitated toward automatically.
The person he looked for first in crowded rooms.
The person he trusted beside him without question.
You’d been around SAMCRO for almost three years now.
Originally, you were just Gemma’s new neighbour who’d wandered into club life sideways after helping Gemma during a nasty flu that flattened half Charming.
Then somehow you stayed.
And somehow Tig got attached.
It happened quietly.
In pieces.
You started sitting beside him during parties.
Started stealing fries off his plate.
Started patching him up after fights because he was “the worst patient on earth and someone has to stop you from bleeding out, Alexander.”
That’s what you called him when he was being especially ridiculous.
Alexander.
Nobody else used his real name.
The first time you said it, Tig felt something strange shift in his chest.
The first time you said it softly while stitching up a cut above his eyebrow, he forgot how to breathe for a second.
But he ignored that too.
Because again:
That was just you.
“Tig.”
“Hm?”
You tossed him a towel from across the clubhouse bathroom.
“You’re bleeding again.”
He glanced down at the blood soaking through his shirt near his ribs.
“Huh.”
“Huh?” you repeated incredulously. “That’s your reaction?”
“Ain’t that bad.”
“You literally got stabbed.”
“It’s more of a poke.”
You rolled your eyes so hard he thought they might stick.
“Sit down.”
Tig obeyed immediately.
Not because you ordered him to.
Okay, maybe partially because you ordered him to.
But mostly because you always touched him gently when you patched him up.
And Tig liked when you touched him.
Probably more than was normal.
You cleaned the wound carefully while muttering insults under your breath.
“Moron.”
“Hm.”
“Absolute idiot.”
“Mhm.”
“You giant reckless maniac.”
Tig grinned lazily.
“You worried about me, sweetheart?”
Your eyes flicked up briefly.
“Obviously.”
There it was again.
That weird feeling.
Warm. Heavy. Almost aching.
Tig ignored it.
Again.
Because if he examined whatever happened to him every time you looked at him softly, his brain would probably explode.
You finished bandaging his ribs and pressed your hand briefly against his stomach to steady yourself while standing.
Tig’s entire nervous system short-circuited.
Christ.
You smelled good.
Something clean and warm.
Home-like.
He watched you move around the bathroom gathering supplies.
Watched the tiny crease between your brows when you concentrated.
Watched your mouth move while you lectured him about infection.
And suddenly he had the overwhelming urge to drag you into his lap and kiss you until neither of you remembered your own names.
The thought hit so hard it startled him.
Tig blinked rapidly.
The hell?
You looked over immediately.
“What?”
“Nothin’.”
“You’re making a face.”
“What kinda face?”
“Like your brain just blue-screened.”
Tig snorted.
“Nah.”
But the feeling lingered.
And for the first time, something about it unsettled him.
A week later, Kozik made the mistake of flirting with you.
Not serious flirting.
Just harmless teasing while you helped yourself to beers behind the bar at the clubhouse.
Tig saw it from across the room.
And instantly felt something ugly crawl up his spine.
Mine.
The thought came fast. Sharp. Primitive.
Before he even realized he was moving, he was suddenly beside you.
One arm draped across the back of your stool.
Large body crowding instinctively closer.
Kozik looked between the two of you.
Then slowly smiled.
“Ohhh,” he said.
Tig frowned.
“Oh what?”
Kozik laughed.
“You are gone.”
“What the fuck does that mean?”
Kozik just shook his head and walked away still grinning.
You blinked up at Tig.
“What was that about?”
“No idea.”
But his mood improved instantly the second Kozik backed off.
Which felt suspicious.
The realization finally came because of a dog.
A very ugly dog, specifically.
You found it wandering near Teller-Morrow during a thunderstorm.
The thing was half-starved, soaking wet, and mean as hell.
Naturally, Tig fell in love with it immediately.
“It’s hideous,” Chibs said.
“It’s beautiful.”
“It looks like a haunted mop.”
The dog growled at everyone except you and Tig.
You crouched beside it carefully outside the garage while Tig held an umbrella over both of you.
The rain hammered against the pavement around you.
“It’s scared,” you murmured softly.
Tig watched your hand slowly inch toward the trembling mutt.
And then the dog did something unexpected.
It crawled directly into your lap.
Trusting.
Seeking comfort.
Your face softened instantly.
“Oh, baby,” you whispered.
Tig felt his chest physically ache.
Not metaphorically.
Actually ache.
Because you looked so gentle.
So warm.
So good.
And all at once, every single moment from the last three years slammed together in his head.
The late-night drives just because you couldn’t sleep.
The way he always listened for your laugh in crowded rooms.
The panic he felt whenever you got hurt.
The bone-deep relief every time you smiled at him.
The fact that nothing — nothing — felt fully right unless you were nearby.
Oh.
Oh, shit.
Tig stared at you in horror.
You looked up immediately.
“What?”
He looked genuinely panicked now.
“You gotta be kiddin’ me.”
“What?”
“I’m in love with you.”
The words came out like he was accusing someone of a crime.
You blinked.
Rain poured around you both.
The dog snored softly in your lap.
And slowly — slowly — realization spread across your face.
Then came something even worse.
Amusement.
“Oh my God,” you laughed softly.
“This ain’t funny!”
“Tig,” you said between laughs, “everyone knows.”
“What?”
“Literally everyone.”
His eyes widened in betrayal.
“Those assholes knew?”
“Yes.”
“For how long?!”
You winced slightly.
“...Months?”
“MONTHS?”
You burst into full laughter now.
Tig paced two steps through the rain before pointing accusingly at you.
“You knew too?”
You smiled helplessly.
“Well. Yeah.”
“And nobody told me?!”
“You’re emotionally complicated.”
“I am not.”
You gave him a look.
Tig paused.
“…Okay maybe a little.”
Your laughter softened into something fond then.
Something that made his chest hurt worse.
“You really didn’t know?”
Tig looked at you for a long moment.
Then admitted quietly:
“No.”
And God.
The honesty in his voice wrecked you.
Because Tig loved loudly.
Openly.
Completely.
Even before he understood that’s what he was doing.
You stood slowly, careful not to disturb the dog too much.
Rain soaked both of you now.
Tig barely noticed.
“I think,” you said softly, stepping closer, “you’ve been loving me for a very long time, Alexander.”
The use of his real name nearly killed him on the spot.
Tig looked down at you.
“You sayin’ you love me too?”
You smiled.
“I think I have for a while.”
Relief hit him so hard his knees almost buckled.
Then Tig kissed you.
Messy.
Desperate.
Like he’d been trying not to do it for years without realizing.
His hands grabbed your waist instantly, hauling you against him while rain poured down around you.
You laughed breathlessly into the kiss.
The ugly dog barked once in outrage from the ground beside you.
Neither of you cared.
When Tig finally pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours, breathing hard.
“Well,” he muttered.
“Well?”
“This explains a lotta shit.”
You grinned.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” He kissed you again quickly. “Like why I nearly killed Kozik for flirtin’ with you.”
You laughed.
“And the heated blanket?”
“You got cold.”
“The caramel coffee?”
“You like it.”
You shook your head fondly.
“Tig…”
He looked at you carefully.
Still a little stunned.
Still a little overwhelmed.
But happier than you’d ever seen him.
“You know the scary part?” he admitted softly.
“What?”
"Lovin’ you never felt hard.”
His thumb brushed your cheek gently.
“It just felt normal.”
Your heart melted completely.
Then Tig grinned suddenly.
Wild. Bright. Entirely Tig.
“Wait till I tell those assholes I figured it out myself.”
You burst out laughing.
And somewhere behind the garage doors, you could already hear SAMCRO yelling about finally winning the world’s longest bet.
Tig learns that the best way to help you calm down when you're spiralling in a pit of anxiety is to lie on you like a weighted blanket.
Which would be fine, if he wasn't so damn in love with you. And so weary of the age gap (24 to his 49).
The first time Tig Trager sees you have a panic attack, he thinks you’re dying.
One second you’re sitting beside him on the clubhouse couch laughing quietly at some stupid thing Juice said, fingers curled around a sweating beer bottle—
The next, you go pale.
Not subtle pale.
Ghost pale.
Your breathing changes first. Short. Sharp. Like every breath is suddenly too small for your lungs.
Then your hands start shaking.
Tig notices immediately.
Tig notices everything about you.
“Hey,” he says lowly, leaning closer. “You alright?”
You nod too quickly.
Which means no.
Your eyes dart around the crowded clubhouse like the walls are moving. Music pounds too loud. Men yell over a card game nearby. Someone drops a glass and the sharp crack makes you visibly flinch.
Tig’s stomach drops.
“Sweetheart?”
“I just need—I need a second—”
You stand so abruptly the beer bottle tips over.
Half the room glances your way.
That makes it worse.
Tig watches the panic bloom across your face in real time.
“Oh, shit.”
You hurry toward the hallway, breathing uneven.
Tig follows instantly.
He finds you locked in the bathroom sitting on the floor between the sink and the wall.
Your knees are pulled tightly to your chest.
You’re trying so hard to breathe quietly.
Like you’re embarrassed by it.
That part hurts him worse than anything else.
“Hey.” Tig crouches carefully outside the door once you crack it open for him. “Talk to me.”
“I’m okay.”
You’re obviously not okay.
Your whole body trembles violently.
Tig has seen overdoses. Shootings. Torture. Death.
But this?
You looking terrified while nothing is physically hurting you?
It unnerves him in a way violence never does.
“What do you need?” he asks immediately.
You shake your head hard.
“Nothing. It’ll pass.”
“Sweetheart.”
Your breathing catches painfully.
“I hate this,” you whisper.
And there’s so much humiliation in your voice that Tig feels something ugly twist in his chest.
He moves before thinking.
Slips into the bathroom and lowers himself onto the floor beside you.
The space is cramped. His knees knock against yours immediately.
You let out a watery laugh despite yourself. “You barely fit in here.”
“Yeah, well.” Tig shrugs awkwardly. “I’m not emotionally support-sized.”
A startled sound escapes you.
Not quite a laugh.
But close.
Tig would commit actual crimes to hear you laugh right now.
He watches you carefully.
The rapid breathing.
The trembling hands.
The way your shoulders curl inward like you’re trying to make yourself smaller.
Without thinking, he reaches out.
Slowly.
Giving you time to pull away.
You don’t.
His rough hand settles gently against the back of your neck.
“Look at me,” he says softly.
You do.
“Breathe with me.”
And somehow—
Somehow—you try.
It takes almost twenty minutes for the panic to pass fully.
Tig stays the entire time.
Not pushing.
Not judging.
Just there.
Solid and warm and steady beside you.
Afterward, when your breathing finally evens out, embarrassment crashes into you hard enough to make your stomach hurt.
“Sorry,” you mumble immediately.
Tig’s eyebrows pull together sharply.
“The hell you apologizin’ for?”
“That was… a lot.”
“Sweetheart, you looked scared.”
Your throat tightens unexpectedly.
Because he says it so simply.
Not dramatic.
Not annoyed.
Just concerned.
“I get panic attacks sometimes,” you admit quietly. “Usually I can hide them better.”
“Why would you gotta hide ‘em?”
You stare at him.
Tig stares back like the answer should be obvious.
Like your pain inconveniencing him was never even a possibility.
It does dangerous things to your heart.
The second time happens at his house.
You’re helping him reorganize the kitchen because Tig apparently stores spices according to “vibes” instead of labels.
Which is psychotic behavior.
“You got three things of paprika.”
“Paprika’s important.”
“You don’t even cook.”
“I could start.”
You snort.
Tig grins lazily at the sound, leaning against the counter watching you move around his kitchen in one of his old hoodies.
Watching you in his clothes is becoming a genuine problem for him.
A serious one.
Because you’re twenty-four.
Twenty-four.
And Tig is forty-nine years old with enough emotional baggage to sink a ship.
He shouldn’t want you this much.
Shouldn’t think about kissing you every time you smile at him.
Shouldn’t lie awake wondering what it’d feel like to hear you say his name soft and breathless.
But then you laugh again and his brain immediately dissolves into soup.
Hopeless.
Absolutely hopeless.
Then your phone rings.
And everything changes.
Tig watches your expression collapse the second you see the caller ID.
Your shoulders tense.
Breathing catches.
“Sweetheart?”
You answer the phone shakily.
“Hi, Mom.”
Ah.
Tig’s jaw tightens instantly.
He’s heard enough stories to know your mother treats guilt like an Olympic sport.
He quietly busies himself nearby while your mother tears into you through the speaker loudly enough that Tig catches pieces.
“You never call—”
“Selfish—”
“After everything I sacrificed—”
By the time the call ends, your hands are shaking.
You stare blankly at the counter.
Then suddenly you can’t breathe.
“Oh no,” you whisper.
Tig’s moving before you finish speaking.
“Hey hey hey—look at me.”
You back away instinctively, overwhelmed.
“I can’t—”
“Yes you can.”
Your breathing spirals harder.
Chest tight.
Vision blurry.
Everything too loud too fast too much.
Tig tries talking you through it again like before, but this one’s worse.
Much worse.
You slide shakily down the kitchen cabinets onto the floor.
Tig crouches beside you helplessly.
“Tell me what you need.”
“I don’t know.”
That’s the awful part.
You don’t know.
Your skin feels wrong. Your chest hurts. You want out of your own body.
And then Tig does something strange.
He pulls you gently toward him.
“C’mere.”
Before you can process it, he settles against the cabinets and carefully drags you between his legs.
Then—
Very cautiously—
He leans his weight over you.
Not crushing.
Just… there.
Solid.
Heavy.
Warm.
Your startled breath catches.
Tig freezes instantly. “Too much?”
But suddenly—
Suddenly your nervous system stops screaming quite so loudly.
The pressure grounds you.
His broad chest against your back.
Strong arms wrapped securely around your middle.
The full steady weight of him anchoring you in place.
“Oh,” you whisper shakily.
Tig blinks.
Your breathing starts slowing.
Not immediately.
But enough.
Enough that he notices.
“You okay?”
“Don’t move,” you say quickly.
Tig goes completely still.
Several seconds pass.
Then another.
Your trembling gradually eases.
And Tig realizes with stunned confusion that this is helping.
“Huh,” he murmurs softly.
You let out a weak laugh against his forearm. “Congratulations. You accidentally became a weighted blanket.”
Tig stares at the top of your head.
Then slowly tightens his arms around you.
“Well,” he says gruffly. “Good at bein’ heavy.”
After that, it becomes a thing.
An incredibly specific, deeply intimate thing.
And absolutely no one talks about how much it affects Tig emotionally because he’d probably drive his bike into a lake.
Sometimes your anxiety sneaks up quietly.
Sometimes it crashes into you like a freight train.
Either way, Tig learns the signs.
The knee bouncing.
The distant look in your eyes.
The way you rub at your chest unconsciously when your thoughts start spiraling.
And every single time, Tig drops whatever he’s doing.
Every time.
You’re overwhelmed at the clubhouse one night after too many people and too much noise.
Tig simply grunts, “C’mere.”
Then pulls you into his lap on the couch and practically drapes himself over you.
Juice walks in, stops short, and stares.
“...are you smothering her?”
“She’s havin’ anxiety.”
Juice squints. “And your solution was becoming a human paperweight?”
You mumble from beneath Tig’s chest, “It works.”
Juice looks horrified. “That is the weirdest thing I’ve ever heard.”
Happy walks past, glances once at the situation, and shrugs.
“Makes sense.”
Then leaves.
You and Juice stare after him.
“That’s the most words he’s said all week,” Juice says quietly.
The problem is—
The massive, unbearable problem is that Tig loves taking care of you.
Loves it in a way that scares him.
Because every time you curl against him willingly, every time you relax beneath his weight with that tiny relieved sigh, something warm and possessive blooms in his chest.
And he tries so hard not to make it weird.
Tries not to think about how perfectly you fit against him.
How your fingers clutch his cut when you’re anxious.
How soft your hair feels against his jaw.
How much he wants.
Too much.
Way too much for a man his age.
One night, after a particularly bad panic attack, you’re half-asleep on his couch with Tig sprawled carefully over you while old movies play quietly in the background.
Your breathing is finally even.
One of your hands rests loosely against his arm.
Tig looks down at you and feels completely wrecked by affection.
“You deserve somebody better,” he murmurs before he can stop himself.
You blink sleepily beneath him.
“What?”
Shit.
Tig looks away.
“Nothin’.”
“No.” Your brows pull together softly. “What did you mean?”
Tig hesitates.
Then laughs quietly at himself.
Because he’s already doomed anyway.
“Sweetheart, I’m almost fifty.”
“And?”
“And you’re…” He gestures vaguely. “You.”
You stare at him in confusion.
“Tig.”
“You should be with somebody younger. Somebody normal.”
You go very still.
“Tig Trager,” you say carefully, “are you seriously trying to friendzone yourself?”
His brain visibly short-circuits.
“I ain’t friendzonin’—”
“You literally are.”
“I’m bein’ realistic.”
“No,” you say softly. “You’re being scared.”
That lands too accurately.
Tig’s jaw tightens.
“You don’t understand.”
“Then explain it to me.”
He looks genuinely miserable now.
“You’re twenty-four,” he says roughly. “You got your whole life ahead’a you. One day you’re gonna wake up and realize I’m old enough to be—”
“My dad?” you interrupt. “Tig, my dad’s younger than you by like four years.”
Tig groans. “Jesus Christ, that is not helpin’.”
Despite yourself, you laugh.
And Tig immediately looks distracted by the sound because of course he does.
You reach up carefully, touching his face.
He stills instantly beneath your hand.
“I don’t care how old you are.”
“You should.”
“But I don’t.”
“Tried tellin’ myself this was a bad idea,” he admits quietly.
“Yeah?”
“Every damn day.”
Your chest aches.
Because Tig looks genuinely torn apart by wanting you.
Not predatory.
Not manipulative.
Just terrified.
Terrified of ruining you somehow.
You brush your thumb along his cheek gently.
“You make me feel safe,” you whisper.
Tig’s eyes close briefly like the words physically hurt him.
“And you make me feel calm,” you continue softly. “Do you know how rare that is for me?”
His breathing shifts.
You can practically see the walls inside him cracking.
“I don’t want younger,” you admit. “I want you.”
Silence.
Heavy and trembling.
Then Tig opens his eyes again.
And there’s so much naked love in them it steals your breath.
“Sweetheart,” he says weakly.
You smile a little.
And Tig looks absolutely doomed by it.
The kiss happens slowly.
Like he’s giving you time to change your mind.
One massive hand cups your jaw carefully while he lowers himself closer.
“You sure?” he whispers.
You answer by kissing him first.
Tig makes a rough startled sound against your mouth.
Then he’s kissing you back like he’s been starving for years.
Deep.
Careful.
Overwhelmingly tender despite the sheer size of him.
His weight settles more fully over you instinctively.
And to Tig’s absolute disbelief—
You melt happily beneath him with a soft relieved sigh.
He actually laughs against your mouth.
“What?” you murmur.
“Nothin’,” he says, kissing you again. “Just realizin’ my girlfriend likes gettin’ squished.”
You grin.
“And my boyfriend’s apparently part golden retriever, part weighted blanket.”
Tig smiles so hard it almost looks shy.
Then he buries his face in your neck and holds you tighter.
Tig finds out your boyfriend hits you. The boyfriend isn't alive much longer.
Warnings: reader is in an abusive relationship
The first time Tig Trager sees the bruise, you tell him you walked into a cabinet.
He stares at you across the crowded clubhouse bar, cigarette hanging from his lips, dark eyes narrowed in that way that makes most men back off. Music rattles the glasses behind you. Someone laughs too loud near the pool table. Life at SAMCRO keeps moving around you both like nothing’s wrong.
But Tig keeps looking at your cheek.
“You got cabinets at knee height too?” he asks casually.
Your hand freezes around the beer bottle. There’s another bruise there, yellowing fingerprints just above your wrist.
You tug your sleeve down. “You always this nosy?”
“Only when someone’s lyin’ to me.”
You force a smile and walk away before he can say anything else.
You don’t belong here, not really. You’re Lyla’s friend from before Charming, before the club swallowed half your life whole just by proximity. You help out behind the bar sometimes. Bring food around during parties. Stay long enough to feel less alone before going home to Darren.
Darren who apologizes after.
Darren who cries after.
Darren who swears every single time that he’ll never do it again.
Tig watches you leave that night with the kind of stillness that feels dangerous.
And Tig Trager is many things, but he’s never been a man built for stillness.
The second time he sees it, he nearly kills someone on instinct.
You’re outside the clubhouse trying to catch your breath after Darren hissed at you in the parking lot hard enough to make your ribs slam against the car door. He’d grabbed you by the jaw before driving off, furious because you’d stayed “too long” again.
You’re trembling when the side door opens.
Tig steps out.
One look at your face and the cigarette drops from his mouth.
“The fuck happened?”
“I’m okay.”
“The fuck happened?” louder this time.
You flinch.
Immediately, immediately, his expression changes.
Not softer exactly—Tig isn’t soft in any traditional sense—but something awful flickers across his face. Rage tangled up with guilt.
Like he hates that you expected yelling from him too.
“He just got mad,” you whisper.
“Your boyfriend?”
You don’t answer.
That’s answer enough.
Tig turns away sharply, pacing once across the cracked pavement. His hands flex open and closed. You can practically hear the violence trying to crawl out of him.
“Tig,” you say quickly. “Please don’t—”
“He put hands on you.”
“It’s complicated.”
“Nah.” He looks at you then, eyes burning black and intense beneath the lot lights. “Men like that are actually real simple.”
Your throat tightens unexpectedly.
Because nobody’s ever said it like that before.
Nobody’s ever made it sound unacceptable instead of inevitable.
You look down at your shoes. “You should go inside.”
Instead, Tig pulls off his leather cut and drapes it around your shoulders.
It smells like smoke and gunpowder and him.
“C’mon,” he mutters. “You ain’t drivin’ home like this.”
You end up on the couch in the clubhouse office with an ice pack pressed against your ribs while Tig prowls around the room like a caged animal.
“You want me to kill him?”
You nearly choke. “Jesus Christ.”
“I’m serious.”
“I can tell!”
Tig shrugs like murder is somewhere between changing a tire and taking out the trash. “Wouldn’t be hard.”
“You can’t kill people because they’re assholes.”
A pause.
Then, dryly: “That is definitely not true.”
Despite yourself, a laugh escapes you.
Tig stops moving.
Just stops.
His eyes lock onto your face like the sound surprised him.
“There she is,” he says quietly.
The warmth in his voice almost hurts worse than the bruises.
You look away first.
After that, he starts appearing everywhere.
At the garage where you work part-time.
Outside your apartment building.
At the grocery store, leaning against his bike like some terrifying leather-clad gargoyle.
“You stalking me?” you ask one afternoon.
“Protectin’ you.”
“You threatened to stab a guy for looking at me too long.”
“He was lookin’ disrespectfully.”
You roll your eyes, but there’s heat crawling into your cheeks.
Tig grins because he notices everything.
Darren notices too.
That’s the problem.
“You fucking embarrassed me,” Darren snarls one night after seeing you climb off Tig’s bike outside your apartment. “Running around with biker trash?”
“He was giving me a ride.”
“You think he wants you?” Darren laughs cruelly. “Look at you.”
You go still.
That particular tone means danger.
Years with him have taught you how to read pressure changes before the storm hits.
“Darren—”
His hand cracks across your face so hard you hit the kitchen counter.
Pain explodes behind your eyes.
For one horrible second, everything rings.
Then Darren grabs your throat.
“You make me look stupid,” he hisses.
You claw at his wrist, choking.
And suddenly—
The pressure vanishes.
Darren is ripped backward so violently the kitchen table overturns.
Tig.
You don’t even understand how he got inside.
One second you were dying, the next Tig Trager is in your apartment looking less like a man and more like vengeance given flesh.
Darren swings first.
Huge mistake.
Tig takes the punch and smiles.
Actually smiles.
“Been wantin’ a reason,” he growls.
What follows is brutal.
Fast.
Horrifying.
Darren lands maybe two hits total before Tig destroys him.
A fist to the mouth.
Elbow to the nose.
Darren crashes into the wall hard enough to crack drywall.
You scream for Tig to stop, but he barely hears you.
Years of violence live comfortably in Tig’s bones. He knows exactly how to hurt people.
Darren spits blood and reaches for something on the counter.
A knife.
Tig sees it instantly.
Everything changes.
The room goes deathly still.
Tig grabs Darren’s wrist, twists—
A wet snap.
Darren screams.
And Tig slams the knife into his stomach with frightening precision.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Silence.
Your breathing comes ragged and sharp.
Darren collapses to the floor.
Not moving.
Tig stands over him heaving slightly, blood splattered across his knuckles and white shirt.
Then he looks at you.
And all that violence disappears from his face so suddenly it’s almost unbearable.
“Hey,” he says softly.
Your knees give out.
Tig catches you before you hit the ground.
“I’m sorry,” you whisper against his chest afterward.
You’re sitting on the bathroom counter while he carefully cleans blood from your split lip.
Tig’s brows pull together. “The hell you apologizin’ for?”
“He’s dead because of me.”
“No.” Tig’s voice turns rough. “He’s dead because he put his hands on you.”
You start crying then.
Not graceful tears.
Not cinematic ones.
The ugly kind dragged up from somewhere deep and exhausted.
Tig immediately crowds closer between your knees, hands framing your face carefully—so carefully for a man capable of such monstrous violence.
“Hey, hey, sweetheart…”
Nobody has ever held you while you cried before.
Darren hated crying.
Called you dramatic. Weak.
Tig just pulls you against him and lets you soak his shirt.
“You’re okay,” he murmurs into your hair. “Got you now.”
The words settle somewhere dangerous inside your chest.
Got you now.
As if he plans on keeping you.
The club handles the body.
You don’t ask questions.
You don’t want answers.
Weeks later, you wake up in Tig’s bed at his daughter’s old house outside Charming, sunlight spilling across rumpled sheets while Tig sleeps beside you with one arm heavy across your waist.
For the first time in years, waking up doesn’t feel like bracing for impact.
You study him quietly.
The scar near his chin.
The tattoos.
The lines age and grief carved into his face.
A violent man.
A terrifying one.
But never with you.
Never once with you.
Tig stirs awake slowly, blinking at you.
“You starin’ at me?”
“Maybe.”
His mouth curls sleepily. “Like what you see?”
You smile before you can stop yourself.
Tig’s expression changes instantly at that.
Softens into something so open it almost feels private.
He brushes bruised knuckles gently against your cheek.
“No one’s ever gonna hurt you again,” he says.
And coming from anyone else, it would sound impossible.
You call Juice to kill a spider. At first he thinks you might be dying. Then he's amused. Then he treats it like the most serious thing ever. Because you're scared.
The first thing Juice Ortiz learned when he started spending ridiculous amounts of time with you was that you were brave about all the wrong things.
You could drive through a thunderstorm without blinking, tell off rude strangers twice your size, watch horror movies that made even Happy uncomfortable, and once, to his everlasting horror, climb onto the roof of your apartment building because a bird had gotten tangled in some wire and needed help.
But spiders?
Spiders were apparently where your courage went to die.
Juice knew this because you had mentioned it once, casually, while the two of you were eating takeout on your couch.
"I don't do spiders."
He'd laughed.
You'd stared at him.
He'd stopped laughing.
"Oh, you're serious."
"I'm extremely serious."
"How serious?"
"If I see one, I move."
"You move?"
"I move."
"As in leave the room?"
"As in pack my belongings and start over somewhere else."
At the time, Juice had nearly choked on his drink.
Now, months later, he was discovering that you had not been exaggerating.
Not even a little.
The call came at eleven thirty at night.
Juice was halfway through replacing a part on his bike when his phone rang.
He saw your name.
Immediately answered.
Because that was what he did.
Because somewhere along the way answering your calls had become automatic.
"Hey, sweetheart."
Silence.
Then—
"Juice."
The tone of your voice made his stomach drop. Every muscle in his body locked. He was already standing before he'd consciously decided to move.
"What happened?"
Another pause.
And then, very quietly—
"There's a spider."
Juice froze.
Blink.
Blink.
"...what?"
"A spider."
For a second he genuinely thought maybe he'd heard wrong.
Maybe she'd said sniper.
Or rider.
Or fire.
Something that justified the level of panic in her voice.
Instead—
"A spider."
Juice stared at the wall.
Then rubbed his face.
Then laughed.
A short bark of amusement escaping before he could stop it.
On the other end of the line came immediate outrage.
"Don't laugh."
"I'm trying not to."
"You are laughing."
"I know."
"This is serious."
That only made it worse.
Juice doubled over.
Because you sounded genuinely offended. Because you sounded like someone reporting a hostage situation. Because he could practically picture you glaring at the phone.
"Juice."
"I'm sorry."
"You are not."
"No, I'm really not."
"You suck."
He grinned.
"How big is it?"
"Massive."
"How massive?"
"It has opinions."
Juice snorted.
"It pays taxes."
"Baby."
"It owns property."
Now he was outright laughing.
And you were getting increasingly offended.
Which should have been the end of it.
Should have been a funny phone call.
A joke.
Something he teased you about tomorrow.
Then your voice cracked slightly.
And suddenly everything changed.
"Juice."
His smile faded.
"What?"
"I really don't like it."
And there it was.
Not annoyance.
Not dramatics.
Fear.
Real fear.
The kind people couldn't help.
The kind that made their chest tight and their hands shake even when they knew it was irrational.
Juice sat up straighter immediately.
"Where is it?"
"In my bedroom."
"Okay."
"I'm in the bathroom."
"You locked yourself in the bathroom?"
"Yes."
"How long have you been in there?"
A pause.
"...forty minutes."
Juice stared at the phone.
"Forty minutes?"
"I was hoping it would leave."
"Sweetheart."
"It didn't leave."
Something inside him melted.
Because you sounded miserable. Actually miserable.
And suddenly the whole thing wasn't funny anymore.
Maybe it was a spider. Maybe it was harmless. But you were scared. And that mattered.
That was enough.
"Stay there."
"What?"
"I'm coming over."
"Juice, you don't have to—"
"I'm already grabbing my keys."
"Seriously?"
"Seriously."
"You'll drive all the way over here for a spider?"
The question sounded genuinely baffled.
As though the possibility had never occurred to you.
As though you didn't understand that Juice would have driven twice as far for half as much.
He grabbed his helmet.
Locked the garage.
Headed for his bike.
"Yeah."
"Why?"
The answer came naturally.
Without thought.
Without hesitation.
"Because you're scared."
Silence.
The soft kind.
The dangerous kind.
The kind that made his chest feel weird.
Then quietly—
"Oh."
Twenty minutes later he was knocking on your apartment door.
The door opened approximately three inches.
One terrified eye appeared.
"Is it gone?"
Juice bit back a smile.
"No idea."
You immediately opened the door fully and practically dragged him inside.
Like a rescue worker arriving at a disaster zone. Like he was law enforcement. Like the apartment was under siege.
The entire situation was ridiculous.
But the moment he looked at you and saw the genuine relief on your face, he couldn't even make fun of you.
Not really.
You were barefoot. Wearing oversized pajamas. Hair messy. Eyes tired.
And somehow that was worse.
Because you looked adorable.
Which was a problem.
A serious problem.
One he'd been ignoring for months.
"Show me the target."
You pointed dramatically toward your bedroom.
Juice nodded.
Professional. Focused. Determined.
"Stay behind me."
Your eyes widened.
"Really?"
"No."
"But you're doing the voice."
"I know."
And then, because he was an idiot, he actually swept into the room like a tactical operative clearing a building.
You followed three steps behind.
Peeking around his shoulder.
The spider was sitting on the wall.
Tiny.
Absolutely tiny.
Juice stared.
Then looked at you.
Then looked back at the spider.
Then looked at you again.
"You said it was massive."
"It is."
"Sweetheart."
"It is."
Juice put a hand over his mouth.
You narrowed your eyes.
"Don't."
"I'm trying."
"Don't."
The laugh escaped anyway.
You smacked his arm.
Hard.
And somehow that only made him laugh harder.
Eventually he managed to capture the spider beneath a cup. Slide paper underneath. Carry it outside. Release it into the night.
Mission accomplished.
When he returned, you were sitting cross-legged on the couch.
Waiting.
Anxious.
"Is it gone?"
"It's gone."
The relief that crossed your face was immediate.
Real.
Visible.
And Juice suddenly felt strangely proud.
Like he'd slain a dragon. Like he'd accomplished something important. Like protecting you from one tiny spider was somehow the greatest achievement of his week.
Which was insane.
Completely insane.
But there it was.
You smiled.
"Thank you."
And God.
That smile.
That smile was going to kill him one day.
Because he'd do anything for it.
Anything.
The realization hit so suddenly it nearly knocked the air from his lungs.
Not because it was new.
Because it wasn't.
Not really.
He'd been orbiting around it for months.
Around the way he looked for you in crowded rooms. Around the way hearing your laugh could fix a terrible day. Around the way every text from you made him smile before he even opened it. Around the way your happiness mattered to him far more than it probably should.
The spider had just forced him to stop pretending.
You tilted your head.
"Juice?"
"Hm?"
"You okay?"
No.
Actually.
No.
Because he was standing in your apartment realizing he was hopelessly in love with you.
Which seemed inconvenient.
"You know," he said slowly.
"That usually starts a dangerous sentence."
"Probably."
You smiled.
And there it was again.
That smile.
The one that ruined him. The one he'd cross cities for. The one he'd absolutely fight spiders for.
And suddenly he was done waiting. Done pretending. Done dancing around it.
"I think I'm in love with you."
The room went silent.
You froze.
Juice froze.
Because apparently blurting it out wasn't a strategy so much as a catastrophic loss of self-control.
"Oh."
"Yeah."
"Oh."
"That's not a bad oh, right?"
You stared at him.
Then laughed.
A beautiful startled laugh that immediately made him panic.
"You're laughing."
"I'm sorry."
"You hate me."
"I don't hate you."
"You definitely hate me."
And then you stood.
Walked toward him.
Stopped directly in front of him.
And smiled.
Softly.
Fondly.
The kind of smile people only gave someone they cared about.
"Juice."
"Yeah?"
"I called you because I was scared."
He blinked.
"Okay."
"I could've called anyone."
His heart started beating harder.
"Oh."
"But I called you."
The realization hit him at exactly the same moment your hand slid into his.
Warm.
Certain.
Comfortable.
Like it belonged there.
"I've been in love with you for a while too."
For a second Juice genuinely forgot how breathing worked.
Forgot language.
Forgot gravity.
Forgot everything except you.
Then he grinned.
Huge and helpless and impossibly happy.
And when he kissed you, you kissed him right back, smiling against his mouth as his arms wrapped around your waist and pulled you closer, both of you laughing halfway through because the entire thing had started with a spider and somehow ended here, with Juice holding the girl he loved in the middle of her apartment while the world's tiniest arachnid unknowingly took credit for changing both of your lives forever.
Years later, whenever anyone asked how you got together, Juice would always tell a different version of the story.
Sometimes the spider got bigger.
Sometimes it became a monster.
Sometimes it was the size of a dog.
But the ending never changed.
Because no matter how ridiculous the story became, the truth stayed exactly the same.
You called because you were scared.
Juice came because you needed him.
And somewhere between a terrified phone call and a spider relocation mission, both of you finally stopped pretending that you belonged anywhere except together.
summary: you nurse gwayne back to life again when the war leaves him for dead, and he finds himself in no hurry to be rescued from you. (5k)
characters: gwayne hightower / fem!reader
contents: strangers to lovers, hurt/comfort, domestic fluff, mutual pining, canon divergent, not proofread, cw for mentions of blood and injuries, smut 18+ (MDNI): sub!gwayne, unprotected sex, premature ejaculation, face riding (this man has been through enough i just need someone to take care of him okay)
( NAVIGATION ) | ( MASTERLIST ) | ( AO3 )
Gwayne’s heavy eyes open first to a low, timbered ceiling made of clay and dry-rotted oak — certainly not the ornately embellished stone of the Red Keep, which would’ve suggested that Daemon’s army had won in their ambush and had since taken him hostage; but it wasn’t the sagging canvas of a war tent either, which also meant that no green army had yet come to his rescue. This place, wherever this place was, was small and warm and heavy with the scent of a home-cooked meal and the coppery tang of his own blood.
The hurt returns to him as slowly his consciousness does. His body aches in a way that tells him, a bit more clearly than his own memory could, that he had been long in the dying not too long ago. All of his bones feel rusted shut and heavy; each breath feels like gravel in his lungs and blades against his ribs.
“Where am I…?” Gwayne wonders aloud in a near-inaudible rasp, almost lost beneath the crackle of a fire and the soft hiss of a pot simmering somewhere close.
His heavy head lolls on the thin pillow beneath him. The cushion propping up his stiff neck smells like something floral and sweet, like a woman. As his eyes scan the room, he finds that this quaint house, if it could even be referred to as such, is made of only one room — there’s a dining nook crowded in the corner by the window, a cluttered living area in the opposite corner by the hearth, and apparently a sickbed in which he languishes now.
Through the haze still clinging in his vision, he spots a figure dressed in tatters stirring at a pot with practiced hands — sleeves pushed up to the elbows, faded skirts flowing just below the knee. You do not startle at the sound of his voice, nor do you turn to look at him right away as you crush a handful of dried rosemary into the bubbling water before you.
“Starry Hill,” you answer plainly, as though you were talking to an old friend rather than a half-dead ghost in your bed. You turn slowly over your shoulder and watch confusion twist at the man’s handsome features — (he’d studied every keep, holdfast, and port in Westeros his father told him to, and yet he’d never once heard of this one). “And no, you haven’t heard of it before.”
The grin is evident in your voice as you turn away to wipe your palms off on a rag. You catch the man’s glassy blue eyes darting around your home — over the crooked shelf of clay jars, past the mismatched chairs around the ancient dining table, and towards the narrow window where dim orange light falls in slanted rays. He cannot yet tell whether it’s dawn or dusk, and the notion disorients him further.
“Apologies for the mess, my lord,” you sigh. “If I’d known I was going to be housing a Hightower for three days, I might’ve tidied the place up a bit first.”
Gwayne’s auburn brows furrow slowly as his face twists in a deeper confusion — both at the thought of having spent three days unconscious in this place, and at the ease with which you seemed to know his name. His house. His blood. “How… How did you know I was a Hightower?”
Your head turns lazily on your shoulder to flash the man a narrow-eyed, almost pitying sort of look. Your gaze falls across his flaming copper hair, the aristocratic slope of his nose, and the inherited Hightower beauty that not even war, nor three days on his deathbed, could manage to take from him. Even halfway ruined, the man still looks like something bred for portraiture. And it would, perhaps, be so easy to tell him as much.
“Well, you were wearing the sigil all over your armor, to be fair,” you deadpan instead and turn back to your cooking.
Only then does Gwayne realize that the heaviness of his armor is long gone from his frame. All of his clothes, in fact, are gone — the pale canvas of his bare chest is on display now, carved lean from a lifetime in the training yard, and now sporting a square piece of plaster across his ribcage. Beneath the heavy quilt thrown over his legs, he can feel a pair of baggy trousers riding low on his hips that do not belong to him.
Which means you had to have undressed him; bathed him; patched up his marred skin. The thought alone is dizzying.
Panic wraps its hands around his throat as he rises onto his elbows, grimacing at the ache it puts in his side and somewhere deep in his bicep — where a linen cloth has been wrapped tight.
“How did I get here?”
“Your guess is as good as mine…” you huff without looking away from the pot ahead of you. “You’re the one who showed up half-dead on my doorstep, if you’ll recall— So I think I have more questions for you than you have for me, in truth.”
Gwayne’s eyes go glassy and distant as he strains to recollect the events that led him here.
He remembers Ser Criston’s words about a death march, and the sudden screeching of his horse when the first volley of enemy arrows came flying every which way. He vaguely remembers his mare rearing up and tossing him onto his back against the heavy forest floor, and the way the world erupted with the shouting of a hundred men or more all at once. But he does not know what became of any of them now.
“I need to leave,” he announces at once.
“Oh, I wouldn’t,” you wince as you watch the man fling the quilt from his body, visibly toned from years of knighthood but still pale from his lingering brush with death. “Not on that leg of yours— I’m still not sure I set the bone just right.”
Gwayne’s jaw clenches tight as he swings his legs over the side of the bed. His tired muscles pull taut in protest, though it doesn’t hurt him nearly as badly as his left shin does when his bare feet hit the ancient floorboards. A white-hot pain sears from ankle to knee; his chiseled face screws tight as he chokes on a scream.
He doubles over in agony and digs his trembling fists into the thin sheets of the down mattress, struggling to take stock of his injuries.
There’s a plaster just below his knee and a sickly yellow-green bruise blooming just below that, from where the bone came through when the weight of his horse fell on top of him, perhaps. There’s a hot, pulsing feeling beneath the plaster on his right arm — a small but concentrated signature that must’ve come from an arrow. And the length of the shallow scrape along his ribs suggests that it came from a kiss of an enemy blade.
All of it is dressed now in clean linen, from the same kind hands stirring supper across the room from him, entirely unbothered by his suffering.
“Seven fucking hells…” you groan, more to yourself than to him. “I forgot the bloody potatoes.”
Gwayne blinks wildly at your passing figure as you trade the wooden spoon in your hands for the dark, beaten cloak hanging beside the door. “P-Potatoes?” he stammers in response, because he can think of a thousand issues much more pressing than potatoes.
“Yes,” you nod, sliding your arms through the thick woolen sleeves gone soft and shapeless with age. “You can’t have rabbit stew without potatoes. It ruins the whole dish— I’d think you’d know that, as a pretty little lord and all.”
He perks slightly at the mention of it — of food, and of the thought that some other man must surely live here to have killed and skinned the meat for your stew.
“Where is your father?” he calls to your retreating form.
There’s a certain edge of command in his voice that tries to surface past the wavers of pain. He attempts to assert some Hightower authority in the walls of your home, despite being half-dressed and hunched over the edge of your bed and completely at your mercy.
“Or a husband, perhaps? Someone I can speak rationally with.”
“No father… No husband…” you sigh and tie the top of your coat, which is a size or three too big for you. “You can speak rationally to me, if you wish, though I fear your current hysterics might render conversation somewhat impossible… But I require no thanks for saving your life, to be sure.”
Your words carry a certain bite that pierces him straight through the chest; the devastating reminder of a debt he has not yet had any sense to acknowledge.
The door opens with a high-pitched creaking sound; the cool breeze that rushes in tells him that the day is ending rather than just beginning. You pause at the threshold, hand on the frame and hood half-raised
“If you’re going to leave, at least remember to shut the door behind you,” you tell him, detached but not totally unkind. “I don’t want the smell of supper bringing the animals down from the hill.”
The door screeches and clicks behind you, punctuating your leaving. The little house — smaller than his bathing chambers back in Oldtown — goes very quiet and very still with your absence. The eeriness unnerves a distant, boyish part of him that wishes most desperately for your return. The rest of him, however, wants nothing more than to be rid of this place entirely — from the strangeness of it and of you most of all.
Gwayne grits his teeth and hauls himself not-quite to full height. He’s doubled over and bracing his white-knuckled grip on the ancient wooden bedframe as he hobbles the short distance towards the door, fighting through the screaming ache shooting up and down his left leg. He makes it not even five steps before it gives out on him completely.
He crumples to the unforgiving ground in a graceless heap of limbs and injured pride, catching himself on instinct with the arm sporting the throbbing arrow wound going down.
He lies there, groaning and writhing and choking down cries of frustration with his cheek pressed to the cold floor. The sound of his ragged breaths fills the small, empty house as he watches the sunset dip low past the window, quietly waiting for the sound of the door to open — and for your presence to follow.
It opens at last; three minutes or three hours later. A silken breeze rushes in alongside you, as you enter with a basket of potatoes and other vegetables on your hip. You falter in the doorway at the sight of the man sprawled out on your floor, a crumpled puppet with all of its strings cut clean.
A strange, satisfied smile creeps across your face as you swipe your hood back with your free hand. “Well…” you croon lowly. “What do we have here?”
Gwayne lifts his heavy head. He looks up at you with watery blue eyes through the strands of wild auburn hair hanging over his brow. He loses every ounce of his composure in that moment, turning into a doe-eyed and pleading thing as his wet gaze peers at you from beneath his lashes.
“Please…” he rasps. “Help me…”
He doesn’t learn your name until the second day. He does not stand on his own until the fifth. And he does not bathe himself unaided until the seventh.
You do not coddle him for any of it. You clean his wounds and change his bandages twice daily, and scold him for flinching at the sting — telling him that he’d spent too many years being pampered by wetnurses and that was precisely why he healed so slowly. But, after that first week, he learned to walk the length of your small home without his leg buckling underneath him; though he still requires the cane you’d fashioned for him out of a stag’s antler if he plans on taking more than a step or two.
“Here. So you can stop looking like a newborn calf every time you cross the room,” you’d said when you gifted it to him. “It’s starting to get hard to watch, if I’m honest.”
He is, if he’s being entirely truthful with himself, entirely unused to being spoken to this way. The ladies of his acquaintance back in Oldtown — the soft, sweet-voiced daughters of high lords and ladies — would never have dared to call him hysterical to his face or handle his wounds with such unromantic efficiency. They never would have laughed, as you had, at the sight of him crumpled on the floor.
You’re nothing at all like the ladies he grew up with.
You swear like a dockhand; you name your goats like they're your kin; you wear your dead parents' old clothes without a trace of shame and speak of your own life with a bluntness that would scandalize every septa he'd grown up with. It should, perhaps, trouble him a great deal more than it does.
Gwayne knows he could’ve and likely should’ve left days ago. He suspects that you know it, too. Tumbleton was not far from here, you told him, and his kin held the fortress now — a real castle with a real maester to tend to him — rather than this strange, sharp-tongued woman with rough hands and a rougher sense of humor. But still, he does not go. He tells himself that it’s his leg; that the roads were surely not safe yet and that he’d be long in the dying should he cross Daemon’s army a second time.
So he stays, and he makes himself useful to you in the waiting, in whatever small ways he can manage. He could not do much, at first — he could not chop firewood or carry water; he could barely carry himself, in truth — but he could mend a fence while seated, and feed the farm animals while leaning on his cane, and shell the peas you bring in from the garden for supper.
Gwayne quickly discovers, to his own mortification, that he takes a strange satisfaction in it all. This was not a life meant for knights, certainly not one meant for a Hightower, but yet he can picture all the rest of his days playing out exactly like this — utterly unremarkable, but his just the same.
It has been three weeks since his arrival, give or take, and his days feel less like exile now and more like routine. He sits propped on the pillows after his bath, milky-white skin glimmering from your homemade oils, with nothing but a pair of borrowed trousers covering his lower half.
You sit on the edge of the bed beside him and redress the stubborn wound on his arm that refuses to heal — the worst of his injuries he came here with, Gwayne insists; a nerve-deep pain that he swears he can feel when he’s dreaming. But even still, weeks into the habit of tending to him, you are no gentler about it than you were that very first night.
“Ow—” Gwayne winces when you press too firmly against the wound. You catch his elbow before he can draw it away and urge it back into place with an unsentimental force.
“Stop squirming,” you scold and continue to dab the homemade, herb-flecked ointment onto the irritated skin.
“It hurts,” the man insists.
“It hurts because you’re squirming.”
Gwayne attempts to glare at you as you reach for the linen cloth on the table beside you. The playful frown softens with a soft smile despite himself. “Has anyone ever told you that your bedside manner is just extraordinary?”
“All the time…” you lilt back and slide the fabric around his arm, tying it off with one particularly harsh tug. “Usually right before they tell me that they're feeling much better and no longer require any of my help.”
“Well…” Gwayne croons, pale eyes glittering in the dancing candlelight. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you wanted me gone…”
You glance finally up at him from beneath your lashes, at the handsome knight sharing your house — with bright copper hair gone soft from his bath, and bright blue eyes a little too earnest for someone meant to be teasing — the kind of man that belonged in the fairytales you’d read as a child; not in your own home in your own bed.
Something in your sharp expression finally gives, like The Wall finally weeping after the first warm day of summer.
“You’re the prettiest thing I’ve seen in years, Ser Gwayne,” you hum lowly. “So if you haven’t realized by now that I’m keeping you hostage here, then I fear you haven’t been paying attention.”
A breathy laugh shakes his toned stomach, and the scar along his ribs no longer pulls to do so. He’s fairly certain that you’re jesting, but even still, he doesn’t think he’d care all that much if you weren’t.
“I find that…” he trails slowly off with a squinted look in his pale eyes, as if the realization were hitting him the moment the words fell from his mouth. His melodic voice carries a sort of airiness in it despite the soft confession. “That perhaps I wouldn’t mind it. Being your hostage… Staying here. With you… I don't think I'd mind that at all…”
“Well… That’s a very dangerous thing to say to a woman with nothing to lose, Ser Gwayne,” you murmur, propping your fists on either side of his waist as you lean in close to him — until he can smell the lavender soap on your skin and count the flecks of firelight in your gaze. “Your army has surely presumed you dead by now… No one will come looking for you here… So if you do not wish to be kept by me, the door is still open…”
Something in his chest flares hot at your words, at the thought of being kept by you.
“For how long?” he teases with an arched auburn brow, pink lips curling into a slow smile.
Your eyes flit away and back again. “…Roughly the next ten seconds.”
“Well…” he lilts as his hand lifts slowly from the blankets to cradle your jaw, urging you that much closer. “That seems like plenty of time.”
He leans off the pillow to press his mouth to yours. His nose smushes into the side of yours as his plush lips slot with your softer ones. Your tongue darts between them with little warning and a degree too eager, swiping against his like velvet on velvet. Gwayne exhales a heavy sigh through his nose at the taste of you — like supper and wine and something foreign that he chases with each languid kiss.
You kiss him long and slow, like biting into the sweet skin of an apple, and shift on the mattress to straddle his waist. Gwayne’s free hand shoves the quilt down his thighs to accommodate you upon them. Your fingers rest around his neck like a collar as you grind your hips over his, up his lap and down again. A groan rumbles like thunder in his throat.
His hands dart instantly for your waist, knotting his long fingers in the skirts pushed up to your thighs, as he pulls off of you with a quiet smack. “Don’t,” he hears himself plead.
“Why?” you pant, blinking back at him with heavy eyes.
“It’s been…” His adam’s apple bobs in his throat. “A long… long time.”
Your lips curl into a grin before your head ducks down again. Your mouth smears along his pulse in a sloppy kiss. “Three weeks isn’t so long, is it?”
A laugh sounds in his throat. You feel it rumbling against your mouth. “The war’s been going on for a lot longer than three weeks, my dear…”
“Don’t tell me Ser Gwayne hasn’t taken his fair share of whores on the road,” you quip against the milky white tendon of his neck.
He smiles with his nose in your hair. “Not many whores on the battlefield, I’m afraid…”
“Oh, you poor thing…” you croon as you pull slowly back from him, more gentle with him now than you were when he was half dead on your porch; though there’s still a playful air about you that he doesn’t yet miss. “No wonder you’ve been so uptight… You’ve just been looking for a little… release, haven’t you? Spit—”
Gwayne’s eyes widen as they flick between your expectant face and the hand you hold under his chin. Despite his obvious diffidence, he ducks his head and spits a glob of saliva onto your palm — and watches with held breath as your fingers dip under the hem of his trousers. They wrap around his cock, laying half-soft on his thigh, and use his spit to work him the rest of the way hard. He feels like heavy velvet in your fist.
His dizzy head tips back against the wall with a quiet thud. Your quiet giggling melts with his pleasured groan as he hardens slowly in your fist.
“I’ll bet you’ll cum the second I tell you to,” you laugh.
Gwayne nods slowly, adam’s apple moving in his long throat as he fights to keep his lidded eyes open. His breath catches in his chest when your thumb swipes over the sensitive tip of his cock.
“I’ll bet you’ll do anything I tell you to… Won’t you?”
Gwayne nods again, jerking in your fist at your words.
“Oh…” you huff a mixture of a contented sigh and a devilish laugh as you squeeze him harder in your fist. “I am going to have… so much fun with you, Ser Gwayne…”
He has little time to ponder the weight of your words when you shift on top of him again. You pull your fingers from his trousers and tuck the hem beneath his heavy balls. His eyes snap open to find you urging your dress skirts further up your thighs. He’s left mourning the warmth of your touch only for a moment, before your hand slides between your bodies once more to guide the drooling tip of his cock into your already weeping confines.
He’s long and slender — not nearly as thick as the butcher’s son in town who’s been tending to your needs for years, but an inch or three longer still — and made of meandering veins you can feel when you pierce yourself upon him. Your head tips back to exhale a moan at the ceiling, mouth curling into a lazy smile as you adjust to the length of him.
Gwayne chokes on a groan in his throat when your hips sit flush with his again, fingers clutching mercilessly at the plush of your thighs hard enough to etch bruises on the skin. The sound turns into a strangled whimper when you clench absentmindedly around him, warmer than velvet and drooling something fierce.
“I can’t…” the man whines, chiseled features twisting into a pained sort of look as he shifts his hips under your weight — trying to chase his pleasure and run away from it all at once. “I— I can’t— Seven fucking hells…”
You smile down at him when he tries and fails to get the words out. He misses the amusement flashing across your face with his eyes squeezed shut, hard enough to make white stars speckle behind the deep black of his eyelids. You clench around him again, just to hear him whimper for you again.
“Can’t what, my lord?” you coo to him, with a gentleness he didn’t think you were capable of before now. Your hands smooth up and around his neck until your fingers twist in the short auburn tendrils at the very nape of it. Chills erupt down the length of his spine in their wake.
“I don’t wanna cum yet,” he protests through gritted teeth. “’S too soon—”
“But I want you to cum,” you tell him, and punctuate your command with a calculated roll of your hips. You tighten around him once more when your clit brushes the coarse, dark-auburn hair above his cock. You swallow his subsequent groan in a sloppy kiss, more tongue than mouth, and run the tip of your nose along the bridge of his after. “And then… after I’ve milked your cock—”
“Fuck…” he swears, though it comes out more like a sob.
“—I’ll let you clean me up with your mouth,” you continue.
A moan tears through his throat at the thought — of pressing his mouth to your cunt until his nose is smushed against your clit, of lapping at the mixture of pleasure leaking out of you like honey, of your hands in his hair pushing him further into your pussy. He bursts at the thought, losing himself completely as he draws you into his bare chest with two strong arms wound up and around your back.
Gwayne hides his flushed face in your neck as he hugs you against him, meeting your thrusts with weaker ones of his own. He buries each of his pitiful moans into your pulsepoint while his cock jerks wildly within your unforgiving confines— spitting ropes of warm cum that your clenching cunt milks from him.
“I’m sorry,” he hears himself say as he shudders just against you. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry… Seven hells— I’m sorry…”
You pet at his wild hair as he comes down from his high, whispering murmurs of praise in his ear as the pleasure ebbs from his trembling body. “There you go… Good boy… That’s it— Give me all of it…”
Gwayne pulls his face from your neck once he’s fully spent. His trembling hands reach for your face again, cupping your cheeks between his calloused palms to meet your eyes with his wide, wet, and pleading ones. “I’m sorry,” he whispers again. “Let me make you feel good— I want to make you feel good.”
“I know,” you coo to him, almost sympathetically so. “On your back.”
Gwayne’s auburn brows knit softly together, but his body obeys like it was designed to submit to you. You remain straddled against him as he descends back onto the pillows. He watches down the bridge of his nose as your hands smooth up his milky white torso — past the fine trail of hair on his lean stomach, over the healed scar on his ribs, and towards his heaving chest.
Your eyes stay locked with his heavy ones as you shift your weight above him, inching up up up. You cage your bottom lip between your teeth as you reach for the hem of your skirt. You drag the heavy fabric of your dress up and over your head. Gwayne has little time to admire your bare body before you’re straddling your knees on either side of his face. His mouth waters instantly at the sight of your glittering pussy as it descends over his mouth — he curls his arms around your thighs to pull you further in.
He groans when the taste of you hits his tongue — a sweet-salty mixture of your combined pleasures — and you feel the vibrations of the sound from your cunt to the top of your spine. You keep one hand braced on the wooden headboard and your other woven through his silken auburn locks, guiding his mouth along your cunt.
“Yes…” you sigh when his mouth meets your clit. “Right there…”
Gwayne moans again at your praise and does everything in his power to make you give it to him again. He focuses on the bundle of nerves — lapping his tongue against it and suckling it between his lips. You make a noise for him he’s never heard before, a high-pitched cry that swells across the quiet room. “Keep going,” he hears you whimper when his mouth wraps around your clit. “Fuck yes, keep going like that—”
Your fingers twist hard in his hair as your hips grind down over his tongue. He moans when you give the strands an especially harsh tongue, and the sound makes you tremble on top of him. You cum for him with a strangled cry, and Gwayne sighs through his nose when a mixture of his cum and yours drops onto the velvety pad of his tongue.
He laps at every ounce of it with an eagerness that you can hear, a chorus of panted breaths and muffled suckling sounds.
He doesn’t stop until you’re shoving him away by the crown of his head.
You exhale a heavy breath and sit back on your haunches, resting your ass over his chest and propping your weight along his ribs. Your heavy eyes rake over his face — cheeks flushed red, pale eyes glassy with desire, pink lips swollen, chin glittering with your cum, hair wild from the pillow and your fingers alike. An angel carved from in.
A lazy smile tugs at the corners of your mouth as you shake your heavy head down at him. “You’re not going anywhere, Ser Gwayne… You understand that, right?”
“Gwayne,” he corrects, glittering lips curling upward. “Not ser.”
“You’re not going anywhere… Gwayne.”
“I’m glad to hear it, in truth…” he confesses on an exhaled breath. “I was starting to like it here anyway…”
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