weird random little idea I had bc in my brain Frank castle would be a big huge mushy bear at night after a construction shift ☹️
contains Frank castle x reader, nothing but fluff, bedtime stuff
Frank apparently took a little bit of overtime at work.
A little, meaning; he’s regularly home by six, latest. Tonight, you hear his apartment key twist in the lock at ten.
You knew how hard of a worker he was. Part of you wish that he was less so. Or maybe, that he had atleast given you a heads up. A, hey, don’t make me a plate at dinner. Or even a, I’ll be home late, don’t wait up.
You don’t wait up anyways. You went to bed even earlier than you regularly would, pettily, but feeling some kind of victory at punishing Frank. Denying him the loving gesture of staying up late on the couch, waiting to see him.
So, no. When Frank comes back to the apartment, even though you’re conscious enough to register his arrival, you don’t get out from under the covers and kiss him hello. You lay, listening through the darkness as his boots thunk on the hardwood— mentally, you scold him for dragging in dirt. A pause, then the sound of his footsteps lightens, work boots discarded.
You stay in the pantomime of sleeping even as he opens the bedroom door, the faint light from the kitchen bleeding through your closed lids. You listen to the sound of fabric rustling, him undressing and undoubtedly tossing the work clothes in the hamper; the pad of his bare feet towards the attached bathroom. The shower turns on. Maybe five minutes later, off. Again, footsteps.
There’s the sound of his soft grunts breaking through the silence. He must be sore. Tired— no, exhausted.
Your anger has grown a twin feeling, some kind of guilt by the time that his weight dips the other side of the mattress. The feeling only worsens as Frank shifts closer, his warmth against your back, and throws a burly, heavy arm over your midsection.
Still, you don’t say anything. Two things can coexist. Your frustration, and his exhaustion.
To your quiet groan (unfortunately telling to the fact that you’re awake,) that arm over your middle tugs, just enough force to pull you into him. Tight. You feel Frank’s nose nudge the crook of your neck. Can hear the breath inward he takes, in no rush to mumble, almost indistinct, “Sweet girl.”
You don’t make a peep. You have a feeling it’s petty. Still, his beard scratches the skin of your neck exposed by your pajama, as he lays down an unhurried kiss. “Know you’re awake,” he rasps after a long few moments.
You make a disagreeing sound, like he’s bothering your rest. In reality, you feel about twenty times better lying against him. His skin is warm from the shower, his hair damp against your jaw, and one large hand is lying over your stomach. Not rubbing, not grabbing. Just holding.
“..M’sorry.” Frank murmurs after a longer pause. Noses at the skin behind your ear before evidently deciding not to push you, laying his head on your pillow. The bridge of his nose fits against the crown of your head, and you can feel his sigh against your hair. “I’m late. Should’ve given you a heads up.”
“Mhm,” you hum. That hand on your stomach sneaks under your pajama shirt, without suggestion. His palm, calloused and strong, just scrapes upward slightly, thumb in line with your sternum. You’d be a liar to say you didn’t appreciate Frank’s touch, his constantly reaching hands. The facade of anger was getting increasingly hard to keep up.
“Y’know I’m sorry, baby.” Frank mumbles, voice all quiet and close in that way of his. “Please. S’been a fuckin’ day.” You feel him shift and there’s another kiss, now to your nape. His beard is damp against the skin there.
You inhale, deep and slow. He smells distinctly like soap. “You suck, a little.”
A sound somewhat like a huff of amusement leaves Frank. “I know.”
With the plan in mind to thoroughly scold him in the morning when you weren’t so eager to let yourself fall asleep, warm against his chest, you resolve to give your man a break. You shift, laying a hand on his forearm over your waist. Peering over your shoulder and squinting through the dark, you find him already staring at you with those tired, almond eyes. There’s a ghost of a smile in the creases in his face.
“..Hey there.”
“Hi.” You mumble in reply. That almost-smile develops into a real one, however unexaggerated. You watch him push up onto the arm not over you, and lean over to plant a gentle kiss onto your cheekbone. Why would you bite back the soft sound of appreciation that comes from your throat? There wasn’t any hiding from Frank.
He probably knew that you’d forgiven him already, anyway.
“I missed you. Y’know that?” The admission comes natural, looking up at him. He nods, barely.
“Missed you, lady.” His voice stays low, softer than anyone would think a man as hard as he was would be capable of. He squints, brows drawing as he shakes his head in some strange kind of disbelief, “Been waiting for this all day.”
“For what?”
Frank settles back down behind you, arm tugging you ever closer into him. His body is like a furnace; he’s very lucky that the AC is cranked up, because otherwise he’d be banished to the other side of the bed. For now, he gets to sigh against the baby hairs at the back of your neck, and get your pillow wet with shower-damp hair (meanwhile, his own pillow is perfectly functional and available.)
His eventual response makes you smile, eyes closing with satisfaction, “Sleeping with my woman.”
my favorite genre of fictional character is like "i am terrifying to almost everyone, i'm very good at killing, i can endure anything, i've become exceptionally good at playing into my reputation, and if you try to give me positive social interaction i will react with confusion and cower in a corner like an abused animal. and i may try to shoot you. but there is also a chance i may imprint on you like a feral dog receiving its first loving touch! good luck."
Synopsis: you always knew Frank had a dangerous side; you just never expected to see it. After you're kidnapped and used as a message for the Punisher, Frank rescues you – but when he sees the fear in your eyes, he assumes you've finally seen the truth about him
Word count: 2300-ish
I write for the love of the game, so I don't take requests. But I hope you enjoy!
Please do not repost, copy, or share my work on other platforms without my permission. This content is strictly NOT for use by AI systems. Do not use my writing for AI training, data scraping, or generating AI text.
A dull pain all over woke you before you opened your eyes. Your head felt groggy, clouded. Why do I feel like this?, you thought. Your eyes fluttered open, and with an awful lurch in your stomach, you remembered. You sat up with a start, but restraints around your wrists and ankles prevented you from doing much else. Your breathing through your nose quickened, your mouth blocked by a gag of fabric. Wildly, you looked around the room; it was grey, dark, and bare concrete. It looked almost like a warehouse, but dingy and disused. You were on the cold floor, surrounded by rubble and litter. Pressed against the wall, you tucked your legs up flush against your body, a primal drive to make yourself smaller.
Footsteps alerted you that you were not alone, and you whipped your head over to see five men round the corner. They were clad in body armour and balaclavas, and wielding guns and other weapons. A few of them chuckled as they watched you try to sink into the wall, desperate to put as much distance between yourself and them.
“Good evenin’, sleeping beauty,” one of them jeered. You looked at each of them with wide eyes, your breathing remaining heavy. One of them stepped towards you and you tried to move away, your tied ankles scrambling together, your whimpering protests muffled by the gag. The man grabbed you roughly and pulled you back into the centre of the room.
“Shut up,” he murmured, and slapped you, hard. Your vision speckled with black dots and your cheek began to sting. You’d never been hit before, and your body froze. You complied with the man’s movement as they tied you to a chair.
The men stood back and made crude remarks, except for one, who untied the fabric around your face and removed the gag. You took in a deep breath and began to cry.
“Please, let me go! I haven’t done anything, I-I don’t know anything!” you sobbed. The man grabbed your chin roughly and forced you to look up at him.
“No, but you know someone,” he replied pointedly. He allowed you a few seconds to think; it didn’t take you long to go through your list of contacts considered dangerous.
“Does this… have to do with Frank?” you asked carefully, your voice cracking through your tears. The man let go of your face and smiled disingenuously. “I don’t know anything about what he does. Please…”
“It’s not about what’chu know, sweetheart,” you flinched at the misappropriated term of endearment “we’re just tryna send a message.”
You swallowed thickly. You’d known Frank for a few months now, meeting at a local library, reaching for the same book. Minutes of apologising and offering the book to and fro led to the start of your unusual friendship. Frank was cautious of it at first and tried his best to avoid you. You were a civilian, innocent and naïve to the way he lived, and his mission in life made him too hard for everyday people. But then he bumped into you again in a café, and again in the local corner shop, purely by chance. Every time the two of you felt the need to strike up conversation. One day you invited him to your flat for coffee, and after that, he kept showing up. At first he made up excuses, mainly to fix things – your shower, your boiler, a wonky cupboard door. The two of you would chat easily about things, and eventually Frank opened up to you about bits of his life.
You didn’t want to know much about what he got up to in the shadows. When Frank showed up late one evening covered in blood and injuries, claiming he had nowhere else to go, you didn’t question it; nor any other time he appeared like that afterwards. You just cleaned his wounds, gave him a bed to rest in and a hot meal; you spoke to him about your ordinary life. You didn’t approve of what you saw, or what you heard, but then you didn’t fully understand his motivations, so how could you judge him? Besides, the Frank you were getting to know was contradictory to the Frank you heard whispers about. Frank fixed things, he helped cook, he kept to himself and was protective, he liked to read…
The men circling brought you back to your terrible present.
“Please,” you begged, tears staining your cheeks, “please let me go—”
A thundering boom made you jump and the men whipped their heads around, raising their weapons. Heavy, purposeful footsteps echoed through the empty building, getting louder and louder. The men began shouting, and tried to get into some sort of formation; too late. Frank burst into the room and began raining down hellfire. A wave of both relief and terror washed over you as you saw him.
Except... this wasn’t Frank. This was the Punisher. You watched with glassy eyes and eyebrows stitched together as you witnessed the violence. Gunshots fired on both sides banged and echoed off the empty walls, creating a painful reverb in your ears. You struggled against the chair; your survival mode screaming at you to run and hide, but you couldn't get away. A tiny, rational voice in the back of your head was telling you that this was Frank, and he was here to save you. And you were desperate for him to get you out. But as you watched him repeatedly beat a man's head against the wall, horrible cracking sounds reverberating and blood spraying everywhere, you realised this wasn't the Frank that sat at your kitchen table drinking coffee. Not at all...
As the fight drew to the end, you saw Frank glance over at you; he looked at you properly, and something flashed across his face. He paused, lifting the last man standing off the floor, his other hand wielding a wrench. You were shaking uncontrollably in your chair, eyes wide and trying to blink back tears that were spilling out anyway. Your mouth was shut in such a tight lock that your lips had nearly disappeared. Frank closed his eyes for a second and breathed in deeply through his nose, as if he were internally battling something. The animal in him won, and he hit the guy with the wrench, creating one final, terrible sound. The wrench echoed as it clanked on the floor, Frank groaned as he stood up. He slowly walked over to you.
Stopping a few paces in front of you, he held up his empty hands. Your eyes never left him.
"It's me," he said, his voice gruff. He watched you barely nod in recognition, something in your gaze glossing over, the shock making you retreat to somewhere safe in your mind. He drew out a quiet breath and crouched in front of you, producing a pocket knife from his utility belt. He sawed at the restraints around your ankles first, hating how he could feel your body trembling underneath his touch. He stood again and moved behind you, undoing your wrists.
Although freed, you were so highly strung and tense that you didn't move at first. Then you slowly moved your shaking hands round to rest on your knees. Frank crouched in front of you again; you were looking ahead, but you weren't taking in any external information. Frank looked at the red hand-print on your cheek and the dried blood streaking across your eyebrow and wished he could kill those assholes all over again. He placed a gentle hand over one of yours.
"Hey? Can you stand?" you felt yourself nodding, and tried. Your wobbly legs buckled and you felt yourself dropping, but Frank caught you, his arm supportive around your waist. You instinctively grabbed onto him, but pushed yourself back slightly as you looked about the room, overwhelmed. The smell of gunpowder and blood and metal was making you feel sick, and the sight of bits of people – teeth, hair, flesh – scattering the floor among the bodies burned itself into your mind. Taking wobbly steps, Frank followed closely behind you, ready to catch you if you wavered.
Reaching the van, Frank opened the door for you and you slowly climbed in. He watched you put your seat-belt on, your hands still shaking. He walked around to the driver’s side, hesitating before he got in, thinking about how you’d reacted to his touch. When he got behind the wheel and turned on the engine, he glanced at you. Your eyes were straight ahead, your arms wrapped around yourself, one hand reaching up to your chest to cling to the necklace you always wear, fingers weaving around the chain and toying with the pendant. Frank didn't bother asking if you were OK, he could clearly see you weren’t. He just had to get you away from here, somewhere safe.
It was a painfully quiet drive. All Frank could hear was your shaky breathing and crying. Usually you filled silence with conversation, with laughter. Your catatonic state was concerning him; he was wondering how he could pull you out of it without involving a hospital or the Police. The only thing he could think was to get you somewhere familiar and get you cleaned up. He drove to your home. As he followed behind you when you entered the building on autopilot, he looked about him with an air of sadness, convinced this would be the last time he would ever come back here. You stood in the middle of your flat, arms limply hanging at your sides. Locking the door quietly behind him, he came up behind you and placed a gentle hand on your back; he felt you start at the touch, and anguish washed over him again.
“Hey, let’s get you cleaned up, huh?" He moved around to face you, his hand moving slowly from your back to your forearm. He began walking backwards, guiding you to the kitchen. "That's it, good girl." He pulled out a chair and sat you down in it.
"Let's make you some coffee, huh? Get you cleaned up... let’s see, coffee..." Frank turned away and began mumbling, busying himself pulling out mugs and brewing a pot. He found your first aid kit in a cupboard and placed it on the table, the sound making you jump. Frank admonished himself under his breath and continued quietly. You blinked, and let out a long, quiet breath. You looked around; you were home. How did I get here?, you wondered. You glanced down as Frank placed a steaming mug of coffee in front of you. He pulled out a chair opposite you and opened the first aid kit.
"Alright, let’s get you cleaned up, huh? That’s it…” Frank pulled out antiseptic wipes and plasters and carefully, softly, began cleaning your wounds and cuts, his fingers barely touching your chin as he guided it up to the warm light of your home. He smoothed the plaster over your cheekbone, his thumb lingering. He looked deep into your eyes, and you blinked, looking back.
"That's it," he said quietly. “Come back to me."
In your head, things were fuzzy, foggy. You’d definitely been drugged when those men took you. They'd been rough with you, hit you. You could feel the sting in your cheek forming a bruise. You were confused; confused why they’d taken you, confused how you’d made it home. Shock and trauma had a funny way of working. You could piece together fragments – Frank storming the building, how he... killed those men. And now he was here, sat opposite you, cleaning blood from his knuckles.
"That was really scary," you said, voice croaky, and barely above a whisper. Frank stopped cleaning and looked at you, leaning forward, wanting to touch and comfort you, but stopping himself; afraid that you'd shrink away from him again.
"Yeah," he replied quietly "I'm sorry you had to see that." You didn't say anything.
"I got lazy," he continued, "I got lazy. Since meetin' you… I stopped noticin'. I got a lotta enemies, you know? And every single one of 'em is gonna pay for thinkin' they can use you to get to me... that's why you gotta stay away from me." You looked at him, brows furrowing.
“What? Frank..."
"This is what happens, why I don't get close to people," Frank stood up and began pacing. You watched him, mouth open, unsure what to say.
“Frank, I didn’t mean you. I meant—"
"You don't belong in this life, you don't deserve this," Frank continued. You stood up gingerly, the shakes still not fully worn off. You tried to step into his path, but he kept avoiding you, waving you away.
Anticipating his moves, you landed in front of him and placed your hands on his arms, stopping him. Frank froze and couldn’t bring himself to look in your eyes. His gaze flitted from you to the floor and back again; he braced, waiting for you to agree, to tell him how afraid you were of tonight, of him. He hung his head. Your heart ached. You slowly leaned in rested your head on his firm chest and sighed deeply. Frank blinked down at the top of your head, surprised, moved. Despite everything you’d just experienced, just witnessed, you still sought comfort from him. You still trusted him.
Very slowly, he brought one arm up to come around you, pulling you flush against his body. You shifted your head to rest your cheek against him and wrapped your arms around his waist. He could feel your fingers clinging onto his clothes. Neither of you said anything. Frank brought his other hand to rest against the back of your head, fingers intertwining with your soft hair. He blew out a deep breath he hadn't realised he was holding.
"I'm safe now," you whispered, "thank you."
Summary: a slow morning with Frank has you appreciating how good he looks after an altercation.
Warnings: fluff, making out, mentions of violence, Frank is a big softie for you.
The early morning light shone through the thin material of your curtains, cutting through the dim of your room and illuminating the strong bridge of his nose and curve of his jaw. You rubbed your still tired eyes and continued to stare at him.
He really was handsome.
He never listened when you said so, but you loved telling him anyway. You loved how big, strong, mysterious Frank Castle would visibly melt a little when you complimented him. The way his eyes would soften at the corners, lips quirking into a subtle smile as he suppressed a chuckle.
"What're you looking at, baby?"
His rough morning voice pulled you from your thoughts as you realized he was staring right back at you, deep brown eyes boring into your own.
"You," you reply simply, your fingers trailing up the bare skin of his arm beneath the sheets.
"What're you doing that for?"
"You're so pretty, Frankie."
He scoffed softly, the slightest flush rising on his cheeks as he rolled his eyes teasingly.
"What're you laughing at, hm?"
"M'not, baby," he mumbled, turning onto his side to face you. "Sorry you have to wake up to my ugly mug." You frowned up at him, bringing one hand up to cup his jaw, relishing in the rough feeling of his stubble on your skin.
"Don't talk about my man like that," you say seriously, giving his cheek a soft squeeze. His gaze softened, eyes flicking from your down to your lips and back. He slid a large hand up the curve of your hip and over your waist before pulling you against his chest. You wrapped your leg over his hip, settling yourself against the warmth of his body.
"Okay okay, sweetheart, I won't," was his raspy reply as he tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. Your stomach erupted in butterflies at the depth of his voice, the low rumble of it against your chest. You let yourself stare at him for a few silent moments, scanning his face. Your brows furrowed when you noticed a fresh bruise blooming over the skin of his jaw, previously hidden by the position he was lying in.
"Frankie..." your voice trailed off as you ran your fingertips over the discolored skin. He took your hand in his and brought it down to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to the back.
"It's nothin', baby, I'm fine. I promise."
"You need to be careful, baby," you scolded. "Don't want you messing up this handsome face."
"Can't even get in a little scuffle without being lectured, now," he teased, tilting your face up to kiss him. You ignored the comment in favor of slipping your tongue past his lips, humming into his mouth as he rolled on top of you. One forearm held the majority of his weight as his free hand slid down to wrap gently around your neck, arousal beginning to pool low in your abdomen. He tugged your bottom lip between his teeth before pressing kisses across your jaw and down your neck, his mouth sucking deliciously against your skin.
"So who was it this time?" you asked, arms threading themselves around his broad shoulders.
"Neighbor across the street getting a little too cozy outside your building," he grumbled against the crook of your neck. "Had a little heart-to-heart and it shouldn't be a problem anymore." Despite the concern for his safety, you couldn't help the warmth that began to spread through your chest at the protective edge in his voice.
"You know you can try talking to people before you beat the shit out of them," you said absentmindedly, increasingly distracted by the sensation of his body on yours and his lips on your collarbone.
Actually, no, I don't think that friendships dropping like flies in your late 20s and early 30s because no one has time for that between overwork and family obligations and marriage and kids and partners and the ritual of the time slayer is normal and ok. No I don't think deep conversations and spontaneous adventures being replaced with a tired coffee every six months is a normal part of growing up. I don't think that emotional intimacy and soul bonds disintegrating in the face of practical inconvenience is a fact of life. I think that means something is deeply deeply wrong with our society and I will never forgive it for the friends I've lost
synopsis: Jack smells an enticing aroma and goes a little crazy trying to find the source
warnings: omegaverse dynamics. Pretty fluffy. reader is parker's roommate and best friend. This was a request for my One Big Bash that i was requested to fill anonymously. The original idea came from a post by @twilightz0nes ages ago that they graciously said I could write.
wc: 2.4k
Jack Abbot was going insane.
At least he felt like he was. And all because of one particular aroma.
He was an hour into this shift making a note in a chart when the scent hit him for the first time. He paused, fingers hovering over the keys as his nostrils flared slightly. Vanilla and honeysuckle with an undertone he couldn’t name. He turned his head left, then right. Nothing.
It wasn’t one of the staff, he’d long since memorized all of their natural scents and could pick them out blindfolded. No, this was new. He shrugged, figuring it must belong to a patient even as his instincts were screaming at him to find the source. He stretched his neck then shook it off. He had work to do.
“Forget it,” he muttered to himself and went back to the chart.
Twenty minutes later he was discussing next steps with a patient that Nazely was working on. The college kid had tripped over his own feet in his drunkenness and cracked his head on a concrete planter. The scent came again, stronger this time. He paused then turned, scanning the immediate area. No one but him, Dr. Toomarian and the drunk frat boy. The scent lingered then faded and Jack returned to the conversation.
When he left the room, he tried to track it down but nothing. Then he was called away for a consult on a case. The scent hit him again at the hub while he was scanning the board. He stopped, one hand on the counter and inhaled. There. Faint but unmistakable. It pulled at every instinct he had. He straightened, ran a hand through his hair and did a slow lap around the department. He caught traces of it again once or twice but nothing more.
“I’m losing my fucking mind,” he said then ran a hand over his face.
Midnight came and went. Jack stood at the hub reviewing test results for the patient in Twelve. Parker slid up beside him, her arm brushing his as she reached for a tablet.
The scent hit like a punch to the solar plexus.
He went completely still. It was coming from Parker. The same scent that had been driving him quietly crazy for hours and it had been right there with his senior resident all along.
He cleared his throat.
She glanced at him, brow lifting. “You okay, boss?”
“Yeah.” His voice came out rough and he cleared his throat again. “Fine. Just—” He hesitated a moment. “Are you wearing perfume?”
Parker blinked as genuine surprise crossed her features. “No, of course not. Why?”
Jack crossed his arms over his chest. “This scent has been driving me crazy for the whole shift. It seems to be coming from you but I know it’s not yours. Maybe I am going crazy.”
Parker glanced down at herself. Her gaze catching on the faded hoodie she was wearing. Her expression shifted and a slow smirk crossed her face that Jack did not like at all.
“Sorry,” she said, not sounding apologetic in the least. “Must be the hoodie. I’ll stash it in my locker.”
She peeled the article of clothing off in one smooth motion and headed for the locker room. She looked just a little too pleased with herself. Jack stood at the hub, teeth clenched, and watched her walk away.
Parker closed the locker room door behind her and chuckled lowly. She’d been in a hurry tonight and had grabbed the first jacket she’d seen. It just so happened that the one she picked up was the one you’d worn yesterday. It wouldn’t be the first time it had happened in the years you’d been first friends, then roommates. Though normally it was you stealing her clothes rather than the other way around.
Parker folded the hoodie and put it in her bag inside her locker then she pulled out her phone to send you a quick text. You’d still be working but she knew you’d get it when you got off and could check your phone.
Hey roomie. Bring me food? Please? I’ll love you forever. You’ll have to bring it in though. Busy night.
She always met you outside when you brought her anything during shift. It was about time her colleagues met you. She smirked, locked her phone and headed back to the floor.
The night was young and it was about to get a whole lot more interesting.
You peeled the last of your suppressant patches off as you walked through the casino parking garage, wincing as the adhesive tugged at your skin. The things itched like crazy and you always removed them the moment you stepped outside of the building. You tossed them in a nearby trash can without much thought. You rolled your shoulders as you shook off the sensory overload that was your place of employment. Too many people crammed in too small of a space with overly bright lights and the clamoring noise of the slot machines.
You waited until you got into your car to check your phone, not wanting the distraction in the dimly lit garage. You cleared your notifications, snorting in amusement when you saw Parker’s text. The last thing you wanted to do after your shift was to go into the hospital, but she rarely asked. And lord knows she’d ran enough weird errands for you over the years.
Food options were limited this time of night, but between you and Parker, you’d found them all. Your favorite was the food truck that served nothing but mac and cheese. Yes, please. You ordered for both of you then got back in the car and made the short drive to PTMC.
This time of morning, the waiting area was emptier and the line was short. You held up the bag when you got to the window. “I come bearing food for Dr. Ellis.”
She smiled. “She told me you were coming. Go on back. Head for the big desk in the middle of the floor. They’ll find her for you.” The door to the right buzzed and you pushed through.
The desk was easy to find. You sat the bag on the counter and waited for the woman on the phone to acknowledge you. She held up a finger, finished her conversation and looked at you with a smile. “How can I help you, hon?”
“I’m looking for Parker Ellis. I brought her food.”
Her smile turned into something less customer service. “And how do you know our Dr. Ellis?”
“Roommate/besties,” you said with a grin.
“Well, you’re fine to wait there. She’s in with a patient but she should be out in a minute.”
“Thanks.” You tapped your hand softly on the counter as you bounced your foot. You were always wound up after a shift. You caught movement from the corner of your eye and turned your head.
A man had left a room a short distance away and stopped in his tracks. You ran your gaze over him, taking in the auburn hair scattered amongst the gray curls. He wasn’t overly tall and his build suggested he spent time in the gym. He was just your type from head to toe.
You checked his neck first. Finding no mating bite, you looked at his hand. Wedding ring. Damn. You made the mental adjustment you needed at knowing he was unavailable. It was disappointing, but not surprising. You were just dropping off food for your roommate and the attractive doctor was—
The attractive doctor with the wedding ring was staring at you.
His jaw worked, but his eyes didn’t move from your form. He stepped closer until one hand gripped the edge of the counter a short distance from you.
“Ah, Dr. Abbot. This is Parker’s roommate. This is our senior night shift attending.”
Parker’s boss. She’d mentioned him before, several times in fact. “Hi,” you said because it seemed like the thing to say.
Abbot opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
“Hi,” he said finally. His voice was rough, lower than you’d expected.
You couldn’t stop the small shiver that crawled up your spine. Fuck.
That delectable scent he’d smelled all night until Parker ditched her hoodie slammed into Jack the moment he opened the door to the patient room he’d been in. His head snapped up as he sanitized his hands absently, zeroing in on you standing at the hub.
The small sampling he’d had earlier had nothing on you here in person. My god, you smelled delectable. There was no question in his mind that you were his Omega. He forced himself forward, one step, then two, until he was holding onto the counter.
He didn’t know how to go about this, how to broach the subject. His wife had been a beta, there was no need to have the ‘hey, you’re my mate’ conversation. Did he just…tell you? No, that didn’t seem right.
He vaguely registered Lena introducing you as Parker’s roommate. He managed to stutter out a greeting but before he could say anything else, Parker appeared from the room she’d been in for the last ten minutes. She zeroed in on you and pulled you into a hug.
Jack’s hands flexed at his sides as he reminded himself that Parker wasn’t a threat and that you had no idea who the fuck he was.
Parker draped an arm across your shoulders. “You are a goddess.”
You hummed in agreement. “Fat Cats.”
She groaned. “I owe you my first born. Maybe my second, too.”
“I’d be concerned about being saddled with your random children but I know you don’t want kids.”
Parker laughed then turned to Jack with a smirk. “See you met my roommate, boss.”
Jack huffed. “You could have just told me.”
She shrugged. “Could have. Didn’t. This is so much more fun.”
Your brow furrowed as you looked between the two of them. The look of confusion was absurdly endearing. “Am I missing something?”
Jack was at a loss for words which was entirely unlike him. Parker grinned wider and turned to you. “Dr. Abbot here would love to take you to breakfast. And you want to let him.”
Silence stretched for a beat before the two of you spoke in unison. “I do?”
Jack’s head snapped to you to find you already looking back. The corner of his mouth lifted in a small smile. “I mean…I do. After shift?”
You glanced at Parker. She gave a small, deliberate nod.
“Sure. I can do breakfast, I guess, if Parker’s gonna be weird.” Your gaze dropped to his left hand, to the ring he hadn’t been able to bring himself to remove. “Your wife will be okay with that?”
“Widower,” he said, deciding it best to just be blunt.
You blinked once, glanced to Parker who nodded again before you looked back to him. “Sure. Breakfast sounds good. I can meet you here, I was picking Parker up anyway.”
He nodded, hoping the surge of happiness he felt wasn’t completely evident on his face. He should have a little decorum dammit. “I’ll meet you by the bay door?”
“Yeah, sure. Parker can let me know if you’re running late.”
So, you didn’t want to give him your number yet. He understood that. After all, you didn’t know what he did, his suppressants firmly in place. “I’m looking forward to it.”
You gave him a small smile at that. “See ya, doc. Parker.” The narrow-eyed look you shot Parker had him chuckling.
You’d no sooner gotten out of sight when Parker’s phone buzzed in her pocket. She pulled it out and laughed as she typed. “Her exact words? ‘What the fuck was that?’”
Jack crossed his arms and shifted his weight. “And what did you say?”
“I told her to trust me.” She put her phone away and grabbed the bag. “Now I am going to eat at least part of this before I get called away again.”
Jack’s gaze trailed her as she walked toward the break room. She turned around part way there. “Oh, and Abbot? She my not be my mate, but she’s my person. Don’t hurt her.”
He held Parker’s gaze, sure and steady. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
You waited near the bay doors, off to the side where you’d be out of the way. A couple of people going inside had glanced in your direction but kept walking without questioning you. You must look harmless enough for them to leave you alone. You tapped your foot as you wondered if this was really a good idea or not. You’d dwelled on it all night, your brain circling back to the odd conversation with Parker and her boss that you seemed to be missing a piece to.
The door hissed open and you glanced up to see Parker stepping out. She had your hoodie thrown over the top of her scrubs. She gave you one of her famous grins and waved, car keys in hand. You hadn’t given much though on how you were supposed to get home after this…date? Yeah, you supposed it was. Dammit, Parker.
She didn’t stop to talk to you, just calling back. “He’ll be out in a minute. You can thank me later.”
You stared after her, shaking your head. “I’m going to murder you. Slowly,” you yelled after her.
Her laugh floated back to you. “You’re welcome!”
You were still shaking your head, mouth curled into a crooked smile when the scent reached you. Rich, citrusy with a hint of cedar. Alpha. Yours.
You inhaled deeply and turned your head slowly to the side to find Jack Abbot standing a few feet away.
The scrub top was gone, leaving him in a fitted gray t-shirt. His curls were damp around his face, like he’d splashed water on it before coming out. He gave you a real smile. Not the small one you’d seen earlier. A wide, careless gesture that crinkled the skin around his eyes.
“Oh,” you said. That was inadequate but you were still processing that this was your Alpha. Yours. And Parker had obviously known and let you walk in blind. Damn her.
Finally, you said, “Hi.”
“Hi,” he echoed as his warm gaze took you in. He held out a hand, not in greeting but rather in invitation.
You took it, his touch everything you needed as he laced your fingers together.
Ghost is ugly, it's a fact he's learned to live with. It'd never truly been an insecurity...until now.
You find ghost stood in the bathroom of your apartment, the one that you practically share at this point, staring at the mirror. He's got that subtle scrunch to his nose that would be a pinched expression on anyone else.
"Si, what're you doing, baby?" You ask, wrapping your arm around his side, leaning into his space. Your eyes drift down to his hand, holding various pamphlets. "What's this?"
Simon holds the pamphlets up for you, and a quick glance has you frowning. Reconstructive surgery. Worn at the edges, as if stored in a bag for a long time, something he got years ago. Still, he asks "would you...would you prefer if I got my face...fixed?"
"Simon..." you whisper, shocked. Ghost trails a hand over his face, fingertips dipping into the grooves of scars and catching over bits that never healed right. They pause over the gash that tore a hole straight through his cheek.
"I can't eat right, and I see the way people...People look at us." He whispers to you. You should have seen this coming after last night.
Your anniversary dinner, two whole years. It was a fancy restaurant, and you wanted to strangle the waiter for how he looked at your simon just trying to enjoy the meal. A cloth placed under his mouth, hunched over the plate to avoid making a mess. He's always been messy, unable to eat cleanly with all the injuries to his face.
The other patrons stared, and you ended up calling the night short in pure rage. Now, simon thinks it's his fault.
"I would never forgive you if you did," you finally whisper, grab his jaw and pull his face away from the mirror. Simon looks shocked by your answer, so you thumb over the divot in his lip, smiling "you are as beautiful as the day i met you. I love how you look, and I'm sorry that I made you doubt it."
"I don't look normal..." ghost tries to counter, but he melts into the palm of your hand like a stray dog finally feeling kindness.
"I don't want normal, I want you, si. I always want you," finally, you pull him into a kiss. Slow, deep, reverent. There in the same bathroom you cut his hair in, the same one he helped you shower in. The grout surely still has flecks of his blood in them from bad nights, but you don't fear the rot.
You toss the pamphlets out, wish you could burn them where they sat.
Instead, you pull ghost into bed and promise to show him you feel no amount of disgust or shame for any part of him.
It's a lot healthier to go for a daily walk than to sign up for a gym membership you won't be using because you hate that kind of exercise. It's a lot healthier to eat a frozen meal than to skip a meal because you were too tired to cook something healthy. It's a lot healthier to take a quick shower than to procrastinate an elaborate routine for days. Don't aim so high that you won't be hitting anything!
Price has, on mutliple occasions this week alone, verbally torn some poor unsuspecting soldier to shreds.
It's absolutely terrifying, given the captain hardly deals with anyone outside of the task force and never cared enough to properly yell. The entire base has been eerily tense, terrified of being the next to fall to his wrath.
Which, of course, means the team are insistent on figuring out what the hell is wrong with him.
They subtly track him around base, updating the group chat with any information. Price follows his usual routine with a firm scowl on his face, people leaving rooms when he walks in, but nothing out of the ordinary.
Not until gaz watches price step out to his usual place to smoke, walk and annoyed circle and do....nothing? Gaz is about to approach when price pulls out his phone.
"Hi, love," the scowl on prices face smoothes out instantly, and gaz knows he's talking to you, his spouse. "Just checking in."
He scrubs a hand over the back of his neck, the same motion he does after an exhausting mission "I miss you too, sweet'art. Just a few more days an' I'll be with you, okay?"
For the first time in weeks, price smiles that soft loving smile. Gaz narrows his eyes, waits for price to fish out a cig while he talks but...it never happens.
Instead, price pulls out a piece of gum, settles heavily against the wall, and asks with all the adoration in the world "how's baby doing?"
Oh shit.
Turns out, price has been on the verge of homicide because his beloved spouse is pregnant and he doesn't want to make baby sick smoking around the house, nor does he want to upset said spouse with the "most foul smell I've ever experienced, john" by smoking on base.
Price quit smoking cold turkey for you and his future kid.
Reader getting the worst callsign on base despite the fact you're not even a soldier.
No one knows your name, but everyone knows you're "ghost whisperer" which, in your opinion, is a shit nickname.
Why that name? Because you're the only one ghost listens to.
If anyone needs anything from ghost, reports, papers, signatures or anything else, they go through you. Because through you it actually gets done instead of brushed off or on rare occasions spitefully burned.
The current rumor is that, being prices kid, you're protected by the captain and ghost has to listen to you.
Other rumors include you and ghost having a...different kind of relationship.
The truth?
Nearly every Saturday you and ghost meet up late into the night at one of the gyms your friend owns, and you beat the shit out of him. As it happens, the way to earn ghosts respect is to accidentally send him to medical at least once every few months.
You still tell people he's sleeping with you, but that's mostly to piss off your dad.
—summary: you are the people’s princess, adored by many, owned by duty; as a targaryen, your hand is a prize, your heart a war. two men are willing to fight the world for it, two opposites, two sides of the moon. but it is your loyalty that will decide which man you stand beside… and which one you stand against.
—pairing: ser duncan the tall x female!targaryen!reader ─ aerion targaryen x female!cousin!reader
—word count: 3k
—content: targcest, love triangle!!! jealous and manipulative!!aerion, aerion has been in love with the reader since forever but he is very mean as you know, kind of dreamer!reader, complicated family dynamics (💀), power imbalance, dunk and reader want each other sooo bad, past life lovers trope!! aerion being his usual self, a little mention of reader's hair length.
⋆ . ۰˚ ☽ ˚ ｡ 1 / 7 ── series masterlist here!
writer’s note: english is not my mother tongue, so please forgive me if there is a grammatical error. this will definitely be a series! 🤭 hope you like it!
You, as was well known, did not fit the mold of the typical Targaryen. You didn't have an evil character, nor were you possessed by the fervent rage of the dragon fire running through your veins. And you weren't detached from the ground like most members of your family, who elevated themselves to the skies, rising up like gods.
For that, the Gentle Dragon, the people would call you. But you were nowhere near being gentle as your father, you believed.
You sure were charming, a seductive force of nature, who had men falling under your spell wherever you went. And you would pretend to be oblivious, brushing off their awful attempts to conquer you as if they meant nothing beyond a bit of fun.
Long before you were old enough to consider wedlock, noblemen and knights had been swarming around you with marriage proposals and negotiations with Prince Baelor for your hand. A castle, they would offer, an ancient treasure, an entire army. But never true and loyal love.
That was, until you met Ser Duncan the Tall.
The first time you saw each other; the afternoon sun was falling heavily on Ashford Meadow. Unlike your cousin and brother, you found no enjoyment in cruelty or status games, but since you were now of age to seek a husband, you had to attend such events, only after much persuasion had your father allowed you to attend with them.
A tournament was no place for a princess; there was blood and carnage everywhere, but blood and carnage coursed through your veins, after all. Your House had been built on that. And your womanhood came with it as well.
You had finally arrived at the place with your family, and your cousin Aerion, impatient and angry as ever, was pulling on his mare's reins with unnecessary force. The animal, a beautiful specimen but exhausted from the journey, whinnied with wide eyes.
You were already on the ground, gratefully petting the horses that had dragged your carriage all the way from King's Landing. Your handmaidens were carefully adjusting your dress and hair, standing all around you in the mud.
“Boy, stop gaping. See to my horse.” Aerion sneered contemptuously at the towering man standing by the entrance to the keep at Ashford Meadow, who was watching the scene with wide, amazed eyes, his lips parted as he kept admiring your dress and your silver hair, long and radiant under the cloudy and somber atmosphere of the place.
And at the sight of the prince addressing him, the tall blond man cleared his throat in discomfort. “I'm— I'm not a stable boy, m'lord.”
Aerion clicked his tongue, unimpressed, “not clever enough?”
Before the hedge knight could give him a proper answer, the Targaryen boy cut him off, waving his hand dismissively. “Well, if you can't manage horses, then fetch me some wine and a pretty wench.”
“Oh, m'lord, pardons,” from your distance, you could hear how the man sounded so small in front of Aerion, in spite of his impressive height. Somehow, that made you feel a sense of sympathy. “I'm n–no serving man, either. I–I have the honor to be a knight.”
His voice was so respectful and patient, and incredibly deep. A tingling sensation coursed through your belly as you somehow recognized it, like a faint and remote reminiscence, yet vividly present.
“My lady, your quarters are all set for you,” a maid approached to inform you, interrupting your little gossip session.
You turned to look at her, bowing your head elegantly in gratitude, “thank you, I will be there shortly.”
Your maids bowed to you and rushed to assist the other girl.
Your expression shifted completely the moment you noticed Aerion walking by your side, his face stone-cold and arrogant.
“Behave yourself, Aerion,” you scolded your cousin as he stormed past you, as angry as a caged lion. “We're not at home.”
He simply shot you a dark look, signaling you to be quiet and to walk with him, but you just rolled your eyes, ignoring him and making your way toward his agitated mare, which had been led away by the kind man from before towards the stables.
“There you are, girl. Far too many people around,” he was speaking gently to the mare, seeking to calm her. “Yeah, I don't like it either”
“Thank you,” you expressed your gratitude to the stranger, approaching him from behind and walking towards the mare, which was visually much calmer now. “She's very skittish.”
The man, taller than the animal by his side, turned toward you and, as he recognized you, his face broke into a look of shock. He let go of the mare's reins so he could face you and offer a clumsy bow.
“Your highness,” his blue eyes were sparkling nervously as they looked at you from his height. “I didn't mean to intrude. I beg your pardon.”
He was used to stables jus like that one, mud-covered roads, and the roughness of hedge knights, but he had never been so close to a member of the royal family. Much less one who looked at him with such kindness instead of disdain.
“It's just me, please,” you rushed to clarify with an embarrassed smile, as you reached out to caress the mare's muzzle and she gave in to your gentle caress. “'Your highness' is for my grandsire or my father or uncle. And you don't have to apologize for having a kinder heart than my cousin.”
He slowly straightened up under your attentive gaze, although he still hunched his shoulders slightly, as if trying to take up less space in order not to intimidate you.
He was absurdly tall, and his hands were so big that you wondered briefly if they would be able to wrap around your entire waist if he clasped them together around you.
And he wasn't ugly at all; in fact, you reckoned that with a good wash and some fresh, decent clothes, he'd be more handsome than any other man you'd likely ever see there.
“I'm— I'm Ser Duncan the Tall.” He stammered his own name as he introduced himself, offering you a weak smile that looked more like an involuntary nervous grimace on his lips. “It is an great honor to meet you, my princess. You are as beautiful as the stories tell.”
You could feel the heat rising up your neck at his sudden flattery.
A second after the words rolled off his tongue, Duncan seemed to realize what he had just said, for his big ears turned scarlet red with embarrassment.
“Why thank you, Ser Duncan,” you smiled, savoring the name on your tongue as if it were sweet honey. You knew you had heard it before, read it somewhere, or perhaps in a dream, but it didn't feel like the first time your lips had shaped the words. “You're very... tall”
As you glanced over him from head to toe, you noticed that he wore no badge on his old tunic, nor jewels on the pommel of his sword. On the contrary, you smiled sweetly when you realized that his sword belt was a mere piece of rope.
He smiled back at you, blushing. “Heh— I've been told that.”
“Ser Duncan the Tall...” you repeated his name slowly, lost in thought now, and he held his breath when you called out to him, watching you from above with curious eyes. “I believe I’ve heard that before, now that I think about it.”
His auburn eyebrows arched up on his forehead, looking incredulous, “Really?”
“Does that surprise you, Ser?” you asked back, holding back a giggle as you considered his expression.
That made Duncan blush even more. “No! I mean, aye—I have yet to begin my journey as a real knight. I will begin at the tournament here.”
Your head cocked in earnest interest, “Is this your first tournament, then?”
“It is, my princess,” Duncan confirmed, rubbing the back of his neck with embarrassment. “I was knighted not long ago. By Ser Arlan of Pennytree. He passed on the road, and before he died… he made me a knight.”
“I’m sorry for your loss,” you said softly, meaning it. “He must have been a good man, if he raised you.”
Duncan swallowed, visibly moved by your words. “Aye. He was good”
“You don’t look like the other knights here,” you observed quietly just after that.
Duncan frowned slightly. “Is that a bad thing, my princess?”
“No. It’s a good thing.”
You took another step closer, ignoring the protocol that dictated that a girl of royalty like you should not be in a dusty stable talking to a commoner like him.
But there was something about him, though, a purity that contrasted with the cruelty you usually saw in the men of your family.
“I know many knights. My cousin, for example, has the temperament of a wounded dragon, but none of its wisdom,” you admitted in a quiet tone, looking toward where Aerion had gone. “Don't take his insults personally. He despises everything he cannot dominate.”
“You don't have to apologize for him, princess. I'm used to that sort of treatment, unfortunately,” Dunk replied, looking down at you.
His blue eyes were clear, deep, and oddly sweet.
As a born empath, his words struck you with a pang of sadness. The idea that someone so noble of spirit and gentle was used to being treated as less than nothing by men who were not even worthy of being considered his equals was beyond your comprehension.
“Well, you shouldn't be,” you declared firmly. “Steel can make a knight, but it is the heart that keeps him standing. And from what I can see, Ser Duncan, you have more heart than half the lords at Ashford today.”
Dunk blinked, overwhelmed by your candor.
“You are... you are very kind, your Highness,” he was able to say, and this time his voice did not falter as much, although the blush remained bright on his cheeks.
From across the yard, you could hear Aerion’s sharp, impatient voice barking orders at some poor squire. The sound made you wince.
“I fear my cousin will make enemies wherever he goes,” you clicked your tongue in disapproval. “He always does.”
Duncan hesitated, then said carefully, bending down just a bit closer to you so he could confide an important truth, “Begging your pardon, but… he doesn’t seem the sort to win many friends.”
You laughed softly, covering your mouth with your hand. “That may be the politest insult I’ve ever heard, ser.”
That earned you a shy grin from him, crooked and boyish.
Gods, he really was handsome now that you were seeing him up close like that, with that little smile on his lips.
His back was broad, and his immense figure blocked your view like an imposing and majestic tower. You could climb him up like a mountain if you could...
The sudden, inappropriate flash of thought made you blush deeply and you lowered your gaze in shame, feeling hot all of a sudden.
Ser Duncan noticed it, of course, as he couldn't stop ogling at your face in such close proximity, and he caught sight of the dilation of your pupils as you looked up at him, and that also made him flustered, forcing himself to take a step back and regain his composure.
He cleared his throat, his face flushed with worry, “Are you alright, my princess?”
That emerging connection, so unusual between a princess and a knight, was interrupted by the sound of hurried footsteps on the gravel. A maid, breathless and pale with worry, appeared at the entrance to the stables.
“Princess!” gasped the girl, curtsying quickly but with some trepidation. “I've finally found you. Prince Maekar has been asking for you. He says it's time to go inside the fortress and that it's not fitting for someone of your rank to be out here alone.”
Dunk, on hearing your uncle's name, seemed to shrink a couple of inches in utter fear at your side. The mention of Maekar Targaryen, a man known for his severity and strong hand, was enough to intimidate anyone, especially a knight who barely owned the clothing he wore.
“I must go,” you said with a sigh of resignation, though your eyes remained fixed on the man in front of you. “My uncle is not a man who cares for waiting, much less when it comes to formalities.”
You turned to the maid to indicate that she should follow you, but before leaving, you gave Dunk one last look filled with a warmth he clearly did not expect.
“Ser Duncan,” you bowed gracefully. “I hope to see you again soon.”
“I... I hope so too, Your Grace,” he blurted out, bowing his head as he watched you walk away from him.
“I've told you countless times that you can't just wander off and strike up conversations with the first person you come across, cousin.” Aerion was giving you one of his usual scoldings as he walked alongside you through the main hall of the keep. “It's dangerous for a woman like you to wander around alone. Do you realize what you're exposing yourself to out there? All those men...”
You sighed, crossing your arms over your chest, “I was just comforting your mare, Aerion. She was terrified, and that tall kind knight was— he was just there too.”
The blond furrowed his brow, making a big effort to remember that he too had seen the same man before. “The dirty-clothed beast that was in the stables?” Realization washed over his face as he considered that your silence affirmed his judgment, “don't tell me—”
“He's good, Aerion. And his name is Ser Duncan the Tall,” you rolled your eyes, trying to pacify him. “It's one of the first times in a long time that I've been able to hold a good conversation with a man that isn't about titles or reprimands or power or marriage.”
Aerion let out a dry, humorless laugh, stopping abruptly under one of the stone arches of the fortress. He looked at you with that mixture of possessiveness and jealousy that always made your skin crawl, and not in a good way this time.
“A good man? That clumsy giant?” he mocked, drawing another step closer to you like a predator to its prey. “He's just cannon fodder, a nameless man who will die in the mud before the sun sets tomorrow. Men of his kind don't have conversations, my sweet cousin; they only have needs. Be careful, lest your ‘kindness’ be mistaken for something more vulgar.”
You felt a spark of indignation ignite in your chest at the offensive remarks aimed at your newest friend. “None of the men I speak to are to your liking, Aerion.”
“You have terrible taste, that's why. All I do is to protect you, my sweet dragon. None of those men are good enough for you, least of all that lout who reeks of horses and despair,” Aerion spat, narrowing his violet eyes. His voice dropped to a hissing whisper. “You must know your position. You are supposed to stand by your family, by me.”
You were about to respond with the sharp tongue you had been given by your lineage, but your uncle's deep, resonant voice cut through the air like an axe.
“Aerion. Stop tormenting your poor cousin.”
Maekar Targaryen strode toward you, dressed in dark clothes and bearing that look of perpetual disappointment that seemed to be carved permanently into his face.
His mere presence made Aerion straighten up, though it did not entirely wipe the smug smile from his face.
“Father,” Aerion greeted him with a lazy bow. “I was just reminding my dear cousin that stables are no place for a Targaryen. Apparently, she has a new friend... a certain Ser Duncan the Tall. A commoner knight with more dirt than honor.”
Maekar stared at you, his dark eyes scrutinizing you with an intensity that made you want to shrink back, though you forced yourself to hold your chin high.
“Is this true, niece?” Maekar demanded, dismissing his own son. “Have you been associating with the commoners?”
“I was tending to the mare that Aerion nearly mistreated to death, uncle,” you came in your own defense in a firm voice, though your heart was pounding. “Ser Duncan was the only one who had the decency to help, unlike the servants who fled in terror from my cousin's temper.”
Your uncle was silent for a moment, looking past you toward the courtyard where the tournament activity continued unabated.
“Ashford Meadow is full of desperate men seeking glory at the cost of our blood,“ Maekar finally concluded. “I don't care if he's a giant or a dwarf; keep your distance, girl. The tournament begins tomorrow, and I don't want any distractions from the fact that you're supposed to be here to seek a husband.”
He noticed the way you exchanged a complicit glance with Aerion, and that made him squint his hawk-like eyes.
“You behave like little children. Go to your chambers now,” Maekar ordered you both, though his tone was a little less stern and more tired. Upon seeing both of you resume your walk side by side, he sighed, utterly exhausted, “separated.”
Aerion’s lips twitched in irritation, but he obeyed. “As you wish, Father.”
Once in your chambers, as your handmaidens helped you out of your gown, chattering nervously about the morrow’s festivities, your mind was elsewhere.
With Ser Duncan.
Your maids spoke of silks and suitors, of alliances and advantageous matches, of which lord had looked at you for too long and which knight had nearly been unhorsed in practice that afternoon.
But you heard none of it.
Ser Duncan the Tall.
You were sure you had heard that name before. And that you had seen that face somewhere. But where?
In dreams, perhaps.
In another life.
Your hands trembled slightly as a maid loosened the last ties of your gown.
“Are you nervous for tomorrow, princess?” one of them asked, curious and enthusiastic. “So many fine knights will ride for your favor.”
You swallowed.
“I am never nervous for the knights,” you replied truthfully. “But for the horses”
They laughed softly, taking it for girlish shyness.
“Tell me something,” you called very softly, as casually as you could manage. “Have any of you heard of a knight named Ser Duncan the Tall?”
The room stilled for just a fraction of a second.
You had never asked for a man's name before. He must've been significant.
One maid frowned slightly, tilting her head. “Ser Duncan… the Tall?”
Another shook her head. “I don’t believe so, my princess.”
Another maid, older than the rest, pursed her lips thoughtfully. “I know most of the notable knights here,” she said. “At least the ones with banners or lands. I have not heard that name.”
“No sigil, then,” a third concluded. “He must be a hedge knight, Your Grace. One of no great standing.”
A hush fell over the chamber as you let yourself drift away into your deep thoughts.
One of the younger maids shifted uncomfortably before speaking. “Prince Aerion will be riding tomorrow as well, Your Highness.”
You did not look at her, but you felt the weight of the words.
“He always does,” another maid added, huffing lightly. “He has entered nearly every tourney since you came of age, princess.”
“For your favor,” a third said, lowering her voice as if the walls themselves might listen. “It is well known at court.”
The oldest maid sighed quietly. “The prince has never hidden it. He rides harder, fights fiercer when you are watching.”
“Prince Aerion will expect your favor,” the youngest maid whispered. “He always does. He will be furious if you deny him.”
“No,” you denied.
The room seemed to draw in a collective breath.
“No?” one maid echoed. “You have never denied him before, Your Grace. Prince Maekar will be displeased as well.”
“I will give my favor to Ser Duncan the Tall.”
The words settled into the chamber like some declaration of war.
A hedge knight.
Against a prince.
“My princess…” the oldest maid said carefully. “Do you understand what this will mean?”
“Yes,” you answered, certain.
Your voice did not tremble.
It surprised even you.
The feeling wrapped around your heart like a promise.
You would simply do what you had already done once in a dream.
₊⟡ "you didn't have to laugh at his jokes like that." -- "are you jealous?" -- "...maybe." [watches from across the room, drink untouched, jaw tight]
₊⟡ "he's just a friend." -- "i didn't ask." -- "you were thinking it so loud i could hear it."
₊⟡ "careful. your face is doing the thing." -- "what thing?" -- "the 'i want to fight someone' thing."
₊⟡ "you left me standing there for twenty minutes." -- "i got caught up." -- "with who." -- "...does it matter?" "yes."
₊⟡ "i don't like how he looks at you." -- "how does he look at me?" -- "like i look at you. and i don't share."
₊⟡ "are you actually mad or just being dramatic?" -- "can't it be both?"
₊⟡ "you're doing that thing where you get quiet and polite. i hate when you get quiet and polite."
₊⟡ "i'm not jealous." [white knuckles around a glass] "i'm just observant."
₊⟡ "who's he texting?" -- "why do you care." -- "i didn't say i cared." -- "you asked twice."
₊⟡ "you danced with him for one song." -- "one song." -- "i counted every second of it."
₊⟡ "say his name again like that and see what happens." -- "like what?" -- "you know exactly like what."
₊⟡ "i'm allowed to have friends." -- "i never said you weren't." -- "then why do you look like that every time i mention him."
₊⟡ "you didn't even notice i was in the room." -- "i noticed." "you didn't look at me once." -- "i looked at you the whole time. that's the problem."
₊⟡ "is this about earlier?" -- "what happened earlier." -- "don't do that." -- "do what." -- "pretend you don't remember exactly what happened earlier."
₊⟡ "he put his hand on your back." -- "it was nothing." -- "it wasn't nothing to me."
₊⟡ "i'm not mad you talked to him. i'm mad you didn't tell me you were going to."
₊⟡ "i trust you." -- "but?" -- "but i don't trust him."
₊⟡ "you could've just said you didn't want to dance with anyone else." -- "would that have been so hard to hear?" -- "no. it would've been exactly what i wanted to hear."
₊⟡ "you're being ridiculous." -- "maybe. doesn't mean i'm wrong."
₊⟡ "i wasn't jealous." -- "you left the party." -- "i had a headache." "you had a headache the exact second he sat next to me."
— summary: when you are forced to wed gwayne hightower to secure peace in the realm, you expect a monster—definitely not the gentlest, most patient and loving man in all of westeros.
— pairing: gwayne hightower x targaryen princess!reader
— word count: ~5.6k (wow)
— content: political/arranged marriage, slow burn, probably ooc!gwayne, lots of yearning, mutual pining, idiots in love (mostly gwayne), touch starvation, gwayne wants the reader so bad he is down pathetic for her, hurt/comfort, jealousy, mild verbal harassment/flirting from a third party, gwayne being the best husband ever, tooth-totting fluff. not proofread!
writer’s note: english is not my mother tongue, so please forgive me if there is a grammatical error. hope you like it!
Life in King's Landing after the wedding was a silent, armed dance. Officially, peace reigned—of course, that had been the entire purpose of it all from the very start, despite your—and especially Daemon’s—persistent objections, your mother had been adamant.
However, unofficially, the black and green servants still avoided one another in the castle's endless hallways, the black guards would grit their teeth whenever they crossed paths with the green ones, whilst you and Gwayne Hightower shared chambers that felt more like a wintry battleground than a bridal retreat.
Ser Gwayne was patient, just as he had promised, as he had vowed to be long before your wedding, ever since you first met him, many years ago.
And irritatingly determined and persistent. He was a full-fledged knight, quite possibly the most graceful and refined knight you had ever met in your entire life, and simultaneously, was the most frustrating and exhaustingly annoying man you'd have ever found.
The realization that Gwayne was different—good different—did not sit well with you at first, at all. You had spent years preparing for the worst, ever since you were a little girl, hardening your heart to face a kind of evil beyond comprehension, a wicked, darkness-filled, and power-hungry man as your husband, only to be met with one who treated your boundaries like sacred ground.
His outrageously determined crusade to win your trust only intensified with the passing moons after the festivities of your wedding ceremony had ended. It was a campaign fought not with swords, but with quiet, incredibly detailed gestures of devotion and above all, respect.
It all appeared to be an endeavour aimed at courtship, if not outright friendly intentions.
For every morning, you would wake to find a small silver tray on your vanity. On it lay a single, freshly plucked clover from the gardens—still damp with dew—and a small cup of hot, spiced tea brewed exactly how you liked it, with a dash of dried orange peel and heavy honey. He never stayed to hand it to you, knowing you valued your morning solitude. He simply left it as a silent promise, a gesture of kindness and thoughtfulness, one that he made in the knowledge that he was not truly expecting anything in return from you.
Breakfast with the royal family was, much like every gathering within the Red Keep, a careful performance.
Queen Rhaenyra sat at the head of the table, her silver hair braided with pearls, speaking quietly with Lord Corlys over matters of the Narrow Sea. Prince Daemon lounged in his chair to her right, lazily carving an apple with his dagger instead of using the silver knife laid before him. Baela and Rhaena exchanged amused whispers further down the table, while Jacaerys attempted—unsuccessfully—to keep Joffrey from feeding scraps of bread to Tyraxes' hatchling beneath the table.
Conversation slowed the moment the heavy doors opened.
Ser Gwayne Hightower entered alone.
Dressed in dark red and black rather than the bright Hightower colors of Oldtown—a concession made after the wedding—he crossed the hall with measured steps and every eye followed him.
He bowed first before the Queen. “Your Grace.”
Then to Prince Daemon. “My King.”
Daemon merely grunted, truly unconcerned by his presence.
Only then did Gwayne turn toward you, and the indigo blue of his eyes shimmered as bright as the heavens above the moment they found you, and your beautiful face, which seemed unbelievably more radiant that particular morning—like he always thought every morning.
You sat halfway down the table amongst your family, absently stirring honey into your spiced tea.
There was an empty chair beside yours and absolutely no one there would have questioned him for taking it, he was your husband, after all.
But, still, he stopped beside it, folding his hands neatly behind his back as he gazed down at you with soft eyes.
“My Princess,” Gwayne's voice was quiet enough that only the table could hear, “...may I sit beside you?”
Baela's brows lifted, Rhaena blinked, Jacaerys looked from Gwayne to you, visibly confused, as Luke was covering his mouth to avoid bursting into laughter. Even Queen Rhaenyra paused mid-sentence.
You slowly looked up from your teacup, your silvery brow wrinkling on your forehead. “Y–you are asking me?”
“I am.” He nodded once, giving you a quick, dimpled smile, his lips trembling slightly out of sheer nervousness.
The sight of your magnificent lavender eyes narrowing at him brought a sudden sweat to Gwayne’s palms and a thrilling shiver down his spine.
“You do realize you are my husband, Gwayne.” You tilted your head, visually disturbed by the entirety of the situation.
“I do.”
“And husbands generally do not request permission to sit beside their wives.”
“I know,” another faint, nervous smile touched his finely shaped lips. “I simply thought...” he continued, “...that perhaps you might prefer to enjoy breakfast with your family alone.”
Daemon let out a low snort at his words and so did Luke.
The Rogue Prince leaned back in his chair, watching the exchange with open amusement before taking a leisurely bite of his apple.
“I have seen beaten hounds with more confidence,” the prince drawled.
But Gwayne didn't even bother listening to him, since he was too absorbed in looking at you, taking in the beauty of your gorgeous face, and delighting in the pleasure of having your beautiful eyes lock onto his for such a long moment.
“If you would rather I sit elsewhere,” Gwayne continued softly, “I shall.”
Daemon barked out a laugh this time, “there it is.”
Rhaenyra shot her husband a warning glance, silencing him instantly.
The corner of your mouth threatened to twitch and you concealed it behind a gentle sigh.
“You may sit, Ser Gwayne.”
The relief that softened his features was almost imperceptible, but you, obviously, were able to catch a sight of it. “Thank you, my darling.”
Only then did he pull out the chair and he waited until you had resumed your breakfast before seating himself, careful not to invade your space.
The faint flush already lingering upon his rosy, cute cheeks deepened into a intense red the moment you gifted him a gentle, intimate smile, reserved only for him to experience.
And he understood that, perhaps, you were starting to like him.
One warm afternoon, you find him in the library.
He is sitting at the massive oak table, surrounded by piles of heavy, leather-bound books. His forehead is furrowed in deep concentration, and he is clumsily trying to translate a passage of High Valyrian, his pronunciation so atrocious that even from the doorway, you could hear him butchering the ancient vowels.
“It is ñuha, Gwayne, not nu-ha,” you correct him, leaning against the doorframe. “You sound like a dying frog, Ser.”
Gwayne is startled, cousing him to drop his quill, which lefts a tiny blot of ink on his nose. He looks up, a sheepish but entirely delighted grin breaking across his handsome face.
Your husband is breathtakingly beautiful, not only that day, but every bloody day; his flaming red hair seems to burn under the afterglow of the dying sun, and his face, oh his face, flushed with embarrassment and shy delight, beams under your heavy gaze.
You can easily see how truly happy he is to have earned a glimpse of your notice, one that isn’t merely a display of good manners or basic politeness, but real attention and genuine interest in him.
“I must apologize, my princess,” still, your husband hurries to excuse himself, flashing you a sheepish smile. “I have been endeavoring to master a few words of the tongue of your ancestors... Though it was never my intent that you should overhear my clumsy attempts, darling.”
You lean your head back against the heavy wooden frame of the door, crossing your arms over your chest as you look over at him. You squint your eyes, granting yourself a quick moment to meticulously examine his features.
The ink smudge on his nose does absolutely nothing to diminish how strikingly handsome he is. If anything, it softens his countenance, rendering him younger—a dream made flesh—as he looks up at you as though you alone have hung the stars in the celestial vault.
“Clearly,” you mock, a thread of gentle amusement and teasing irony weaving into your voice as you finally detach yourself from the timber frame.
With measured, quiet steps, you cross the quiet chamber floor and come to a standstill beside his high-backed chair, looking down upon the erratic, ink-stained scratching that mars his parchment and all over his face.
Gwayne is utterly perplexed, rendered near speechless, unable to bring himself to move at all, unwilling to risk upsetting you too much and having you step away, for your closeness and warmth and the way you are looking down at him have him holding his breath and entirely spellbound.
“...Princess?”
Before your lips can shape a reply, your hand moves toward him. Your fingers advance with a sudden, delicate hesitation. You gently press the pad of your thumb against his nose, wiping away the dark stain of ink he has left behind.
At your touch, Gwayne freezes instantly. Not only that, the breath abandons his lungs entirely; his azure eyes widen as the soft skin of your fingers makes contact with his warming cheek.
He does not draw back, nor does he make any motion to stay your hand. He simply sits there, utterly captive to your gentle touch, his visage flushing a deeper, more magnificent shade of pink beneath the warmth of your thumb.
“You have ruined your cute little nose, husband,” you note softly, your voice scarce above a whisper, striving—and failing—to maintain a veneer of cold indifference.
“A worthy sacrifice,” Gwayne breathes, his gaze dropping to your lips for a fleeting, breathless second before rising once more to meet your eyes, alight with a quiet, shimmering hope.
Slowly, you pull your hand back, though you don't step away. You point to a specific line on his parchment, where he has scribbled a phrase over and over again until the ink is nearly illegible.
“You wrote this wrong,” you say, your tone softening further as you lean over the table, your shoulder brushing lightly against his doublet. “Here. ‘Kirimvose, ñuha dōra.’ You translated it as ‘Thank you, my peace.’ But dōra is a very clunky word for it. If you want to say it correctly...”
You take up his discarded quill, dip the nib into the dark inkwell, and trace a clean, elegant script of High Valyrian beneath his unpracticed scrawls.
“...you must say, ‘Kirimvose, ñuha mēre.’ Thank you, my only.”
Gwayne stares at the graceful calligraphy, then lifts his eyes to yours, his green gaze shimmering in the dying, amber light of the afternoon.
He repeats the foreign words on his tongue, his pronunciation still marred by a slight Andal accent, yet spoken with such profound, deliberate weight that the phrase hangs in the air like a solemn vow.
“Kirimvose, ñuha mēre,” he echoes after you, striving with earnest devotion to no longer appear a shameful sight in your estimation.
“Mhm...” you hum in quiet approval, nodding faintly as your eyes trail from the manuscript back to his face. “You are a fast learner, Gwayne.”
For a long, suspended moment, neither of you breaks the silence. There is only the scent of aged parchment, the fading golden glory of the sunset, and the steady, quiet rhythm of Gwayne’s breathing beside you.
Slowly, you slide your hand across the polished oak table, until your fingers brush against his own.
Gwayne’s breath catches in his throat. He does not immediately clasp your hand; instead, he waits, granting you ample grace to pull away should you so choose. But when you remain right there beside him, his fingers slowly, reverently fold over yours. His palm is warm and somewhat calloused, yet his grip is incredibly tender, as though he were cradling something infinitely precious and fragile.
He is always like that. Gentle, patient. Always patient.
It is utterly infuriating.
You find the very existence of Gwayne Hightower entirely vexing, for you have grown accustomed to the tales of husbands who behave like conquerors, thieves and exploiters who claim everything and yield nothing in return, destroying the sacred meaning of marriage and devotion and love. Men who demand blind obedience, heirs, and subservience.
Instead, yours asked for permission before sitting beside you at the morning meal.
Gwayne is different. Good different. And that realization unsettles your soul more than any open threat ever could.
The shift between you is subtle, yet undeniable, a quiet, hairline fracture in the ice. Over the passing days, you find yourself less inclined to retreat into the guarded shadows of your mind during the evening feast.
No longer do you reach for the comfort of your own mind the very instant he crosses the threshold, nor flee far from his company, flying away on your dragon. Instead, you watch, you see him. You see the way he carries himself amongst the household guards, the way he never forces his presence upon your solitude, and how he genuinely, stubbornly persists in his quiet courtship.
You find yourself struggling to ignore the waves of warmth spreading through your chest every time you're with him, increasing your heartbeat, accompanied by that giddy feeling in the pit of your belly.
And as the days rolled by, you gradually got comfortable with Gwayne's persistent hovering around you.
One particularly cloudy morning, he made you giggle.
By the time Viridrax touches down upon the stone platform, kicking up a storm of dust and ash, your heart is still drumming against your ribs as you dismount gracefully.
You stroke the warm, rough hide of Viridrax's snout, breathing in the familiar scent of ozone and brimstone of her.
“Rikās, Viridrax,” you whisper softly in High Valyrian, resting your forehead against her snout. Stay. “Rest, my girl.”
The green dragon let out a long puff of hot smoke that singed the hem of your riding leathers, nuzzling your shoulder before settling down with a heavy, earth-shaking thud.
You unbuckle your flying gloves, your silver hair wild and wind-tangled, your cheeks flushed from the biting chill of the upper sky.
Turning to head toward the cavernous exit of the Dragonpit, you expect to see only the stoic, iron-clad Dragonkeepers—only to freeze in your tracks.
Standing right at the edge of the landing platform... is Gwayne.
He is wrapped in a heavy, dark red cloak lined with fur, standing entirely alone in the shadow of the colossal stone arches.
He looks painfully out of place amidst the ancient, dark stone of the dragonpit, yet he stands unnaturally still, his jaw set in a rigid line.
You see the exact moment he fights himself. He takes a heavy, deliberate breath, forcing his boots to stay firmly planted on the cold stone. He squares his shoulders, swallows hard against the knot of fear in his throat, and wills his trembling hands to relax at his sides.
He refuses to run. He refuses to look weak or faint-hearted in your eyes, forcing a composure he clearly does not feel as he faces down a nightmare made of scales and fire simply to be near you.
When his gaze finally locks onto yours, the terror in his eyes softens, replaced by that quiet, stubborn devotion that had been relentlessly chipping away at your own walls for moons.
“You are a fool, Gwayne,” you call out to him, your voice cutting through the heavy, tense silence of the vault as you slap your gloves against your leather-clad thigh. “Viridrax does not share my patience, and she certainly does not share my tolerance for Hightowers.”
A soft, breathless laugh escapes Gwayne's rosy lips, though it sounded more like a relieved gasp as he managed to hold his ground before you. “Then it is fortunate... that I came to see you, my Princess, and not your... magnificent companion.”
Very sowly and cautiously, as if navigating a minefield, he takes two measured steps forward, coming to a stop just a few paces away. He is still within strike of Viridrax’s tail, yet he focus every ounce of his attention entirely on you, forcing the looming threat of the beast right behind your back into the background of his mind.
“You've been standing in this damp pit,” you note, narrowing your eyes as you studied the pale flush on his handsome face and the faint tremor in his hands. “How long?”
“Long enough to watch you descend from the heavens,” Gwayne replies softly, a faint, sheepish smile finally managing to break through his nervous tension. “It was... a terrifyingly beautiful sight. Though I must admit, standing down here requires s–significantly more courage than I—I anticipated.”
Right as the last stuttered word leaves his lips, Viridrax shifts her immense weight behind you.
The massive emerald dragon stretches her neck, opening her cavernous jaws to release a sudden, bone-rattling growl—a deep, reverberating snarl that vibrates through the flagstones and shakes the very dust from the vaulted ceiling. A cloud of scalding, sulfurous steam vents straight from her nostrils, whipping the hem of Gwayne’s dark red cloak around his boots.
Gwayne’s forced composure shatters in an instant.
His indigo eyes widen to the size of silver stags. He squeaks—a high, pathetically un-knightly sound—and jumps a good foot into the air, instinctively throwing his arms up to shield his face. His boots scramble backward on the slick stone as if he were trying to outrun a falling star, his grand cloak wrapping clumsily around his legs until he nearly trips over his own spurs.
A sudden, helpless snort escapes you. You clap a gloved hand over your mouth, but it is useless. A burst of giggles bubble up from deep within your chest, echoing wildly off the high stone walls of the Dragonpit.
Gwayne blinks, his wide, terrified gaze slowly darting from the dragon over to you. Seeing you helpless with laughter, his pale cheeks instantly flood with a dark, burning crimson that spreads all the way to the tips of his ears.
You gently reach out and clasp his hand, your fingers curling firmly around his trembling, warm palm.
“I have seen seasoned knights faint in her presence,” you tease him. “But I do believe that high-pitched squeak was a first.”
Gwayne lets out a long, heavy sigh, his fingers instantly clasp yours, firm and desperate. “I believe she enjoys seeing me humiliate myself in front of you. Like everyone else in this place.”
“Oh, she doesn't care enough about you to want to humiliate you, my lord,” you say, your thumb lightly rubbing the back of his knuckles to soothe the lingering panic in his pulse. “But Viridrax would never harm you. Not while you belong to me.”
He is rendered speechless and with his jaw hanging open in utter amazement, he happily lets you pull him along by his hand.
You like Gwayne Hightower.
And the catalyst of it all arrives upon a sweltering evening, during a feast thrown to celebrate your mother, the Queen's name day. The Great Hall is suffocating, thick with the heavy stench of roasted meats, the clinking of silver chalices, and the low, rumbling laughter of lords who wear their loyalties like hidden daggers beneath their velvet doublets.
Gwayne remains by your side for the better part of the night, watching over your form with that quiet, devoted vigilance to which you have slowly grown accustomed.
He is, as ever, the very mirror of a chivalrous knight, attentive, pouring your sweet Arbor wine before his own cup is even touched. Yet, the fragile illusion of peace shatters the moment the musicians strike up a slower, more solemn air.
“My princess,” a drawling, dangerously familiar voice interrupts your thoughts.
Turning, your gaze falls upon Ser Lucon. He wears a smug, mocking smirk and offers a grand, sweeping bow that does nothing to conceal the bold, unseemly lust lingering within his dark eyes.
Lucon is a handsome, swaggering lordling from the Crownlands, possessing dark curls and an arrogance that has long since outstayed its welcome. He was numbered among the many suitors who actively courted your favor before your political match to Gwayne Hightower was sealed by the High Septon.
“It would be an absolute tragedy for the fairest maid in the keep to sit out such a song,” he says, extending a gloved hand toward you. “Grant me this dance, Your Grace. For the sake of old days.”
With an imperceptible sigh, you place your hand in Lucon’s grip.
“A single dance, Ser,” you consent, your voice flat and strictly formal.
Before stepping onto the rushes of the floor, you catch Gwayne’s eye. His jaw is clenched so tightly it resembles carved stone, his fingers brush restlessly against the pommel of his sword.
Lucon leads you into the center of the hall. As the measure begins, he presses closer than etiquette or decency should ever permit, his hand gripping your waist with an unnecessary, firm pressure that draws you flush against his massive frame.
“The livery of the greens suits you, my princess,” Lucon whispers near your ear, his warm breath thoroughly vexing your senses. “Though every soul in the Red Keep knows that squire of a husband possesses not the slightest inkling of what to do with a dragon’s fire.”
“Watch your tongue, Ser Lucon,” you hiss, keeping your visage a mask of polite indifference as the steps force you both to spin. “Gwayne is my lord husband, and I assure you he is twice the knight you could ever hope to be.”
Lucon lets out a soft, derisive laugh that makes your blood boil in your veins.
“Is he? For from where I stand, I can feel how cold your skin remains. Were you mine...”
Before the lordling can finish his blasphemy, a heavy, iron-firm hand clad in boiled leather grips his shoulder, bringing your turn to an abrupt and dead halt.
Gwayne has stepped directly onto the dance floor. His blue eyes, usually so soft and pleading when they seek yours, are now dark as a stormy night, fixed upon Lucon with a promise of absolute violence.
“Your dance is finished, ser,” Gwayne says. His voice is a low, raspy whisper, yet it carries a lethal edge that causes the nearby lords and ladies to step back hastily, sensing the sudden peril.
Lucon, striving to maintain his arrogant facade, does not relinquish his grip upon your waist right away.
“Ser Gwayne, let us not ruin protocol. The Princess and I were—”
“I said, unhand my wife,” Gwayne interrupts, stepping forward so sharply that Lucon is forced backward by sheer physical instinct. Gwayne’s hand slides down from the knight's shoulder, clamping around Lucon's wrist with a crushing, bone-grating grip to force his release. “Now. Before I forget where we stand and decide to teach you proper court manners in the middle of this hall.”
The tension within the Great Hall becomes suffocating. The hands of your guards drift toward their swords, and your kin move a step closer. The air is thick, ready to spark into a bloodbath over a sudden flash of jealousy.
Knowing that a single wrong move could incite slaughter this night, you step in, subtly placing your body between both men. You press a firm hand against Gwayne’s chest and beneath the fine fabric of his doublet, you can feel his heart hammering wildly, violently, like a trapped beast.
“That is enough,” you announce, your voice ringing with an authority that commands the quieted room. You fix Lucon with a look of pure disdain. “If you dare to ever raise a hand to me or my husband again, that will be the last time you'll have hands. Leave us now.”
Lucon swallows hard, looking from Gwayne’s iron grip upon his wrist to the fierce fire in your eyes. Offering a stiff, forced bow, he retreats into the crowd, quickly losing himself in the shadows of the pillars.
Gwayne does not break his stare from the corridor where Lucon vanished, his chest heaving with heavy, erratic breaths. He is trembling slightly—not from any tremor of fear, but from the massive, physical restraint it takes not to draw his steel and kill the lord.
You take his hand, sliding your fingers into his and the touch seems to pull him back from the brink of madness; his sky blue eyes find yours, wide and filled with a raw, vulnerable mix of wrath and desperation.
“Are you well, my love?” still, he needs to ensure your well-being, his other hand rising close to your face, grazing your cheekbone just a tickle. "Forgive me. I... I lost my composure. If I have embarrassed you—"
“I am well,” you assure him. “Let us return to our chambers, p–please, Gwayne.”
Your wish is his command.
The heavy oak doors of your chambers have scarce clicked shut behind you before the silence within the room becomes unbearable.
Gwayne immediately begins unbuckling his ceremonial clothing and trappings, his movements uncharacteristically rough, frantic, and impatient. He hurls his heavy leather gauntlets onto the table with a resounding thud.
“You were jealous,” you accuse, cutting through the quiet, tense silence.
Gwayne freezes. He keeps his back turned to you for a long, agonizing moment, his shoulders rigid beneath his fine linen shirt.
When he slowly turns around, you can see how weak and vulnerable his composure truly is. His auburn hair is slightly disheveled, and his eyes lock onto yours with a desperate, burning intensity.
“I am a man, darling, not a statue of the Seven,” he says, his voice raw with emotion and despair. “I have spent months keeping my distance, respecting your sanctuaries, sleeping on the very edge of our bed because I wanted—I needed—you to feel safe in my presence. I have choked down my own desires every single day.”
You look up at him, your own breath catching in your throat. The dangerous, thrilling tension in the chamber is so thick it makes you hold your breath.
“Desires?” Your absurd remark is swallowed up by his deep voice, and with every step he takes closer to you, it feels as if your chest is collapsing.
“—watching him look upon you in that manner? Watching his hands defile your waist, whispering filth into your ear, smell your scent?” Gwayne’s breath catches, his jaw tight as iron. “Yes. I was jealous. I desired nothing more than to tear him apart on the rushes.”
“And what of now, Gwayne?” you challenge softly, stepping even closer, until your chest almost brushes his. “Are you still angry?”
“Not angry,” Gwayne denies, his gaze dropping instantly to your lips, his hands trembling slightly at his sides as he fights the desperate urge to seize you, to touch you, to hold you close to him and never let you go. “Tormented. Because you stand so close, and I am still striving to be the gentleman you deserve. B–but I... I was a fool. I allowed my temper to master me and—and I embarrassed you before the court and before your mother and your family—”
“You truly are a fool, Hightower.”
His face falls. For one terrible heartbeat, he believes you have confirmed his deepest terror—that he has frightened you, that every careful step forward over the past moons has just crumbled beneath his own beastly nature, his most profound instinct, his own feelings.
“I am terribly sorry, please forg—”
“You stopped.”
The words are quiet, but they silence him instantly.
You look upon him for a long moment before continuing, trying to properly piece together the thoughts you're trying to express, making sense out of the overwhelming turmoil of emotions that's raging in your chest.
“You could have struck him down. You could have just―thrown your gauntlet. Seven hells, most husbands in this wretched court would have drawn steel before the man even finished insulting their honor. Because that's all that matters to them―their own honor, their own property, their own m–masculine pride.” Your eyes search the depths of his. “Instead... you stopped.”
Gwayne swallows, his throat dry. “B–barely.”
“But you did. I expected to spend my days bound to a stranger who would demand everything from me, to whom I would be nothing more than a prize with the right family name, something of his own property, another boost to his own pride.”
Your fingers hesitate before lightly smoothing a wrinkle in the front of his linen shirt, your fingers trembling with emotion against his body, overwhelmed by that flood of mixed feelings rushing through your heart and body.
You can feel his heart pounding up against the palm of your hand, so powerful and fast that it makes your flesh crawl. “I never...I never imagined I would wed a man who offers apologies for being jealous when another touches his lady wife.”
His cheeks flush. “I fear I was not particularly knightly, then.”
“No,” a faint smile tugges at your lips, and at that, his tense shoulders slump slightly. “You were terribly possessive.”
“Yes.”
“And rather intimidating,” you add.
“...Unfortunately. I didn't mean to scare you.”
“And,” you continue, unable to suppress the amusement warming your voice, “I believe Ser Lucon may never dare speak to me or even look at me again.”
“Well,” Gwayne says softly, a faint, lopsided smirk finally tugging at the corner of his finely shaped lips as his earlier shame gives way to quiet amusement, “in my defense, darling... you did threaten to cut his hands off.”
You blink, a sudden, breathy laugh bubbling up from your chest before you can stop it. “I was protecting my husband and myself.”
“And you did so with terrifying grace,” he murmurs, stepping the final fraction of an inch closer.
When you remain right where you are, leaning into his touch, his breath hitches in his throat. His thumb gently brushes against the fabric at your hip, his beautiful eyes sparkling with deep devotion.
But to your astonishment, Gwayne looks utterly horrified now.
“Oh.”
You blink. “...Oh?”
“I may have squeezed his wrist with too much force.”
Despite yourself, a laugh escapes you. A genuine one, bright and warm, echoing softly through the high timber rafters of the chamber, a sudden, sweet sound that cuts through the lingering tension of the evening like a blade through silk.
And for a heartbeat, Gwayne simply forgets how to draw breath.
He stands utterly still, his chest freezing mid-rise as though a spell has been cast over his very bones. His gentle eyes, wide, fix upon your lips and the soft crinkling at the corners of your eyes, committing the sight to memory.
“Gods,” he whispers, the word slipping past his lips on a breathless prayer.
You look up at him, the residual warmth of the smile still lingering upon your face, softening the pretty lines of your features. “What?”
“I have been trying for months,” he confesses softly.
“Trying what, Ser?”
“To make you laugh,” Gwayne responds. The solemnity of his voice breaks as a sheepish, self-deprecating smile tugs at his lips. “Though I fear my efforts have been entirely lacking. I have only managed to embarrass myself at every turn.”
You pull a little mocking grimace, a playful tilt of your chin that you haven't granted to another soul in the world. “You do possess a remarkable talent for that.”
“I know,” he murmurs, his laugh a low, rich vibration.
Without announcing your intent, you close the final span of floor between you and reach for his hands.
Gwayne’s eyes snap back to yours, a sudden, sharp hitch in his breathing betraying his astonishment and his smile fades. Yet, he does not hesitate. He closes his hands around your own with that same impossible, agonizing gentleness he always reserves for you, a man accustomed to the weight of a broadsword holding your fingers as though you are fashioned from the most fragile, priceless Valyrian glass.
You look down at your joined hands, his sun-kissed, calloused skin grazing against yours.
“Your palms are cold,” he notices, his thumbs immediately beginning a slow, sweeping motion across the backs of your hands, seeking to share the immense heat of his own body.
“They usually are,” you reply, a slight shrug shifting the fine fabric of your gown.
A crease appears between his brows, a look of genuine, heavy concern clouding his handsome face as he looks up. “You never spoke of this, my love.”
You shrug again, though a sudden, treacherous blush warms your cheeks beneath the intensity of his gaze and the way he pronounce the term of endearment. “I did not think it mattered.”
“It matters to me,” Gwayne counters instantly, his voice leaving no room for argument, heavy with a quiet, fierce conviction. “Every minor discomfort you bear matters to me, princess.”
He does not force the movement; his grip remains loose enough that you could pull away with the slightest tug. His beautiful eyes lock onto yours, silently, reverently begging for your permission.
You look into that azure gaze, finding no malice at all, but love and a patience that has finally broken through your defenses.
Finally, you give the smallest, faintest nod of your head.
Only then does he turn your hands over within his palms. Gwayne lowers his head, his auburn hair catching the gold of the firelight of your shared chambers, and presses the softest, most breathless kisses imaginable against your knuckles.
His lips are warm and parted slightly, the touch lasting barely a second—so brief, so achingly tender it could have been a passing whim of the autumn wind. Yet, the heat of it ripples up your arms and straight into your heart.
When Gwayne lowers your hands close against his heart, he looks almost startled by his own boldness, a deep blush creeping along his high cheekbones and down the column of his neck.
“I hope...” he says quietly, his voice catching in his throat as he searches your face for any sign of regret, “...that was not unwelcome.”
You look at him for what feels like an eternity and then, lifting one of your hands, you slowly reach up towards his face. Your fingertips hesitate for a fraction of a second before you gently brush a stray lock of fiery red hair away from his freckled forehead.
“No, my sweet husband,” you promise him, your hand lingering there, the palm of your hand cupping the warm, sharp line of his jaw as you look into the eyes of the man who has won your heart. “It was not. Nothing from you shall be unwelcome.”
He closes his eyes and presses his face up against the palm of your hand, seeking desperately to feel the warmth of your affection and melt into the gentle embrace of your love.
