Thought Daughter

The first time Oscar Tully met Daemon Targaryen's daughter, she was standing beneath the shadow of her dragon.

Smoke curled lazily around her boots as the beast settled behind her, wings folding with a sound like thunder rolling across the Riverlands. Soldiers instinctively stepped back. Even seasoned knights lowered their eyes.

Oscar simply stared.

Not because of the dragon.

Because she was smiling at one of the younger squires who had tripped over his own feet while trying to look brave.

She helped him stand.

Asked if he'd hurt himself.

The dragon behind her snorted, as if offended its rider was comforting frightened boys instead of inspiring fear.

Oscar smiled before he could stop himself.

"Gods," he murmured.

"She's beautiful."

Daemon Targaryen, who had happened to be walking behind him, heard every word.

"So I've been told."

Oscar turned.

Every story about the Rogue Prince had failed to capture just how dangerous he looked.

Dark Sister rested at his hip.

Caraxes lifted his enormous head several yards away, golden eyes settling directly on Oscar.

Most men would've looked away.

Oscar bowed politely.

"My prince."

Daemon folded his arms.

"You're looking at my daughter."

"I was."

"And?"

Oscar considered lying.

He'd never been particularly good at it.

"I'd quite like to marry her."

Silence.

Complete, horrified silence.

A nearby knight actually closed his eyes as though preparing to witness an execution.

Daemon blinked once.

Then Caraxes let out a low, rumbling growl that shook the ground beneath Oscar's boots.

Oscar looked toward the dragon.

"...Good afternoon to you as well."

Caraxes growled louder.

Daemon pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Leave."

"Yes, my prince."

Oscar turned obediently.

Then paused.

"I still intend to court her."

The growling stopped.

Daemon stared after him with the same expression one might wear after discovering a sheep had just challenged a wolf.

—

"Your father hates me."

Reader nearly choked on her wine.

"He threatened to feed you to Caraxes."

"Only twice."

She laughed.

"Twice?"

"The first time was after I told him I'd make you very happy."

Reader covered her face with her hands.

"And the second?"

"I asked where I'd need to stand during the wedding."

She burst into helpless laughter.

"You did not."

"I did."

"You've known me four days."

"I know."

"You don't even know my favorite color."

Oscar frowned thoughtfully.

"...Red."

She blinked.

"Because of House Targaryen?"

"No."

He smiled.

"Because whenever you're laughing your cheeks turn pink."

Her heart performed a ridiculous little flip.

Gods.

He was impossible.

—

Daemon tried everything.

He assigned Oscar patrols on the opposite side of camp.

Oscar finished them early.

He buried him beneath meetings with Riverlords.

Oscar attended every one before somehow finding Reader again before sunset.

He sent him into pouring rain to inspect supply wagons.

Oscar returned soaked through, carrying wildflowers he'd picked along the road because he'd thought Reader would like them.

She did.

She pressed them between the pages of her book.

Daemon nearly lost what remained of his patience.

"He cannot possibly be this cheerful."

"He usually is."

"There must be something wrong with him."

"There might be."

"He smiled at Caraxes."

Reader couldn't help herself.

"So did you."

"I was threatening someone."

"So was he."

Daemon frowned.

"...I dislike that you're defending him."

"I noticed."

—

It came to a head three weeks later.

Reader found Oscar sitting beside the river with his boots abandoned in the grass.

"You've survived another day."

"I have."

"My father hasn't killed you."

"He seems busy."

She sat beside him.

The evening sun painted the water gold.

For a while, neither spoke.

Finally she asked the question that had been bothering her since the day they'd met.

"Why aren't you afraid of him?"

Oscar laughed quietly.

"I am."

She looked at him in surprise.

"You don't seem afraid."

"I'm terrified."

"You certainly hide it well."

He picked up a smooth stone and skipped it across the water.

"I know exactly what Daemon Targaryen could do to me."

"And yet..."

He looked at her.

"And yet every time I think perhaps I should stay away..."

His smile softened.

"...you smile at someone."

"...or laugh."

"...or stop to help a servant carry something."

"...or spend an hour listening to an old soldier tell stories you've surely heard a hundred times before."

He shrugged.

"I decide frightening your father is the easier task."

She felt her throat tighten.

"Oscar..."

"I don't expect anything."

He spoke so gently that it almost hurt.

"I know this is war."

"I know tomorrow isn't promised."

"I know your father would rather I disappeared."

A pause.

"But if I never told you..."

His voice became almost shy.

"...I'd regret it for the rest of my life."

"I think I've fallen in love with you."

She had been courted before.

Princes.

Lords.

Heirs.

Every one of them had spoken about dragons, beauty, alliances, bloodlines.

Oscar spoke about the way she smiled.

No one ever had.

She reached for his hand.

He froze.

"I think," she whispered, "I've been waiting for you to say that."

His eyes widened.

"Truly?"

She nodded.

He laughed—an honest, joyful sound that echoed across the river.

Unfortunately...

"So."

They both turned.

Daemon stood twenty feet away.

Dark Sister rested casually across one shoulder.

Caraxes loomed behind him.

Reader sighed.

"My father."

Oscar stood.

"My prince."

"I leave the two of you alone for ten minutes."

"It was closer to twenty."

Daemon ignored him.

"You wish to marry my daughter."

"I do."

"You understand that if you ever make her cry—"

"I'll deserve whatever punishment you decide."

Daemon stopped.

That...

wasn't the answer he'd expected.

Oscar continued before courage abandoned him.

"I cannot promise she'll never know hardship."

"We live in difficult times."

"I cannot promise I'll always have the right answer."

"But I can promise she'll never wonder whether she's loved."

Reader felt tears sting her eyes.

Daemon noticed.

His expression softened for the briefest heartbeat.

He looked toward his daughter.

She was watching Oscar the way her mother had once looked at him.

Hopelessly.

Entirely.

There was no changing that now.

Daemon sighed heavily.

"I should throw you into Blackwater Bay."

Oscar nodded.

"I imagine so."

"I should feed you to Caraxes."

"I imagine that as well."

Caraxes lowered his great head until he was eye level with Oscar.

The camp collectively held its breath.

The dragon sniffed him once.

Twice.

Oscar very carefully reached out and scratched beneath one curved horn.

"You are much friendlier than your reputation suggests."

Caraxes made a deep, satisfied rumble.

Reader burst into laughter.

Daemon stared at his own dragon.

"...You've betrayed me."

Another rumble.

Daemon looked back at Oscar.

"I liked you better when I believed you possessed common sense."

"I'm afraid I never have."

"So I've gathered."

A long silence settled over them.

Finally Daemon stepped forward.

He took his daughter's hand.

Then, with obvious reluctance, placed it into Oscar's.

"If she comes home unhappy..."

Oscar squeezed her hand gently.

"She won't."

Daemon searched his face for arrogance.

There was none.

Only quiet certainty.

The sort earned by a man who already loved her enough to challenge dragons.

"Very well."

Oscar blinked.

"...Very well?"

"I've changed my mind."

Reader smiled.

"What changed it?"

Daemon glanced toward Caraxes, who was still watching Oscar with suspicious approval.

"My dragon has dreadful taste in people."

Another rumble answered him.

"But..."

He looked back at Oscar.

"...he has never been wrong."

Oscar grinned.

"Does this mean I have your blessing?"

Daemon sighed as though the words physically pained him.

"It means you're now my problem."

"I can live with that."

"I know."

Daemon began walking back toward camp.

After several steps he called over one shoulder,

"And, Lord Tully?"

"Yes, my prince?"

"If anyone asks..."

"I intimidated you."

Oscar looked down at Reader, whose shoulders were already shaking with laughter.

Then back at Daemon.

"Of course."

A beat.

"You were absolutely terrifying."

Daemon smirked.

"There. That's better."

The laughter doubles and strangles Gwayne accordingly, who is completely and utterly out of his element now. He swallows hard through a tightening throat and draws a slow breath through his nose, trying once again to steady himself — because it was not for himself that he was out here in the first place. It was for Daeron, and for the dozen other boys just like him that Ormund had lined along the front ranks to take the war’s first bite. 

So Gwayne presses on, forcing an evenness into his voice that he doesn’t exactly feel beneath the death glares all around him. “My cousin, Ormund, has taken leave of his senses. As I’m sure you’re aware. He’d rather die than admit defeat—”

“And you?” Daemon lilts lazily, resting his arms along the hilt of his sword.

Gwayne’s eyes cut across the men arrayed before him, still only a fraction of the true Black host. “Well, I’m not blind… I know we will not survive the day if you attack. So… As a token of good faith… I return your Hand.” 

He drops Corlys’s shackles with a heavy clinking sound, but does not take the blade from his side. The silence that follows seems to last for an eternity, until your pretty voice breaks it at last.

“Can he be a Hard with only four fingers?” you joke, tilting your head towards the old lord’s bandaged fist.

The laughter returns again. Gwayne’s icy blue eyes flits once more to you in a quick, assessing pass; he does not mean for his gaze to linger upon you, but he can’t quite manage to look away. Your armor catches in what little light breaks through the clouds overhead, carved with the intricate detailing of your house. And beneath all that heavy steel is your much softer face — beautiful and unbothered by the promise of war simmering in the heavy summer air.

There is something very wrong about you, Gwayne knows; something he can’t quite decide to be afraid of or intrigued by. A bit of both, perhaps.

“I’ve come to sue for peace,” Gwayne announces, louder now, forcing the words out over the laughter. ‘To plead with you at the behest of Daeron Targaryen.”

The amusement in Daemon’s pale eyes flickers at once, a distant warmth running cold as his thin mouth curls into a sharp grin. “The war will end when all the traitors’ heads are mounted on spikes about the King’s Gate,” the older man answers. “And not before.”

“Listen to Daeron’s entreaty,” Gwayne pleads, eyes growing wide behind the silken auburn tendrils swaying over his brows. “Divide the realm. Let the Queen rule over the Crownlands, the North, the Vale, all the lands watered by the Trident… And let Daeron rule from Oldtown—"

“Oh, gods…” Roderick groans in disgust from his left.

“He’s boring me, Daemon,” you tell the silver-haired man standing on foot before you, voice flat with a theatrical ennui that borders on girlish. “Just kill him already.” 

“Do you hear that?” Daemon laughs as he turns back to Gwayne. “You’re boring her… And trust me, Ser, you do not want to see how she gets when she’s bored—”

“You jest?” Gwayne spits as his composure splinters all at once. The words seem to spill from his mouth before he can stop them, as he approaches the older man on instinct alone. “You would rather callously cast aside the lives of thousands—”

He does not get another word out before Daemon’s hand closes suddenly around his throat.  The world tilts sideways as the man drags him downward in his fist. His metal glove digs hard into Gwayne’s milky white neck, cutting off just enough of his air supply to keep him conscious, though Daemon does not so much as blink at the show of strength.

“No one will rule but Rhaenyra,” Daemon tells him in a casual voice, even as Gwayne’s hands scrabble uselessly for purchase at his wrist. “The ordained Queen of the Andals, of the First Men, of beggars and thieves and cowards, like you. A new Valyria will rise from the ashes of her usurper half-brothers. And of the Hightowers of Oldtown.” 

Gwayne can hardly hear him over the thunder of his pulse in his skull as black spots begin to speckle in his vision, like so many drops of ink spreading through water.

“But…” Daemon trails off. His grip on Gwayne’s neck does not loosen, but something in his eyes does. The cold burn of rage melts away into a distant look of calculation. “Since you came under the banner of peace… Perhaps I’ll give you a choice…” 

Daemon turns slowly to you, peering up at you from behind the wisps of white hair blowing across his face. Gwayne’s watery, unfocused eyes follow in turn and find you watching the whole ordeal with your head tilted gently to one side. There is no horror in your face, nor an ounce of pity either. 

“You said you wanted to live in a pretty castle, didn’t you?” Daemon calls to you, with a sort of fondness creeping into his voice while Gwayne turns purple under his fist. “To twirl around in pretty silk dresses, with a pretty silk husband?”

You had said it half in jest a few months past, in a hall far too to the north for anyone to remember its existence, except for when they needed its sword. You were the last living heir to a name older than most in the realm, ruling alone with more soldiers under your command than servants, when Daemon had come with his dragon asking for whatever men you could spare.

You’d given him what he asked, and when he’d wondered in turn what you wanted for it, you answered him evenly. “A castle… And a few dresses… And perhaps a husband to warm my bed— all the pretty, useless shit people like you worry about.”

You hadn’t expected to be repaid so soon, and certainly not on the battlefield on the very eve of war, with a dead man crumpling to his feet before you.

“What of it?” you say with an arched brow.

“Here’s your pretty husband,” Daemon nods his silver head down toward the man gasping in his grip. “Right here… If you want him, of course.”

Gwayne’s bleary eyes flit back to you. Through the black in his vision, he finds you studying the whole of him as if he were livestock to be appraised at market. He comes to the rather humiliating realization that he wants very badly for you to say yes — both with a primal despair of wanting to live and with the distant desperation of wanting your approval.

You scrunch the bridge of his nose. “He’s a bit puny, isn’t he?”

“A bit?” Ser Rodrick scoffs.

“Well, what he lacks in height and muscle, he makes up for twice over in wealth,” Daemon tells you. “Far wealthier than you’re like to find anywhere else, to be sure… What do you say?”

You consider for a long moment, then, despite watching Gwayne slowly slip from consciousness. He can no longer tell if it takes you one minute or one hour to decide, which you finally do with one lazy bounce of your shoulder. 

“Alright.” 

Daemon’s fingers loosen at once. Warm, summer air rushes back into Gwayne’s body as he crumples to his knees onto the dried grass below. The oxygen burns in his throat, his shoulders heaving as he retches. It takes a long moment for the world to come back into focus. And when it finally does, Daemon’s voice finds him again as he looms a long shadow over the kneeling man.

“Do you hear that? I will spare your life — and that of your precious nephew’s, should he bend the knee to the rightful Queen — and you will live out the rest of your days as lord husband to the new Lady of Oldtown… How does that sound?”

It sounds nothing like what Gwyane had walked out here to discuss, to be sure. He’d only meant to save Daeron’s life, and somehow bartered his own for a marriage to a woman he had known for the length of one terribly humiliating conversation. But he is still breathing, at least, and his nephew is too. And for now, that’s enough.

He nods wordlessly in response, and feels an aching in his throat when he does so.

“Thank her,” Daemon scolds like a parent would their child. When Gwayne’s bowed hands snap in his direction to make sure he’d heard him right, he feels the man take a sudden fistful of his auburn hair, wrenching him towards you again. “That was not rhetorical, Ser Gwayne— Thank your new lady wife for saving you. It’s only fair.”

Gwayne swallows hard through a raw throat and peers up at you with bleary eyes from where he kneels on the ground before you. “Thank...” he attempts to speak, but the word comes out strangled. “Thank you...”

“My lady,” Daemon reminds him.

Gwayne coughs. “M-My lady…”

You look down at him from where you idle on horseback. A small smile hints at the corner of your mouth as you hum in satisfaction. “Mm… You’re welcome, lord husband.”

You turn on your horse without so much as a backward glance, gathering the reins in your fist and looking instead toward the gates of Tumbleton — where Ormund’s men prepare their archers for the first wave of battle. “Now…” you say, grinning over your shoulder at your house’s men gathered just behind you. Your voice carries across the length of the plain. “Let’s go win this fucking war!”

The ranks roar a wordless answer in response — a ragged, joyous, bloodthirsty sound as swords beat against their shields. Gwayne hears the battlecry swell all around him, and wonders if his death would’ve been a kinder fate than what is sure to await him when the fight is done.

The wedding was done by evenfall, while smoke rose from the ashes of Tumbleton; the air still thick with the scent of blood and rot. 

You exchanged vows while your armor was still splattered with the blood of the Green Army and your hair was still matted with sweat. There had been no sept, no godswood, no seven blessings, no ribbon tied around clasped hands. There was only a shaded tent, a Tumbleton septon kept alive for the very purpose of ceremony, and a scrap of parchment to sign your names — though Gwayne’s hand was still a little sore from the heavy chains wrapped around them.

No feast follows. No song, no celebration, no bedding. Because too many people had died on both sides — Ormund among them, burnt and buried in ash. And though Daeron breathes still, safe and unbloodied by sword, Gwayne wears the cost of that safety in the shackles around his wrist and waist. He was lord now, and a husband, and he did not ask to be. 

He only wanted his nephew to live to see sixteen.

“So… That’s it then,” Gwayne said on an exhaled breath while a worse-for-wear Daemon shoved the old septon out by his neck. His pretty face was softened by the candlelight of the war tent, even despite the soot streaked across his face and the flaming tendrils clinging to his forehead with sweat. “Husband and wife, are we?”

“Seems that way,” you said beneath the quiet glugging of the ale you poured. The watered wine spilled slightly over the maps scattered there when you turned briefly to flash him a smile over your shoulder. “Congratulations, my lord.” 

Gwayne felt a tired smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, right before a sharp breath escaped him in a sad sort of laugh. “Aren’t you concerned?” he said, pale eyes fixed on your armored form. “I’m not sure how a marriage such as this can be held up by law…” 

“Oh, I’m not worried,” you assured him with a shake of your head.

“No?” 

“No…” you insisted and turned back around to face him, sporting an old goblet in your bloodied fist. “Because I know you have no interest in being killed— or your nephew, besides… It’s righteous of you, really, so… You’re not going anywhere, Ser Gwayne.”

Your lips curled into a slow, sharp grin as you brought the cup to your mouth, chugging the whole of it until the soft purple wine started to drip down to your chin.

Gwayne still could not yet decide what you had planned for him — if you meant to love him truly or kill him the second you arrived at Oldtown. And a distant, disgusting part of him could not wait to find out.

Oldtown, as you’ve come to find it, smells nothing like the wet cobbles, and horse dung, and rotted wood of the half-forgotten manse you grew up in. Here, everything smells of salt and lemon trees and sun-warmed stone. It is everything you’d asked Daemon for — a large castle, enough silk to drown in, hands that tended to your every want, and a husband to warm your bed. Though you still spend most of your days in the fighting yard, tearing and sweating through whatever fine silk you’d dressed in that day.

Gwayne is still getting used to the presence of you and your men in his ancestral home, and his newfound position within it. Daeron, too, spends many weeks wary of the very sight of you — the reason for the death of his uncle, and simultaneously, the reason for his freedom. You do not ask for his forgiveness; you just put a sparring sword in his hand and ask him to give you all the brunt of the anger you know he keeps hidden. 

You and your men put the sweet boy on his back more often than not, but he keeps coming back for more anyway.  And somewhere in that routine, gratitude creeps in where the resentment used to live, and Daeron comes slowly around.

“Well… You’ve made a fine swordsman out of him,” Gwayne sighs without turning from the window overlooking the courtyard, where his nephew continues to spar with the northern knights. He hears you waltz by somewhere behind him, your pretty silk gown rustling at your ankles and clinging at the sweaty small of your back. “Ormund would never let the boy train this hard…” 

“Daeron has good enough instincts, it seems,” you answer, tugging lazily at the lace in your bodice. “Which I find rather surprising, considering the company he grew up with…” 

Gwayne finds himself smiling at the jab, far wider than he realizes. You’ve never run short of witty, merciless quips, he’s found throughout his time with you; and he finds himself taking a strange liking to the way you so effortlessly cut him down. 

“And what is that supposed to mean exactly?” he says as he turns away from the window. 

Whatever quip had been sitting on his tongue then, turns to ash in his throat at the sight of you — with your gown abandoned in a pile on the cobbles, and you slouched at your vanity stool in nothing but the thin slip beneath it. The fabric rises from your knee, revealing the soft canvas of your thighs. You’ve slid one arm free from the thin sleeves to bare a shoulder painted a darker shade from the fresh bruises blooming there.

Your skin is littered with scars from battles past, and he struggles to look away from any of it. His chest stings with the thought of you ever being hurt, then warms twice over at the sight of your breast threatening to spill over from where the slip had gone askew.

“You needn’t look so scandalized, husband,” you laugh as you reach for the clay pot of healing ointment, which never strays too far from your side. “Surely, you’ve seen worse than a woman’s shift… Handsome as you are.”

Gwayne’s face flushes at the compliment, and he hates how boyish he feels.

He clears his throat and averts his gaze, folding his clammy palms behind his back. “I only find myself surprised, I guess, at how… little you seem to mind it, is all.”

“Mind what? The bruises?” you scoff, dabbing the ointment along your shoulder and hissing at how tender the skin has gone. “I’ve had far worse from far better fights, I assure you. Maybe one day I’ll show you the scar on my—”

“Modesty,” Gwayne blurts before you can finish. “I meant modesty…” 

“Oh…” you hum, face screwing faintly as you work the earthy salve in slow circles. “I never had much use for modesty, I suppose… A keep with more soldiers than servants doesn’t have much of it, in truth…”

You reach back then, trying hopelessly to work the balm into the worst of the bruise along your shoulder blade, but the angle is not so forgiving. You huff and twist and achieve nothing but a fresher ache for the trouble. 

Gwayne exhales a sympathetic sigh from across the room. “Here…” he huffs as he crosses the distance between you, reaching out an expectant hand when he looms just behind your chair.

You consider arguing for a moment, if only out of habit, but place the clay pot into his pale palm regardless. “Try not to enjoy it too much,” you joke with a small grin tugging at your mouth.

“I make no promises, my lady,” he quips in a low deadpan. 

But even his sarcasm cannot mask the tenderness he holds in his hands when they find your shoulder, working the ointment in with a care you didn’t know he was capable of — a care you didn’t know you were deserving of. The pad of his thumb smooths slowly over the worst of the bruise, and you feel something soften in your chest.

“You’re better at this than I would’ve guessed,” you tell him, if only to fill the suffocating silence pressing hard on either side of you.

“I’ve had ample practice with bruises of my own,” Gwayne confesses, lifting his eyes to peer at you through the smudged looking glass. “I didn’t come into this marriage entirely unmarked, if you recall…”

“Mm… I do recall,” you croon lowly, as though amused by the memory. Your head tips back to grin up at him with a fond reminiscence. “You were very purple. And very sore… For weeks… It was delicious…” 

Gwayne shakes his head. “Well, you’ll forgive me if I don’t find the memory as amusing as you do…” 

“I find everything amusing,” you scoff.

“I know you do,” he huffs a not-quite laugh. “Honestly, it’s among the things I’ve come to… appreciate about you, I suppose.” 

Your eyes narrow in suspicion of his compliment. “Careful, Ser Gwayne… A lady could get ideas, hearing you talk like that…”

“Really?” the man hums, still working gently at your bruised skin. “And what ideas are those, I wonder?”

You do not answer him with words. Instead, you rise slowly from the creaking vanity stool until you’re stood just before him. Then you reach for the remaining sleeve of your slip and trail it down your arm until you’re free of it; until the thin fabric falls to your feet in a forgotten piece of cotton; until you’re stood utterly bare before him — made of warm skin, soft curves, and faded scars. There’s one at your sternum, a longer one at your hip, and a darker one along your ribcage.

Gwayne’s breath catches audibly in his throat. The composure he’s spent weeks holding onto — full of dry wit and careful distance and a week’s worth of telling himself this was a political arrangement and nothing more — seems to abandon him all at once. His glassy eyes drift over your naked form, and he feels some warm, boyish feelings sparkling somewhere deep in his chest. 

It takes everything in you not to cower — not because you are ashamed at his staring, you’ve never been ashamed of anything, but because you have never once been looked at with so much reverence.

“Do you get the hint now, Ser Gwayne?” you quip drily as you close the scant distance between you. Your palms splay over the chest of his emerald coat and drift slowly upward until they settle cold along his warm neck, dragging him down with a little more force than necessary. 

You kiss him then like you’ve kissed him a thousand times over, like you’ve kissed a thousand men a thousand times over. There is little reservation in the way you slot your lips against his, or in the way you lick into his mouth and sigh hard through your nose at the taste of him — like mint and wine and whatever fruit he’d been snaking on before you found him here. 

His mouth is far softer than your own, you realize, a far gentler touch than you think you’ve ever felt before. He spreads one wide hand along your back, pressing your bare chest flush against his clothed one, while his other trails down down down the ladder of your spine. 

Your breath nearly catches when his calloused palm settles warm along the plush of your ass; you lose it completely when he grabs a fistful of the skin to pull you closer. 

You rise onto the tip of your toes, curling your arms around his neck while your noses knock under the weight of your searing kiss — which breaks only when Gwayne’s knee slots between your thighs, and when the rough fabric of his trousers brushes the most sensitive part of you.

His rosy mouth curls into a slow grin at the pretty sound you make for him then.

“Yes. To answer your question…” the man quips through panted breaths, with the tip of his nose brushing the bridge of yours. “I believe I am starting to get the hint, my lady.”

suckmyclituchiha

dude, no. NTA as long as you keep it in your pants.

notthatkentakakura

Mmm a little? I feel like you shouldn’t have a crush on your best friends girlfriend…

gogogokudolls

NTA. I fear we’ve all been there, my guy

6ixeyes

How gay are you for your bro????

Eijirō’s moving out. That’s the only logical course of events.

“Katsuki—! Oh my God—”

Eijirō groans, sinking a head into his hands. He threads fingers through his bright red hair and tugs. He’s going insane—he’s going to be in a straight jacket in two years if he doesn’t leave right now, this isn’t even fair, this is—

“Oh fuck, right there, right there, right there—”

What is the fucking point of walls. What is the fucking point, when it sounds like you’re right here.

Maybe, you guys don’t realize he’s home. Which is fair—by the time he got back, you two were already hidden away in Katsuki’s room. He should send a text, or knock on the door to be like hey, shut up please, or at least, put headphones in. But, no—instead, he chooses to torture himself, listening to you whine on his best friend’s cock.

“Yeah, Baby? You like that?”

The headboard slams hard enough to rattle the wall, and Eijirō debates on crying. He wants to see. He wants to see so bad that it hurts.

He suffers that night, just like he does all the others. Reddit doesn’t help, and neither does the throbbing between his thighs.

Eijirō likes to make breakfast. It’s the only meal he can make, really, other than chicken and rice. And broccoli—he can make broccoli. But, since you moved in, he likes making breakfast for a different reason.

“G’mornin’, Eiji.”

You come in yawning, bleary eyed and bra-less, just the way he likes. He doesn’t let his eyes drift the expanse of your thighs for too long—just enough to remember until tomorrow morning. Until he sees you in those shorts, again.

“Hey! How’d you sleep?”

Because, he slept horribly. He fell asleep halfway through the sex marathon, and doesn’t know if he had a wet dream, or heard you past the fuzz of slumber. Either way, he fell asleep at two and woke up at six, wholly unrested.

“Mm…good…” You stumble over to the fancy coffee machine he bought for Katsuki’s birthday last year. You maneuver around the kitchen with half a mind, and Eijirō tries to avoid burning breakfast. God forbid Katsuki wakes up to the smoke alarm in a panic, worried the world is on fire. You open the fridge to get water, nearly hitting yourself upside the head with the door, and Eijirō snorts, catching your forehead from his spot by the island.

You sniff, blearily blinking up with a nod as a thank you. “What’cha making?”

“Pancakes,” he grins, gesturing to the freshly poured griddle. “Try not to concuss yourself before then?”

“No promises,” you mumble past a sleepy smile, and its cute enough to make his heart hurt. He returns it, hoping it comes across less endearing than he feels. You shuffle closer to watch pancake batter bubble under the heat. “Ugh, pancakes are gonna hit. Thank you.”

You let out a moan, one that sounds a little too similar to what he heard through the walls last night. He focuses on flipping the pancakes with an unsteady hand, refusing to feel the edges of your molecules when you get too close.

“Breakfast is the most important meal of the day,” he preaches with a laugh, and you nod vehemently in agreement. The coffee machine starts to whirr.

“Yeah, ‘n if not for you, I’d be having straight coffee for breakfast.”

“That’s…horrible,” he realizes aloud, and you snort in response, collapsing your face into his arm. His arm, which is, now, nearly pinned between your breasts—and Eijirō wants to cry for the twentieth time this week. “You should definitely not do that.”

“But, I don’t even like breakfast,” you whine, jutting out a bottom lip. Eijirō takes a very deep breath, before flipping the last pancake. He fucks it up, and the battered side folds in half.

Then, he remembers what you just said, and frowns. “You eat it, though—I’ve seen you.”

“I eat your breakfast,” you argue sleepily, and the coffee machine beeps for attention. You leave to grab the full cup, leaving his right side much colder than you found it. “You cook good breakfast.”

Eijirō isn’t fully sure what you mean by that, but beams nonetheless. “Thank y—”

Katsuki stretches in the kitchen doorway. Languid like a cat, with arms above his head, and groaning loud enough to startle. He’s shirtless, and Eijirō does not see the purpling hickey on his neck. Does not.

Katsuki waltzes over to you and drapes himself across your shoulders, eyes swollen and voice rugged from sleep. He steals a kiss from your cheek before asking, “Coffee.”

You hum, lifting the mug closer to his collapsed self. “Want some?”

Katsuki scrunches a nose and shakes his head, only for his face to end up in your neck. “Not from you.”

That earns him a gasp and a flick in the forehead, both of which Katsuki takes in stride. He snickers into your skin, biting behind your ear until you yelp, with a hand tight around your hip to ensure you don’t squirm to far.

And, it’s sickening.

It’s sickening, because these are the moments when Eijirō doesn’t quite know who he wishes to be—you, or his best friend. Katsuki mutes a smile in your skin, and Eijirō wants to feel it, but he also wants his hand on your hip, and he wants, he wants—

“Oi, Shitty Hair—the pancakes are on fire.”

Eijirō looks down at charred circles he once called pancakes. He wants to cry.

With a snort, Katsuki moves past you to grab a plate. Then, he’s nudging Eijirō in the shoulder, and the redhead starts plating the useless ones with a pout.

“I can’t believe I messed up the first batch,” he whines, because now they’ll have half the amount they normally would for leftovers. And, he was sort of hoping to not cook breakfast tomorrow. (Though, he’s not as sad about it as he’d like to be—which makes him even more annoyed with himself, in turn.)

Katsuki just rolls his eyes, setting the burnt plate aside, probably to let it cool before throwing it away. “What the fuck was so fascinating outside?”

Eijirō’s eyes flicker to the window he was allegedly looking out of—he doesn’t really remember, to be honest—and irritation floods his being tenfold as he huffs, “Dude, literally nothing. Literally zoned out.”

Which is a half-lie—he did zone out—and luckily, Katsuki’s back is turned to grab the bowl of batter, so he doesn’t have to look him in the eyes. Eijirō can lie, as long as he isn’t looking Katsuki in the eyes.

But, Katsuki turns around with a knowing smirk, like he does know it’s a lie. That makes Eijirō doubt his lying capabilities.

“Uh-huh,” he hums, and starts pouring pancakes in perfect circles while barely looking. Which, Eijirō thinks is wholly unfair—he has to really lock in, and even then, they come out vaguely dinosaur shaped. Don’t ask him why. He doesn’t know.

“Ooh! I want a heart pancake!”

Katsuki eyes finally leave Eijirō—thank God, he can breathe now—to narrow at you. “…Baby. I just poured the last one.”

But, Katsuki knows you’re not going to let up, as does Eijirō. You have that look in your eyes when you want something, and want it now.

Before you can even open your mouth, Katsuki’s warning, “Wait for the next batch.”

You whine and melt, propping your chin onto the island counter with the biggest pout known to man. The most effective pout, because Eijirō would fold for it time and time again, if he had the chance.

“But, I want it now,” you whimper, and while Katsuki sighs out of his nose, Eijirō has an idea.

He walks over to a small cupboard, the one with the straws and syrup cups, and dips a hand between both for a container of toothpicks. Thanks to Katsuki, they always have some on deck—because, every time they go out to eat, Katsuki is convinced he has something in his teeth, and simultaneously convinced that everyone is lying to him, including his phone camera. So, Eijirō sacrifices one of Katsuki’s holy toothpicks to bend a bubbling pancake into a heart. It only kind of works.

“Fuckin—no, Shitty Hair, y’gotta start from the middle an’ go down—”

“No! Start with the edges first! If he takes too long, my heart is gonna have a round bottom!”

“…Y’know who else has a round bottom—”

“Finish that statement and you’re fired, Katsuki. This is serious business.”

Eijirō Kirishima cannot function under this conditions.

“Guys,” he chokes, looking down at what is now a squiggly mess of pancake. It looks nothing like a heart, but definitely an accurate depiction of how Eijirō’s heart feels—squishy and out of shape and useless. Like an amoeba. Or a blobfish.

Yeah. His heart feels like a blobfish.

“I give up.”

He releases the cake-covered toothpick, and it sticks to the counter in a quietly depressing splat. Katsuki huffs, shoving him out of the way to snatch the toothpick and try himself. And, try he does.

But, the issue is that the pancakes are cooking quick—the others have already been flipped and now, they’re almost ready. Meanwhile, the flailing heart shaped pancake is burnt around the edges and gooey in the middle, but they’re still committed.

Eventually, the three of you look at the burnt ball of dough with a sigh.

“We tried. On that front, we get an A, right?”

“If you look at it from the side and squint your eyes…it, like…kind of looks like an actual heart, so I say yeah.”

“…It looks like shit.”

You all prepare to eat the successful pancakes in a dejected silence. You end up cutting a heart out of your pancake instead. Eijirō eats the corners.

6ixeyes

How gay are you for your bro????

redredriot

um. probably gayer than i should b.

6ixeyes

Wait, srsly

Beach is bad. Beach is horrible—Eijirō will never beach again.

‘Guys, I wanna go to the beach,’ you said. ‘It’s so hot today, it’ll be fun,’ you said. ‘Eijirō’s going to be so miserable, and have to fight a hard-on the entire time,’ you didn’t say. He should’ve seen it coming.

Because, if he can barely handle you in pajamas, how the hell is he supposed to be chill while you practically prance around the sand in a bra and panties. He’s going to cry.

And, Katsuki—Katsuki isn’t helping one bit.

“God, fuckin’ look at her,” he groans, adjusting the sunglasses on his nose. You’re in the water alone, because Katsuki refuses to (’I’m not gettin’ fuckin’ wet just to have fuck-ass sand stick to me—no.’) and honestly, Eijirō would join you if he wasn’t suffering. “Ain’t she a pretty li’l thing.”

And like, what is Eijirō supposed to say to that? What is the socially correct thing to say when your bro is frothing over his girl. Do you agree, and possibly look like you want to fuck her, or do you not agree, and by proxy, call his girlfriend ugly?

Eijirō decides not responding is the safest option. He focuses on the self-help book in his lap, but he’s can’t read right now. The words rearrange into something accusatory, and it’s undeniable:

YOU ARE THE ASSHOLE.

Fuck.

“Don’t know how I bagged that,” Katsuki mutters to himself, before reclining underneath the umbrella. Because he burns too easy, and the sun makes him sleepy, and—why does Eijirō know this? He doesn’t need to know this.

“Awh, c’mon dude,” he shoves Katsuki in the shoulder from his seated spot in the sun. His words come out stilted and awkward, because how do you let your bro know he’s a catch without letting him know you’d probably be down to suck his dick. “You’re, like…hot. You guys are the same level of hotness.”

Katsuki snorts, and rolls his head until it’s facing Eijirō. He cracks an eye open. “D’you think I’m hot?”

Eijirō chokes on air. What kind of question is that.

“I mean,” he blows a raspberry and shrugs, and suddenly, can’t look at his roommate. He watches the horizon until you shift into frame, and then, he switches to the sky. “Yeah, of course, Dude. You’re, like, an objectively hot guy.”

“Objectively,” Katsuki repeats, and Eijirō’s eyes dart to the side just in time to see that quiet smirk from earlier return, from breakfast when Eijirō lied before, and he’s starting to worry Katsuki might be onto him. Which is not good. Not good at all.

“Yep, mhm.” His eyes squint into the sun, in hopes it’ll burn his retinas and give him some form of brain-fried amnesia. That would be great. When it doesn’t work, Eijirō finds himself rummaging through the snack bag instead, hoping that stuffing his mouth shut might keep him from saying anything stupid.

“Oi,” Katsuki perks up. “I want fuckin’ grapes.”

Eijirō laughs, nearly collapsing his face into the snack bag when the arm he rests weight on starts to wobble. “Lucky for you, we brought ‘fuckin’ grapes.’”

“I know, that’s why I said it, Dumbass,” Katsuki faux-bristles. “Feed ‘em to me.”

Eijirō swallows.

“Uh, no Dude, feed them to yourself,” he snorts (and very proud of how he played it off, thank you) and grabs a protein bar out of the bag, along with a Ziploc bag of grapes with a melting ice pack in it. He drops them at Katsuki’s side, but Katsuki knocks them over like a petulant cat.

“My hands are sandy,” he says like it’s obvious, and lifts them up. Respectfully, they are not sandy—but ‘sandy’ to Katsuki means that his hands can feel the ‘sand dust,’ or whatever he said, and Katsuki is stubborn. Eijirō knows he won’t have his grapes untainted.

“Then get Y/N to do it,” he grunts, teeth preoccupied with tearing the label away from his protein bar. “She’ll be out soon, I think.”

“No,” Katsuki groans, loud and useless, and grabs the bag of grapes at his side to chuck them at Eijirō’s head. And, chuck them he does—it gets Eijirō in the side of his face, and the flaxen blond snorts at the sound. “Her hands‘re gonna be all sandy and salty. You do it.”

Eijirō scratches his scalp and sighs.

Eijirō Kirishima, at twenty-six years old, is being forced to feed his Bro grapes on the beach like Katsuki is Cleopatra, while you frolic in the water, half-naked and mouth-watering. What series of events led him here, exactly?

“Then just, like…eat it out the bag, or something.”

Katsuki’s eyes narrow beneath his aviators. “If you don’t, I’m telling Y/N that you think she’s hot.”

Eijirō stiffens.

“Fine. Fine, fine, fine, fine, fine—fine,” Eijirō huffs, and feels his face go hot as he scoots closer. Katsuki gives him a self-satisfied smirk, like he enjoys watching his best friend fumble like an oaf. Over him—over you.

This is so not fair.

Katsuki crosses arms behind his head while Eijirō pops the Ziploc open. Eijirō’s not exactly sure how to go about this, but once he picks a firm grape with no strange squishy spots (Katsuki will have a fit), Katsuki’s lips part, and Eijirō just…drops the grape right in there. Katsuki’s jaw pops as he chews with a nod, like the redhead did good in finding a grape he deems decent enough. It makes him feel all warm and gooey, like a chocolate cookie fresh out the oven, and because Eijirō can blame that feeling on the sun, he lets himself bask in it a bit.

It gets quiet, save for the crashing of waves, music from teenagers seated not too far from them, and the occasional pop of a grape. It’s kind of nice—he finds a rhythm, and space in between Katsuki’s chomps and grabbing grapes to nibble on his protein bar, which is gone quick. He must be hungrier than he thought…We should get actual food soon.

Eijirō zones out, thinking about possible food options and how, honestly, he could go for any of them. Then, he feels something round in his hands, and turns to Katsuki, who’s staring at him with a scrutiny that makes Eijirō think he’s got something on his face. He purses his lips, trying to figure out what Katsuki wants for based off expressions—and finds nothing. He finds nothing that he wants to see, and everything he doesn’t—from the sweat forming in Katsuki’s cupids bow, to freckle in his hairline that darkens with the sun, to the curve of his brows and color in his cheeks.

“…What?”

Katsuki blinks himself out of whatever that was, and the lax expression on his face turns into a scowl as he points.

“Grape.”

redredriot

why does that even matter tho

6ixeyes

Ngl, bc I’m going thru somn similar and tryna figure it out LMAO

redredriot

oh damn my condolences bro

For the third time today, Eijirō would like to know how the fuck he got into this predicament.

You come out the water like a…a fucking beach goddess, water clinging to your form like a sheer dress with sand as an jewelry. The sun seems to agree, as it douses you in something ethereal, something just for you.

Eijirō wants to tear his hair out. He’s already suffering because of one set of sweaty tits, he doesn’t need another—

“What are you guys doing?” You snort after getting enough to see Eijirō hover another grape over your boyfriend’s mouth. The redhead pouts.

“I’m being forced into servitude!”

“I see that,” you laugh, and instead of sitting next to Katsuki, you sit next to Eijirō. He tells himself it’s because you need to dry off, and he’s sat in the sun—not that Katsuki minds, seemingly content on consuming grapes from Eijirō’s hand for the foreseeable future. You squish your wet side into Eijirō’s to get a look in the snack bag, and he shivers for all the wrong reasons.

“Ah! You’re cold!”

Plays it off well, though.

“Sorry,” you giggle, but don’t move until you pull out a fruit roll-up, snatching a grape on the way back. “Damn Kat, you ate all the grapes—fat ass bitch.”

Eijirō didn’t even notice, and looks into his lap—where you just had your hand, mind you—to a severely empty bag, now mainly left with undesirables.

“Oh, right, it’s fat ass bitch now, but later it’s ‘oh my god, Kat, your muscles—oh my god, Kat, you’re so big—oh my god—”

Eijirō is going to die.

Katsuki mocks your voice with an unsteady and nasally falsetto, causing you to reach behind Eijirō, balancing a hand on his shoulder while you try to wack your boyfriend in the head. You miss due to range, and because Katsuki sways his head right with a cackle.

“That is not how I sound,” you hiss, resigning yourself to the other side of Eijirō, even though you could easily walk over to give Katsuki a piece of your mind. He shrugs, eyes flitting to Eijirō, and, uh oh, why is he—

“Oh, that’s totally how you sound,” but he’s looking at Eijirō, like he could confirm, and he doesn’t think the blond talking about how you sound outside the bedroom. Fuck. “Right?”

He’s not asking you—he’s asking Eijirō.

And Eijirō, poor Eijirō, quickly looks out to sea like it’ll put a partition between him and this conversation. Maybe, he should try to burn his retinas again. Maybe, he didn’t try hard enough.

He plays dumb.

“Don’t include me in your couple’s quarrel, Dude!” He says, but its more to the sky. “I’m not even here. I’m a ghost. I’m invisible.”

“Well. In that case,” Katsuki grunts. You squeal as your arm gets yanked in Eijirō’s peripheral, falling behind him and into the sand with a thump. “C’mere.”

“Kat—mmph!”

Who knew kissing could be so loud?

If Eijirō lets out a tear, it’s because his fucking dick hurts.

AITA FOR HAVING WANTING TO FUCK MY BEST FRIENDS’ GIRLFRIEND?

u/redredriot

edit: kay my bro is kinda hot but that just makes things SO MUCH WORSE WHAT DO I DO???????

bigdaddytamaki

petition to be a third!

sasakilovesmiyano

Plot-MF-Twist, I’m so invested.

kusuo_saiki

Get a therapist.

redredriot

THATS WHAT YALL ARE FOR

komicommunicatesverywell

Or get a girlfriend!

That night, Eijirō commits a sin.

It’s not his fault—he’s pent up, because you guys are pent up. He had to drive that fucking car, dammit, and had to ignore the fact that he enjoyed watching you and Katsuki makeout in the rearview mirror more than he should.

And, it’s not his fault again, because you and Katsuki decide to fuck in the living room—the living room that his door faces. It’s like you’re trying to kill him, at this point.

So. Maybe, he leaves his door cracked. It’s not like it matters—moonlight spills through the window above his bed, and barely illuminates te edges. While you engage in foreplay, Eijirō gets ready for bed (skips brushing his teeth, because he’s impatient, and so, so horny) and by the time he’s sliding under the covers, you’re sat comfortably between Katsuki’s legs with a full mouth.

“Fuck yeah, Baby—just like that.”

Tucked under his duvet, Eijirō shucks his boxers down to his hips and grabs himself. His eyes flutter at the feeling, underwear and cock soaked enough that anyone lacking context would assume he already came. Meaning, the slide is easy, and he peeks through the doorway and into the lovingly lit living room.

Eijirō shouldn’t be doing this. He also shouldn’t be obsessed with the way his best friend’s cock fits in your mouth. Not all the way, but enough to make you tear and choke and gag. All Eijirō can really see is the back of your head and Katsuki’s blissed out face, both of which he thinks is wildly unfair.

Katsuki shivers, and it’s a full body affair. Eijirō’s hand wraps tight around the base of his dick because, jeez. Give a guy a warning before you do something really hot next time?

Katsuki lets out something akin to a whimper, which was not a sound he thought his bro could make. But now, he wants to hear it again and again, and possibly occasionally be the reason, every once in a while.

You’re not any better—you’re humming around his cock like you’re the one getting a blowjob, and it’s messy, Eijirō can fucking hear it, and it’s driving him insane. Katsuki grabs ahold of your hair and tugs, causing you to mewl, fall further down his cock, then choke. Katsuki groans and Eijirō stifles his own, praying to every God out there that he remains sane after tonight.

It’s a losing battle.

“Yeah? Y’like imagining that this is his cock, huh?” Katsuki takes control, moving your head at his will, and Eijirō’s arm flexes to match the pace. You whine, and Katsuki chuckles. “Dirty fuckin’ girl.”

You huff, irritated, and pinching Katsuki in his inner thigh, which earns you a jolt and a groan. Wow, Eijirō’s learning so many new things today. Like how you get cock drunk easy, and that Katsuki’s a pain slut. And Eijirō, who will never have any use for this information, stores it anyways.

Katsuki tips his head back and moans at something, and for a moment, Eijirō worries he’s been seen. Only for a moment—the ice in his blood is gone as quick as it came as Katsuki’s eyes flit back to you, and melts straight into his dick. No, despite what his dick says, he does not want to be caught—because that would be very, very bad.

As time goes on, he seems to care less about getting caught, too preoccupied with getting his fix. Which, makes him sound like an addict, but it’s not his fault, you guys are fucking right outside his door.

Eijirō nearly cums when Katsuki pulls you off his dick. Debates on it, for a good while.

Your mouth is swollen, with teary eyes to match the gloss of spit and pre-cum on your lips. Eijirō knows, because Katsuki pulls you up and sits you right on his dick, with your back pressed flush to his chest. And, like, Eijirō’s imagined this moment—the moment where he finally sees you naked—but figured it’d be some panicked walk in, a time when he wouldn’t be able to take in all of you and regret it, and most definitely not this.

Your bathing suit is still on, but barely. It’s misshapen and askew and doesn’t cover what it’s supposed to, covers the exact opposite of what it’s supposed to, actually. Eijirō bites back a groan.

“F-Fuck, Kat—’s too big,” you huff, wiping at the corners of your lips like you might be drooling. Are you drooling? Or is it leftover from the fucking amazing head he just watched you give his best friend?

Katsuki coos, clutching you tight to his body like you might scramble. His other hand holds your thigh open, enough that Eijirō can see your entrance stretch around Katsuki’s cock, and he wants to scream.

“You can take it,” he insists, low and heavy, but still loud enough for Eijirō to hear. You whimper and collapse into his chest, and the hand that holds you upright drifts, tweaking and pinching where it deems fit. “Y’wanna put on a show, don’t you?”

That’s the first time Eijirō catches it. A show for who?

You nod, but push at the couch cushions like you regret letting Katsuki in to begin with. Is this how you look every night? If so, Eijirō’s going to need you two to start fucking on the couch more often, ASAP.

“K-Kat, I can’t—”

Katsuki’s free hand finds your clit then, and whatever you were going to say is left to the wind, molded into something choked and garbled and completely unintelligible.

“What’s got you all worked up?” He snorts, like he’s any better, like he isn’t flushed to his chest and fluttering his eyes every time you shift just right. Eijirō squeezes the base of his dick.

You clumsily shove your boyfriend in the side of the head, who’s thrusts never falter. “Fuck you, you know why—Oh my god, Kat, slow the fuck down—”

“No,” he huffs with petulance, before, if anything, speeding up. “You’re greedy—you can take it.”

“It’s—” your leg kicks, seemingly involuntary, and Katsuki laughs at it. “That’s different.”

God, you whine is the same during sex and in the kitchen. How the fuck is he supposed to hear that the same again.

“How,” Katsuki chuckles, and pinches your clit. You squirm and tuck your head in his neck. “How the fuck are you supposed to take both of us when you can barely take me, huh? It’d be worse with Eijirō’s fat ass on top of you—shit—”

Now.

Eijirō has three thoughts, all of which he thinks at the exact same time:

hey! he’s not fat! he’s well-muscled with the right amount of squish!

damn kat…you think his ass is fat, though?

wait. why are we saying his name, why are we saying his name, why are saying his name—

The third thought is the loudest and lasts much longer than the rest, lasts perpetually, actually, and Eijirō almost cums at hearing Katsuki say his name. His actual name—not Shitty Hair, not Fuck-Face or Dumbass, but Eijirō—and while having sex, no less! With his girlfriend! What the fuck is this?!

You moan even louder, like you like that idea, like that’s something you could be into, and Eijirō doesn’t know what to make of that. Katsuki doesn’t seem to care, and Eijirō doesn’t know what to make of that, either. All he knows is that he’s cumming regardless, despite his best efforts, biting tight into the fat of his hand with a strained groan that he really, really hopes no one heard.

He’s so confused.

He still watches, though—watches you cum on Katsuki’s cock twice before he’s stuffing you full with a groan of his own, eyes trained on the gap between Eijirō’s door. Like he knows Eijirō is still watching, even if you two have been fucking for over an hour.

Eijirō waits until you both peel away from the couch and pad into the bathroom before moving a muscle. He finally gets up to close the door, and scrapes at the dried cum on his stomach with an old t-shirt until his skin turns red, and frowns as he watches it flake. What the fuck. What the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck—

He needs to update Reddit. He needs to know what to do.

AITA FOR HAVING WANTING TO FUCK MY BEST FRIENDS’ GIRLFRIEND?

u/redredriot

edit: THEY MIGHT WANNA FUCK ME TOO???????

© mamashima/pumaya. do not edit, translate or copy my work without my permission. do not use for ai. MINORS AND AGELESS BLOGS DNI.

You crossed your arms in front of your chest and your legs as you scooted yourself closer to the end of the couch. If someone looked close enough, they could convince themself that you were trying to become one with the couch's arm rest. Just as long as you stayed on your end and kept eye contact with nothing but the movie on the tv.

Bakugo grunted as he turned his head away, resting his head on his perched up arm. But not even two lines of dialogue from the movie later, and you can feel the pair of scarlet eyes from across the couch glaring your side profile. You take a looooong deep breathe, afraid you might say something you can't take back if you return the stare.

The front door opened followed by heavy footsteps that travelled through the house. "Hey, I'm home! And I got the take out! They didn't have the crepe cakes so I just got the mochi. Just saying, I call dibs on the strawb- uh. Um... hello?"

After taking off his shoes and setting every thing down, Eijirou turned around to the sight of the living room. You and Bakugo on opposite ends of the couch, cross-armed and pouty, while just blankly staring at the tv screen. You turned to Ei and gave him maybe the fakest im-so-not-pissed-right-now smile, and in your fakest i-so-dont-wanna-kill-our-boyfriend-right-now voice, "Hi babe. How was the gym?"

Eijirou stood frozen, like prey spotting its predator. He knows something's wrong. The tension in the air told him something was wrong. Because you guys were on the couch... and not... cuddling?? Usually Bakugo either has an arm around you or your legs are laid over his lap. It's become almost instinctual to sit shoulder to shoulder at least! But now you sit like two magnets with the same polar sides facing each other. Like damn, you two were so grumpy neither of you even got up from the couch to greet Eijirou himself. You guys are real mad at each other. Mad to the point where anything louder than silence might trigger an alarm.

"What happened?" Eijirou asked with an inflection that makes you think he's walking through a mine field. You slowly turned your head towards Bakugo, who still watched the screen like he's interested on what's going on. You took another deep breath and turned back towards Eijirou.

"Bakugo would rather die than tell me how he truly feels."

That earned a click of the tongue and another roll of the eyes that land on you. "You're so fuckin' dramatic."

You shrugged, almost laughing to yourself, "Well, what is it then? How would you describe this situation? Please feel free to be as dishonest as you can be, you know, for the sake of Eijirou's feelings." You gave your most patronizing smile.

"I don't have to, Ei knows how to take criticism. He won't get immediately offended the second I try to give feedback."

You turned in your seat to face Bakugo fully. Eijirou moved to sit on the coffee table between both of you.

"Hey guys, let's just take a second-"

"Last time I checked, feedback shouldn't really come with a side of insults. But even then, I would rather that than finding out you sugar coat your opinions! It makes me think you don't even care of what I'm asking you!"

"Guys, let's just eat first-"

"What if I don't? Ever think of that?"

You stared at him. You were over it. You looked over to Eijirou. "I had a meeting this morning. With a bunch of board members from the agency. I had asked Bakugo earlier for notes on what to fix in my pitch. He gave me none. I present and all of the members... laughed. And believe me, I got their feedback." You scoffed, holding back the tears of reliving the humiliation.

"I come home, I whine about the members, the meeting, start listing the feedback and this one over here has the audacity to go 'well I could have told you that'."

Eijirou looked over to Bakugo for his response.

"You wouldn't have taken it well."

"You know I still would prefer the truth! Let me decide the level of critcism I can take!"

"Guys."

"You would've just gotten upset."

"Oh my god, did you blow out your hearing again?"

Bakugo's face twisted in disgust.

"Alright that's enough. Seperate for a while-What the fuck did you just say to me?"

"Just take a breath You're not helping your case."

"You want me See how it feels to be honest? to know that your feelings dont matter? Youre a hypocrite who That one of the two people youre supposed to trust talks about honesty and boundaries to be honest with you but the second something doesn’t go your way wouldnt care that you were you blow it out of proportion HUMILIATED BY THE WHOLE COMPANY and use the OTHER PERSON’S INSECURITIES ALL BECAUSE YOU DONT KNOW HOW TO BE RESPECTFUL AGAINST THEM! YOU ARE NOT A BETTER PERSON THEN ME WITH THAT HONESTY BECAUSE YOU DONT KNOW HOW TO GROW THICKER SKIN ASSHOLE! SHUT UP!"

Immediate silence. "SHUT THE FUCK UP! BOTH OF YOU!"

Silence that was almost way too quick.

You and Bakugo stared at each other, still holding the scowls on your faces, both too proud and stubborn to look away first. But it was as if you were shaken out of a trance. Bakugo was breathing heavy, eyes as shiny as glass. You hadn't realized you had already been crying.

"You," Eijirou started, pointing at you, "go to the bedroom. You," turning to Bakugo, "go to the patio. And I don't wanna hear it from either of you. Go."

Like cadets to a commander, you followed orders.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You know you shouldn't have said it.

Bakugo was sensitive about his hearing, especially considering that its a direct concequence to his quirk. You know this. And hes right, you bringing it up was hypocritical and disrespectful, the same way you were upset about him for disrespecting you and your want for honesty.

You lay on your bed, huddled in a throw blanket and cuddling with a pillow. You recount the argument again. And again. And again. And you're crying again. Out of anger, guilt, frustration. All of the emotions swimming in your head, chasing each other but also not wanting to be caught. You want to forgive him, but not so easily; he had to own up for what he did. You want to stand true to defending yourself but also kick yourself down for hurting Katsuki.

Katsuki.

You steady your breathing and wipe your tears. You know him, just like he knows you. You're both too stubborn to want to apologize first. But someone has to be the bigger man and if putting your pride aside gets you a stronger, healthier relationship and in your boyfriend's arms again, then that's all you need to push the blanket off, step out of bed, and head downstairs.

Eijirou sat on the couch, still in his gym clothes, munching on his takeout box with his eyes glued to the action movie he put on. You wanted to walk up to him and try to rub the crease between his eyebrows, but deep down you know you're part of the reason why it's there. You walk by, stopping aside the seating area to see what he was watching. Eijirou immediately changed his stare to you, lowering his plate.

You look at him and awkwardness overcomes you. "The food good?" Ei nods, with a tinge of that same awkwardness, "Yeah. I put the other boxes in fridge." You nod in acknowledgement. The movie continues to play on the Tv. "Is he... still out there?" You ask, nodding towards the sliding door that leads to the patio. Eijirou hums a nod and goes to take another bite of his food, but his eyes dont leave you. Not until you walk past him and head outside.

Katsuki sits on one of the chairs outside, deep in thought as he picks at his lips. He only stops when he hears the door open and close, and sees you pull up a chair next to him. You sit in silence, staring ahead at the view off the hill the house rested on, for a minute or two thinking about how to start this conversation.

"I'm surprised there isn't a cloud in the sky today. It rained for so long last week I thought we weren't going to see the sun again."

Silence was given back. For a minute actually. Until,

"Storm clouds go away eventually."

You turn your head to Katsuki. He's gotten back to picking at his lip.

"Katuski-"

"Let me go first."

You were taken aback. But you slowly nodded and let him speak first.

Katsuki took a deep breath. Then, almost frustratingly, he turned his chair to face you. You slightly turn in your seat. Another deep breath.

"I'm sorry. I know you prefer the truth over having your feelings spared. I'm the same fuckin' way. But you always get so upset when I even give you the tiniest detail of feedback. Even if it doesn't have you pissed at me, you always grow a pout or some shit like that. And I realize, now at least, that you're right. I always say it with an insulting nickname or a backhanded comment. Not 'cause I mean them, it's how I talk. You know this. So, I will... work on it. Try thinking about what I say before I say it. Only when you ask for feedback though. I still get to call you a loser when I beat you at mario kart."

He taps his foot against your leg with a tiny kick and it makes you chuckle. You tap him back and stare into his eyes for a beat before asking with a slight hesitation, "What did you think of my presentation?"

He thinks about it for a second. For a couple seconds actually, before, "Some of your points were either too repeatative or they straight up didn't make any sense. At least not to me. If you could've expanded on- I think it was either your third or fourth slide- and the financials of it, it would've been better. But even if you had the right info, it didn't give those losers the right to make fun of you. And I'm sorry I let you get in front of that meeting with your pants down."

You nodded, trying not to show the cringe you felt in your chest, "It's ok. And I appreciate the honesty."

"I'm sorry I used an insecurity of yours against you. It was totally immature and definitely me trying to project my hurt feelings. I will learn how to take feedback even if it's not in my favor, and learn how to cope with it when it isn't."

Katsuki reaches for your hand, and you slip your hand into his palm. "Well, you're doing great so far."

You give another chuckle. "Thanks. Oh! When's your next doctor's appointment?"

"In two weeks."

"You want a ride?"

"Nah, I'll take the train. I have a morning patrol that day so I'm just going after that."

You nod and sit in the silence, your hands still intertwined.

"Also sorry I called you an asshole."

At that, Katuski chuckles, "In your defense, I also called you an asshole."

"Yeah but I deserved it."

He rubs the back your hand wiht his thumb, "So did I."

You look at him, then sit up and slump. And with a pout, "I love you."

Kats cracks a smile and pulls your chair closer, "I love you too dummy."

From his seat, he pulls you in for a hug, nesting his head in the crook of your neck. You wrapped your arms around him and settle in for this hug.

After a couple minutes, Katsuki kisses your cheek, and then kisses it again, then starts giving you a bunch of tiny kisses from your face to your neck and you can't help but giggle and laugh at him.

He pulls away to look at you laugh and a calm smile rests on his face.

"You know we also have to apologize to Ei, right?"

"Yeah I know." Kats sighs, and then lets go of you and stands, "Come on, let's go."

You walk inside to Eijirou, still on the couch and watching the movie, his takeout box now empty on the coffee table. You plop yourself next to your red headed boyfriend, with your blonde walking to sit on the other side of him. "Hi Eijirou. How was the gym today?"

Eijirou takes a breath before looking over at you, uncrossing his arms to wrap behind both you and Katsuki. "Gym was good! It was a little more crowded than I expected but I was still able to use the machines and equipment I wanted."

"What split did you work on today?" Katsuki asked, paralleling you by sitting to face Eijirou.

"Just upper body." He responded, looking at his boyfriend. "I was going to do more abs and core, but I ended up working on my back more."

"Mhm. Oh! and thanks for picking up takeout on the way home." You comment, placing a hand on the red's chest.

"And for mediating... us." Katsuki added, a dust of pink embarassment spreading across his cheeks. You admit, you felt your face getting a little warmer as well.

Eijirou chuckled, "You guys know you're more alike than you think, right?" That earned a laugh out of all of you.

"Yeah... but still. Sorry we had to put you in that position at all." You leaned to give him a kiss on the cheek.

"It's ok. You know I love you guys too much to let you guys kill each other. I'm just surprised you guys talked about it so quickly after you seperated."

You looked at Katsuki, and he longingly returns the gaze.

"I guess the storm cloud just went away."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Princess,” Gwyanes' voice greeted you, his hand taking yours as you made your way to the altar. A kind smile on his lips, though his nerves showed in his eyes. You smiled back nervously, taking his hand with sweaty palms. 

“Ser,” you greeted in turn, “it's nice to meet you,” you spoke, trying to ignore the nerves that had eaten at you for days. 

“It's nice to meet you as well,” he spoke, another kind smile on his lips, squeezing your hand before his focus went to the High Septon as he began to perform the marriage rites.

It was peculiar to think you had never met your husband until this moment. The moment when he was bound to you for all eternity. Though you supposed it twas the fate of many a Westrosi bride. To never know the man they were to be bound to, to have little choice in the matter.

But it was the fate of so many a bride that haunted you, the fate your mother had gone through. Married to Daemon against both their wills. The marriage was harsh and cruel, leaving both to suffer its torment. Your mother more so than him. That marriage had taught you to fear men and what marriage may be. It had made your mother tell you stories of the horrors of marriage, of the marriage bed. Of what men's true nature was and told you to fear it. And you had. For years you feared the man you meant to be your father. The man you had met but twice in your entire life. How had he visited you the day you were born, chosen your name against your mother's wishes and stuck around just long enough for the dragon he placed in your cradle to hatch. You didn't see him again until he killed your mother and gave her the very fate she had taught you to fear. Of husbands killing their wives for their own selfish ambition. 

After that, he had abandoned you in King's Landing, attempted to steal your title and home as Lady of Runestone, and left you in the care of your uncle, King Viserys. Had the man not taken pity on you, you feared Daemon would have delivered you to the same fate as your mother. And that fear was what fueled your every move from that day onward. You had tried to beg your uncle to spare you from the world of marriage, but with Otto Hightower whispering in his ear of the usefulness a marriage to a princess can make, you were granted the same fate as all women in Westeros were given. A stranger chosen to be your husband. 

A stranger that now stood before you. And as beautiful as he was, as much as he made you blush and believe every word of his gallantry and kindness, you still feared what kind of man he would be underneath it all. And if he would make you suffer as your mother had. 

“Princess,” Gwayne whispered to you, squeezing your hand and pulling you from your thoughts, and the Septon continued to prattle endless prayers. “Are you alright?”

You met his eyes, both of you flushing at the eye contact. “Yes…I believe so,”

Gwayne smiled, “It must be daunting, all of this.” he motioned subtly, trying not to draw attention to you both, as you had been made to kneel at the altar for the long prayers the Septon was set to perform. “I know in Runestone you worship the old gods.”

You nodded, smiling, happy that he knew a little of your home. You had feared Otto had persuaded the king for the match just to give his son land and title. Feared that Gwyane may prove to be as self-serving as so many others. “Yes, we do…though there is a sept there, tis small and nothing like this.” 

“There is?” he asked, turning to you, a grin on his face.

You nodded. “Yes, it was built for my grandmother, who was a Frey,” you spoke, leaning closer to Gwayne, ensuring your voice was hushed. “My grandsire gifted it to her; she loved it, I am told, as I hope you will also.”

Gwayne smiled, “I am sure I shall love your home dearly, Sept or no.”

You smiled, a small laugh falling from your lips at how kind he sounded “I miss it dearly,i hope you find it a home for yourself, Ser.”

“Gwayne,” he corrected, “please call me Gwyane.” You nodded, insisting he call you by your name in turn. 

The septon cleared his throat before you, looking at you both expectantly, holding wine before you both. You turned to each other, laughing softly, nerves forgotten, before taking the wine and finishing the wedding ceremony. 

“…Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger”, you both repeated once the rites and prayers were done, both now standing with your hands tied together, the cloak of House Royce replaced with the cloak of House Hightower. 

“I am his, and he is mine, from this day, until the end of my days”

“I am hers, and she is mine, from this day, until the end of my days”, you both repeated, your hands joining once more, as Gwayne lowered his head, and you both spoke the last part of your vows, tying your souls together for eternity.

“With this kiss, I pledge my love,” he spoke with a kind smile, and the words sounded true despite knowing each other for such little time. You spoke words back softly; the nerves he had made you forget about made a reappearance as you realised your first kiss was to be done before hundreds of strangers. 

His lips pressed against your softly, his face moulding against yours perfectly. The kiss was less than chaste, with both of you lingering and holding the other in place as his lips moulded around yours before hundreds of people.

The cough of the septon was what pulled you away. Both blushed furiously as the sept began to fill with cheers.

The feast was loud and full of endless knights and lords whose names, let alone faces, you did not know. Bar the lords and ladies of the Eyrie, you relied entirely on Gwyane to make introductions. The Queen's brother's wedding to a princess they hardly knew had called for celebration and curiosity. As it seemed you endlessly greeted the nobility of the realm, your hand held dearly by Gwyane, who had not once let your hand go since you took it at the altar.

In the few moments between greeting the nobility, conversation with you and Gwayne never once ceased. Smiling and laughing, the nerves you had felt over marriage fading away as Gwayne recounted a tale from his youth as his cousin's squire. “He is, but three years my elder and the day he became a knight, he stole me away from my uncle,” Gwayne began, his thumb caressing your hand as he spoke, his eyes locked with yours. “He had me doing the strangest of tasks, most of which involved cleaning a smell from cloth that i am sure my cousin made up,” he laughed. You both sat huddled close together, exchanging stories as if they were secrets, both of you ignoring the calls for bedding as he recounted his story. 

Alicent called both your names, snapping you from the world you had both run away to, “The bedding?” she spoke, ordering you to stand.

“There will be no bedding,” Gwayne demanded, causing the lords to all stop their shouts, as they took in the severity of his tone. “She is a princess and lady of the realm, and my wife; I shall not have another man touch her.”

“Gwayne, it's tradition,” you found yourself mumbling, standing beside him, his grip on your hand tightening slightly. You were surprised he objected; most men would hardly cast a single thought to the bedding and the thoughts and feelings their bride had over the ideal. And yet Gwyane was entirely serious in his objections, defying once again that night that he was not like the men your mother had taught you to fear. 

“I care not” he turned to face you. “You are my wife, and tis a disgusting tradition.” he brought your hand up to his lips, kissing it softly, before turning back to the hall, “find another women to claw at, the streets of silk are not far,” he spoke again before moving down from the hightable and leading you out of the hall, ignoring the complaints and whines from the lords and ladies. 

Gwyane led you to his guest chambers, your eyes sweeping the room and noting the lack of anything. A bag was placed in the corner, a pile of letters and parchment on the desk, and the wardrobe door lay open, showing clothes enough for a week. 

“Is this all of your things?” you asked, surprised. The man packed far too lightly for someone about to uproot their life to a thousand leagues away. 

Gwyane smiled, stepping away from you to begin removing his doublet as he spoke, “No, my father saw fit to have all my own belongings, and yours moved to Runestone tonight…he seems eager to have us move to our new home,” Gwyane cleared his throat, “I hope that is okay?” he walked towards you, in just his shirt and breeches now.

“Yes,” you nodded, nerves eating at you as you realised what was to come, “i have wished to return home since my father dragged me here,” you laughed lightly, trying ot forget the memory of your father stealing you in the night, your dragon forcibly left behind. Alongside most of your belongings. 

Gwyane smiled, “I am glad,” he spoke, pouring you both some wine. He walked over to you, seeing you lost in thought. “Are you okay?” he asked, offering the wine. Taking it from him with a small yes, before downing the goblet. 

“Slow down,” he spoke, taking the goblet from you, his hand coming ot your cheek as you flushed. “If you are nervous, we need not od anything tonight,”

You shook your head, “i am not nervous…i am worried,”

“Worried?” he urged, his hand on the small of oyur bak as he urged you to sit on the bed.

“I do not wish for you to be angry with me,” you began, your fingers toying with the rings on your hand.

“I know you have known me less than a day, my i assure you I could never be angry with you,” he reassured, pulling your hand back to his, rubbing tender circles in comfort. 

You swallowed, forcing yourself to speak the words you had never said aloud, the words drilled into you by your mother that were strengthened by her death. “My parents' marriage was not a kind one; he tormented her and treated her cruelly.” You looked to gwayne, noting the kind smile on his face as he urged you to speak, listening to every word from your lips. “My mother taught me of the horrors of marriage, and I have feared it, feared that-”

“That your husband would treat you the same as your father did your mother?” Gwyane finished for you.

You nodded. “I did, but then I heard I was to wed you, and all anyone spoke of was how kind and gallant you were, but the fear still lingered and i-” You swallowed roughly “My mother always told me that the marriage bed was what to fear the most, the pain of it.”

“Sweetling,” Gwyane spoke, his hand going to your chin, urging you to meet his gaze, “it may hurt, but I shall do everything in my power to never hurt you willingly or unwillingly. If it is pain you feel and not pleasure, we shall stop, and I shall never visit your bed unless you desire it.”

“You promise?”

“I vow it, alongside the vows we spoke today, sweetling,” he reassured, his forehead coming to rest on yours.

You smiled, his reassurance easing your nerves. “Will you kiss me?” you asked, your face moving closer to his, your breaths mingling. 

“Always,” he mumbled before connecting his lips to yours. The kiss was deeper than the first, his mouth pressing against yours perfectly. A soft gasp left your lips as he deepened the kiss, his tongue slowly pressing into your mouth. His hands slid to your waist, squeezing your hips as he kissed you, never once parting from yours until you were both begging for air.

“Where wearing too much clothes,” you laughed, your hand flying ot his chest, tugging at his shirt. Gwayne chuckled, reaching up to pull his shirt off and reveal the toned planes of his chest. Your own hands reached to undo the neldess laces of your dress, as gwayne stood to remove the rest of his clothes. You faltered at the sight of him bare before you, fully flushing as you took in the sight of him.

Gwayne preened under your gaze. “Do I please you, sweetling?” he asked teasingly. 

You laughed softly, standing up and reaching to kiss him once more. This time, as your kiss grew heated, Gwayne's hands reached to pull off your clothes. His eyes never once strayed from your face, even as he pulled the chemise off your body. His hands stayed on your body, squeezing your hips as he continued to kiss you, before moving to pull the endless pins from your hair and jewellery that decorated your skin.

It wasnt until the last pin was pulled from your hair that he broke the kiss and began to walk you back to the bed; his eyes then began to trace the plains of your skin. “So beautiful,” he murmured, kissing you again softly, a soft moan falling from his lips as he slowly moved you down onto the bed. 

“Well, take it one step at a time, sweetling,” he reassured, crawling voer your body, his hands on either side of your head, “you’ll tell me to stop if you need to?” he asked, watching you nod before reahcing down to kiss you once more, his lips soft, as his right arm began to trail along your body, caressing you softly as his tongue pushed into your mouth. His hand squeezed your breasts, his eyes tracing your skin as it flushed beneath his touch. 

His mouth left yours, trailing down to your jaw and neck before finally working down to your breasts, taking your nipple into his mouth, and placing teasing kisses across your breasts. “Good girl,” he hummed, watching how you reacted to his touch. 

“Is this good?” Gwyane asked, his eyes meeting yours. You moaned in response as his hand trailed down from your breasts until he reached your thighs. “Can I touch you?” he hummed, his hand reaching to part your thighs.

“Please,” you begged, preening as he placed another quick kiss to your lips before trailing down your body and parting your thighs to reveal your pretty pussy to him. His thumb reached for your bundle of nerves, rubbing soft circles on it as his tongue reached to lick between your folds.

A loud gasp fell from your mouth as he placed another lick across your slit. “Oh gods,” you moaned, as his fingers reached to spread your folds, revealing your pussy to him. He groaned at the sight of how wet you were. His tongue reached to place another long, teasing lick across the length of your folds. His thumb circled your clit as his tongue began to feast on you, lapping at your pussy, like a man starved. Moans fell from your lips as he feasted, a pleasure like never before lighting every nerve in your body, even more so when his fingers began to circle your entrance, pushing into you slowly.

Loud moans spilled form your lips, “Good girl.” Gwayne praised you again, his voice vibrating through your body as he spoke. A wave of pleasure washed over you as his fingers thrust into you, and something snapped inside of you, your back arching off the bed, his name slipping from your lips like a prayer. 

“Did you like that?” he asked, breaking away from you.

“Yes,” you breathed heavily, your hands reaching to grab Gwayne as he crawled over your body, pulling you back in for a kiss, tasting yourself on his tongue as you kissed. You felt his cock line up with your entrance as you kissed, a moan falling from you as his cock nudged your clit. 

“Are you ready?” he asked, gathering your slick across his length as he awaited your reply.

“Yes,” you breathed, reaching to connect your lips, focusing your attention on kissing him as he pushed into you. He stilled as he filled you, waiting for your go-ahead to move. “Move, please, “ you begged after a moment, the pain fading quickly.

“So good,” Gwyane moaned. “You look so beautiful,” he praised, his head dropping to your neck as he thrusted in and out of you. Your hands wrapped around his neck. “Taking me so well,” he hummed, kissing your neck. “Such a good girl,” he groaned, his hand gripping your waist, as he urged you to wrap your legs around him. His thrusts deepened at the new angle, hitting a soft, spongy spot inside of you. 

“Faster,” you moaned, the sting you felt at first long fading into pleasure as he picked up the pace. Fast and deep, your pleasure racked through you, moans filling your chambers as you felt that coil inside of you tighten and snap suddenly. Your pussy is pulsing and tightening around his cock. He moaned into you, his lips moulding against your as his own wave of pleasure washed over him.  

He breathed against you, his breath heavy, as he fell off your body, pulling you close to him. “You did so well,” he praised. “Did it hurt?” he asked, holding you tight to him, as you felt a wave of sleep wash over you, concern evident in his tone. 

“No, not at all, it was perfect,” you hummed. And it was. He was perfect. The perfect man and husband. All your fears, all of your mother's words and fears, proved entirely unwarranted. As tonight was only the beginning of a life of marital bliss.

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.”

A loud knock echoed through the room, just as I lace up my boots. “Come in,” I called out. The door opened and one of the guards stepped in, “Your Grace, the queen has asked me to inform you that your husband has been taken captive and is currently in the council chamber.” I freeze at his words. “My husband?” I repeat. The guard nods, “Ser Gwayne Hightower, Your Grace.” My throat closes up as I think about him. “The Queen requested that you go see him, to try and learn some useful information before the council decides his fate.”

I nod and fasten my sword to my belt. The guard follows behind me as I make my way to the council chamber. The cold evening air seeps through my clothes and settles in my bones. As I enter my eyes fall to my husband, who sits chained on the floor, leaning against the wall.

Gwayne struggles to stand when he sees me, His wrists are chained together behind his back. They had stripped away his armor, leaving him in a bloodstained tunic. He grunts when he moves as close as the chains allow, feeling pain from some injury that I can’t see. “You came, I wasn’t sure you would,” his voice sounds raw and scratchy. I come to stand before him and I don’t answer, letting the silence speak for me. “I deserve your silence,” he whispers. I scoff and fold my arms. “You deserve much worse than my silence.”

His gaze drops to the floor. “I know.” “Do you?” I snap back. He looks up, sadness in his eyes. “I’ve known every day since this war began.” A bitter laugh escapes my lips. “You mean every day since you realized that your side was losing.” Gwayne looks taken aback. “That’s not true…” he whispers. “Don’t lie to me,” my voice grows cold. “I’m not.”

I step closer to the man I called my husband. “You stood with Cole as he slaughtered anyone who didn’t stand with him.” “I know,” Gwayne rasps. “You murdered in Aegon’s name.” “I did.” “You raised your sword against my family.” My voice cracks. “... I know.” “Why?” I demand. He opens his mouth but nothing comes out. His eyes dart around the room as he searches for an answer. “I believed I was doing what honor demanded of me.” “Honor?” I repeat mockingly and he nods.

“I was raised to honor the vows I made.” “Well what about the vows you made to me?” He freezes. “Were those not vows?” I demand. "Of course they were,” his breathing grows uneven. “You swore to me before the Seven that we were one.” “I know I did.” A humorless laugh leaves my lips. “And yet when the realm split you chose the side I was not on.” Gwayne’s shoulders start to shake slightly. “I thought…” he trails off and he closes his eyes. “Say it,” I hiss. “I thought there would be another way.” He looks up at me, desperation in his eyes. “I thought the war would end before we would end up on opposite sides. I thought that I could do my duty to my house and still keep you.”

“So you chose them,” I whisper. He nods weakly, the admission seemingly draining whatever little strength he had left. “And it was the greatest mistake of my life.” I look away, not wanting to see the sorrow in his eyes. “A mistake is forgetting to kiss your wife goodbye. Choosing the side in a war that your wife is not on is not a mistake. It’s a choice.” “You’re right,” Gwayne’s voice breaks. “I made that choice. I made it because I thought loyalty meant standing with my father and sister and my house.” His breath hitches as he holds back a sob. “I should’ve realized that my loyalty begins with you.”

He steps forward. Falling onto his knees before me with pleading eyes. “Please,” he whispers, voice breaking completely. “Please don’t look at me like that.” I scoff bitterly, “how do you want me to look at you?” “Like you used to.” My heart clenches at how hopeful he sounds, “that woman died.” He flinches back, “Don’t say that.” he pleads. “That woman waited for you.” I continue. “She waited for you to write to her. She defended you when others called you a traitor. She prayed every night that you would come home.” A tear rolls down my cheek and I swallow heavily. “And then she watched you ride beneath a green banner.”

“I know…” “No, you don’t” I furiously wipe away a tear, my voice trembling. “Do you have any idea what it feels like to have the people I care about speak your name with hatred? To wonder if my own husband would kill someone I love? To spend every night hoping that the next raven wouldn’t tell me you had died? Or worse, to realize that you had become someone that I could no longer love?” Gwayne moves forward, burying his head into my stomach, clinging to me like it’s a lifeline. “I am so sorry,” he whispers into the fabric of my tunic and he begins to sob. His shoulders shake so violently that the chains around his wrist rattle. “Gods…” he chokes, “I am so sorry, please.”

“I know that I can’t undo what I’ve done. That I can’t bring back the dead.” He looks up at me with red eyes. “But I beg you, don’t let the last thing between us be hatred. Please tell me that there’s still a chance for us. Please tell me that there is still a part of you that loves me. I won’t be able to survive in a world where I am not yours.” I hesitate for a moment. “I would choose you now,” Gwayne whispers, “every time I would choose you. I would burn the banners of my house with my own hands. I would beg forgiveness from you and your family every day for the rest of my life.”

He leans forward, the chains digging into his wrists as he stretches his arms to the limit. Everything to get closer. “I’d give my life a thousand times if it meant undoing what I did to you. Please don’t let me die believing I threw away the greatest gift that the Seven ever gave me.” The lump in my throat refuses to go away no matter how much I swallow. The silence grows louder with every second. “I don’t know if I can forgive you.” Gwayne nods slowly. “I know.” My hands come up to wipe away his tears and he closes his eyes, leaning into my touch. “I love you, that will never change.”

Suddenly I hear a cold laugh echo through the room. “Well well well, the Hightower dog finally kneels.” I step away from Gwayne and see Daemon standing by the Painted Table. Next to him stand Rhaenyra, Lord Corlys, Jace, Baela and the rest of the black council. Gwayne remains on his knees and lowers his head at Rhaenyra. “Your Grace,” he whispers, voice uneven. “I only ask to be heard.” Daemon laughs ruthlessly. “The coward asks for mercy,” he mocks but Gwayne shakes his head. “No. I only ask to speak, after that I’ll accept any punishment you decide on.” Daemon leans forward with a glint in his eyes. “Even death?”

“Even death,” Gwayne confirms, looking Daemon straight in the eye. “But only if the queen demands it.” Daemon scoffs at Gwayne’s defiance and turns to Rhaenyra. “There is nothing to hear. He’s a commander for the greens. He fought against us. That’s enough to demand his head.” He draws his sword, steel ringing through the room. Then Rhaenyra raises her hand. “Speak, Ser Gwayne.”

“I was raised to believe that honor and loyalty meant everything. Loyalty to my father, my sister and to House Hightower.” His gaze falls to the floor. “I believed that if I abandoned them, then I would cease to be the man I strived to be, so I stayed and fought for them.” He looks up at me, the same love in his eyes I’ve always loved. “But I didn’t realize that I ceased to be the man she married.” Silence falls as everyone takes in his words. Corlys crosses his arms. “Regret comes cowardly after defeat.” Gwayne nods at his words. “It does.”

“Then why should we believe you? Why should we spare your life?” Gwayne answers without hesitation. “Because I gain nothing from lying. Kill me if you want, it changes nothing. This God forsaken war has already taken everything from me.” He looks at me, his eyes trapping my own. Daemon snorts. “Good.” He fully draws his sword,strides closer and raises the blade to my husband. 

My body moves before my mind catches up. The tip of Dark Sister stops inches away from my throat. Daemon’s eyes narrow in anger. “Move.” “No,” I refuse. “He’s a traitor.” “He’s my husband.” “Your husband fought against us,” Daemon argues and I scoff. “I know exactly what he did.” “Then step aside.” I still refuse and my hand slowly settles on the hilt of my own sword. Murmurs sound from behind Daemon but I pay them no mind, my eyes focussed on the dangerous smile appearing on Daemon’s lips. “You would draw your sword on me?”

“If you force me, yes.” The room freezes. “Father,” Baela pleads from behind, but Daemon ignores his daughter. “Careful,” he muses lowly. “You forget who you’re dealing with.” I step forward, the tip of Dark Sister now resting on the pulse of my throat. “I know exactly who you are.” The sword digs deeper in my throat as Daemon’s eyes narrow in anger, his teeth bare under his smile. “You’re my queen’s husband, the fiercest warrior in Westeros. But you are no king and you are standing in the queen’s court.” Daemon’s smile fades away, his eyes flickering to Rhaenyra. “If you kill a prisoner before the queen has passed her judgment, you’d be defying your queen.”

Daemon stares at me, then he laughs. “You’ve grown bold, girl.” He circles around me, sword still pointed at my throat but I move with him, keeping myself between him and Gwayne. “You’re fortunate, Hightower, your wife has more courage than you.” Suddenly Gwayne nudges the back of my thigh with his head. “Please don’t do this,” his voice sounds desperate. I frown in annoyance. “I’m trying to save your life, Gwayne.” He shakes his head violently. “Don’t risk your life for mine, I’ve already failed you, don’t let me be the reason you die too.” He turns to Rhaenyra. “Your Grace, if my death brings peace to your court, then let it be mine alone.”

Ever since your mother's passing you seemed to constantly act out. Whether it be sneaking out of the castle at night and returning early in the morning reeking of wine and filth, or taking flight on your dragon and disappearing for days until your elder sister had to come in search for you.

It had gotten worse when your father remarried. Alicent Hightower. You hated her with a bitter passion, and you hated her father even more. Otto. That scheming, no good-

It frustrated you to no end just to think about it. Which made you act out worse. Your father brushed it off as you being a grieving young girl, but Otto Hightower saw it as something that needed correction lest it grow out of control.

So, when Otto's second son, Gwayne, came to court, it felt fitting to assign him as your sword shield.

You treated him with malice and disdain since the moment you were told he would remain by your side to keep you under control. You didn't want to be tamed.

So you took your frustration out on the gentle night by your side. You made lazy excuses, you would kick him and claim it had only been a mistake. Send him to fetch nonexistent pastries. Drop your jewels into the fountains in the garden just so Gwayne would have to get his arms wet retrieving them. Some times, you even hid his sword.

Gwayne took it all with a stiff lip. He never complained, never raised his voice to you, nor his hand. He just... accepted your torment. Perhaps because it was what Otto had ordered him to do, or maybe it was because he pitied you.

On Aegon's second nameday, a grand hunt was held.

You almost refused to go, out of disdain for the child you were made to call brother. But, Rhaenyra had gently persuaded you, and you could not refuse your sister easily.

That day, you had overheard Lord's discussing if Viserys would name Aegon heir. And it made you helplessly angry. Rhaenyra was the heir, why should some Hightower babe be named that over her, just because he was a son?

You informed Gwayne that you wanted to take a walk in the woods. Ever dutiful, he agreed.

The second you were out of the open field and into the thick seclusion of the wooded forest, you took off running. You could feel sticks snagging on your gown, perhaps even tearing in some places. But in that moment, it didn't seem to matter.

An exasperated Gwayne followed closely behind.

Eventually you reached a small river, and without a word to Gwayne you shed your gown, tossing it haphazardly to the side and stepping into the cool water.

The fabric of your thin chemise stuck uncomfortably to your skin, but at the same time the cool of the water felt soothing. You waded further in until the water was up to your chest.

You turned to look at Gwayne who stood with his back facing you, a hand on the hilt of his sword, he seemed terribly rigid.

You laughed. Loud. Without shame, "Do you think not looking at me will make you a good protector, Ser?" She spoke, her tone sharp with amusement, "Or are you trying to prove you are better than other men."

Gwayne said nothing, but he swallowed hard.

You splashed water at him, though it scarcely reached, landing a few feet behind him.

He didn't flinch, only cleared his throat, "Princess, the water is cold. You should get out so we may return at once."

You rolled your eyes and floated back further into the body of water, letting out a content sigh through your nose.

"It's not cold," you argued lightly, but something flickered behind your gaze, "Turn around, Ser," you tone was softer this time.

You realized, to your own horror, you truly wanted him to turn around. Not just to torment him. It made you feel a little dizzy to think about it.

Gwayne seemed to tense, and you could hear his breath hitch. The command hung in the air between them, like a challenge. Or perhaps something more.

He did not turn. One boot scraping against the ground as if considering walking away entirely.

The sunlight glinted off the river's surface, casting rippling shadows across his profile. And God's, did you wish he was not so handsome.

When he finally spoke, his voice was firm, "I cannot, Princess."

You made a small, frustrated "hmph" sound.

You wished he would turn around, you imagined him taking his own clothes off, joining you in the water and...

You felt a flush of warmth creep up the back of your neck, and to your cheeks despite the chill the water brought.

You didn't want to think about how you truly felt towards Gwayne. It didn't feel right. He was a hightower, an enemy assigned to shadow you and keep you from your own will.

You swam back towards the shore, not coming out of the water yet, "And why is that, Ser?"

The way you drew out the word Ser on your saccharine tongue made him involuntarily shiver.

He still did not turn. But he could hear the soft splash of the water, the shift of weight as you neared the shore, and for a moment he let himself hope you were heeding him and getting out. But, of course, you didn't.

The air between you thickened with something unspoken. Something forbidden.

He exhaled slowly through his nose, not coldly or with harshness, just with restrained firmness.

"Because I am your shield,"

He paused.

"And because your father would have my eyes gouged out if I turned around right now."

You contemplated his answer, and again moved back into the middle of the water.

"Do I ever make you angry, Ser?" You mused out the question lazily, maneuvering in the water until you floated on your back.

You stared up at the sky that shone through the tree tops, blinking a couple times before adding, "When I torment you for my own amusement."

Gwayne finally turned his head, just a fraction to look at you out of the corner of his eye.

You floated there like some infuriatingly ethereal creature, your white gold hair fanned out around you like a halo.

He studied you for what seemed like a moment too long to him, before answering with honesty.

"Yes, princess."

He didn't hesitate, didn't try to sugarcoat it. He didn't doubt that you already knew. You did it on purpose, after all.

Then he added, in an uncharacteristic mutter;

"You make me very angry sometimes."

Even when he said it there was no real bite in his tone, just weary resignation of a man who had accepted his duty, even if it meant being tormented daily by a spoiled, cruel girl.

You shifted from how you were floating, submerging yourself in the water up to your chin. It made you pause when you saw that he was looking. Your boldness slipped away into a girlish shy feeling.

You wanted to laugh at his words, at the fact you made him angry and he could not do anything about it...but you didn't.

Instead; "Won't you swim with me?" You spoke carefully, a tinge of something unfamiliar in your tone.

His breath hitched again. He had never heard you ask for anything in that tone. You weren't being mocking, or commanding, it was something soft this time, something uncertain. It made his heart thump harder behind his ribs.

His fingers flexed around the hilt of his sword once, then stilled.

He knew he should refuse, why was he even considering? Why would he even want to? But he did. He desperately wanted to cross whatever invisible line lay between you.

You weren't laughing now. Weren't throwing stones at him or trying to push him and kick him, you were just... asking him to swim with you.

After a long silence he spoke, "... I have no spare clothes, princess."

"Well, take them off so you don't get them wet," You retorted flatly, giving a pointed glance to your own discarded gown on the shore.

You bit your cheek, letting yourself sink a bit deeper into the water.

His face warmed.

It was absurd how flustered he felt, not by your words but by the way you gazed at him. That unrelenting stare, the slight dip of your head as if daring him to obey. As if this were some great test he could not afford to fail.

He closed his eyes. 'God's forgive me.'

He reached for the clasp of his tunic, his movements deliberate and stiff with carefulness. And in some ways awkward in a way no man should be when undressing.

The fabric slipped off of one shoulder, then both arms came free. He laid it neatly on a flat rock, besides where your dress was haphazardly strewn out.

Next came his sword belt and boots, then hesitant fingers went to unfasten his trousers.

You watched with rapt interest, not giving him the decency of looking away while he undressed.

You were surprised he actually gave in. You would have bet coin that he wouldn't. (Always the honorable knight, he was)

Despite the water being so cool, in the moment you felt overwhelmingly hot.

Gwayne stepped free from his trousers, revealing strong legs. His tunic had been modest, but beneath it a simple linen shirt clung to his torso, damp with sweat from the day's heat.

He paused for just a fraction of a second before reaching to peel the shirt off his body.

You felt herself grow warmer as you watched him. His chest was broad, not overly muscular but solid. Lean strength carved from years of discipline. A few faint scars marked him, one across his collarbone, another near his ribs. Old wounds earned long before he was appointed her protector.

Without looking at you directly, (his gaze was fixed somewhere past your shoulder), he moved towards the waters edge and slowly stepped in.

You watched as he stepped into the water, the sun shone down through the trees onto his freckled face, casting golden shadows once again.

"You're very handsome, you know." You mused before turning in the water to swim away from him. Teasingly, maybe?

He froze in surprise. And heat flooded his chest at your words.

Very handsome? you were calling him handsome? It was shocking. This girl whose only joy in life seemed to be making him miserable, was complimenting him. He wondered if it was another cruel jest of yours at his expense.

He blinked rapidly, freckled nose scrunching slightly as if bracing for a punchline that never came.

By the time he had processed her words, you were already swimming away. He waded further into the water in pursuit.

You came to a still once again before submerging yourself under the water.

You stayed under the water for a nearly concerning time, but emerged further away by a large rock in the middle of the lake.

Your hand rested on it, your back turned to him. You glanced over your shoulder and gave him an inquisitive look.

He had watched with bated breath the entire time you were underwater, and had contemplated diving in after you.

When you surfaced near the rock, he breathed a silent sigh of relief.

The sight of you there, glistening in the dappled sunlight, one hand resting on the moss covered stone like some woodland spirit...it stole his thoughts clean away.

Something in the way you glanced at him sent a jolt of electricity through his body.

He waded deeper into the water after her.

You moved to get up on the rock, sitting up on it and kicking your feet in the water as you waited for him to approach.

The thin chemise you had left on was now completely soaked, and see through. It left very little to the imagination.

Your chest heaved slightly, a little out of breath from being underwater so long, but nevertheless a rare, genuine smile adorned your face.

Gwayne’s pulse thundered in his ears as he waded closer.

The water reached his thighs, then higher, soaking the hem of his linen smallclothes, the only garment still clinging to him. He didn’t care about modesty now. Shockingly it was the last thing on his mind when you were sitting there on that sun-warmed rock like a vision, your soaked chemise clinging to every curve.

Your smile hit him harder than any blow ever could.

It wasn’t mocking, like usual. It wasn't sharp or bitter or cruel, the kind you wore at court when sneering at Alicent or Otto, or when you tormented him, but real. Soft and bright and utterly disarming.

He stopped just before the rock's edge where your dangling feet broke small ripples across the surface.

The way he looked at you made your heart thump harder in her chest, and your grip subconsciously tightened on the mossy rock.

When he came closer, you flicked your foot in the water, playfully splashing him.

The cold splash hit him in the face. He paused for a beat before a deep, unexpected laugh escaped from his lips.

He cupped water in his hand and lazily splashed her back.

You giggled as well when splashed, water dripping down your collarbone and soaking into your already drenched chemise.

You looked down at him for a moment, your eyes crinkling around the edges with mirth.

You slid off the rock and into the water, swimming all the way around it until you were directly behind him.

He watched in confusion as you hopped down from your perch, an eyebrow raised.

He was surprised when you swam up behind him, making water ripple against his lower back.

Before he could react it happened, soft hands pressed into his shoulder blades, followed by a sudden shove. Not hard enough to push him under the water, or even truly throw him off balance. Just enough to send him lurching forward into deeper water with an undignified stumble.

And then without a word, your body was pressed up against his back. You draped her arms over his shoulders, your fingers splaying out over his chest.

Your weight against him was light in the water, and he could easily pull away or turn around. If he wanted to.

He went utterly still.

The warmth of your body pressed against his back sent sparks skittering across his skin. Your arms were delicate but strong, the way a rider’s limbs are, and they wrapped around him like ivy clinging to stone.

He could feel every breath you took; the faint dampness of your soaked chemise against the thin linen of his drawers. The water lapped gently around the two of you, quiet now, as if holding its breath with him.

His heart hammered so violently he was certain you must have heard it through your closeness.

Every instinct screamed at him to do something, but not because he wanted to escape… no, how could he?

Because this was dangerous territory.

You leaned your head forward, nuzzling it into his shoulder.

"avy jorrāelan, ñuha rȳbasor knigtor." You murmured breathily against his shoulder, your fingers brushing invisible patterns on his bare chest and stomach.

The high valriyan had been very purposeful, because you knew that he would know not of the meaning of her words. You didn't have the courage to speak them in the common tongue.

Gwayne didn’t understand the words.

The melody of valyrian slipped through him like a secret wind, beautiful and foreign. But even without knowing their meaning, your voice against his shoulder, the softness of it, the intimacy in that breathy murmur, the effect was overwhelming.

Your fingers traced idle shapes over his chest, gentle swirls across warm skin damp from water. Each touch sent quiet tremors through him, not sexual… not quite… but something deeper. Something tender and unspoken.

He exhaled.

You stayed like that silently for a moment, your hands stilling.

A few minutes passed, though it seemed more like hours.

"We should return to camp," You said softly, responsibly. Very rare for the reckless, vivacious princess.

In that moment, Gwayne abandoned all the decorum he had, all honor and all the fragility between them.

He turned in your arms, and looked down at you, his hands finding your soft waist. "May I kiss you, princess?"

Your breath hitched in shock, but you couldn't find it in yourself to refuse. Not when he was looking at you like that.

You gave a small nod.

With your consent, he finally leaned down and pressed a claiming kiss to your sweet, honeyed lips.

Super self indulgent but I've been loving Gwayne lately and wanted to write something for him hehe

*Also this wasn't proof read so my apologies for any mistakes