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inej’s mom always greets kaz with some variation of “here comes trouble” or “hello mischief/troublemaker” when he visits and it never fails to make him blush
adrian never beating the lost puppy allegations cause judomaster watches silently, eating his hot cheetos as adrian follows on your heels as you pace around the checkmate office trying to read a file (that has nothing to do with adrian/vigilante but he’s there anyway, for “moral support” he says)
or harcourt sending you on a mission and asks if you’re bringing adrian along and there he is, popping out of now where, “well yea, she brings me along everywhere!”
or you tell ads about your weekend plans and she says, “with adrian right?” and again, suddenly he’s right behind you like, “duh! we spend every weekend together!”
or showing up to an 11th street kids party and when you knock on the door and chris answers he immediately scoffs, saying “wow i thought you’d show up with—“ and is immediately cut off by adrian yelling his name as he runs up the stairs of the porch, approaching the front door. “yea he was grabbing the beer out of the car,” you smile up at chris and he just rolls his eyes but smiles back.
or economos calling you instead of even bothering to call adrian. you’re both needed at checkmate and when you pick up he tells you, “hey you and adrian need to come in right now.” “how did you know i’m with adrian?” “what do you mean how did i know? he’s literally always with you. it’s like he would die from separation anxiety if he was away from you for more than like, an hour.” “that’s not true! we don’t spend that much time together.” “oh yeah? hasn’t he spent the night at your house for like, the past week?” “that’s only because we have a mario kart tournament going!” adrian pipes up from where he’s sitting right next you, listening to the whole conversation. john scoffs and shakes his head and just tells you two to hurry up and get to work. and of course no one is surprised when you show up together in adrian’s sebring, you haven’t driven yourself to work in weeks.
or bordeaux seeing adrian walk in with two drinks and she doesn’t even have to ask who the second one is for. he sprints by her making a bee line to your desk like he’s late to see you, like he can’t handle another second not being next to you. he plops down on top of your desk and hands the drink over to you and you take it with a smile and a “aw you always remember my drink order!” beaming over at him.
and somehow you still don’t know that he’s in love with you.
if the dad’s best friend trope where he knew reader since they were born and immediately have feelings and attraction the minute reader turns 18 has no haters that means i'm dead
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- gwayne hightower x wife!reader x ormund hightower
ser gwayne hightower may be known for his chivalry, but beneath his courtly smile is a man of steel and blood. vows have made you his lawfully wedded wife, and when his most peculiar cousin starts weaving his traps for you to fall into… you will see another side of him you have never seen before
genre/warnings:
18+ suggestive content—minors do not interact!—arranged marriage, lots of romance and fluff, hurt/comfort, sunshine!gwayne and grumpy!reader, ormund is his own warning, first time with gwayne (bc he lost it), targaryen!reader (reader is rhaenyra's younger sister)
notes:
gif by @/baelcrtargaryen and @/alysmond. part 2 of to court a princess but can also be read as a standalone. this brainrot has been brewing for a while and i love it :)) so i hope you will too!
“...and even when our bones return to dust, may I find your soul still sworn to mine.”
Before the Seven, as the great bells chimed, you and Gwayne Hightower pledged your vows, sealing them with the tenderest kiss.
The wedding between a princess of the blood and a noble knight of House Hightower was the liveliest celebration the realm had seen in a while. King Viserys was overjoyed, and even Queen Alicent wore a rare genuine smile for both you and her brother. Rhaenyra pulled you into a warm embrace, offering her heartfelt wishes with a glowing smile.
Yet… amidst the sea of well-wishers, there was one gaze that was heavy upon you.
“Many congratulations on this most auspicious union, cousin.”
Ormund Hightower stepped before you, looking impeccably sharp in his exquisite emerald doublet. His voice was cool and devoid of warmth.
While your new husband was kind-hearted, you had heard the future Lord of Oldtown was a Hightower of a different stripe—a true son of his father.
Then, Ormund turned his gaze to you, his lips curling into a crooked smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “And to you as well, Princess...”
His dark gaze wandered, raking down your face to your bust, before returning to meet your eyes unabashedly.
“The songs do you a disservice, Your Grace. You are a far lovelier sight than what they claim.”
There was something in the way he appraised you that made you uncomfortable. It was your first encounter with the infamous son of the Lord of Hightower, and yet you knew instantly what sort of viper he was.
Gwayne’s arm, still resting over your waist, tightened subtly—a silent warning for him, also a reassurance to you.
“She has my heart, Ormund, and my sword,” Gwayne replied smoothly, his eyes flashing with a protective warmth as he looked down at you. “The realm has never seen a more beautiful bride, and I am the luckiest man in the Seven Kingdoms.”
“Why, of course. You have done our house a great service today, Gwayne, and I’m certain you’ll make a fine husband,” he said with a careless shrug, his crooked smile not wavering. He raised his goblet in a mock toast. “May the Light of the Seven bless your union.”
With a final, lingering look at you, Ormund turned on his heel and melted back into the sea of lords and ladies.
“Don’t mind him,” Gwayne hissed under his breath.
The moment his cousin was out of sight, you leaned closer to your groom, noting the sharp clench of his jaw. Sensing your concern, however, he immediately masked his irritation and turned to you with a reassuring smile as he drew you securely against his side.
Yet, as the music surged back to life around you, you couldn’t deny the chill that still prickled your skin. Ormund Hightower would remain at court for the rest of your wedding festivities—
And you had a foreboding feeling you would soon see him again.
The first day of your wedding celebration finally drew to a close. With the feast over, the princess and her new husband were left in the confines of their marital chambers, and—
The time has come for this marriage to be consummated.
A nervous flutter stirred in your chest. Gwayne had given explicit instructions for your handmaidens to leave after removing your headpiece, saying he would take care of the rest.
And try you might to look away as a proper lady should, your eyes kept drifting towards him as he began to undress— all the while bracing yourself, expecting the shift from chivalrous knight to demanding husband.
“If you’re stealing glances at me like an innocent maiden does her first love,” he suddenly remarked with an amused grin, “you’re truly going to make me blush.”
Heat rushed to your cheeks, and you averted your gaze, suddenly finding everything more appealing than him.
Left in just his loose linen shirt, Gwayne had a meaningful smile on his face as he stepped behind you, his fingers reaching out to you to unlace the stiff bodice of your gown.
Oh, this is really happening, is it not?
“We...” You suddenly found it hard to breathe as the heavy layers of your dress came loose. “Are we—”
“Yes, darling?” he chuckled softly, his dimples deepening in the firelight. He clearly found satisfaction in how flustered you had become all of a sudden.
You merely looked down, biting your lip to keep yourself from stammering. Your face felt hot too as his large palm traced the contours of your body— from the line of your ribs to the curve of your waist, and the dip of your hips.
After all, you were inexperienced. You had heard stories of how hurt the first night could be— how rough the men liked it, and how comfort was the last thing a woman should expect.
As his arms circled your waist from behind, pinning you gently against him, you choked out:
“Could you be gentle... at least?”
“Hm?” he hummed, smiling against your skin, his breath warm as he pressed a kiss to your shoulder.
Who could have known that the stern princess could be so shy? Gwayne indulged himself, trailing a path of kisses up the sensitive nape of your neck, savoring the way you shivered beneath his touch.
Precious thing, she truly is.
With a knowing smile, he lifted you effortlessly into his arms, and you gasped, clinging to his shoulders.
He laid you down upon the silk sheets, climbing in above you, and leaned down— immediately pressing his lips to yours in a searing kiss that tasted faintly of sweet wine.
“Mmh...” His mouth moved against yours with hunger, tangling his fingers into the locks of your hair. He kissed you until you felt the room spin— each time he pulled back a fraction of an inch, it was only to catch his breath before leaning down to devour your lips again, deeper and more bruising than before.
His toned hips pressed down firmly against yours, pinning you into the silk sheets. Through your thin linen shift, you could feel the hard, growing length of his bulge pressing against your thigh.
A quiet moan caught in your throat as he started rolling his hips, the friction sending a wave of unfamiliar heat straight to your core. Your fingers grasped the nape of his neck, and he groaned, a low vibration that you felt as much as you heard.
“Do you even know—” he rasped against your lips, still grinding against you, his voice tinged with unbridled desire, “how badly I want you?”
Just as the tension stretched to a breaking point, Gwayne suddenly went still. With a ragged exhale, he pulled away, leaving your lips tingling. He leveled his dark gaze on you, watching you panting for breath.
Lowering his head to rest his forehead against yours, he made no move to strip away the rest of your linen shift. He simply anchored his weight against you.
“Ser Gwayne…?” You blinked up at him, confusion clouding your eyes.
He let out a low chuckle, his fingers tracing the curve of your jaw.
“We have just survived the court of vipers today, my darling. Both of you and I need rest, nothing more.”
“But—”
His eyes then crinkled, his smile softened, looking at you as if he knew clearly what were currently going through your mind.
“What did I vow to you before the Seven?”
Wide-eyed, spellbound, with swollen lips of his making. Gwayne found his princess bride really endearing. Looking at you as he would a treasure, he recited the words he had spoken before the High Septon:
“I pray that my days will be long at your side. May your hand be in mine, by sun and by night...”
His dark blue eyes bored into yours with sincerity that made your chest tighten.
“Let our breaths twine and our blood become one, and even when our bones return to dust... may I find your soul still sworn to mine.”
Once again, he caught your heart with his sweet devotion. The way he was pure in his affections for you made you almost tear up.
Is this what it feels like to feel completely safe?
“There is no rush.” He traced a finger on your lips. “My only desire is to cherish you. With me, you are free to speak your mind— and as I am yours, you are entirely mine.”
He flashed you another sweet smile before rolling onto his side. He reached down to grasp the velvet blankets, pulling the covers all the way up over you both to block out the chill—tucking you securely under his arm and pulling you against his chest.
When you clung to him, he let out a giddy laugh, his hold instinctively tightening around you.
“Thank you, husband,” you whispered against his broad chest, nuzzling your face closer to him.
You received a tender kiss on the crown of your head in return.
For the most part, you were the happiest bride in the Seven Kingdoms.
Everyone in the realm, from the lowly stableboys to nobles, had offered their felicitations, your knight’s devotion was absolute and his tenderness behind closed doors a sanctuary against the court.
Yet, you hadn’t missed the way Ormund Hightower, the heir of Oldtown and Gwayne’s cousin, had eyed you at each and every turn.
His morning greetings had felt entirely too personal for your comfort, and the way he boldly stared at you made your skin crawl. You hadn’t seen fit to tell your husband just yet, choosing instead to give his cousin the benefit of the doubt.
Now, with the last day of your wedding festivities concluded, the gates of Red Keep were open as the lords and ladies of the realm prepared their wheelhouses to leave King’s Landing. Seeking an escape from the noise, you ducked into a cloistered walkway near the Godswood.
But you weren’t alone.
A shadow fell over the stone floor, and before you could turn, Ormund stepped out from behind a carved pillar, blocking your path in the deserted corridor.
“Your Grace,” he greeted with a cold smile.
“Ser Ormund.” Your voice adopting the icy tone you had practiced for years, as you began to question what he was truly after. “Should you not prepare to return to Oldtown? I imagined you would want to be ready for the long journey back to the Reach.”
Ormund didn’t answer right away. He closed the distance between you, tilted his head, a patronizing smile touching his lips.
“Preparations can wait. I merely wanted a private moment to bid my farewell to you.”
“You have had seven days of feasts to bid your farewells,” you retorted.
His smile only deepened. Instead of moving away, he stepped closer, trapping you between his frame and the pillar.
“Now, Princess... You know it as well as I do that we play a less than pretty game here.”
His gaze dropping to your collarbone before lifting to pin yours, with a look of a man who knew how much you weighted before the Iron Throne.
“Everything you lack in birthright is amply compensated by that pretty face of yours.” His blue eyes narrowed. “With a face like that, you could bewitch knights and lords across the Seven Kingdoms. A tragic shame... If only the timing had been right, you could have chosen me instead.”
A wave of disgust rushed through you. “You would do well to remember yourself. You are already wed.”
“A man never knows,” he replied in a sultry whisper, “when he might find himself in need of another wife.”
Ormund chuckled at your horrified expression. He leaned in closer, his eyes boring into yours with a terrifyingly casual entitlement, and in that moment you caught a striking smell on him.
Incense? Pomander? It was a potent smell, but surprisingly and jarringly pleasant.
“Why him?” he sneered, placing both arms against the wall on either side of your head. “An easy prey, is he?”
“He is kind,” you spat, your gaze hardening with defiance, willing yourself not to tremble before him. “A kinder man than anyone could ever be. Now I command you to let me pass, as I will not suffer you insulting my lord husband, Ormund Hightower.”
“Kind, is he now...? My cousin is the very paragon of a gentleman, and you thought you could bend him to your will, no?”
He leaned even closer to your ear that you could feel his breath—his scent filling your being, his blue eyes narrowing and burning into you with cold certainty.
“A word of counsel,” Ormund warned, his voice dropping to a menacing purr. “Gwayne remains a Hightower. The blood of Oldtown runs thick in his veins, and whatever sweet words he whispers in your bed… In the end, he will never betray his own house.”
The words echoed in your mind, striking a sudden chord of doubt— before nausea and fury flared within you.
With a sudden surge of strength, you shoved hard against Ormund’s chest, breaking his hold and causing him to stagger.
Without giving him the satisfaction of another word, you spun on your heel and swept past him, leaving him alone in the shadows of the corridor.
Throughout the seven days and nights of your wedding festivities, Gwayne Hightower had been a man utterly besotted, and he wasn’t reluctant in showing it before the court.
These were, without a doubt, the best days of his life. A dizzying happiness bestowed upon him by the Gods.
And patience was a virtue he possessed and would gladly practice if it meant your comfort. He had no wish to rush you and would like to give you as much time as you wanted, because after all, he knew deep-seated worries a new bride had regarding the marriage bed.
To that end, he had been standing by the hearth for a while now, stoking the coals so the chamber would be warm. When the heavy oak door finally creaked open and you stepped inside, Gwayne turned, already expecting you.
“Well, hello again, darling,” he greeted, an easy smile instantly gracing his features. “Are you ready to retire for the night?”
“Oh—!”
A startled gasp escaped you, and you nearly jumped out of your skin, completely caught off guard to find him waiting. Even from across the room, he caught the rigid hunch of your shoulders and the panic in your eyes. It took only a second to realize how you were shaking.
His smile vanished, replaced by a sudden, sharp concern.
“You look unwell,” Gwayne noted, frowning. Immediately letting go of the poker, he stood and crossed the chamber to you.
However, you were always a quick thinker. Meeting his gaze, you forced a placating smile. “No— It is just the wind, husband, and I am weary. I shall summon my handmaiden to help me undress and get ready for bed.”
Now there really was an unsettling weight gnawing at his chest. It was something he realized recently, but you were actually a wretched liar when caught unprepared. And now, you looked fragile, as though you desperately needed comfort.
“Has something happened?” He closed the remaining distance, his hands sliding up to catch you gently by the arm, drawing you closer to him.
His first instinct was to unquestionably provide you that comfort, and he was just about to pull you into the safety of his arms when—
His nostrils flared as he caught the fragrance clinging to you— and the air left his lungs. It was a scent he loathed with a visceral hatred, yet one he recognized almost instantly.
Gwayne went rigid, the blood turning to ice in his veins. A dark, sickening realization settled over him in a matter of seconds.
How?
Just how close had you been... to carry his scent so clearly upon your skin?
His gentle demeanor hardened into a sudden steel, and his voice dropped:
“Were you with Ormund?”
. . .
You wanted nothing more than to collapse in his arms.
You were really going to when suddenly you noticed how his face darkened. Gwayne’s blue eyes locked onto yours, demanding the truth you were trying to hide.
“Why were you with him?”
That striking smell, you realized. “No, I wasn’t—” you stammered, the words catching in your throat as panic flared inside you.
But Gwayne was far from convinced. He immediately let go of you, stepping back as if your very touch burned him. The sudden loss of his warmth made your heart ache with a sharp pain.
He looked utterly lost now, unable to look you in the eye. And worst of all, he looked terribly hurt.
“Nothing happened between us!” you blurted, desperate to bridge the sudden chasm between you. “We just exchanged a few words—”
“Do not lie to me. Ormund has a certain pomander he prefers—a blasted scent I would know anywhere. To carry that scent, you must have been so near to each other, so close that...”
He couldn’t even finish the sentence. The compromising image of you and his cruel cousin choked the words right out of his throat, his jaw clenching as he fought back the raw betrayal burning in his chest.
You, however, wouldn’t allow him to believe the worst. You forcibly threw yourself into his arms, desperate to mend the fracture between you—
“Gwayne, I swear this upon my mother’s name: I would never hurt you in such manner.”
You wrapped your arms around him tightly, burying your face against him. In that moment, even you found a fleeting peace in his warmth and listening to his erratic heartbeat. At first, his entire frame went completely stiff under your touch.
But as your vow settled over him... the tension broke, and he melted into your embrace in surrender, holding onto you with a crushing grip.
Oh. Such a sweet man, he is. The clarity almost made you cry—even when he thought he was in his darkest moment, he silently chose to believe you.
The two of you stayed like that for a while until a sudden, dark terror seemed to occur to him. His eyes snapped back to yours, searching your face for any sign of ruin.
“Did he force himself upon you?” he asked then, his voice uneven, almost trembling with rage at the mere thought. “Because if he did— if he laid a single unwanted hand on you, I will—”
“No!” you fiercely rejected the notion. “Nothing happened! I— I might have incited his displeasure, yes, but nothing more!”
Gwayne let out a relieved sigh, cradling your face with both of his hands to anchor himself, looking down at you like a lovelorn man. The ache in his chest subsided somewhat, and for a moment, he contemplated hearing more.
Ormund was not a kind man. He knew that better than anyone, having spent his childhood under his whims. And Ormund was ruthless and cunning— so if he had approached you, he undoubtedly had a purpose.
It might prove him a fool, and it would cost him another piece of his soul, yet Gwayne chose faith. Just as he had done a hundred times before.
“Whatever transpired between you, I do not wish to hear of it.”
You blinked at him, only to find him staring back with a grave expression.
“Just do not come near him again,” he warned, his voice a low, commanding growl. “Can you do that?”
You barely nodded when Gwayne leaned down and captured your lips in a punishing kiss—one born of relief, jealousy, and a fierce need to erase every trace of his cousin from your skin.
His hands, usually so practiced in their courtesy, lost their gentleness as he crushed you against him. He groaned against your mouth, breaking the kiss only to drag his wet lips down your throat, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin over your pulse point just roughly enough to make you gasp.
The sounds of your mingled breaths and sensual sighs filled the room. Your thoughts burned away by the sudden, suffocating heat of him. He backed you towards the high, velvet-curtained bed, and then swept you off your feet—
“Oh! Ser Gwayne!”
Just like your first night together as man and wife, he laid you down on the marital bed, but this time, he came down over you—his hands tearing at the laces of your dress, his breath hot on your jaw.
“Princess, I can’t—” His voice broke into a growl as he lost it, capturing your lips in another senseless kiss.
Somewhere in the feverish haze, he shrugged off his own shirt, letting out a grunt when he felt the burning touch of your fingertips wandering across his bare skin.
With a single, fluid pull, he rid you of your dress, and only then did he draw back, his dark eyes wide and dilated as he drank the sight of your naked form.
Every inch of you... is dazzlingly woman. How had the heavens deemed him worthy of a wife so breathtaking?
A primal urge flared within him— he had to mark you, to write his name upon your skin. Every lord in the Seven Kingdoms should know that he alone was husband to the princess.
Gwayne buried his face in your chest, suckling your breasts, swirling his tongue around the aching peaks until you arched off the mattress, breathless.
Fuck patience.
He roughly parted your thighs next to devour your sweet cunt with his mouth and lips, making you squirm to hold back your lewd moans. Within minutes, the intense coil inside you burst, your fingertips clawing at the bedsheets as your climax tore through you.
Fuck virtues.
Your head were still spinning in a daze as he proved just how masterful he was in pleasuring you. Before you could properly recover, Gwayne parted your knees wider and settled his weight over you.
“Will it hurt?” your voice came in a whisper, laced with such raw innocence when you realized what was to come that it immediately softened him.
“The first time always is,” Gwayne answered truthfully. “Scratch me, bleed me, scream if you must. Tell me if the pain outweighs the pleasure, and I will stop.”
He aligned himself against your entrance and with a push, inched himself inside you. You winced, a sharp cry escaping your lips at the foreign intrusion, your nails digging into the skin of his back.
“Hush, darling... I have you,” he whispered thickly. He held you tight, anchoring you against the mattress as he drove himself deeper. You trembled beneath him, half in tears and choked by little gasps of pain, your body struggling to accommodate his sheer size.
So tight. Gwayne really was on the verge of losing it when he realized he had broken your maidenhead. Still a maid, and I have claimed her.
When he sheathed himself completely, your body stretched against an agonizing fullness and more tears fell from your eyes. Gwayne held himself perfectly still, giving your body a moment to adjust to his length, before pressing a tender kiss to your lips to soothe you and beginning to move.
As his hips drove into yours with bruising thrusts, the initial sting quickly melted away, replaced by a deep, rolling friction that felt incredibly good, drawing whimpers from the back of your throat.
You looked sinful beneath him. His hands slid up from the mattress to cup your face, his thumbs wiping away the stray tears at the corners of your eyes even as his lower body dictated a merciless pace.
There was only the heat, the slick friction binding you together, and a man utterly possessed.
“You are mine,” Gwayne rasped against your skin, his voice a ragged edge of pure devotion and dark triumph. “From this night... until my last.”
The pleasure wound tighter and tighter within you— until the dam broke, shattering you in a blinding release. You cried out his name, your body clamping tightly around his length.
Fuck.
The pulsing squeeze of your walls was the final blow to his restraints— your husband groaned aloud, as he thrusted into you one last time, before collapsing against you and spilling his seeds inside your womb.
You awoke before him.
With the morning light filtered through the velvet curtains, you observed your husband’s serene, sleeping face. Free from his courtly mask and the heat from the night before, Gwayne looked peaceful, almost like a boy.
Even in sleep, he had one arm on your waist. His red hair was a mess against the sheets, and the blanket barely covered him, exposing the impressive breadth of his back—and the faint red marks where your nails had scratched him last night.
Sweet man, and he’s all mine.
A wave of tenderness washed over you, a deep-seated realization sank that you were truly his woman now. Reaching out, you gently cupped his jaw, the pad of your thumb tracing his cheek.
At your touch, his eyelashes soon fluttered. His eyes blinked open, unfocused with sleep.
“Good morrow, husband,” you fixed a sweet smile, and he blinked blue eyes at you, staring at you in a hazy daze for a moment as his mind worked to bridge the gap between his dreams and reality.
Then, a soft sigh escaped him. He reached out, his strong arms wrapping around your waist to pull you against him, burying his face into the crook of your neck.
“Forgive me,” he murmured in a drawl, his voice muffled against your skin.
You blinked. “What for?”
“I have conducted myself in a manner entirely unbefitting of your husband.”
“Oh?”
“I was far from gentle with you,” he mumbled into your neck. “When you have asked it from me.”
He really thought that? A giggle bubbled up from your chest, the light sound causing him to curl into you even further, hiding his face like a guilty boy.
“I am perfectly well,” you laughed, hugging him close to your chest. “A bit sore, perhaps, but quite intact.”
You stroked his red hair, and he clung to you a little tighter, as if you were the only anchor he needed. However, you were in the mood of being mischievous.
“Although, I must confess, I never knew you had that side in you, husband.” Your lips curling into a smirk as you looked down at him. “I must admit I doubted its existence.”
Gwayne went utterly still in your embrace. Slowly, he pulled back, looking at you with an expression of pure despondence. Then as though he couldn’t bear to look at your face, he groaned, clenching his jaw.
“I am glad my utter lack of composure is a source of amusement for the princess.”
His cheeks had started to redden, and your heart swelled. Reaching out, you caught his jaw with one hand and stole a quick kiss, catching him off guard.
“Am I not your wife?” you teased. “What is there to be so flustered about?”
“Are you secretly a wanton?” Gwayne fired back, a dimpled, shy smile breaking through his lingering embarrassment. “You certainly seem fond of kissing me first.”
Would a man so devoted to you not choose you, when he is faced by the impossible choice between his wife and his house?
Mayhaps that was a question that would find its answer in the years to come.
“This is how you kiss, darling.”
And with that, he leaned in and captured your lips in a chaste yet deep kiss. The shyness that had flushed his cheeks moments ago vanished, replaced by the effortless grace of a man who knew exactly how to cherish his wife.
When he finally parted from you, he didn’t pull away far. He rested his forehead against yours, his breath mingling with your own as the early morning sun caught the rich blue of his eyes, and his grin was the sweetest as he gazed at you.
What is that light shining through the window? It matters less, because you are the sun, and you are in his arms.
tagging @luvweezer @j3ons4 @heavenlypuggs @salinaiacono6 @thelastemzy @meowingtotheoldies @violetrainbow412-blog @reading-it-all as per request <3
a princess wed to a dashing knight should be living a fairytale—but gwayne hightower is also the son of the schemer who would soon plunge the realm into civil war. how long can you resist his charms... when he proves time and again that his affection is as genuine as his honor?
genre/warnings:
arranged marriage, unrequited love, hurt/comfort, yearning, jealousy, mentions of injury & blood, fluff and lots of kissing afterwards, sunshine!gwayne and grumpy!reader, political drama, targaryen!reader (reader is rhaenyra's younger sister), spoilers! takes place in season 1 of house of the dragon
notes:
gif by @/bladeofdreadfort. wc. 4.5k ! hotd s3 is finally here and so does my man gwayne <3 i really loved writing this so i hope you’ll enjoy it!
For the longest time, Gwayne had known that the matter of his marriage were not his to ponder. As the son of the Hand of the King, his future was a tapestry woven by him in a series of cunning, calculated moves.
Yet, he had never truly expected to be betrothed to you—a princess of the realm.
The young princess for the queen’s brother. By every measure, it was a masterful stroke of politics and his father had once again outdone himself. After binding his sister to the king, it was now his turn to seek the heart of the realm’s most coveted maiden after the Princess Rhaenyra.
However, to Gwayne, you were more than just a political alliance. You were a paragon of beauty, the girl haunting his dreams, the princess who has stolen his heart—
But seven hells, were you also one hard lady to entice.
Every charming smile he threw your way was met with an arched, unimpressed brow. Every poetic compliment he rehearsed tasted like ash and shattered against your coldness. You didn’t swoon like the ladies at the tourney grounds, nor did you soften at his obvious attempts to woo you.
Instead, you looked at him as if you could see right through the nervous man underneath.
Your assessing gaze was currently fixed on him from the shade of the courtyard gallery. Down in the dirt, Gwayne was sweating through his padded doublet, trying his absolute best to look formidable as his sword clashed against his squire’s shield—because he knew you were watching.
He has to look good. Your wedding was in three weeks, so he was fighting to impress—determined to give you a show of how your betrothed was as dashing as the realm claimed him to be.
With theatrical flair, he executed an aggressive sequence before driving his squire back with a heavy strike, deftly sweeping the poor lad’s legs out from under him, and sending him sprawling into the dirt with a breathless thud.
Breathing heavily, Gwayne smoothly rested the point of his sword near the fallen boy’s chest in a classic pose of victory.
“You are just dead,” he declared with his signature grin, before turning to where you were.
You leaned against the stone balustrade, looking down at him with an expression of mild, patronizing amusement. He flashed you a hopeful, boyish grin that begged for even a shred of your approval.
And as if deciding to grace him with your presence, you descended down the stone stairs. Gwayne’s smile widened, and he met you halfway as you reached the bottom.
Ignoring the staring stableboys, he dipped his head and took your hand, placing a kiss on it.
“Princess,” he greeted, his dark blue eyes meeting yours with an excited crinkle.
“An impressive display, Ser Gwayne,” you replied, smoothly pulling your hand back from his grasp. He was giddy, about to thank you for the compliment, when—
“I must commend your passion. It takes a truly remarkable knight to exert such effort against a boy half his size who is actively paid to lose to him.”
Gwayne winced slightly, but the grin quickly returned to his face, refusing to let your sharp tongue deter him.
“A knight, no matter the age, must practice for all manner of foes. It shall be a good lesson for my squire to learn,” he countered softly. He had always been a naturally courteous man, but he had been practicing an extra measure of gentleness ever since the betrothal was announced, even when you remained frosty.
He hoped that you would recognize it—that you would see he was willing to bend his pride just for you.
However, you merely lifted your chin higher, your eyes flashing with a challenge.
“Is that so? My, what a chivalrous soul you are. I suppose I shall sleep soundly knowing you are defending the realm with your immense prowess and formidable army of squires.”
One thing he could never truly understand, though... he hadn’t asked for this match any more than you had, yet why did you look at him as you would a liar?
And it hurts because... he remembers how the more innocent, younger you, who had wiped blood from his face, hadn’t looked at him as you do now.
“We are to be married in no less than a moon,” he reminded you, still with a smile. “Tell me, Princess... what must a man do to earn a genuine compliment from his bride?”
You held his gaze for a beat, letting the silence stretch just long enough to watch the slight twitch in his jaw. Then, a devastatingly sweet smile graced your lips as you tilted your head.
“Compliments are but wind, my good ser. If we are to marry soon anyways, what use would flattering you with empty words do?”
Gwayne let out a defeated chuckle. “I shall just continue striving to become a man worthy of your hand, then.”
You had just insulted him and mocked his swordsmanship in the same breath, and yet, somehow, he still found himself tethered to you still.
What a fool he was.
He didn’t give up just like that, of course. Gifts was also Gwayne’s language of affection.
He had commissioned a seven-pointed star necklace for you in Oldtown, crafted from the finest silver and diamond. He had watched his late mother and sister find such profound comfort in it, and so he had believed it would make a fine gift for you.
Yet, now that he presented the gleaming jewelry to you, you were rendered silent.
“You do not like it,” he realized, a note of disappointment building through his usual confidence.
“It is exquisite. Truly,” you started, your voice gentle but lacking the reverence he had anticipated. “But... you must not expect me to wear it often.”
“Is it the design? If it offends your sensibilities, I can have it redone, or—”
“I assure you, I know your intentions are kind,” you looked at him, a certain sternness in your eyes. “It is just a matter of preference, is all. I treasure this necklace from my mother rather greatly, and wearing it is how I keep her close to me.”
The tragic death of Queen Aemma was not so easily forgotten, least of all when you resembled her so much. Gwayne’s smile faltered, the enthusiasm in his eyes dimming when his gaze found the sapphire necklace of Arryn falcon on your neck, a heirloom passed down.
He looked down at the silver star resting in the wooden box, suddenly finding it so plain, before forcing himself to meet your gaze again.
“I just want you to know that... you are in my thoughts, constantly,” he murmured, his gaze rising to meet yours again. “Whenever I see something I consider beautiful, I think of you. I want you to have it. You should know I have no underlying intentions other than that.”
You gave him an appreciative nod, pursing your lips together. “Your kind thoughts are much appreciated.”
So he had failed, again. Sigh.
What better way to impress your betrothed and prove to the entire realm that you were worthy of her hand than by claiming victory at the King’s nameday tourney?
Even you would at least bestow a real smile upon him. That was what Gwayne was after.
Or at least, it was until his gaze drifted to the edge of the battlement grounds where the knights were assembling. There, he saw you.
With Criston Cole.
The sight struck him. You, who usually looked at him with indifference, were attentive, your eyes bright in a way Gwayne had never managed to make them. Cole, in turn, had a reserved smile, his attention entirely locked onto you.
It could have been anyone but Criston—the Dornishman!—Cole. Why him?!
A sharp spike of resentment flared in his chest. He decided right then and there that this cannot stand, and marched towards you both.
“Good day, Ser Criston,” Gwayne greeted with a forced smile, his voice dripping with a courtly cheer that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
Cole returned his greeting, and he turned to you then. “My betrothed, fancy to have found you here. You shouldn’t have to sully yourself with the dirt.”
“I was merely wishing Ser Criston luck in the lists.” As always, the corners of your lips curled into that faux smile whenever facing him. “The competition looks fierce today.”
What about him? You hadn’t thought of wishing him, your own groom, luck?
“Fierce for some, mayhaps,” Gwayne nodded, his smile sharpening as he took another step forward, deliberately cutting off Criston Cole’s line of sight to you. He reached out, his gauntleted hand gently but firmly taking yours.
“But I sure do not fear a crowd of knights of modest beginnings and second sons. And I have hoped that I might find you in the stands later, and you would bestow upon me your favor to assure me of my victory.”
He looked down at you, the forced arrogance in his eyes momentarily cracked. He wanted you to look at him the way you had just looked at Cole, really.
But cruel, relentless you never granted it so easily.
“Your romantic sensibilities are commendable, ser.” You let out a soft sigh, as if lamenting, “but victory is still guaranteed by skill and the favor of the Seven, and not merely from a scrap of silk.”
The rejection was subtle, but in the presence of Criston Cole, it felt like a public execution.
“It is said even a scrap of favor from one’s bride can turn the tide of many battles,” Gwayne replied, his voice dropping an octave as the last traces of courtly cheer evaporated. “Unless, of course, your favor has already been promised to someone else?”
His eyes flicked towards Cole, searching for a reason to draw steel before the tourney even began. And that Dornish wretch had the gall to look at him in the eyes and retorted:
“May the best knight win, ser.”
Your betrothed had become terribly displeased and you knew it. Your hollow smile deepened, you stepped forward and smoothly slid your hand into the crook of his arm.
“No, no. You are free to ask me for it later, of course, my dear.”
Gwayne knew better that the honeyed words held no real affection. Yet, like a moth drawn to a flame, he couldn’t help but fall for it each and every time.
You held his leash, and you knew exactly how far you could play with and stretch it. But as he looked at you, a quiet ache settled in his soul.
Is it truly so wrong of him to seek your heart? How much longer would he have to endure this torment, giving everything while his affections remained completely unreturned?
“From today to the day we breathe our last, all that I am is yours.”
That was the first thing he told you when the betrothal was announced. In a den of vipers, Gwayne Hightower was entirely his own man.
He didn’t possess the calculating ambition of his father, who viewed every living soul as a piece in his game of thrones. Nor was he prudent like his sister, Queen Alicent, whose motto in life was duty and sacrifice.
You know that. You really knew that your chosen betrothed was everything but unkind. He was everything the songs promised a knight should be— genuine, posh, with a touch of arrogance that made him charming. He held you in high regard, and his attempts to make an impression on you were sweet.
Despite how you behaved around him, the truth was... it took everything in you not to fall for Ser Gwayne Hightower.
But he is still Otto’s son. You hated the Lord Hand with every fiber of your being—the man’s thirst for power had already forced your childhood companion Alicent into your father’s bed, turned your sister Rhaenyra into a scheming cynic, and your own betrothal to Gwayne was just another piece of his grand design.
However, watching the tourney unfold from the royal box, your thoughts swirled with guilt and anxiety. In the end, he hadn’t asked for your favor at all. Ironically, his sudden silence unsettled you far more than his persistence ever had.
Looking back on your interactions, the weight of your biting marks pressed heavily against your chest. You had rejected him so many times, using your faux smiles and sharp wit as shields. Every time you remembered the look of hurt that crossed his face before he masked it with a patient smile, a fresh wave of guilt washed over you.
Did he deserve to be punished just for pursuing you? Was it fair to make him pay for his father’s sins?
Down in the dirt, Gwayne rode beautifully, unseating two seasoned knights from the Reach and splitting lances with a Lannister to thunderous applause from the crowd. For a moment, watching his silver and green armor gleam in the sunlight, a spark of pride flared in your chest.
Then, Ser Criston Cole rode onto the field.
The tension between the two men was palpable even from the high stands. They charged— one lance shattered, then a second. By the third pass, it was clear it was a matter of pride.
And on the fourth pass, the collision was catastrophic.
With a terrifying crack that echoed across the grounds, Cole’s lance struck dead center. Gwayne was violently unseated, flung from his saddle to hit the earth with a sickening crash.
A collective gasp sucked the air from the stands. Through the rising dust, you saw your betrothed lying completely still. Cole’s lance hadn’t just broken— it had compromised his armor. His steel breastplate was shattered to pieces, the shards visibly lodged into his chest, dark blood already pooling through the fractures.
Your breath hitched, your hand flying to your mouth in horror.
Six years ago, a similar scene had paralyzed your heart the very same way. Blind to the rules of propriety, you bolted from the royal box. Pushing past lords and ladies, you sprinted down into the arena—desperate to reach him.
The maesters and several squires had already swarmed him, unbuckling the undamaged pieces of his armor with hurried hands. Gwayne was propped up against a wooden barrier, half-conscious, his head lolling to the side as his eyes struggled to hold focus.
“Will he be alright?” your voice cracked, almost shrill, the composed facade of a princess shattered as you hovered over the maesters working on him. “Tell me he will be alright.”
“The steel hasn’t pierced the heart, Princess, but we must move him to immediately to extract the shards,” one of them mumbled, wrapping a temporary cloth around the wound to stem the bleeding.
Gwayne let out a low, guttural groan at the pressure, his eyelids fluttering. Through the haze of pain, he recognized your voice. He knew you were there.
Driven by a sudden, overwhelming surge to comfort him, you dropped to your knees beside him. Your hands were trembling as you reached out, using the hem of your sleeve to wipe away the grime and blood that smeared his pale cheek.
But before your fingers could trace his jawline, Gwayne’s gauntleted hand came up. With a sudden burst of remaining strength, he swatted your hand away—
“Do not touch me,” he rasped.
The words were raw and bitter, dripping with an icy venom you had never heard from him before.
. . .
Gwayne refused to meet your gaze. He pressed his eyes shut, his jaw clenched so tightly the bone practically strained against his skin.
It wasn’t just the physical agony tearing him apart. It was the suffocating, absolute humiliation.
He had lost. He had been unseated and laid low in the dirt in front of the entire realm—and worse, in front of Criston Cole. He couldn’t bear to see the pity in your eyes. He couldn’t bear to look at the woman he loved and see confirmation that he was exactly what you always thought of him: unworthy.
“I’m— fine,” he choked out then. “So... go back to the Keep.”
It was funny how this was the same thing that had happened to him six years ago, during the Heir’s Tourney. He had been brutally unseated by Daemon Targaryen then, and just like now, you had come running to him, wiping the blood from his broken nose with your kerchief.
He fell in love with you then... and he has been in love with you ever since.
The girl holding his heart was a princess, and he had never dared to hope for more, never dreaming his conniving father would actually arrange your hand for him. He had thought it a blessing.
But his pursuit of you the past three moons had yielded nothing but a bitter truth— you despised him.
So he preferred to choke on the blinding pain, to let it consume him entirely, rather than suffer the indignity of your comfort.
You are in love with him.
You had spent weeks trying to resent the circumstances that led to your marriage with Otto Hightower’s son, reminding yourself over and over that he had fractured your family, sowing seeds of rebellion that would break once Alicent’s son came to age, and it would spell disaster upon you all—
But the wounded knight with broken nose six years ago had long since owned a part of your heart, and one week without Gwayne Hightower persistent on your heel, you had found yourself... sad.
“Mrawgh...”
“I’m not lonely,” you mumbled petulantly, brushing a hand against Grey Ghost’s silver scales as the dragon curled up, blinking his golden eyes shut to rest.
To occupy yourself, you spent the days with your dragon in the Dragonpit. Tending to Grey Ghost made the long hours pass faster— he was a recluse and not keen on flying often, but his quiet presence matched your somber mood.
Leaving him to his slumber, you walked away lost in your thoughts, entirely failing to notice how slippery the stone ledge had become.
Your foot caught on a heavy iron ring embedded in the floor. The world tilted as you stumbled backwards, losing your footing entirely. You braced for a painful impact against the stone floor, but a pair of strong arms wrapped securely around your waist, arresting your descent.
A sharp, ragged gasp left your savior’s lips. As you stabilized, you realized your hands had instinctively braced against his chest—pressing right over the bandages of the fresh wound.
“Steady there,” the redhead managed, a strained smile tight on his lips as he gently set you back on your feet. His green tunic made you realize who he was—
“Gwayne!” you breathed. Your hands hovered over him, trembling, almost terrified to touch him again. “Why are you—your wound! I didn’t mean to—”
“I am fine, truly,” he assured you, his voice softening as he offered a warm, comforting smile. “It is but a scratch, Princess. It takes more than a clumsy tumble from you to injure me.”
Just like a hundred times before, Gwayne Hightower sought you out. You could see the sheen of sweat on his forehead and how he looked pale still—
From today to the day we breathe our last, all that I am is yours.
“You are supposed to be resting!” Your voice rose despite yourself. “Why are you here?!”
This wasn’t what you wanted to tell him. You wanted to tell him a lot of other things! Like he was a fool, and that you would forbid him to enter the lists once you two were wed, that you couldn’t bear the thought of losing him—
His blue eyes crinkled with that familiar kindness as he reached out, softly tucking a stray strand of your loose hair behind your ear.
“If I wasn’t here, then you would take a fall.” His voice a soothing balm to your frayed nerves. “I can’t very well let my betrothed hurt herself before our big day, can I?”
This was the first time since King Viserys announced your betrothal three moons ago that you looked genuinely worried for him. It made something inside him burst with joy, even if it was tinged with a bitter aftertaste.
Gwayne’s thumb gently brushed across the back of your hand that was still pressed against his chest.
“Tell me... Is this the only way I could truly have your attention? Must I be grievously injured, a step away from Death’s door, for you to look at me like this?”
Your eyes widened by a fraction. Precious, precious girl. He chuckled softly, a teasing glint brightened his eyes.
Just this once, could he be allowed to be just a little bit cruel?
“Even if you keep looking at me with those beautiful eyes...” he whispered, his smile turning a little wistful, “...my heart might just run out, one of these days.”
He gave you one last, kind smile—a look of affection that no longer held expectations, or reeked of the politics that bound your families. Then, he gently gripped your hand, pulling it away from him before turning on his heel to leave you to your own devices.
When your fingers fell limp into the cold air, a stinging realization pierced through you like a dagger:
Is this how he feels? Is this what he endures every time I evade him? How has he survived it over and over?
As his warmth retreated into the shadows of the Dragonpit, something sharp tore deep inside your chest.
You didn’t want him to go. The walls you had spent weeks building to protect your heart against the Hightower name crumbled into dust. Your eyes burned with tears that blurred his retreating figure.
He was nearly out of the pit when you gathered your skirts, abandoning your pride, and ran after him.
“Ser Gwayne!”
Before he could turn back, you lunged, throwing your pride and your fears to the wind. You crashed into his back, your arms wrapping tightly around his waist, burying your face against his spine. He stiffened, almost flinching—
But then he heard you sob.
“Princess...?” he asked softly. His tone shifted, turning from startled confusion to a protective concern as he carefully turned around within your embrace. He reached up, gently tilting your chin up, only to find your cheeks flushed and wet with tears.
Realizing you were truly, genuinely weeping, Gwayne’s breath hitched in his throat.
He didn’t think. He didn’t let past rejections dictate him. He immediately wrapped his arms around you, pulling you close against his uninjured side.
“Shh, please do not weep,” he said in your ear, his own voice suddenly thick with emotion as he rocked you slightly. “Darling... please.”
Darling. Why did the word sound so devastatingly sweet in your ears? As you clung to him, you realized with absolute certainty that you wanted him to call you that for the rest of your days.
As he held you, feeling the warmth of your hands anchoring yourself to him, the pieces finally fell into place:
Has she... returned my feelings?
When your sobs finally quieted and your breathing turned calmer, you gently pulled back just enough to look up at him. Your eyes met his, and an ache settled in your chest.
He was such a beautiful man. Red hair, blue eyes, with ghost of dimples— still the very same wounded knight you had secretly harbored affections for with all those years ago.
Driven by a clear wave of clarity, you didn’t wait for him to speak. Reaching up, you stood on your toes and pulled him down by his collar—
—and pressed your lips to his.
Gwayne went rigid at your sudden boldness. But as your fingers tangled into his soft hair, any lingering shock vanished. With a low groan, he leaned into you, capturing your mouth in a kiss that felt like the bursting of a dam.
He drank in your sighs, his lips moving against yours with a desperate longing, as if he were trying to memorize the taste of you. He pulled you closer, his hands tilting your head back, anchoring you to him.
“You really are—” he growled against your mouth, his breath hot and ragged, “my utter undoing, Princess.”
Before the words could even fully register, you gasped as he gathered you up and hoisted you backwards, setting you down onto the broad stone railing.
Gwayne stepped between your thighs, pinning you to the ledge as his mouth descended on yours once more, even more ravenous than before. The kiss became a blur of lips, tongues, and breathless gasps—
His hands left your face to map the lines of your body, his palm sliding down the column of your throat to the curve of your shoulders. In his mind’s eye, he was already stripping away the heavy, suffocating layers of your gown, picturing the soft, aching swell of your breasts and the intoxicating dip of your waist.
In less than a week... as soon as you swear your oaths before the Seven, he would be graced by that sight.
Gwayne dragged his lips down from your mouth, leaving a trail of scorching kisses along your jawline before burying his face in the crook of your neck.
“Ser Gwayne—” your voice came hitched, and that what brought him back to reality.
He bit softly at the sensitive skin there, swallowing the fire that was about to consume him. When he finally pulled away to breathe, his lips lingered against yours.
“Well, you did kiss me first, Princess,” Gwayne murmured, his eyes twinkling, voice delightfully raspy as his arms settled loosely around your waist. “If I had known a broken rib would finally get you to kiss me, I would have marched up to Grey Ghost and asked him to toss me by the tail weeks ago.”
“Please don’t,” you giggled, circling your arms around his neck.
“Ah, but think of the romance— a dashing knight, battered and bruised, crawling back from the Dragonpit just to collapse into his bride’s arms.”
A breathless laugh escaped your lips, giving way to a very sweet, genuine smile. To Gwayne Hightower, this was the prettiest you had ever been, and his heart throbbed.
Oh, so she does, he realized, a quiet reverence settling into his soul. She does return my affections.
Gwayne leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, finally certain that his heart was safe in your hands.
“You might not know it,” he whispered, “but I have been in love with you for a very long time.”
You looked up at him, your eyes bright with unshed tears, and he met your gaze with a look of such devotion it stole the breath from your lungs.
“So let me say this once again. From before, now and until the day we breathe our last, all that I am... is yours.”
In that moment, you couldn’t have known that the realm would soon be plunged into a senseless civil war, pitting your sister against his in a dance of dragons and blood. You couldn’t have foreseen the ashes, the betrayals, or the heavy price the Hightower green and the Targaryen black would have to pay.
None of that matters right now. All you wanted was to lose yourself in his embrace and savor the fragile perfection of your wedding to the man of your dreams... for as long as it would last.
Arranged marriage is one of my favorite tropes in fandoms like this, and honestly, I was looking for something exactly like this. Gwayne is such a gentleman. I love that, even after all the reader's rejections, he doesn't give up, and I have to admit I got a little satisfaction when he got a bit sassy with her.
I really like how you wrote the reader's reasons because, honestly, I'd feel the same resentment toward the Hightowers if I were in her position (am I her, in a way? lol). I also loved the ending. I enjoy the rivalry between him and Cole (I hate himmmm), and I also liked the parallel of her cleaning the blood off him.
Simply flawless. If you're planning to write anything else, please tag me! I really like your writing style, and I'm eager to read more about this beautiful man.
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You need a photographer for your little brother’s party and Peter is the one
You are here (no way home timeline) ►☼
Peter has lost a lot, but it seems fate decides to give him a second chance
Changes ►☼
Things are not going so well lately and he has to choose… Spiderman or you?
Spider…woman? (no way home timeline) ☼
You meet a familiar face in another universe, but it’s not exactly what you expected
Sickness ☼
Only you taking care of Peter
Patterns ☼
Peter is having some difficulties, and you're the first to notice.
Solace (hurt/comfort)
A broken window leads Peter to your apartment on a stormy night
Pink geraniums ☼
When a strange man arrives from the future, you have to ask for help from a cute speedster who easily steals your attention (reader with chlorokinesis)
Dear professor ☼
Your boy teaches at the institute and you can’t help but pay him a visit
A little bit of jam ☼
You buy donuts for the team and it all ends in chaos
Bob Reynolds NSFW headcanons ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧
Where Soft Things Grow 🌱
When Bob's therapist asks him to find an activity that will help him gain some control, he's forced to turn to you. That's just the first step in a series of events he never thought would happen.
Let them see ☼
You and Bob are forced to attend an event hosted by Valentina, where more is revealed than you would have liked.
The way you hold me ☼
The heater's failing and you're freezing from the rain, so Bob offers to lend you a blanket. Apparently, he keeps you warmer than the fabric.
Shadows Beneath the Light ►☼ (Sorcerer!reader) (part 1)
Valentina contacts you to conduct a complete team assessment regarding the mystical arts. But when Bob's turn comes, it turns out he needs more of your help.
Where Darkness Cradles the Light ►☼(Sorcerer!reader) (part 2)
You land a full-time job at the Watchtower, and over time, you and Bob grow closer. But the shadows of your past soon resurface—and now it’s Bob who must help you find your way back to the light.
Wrapped around you (hurt/comfort)
Bob has a secret lover in the city, and that night he feels the need to sleep in her arms.
No one else +18! (part 2 of wrapped around you)
Bob agrees to join you at a bar with your friends, but a stranger’s gesture unsettles him more than he expected. Later that night, in the quiet of your apartment, he finally lets himself be vulnerable—and loved.
Espionage ☼ (same reader as above)
A quiet morning on the Watchtower turns into psychic people-watching when Jean, Yelena, and Ava decide to “check in” on their teammates. It’s all fun and teasing, until Jean sees something she wasn’t meant to: Bob, deeply in love, living a secret life no one expected.
Silent Connections (friend!Spiderman)
Bob seeks calm, but meeting Spider-Man awakens old fears and new bonds. In the Watchtower’s sky garden, past wounds and quiet truths emerge, as fragile trust slowly grows between them all.
Off the Record ☼
After the fallout with the Void and with tensions rising around the New Avengers, all you're really trying to do is hold on to the people who still matter. Joaquín, your best friend, writes from a distance. Bob—unstable but honest—has started to stay close. And before everything breaks for good, you decide it’s time they meet, even if you’re not all on the same side. Even if some wouldn’t approve.
I: Golden
Bob loves you, but he'd never dare say it. Unfortunately, all these repressed feelings fuel Sentry, who decides to do something once and for all.
II: Obsidian ►
Bob loves you, but he’s trapped by his own fears and silence. Void, the shadow of his pain, confronts you with the burden he carries—leaving you scared and unsure of what comes next.
III: Cobalt ► (+18!)
Bob loves you, but fear keeps him silent. Void's rage haunts your nights, while Sentry's presence stirs painful truths. Between rejection, longing, and a moment of raw intimacy, you both try to navigate a love shaped by trauma, identity, and everything that threatens to tear you apart.
Sun and Storm +18 mdni
When Bob hears that one of your fantasies has always been to have a threesome, he decides to do something about it.
Fool (for you)
After a reckless stunt during a mission, Johnny comes home bruised and smiling. You're tired of patching him up, tired of worrying—but loving him means caring even when you're mad.
Blastwave
Loving a genius comes with sparks—sometimes literal.
Moonlight
On one of his usual nightly checks of the city, Johnny takes the opportunity to say hello to his favorite dressmaker; knowing that he is completely crazy about her.
Sun and Storm +18 mdni
When Bob hears that one of your fantasies has always been to have a threesome, he decides to do something about it.
How do they react when you kiss their cheek?
How do they react if you push them away after a fight?
summary: Bob seeks calm, but meeting Spider-Man awakens old fears and new bonds. In the Watchtower’s sky garden, past wounds and quiet truths emerge, as fragile trust slowly grows between them all.
masterlist
warnings: anxiety, PTSD symptoms, mental health struggles, subtle substance use (herbal cigars)
If you want me to do some more with Peter and Bob, you can tell me!
The city hummed below, oblivious to the unlikely calm that reigned atop the Watchtower. Most of the tenants had already retired to their rooms, but the soft lights of the sky garden still flickered, as if waiting for something. Or someone.
Bob had decided to go outside to get some fresh air, where the Quinjet landing site had once been—back when the Avengers still lived there and SHIELD was active. Long, long ago.
He didn't go near the edges. He never did. Something in his body—perhaps his memory, perhaps the recollection of a fall that never happened—tightened immediately if he found himself too exposed. But that particular corner, between two metal structures covered in vines, was safe. It was covered, ventilated, and quiet. And the fresh air hit gently, without pushing.
With slow movements, he took a small, worn Altoids box from the pockets of his hoodie. Inside, he kept a few herbal cigars that he used only occasionally. Lavender and lemon balm. Just enough to calm him down, to breathe without his chest aching inside.
It wasn't part of his official treatment. No one knew. And not because it was serious—nothing addictive, nothing illegal—but because he didn't want anyone to start seeing him again as a ticking time bomb. He didn't want to worry anyone. Especially if it was you.
He lit one with a restrained spark, careful to keep the glow hidden. The smoke rose lazily in thin spirals, and Bob closed his eyes as he exhaled. The weight didn't disappear, but at least it shifted. For a while, he could hold on without feeling everything slipping through his fingers.
He stood there for a minute, simply breathing. Letting the cool breeze sweep away the broken thoughts before they piled up. It was then, in the midst of the silence, that he heard something.
A murmur. Low, uneven, as if someone were talking to themselves, or going over something in a very low voice. Bob frowned, still not opening his eyes. He thought maybe his mind was playing tricks on him, as was its habit.
But after a second, he heard it again. And this time, closer.
His eyes snapped open.
And both of them jumped at the same time.
A thin figure, clad in red and blue, stood a few steps away, looking just as scared as he was. Bob jumped back, instinctively raising one hand—the free one, the one not holding the cigar—ready to unleash a burst of energy if necessary. He couldn't control it yet, but maybe the adrenaline would help a little.
The other raised both hands as well, wrists forward, in web-shooting position. The movement was so automatic it almost looked like a distorted mirror.
For a couple of seconds, they stood like that. Breathless. Sizing each other up.
Bob shot him a disapproving look. He recognized him. Not in person, but from news clips, out-of-focus videos, the occasional live stream. There weren’t many who wore that kind of outfit and treated wall-climbing like no big deal.
“You’re Spiderman,” he said suspiciously. It sounded more like a question than a statement.
“Yeah… well… I am,” the boy joked. He didn’t let his guard down. “And you are…?”
He didn't answer immediately. He inhaled once more from his almost-burned cigarette and silently stubbed it out, crushing it against the metal wall with two fingers.
“Bob,” he finally said, succinctly. And then, crossing his arms: “And why exactly did you think you could just walk up here without warning?”
Spider-Man shrugged a little. It wasn't arrogance. It seemed like… embarrassment.
“I didn't think anyone else was here. Sometimes she comes out onto the terrace at night. I thought… I don't know. Maybe I'd find her.”
Bob looked at him for a long second.
“Her? Who do you mean?”
“Well, her,” the arachnid offered in response. Then he said your name, and something strange ignited inside Bob.
Reynolds understood that he wasn't going to attack him, nor was I a threat. The strange thing was that he was there to see you.
"Looks like you had the wrong night," he sighed, tired. "It’s just me today.”
“I can come back another time,” the boy murmured, as if it were something unimportant. "Could you please tell her I came? And that I brought this”
The brunette's face twisted into a frown as he watched the intruder hand him a paper bag. At first, he thought maybe your relationship with him was, how should I put it? Professional. That he was there because something had happened in the city, and you were working together. "But the gesture wasn’t typical of someone working alongside an ex-SHIELD agent; it felt more like the kindness of a friend."
“Why are you looking for her?” he questioned. He took a step closer and picked up the bag, placing it on a nearby windowsill. “How do you know her?”
“It’s not for anything bad! I swear. We… are friends.”
“She has never mentioned you.”
“Really?” he squeaked. He didn’t sound hurt, but he did sound a little offended. “Well, I don’t blame her. It’s not like you tell everyone your friend is Spiderman, is it?”
He laughed, though more to himself. Bob looked at him for a second longer, still standing there.
He wasn't intimidating him, but he wasn't particularly warm either. He was studying him. The boy shifted slightly in place, crossing his arms as if the weight of the suit suddenly felt uncomfortable.
“I had no idea anyone else lived with her. I thought this tower was... I don't know. Like a base. All by herself.”
Bob raised an eyebrow.
“And do you usually break into your friends’ bases?”
“It’s not like I have many,” he admitted, and this time the joke sounded more honest than ironic.
There was a brief silence, not hostile, but dense. Bob lowered his gaze slightly and then, without another word, took his phone out of his pocket. He tapped away with his thumb while keeping the arachnid in the corner of his eye.
Are u still awake
Im on the terrace, can you come?
Please
He sent it. Then he put the phone away without further explanation.
“But you're like… his teammate?”
Bob nodded slightly.
“Sort of. I work with her. I live here. I'm not the city-hopping type, but... I do my thing.”
Spiderman nodded respectfully. Silence returned for a moment, but it was no longer awkward. Bob settled back against the metal structure, crossing his arms as the wind stirred both of their hair.
“Well, I should go. Can you… tell her I came? I don’t want her to worry or anything, just…”
Then, the subtle sound of the garden gate sliding shut made them both turn. Bob straightened his posture. Spiderman sat up, shooting a web up to the ceiling, hanging from it and disappearing from the boy's vision in a flash.
There you were, wearing a sweatshirt over your pajamas, your hair half-done, blinking at the scene in front of you as if you needed a second to make sense of it. Your face showed you were just waking up.
“Bob!” he heard you, with a disconcertingly relieved tone. “You’re okay.”
Suddenly, he tensed as you approached to hug him, one of your hands on the back of his neck and the other under his shoulder. You knew he wasn't very used to touch, which was why he was disconcerted.
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
“I don’t know, I… saw your message and I freaked out.”
He spent a second processing it. He hadn't had the best week—emotionally and mentally speaking—and to suddenly send such a cutting message in the middle of the night, standing on the terrace, thousands of feet above the ground with only a railing as a separator, didn't take long to connect the dots and come to a conclusion.
“No! No, I'm fine. I'm sorry I worried you. I-I should have explained myself better in the message. I didn’t mean to…”
“Okay,” you interrupted, letting out a giggle. “I shouldn’t have assumed anything either. But what happened? You okay?”
“Huh, yeah. Actually…”
Bob couldn't form an idea. Behind you, a soft thud against the floor broke the silence and made you jump, turning and collapsing against your friend as if seeking protection. You imagined something worse, but when you saw a two-colored spider, your shock turned into laughter.
“Are you trying to scare me to death or something?” you half-shouted, genuinely offended.
Under the mask, you could hear the familiar laughter. You then carefully moved toward him.
“Sorry! I didn’t know your friend had told you I was here.”
“He didn’t do it,” you muttered accusingly, looking at the aforementioned. “He just asked me to come.”
“That's what I was going to tell you here. I... wanted to check if you knew him.”
“So, you didn’t believe me?”
Bob exhaled at the accusation.
“You can't blame me! I'm very suspicious. What if you wanted to sneak in and only made that up because you found me here? Or that someone sent you to hurt her or any of us. Or what if what you gave me was contaminated or poisoned…”
“You already think like an agent,” you interrupted “That paranoia is crucial to surviving in the field.”
Bob blushed, but couldn't help but laugh.
“Well, now I see that it’s obvious that you know each other.”
“And I can assure you, this kiddo is harmless. Within reason, of course. Criminals in the city don't think the same, do they?”
“I guess not,” he whispered amusedly.
“What were you doing here?” you finally asked, tucking your arms into your sweatshirt, with that mix of curiosity and tenderness you used when you didn’t know whether to scold or laugh.
Spidey, still looking slightly nervous about the sudden appearance, casually raised a hand.
“Oh, I just found your friend out here, you know, smok—"
Bob gave him a quick glance, almost imperceptible, but enough to make the other man stop mid-word. It wasn't threatening, but it was clear.
The boy got the message and corrected himself awkwardly.
"...s-standing. Standing out here"
Bob cleared his throat, not moving from where he stood.
“I was just getting some air. Couldn’t sleep,” he said, as if reaffirming it was enough to close the subject.
You looked at them both, your eyes narrowed with a mixture of suspicion and amusement, but you didn't press the issue. Instead, you sighed, and sank to the floor with a light sigh, like someone who no longer had the energy to process the strangeness of the night.
“Okay… if you’re already here, and you woke me up, sit down.”
He obeyed immediately, hopping out and dropping to your left, crossing his legs casually. Bob took a little longer. He looked at you, then he looked at him. But eventually he sat down too, not too close, but close enough so that the space between the three of you felt shared.
The tower's sky garden flickered with soft lights around it, and beyond, the city still glowed with its silent chaos.
“I brought you a bagel,” Spiderman suddenly muttered. Bob understood his intention and handed you the paper bag.
So that was the mysterious package.
"Is this one of those bagels from the convenience store? The kind you heat in the microwave."
“Hey!” said the web-slinger, feigning offense. “It’s the Bagel. Kosher bakery, open all night. Warm, with sesame seeds.”
“You win. Now I'm less upset that you guys dared to disturb my rest,” you joked.
You were sure that, behind the mask, the hero was smiling.
You divided the bagel with your hands, making three uneven pieces, not worrying too much about aesthetics. You offered one to each of them and kept the smaller piece for yourself, as you usually did. The hero lifted his mask just above his mouth, with quick, well-rehearsed movements. Bob accepted his in silence, watching him curiously.
“Sorry I didn’t tell you he was my friend,” you said, looking at Bob as you took a bite. You spoke with your mouth half full. “And you too,” you added, looking at the masked man. “Sorry. He didn’t know about you either.”
“It’s okay,” he replied with a smile. “I don’t go around telling everyone who I’m talking to.”
“Secret identity and all that,” you commented, half laughing.
Bob let out a low chuckle. It wasn’t mockery, it was more like a sense of relief. He was starting to relax, though he still looked sideways, studying every little gesture between you and the other boy. There wasn't any jealousy, not as such. But there was a strangeness... as if he was learning there was a whole part of your life he didn't know about.
“So, how long have you known each other?” he finally asked, keeping his voice neutral.
The spider chewed and thought at the same time.
“A couple of years ago. I helped her on a mission. I think I was working for that woman… Is your boss called Valentina? Yes. I had just returned to patrolling the city and ran into some guys who were cornering her. I jumped in, covered her, and we ended up escaping through a sewer.”
Bob looked at you. You'd never told anyone before.
“Later, I needed information, and she helped me. From then on, we've stayed in touch. Sometimes we lend a hand over strange things we stumble upon. Sometimes we just… talk. Once, she crossed the entire city on the subway just to leave me an envelope with some files. She didn't even stay. She just gave them to me and left, saying: Take care of yourself”
You shrugged. Bob looked down, a faint smile forming unintentionally.
“That sounds a lot like you,” he said softly, unaware he’d said it out loud. You watched him with a gentle smile from your spot.
The spider boy gave him a quick glance, as if he was beginning to understand something more. He didn't say anything, just chewed more slowly.
You looked at them both. And you noticed the contrasts. With the masked one, you were light, comfortable. You joked with him, pushed his shoulder, spoke with a confidence that only time brings. With Bob, on the other hand, your tone was different. Slower. Softer. As if you were walking on something you didn't want to break yet; a frozen lake that led to a warm cabin on the other side.
“You’re a good friend too,” you said after a moment, your tone calm, almost thoughtful. “We don’t talk all the time, but when we do… I don’t know. It’s easy. There are things you can’t tell just anyone. With him, you can just… say them.”
Spider-Man nodded. He didn't look at you directly, but his shoulder relaxed a little, as if what you'd said touched him more than he was willing to admit out loud.
“I feel the same way,” he murmured, lowering his voice. “It’s like I don’t have to explain much. It just happens. And that doesn’t happen with many people.”
You laughed softly, as if remembering something.
“We got stuck in a warehouse once,” you said, turning to Bob with a lopsided smile. “We were looking for a stolen device—my fault, it was my mission—and we had to hide for hours. We ended up lying in a spiderweb hammock he made, talking about what we would do if one day this all ended. He said he wanted to be a journalist.”
"And you?"
“She said a ballerina,” your friend said quickly, as if it were a shameful secret.
“A ballerina?” Bob asked softly. He never imagined you with dreams like that.
Bob smiled. One of those soft smiles, the one that barely curves the lips but has a weight of its own. He looked down for a moment, thoughtful.
"Sometimes when you fight, I can see some of that. You move like a ballerina."
“It’s the nicest and strangest compliment anyone has ever given me.”
He felt butterflies fluttering in his stomach when you smiled at him. Not like you normally did, but… more affectionately. It was a glimmer of hope that his feelings for you would be reciprocated.
“Do you know who he is?” he asked then, nodding at your friend, who was still staring intently. The question didn’t sound invasive, but rather curious. “I mean… his name?”
Your expression softened.
“No. He’s never told me,” you answered honestly, also observing him. “But there’s no need to. I know I can trust him.”
Bug boy –as you used to say to annoy him– lowered his head slightly. He didn't say anything, but you could tell he was grateful.
“It’s better this way,” he whispered. “Bad things happen when people know who Spider-Man is.”
The silence that followed wasn't awkward. Rather, it seemed to envelop you like a necessary pause.
The wind blew again. Your sweatshirt slipped slightly off your shoulder, and without thinking, Bob reached out to pull it back up. He didn't usually touch almost anyone, for fear of the visions Void brought back. But every now and then, he made those kinds of gestures toward you, careful, but gradually growing in confidence.
Your friend adjusted his mask again and wiped his hands on his suit pants.
“I think I should go.”
“So soon?”
“I don’t want to bother you,” he said sincerely.
Bob cleared his throat.
“You’re not bothering us,” he added. A rare gesture for him, but one that showed he was open to coexisting with the masked arachnid. “You can stay… as long as you don’t have anything else to do, of course.”
You smiled. You closed your eyes and leaned your head against the metal structure behind you. The wind was cool, gentle. And so was the moment.
He took his old place, thanking him more effusively than you expected. The scene continued: Spidey talked, Bob listened. Then they switched roles. And you were just there, in the middle, hugging yourself through your clothes while enjoying the obvious birth of a friendship.
“And how are you doing with that thing you told me the other time?” you interrupted them after a while. “About the exam.”
“Exam?” Bob muttered. He didn’t want to be a gossip, just participate in the conversation.
Your friend gave a short, even somewhat embarrassed laugh.
“Oh, that’s it. Yes. I’m trying to get my GED.”
“GED?” Bob repeated.
“It’s like… a kind of test that’s equivalent to a high school diploma,” he explained, scratching the back of his neck. “If you didn’t finish for some reason, you can take this test. There are four tests in total: science, social studies, math, and reading comprehension. If you pass, you get a certificate that counts as if you finished high school. It opens doors for you, for jobs or for getting into college.”
Bob looked at him for a second. Then he nodded slowly.
“And why didn’t you have a diploma yet?”
The kid hesitated for only a moment.
“The Blip” he replied, without embellishment. “When I came back… it was like everything about me was gone. Legally, I mean. I had no papers, no school, no record. Nothing. And you know, I couldn’t just walk into a government office and sayHey, I’m Spiderman, can you give me back my ID?”
Bob didn't respond immediately. He watched him silently, not out of distrust, but with a different expression. It wasn't pity, but compassion.
The story was, however, a lie. Or rather, a half-truth..
Almost all of New York remembered the incident with Spider-Man's multiverse enemies, but no one knew Peter Parker. Including you, of course. After everything that had happened, the lives it had cost, and the sacrifices he'd had to endure, Peter wasn't going to make the same mistake again. It was easier for him to pretend his identity was lost because of the blip than to admit it was due to a careless, poorly worded spell. That version gave him the chance to rebuild his life from scratch. To leave the past behind and focus on the present.
Sadly, anyone who knew him as a superhero couldn't, and shouldn't, know about Peter Parker—unless he was lucky enough to meet someone he could coexist with both on the battlefield and in his civilian identity. Otherwise, it was just a matter of knowing one or the other.
“That must be really messed up,” Bob said genuinely. It wasn’t supposed to sound funny, but it did.
“A little, yes. But, eh… it is what it is. And it's okay, really. For some time now, I've been trying to look on the bright side of things. At least I'll be able to go to university as soon as I pass my exams.”
“Hey, but… how old are you?”
“He won’t tell you,” you responded immediately. “I’ve been trying to find out since we met, and he’s never told me. The only thing left for us to do is assume he’s between 16 and 50.”
A collective laugh erupted, lasting a few seconds. Then Bob continued to look at him, but no longer with distrust. Something in his expression had softened. Perhaps it was a familiarity with the silent struggle, or maybe the empathy of someone who also felt like they were living halfway, on the margins of their own story.
Spider-Man was the first to stand up. He shook out his suit pants a bit and readjusted his mask completely.
“I think I’ll go now. It’s late, and I need at least a few hours of rest before going to work tomorrow,” he informed you. Then, he looked at your friend. “It was nice meeting you.”
“It was nice meeting you too. It would be… great to see you again sometime.”
Although he didn't say anything, you imagined there was joy on his covered face. Then he swung a spiderweb from a nearby structure, and before jumping into the void, he said:
“Take care, both of you. And you know, if you need anything, your friendly neighborhood Spider-Man will be right there.”
You smiled at him. Bob just raised his hand in farewell. After the sound of his web faded into the distance, you stared for a moment at where he'd been.
“It’s always been like this,” you broke the silence. “He arrives, says important things as if they weigh nothing, and leaves.”
Bob didn't respond. You glanced at him.
“I guess you liked him, right?”
“Yes. More than I expected.”
You smiled again. Then you rubbed your arms against the cold and huddled closer. He noticed.
"Would you like to come inside?"
“Not yet. I like this moment. It reminds me that there is still calm sometimes.”
Bob looked down, hesitant. And then, somewhat awkwardly, he moved his hand a little closer. He didn't touch you. He just rested his fingers on the edge of your sweatshirt, near the hem. He didn't tug at it. He didn't make any obvious gesture. He just… held it. As if having a point of contact, however minimal, would make it firmer.
You glanced at him and didn't say anything. But you stayed still. You didn't push him away.
“Thanks for not scaring him away,” you murmured after a few minutes, “and for letting me know he was here,”
You let out a soft laugh. You closed your eyes. The wind was colder now, but you didn't say anything. You felt that Bob wasn't moving, that his hand was still there, barely holding the edge of the fabric. His gaze lingered on the spot he'd just left, though it now stood empty.
“At first, he scared me,” he said, his voice barely raspy. “I didn’t hear him coming. I opened my eyes, and he was there, muttering, like he was talking to someone invisible. I thought it was something else. I thought… the worst, I guess.”
You didn't need him to say more. You already knew how his mind worked. How anxiety whispered names, figures, ghosts that weren't there. It wasn't surprising he was worried.
“But he is kind. Strange, but kind,” he added. “I guess I sometimes forget that not everything unexpected is a threat.”
You turned your face toward him, still clutching your legs. The wind blew harder at that moment, and you squinted. Beside you, Bob spoke again:
“Sorry to wake you up.”
“Don’t worry. I’m glad it was that way,” you admitted. Without thinking, you leaned a little closer. “What were you really doing here?”
Bob looked at you. Despite the closeness between you—both physical and emotional—he looked away, somewhat embarrassed.
“I told you. I was just getting some air, I couldn’t sleep.”
You looked at him, and this time there was no automatic smile. Just a soft, yet at the same time incredulous expression.
“You know you can tell me anything, right?” you offered. “Only if you want.”
You weren't going to pressure him; he had the right to his privacy. He was relieved by your understanding and patience.
“We should head inside,” he said. “It’s chilly, and I don’t want you getting sick.”
You nodded, but didn't get up right away. It wasn't until he pulled you to your feet that you did too, a little more slowly. You brushed some dust off your pajama pants, and when you started toward the door, he followed you, closer than before.
“Hey,” he said suddenly, just before you crossed the threshold.
You stopped and turned to him, one eyebrow barely raised and your hand still on the door handle.
"Yeah?"
Bob hesitated. He ran a hand over the back of his neck, as if the words had caught in his throat. His eyes lowered for a moment, avoiding yours, until he took a deep breath and raised them again, his expression serene but vulnerable.
“Would you mind if… we slept in the living room tonight?”
It wasn’t a light proposal, nor did it carry the smile of someone who improvises for fun.
“Sleep?” you repeated, half curious and half amused, with a gesture that tried to hide the warmth you were already beginning to feel. “In the living room?”
“Yes,” he said softly, almost in a whisper. “It’s not always like this, but there are nights when sleeping alone… I have a hard time with it. This seems like one of those. And I thought… I don’t know. Maybe being close to someone would help.”
You stood still, watching him for a second longer than necessary.
“Okay,” you finally said in a low voice. “We can stay there.”
You turned around again, gently pushing the door. You entered the tower unhurriedly. The hallways were dim, lit only by the blue light from the electronic panels and the large windows that revealed a sleeping city. At that hour, the tower looked more like a home than a base of operations. A refuge rather than a fortress.
He didn't say anything else. He just walked over to the back of the largest sofa and took one of the blankets they kept there. It was thick, woven, with that unmistakable smell of clean fabric mixed with a bit of you.
You settled in first, drawing your legs up onto the seat, letting the soft fabric of your pajamas fold over your ankles. Bob settled onto the smallest couch in the corner, the blanket draped over his legs and his arms resting behind his head, his gaze fixed on the ceiling.
The silence was comfortable. As if the two of you had reached a tacit agreement not to fill the air with unnecessary words.
The hum of the heating system filled the room, and the dim light cast long shadows on the floor. Your breathing and his, unwittingly, began to sync with each other. It wasn't a deliberate synchronicity; it was a coincidence of those who shared the same stillness.
Several minutes passed like this. Until his voice, somewhat deeper and sleepier, broke the murmur of the night:
“Rest easy. And thanks for keeping me company.”
You didn't open your eyes. You were already half asleep, but you smiled a little.
“Don’t thank me,” you whispered. “I’m glad you asked.”
He turned his head slightly toward you, though he couldn't fully see you from his position. And for a moment, he thought it was funny how something as simple as sharing the same space could make his chest feel less tense.
You were already on that soft border between wakefulness and sleep. But even so, before you completely let go, you murmured something else:
“Whenever you need it, you can tell me.”
Bob closed his eyes, letting those words cover him like a second blanket. There was a strange comfort in just being, just sleeping. In different chairs, but not far apart. In the same room, with the same silence, allowing your warmth to act as a reassurance that the terrors wouldn't attack; and that, if they did, you were there to scare them away.
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summary: a broken window leads Peter to your apartment on a stormy night
masterlist
The rain had been pounding against the windows for hours.
It wasn’t an especially dangerous storm, but it was one of those persistent rains that seemed determined to last all night. The constant sound of the glass against the glass blended with the television playing softly in the background and the tapping of your fingers on your laptop keyboard.
You were so focused that you barely heard the first knocks on the door.
You looked up and frowned when the knocking sounded again, this time louder and more hurried.
You got up from the couch and crossed the apartment while the rain roared on the other side of the walls. When you opened the door, you were met with a rather pitiful sight.
Peter Parker was standing in the hallway. Soaking wet.
His hair dripped over his forehead, his hoodie clung to his body, and water had formed a small puddle at his feet. He looked like someone who had just lost a fight against the ocean.
For a few seconds, you simply stared at him.
“What the hell happened to you?”
Peter ran a hand over his face.
“Before I answer, I want you to know that I already feel pretty stupid.”
You looked at him, waiting for him to answer your question anyway. He let out a heavy sigh.
“I broke my window.”
There was something so miserable about his expression that you ended up laughing.
He seemed offended.
“Don’t laugh.”
“How did that happen?”
“The lock was stuck, and I tried to pull it down, but when I did... well, I hit it too hard.”
You watched him for a second, analyzing the situation. Unfortunately, it wasn’t the first time his super strength had worked against him.
“Did your apartment get flooded?”
Peter remained silent. That, along with his embarrassed expression, told you everything you needed to know.
“And what did you use to cover it?”
“Oh, I already did. You know, with...”
His fingers curled into a familiar gesture, one you understood immediately. Anyone in New York would have understood it.
“Didn’t you say those dissolve after a while?”
“Not these. They’re made from a different compound.”
You nodded, trying to give the matter the seriousness it deserved, or at least the seriousness Peter wanted you to give it. But you failed miserably to the point that you had to cover your mouth with your hand to keep from laughing again.
“I don’t need you judging me right now.”
“I’m not judging you, it’s just that... Peter, you have such terrible luck.”
He exhaled something that sounded more like accepting defeat than a genuine laugh.
The rain continued to strike the hallway windows while the two of you stood facing each other.
“Do you have a towel I could borrow? Mine got soaked, and I need to take a shower.”
“With the freezing water in your apartment? You’ll get pneumonia,” you exclaimed worriedly.
He didn’t even bother denying the accusation because, indeed, that month the money hadn’t been enough to refill the gas tank.
Then, you added:
“Shower here.”
The tension immediately vanished from his shoulders, as if he had knocked on your door expecting exactly that offer. You stepped aside to let him in and, as he entered, you couldn’t help but think about how strange it was that the two of you had reached this point.
Because a few months ago, you barely knew who he was.
He was simply the neighbor from downstairs. Sometimes you saw him in the hallway, ran into him on days when you both had to deal with issues concerning the entire building, or picked up his mail when it was mistakenly left in your mailbox.
And then that night happened.
A night when you stepped onto the fire escape, unable to sleep, prepared to indulge in the bad habit of smoking a cigarette. You didn’t want to set off the fire alarm, nor did you want your apartment to smell. It was the same night you saw Spider-Man climb through Peter’s window.
At first, you thought it was just your imagination playing tricks on you, but after taking a second look, you knew that the red and blue figure on the fire escape could be none other than him.
Curiosity outweighed caution.
You had quietly climbed down, making only the slightest noise, trying to remain unnoticed enough to catch him by surprise; if he was really there.
Indeed, when you reached the floor below, you discovered the web-slinger on the other side of the open window, now unmasked.
It would be impossible to forget the look of absolute horror on his face when he realized you had seen him, and how he immediately pulled you through the window before you could say anything.
Since then, you had kept the secret.
He had made you swear —for your sake and his— that you wouldn’t tell anyone.
After that, the two of you started talking. Part of you believed he felt obligated to be friendly with you to prevent you from selling the secret to the highest bidder in the press, but after a few weeks his fears eased and your conversations became more genuine.
Half a year had passed since then. And the more you got to know him, the stranger it seemed to you that the entire city was obsessed with Spider-Man when Peter Parker existed.
“My... my clothes got wet too.”
Peter’s voice brought you back to the present. He was hugging himself in a futile attempt to preserve some warmth, while his shoulders trembled slightly from the accumulated cold.
“When you get out of the shower, put on my robe and we’ll throw these clothes in the dryer.”
Peter nodded immediately.
“Thank you.”
Then he headed toward the bathroom, walking on tiptoe as if that could somehow stop the water from continuing to drip from his clothes. The effort was as useless as it was endearing. Each step left damp footprints on the wooden floor.
In moments like those, you saw in him a teenager who had been forced to grow up far too quickly. Although you didn’t know much about his past- not really.
You turned your attention back to your laptop screen and switched off the television. The apartment was enveloped in a cozy calm. Only the steady drumming of rain against the windows remained, along with the distant hum of the building’s dryer and, shortly afterward, the steady sound of the shower.
Peter came out of the bathroom about ten minutes later.
And immediately, he looked like a different person.
He was still damp, but now it was the kind of dampness left by a hot shower rather than an icy storm. Steam still clung to his skin in a faint flush that colored his cheeks and the tip of his nose. His hair fell messily over his forehead, darker than usual, and a few droplets still slid down his neck before disappearing beneath the collar of the robe.
Besides, he smelled like his favorite shampoo.
“I seriously don’t know how to thank you.”
You looked up from your computer.
“Bah. It’s not the first thing I’ve done for you.”
The sentence wasn’t meant to sound reproachful, but it did.
Damn.
“Nor the last, of course,” you quickly added, with a softer smile. “You know I’m here.”
The silence that followed was brief, but long enough for you to notice something in his expression; as if he felt embarrassed for having asked you for the favor. That was the last thing you expected him to feel, so you wanted to make up for it.
“Want me to lend you something to wear?” you murmured. “I’ve got an oversized hoodie somewhere. It should fit you.”
“No... no, I... I’m fine.”
“You can’t walk around my apartment naked,” you continued, ignoring his protest. “That wouldn’t be appropriate.”
“I’m not naked, technically.”
You looked him up and down, and Peter let out a soft snort of laughter. It was barely a sound, but it was enough to make the tension disappear.
His eyes had always seemed too gentle for someone like him. There was something unsettling about them. A constant softness that had survived everything he had been through. At that moment, they were watching you with a mixture of gratitude and shyness that made it difficult to hold his gaze for too long.
Your apartment, like all the others in the building, was small. Small enough to reach the closet in a matter of seconds.
You found the hoodie almost immediately. It was folded on one of the upper shelves of the closet, wedged between several clothes you hardly ever wore. It was dark gray, made of thick fabric softened by years of washing. You had bought it intentionally oversized because you liked wrapping yourself in it during cold nights or weekends when you didn’t plan on leaving home. As you pulled it out, the fabric released a faint scent of detergent and fabric softener.
After searching for a moment, you also found a wrinkled pair of athletic shorts among several garments. They were pink.
You grimaced slightly.
“Sorry. It’s the only thing I have that will probably fit you.”
For a moment, he remembered a pair of Hello Kitty pants he had been forced to wear years earlier because of Tony. Compared to that, pink shorts were practically discreet.
The comparison brought a small smile to his face.
“It’s fine. I don’t think I’m in a position to be picky.”
He accepted the clothes with both hands and murmured his thanks. His voice sounded quieter than usual, probably because of exhaustion.
“Go change, or you’re going to get sick.”
He simply nodded and disappeared once again toward the bathroom.
You smiled when he returned a few minutes later. The hoodie actually suited him quite well. It wasn’t exactly his size, but it didn’t look ridiculous on him either. Instead, it gave him a strangely domestic appearance, so different from the Spider-Man featured on newspaper covers that it was hard to connect the two images.
The pink shorts were another story. Fortunately for him, you had the courtesy not to mention them.
Peter followed your gaze and looked down at the garment.
“I hope I don’t stretch them out.”
“They’ll survive,” you said, winking at him.
A small smile appeared at the corner of his lips.
Peter remained standing for a few moments, absentmindedly watching the rain through the window.
The droplets slid down the glass, forming uneven paths that merged together before disappearing. Beyond them, the city lights appeared blurred and distorted, turned into golden and reddish smears by the water.
You suddenly noticed the way his shoulders remained slightly hunched even when he thought he was relaxed. The shadows beneath his eyes. The slowness of his movements. The distant expression that appeared from time to time, as if part of his mind remained occupied with problems he couldn’t leave behind. He always seemed tired.
“Have you had dinner?”
Peter took a second longer than usual to answer.
“No.”
You raised an eyebrow. Because, of course, his honesty caught you off guard.
Normally, he would have said yes, or that he wasn’t hungry, or some other excuse meant to keep you from worrying about him.
That night, however, he seemed too exhausted to pretend.
“I’ll make something for both of us, okay?”
Peter nodded with a smile. Then you headed to the kitchen while he sat back down on the couch.
He let himself sink against the backrest and released a long exhale, closing his eyes for only a few seconds before opening them again. You could see him perfectly from where you were.
You found broth, some vegetables, and a bit of chicken in the refrigerator. As the soup began to heat, steam filled the kitchen with a soft, familiar aroma.
Outside, the storm continued to rage. The wind occasionally rattled the windowpanes, and the rain pounded against the building with constant insistence.
Inside, however, the atmosphere felt completely different.
The warmth from the stove gradually spread throughout the room, and the yellowish light from the lamps softened the shadows.
When the soup was ready, you served two bowls and carried them into the living room.
Peter looked up immediately. The expression that crossed his face was so sincere that, for a moment, it made you feel absurdly appreciated for something as simple as making dinner.
You settled onto the couch, and for several minutes the two of you simply ate. The warmth of the soup was especially pleasant after the weather outside. You could see Peter’s shoulders relax a little more with every spoonful.
Eventually, he was the one who broke the silence.
“Today was a disaster.”
You turned toward him.
“School or work?”
Peter let out a soft, amused breath.
“Both.”
You smiled, not knowing what else to say. He absentmindedly stirred his spoon through the broth, and for a few seconds he seemed torn between continuing to talk or remaining silent.
In the end, he chose the former.
“Sometimes I feel like I’m always running behind everything.”
The confession lingered between you. Since you had met him, you knew Peter wasn’t someone who talked much about himself. When he did, it was usually in small sentences like that one. Fragments of something bigger.
“And do you manage to catch up?” you asked gently.
He stared at the contents of his bowl for a few seconds.
“Some days, yes. Most days, no.”
The answer came with a tired smile that never reached his eyes.
You didn’t try to push him. You knew there were parts of his life he could never tell you about. And you also knew that you didn’t need to know all of his secrets to understand when he was exhausted.
The conversation continued quietly after that. You talked about classes, professors, overdue assignments, and some of the building’s neighbors. Ordinary topics. Simple ones.
When you finished dinner, you left the bowls on the coffee table and settled back onto the couch.
“Want to watch something? There’s a show on at this hour that I like.”
“Uh, yeah. Whatever is fine with me,” he shrugged.
While you searched for the channel, Peter had already leaned his head slightly against the backrest. For a few minutes, he watched you instead of the television you had just turned on.
Although you pretended not to notice, you eventually faced him.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
Peter looked at the screen, trying to feign innocence. Your choice was a cooking competition in which several contestants had to prepare different dishes following specific rules, and they were currently in one of the most difficult challenges.
“What are they making?”
“It’s a dessert competition. They have to make something using the ingredients they were given.”
Peter watched the screen for a few seconds.
“And what they’re making is difficult?”
“I guess so. Although I feel like they make everything more dramatic than necessary.”
Peter let out a quiet laugh.
“It does seem a little exaggerated.”
“They’ve been doing this for several episodes now. Every week they give them a different challenge. Once they had to make a cake without looking at the recipe.”
“Without looking at the recipe?”
“Yeah.”
“I always cook like that.”
“And does it turn out well?”
He seemed to think about it for a moment. Then he shook his head with a smile.
“Well, that makes sense now.”
After that, the two of you continued watching the screen.
He didn’t seem completely interested in the competition, but from time to time he made a comment or asked who someone was. You explained what had happened earlier, and he nodded as if he were trying to catch up with a story that had begun long before he arrived.
“So that’s the favorite.”
“The one in the blue shirt, yes.”
“And why?”
“Because he always knows what to do.”
Peter grimaced.
“No one knows what to do. At least not all the time.”
“Not even heroes?”
The two of you didn’t talk much about the secret you shared. From time to time, Peter would show up bruised, and you knew what had happened because of the news and the countless videos online. You helped him —or tried to— and that was all.
But there were very few direct conversations in which you mentioned anything about his work as Spider-Man. Peter opened his mouth to answer, but ended up laughing.
“Especially heroes. Most of the time, you’re just improvising.”
The conversation gradually faded after that.
The television remained on, and the sound of the program filled the silent spaces. Peter was still watching the screen, but he seemed less and less focused.
His responses started taking longer, and his comments grew shorter. Until, at some point, he stopped responding altogether.
Before you realized it, he had fallen asleep. He looked younger that way.
Not because his features changed, but because that constant tension he almost always carried disappeared. The worry, the constant vigilance, the accumulated exhaustion. All of it temporarily vanished while he slept.
It was still cold inside because of the weather, so you carefully stood up and took a blanket folded over a nearby chair. You spread it over him with slow movements, careful not to wake him. Peter barely reacted; he only shifted slightly beneath the fabric, unconsciously seeking warmth.
The television remained on, but you lowered the volume until it became little more than a faint murmur.
For a long moment, you remained watching him, because that version of Peter was unusual. He seemed peaceful, and you wondered if, in his dreams, he felt some kind of safety being there. Whether the noise around him had lulled him to sleep, or if he had simply collapsed from exhaustion because of everything that happened in his day.
You continued watching the show and smiled as you watched him sleep. For one night, your dear neighbor finally seemed to have found a place to rest.
